Excerpt: Password

1.

A man enters the saloon. He is dressed in all black. His black hat is pulled down low over his face. Dark, scraggly facial hair conceals any of his features. His faces, clothes, boots, all covered in dirt. He walks slowly, determined.

The saloon is slow. It is near midday, and very few people are around. A man stands behind the bar, drying glasses with an old dirty rag. A woman sits near the bar, slurping bean soup from a bent-up tin spoon.

The man’s feet almost drag across the floor, like a tiger stalking its prey. His eyes dart quickly around the room. He exhales. A small wheeze escapes him. His tongue rolls over his lips. They are dry and chapped and covered in dirt. He nears the bar, passing the woman. There’s a familiar smell to the woman, and the woman pauses, spoon in mid air, trying to place it.

The man slides the last few feet to the bar. He leans against the old wooden bar. The bartender, and older man who has outlived himself, puts the old dirty rag on his shoulder and shuffles over to the man.

A coin emerges; gestures are made; a bottle is opened and poured into a shot glass. The bartender keeps the bottle.

The man raises the shot glass to his nose. He sniffs in, slowly. His tongue dances across his chapped lips. A slight smile cracks at the side of his mouth. He turns, faces the woman, looks her over. Her spoon is still alight; she is still trying to place the smell. The man in black gestures with his shot glass, just slightly, in her direction.

“Do I know you?” the woman asks.

The man says nothing, just holds his shot glass up. The woman sets her spoon back into her soup bowl, still mostly full. The bartender puts the bottle of whiskey back on the shelf, returns to his wet glasses and dirty rag. A quiet breeze drags dust across the floor. Outside, the laughter of children in the distance. A horse whinnies.

The woman starts to speak, but the man in black interrupts her.

“Here’s to Hell,” he says, and lifts the shot glass to his cracked lips, knocks the whisky back. A small cough. The man reaches forward with his left hand, places it on his side. Pulls it away. Mutters to himself.

“I’ve seen you before,” the woman says, unsettled. “Oh, you’re injured!” she adds, starting to rise. The man coughs again, drops the shot glass. It clanks to the wooden floor. The man’s eyes peer out at the woman from underneath his hat. His dry lips crack into a smile.

“Sorry,” the man spits out.

“Sorry for...” the woman begins. The man falls forward, crashing into the woman’s table. She jumps up to help him, but not before he’s hit the table hard. Her soup bowl flashes through the air, lands upside down on the ground beside the shot glass. She grabs the man, lowering him to the ground. She spreads his body out on the bar floor.

“Pete,” the woman cries, “get me some whiskey!” She is leaning over the man, her face titled to the side, listening to him breathe. Her hands feel suddenly wet. She looks at them. They’re red, covered in blood. The bartender has started shuffling over, not particular concerned about a man who can’t hold his liquor.

“Never mind, Pete,” the woman says, “about the whiskey. Help me get him upstairs. He’s been shot.”

Pete mutters something under his breath about the terrible customers he gets these days, walks around the bar, helps the woman hoist the man up.

“He can’t stay in a room here,” the bartender says.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it,” the woman replies, as they drape the man’s arms around their shoulders and begin carrying up the stairs.

“Nurses,” Pete mutters.