Trail's End

666 Words

Wyatt Carter rode his horse towards the town of Trail’s End. Rumor had it that Sheriff Jones was away. That was good because Wyatt had a hankering for causing some chaos and Jones being gone made that so much easier. The sheriff’s deputies were a laughing stock whose hands trembled anytime they pulled a gun on Wyatt. The mere memory of the sight brought a smile to Wyatt’s face.

As Wyatt approached the town his good mood turned to confusion. By now, he should see the townsfolk going about their daily business. By now, some would see him and make for the safety of their homes. But there was nothing. Midday and no one was in the streets. Panic tried to take hold. Had this been a setup all along? He knew Jones had been gunning for him ever since Wyatt took his daughter’s innocence. The bitch told her daddy that she’d been raped, but it wasn’t cries of panic she was screaming that night. No sir, Wyatt remembered fondly. The only reason the girl snitched was because some townsfolk saw them together.

Still, no one made a peep as he rode into town. His horse whinnied and bucked a few times as if spooked. “Whoa, easy girl,” he said stroking her neck.

Wyatt jumped down off his horse, grabbed the reins and led his horse over to the saloon and tied her to the post. Only the occasional breeze whipping through town provided a break from the silence. 

He stepped up the couple of stairs to the wood plank street in front of the saloon. He stepped up hard as he could, attempting to make his presence known, hoping someone would reveal themselves.

Nothing.

Wyatt reached down and unsnapped the leather strap on his gun and pulled the dingy, silver pistol out. With the gun in his hand, he pushed open the batwing door and stepped in. His footsteps echoed in the saloon as did the slow swing of the door. “Hello,” he called out though more cautious than his usual attention-getting yell. The sight of an empty town rattled the normally confident, cocky outlaw.

He looked around the saloon and what he saw made the blood drain from his face and an ice cold feeling run throughout his body. Things sat around the saloon as if the townsfolk just got up and left. Glasses, half full, sat on the bar. Cards and chips sat on a couple tables as if the players laid their hands down and disappeared. There were plates of food left on the table. Flies furiously swarmed around the plates as they excitedly gorged themselves on their rotting meal. What wracked Wyatt’s brain the most was there was no sign of a struggle, no blood on the floors or walls, no broken bottles. Everything was as it should be in a saloon, except no people.

Wyatt slowly made his way towards the staircase where the saloon girls usually waited for their ‘appointments’. His footfalls were the only sounds. He looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone. Anyone.

He grasped the railing and made his way to the second floor, the wooden stairs creaking under his feet.

At the top, Wyatt walked over and entered the first room on the right. The sheets were in a mess as if they had been used. He crouched down and looked under the bed. Again, nothing. He stood up and spotted a closet at the back of the room. He started to walk towards it when suddenly he felt a sharp, hot sting in the back of his neck. He slapped at his neck and heard the hit but didn’t feel pain. The hotness began to spread through his body. He tried to run, but his body wouldn’t respond. “Here,” came a raspy voice from behind. His heart raced and his eyes darted around trying to see who was there.

“Excellent,” came a second, equally raspy voice. “More meat for the newly risen.”