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[post-apocalypse] homecoming 2
When he wakes up, he's still beneath the familiar cypress tree. The sun is low in the sky, its light cutting sharp lines through the woods.
(For a moment, he wonders if perhaps he didn't make it out of the Bar after all, and this is his mind's version of Heaven - though in that case, Raven's cabin in Alaska must have been Purgatory.)
Eventually, he stands and brushes the dirt off of his trousers. If this is real (which he thinks it is, because it's too alive to be all in his mind) then he only has one way to really verify it.
He scrambles up the bank of the creek, and begins to walk along a nearly-invisible path through the woods, heading for a familiar bit of property a few miles to the south.
The sun has nearly set by the time he makes it within view of the house.
He doesn't step clear of the treeline near the road, though. Not at first. He can't. As far as any of them know, he's dead. (It was all over the papers, after all.) But...it's home, and there's light coming through the kitchen window, smoke curling from the chimney.
His feet are so heavy he feels like he has lead weights tied to the soles of his boots, as he walks up the drive.
The echo of his footsteps on the front porch is loud enough to drown out the hammering of his heart.
He looks down before lifting his hand to knock lightly on the door.
(It opens before he has a chance to make contact with the wood.)
click-click
He snaps his gaze up to find himself staring down the barrel of a Winchester.
Held in steady hands.
By his mother.
(She looks so much older than he remembers.)
"...Ma?"
(It comes out quieter than he intends it to.)
The woman in the doorway slowly lowers the rifle, leaning it against the doorframe. Without saying a word, she steps forward and slowly reaches a hand to touch his face, tracing her fingers over the butterfly bandages on his forehead. Her mouth is set in a firm, thin line.
"Josiah." She frowns at him, looking again to the wound. "Just what did you get yourself into this time?"
"It ain't nothin' more'n a scratch--"
Her hand moves quick enough to swat him upside the head before he has a chance to even try and duck. Before he can protest, however, she steps forward and pulls him into a fierce hug, choking back a sob.
"Don't you ever try and 'just a scratch' me again, you hear me," she orders, from where her face is buried in his shoulders. "And use your words proper. I didn't raise a heathen."
"Yes ma'am," he says.
The small house is quiet, and from what Doc can tell, it's just the two of them inside. He's sitting at the table while she dabs at the bruises on his face with a warm cloth.
They aren't talking about the story written in the papers years ago.
(Billy the Kid captured; Josiah Gordon Scurlock, killed.)
They aren't talking about anything at all. She's simply tending to his bruises, and occasionally checking the pot on the cast-iron stove.
It's during one of the moments when she's stirring the soup that he asks the question that's been gnawing at him all afternoon.
"Where's Pa at?
The way she pauses gives him more of an answer than he could hope for.
(No no no.)
"Out back, with your brother." Her focus remains on the stove, her voice steady. "You should go talk to him."
After a moment of hesitation and silence on both their parts, he nods and stands - chair scraping loudly against the floorboards as he does so. The door creaks behind him as he pushes it shut, stepping off the back porch into the yard.
With his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat, he walks through the grass to the small plot of earth surrounded by wrought-iron fence.
(His daddy had put up this fence, after the War, when they buried Michael beside the oak tree. They would bury him proper, that way, with a headstone and an honest plot for him to rest.
And now, his daddy is buried there, beside his brother.)
The stars come out in the night sky before he turns to head back in the house.
Only, it's not the house he walks back into.
(For a moment, he wonders if perhaps he didn't make it out of the Bar after all, and this is his mind's version of Heaven - though in that case, Raven's cabin in Alaska must have been Purgatory.)
Eventually, he stands and brushes the dirt off of his trousers. If this is real (which he thinks it is, because it's too alive to be all in his mind) then he only has one way to really verify it.
He scrambles up the bank of the creek, and begins to walk along a nearly-invisible path through the woods, heading for a familiar bit of property a few miles to the south.
The sun has nearly set by the time he makes it within view of the house.
He doesn't step clear of the treeline near the road, though. Not at first. He can't. As far as any of them know, he's dead. (It was all over the papers, after all.) But...it's home, and there's light coming through the kitchen window, smoke curling from the chimney.
His feet are so heavy he feels like he has lead weights tied to the soles of his boots, as he walks up the drive.
The echo of his footsteps on the front porch is loud enough to drown out the hammering of his heart.
He looks down before lifting his hand to knock lightly on the door.
(It opens before he has a chance to make contact with the wood.)
click-click
He snaps his gaze up to find himself staring down the barrel of a Winchester.
Held in steady hands.
By his mother.
(She looks so much older than he remembers.)
"...Ma?"
(It comes out quieter than he intends it to.)
The woman in the doorway slowly lowers the rifle, leaning it against the doorframe. Without saying a word, she steps forward and slowly reaches a hand to touch his face, tracing her fingers over the butterfly bandages on his forehead. Her mouth is set in a firm, thin line.
"Josiah." She frowns at him, looking again to the wound. "Just what did you get yourself into this time?"
"It ain't nothin' more'n a scratch--"
Her hand moves quick enough to swat him upside the head before he has a chance to even try and duck. Before he can protest, however, she steps forward and pulls him into a fierce hug, choking back a sob.
"Don't you ever try and 'just a scratch' me again, you hear me," she orders, from where her face is buried in his shoulders. "And use your words proper. I didn't raise a heathen."
"Yes ma'am," he says.
The small house is quiet, and from what Doc can tell, it's just the two of them inside. He's sitting at the table while she dabs at the bruises on his face with a warm cloth.
They aren't talking about the story written in the papers years ago.
(Billy the Kid captured; Josiah Gordon Scurlock, killed.)
They aren't talking about anything at all. She's simply tending to his bruises, and occasionally checking the pot on the cast-iron stove.
It's during one of the moments when she's stirring the soup that he asks the question that's been gnawing at him all afternoon.
"Where's Pa at?
The way she pauses gives him more of an answer than he could hope for.
(No no no.)
"Out back, with your brother." Her focus remains on the stove, her voice steady. "You should go talk to him."
After a moment of hesitation and silence on both their parts, he nods and stands - chair scraping loudly against the floorboards as he does so. The door creaks behind him as he pushes it shut, stepping off the back porch into the yard.
With his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat, he walks through the grass to the small plot of earth surrounded by wrought-iron fence.
(His daddy had put up this fence, after the War, when they buried Michael beside the oak tree. They would bury him proper, that way, with a headstone and an honest plot for him to rest.
And now, his daddy is buried there, beside his brother.)
The stars come out in the night sky before he turns to head back in the house.
Only, it's not the house he walks back into.