The Ballad of Billy Badass, page 11
“We’re here!” Kid yells. Startles Billy. Raises pistol reflexively.
“That’s where I live! That’s my house!”
The front door opens. Woman steps out. Short. Big tits, big ass. Small waist. Dyed red hair. Roots showing. Frowns at Billy. Sees kid.
“Squirt?”
“Hi, mama!”
She approaches Caddy. Looks at police barricades. Stares at Billy.
“They wanted to put an officer in the house,” she tells Billy. “But I wouldn’t let them.”
Billy steps out. The pain blossoms. Starts in belly, streams through arms, legs. Head woozy. Seat sticky with blood. She sees Billy’s wound. His pistol. Backs off a step. He winces.
Kid climbs out. Mother rushes to son. Boy leaps into her arms. Billy watches. Another pain blossoms.
“Into the house,” Billy tells her. Follows them inside.
It is cool in the house. AC cranking. Nice.
Super clean house. Lots of knick-knacks. Doilies.
The woman hugs her boy. Kisses his head. Kid ducks some. She looks past the kid to Billy. Afraid.
“I’m hungry,” kid says.
Woman tries to laugh. It dies quickly.
“Go and fix yourself some Sugar Smacks.” Boy runs off. Billy and the woman. Look at each other. Both calculating.
“You’re hurt.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“My husband. He dead?”
Billy nods. Walks to windows. Checks. Cops staying in place.
“Good. I’m free.”
Billy looks at her, surprised.
Phone begins to ring. Woman goes for it.
“Leave it.”
She backs off.
“What do you want?” she asks.
What does he want? He thinks on it.
“Out.”
“Where you going?”
“Far as I can.” Checks windows again. Phone keeps ringing. Irritating.
“Pull the cord on that thing will ya.”
She does. Phone rings somewhere else in house. Muted. Better.
Steps into dining room. Leather Vest did okay. Roger. Sees gun case. Opens it. Model 94 Winchester. Twenty-two Remington. Mosby shotgun. AR-15, civilian M-16. Billy knows the weapon.
Takes it. Ammo drawer. Three loaded magazines. Banana clip. Pockets them.
“I need some wheels. Caddy’s overheating.”
“There’s a pick-up in the garage.”
Windows again. Police move down the street. Slowly. By the numbers. Cover and run. Cover and run. Working toward the house.
“Cops in the garage too?”
“If they are I didn’t put them there.”
“Show me.”
Leads him into kitchen. Boy at the table. Pouring milk into bowl. Looks at Billy, at mom.
“We’re outlaws.”
“There’s blood on your shirt,” she tells boy. “After you eat, bath time. And clean clothes.”
Her voice is curt. Seems on the verge of tears. Takes a breath. Pulls herself together. Grabs keys from rack by door. Turns to Billy.
“Thank you. I love him.”
Billy is mesmerized by kitchen. A whole other world. He remembers a kitchen. Blood on the floor.
She opens garage door. Dark inside. Billy’s eyes search. Outside door closed. Hot rod pick-up. Big tires. Jacked cab. Billy circles it. Pushes woman in front of him. Garage super clean. Like house.
Kneels down. Pain makes him gasp. Looks under pick up. Nothing. Rises. The pain repeats. Staggers. Woman catches. He pulls away. Leans against truck. Gets his strength back. Holds hand out. She passes him keys.
Billy climbs up into cab.
“Go back to the kitchen.”
“You’re not going to use me as a hostage?”
“You volunteering?”
She dashes back into kitchen. Boy in doorway. Eating cereal. Mom yanks him back. Slams door. Lock clicks.
Billy starts up engine. Big block roars. Slides shift into reverse. Manual. Backs up to garage door. Presses against it. Feathers the gas, clutch.
Slams into first. Stomps on it.
Tires squeal on concrete floor. Smoke. Grab traction.
Truck leaps.
Smashes through garage back wall. Truck leaps across back yard. Past swing set. Smashed barbecue. Eight-foot redwood fence.
Man climbing fence. All in black. SWAT in white letters across back. Fence shatters into kindling. Cop rolls across hood, away.
Two starbursts appear in windshield. Police snipe on neighbor’s roof. Billy gets a glimpse of sniper. Bullets ping against car body.
Cuts across new yard, down driveway. Sideswipes Toyota. Crosses street.
Another driveway. Another fence. Another yard. Barely misses pool. A new fence. Low chain link. Bottom gives. Fencing claws furrows over hood, up windshield. Another yard, acres of grass. Tears ruts into lawn.
