Five and None

The last rays of glittering sunlight were slowly slipping from the town, like sand through fingertips. About a quarter mile from the train station, the Waylon house sat chipped and raw from years of weathering. In the attic, Marlon rested the rifle just below the only window. The revolver stayed tucked into his waistband.

He looked out the window, facing the only road to the house. He knew, he hoped, that he would be able to hear them coming, but a vigilant eye wouldn’t hurt. Might prove the difference. He put his hands on the window sill and felt the old wood creak from the pressure.

He turned from the window as the attic’s trap door popped open. His hand instinctively went to his back, rested when he saw Henry’s face pop out. 

“Just me,” Henry said, eyeing him warily. Once he had climbed in, he reached back down into the opening and produced a plate with a few slices of bread and an orange. “Brought you some food, like I said.” He held it out to Marlon, who grabbed it with one hand. Marlon stayed standing, holding the plate with one hand and grabbing a piece of bread off of it with the other. “Ain’t much,” Henry added, and shrugged. He stayed on the ground, hands resting on his knees. 

“Thank you,” Marlon finally muttered through a mouthful. Henry nodded. 

The two men sat in silence while Marlon ate. His eyes only went from the plate, the food, to the window. Mechanically, he took a look out after every bite. He peeled the orange by cutting into them with his thumb, taking care not to squeeze out the juice. He put the peel back onto the plate. When he finished, he handed the plate back to Henry, who took it and set it on the attic floor beside himself.

“So,” Henry began, rubbing the back of his neck.

“When am I leaving?” Marlon said, looking out the window. It was a question, but he spoke it like an answer.

“Yeah,” Henry said, and stopped rubbing. He stared at the back of Marlon’s head as the latter rested his arms on the sill. Henry’s eyes shifted down to the rifle quickly before looking back up.

“When they get here,” Marlon responded. 

“It’ll be plum late by then, won’t it?” 

Marlon didn’t answer but continued keeping watch. A stray piece of the breeze caught the window sill and came into the attic, and Henry shuddered.
“How many bullets you got left?” He asked.

“Five in the rifle, none in the revolver.”

Six from the revolver, from the inciting incident and then the escape. Cutting through an alley on his way to work, the Mckinley brothers tried to put a bag over his head. It took one shot for the first brother, right to the head, but the other took two, both in the chest. 

His actions were instinctual; the people in town said animalistic, but there’s nothing animal about a gun. 

Then he’d used the last bullets covering his way out of town. He was smart enough to not waste any, especially when he was already in such want. Men had come running right after the first shot, but to most of them he was little more than kicked-up dust. Old Sam Peters, who had been gunning for the sheriff position too hard to ever get it, was the only one who could keep up with him. For him, Marlon had taken two shots, both of which missed. The first bought him enough time to get back to his horse, and the second would’ve caught Old Sam right between the eyes, if he hadn’t caught the glint of the metal just quick enough to duck. 

Three from the rifle, during his first last stand in the valley. He fired one warning shot at the five men, Old Sam among ‘em, that had come for him. Then one of them got it in the leg, and another in the chest, on the other side of his heart. That had spooked them into leaving with the wounded and getting the sheriff. He then made his way to Henry’s house, where he knew they’d eventually find him again.

He’d kept any extra ammunition in the cabin, which he knew was probably cinders by then.

“I’d offer you some more, but you know I don’t got nothing,” Henry said, talking either about the food or the guns. Marlon only nodded.

“You know I’m a friend, Marlon,” Henry said, “And I don’t mind having you. But maybe you need to-” he started, then stopped. “It would be better for everyone, you and me.” 

“Too late,” Marlon responded, still looking out. “They’re here.” He saw a speck on the horizon, moving fast.

“Damn it all to hell!” Henry shouted, and jumped up. Though Marlon didn’t look at him, his face had turned to a pale red.  “You causing me and mine too much trouble, Marlon.” Venom seeped into his voice. “I ain’t goin’ down for no damn n—er.”

Henry pulled a small knife from his pocket and lunged at Marlon’s right side. He brought the blade down in an arcing motion, but found his wrist stopped with almost enough force to snap it. Henry felt a searing in his stomach, and stumbled backwards. He fell to the ground, landing almost in the same spot he had first sat. The sizzle of the gunpowder cut through the silence as Marlon looked down at him.

“Five and one,” he mumbled to himself. “Five and one.” 

He set the revolver down and picked up the rifle. They were more than just a speck now, and he could make out that there were about ten of them: the three that had escaped unharmed last time, the sheriff, a couple deputies, and a few new faces besides. Right beside the sheriff, leading the charge, was Old Sam. Marlon lined up a shot and held his breath.

Jacob Mack is an aspiring poet and author from Macon, Georgia. He is an undergraduate at Mercer University majoring in Secondary Education in English with minors in Creative Writing and Religion. His work has also been published in The Dulcimer, Mercer’s literary magazine.