sorry not sorry

He made camp about half a mile off the wagon road. Far enough that nobody passing by would bother him, though he doubted there were many travelers out here to begin with, and close enough that he could find the road again come morning. He picked a spot on a rocky slope with a decent view of the ground around him.

Atta, meanwhile, didn't seem troubled in the slightest. The moment he pulled the saddle off her, she lowered her head and started picking through dry grass and brush like they weren't sitting in the middle of a place people called the Hellzone. Over the years, Bo had come to envy horses. They didn't waste time being afraid of things they hadn't seen yet.

For a while, he just sat there with his back against the saddle staring into the fire. He didn't feel like riding any farther. Truth be told, he hadn't felt like doing much of anything at all in a long time.

He pulled out his revolver and checked the cylinder, even though he'd checked it less than an hour ago. Then he laid it beside him. The Winchester stayed within reach. Habit. Some folks prayed before bed. Some thought about home. Bo made sure he could kill something fast enough if he woke up to trouble.

When the sun finally disappeared, he let himself drift off. It wasn't really sleep. It hadn't been for years. Just a few hours where your body pretended the world wasn't trying to kill you.

He didn't wake up all at once. At first, he thought he'd dreamed something. Then he realized what was wrong — Atta had stopped chewing.

Bo opened his eyes.

She stood maybe twenty yards away, staring toward a cluster of scrub trees growing along the bed of a dried-up creek. She wasn't spooked. Wasn't trying to run. Just standing there with her ears forward and her neck stretched out.

He got to his feet slowly.

The revolver was already in his hand before he'd really thought about it. Not because he intended to start shooting. He just hated standing empty-handed. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then he heard it.

A dry, clicking sound. Like something tapping against dead wood or little rocks sliding down stone.

Trrr-krrr.

Silence.

Then again...

Trrr-krrr.

A cold feeling crawled down his back. He didn't know what he was hearing and that was the part he didn't like most. A wolf, a cougar, a man — you knew where you stood with those. But out here? After days of hearing stories from locals and soldiers alike, he couldn't even guess what counted as dangerous and what counted as normal.

Slowly, he looked toward the rocky ridge and the dried creek bed. In the dark, the brush had turned into one solid black shape. The sound came again. Closer this time. Atta snorted and shifted her weight.

"Yeah," Bo muttered quietly, never taking his eyes off the dark. "Got a bad feeling too."

– Mackie…

"Delirious again…" – Bo was already starting to nod off.

– Pff, Mo, or whatever your name is. – Carter's voice suddenly sounded firm, and looking up, Bo saw that he had almost sat up in bed and was feeling his arm. – Lie down here like a human being. We don't need you catching a cold on top of everything else.

"And they trusted this man to lead a posse? To track someone down? He can't even remember our names."

– I'm fine. – Shaking his head, Bo stood up and went back to his bedroll. – There's food waiting for you from yesterday. On the table. Heat it yourself.

With a bleary gaze, Matt watched his companion bundle himself into the bedroll by the fireplace. Then he looked at the table and, with a heavy sigh, got up. His ears were ringing, the room swaying from side to side, as if he were not in a trapper's cabin but on a fishing boat — and he even caught a whiff of fish, stirring childhood memories…

"Pull yourself together!"

The dishes kept slipping from Matt's hands, but Bo was so worn out from the night that he didn't react to the noise at all. Nor did the door swinging open wake him, letting in a blast of cold from outside. After relieving himself, Carter thought about checking the traps he'd set out earlier, but his legs were uncooperative, so he stumbled on the second step away from the house.

"To hell with it! They won't spoil."

He went back inside, locked the door behind him, and touched his burning neck with cold fingers. The chill went straight to his bones.

Bo woke abruptly a couple of hours later at the touch on his shoulder and sat up at once, his whole body instinctively tensing. Carter was crouching over him, and his eyes glistened with an unhealthy gleam.

– Come lie with me, be a human. It's freezing.

