lesson plans - eight

[scurlock]

[previous: seven]


The next time his eyes blink open, it's due to the sudden impact of cold water against his face, shocking him into awareness. His head spins as his eyes try to adjust to the sudden light, vision blurred by the ringing in his skull and the water in his eyes. He doesn't get a chance to make that adjustment before he feels himself getting dragged up to his feet, the ground wobbling beneath him as his boots scrape against the slick, dust-coated hardwood floorboards.

His tongue feels coated in tar, voice lodged somewhere in the base of his throat. He can't speak, he can't even see, and everything is fuzzy as his brain falters, trying to catch up with itself in a race it's already lost.

"Now listen here, Regulator--"


Doc feels hot breath against his ear and recoils from it.

"And you listen good."

Charlie pins him against the wall, forearm pressed against his throat and threatening to cut off his already weak supply of air; his lungs already heaving from the shock of the water and the pain in his head.

"You're gonna tell me where t'find Hunter, and you're gonna do it now," he grumbles. "No more of your bullshit and your games, y'hear me? I'm runnin' out of patience, for scumbags like you."

"Already told y'we don't know," Doc croaks, pressing back against the wall in an attempt to get away from the grip Charlie has on him. "We ain't lyin'."

"That's what your friend told me, and I think he's full'a shit, so we're gonna try 'gain with you."

"He ain't lyin' t'you either."

The bounty hunter aims a kick into the wall next to Doc's leg, the force hard enough to give the outlaw reason to flinch and try to scramble out of the grasp once more. He's already exhausted, but Doc knows if he can just get his hands free...

(His wrists are already raw and burning from the abrasive fibers of the rope, not a surprise with how much effort he's expended while struggling against the bonds.)

"C'mon, boy," Charlie sneers. "Don't make this harder than it has t'be."

"Why would I tell you where he is? I don't know. Even if I did, I wouldn't sell out one of my pals t'your sorry--"

This time the kick lands square across the front of his left shin, an electric shock-wave of crackling pain quickly surging up his leg. His knees buckle at the same time, the floor rising to meet him as he falls.

(With his hands tied behind his back, all he can do as he falls is try to keep his head from slamming into the hardwood, when he hits.)

"My sorry what, Scurlock?!"

The next kick lands square in the ribs, but Doc barely feels the blow -- he's already gone, the urge to laugh rising once again in his throat.

So this is how it's going to be?

Charlie drops to the floor and his fingers curl tightly in a fist, a firm grip on the blond hair attached to Doc's scalp. "Let me show you something."

Doc opens his eyes as his head is yanked up, focusing on the spot he's directed (forced) to look.







Frank is lying on the floor, with his hands tied behind his back. There's blood pooled on the floor and a stream of it smeared down across his face, obviously from a broken nose. Bruises pepper his jaw, and Doc can see more on his friend's too-pale face.




His eyes narrow.

From what he can tell, Frank is still breathing -- or his eyes are playing tricks on him, but it doesn't matter, not when there's blood on the hardwood.




Nobody spills the blood of a Regulator.




"So y'see, Scurlock," the fingers tighten in his hair. "Y'can either end up like this, or y'can cooperate."



Cooperate?

Doc says nothing, jaw set and lips sealed in a firm line. He's not going to cooperate, not with this son of a bitch. Especially not now. There's a fire raging through his veins, and he can feel the sting in his wrists spread up to his forearms as he tries to calm his heart.

You always had a temper, even when you were just a boy. It wasn't nobody's fault except your own.

He knows Charlie is speaking to him, between the occasional glancing strike across his jaw -- an effort to catch his attention, to try and break him out of the shell he's thrown up around his mind.




'I know you, Scurlock! You killed half the men I got credit for, I seen you kill!'



"C'mon, Josiah."

Mama used to say that to you when you were upset, hiding out in the barn with Tracker. 'C'mon, Josiah.' She'd reach out her hands and you'd reach up one of yours to have her help you.


"Get up."

With Charlie's 'help', he manages to get to his feet, wincing as he does so.




(What Charlie fails to realize is that his captive has worked one hand free of the rope.)



