The commotion boils behind him as he heads for the doors. A confused Oliver, just slightly staggering now, follows him into the street.
“What the hell, James? I thought you were here to help. Is it about money? Our town might not look like much, but we can scrape together whatever it takes to hire a Taciturn.”
James stops and looks into the Sheriff’s glossy eyes. “I am here to help. But something I didn’t mention in there is that Scry can take the appearance of anyone they’ve consumed.” He lets his eyes linger on the sheriff’s for a moment. “Anyone.”
Taciturn waits while Oliver processes this new information. The Sheriff is unable to hide his horror, which at least appears genuine. James makes a mental note of it.
“You’re saying someone in there…?” He hooks a thumb back over his shoulder.
The mercenary raises his hands, palms outward. “Could be. Even if it’s not… either way, I didn’t want to cause a panic.”
Oliver shakes his head and gestures back to the saloon. “Well, you sure coulda fooled me, James! Everyone in there is losing their minds right about now! I don’t know how or if I’m gonna be able to douse that fire!”
James shrugs. “Then don’t. Let the gossip circulate. About a Taciturn that’s come to town. Then tell them how you convinced me to help solve that little problem you’ve acquired. And make sure the word spreads. I want this creature to know that I’m here for it.”
The sheriff’s forehead wrinkles as he conducts his own delayed negotiations with the bourbon. “Wait, yeah – no, I get it. I think. But shouldn’t we discuss your fee?”
He mulls over Oliver’s question. This is something that’s been bothering him since he started talking to the lawman.
“Oliver, I’ve already been contracted for this job. I’d assumed it came from someone higher than you. Does this town have a Mayor or something?”
More confusion washes over Oliver’s face. “What? No, that doesn’t make any sense. I guess it could have been the Mayor, but he disappeared a few weeks ago. No one has come forward, to my knowledge.”
Taciturn frowns. He’s taken on prior contracts with few enough questions asked – but something about this whole operation seems off. The town’s sheriff should have known about James coming. Still, if there’s a Scry on the loose—
“Hmm… I see. Well, looks like someone’s looking out for you. Better get inside and do your part, Oliver.”
The Homestead sheriff stops halfway back to the pub and turns around. “Wait a second, James. How do you know I’m not the Scry?”
Without looking back, Taciturn strides towards the outskirts of town.
“I don’t,” he calls back over his shoulder. “But if you are, you’ll still want to protect your hunting grounds. If that’s the case, you’ll know where to find me.”
It’s dark by the time he reaches an acceptable location. Taciturn approaches one of the abandoned buildings at the town’s edge. James assumes it belonged to one of the Scry’s victims. He puts his weight on the door, and it gives. Inside, he prepares for the inevitable encounter.
Rearranging the furniture, James takes some of the broken pieces of wood and starts a blaze in the fireplace. He unrolls his sleeping bag, hiding his pistol inside it. Now it’s a waiting game. He sits down and warms himself by the roaring fire. As the flames consume the wood, his mind begins to drift. He watches the dancing cast shadows on a nearby chair. With a broken leg, it leans towards the flames as if it too is trying to soak up whatever warmth it can in this lifeless house. James yawns and studies the rest of the room, trying to keep his mind active. Something about the fading wallpaper seems familiar. Styled like an old navigational chart, it maps the Old World in great detail, but the fringes of the New World are filled with serpents and mermaids. James has seen these creatures before, but in an old memory he’s locked away. As his eyelids become heavy, that memory gets the best of him.
It’s a memory he’s seen before. Countless, painful times. His son, Timothy, eagerly tries to wake him, but James pretends not to hear. Another sleepless night at work, stuck in yet another brutal crunch cycle before the current project’s delivery date. But how does one explain any of this to a child?
“Dad, Dad, Dad! Hey Da-a-a-a-a-ad!”
The younger James Reynolds opens his eyes and sees the decorative wallpaper of his bedroom. Sea monsters and mermaids stare back at him. James is still surprised that his wife has let him keep it. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, James looks over to see the gap-toothed smile of his son. The clock on the nightstand mocks him with the knowledge that he’s only slept four hours.
“Where’s your mother?” James asks.
“She’s taking Ninja for a walk,” Timothy says, happily, now that he’s finally summoned his father back to life. To further celebrate his victory, Timothy begins bouncing on the bed.
“She tried waking you up, but you just kept snoring. You’ll miss everything if you sleep in, Dad.”
Scoffing at the notion that he’s ‘slept in’, James groggily kicks off the warm comfort of his sheets and stretches. Opening the drawer to his nightstand, James pulls out a can of Red Bull and downs half of its contents with one gulp.
Timothy gives the can a disapproving look and says, matter-of-factly, “Mom says that stuff is crap.”
“I know,” James replies with a smile, “but sometimes adults need to drink something to wake up.” He heaves himself up into a sitting position. “And don’t say ‘crap’.”
In the bathroom, the ice-cold water on his face works in tandem with the lukewarm energy drink in his body. Reluctant gears and relays in his head start groaning into operation.
Standing by his father’s side, Timothy looks up impatiently.
“Hurry up, Dad. You said we’re going to the park today.”
James’ haggard reflection in the mirror stares back at him. He lets out a defeated sigh.
“Tim…”
Timothy knows his father’s tone all too well.
“But you promised.”
Reluctantly, James looks down.
“I know kiddo, but Dad has to go back to work today. Everyone’s working hard…”
Before his father can finish, Timothy is already running out of the bathroom. Sluggishly moving after him, James sees a last, fleeting glimpse of his child dash out the doorway – the doorway that his wife, Sarah, now occupies.
“James, we made plans. You can’t keep doing this.”
Unfortunately, James also knows his wife’s tone just a little too well, and he wishes that he could bolt out of the room as easily as his son just has. Shaking his head, James veers off towards the dresser to disengage. His wife isn’t having it and alters course to intercept.
“You can’t keep letting them do this to you. They can’t keep taking advantage of you like this.”
James pulls a fresh shirt on over his head.
“Sara, I’m the Chief Software Engineer. I have a responsibility to…”
This is the wrong word-choice, and James regrets it almost instantly.
“Responsibility! You have a responsibility to this family. He is your son. I am your wife!”
From down the hallway, James hears the door to Timothy’s room slam shut. Tired, hungry, and defeated, James walks past his wife towards the front door. He’s already late for work. As he crosses the threshold of his house, the golden rays of the sun mercifully cast his mind in the darkness of digital nothing.