Bounces into empty street. Billy speeds away. No police to be seen. Muted sirens.
Billy drives. Checks gauges. No trouble. Bullets didn’t hit anything vital.
Highway. Street roads. Residential. Industrial. Five-lane. Two-lane. Dirt roads. Just drives.
No destination. Driving skills deteriorating. Weaving from shoulder to shoulder. Barely keeping truck between the ditches.
Sweat dripping down face. Helicopter slaps air overhead. Billy drowns it with radio. Loud. Jackson Brown, “The Pretender”.
Billy wakes. Blacked out. How long? Pick-up nudging a big rock. In gear. Lurching forward.
A sign. “No trespassing without permission.“ Warnings from U.S. Government. From Reservation authorities.
Billy steps out. Falls out. Pain wakes him. Surveys pueblo. Towering city into rock cliff. Adobe huts stacked like kids blocks.
Looks back. Tire tracks in wave pattern across sand. Dust clod in distance. Flashing lights from cop cars.
Music on truck radio. Poco, “Crazy eyes.” Likes that song.
Thunder in the distance. Helicopter high overhead. Caravan of cops approaching. Dozen vehicles. Maybe more.
Billy grabs AR-15. Examines it. Not AR. Full M-16. Illegal. But full auto.
Billy trots to base of pueblo. Bent over. Hurts big time. Deep in his gut.
Steps carved into face of cliff. He climbs.
Lead cop car skids to stop. Thirty meters back. Cop leans on door. Aims rifle. Pops off five shots.
Bullet chip stone below Billy. Walk their way up. Ricochet hits Billy in calf. He stumbles.
Billy turns. Fires M-16. Hits the cop car. Shatters windshield. Cop ducks.
Billy continues climbing steps. More cars arrive.
Two cops sprint to pueblo. Billy empties rest of magazine. They rush back behind cars.
Billy staggers through village. Walks and climbs. The high ground. Always take the high ground. A dog ambles over, sniffs at him. Wanders away.
Billy climbs steps. Ladders. Oblivious.
Reaches top of pueblo. Can see for miles. The Who. Desert below. Cars and men.
He sways. Dizzy. Drops down. Lays back. Stares at the sun. Beginning to set. Slipping below the mountain. Getting out while the getting is good. Don’t blame the sun.
Billy waits.
The ladder to rooftop trembles. Billy fires a short burst. Bullets chew ladder top.
“Take the ladder away!” Billy yells.
Ladder slips down. Gone.
Sun disappears. Night. Cold. Billy lays on warm roof. Holding the day’s heat. Stares at night sky. So many stars salt the night.
He listens. Night birds. Cop radio traffic.
He peeks. Cops settled in. A tent even. Work lights. Cops mill around.
Footsteps below him. He ducks back. Object flies up from below. Rattles across rooftop. A canteen. Clatters to a stop.
“Some water for you.” Voice calls out. “Sheriff Cleon here. What’s your name pilgrim?”
“That’s as good as any.”
Silence for a while. Billy drinks. Hurts deep. Gut shot. Not a good idea. But mouth dry. Checks leg wound. Bleeding’s stopped.
“Why you come here?” Voice echoes out of ladder hole.
“This is where I stopped.”
Another long silence. Billy hears murmur of voices. Shuffling of feet. Clank of equipment belts. Coughs. Smells cigarette smoke.
“Pilgrim? You still there?”
“I stepped out for dinner but I’m back now.”
“You hungry?”
Billy doesn’t answer. His guts throb. Pain spreading across his body. Rises and falls. With every breath. Pain pulses. Every beat of his heart.
“Listen here Pilgrim. I know you’re hurtin’. Left a lake of blood in your ride. Looks like someone was slaughterin’ a hog in there. The Caddy, too. How ‘bout we call off the whole shebang? Truck you on down to a hospital?”
Billy smiles. Waits a bit.
“Fuck you.”
“Well, that ain’t rightly conducive to a civilized conversation. Is it?”
Billy doesn’t answer. Thinks, I might like this cop.
“All right, Pilgrim. But you’re not goin’ to last very long up there without a bit of a patch job. You know that. I know that.”
More silence.
“You’d rather die than go to the pokey, fine by me.”
Billy laughs. ‘The pokey.’
“I can wait you out. I got patience. ‘Course you might pass out and I’ll haul your ass away anyhow.”
