One Last Job

Light crept in through a shattered window and had begun to spread like maggots. It threatened to consume all that was there, but the shadows never seemed to want to let go of the man. They followed him, they shrouded him, they flowed from his coat like a tail, and they hung from the brim of his hat like a mask. Even his name was gone to the shadows.

"Gunslinger. It is time."

With one methodical touch the Gunslinger clicked the barrel of his revolver into place. It sat comfortably in its holster, more than it had any right to.

The Gunslinger got to his feet with a grunt, and the rotting pew creaked in his wake. Everything about the building was old. The structure, the furniture, the people. Soon all of it would be lost to time, or at least most of it.

One more job, the Gunslinger thought to himself, just one last job. 

Candles had been laid out in a circle of powders and herbs with an odour that viciously attacked the nose. There was a pattern to it, albeit a complicated one, all of which surrounded a smaller inner circle.

"Take a seat in the centre, Gunslinger, and cross your legs."

"Are you sure this will work?"

"Do you have such little faith in your own witches?" 

The Shaman handed the Gunslinger a ripe apple and a dead rat, giving him a little nudge towards the centre. 

Stiff knees ached as the Gunslinger sat himself down. He was careful not to disturb any of the powders, and kept himself from squashing the apple or rat in his hands. The Shaman took her position outside the circle, looking down on the Gunslinger with a musty book in hand. That stone face of hers revealed nothing.

"Close your eyes and clear your mind. I will do the rest."

The Gunslinger shifted around, trying to loosen his muscles that clawed at his bones as if to crush them. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth.

A harsh chant escaped the Shaman's mouth in some bizarre language. The Gunslinger attempted to decipher any of the words, but shortly gave up to clear his mind again.

All of the sudden, the doors came crashing off their rusty hinges. 

"Gunslinger," shouted a familiar voice, "in the name of the law I hereby place you under arrest!"

The Gunslinger's revolver suddenly began to weigh heavy beneath his shoulder, but he resisted every urge. It would not matter. After running for so long from the Sheriff, from his father before him, and his father's father, there was no point in resisting. Besides, at such a short distance it would be impossible for the Sheriff to miss.

"Don't ignore me you bastard! I'll kill you. Forget about the noose, I'll kill you here and now."

Bang! The smell of gunpowder filled the room, overpowering the herbs. The Gunslinger felt the bullet pass through him, but… but it did not hit him. No flesh was torn, no organs exploded, no pain seared his body. It was as if he were a spectre, a shadow.

A bullet meeting flesh became prominent to the Gunslinger.

Through a frail voice, the Shaman continued to chant. Her words sounded more like desperate grasps for air than actual speech. 

"God damn you, just die already!"

Bang! Bang! Bang! Rage caused the Sheriff to fire carelessly towards the Gunslinger, bullets exploding against dusty stone or unintended flesh. Still, the Shaman chanted on. Eventually the Sheriff ran out of bullets and his revolver clicked as if to taunt him. 

The Gunslinger felt an odd feeling wash through his body as his being had begun to fade into the candle smoke.

"Gunslinger," the Shaman said with her last breath, "remember your mission, I beg you please, do not forget my face. Find me, and kill me. Then, you may enjoy your peace at last. So can I."

Pain consumed the Gunslinger as the shadows turned on him. They wrestled and gnawed at him, making him disappear into thin air.

"GUNSLINGER!" 

The Sheriff's cry was the last thing the Gunslinger heard; the Shaman's corpse tumbling was the last thing he saw. All his senses were snubbed from him as he entered the void. Even his thoughts were nowhere to be found.

Then, he just waited in the abyss for what felt like the flap of a cicada's wing.