Page 9 of High Noon

Chapter Three

Titus

DidI ever mention how much I hated travelling, or the fact that landing completely sucked? It sucked when I landed in a pile of diseased bodies in various stages of decay; it sucked when I crashed through the roof of a brothel, landing on a couple who were busy… coupling; it sucked when I fell through the thick wooden roof of a chicken coop; and it sucked now that I'd landed in the back of a wagon. Luckily, the wagon wasn't moving at the time, although I'd obliterated its cover and the frame that held it up, blindly crushing the goods it hauled. I'd never be so lucky to land on pillows or comforters, or even hay, as scratchy and sharp as it could be.

Nope. I had to land on stacks of wooden crates. Crates with sharp angles and tacks and nails sticking out of them. Oh, and there were jugs, too. Thick ceramic ones. They held some sort of thick, black grease and thinner, golden-colored oil. Some even contained whiskey. I smelled like all three now.

The best part of all? I wasn't anywhere near my time or the Compound, and had no damn clue where Eve was – yet again. Not a single one. I didn't know what year it was or where I might be, and I couldn't move from the wagon because my back felt like it was broken and my suit hadn't accelerated healing yet. Better yet? The wagon's owner heard the commotion and was shouting from somewhere nearby. He just learned that his livelihood had been crushed. By me.

A wrinkled face glowered at me from the back of the wagon. "What in tarnation?" The old man had a wiry, salt and pepper mustache that was thicker than any I could grow, with a bushy beard to match. I tried not to be jealous.

I'd tried to grow facial hair once, but then Eve told me it made me look like a prepubescent boy, so I shaved it off immediately.

No chick would go for someone with a half-grown beard.

I groaned, wishing I could sit up and at least act like a normal human for once on this journey. I raised my head as the old man aimed a shotgun at me. “Don’t shoot,” I said. “I just fell here. It’s not my fault.”

“Just fell here?” he asked. “From where?”

I raised my forearm and pointed at the sky.

“Why were you hiding in a dead tree, and why did ya jump onto my wagon? I’d have given you a ride if you asked.”

“I misjudged the distance?” I offered, though it sounded more question than answer. “Sorry.”

“Well,” he sniffed, lowering his gun toward the ground. “I guess you can help me clean this up, and maybe find something to salvage. We’re almost to the post. I gotta trade what I can while I can, and don’t even know what I have left.”

His reasoning made me feel somewhat better and I sat up, wincing as I stretched my back. “That sounds fair.” More than fair. I’d have demanded repayment at least – not that I had means to repay him.

“You’ll be paying for what you smashed,” he warned, appearing to read my thoughts.

“Absolutely,” I lied. “As soon as we get to…”

“The tradin’ post,” he finished, with a tone that said he thought I was either stupid or crazy, and he wasn’t sure which or if he even cared.

Dragging his eyes cautiously over my tech suit, he gave me a hand and I jumped out of the wagon. We worked in silence for the next ten minutes, removing the canvas from the wagon’s wooden frame. He whistled when he saw the carnage. “Yes, indeed. You’ll have to make amends. You smashed almost everything. How in the world…”

He chattered about the carelessness of young people and how heading out West was a bad idea, and how his lard might be able to be put into another container. And while he sipped whiskey from a broken jug, spitting the occasional piece of ceramic out before swallowing it, I worked to clear his wagon. It was the least I could do. I wouldn’t be paying for any of the damage, after all.

I learned the old man’s name was Bill and he was five foot tall, or claimed to be, though I figured he was lying. His legs were bow-legged enough to take off a couple inches, at least. All guys added at least a few inches to their height when they told people about it. They’d take ten pounds off their actual weight, too. Suck in their stomachs. Flex their pecs. These were facts.

As he rambled on, I asked him about the trading post. I gleaned that it was a place along the trail where those traveling west could seek shelter and be safe. From what, I wasn't sure, but safe was always a good thing. I liked safe.

He blathered on about how I’d almost managed to make his entire trip worthless. I learned he was planning to sell the goods he brought to locals and maybe even a store. He wasn’t sure if the store was complete yet, but a couple had started building the structure before he left the post the last time he was through these parts. I wondered if Eve was there, and if she had found Enoch.

I prayed she didn’t land as hard as I did. Truthfully, I was scared out of my mind for her. I wasn't sure how many more times she could land before her body crumbled. Even though she tried to hide it, she became more brittle with every fall. Back in seventeen-seventy-seven, she approached me and wanted to jump immediately, just to get out of there as fast as she could. That was before she was charmed by Enoch. I hoped I reached her before he did the same this time and could convince her to jump again fast. We were in uncharted territory here. I didn't know a lot about when the frontier was settled, but I knew enough. If we stayed here too long, trouble would find us.

It had in every other time, but here, trouble meant anything from a stagecoach robber to a gambler, a shootout or a duel. Hell, it could mean a rattlesnake bite.

Or being shot by a five-foot tall old man with killer facial hair.

Trouble also came in the forms of three Nephilim, two crazier than the third, but all of whom were dangerous. Enoch had been a nice enough guy so far, but Eve’s crush on him had to take a back burner. We had to prioritize getting home – once and for all.

Most of the crates were trashed, but they held textiles and small burlap allotments of wheat flour and sugar, so Bill hadn’t lost everything after all. The squishy, thick substance was lard. He scooped what he could into an empty jug I hadn’t managed to shatter while I folded the wagon’s canvas into the smallest square I could.

“Why are you headin’ this way?” Bill asked as he led a horse over from a nearby tree. The sun was setting and light was fading fast, but Bill had been doing this a long time. I bet he could hitch up a horse blindfolded. His weathered hands deftly completed the task before he turned to face me, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting for my answer.

“I’m looking for work.”

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