Charlie Whiskeyfingers

“Charlie, though that’s just what we call him, came out of the creek that runs over behind the church. We called him Charlie Whiskeyfingers ‘cause when we found him, he was clinging to a whiskey bottle tighter than a…Well, he was holdin’ it pretty tight. It wasn’t till we got him off the damn thing we saw what was in it. There was a blank piece o’ paper and a gun in there. Now, God knows how they got the gun in that bottle, but we pulled him out of the river and finally got that bottle away from him and cleaned him off. We never really gave him an official name, we just introduced him to the kids over at the schoolhouse and they started callin’ him Charlie. The Whiskeyfingers didn’t come ‘till later.
It was his twelfth birthday. A couple o’ really shady looking fellas came ridin’ into town. They didn’t talk to no one. And they didn’t look at no one. They just rode in, tied off their horses, walked on into the mayor’s office, shot the mayor, wrecked the place and rode on out. We went in to see what they did to the place and we just found a note that said “For the boy,” and there was a bottle o’ whiskey left on the desk. They shot the mayor clean through his skull, too. Looked like they sat him down in that big ol’ chair o’ his and all shot him at the same time. His papers were all over the place, blood splattered. They drew crosses all around the room too. And there these big white feathers all over the place. We didn’t know what to make of it.”
“Did you give it to him?” Hal asked.
“Excuse me?” Steve asked, indignantly.
“Did you give him the whiskey?” Hal repeated.
“Well, no shit, we gave it to him! You don’t not give a boy whiskey when a mayor’s been shot over it. I mean we were caught with our pants down. We figured the best thing to do was not ask questions and just do what those murderers said. Now, no more interruptions. So, we gave the boy the bottle o’ whiskey and he started suckin’ on it like a regular baby to a regular bottle. He just drank the whole damn thing. Hell, it didn’t even smell like whiskey when he was done with it. Then, he ran back to the church. He busted open the bottle, we found him with, lit the blank piece o’ paper on fire and took the gun. He strapped the pistol to his belt and ran off into the woods. He was gone two weeks before we saw him again. Some folks headed for California picked him up. They said when they found him, he was naked and covered in soot, like he’d run through a wild fire or something. Anyway, they brought him back to the church, cleaned him up, got some clothes on his back and asked him what happened, but he wasn’t speakin’ English. Tell ya the truth, we still don’t know what he was speakin’ and any time we ask him about it, he doesn’t remember. It took three months, four doctors, eight priests, a rabbi and two medicine men from the local Indian folks before we could at least get him to at least speak Spanish. When we finally got him speakin’ English again, he just kept sayin’ somethin’ about demons and “fighting the blackness” and what not. He was still drinkin’ that whiskey, too. We all just figured it was doin’ the talkin’. We tried to get him to give up the drink, but he wouldn’t stop. He said he couldn’t stop. He needed it.. We tried everything. We tied him to a tree, but he broke the ropes. For a while we made drinkin’ in town illegal, but when this here saloon started goin’ under, we had to end it. We didn’t know what to do, so finally we just said “A’right! That’s enough! We don’t wantcha here no more!” and ran his little ass out of town. Two days later, though…as soon as he was gone, that’s when all the trouble really started. The first day he was gone, the river ran dry. After that, the crops started turnin’ brown and the cattle started goin’ hungry. Once they started dyin’ we started lookin’ for him. We couldn’t find him anywhere. We brought in detectives and bounty hunters and even a few psychics, but no one could tell us where he went. Ten long years we looked for that boy. This town really went to shit. The river stayed dry. All our livestock took ill and died. People started leavin’. Before long, it was just me, my saloon, and the priest who just stayed in his empty church all day, readin’ books, I guess. ‘Bout the time I was gettin’ ready to pack up, lock the doors and roll on out o’ here, who do you think shows up on the edge of town? Old Charlie Whiskeyfingers, bottle in one hand, gun in the other. He looked like a regular pistolero. He had a big scar runnin’ down the side of his face. He wore a leather duster with a big red cross on the back and on his belt, you wouldn’t believe it, but he had one o’ them swords the crusaders used to have. He said he got it in Jerusalem, but I just figured it was the booze talking. He probably got it from some old city slicker who got stuck in the mud on his way out here and figured he didn’t need it weighin’ him down anymore. After that, he went back to the church and just read all day, probably with the priest. Sun up to sun down, he had his nose buried in a book.”
“So, where do these guys come in?” Hal asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
“Oh, these guys?” Steve replied, with a little chuckle. “Charlie says these guys are here for him. Demons, he called ‘em.” Hal looked back over his shoulder.
