One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 1

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Chapter 2: Bad to Worse



Pí‘oro Kılímo had been dreaming quite pleasantly of distant locales and exotic young women when his wife, Vata, shook his shoulder and woke him up, spoiling everything. He cracked open an eye and focused it on Vata’s wrinkled face.

“Wake up,” she stated. “I heard gunfire out by the road.”

Pí‘oro opened his other eye and listened. Nothing but the television spouting nonsense about shopping from home.

“Are you positive it wasn’t part of the program?”

Vata rolled her eyes. “They’re not selling rifles, dear.” She patted his arm. “Now get up. Someone out there might be injured or dying.”

And of course it was suddenly Pí‘oro’s responsibility to go outside to find out. And if someone was hurt, to bring them in.

Pí‘oro swung his legs out from under the covers and slid his feet into his deerskin slippers. Emitting a sound somewhere between a grunt and a groan, Pí‘oro pushed his bulk to a standing position.

Vata, her black flannel bathrobe tied tightly around her thin waist, hobbled toward the open bedroom door. As she walked, Vata said, “And don’t forget to take your gun, dear. The aggressors are likely still nearby.”

“Of course, my love.” Not that he had ever shot at anybody. Not that he had shot at any living creature since he was a boy growing up on a farm up by the ocean. But at least he practiced his aim, now and then.

Vata paused just outside the doorway and turned to face her husband. She tilted her head slightly. “Do you think we’ll need a horse or a dog?”

Pí‘oro shrugged his wide shoulders. “How should I know? Perhaps a pig. It’s your show.” A few short steps and he was beside her, filling the door frame. “What the plagues. Prepare them all.”

Pí‘oro bent to peck a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Don’t worry about me.”

Vata smiled. “I wasn’t about to, dear. Just be careful.”

Pí‘oro squeezed past his little wife and continued along the thick-carpeted hallway. Back in the day, he’d have been out the front door and down the driveway like a shot. But not anymore. Now he could only manage so fast. Not that he was in a hurry, though, if people were shooting up the night just outside their home.

Then again, it was probably just some Huro-types out having a drunken good time. If one of them managed to actually hit anything, it’d be a minor miracle. Plague of Rékaré. One of them probably shot himself and Pí‘oro would be stuck having to help the idiot. All in the name of stupid old Névazhíno. Pí‘oro huffed a laugh. All in the name of Vata, is more like it.

After a seeming eternity, Pí‘oro reached the entryway. He flicked the lightswitch--actually turning on the ceiling light for the living room, which was adjacent to the entryway--and opened the closet door. He pulled out his old greenish-black down jacket and slipped it on over his nightwear, then removed his well-oiled 7-mm long-barrel rifle from the shelf above the coats. The box of ammunition got shoved into the jacket pocket. Pí‘oro cracked open the box, pulled out a bullet, and fed it into the gun chamber.

Ready to go, he paused by the front door. He’d heard no sounds outside, this whole time. Maybe the Huro-types had all accidentally killed each other. Or maybe they were already ten kilometers down the highway. Or maybe they lay in wait for him to open the door.

One way to find out. Pí‘oro flipped on the outdoor floodlights and swung open the door. Nobody shot him.

Pí‘oro shrugged and stepped out into the cold night.

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