"Hunter...he said..."

"What'd he say?"

"Well he was talkin'..."

It's simple to play up the act of the beaten man -- especially right now, when he's honestly been beaten and nearly broken. He hangs his head, looking at the floorboards and the streaks of dust smudged by his struggling and kicking.

"Out with it, already."

"He was talkin'...talkin' 'bout goin' south."




Charlie glances over at McNab. "Your friend said he was goin' north."




(That split second when Charlie turns his head is the first mistake he makes, and one of the many the man will find himself regretting for the rest of his life.)

With Charlie distracted, Doc jerks his body backwards, ducking free of the grip the bounty hunter has on his shoulder -- at the same time aiming his fist straight into the man's jaw. The blow connects with enough force to leave his knuckles screaming in protest, pain shooting up his arm as Charlie hollers in surprise.

There's a chair close enough to grab, which he does, his hands curling around the back like he'd grip a baseball bat. Not enough room for a full swing, he does the best that he can and simply doubles the force behind the chair, impact knocking Charlie to the ground. Without warning, his feet are kicked out from under him; he falls to the floor and impacts the chair, wood splintering with a familiar crack! under his weight.

His heartbeat is pounding in his ears like a drum as he rolls over, kicking pieces of the chair out of his way as he scrambles to his feet. He has to stay on his feet if he wants any chance at all at taking control of this fight.

(Even if his head is spinning so rapidly the room feels like it's mounted on rollers, shifting and tilting without warning.)

Fingers close around the back of his neck and tighten, the force of the grip making his head spin as Charlie pulls him back down to the floor. Fists and elbows glance off jaws and noses, neither of the men caring about the whereabouts of Tim Hunter, anymore.

They're fighting for something else.

Doc whips his head around and glances at Frank, but there's blood in one of his eyes, trickling down from a cut at his hairline and blurring his vision. He's not sure if Frank is still breathing, but he doesn't care.

"You're bein' foolish--"

He slams his knee into the bounty hunter's groin, before pushing himself away and trying to get up once again, only to feel a sudden weight on his side as Charlie tackles him to the ground. A familiar (bone-chilling) glint of steel flashes in front of his eyes, no time to do anything except move.

The knife pierces through the sleeve of his shirt and into the flesh of his right arm, a strangled cry escaping his throat as the blade is roughly yanked towards his elbow, heat and blood instantly rushing to the site of the wound. Doc kicks blindly and tries to roll onto his right side out of instinct, protecting his arm (and keeping Charlie from grabbing the handle) and ignoring the urge to be sick from the pain.

"On your back!"


He's sitting in the saddle and watching Dave and Chavez wrestle in the middle of the Apache boneyard, not making an effort to break up the fight. They're both grown men and they can handle their disagreement like grown men, with fists and knives.

But the moment that Dave stabs Chavez in the arm, Doc reaches for his gun.

(Nobody else had even moved, yet.)

And the moment that Dave reaches for his gun, he finds himself with four more pointed on him. A fair fight is a fair fight, and something that should be respected. Until it turns unfair, and you need friends to back you up.

Charlie grabs Doc's left shoulder and forces the smaller man onto his back.

(Which turns out to be his second mistake.)

With a swift swing of his arm, Doc yanks the blade free from his bicep and plunges it deep into the bounty hunter's ribcage, rolling with the effort of the motion to knock the man onto his back, ignoring the scream of pain that yanking the knife free wins him. He doesn't care anymore, which is why he barely flinches as the knife sinks again into Charlie's ribcage, steel-grey eyes gone cold as he stares at the other man's face.

There's blood at his lips, lungs already wheezing and gasping for oxygen, when the knife is placed at his throat. Doc kneels over Charlie, one hand pressed against the wound in the man's chest, his face just inches from the bounty hunter's.

He whispers, voice cold enough to freeze Hell itself.

"This is what you git for gettin' tangled up with the man who killed half'a the men that they credited t'the Kid," he grits. "They ain't never gonna find you, and nobody's gonna know what happened here, t'day. M'gonna go on livin' my life while y'rot in some grave...if y'even git one. Might just leave y'out for the kayotes t'feast on, buzzards and maggots t'pick your bones clean."