“They look pretty normal to me.” He said, innocently.

Two men in black dusters stood outside in the street, the wind blowing their coats like pirate flags. Across from them, stood a tall man, wearing a beige ten gallon hat, a deep scar running from his forehead to his jaw line. He wore a light brown duster, a white shirt, a red vest and a pair of khaki pants. Wrapped around his neck was a bright red bandana and draped over his shoulders, a tan duster with a big red cross on the back. Charlie took a step toward the men, resting his hand on the sword at his hip.
“You boys ought to ride on back where you came from.” He said, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand. The men laughed and took a step forward to match him.
“We’re not going anywhere,” One of them said. “We’re gonna burn this town to the ground. Then we’re gonna tear that church of yours apart board by board and brick by brick. Then when we’re done, we’re gonna take you and drag you behind our horses for…How long do you think we should drag him for, Jimmy?”
“Till there ain’t nothin’ left,” the other said. He spat. “We’re gonna drag you through the dirt, till there ain’t nothin’ but dirt,” he said, shortly. Charlie smiled and took another mouthful of whiskey.
“Well, that’s good and all,” he said, wiping his chin. “But see, I protect this town. So, if you’re plannin’ on destroyin’ anything here, it’ll have to be me first.”
“With pleasure,” one of the men said. The ground started to shake. The wind picked up and dust whipped around, getting in everyone’s eyes. The glasses rattled on the shelves of the saloon and the various bottles of hard alcohol smashed on the floor. People cleared the streets. Charlie smiled and had a bit more whiskey. Behind him, to his right and left, a pair of men, dressed in the same dusters, swords on their hips landed hard on the ground. Folding a pair of giant, gray wings behind their backs, they stood up, drawing their swords.
“That’s them!” Steve said.
“Who’s them?” Hal asked, hurrying over to the window to get a better look.
“Those are the same two fellas who shot the mayor!” Steve said. “I don’t think I’ll be stickin’ around for this one,” he said, and he jumped behind the bar. Hal wished he could move, but his eyes glued him to the spot.
“Looks like you fellas are outnumbered,” Charlie said, drawing his own sword. The men in black laughed.
“We like it like this,” one of them said, hissing at the end of the sentence. The men drew swords of their own. The blades were curved, still black from the forge and once out they didn’t stay still for very long. The men charged and Charlie and his compatriots readied themselves for the onslaught. The swords flashed in the noontime sun and sang, like the bells in the church, as the combatants hammered at one another with them, trying to land them somewhere important. Charlie’s reinforcements took to the sky, but were followed by balls of flame as the men in black unleashed a battery of fiery destruction. The winged pistoleros went unharmed, but the bank, the blacksmith and the stable all exploded, sending splinters of wood, charred bits of money and cattle, and flecks of hot iron everywhere. Amidst the screams and shrapnel, Charlie managed to fire off a few rounds from his pistol, knocking off both of his adversaries’ hats. They lowered their hands and turned to face him.
“Come on, half breed,” one of them said. “Let’s just get this over with.” Charlie’s comrades landed behind them, drawing their swords again. The men in black smiled manically and took off their coats. From each of their sweaty backs, a pair of black leathery wings, like those of a bat, stretched out and the skin on their faces began to slide off, leaving behind faces that matched their swords, both in color and jaggedness. Their eyes glowed red and fire traveled up from their hands to the tips of their blades. Charlie finished what was in his bottle.
“Well, shit,” he said, holding it up to the sunlight. “Looks like I’m all out. We’d better wrap this up pretty quick.” He took off his duster, revealing a pair of grand white wings. They fanned out, spanning almost the entire width of the street. The demons hissed at him and rattled their sabers. Behind them, the other two also removed their dusters revealing the same light, feathery wings as Charlie.
“I don’t know about you,” Steve yelled, peering over the bar. “but I’d get the hell outta here if I was you!” Hal, suddenly remembering he hadn’t nodded off into the nightmare unfolding in the street, snapped to attention and headed for the back door. Once outside, he untied the first horse he saw and headed off, in no particular direction. The sounds of the battle, though ear-piercingly loud began to fade. From a hilltop, probably less than a mile away, he watched as one of the black specters launched a massive, infernal ball straight down to the center of the town. The blaze consumed everything. The saloon was quickly incinerated, along with the gunsmith’s shop, which exploded as powder kegs were ignited, sending ammunition everywhere. Hal crossed his heart, took off his hat, and disappeared.