– What? – Bo edged away from him slightly. – The fire's burning, your blanket's twice as thick as my bedroll, what more do you want?

– The fire's too far. And I can't warm up on my own, I've got the chills. The weather's turning worse too, the cold's coming in through the walls. Please.

"I hate all of this. I hate it." – Bo stared viciously at Matt's tired face for a few agonizing seconds, then waved his hand:

– Go roll over to your wall.

Knowing himself, he left his gun belt on the chair. And lay down on the edge, so that if anything happened he'd fall to the floor himself, rather than shove the wounded man off. Carter immediately pressed his back against Bo's and shuddered several times all over.

"Damn it."

Bo didn't want to think about what would happen if Carter did kick the bucket, and he spent a solid hour chasing away dark thoughts, but as luck would have it, nothing else came to mind. Once warm, Matt fell into a deep sleep and started snoring. On the one hand, it was good that he was sleeping and not raving despite the fever, but on the other — it was annoying. Him, and this closeness, and why he'd led the posse here, and why the hell Bo had even taken this job in the first place…

When Bo suddenly snapped his eyes open beneath him, Matt froze and braced for a blow. To the face or maybe to the gut. He'd been trying to climb over the sleeping guy carefully and quietly, but had severely underestimated how light a sleeper he was. Yet nothing happened.

Bo stared straight at Matt with wide pale-grey eyes, which now seemed completely colourless and lifeless. He didn't move and didn't seem to be breathing. His face showed neither irritation nor fear — there wasn't even a shadow of any emotion. It was as if his soul had left his body, and it was barely continuing to function by sheer inertia.

<…>

– I had a horse once, Atlas, with an absolutely rock-solid temperament – he died in an avalanche. He didn't react to anything, never showed any signs of alarm. But if you really pushed him too far, he'd buck you off without warning. Because of that, they wanted to send him to the slaughterhouse, figuring he was unstable. All he needed was the right approach… He was a magnificent animal, served me for eight years. I truly loved him. He always seemed indifferent and detached from everything going on around him. But when I walked up with a headstall in my hands, he'd literally stick his own muzzle into it. I never taught him that. And he never did it with other people. A small thing, maybe, but… it warmed my heart.

<…>

– Meet Elpida. – Who? – What, you don't like it? I think it suits her. She'll get us out of here. – Couldn't you have picked something simpler? A horse won't respond to a name like that. – Animals should have beautiful names. They show how a person feels about them.

<…>

– Under other circumstances, I wouldn't have been able to accept another horse so easily, I admit. But Elpida did save us after all. And if you'd staked a claim on her, we'd have had a real fight.

<…>

– Bacardi is an idiot. A good one, affectionate, people-oriented – but an idiot. We've tried so many times to get him over his fear of water, but to this day, if he can avoid it, he will. Or just find a way around, hah. As for the fact that rocks sometimes spook him – I haven't figured out what to do about that yet. Because most of the time he seems completely indifferent to them, and then suddenly he remembers they're actually scary and starts acting up. But he's a good horse, really. Simple and sincere – you fall for those types fast.

<…>

– Stolen. Right outside the saloon. His name was Agamemnon. He was brilliantly broken in and incredibly people-oriented, took to any rider. That's probably what did me in. Plus, he was completely bulletproof – even if some predator was snapping at his hooves, he wouldn't buck you off. A light grey fox-trotter, my father bought him for me. Stately, the breed showed right away, so I guess that's why they set their sights on him. I talked to the sheriff, and he was like: "Well, good luck finding him, probably some drifters passing through." But maybe he was just in on it and pulling that stunt on all the newcomers.

<…>

– The first one I bought myself was some mongrel mare, but beautiful – absolutely stunning. You know, a dark dapple-grey, but so bright it almost seemed to have red highlights. I called her Polemica, because she was chatty. Rode her for two years. And then… well, I lost her. Hope she's still alive. She was a good horse. The only quirk was that she wouldn't let you mount from the side. – How did she let you, from behind or something? – Or from the front. You'd walk up to her chest, grab her neck, and with a jump – bam – spin yourself onto her back. – That's insane, having to do that every time!

