RainBy Morgan CollinsPart V I turned, and couldn't say anything; I knew what would happen if I tried to talk to normal people. He raised the gun, aiming, and said more authoritatively, more harshly, "I said stay put, boy!" After it was clear that I wasn't going to move anytime soon, he said, "You've got a lot of nerve, breaking into a temple of the lord in our town. We're not the heathens that you've stolen from and had to come out here to hide from, boy. We remember our roots, and we remember them well. If you know what's best for you, you'll stay right where you are until a couple of my friends and the pastor come. I figures that since you haven't stolen anything, the pastor might do you some good before we take you in for breaking and entering. See the voice of God in your path, for once in your forsaken life." I didn't say anything, and that seemed to suit the officer fine (I caught myself wondering if he was the sheriff. Not that it mattered.) as he kept his gun leveled at me. About five minutes later came the running of feet, as several other men with shotguns and a man dressed in the Cossack of a preacher came into the room. The latter carried a Coleman lantern, which lit the room with its oily glow. "Now, boy, talk to the preacher. Let's get your sin dealt with; I won't have the laws of man superceding the laws of God in my town." I knew what was going to happen when I opened my mouth, when I tried to speak; I wasn't sure what to do. It was a pity my intelligence was no better past my life than during it. Then it came to me; why should a corpse fear the living? It should be the other way around; man has every reason to fear the dead. It was then that I opened my mouth, pushed as much air through what was left of my lungs, and charged. As it would turn out, the Sheriff's name was Duke Eddington, also known as "The Shooting Star of the South" by the law enforcement community. A retired Texas Ranger, he was known world wide for leading a posse across the Texas border to shoot and kill two dozen drug dealers for raping a teenager in El Paso. Six men killed twenty four; he feared nothing, and he didn't fear me. Not enough to keep from firing first and asking questions later. There is no pain in death; there is, however, profound discomfort. Having your chest torn counts, in every respect, as a profound discomfort. There was a shout; from the Sheriff, from the deputies, the murmuring to Mary and Christ. The firing of more guns into me. What grasp of reality I had was quickly disappearing, and I reacted in the fear I had hoped to cause them to have. It had never occurred to me that I could somehow cease to exist in my current state. I did not want to risk the chance. I killed a deputy coming to check me out first, to my regret. He was young, and I noticed the wedding ring on his finger as I crushed his hand. I had always known that my strength was greater than it had normally been, but I had not realized how fragile someone would seem under my grasp. It made me sick. The other deputies went down amidst gunfire and screams; the Cossack-laden figure ran. I turned to look at the Sheriff, and didn't see him. So I ran. He shot me as I ran; he had been standing to the side of the door. He shot me eleven more times, the last tilting my head to see a fallen Coleman lantern on the floor. I grabbed it, I heard the reloading. I turned, and saw the blast of the gun muzzles as two six shooters emptied themselves out into me again. I pulled myself up, and ran; if I could be killed again, I wasn't going to find out how many bullets it took. I remembered twenty four bullets before the discomfort stopped; perhaps he ran out. I do not think even he would have wanted to chase me unarmed. I paused only long enough to notice the start of rain falling from the sky, and the pain (Yes, pain) that I felt as the water touched the multitude of holes that had gone through me. That's when I searched for solitude, and found the cigarette factory in another town five miles down the same worn dirt road. The news of what would be known as the white chapel incident in the tabloids had not reached them by then. With my recollections aside, I looked up to notice there was a fire started; Death was crouched, her knees against her chest, looking at me quietly. I tried to smile, and it worked surprisingly well. "You weren't stopped by the markings." "Oh, those? No, of course not, silly. It's amazing what man thinks is power." She matched the smile, and said, "You've had a rough time, haven't you? You've brought it upon yourself. But you've learned a lesson in only a few years that takes many who have died sometimes a hundred. It wasn't the best way, but it was a way." She reached forward, and said, "Some things were beyond both of our control, you could say." She touched my hand, she touched warm, living skin. I bolted from the realization. I felt my face, my hair; my youthful features. "See? There is something to be said about going on, Cristoff. And I know someone special who's waiting for you. But first, let me show you something." Death took me outside, into the rain; it was a windy rain, and in this desert town the wet sand was kicked up into small dust devils. The sun was rising, the colorful light splitting as it was bent by the rain, giving a rainbow hue to the dancing figures. We both were soaking wet after a time, but neither of us minded. The most intimate moments of my existence were in the silence that death provided me. It was then that she gave me my wife's watch.
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