Shotgun Charlie Read Free

possibilities that didn’t sit well in his mind and left him feeling uneasy.
    â€œLet them find their own food,” he wheezed as he rolled another boulder on top of the pile, for good measure.
    By the time he was finished, he was exhausted, his hands were bloodied, and one of his thumbnails had been half pulled off when he jammed it too hard between two rocks, scrabbling to find purchase.
    Cradling his wounded, throbbing hands in his lap, Charlie Chilton dozed off, dropping like one of those same stones deep into a pit of dark slumber, snoring like a bull grizz. When he finally awoke, it was to find himself wet through.
    It was nearly dark and had apparently been raining for some time. It continued drizzling a solid, sluicing rhythm the rest of that day, on through the night, and for three days following. It soaked him and his meager belongings straight through. He was numb and cold and blue-lipped. It wasn’t until early the next morning that it occurred to him that something wasn’t right. He felt odd, sort of numb all over.
    When the shivers began, trembling his substantial frame as if someone were shaking him from behind, he knew it was a sickness. He’d always been in good health, something he valued because his gran had frequently terrified him with sob-filled tales of how his father had died.
    â€œWorked himself to death,” she’d howled. “And with no never mind paid to how his poor mother would fare in the world. I swear he wanted to kill himself. As soon as he come down with those chills and fevers, I knew he was a goner. I swear he done it to spite me. Then he stuck me with you!” She’d jam a little bony finger hard into his arm or chest or cheek and growl another few minutes. She’d tell him that as sure as she was a saint to put up with such cruelty, Charlie would end up like his father and leave her alone in the cold, cruel world.
    And now here I am, he thought. Riddled with a sickness that like as not killed my daddy, and me without a soul around to help keep me alive.
    It was this long, tight line of thinking that plagued Charlie enough that, despite the racking dry coughs that had begun to shake him alternately with the sudden shivers, he managed to gain his feet and try to kindle a fire.
    But the relentless sheets of cold gray rain were more than he could battle. In the end, he managed little more than a cold, wet camp right beside the stone cairn he’d constructed for his dead friend. He stayed there for the better part of a week. Each day that passed felt worse than the one before.
    After a number of days, he tried once more to stand, to make a fire, to get a drink, to do anything that felt normal. But none of anything felt normal anymore. All he ended up mustering out of himself were a few tired sighs, grunts, and wheezes. Finally he gave up and leaned back against the rock pile again.
    â€œI expect I am to die right here and it probably won’t take all that long either.” He wasn’t sure if he spoke that or whispered it or imagined it. But that, along with a familiar image of what he always imagined his dead father had looked like, came to him then. It was a smiling face, much like his own, but more handsome, less thick-cheeked, and with a kindly glow.
    But that was soon slapped down by the hovering, scowling face of his gran, waiting for what she’d predicted would always happen. He’d end up proving her right. That tag end of a thought burrowed into his mind and left him slipping into another layer of sickness, angry and saddened.

Chapter 3
    â€œYou see what I see, boys?”
    Charlie heard the voice before he saw whoever it was it had come from.
    â€œNo? How can you say no, Simp? You got collard greens for brains? Oh, that’s right, I expect you do!”
    The burst of jagged laughter that followed the odd remarks succeeded in pulling Charlie’s eyes open. He jerked back with a start and whapped his head on a rock.