Animal

I decided to post something a bit different this week.  One of my goals is to try out various genres of writing; thus, I settled on something that strays completely from my normal fantasy and science fiction elements: the Western.  I would consider this story flash fiction, and because of its brevity, perhaps I have not done the genre justice.  However, I have many plans for future Western short stories and at least one novel.  This story also differs drastically from my usual material, as it is written in the second person and the simple present tense.  Because there are so many new things going on here, feedback is much appreciated.  I hope you enjoy "Animal."

Animal

“Listen, Tom, I get what you’re saying,” grunts the man on the left, his greasy and stubbled face contorting as he chews the end of his cigar.  “This…thing has set us back a few hours because of some—what’s that word, now?—delusioned idea of saving the world.  I get it, I get it.  It’s quite the cundrum—uh, conun—quite the fix.  But death?  Come now, Tom.” He pulls the cigar from his mouth, and in the dim lighting spits a wad of dry saliva and cigar juice not far from Tom’s left boot.  “That’s mighty harsh, ain’t it?  Look at things from—“

“From what, Cole?” Tom roars, flecks of spittle catapulting onto Cole’s face.  “From the view of a damned Injun? Tell me.  What did you eat last night?”

“This is one of dem questions where you try and flummux me,” Cole replies, jabbing the cigar between his teeth again.  “Where you know my thoughts and all that.  You can forget it.”

Tom snatches the cigar from his partner’s teeth and hurls it into the dust.  In another moment his apish foot crashes upon it, flattening it to a useless pile of dark leaves and ash.  “What did you eat last night, Cole?”

“Now you got me thinkin’ back.  Might as well be a year ago.” He crosses his arms and leans back against the stony wall, now concealed from the glow of a nearby lantern.  All is silent for a few moments, and then a deep growl trickles from the darkness.  “I had some pork and a side of something or other.  Beans, likely.  The problem wit’ dem beans, Tom—”

“Fine, fine, pork,” Tom turns his back to Cole and begins to pace in and out of the lantern’s light.  “You know where pork comes from?”

“Your questions’ve done me in by now.  Deer, I wager.”

“Your parents done raised you a ninny, Cole.  Listen here.  Pork is meat from one of ‘em grunters.  You want pork, someone needs kill you a pig first.  We eat to live.  Now catching one of the rascals to kill ‘em ain’t easy.  You have to get ‘em and kill ‘em fast, afore they get away.  Now no story tells of some grunter walkin’ up to a man, plump as pie and ready to be supper.  This Injun’s no different than a grunter, only we ain’t fixin’ to eat no Injun meat.  But what we needs is Injun land, and to get Injun land, Injuns need to die.  We kill to live.  Now this creature here, that’s a piece of puddin’, Cole.  Good Lord knows we c’n spend a greatle drivin’ ‘em ‘round like cattle afore we pin ‘em an’ pounce.  But this one comes to us, no arms but fists and some Injun cow sense.  An’ we jus’ let the grunter skedaddle an’ frolic with the others? On my honor, not while I draw breath.  Cole, give me your gun.”

He takes the revolver from the holster at Cole’s side, and his monstrous footfalls along the murky footpath fill the minute cavern with a raucous din.  He approaches you through the darkness, a voracious shadow, unseen and unheard but present.  The conversation had instilled in you some sense of dread, but now all thoughts and fears are fleeting, and some sudden sensation of serenity settles on your heart.  It remains there even as the footfalls grow louder but fall with less frequency.  It remains as he halts an arm’s length before you, hinging on the half-circle of light cast from the lantern hanging above.  It remains as the cold click of the gun’s hammer creeps into your ears.  For a reason you do not know, you shut your eyes.  You wait.  Stale breath slithers through the air, across the space between you and this supplier of death.  You expect the frozen bite of the weapon to pierce you, but instead you hear the distant sound of Cole’s voice: “Down the years ‘head, when you ‘aflect on this, you’ll ‘amember the blood of this Injun was on your hands.” You open your eyes, and see half of Cole’s body beneath the light at the other end of the cavern.  In his eyes there is pity.

“Yes,” says Tom, “I know.”

He takes a breath, places a finger on the trigger, and—