Billy doesn’t respond. No need.
“How about this? Give us your name so we can notify your next of kin, however this turns out.”
Billy laughs. Out loud this time. It hurts. He doubles over. Clutches his stomach. Hurts so bad. A moan escapes.
“Pilgrim? You still there?”
“Long as you are.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
Something moves. Billy’s peripheral vision. He turns. Aims.
A cat. Scruffy looking. Silver tabby. Black tiger stripes over gray. Where did it come from? How did it get here? No clue.
Cat tiptoes to Billy. Nonchalant. Stealthy. Circles him.
“You want to throw your life away like this, son?”
“Life is cheap. Living costs you. And don’t call me ‘son’.”
Billy lies back again. Gun in hand. Cat squats. Eyes him. Billy watches back.
Hours seep past. Maybe minutes. Helicopter returns. Hauling a column of light underneath. Pond of light skitters across pueblo. Stops on Billy. Pinned by light.
Billy shades his eyes. Raises the M-16. Chopper slips away. Takes light island with it.
Cold sucks Billy’s body. Dark wearies his mind. Cat rubs against his leg. Billy thankful for the warmth. Billy’s eyes close. He forces them open. His lids fall.
“Mama?”
Billy wakes at the sound. Scared. Who said that? Slaps his wound with his pistol. Breath hisses between clenched teeth. Awake now. Tears of pain cloud his eyes.
Where did pistol come from. Did he carry it up here? Oh, was in jacket pocket.
Hears a radio. A song. Roy Orbison. Loneliest voice ever. Roy echoes around the pueblo.
The east sky lightens. Sun stains the horizon. Orange. Black shadows creep across the pueblo.
Cat snuggled into bent knee.
Billy reaches hand to the cat. To pet. Hand trembles. Stares at own hand. Curious. Not like it’s his. Flexes.
Notices the blood. All around him. A large pool. Has he any left? How much time left?
“Who’s the baddest motherfucker in this joint?” he whispers. Smiles. Smells stale beer and wine. Wants a Coke with cherry juice. That would be heaven. Laughs. Out loud. Heaven.
“Pilgrim, you still with us?
“Still here.”
“No offense, but…you don’t sound so good.”
“I think I’m catching a cold.”
The cat unfurls. Steps into the blood. Laps it from curled paws. Billy flaps his hand. Shoos it away. Cat retreats.
“Was mighty chilly last night. Bet you’re hungry. We got hot coffee down here.”
“No offense sheriff, but…fuck off, please.”
Billy struggles to his knees. Falls. Rises again. Roars with the pain. Stands. The cops below stare. Must be a hundred of them now.
Fires the M-16. Empties a magazine at a cloud. Takes pistol shots at the sun.
The guns below respond. Billy is hit. Arms, leg, chest. Body twitches, jerks. Falls. To his knees.
Sees the ladder return. World tilts. Billy on side now. Cops charge onto the roof. Billy watches. Gun kicked away from his hands.
Billy can’t breathe. Foamy scarlet pumps out chest holes. Eyes won’t focus.
Sun is blotted out. The sheriff?
“Why’d you do it, Pilgrim? We outnumber you. Nowhere to go. You never had a chance.”
Billy wants to laugh. Coughs instead. Spews blood. Pain goes away. He just grins to himself.
Never had a….
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patrick Sheane Duncan is an American writer, film producer and director.
A graduate of Grand Valley State University in Allendale Charter Township, Michigan, Duncan’s career has been influenced by his Vietnam War experiences, which inspired the television mini-series Vietnam War Story (1987) and its sequel Vietnam War Story: The Last Days (1989) and the films 84C MoPic (1989) and Courage Under Fire (1996). Additional writing credits include A Home of Our Own (1993), The Pornographer (1994), Nick of Time (1995), Mr. Holland’s Opus (1995), and the television movies A Painted House (2003), Elvis (2005), and The Little Red Wagon (2012).
Duncan is a winner of the CableACE Award for Writing for a Dramatic Series for Vietnam War Story: The Last Days and a Christopher Award for Mr. Holland’s Opus, which also garnered him a Golden Globe nomination. He was nominated for the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival for 84C MoPic and The Pornographer and the Independent Spirit Award for Best First Feature and Best Screenplay for 84C MoPic.
Duncan’s play, Souls on Fire, was produced by Danny Glover’s theatre company, Robey Theatre Company in Los Angeles.
Patrick Sheane Duncan, The Ballad of Billy Badass