"Y'can go...t'Hell. Scur--"

Doc's eyes never leave the man's face, as he shakes his head. "Y'don't git it, Charlie," he replies. "M'already there, and I always will be. Because of folk like you who just don't know when t'quit."

"You're a...wanted...criminal."

"No...I'm a Regulator."

Charlie's eyes slam shut as a wave of pain rockets over him, and for a moment Doc considers putting the man out of his misery by just cutting his throat and letting him bleed out in seconds. But he doesn't.

(He can't.)

Doc tosses the knife out of reach of the bounty hunter and then sits back on his heels, watching as the man slowly gasps for his final breaths and then expires, life leaving him in the middle of the dining room as his eyes roll back in his head, chest going still.

(His hands are shaking, as the adrenaline surge in his veins beings to wither and dry out.)

The room is still spinning, but he finally forces himself to move, scrambling over to Frank's side, untying the rope that holds his wrists together before, one hand goes to the man's neck.

(Fingers feeling for a pulse, it's hard when he's shaking so much.)

"Frank?"

"...Doc?"

He's alive.

Doc closes his eyes and exhales a breath, ignoring the laugh that threatens to bubble out of his throat. "Took y'long 'nough, y'son of a bitch."

"Y'look like hell."

"Yeah. I do."

I feel like it, too.

He reaches his left hand up to his right arm, feeling the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt. The tear is a few inches long, and he suspects the wound is, too. He shifts from his knees to his hip, before he slowly lowers himself onto the floor, laying out on his back. Trying to take stock of his injuries, at least what he can feel hurting at the moment, is difficult when he's so damn tired.

"How bad he git you," Frank mutters, pushing himself up. "And where'd he--"

Doc motions towards the body with a tired wave of his hand. "S'not that bad. Least he wasn't packin' a pistol," he hisses as Frank peels the torn sleeve of his shirt open, revealing the cut.

"Y'gonna need t'git that looked at."

"Yeah, m'just gonna ride right into town lookin' like this," he mutters, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and then he does laugh. "Lookin' like the risen dead'd be appropriate, however."

"Given that you're just a ghost?"

"Ghost with 'nother count'a murder t'his name," he quips, still amused. "First man I ever stabbed t'death, though. Reckon that counts for somethin'?"

Frank rolls his eyes and forces himself to his feet. "M'gonna git some cloth, we'll git that arm tied up and then you'll be good 'nough t'help me git rid'a the son of a bitch."

"Alright. M'just gonna...lie here a minute."

Not like he can do much else, given how much he's hurting. There's pain in his side, his ribs protesting each time he tries to pull in a deep breath. The fingers on his left hand don't want to cooperate, and his face feels like he's been trampled by a hundred cattle stampeding for water. His right arm is nearly numb, but he can still move it if he has to, and his legs and knees are already starting to ache as the tension settles into his muscles.

Not gonna be able to move for a week.

He's surprised when Frank crouches down next to him and begins to open his shirt, but the motions are on autopilot as the two men work together to free his wounded arm from the fabric.

"That is a real nasty job he did."

"Feels like it."

"Edges ain't quite straight, looks deep--"

"Don't."

"I want t'make sure it ain't dirty, Doc y'know if it is you might lose the whole arm t'infection, wound like that."

There's a telltale thud of a whiskey bottle on the hardwood near his side, and blindly, he gropes for it. "That better be open."

"It ain't for you to..."

Several swallows of the whiskey disappear in short order as Doc practically inhales the liquor.

"...drink."

"Jus'killed a man," he protests, settling the bottle down with a wince as the alcohol burns down his throat. "Don't y'think that deserves celebratin'?"

Frank laughs, shaking his head. "Maybe for a fearsome Regulator like yourself," he admits, before he lifts the bottle. "Now, s'gonna sting somethin' fierce."

"Don't worry," Doc drawls, shaking his head. "I won't stab you."







He does threaten it, though, the instant that whiskey splashes and mixes with his own blood.