<…>

– What did you say, she won't let you mount? – From the side, she won't. I bought her off some drunks who couldn't handle her at all. Thought I'd show them up in no time – and ended up flying off her myself, no joke, hah. Until it dawned on me that you'd already told me that story. Do you believe in coincidences like that?

<…>

– All my horses always have some kind of quirk… And stallions just don't seem to stick with me, only mares. The first stallion got caught in an avalanche, his name was Bandit. He was good in every way, but a complete slut. Always trying to wander off after anyone. He could even take off his own headstall. In town, I always had to put a rope around his chest to tie him, otherwise he'd just wander off with someone. – And how many times did he get taken? – About four times before I figured out what was going on – that he wasn't being stolen, he was just an idiot. And I kept wondering why they sold him to me for next to nothing…

<…>

– With Pogost, I only saw signs of brain activity when he spotted food beyond his reach. The rest of the time, he'd switch his brain off and completely stop watching where he was going. He'd jump over everything instead of going around, stumble constantly, catch trees, and take off from a standstill like a puma was already hanging off his tail. But to give him credit, in real danger he never threw me. Gunshots, wild animals – fine. I suppose when he leaped off a cliff to get away from a bear, the only reason I survived was because I landed on him.

<…>

A large, intelligent dog, well-trained, with an overly devoted gaze and the pinkest nose in the entire Wild West. An exemplary companion, except for one detail. Sometime in his puppyhood, a fear of black hens had lodged itself in his head. Where it came from, no one knew. Maybe someone had scared him once; maybe he had invented it himself. But the fear was there. And it looked… pathetic.

A serious dog, capable of tracking as well as any bloodhound, obeying his master without question and ignoring everyone else, could, at the mere sight of an ordinary hen, start hiding behind his owner's legs and pretending he did not exist at all.

That was why a black hen was needed.

The plan seemed simple: to check whether this childhood phobia still persisted. And if the fear remained, then it could be calmly and gradually smoothed out through habituation.

In reality, everything went wrong from the very first minute.

When Nehemiah brought the bird home, she sat quietly under his arm, almost lifeless, only voicing her displeasure when she was passed from one pair of hands to another. The dog did not even pay her any attention at first… and then he saw her.

And the hen saw him.

She fluffed up instantly, as if new life had been breathed into her. Her feathers stood on end, her wings spread wide, and her already absurdly long neck stretched even further, fanning out her plumage. Even the feathers on her head twitched convulsively. For a second, she looked like a bizarre hybrid of a cobra and a cockatoo.

And without giving the dog a moment to think, the hen lunged to attack.

The dog, who, according to plan, was supposed to face his fear head-on in a safe environment, think it over, get a chance to growl or perhaps retreat, instead received a swift black projectile straight to the face.

What followed was predictable.

All subsequent attempts to make them friends failed immediately. Over time, it became clear that there were no equal sides in this confrontation. There was the hen. And there was the dog, trying to survive.

The final breaking point for the dog's reality came when Urubu took over his spot.

The dog's "nest" on the sofa — neatly assembled from stolen, trampled belongings and rightfully smelling of dog — was captured without a fight. Urubu settled there with the air of a mistress who had always lived there, and began to arrange things her own way.

At first, the dog tried to reclaim his place by barking. Then he called upon his owners for help.

Usually, Nehemiah watched such clashes without interfering, still naively harboring a faint hope that some rage would awaken in the dog's soul and he would defend himself and his territory. But in vain. If any rage did awaken, it was more often in the hen's soul.

So Nehemiah's interest in cockfighting arose by chance. More out of curiosity than serious intent. If the bird had a drive to fight — why not give it an outlet? After all, it could not get any worse.

He found out where it happened, how it worked, who participated. It all seemed simultaneously ridiculous and strangely serious. People, bets, strategies — as if it were not about a chicken fight but something truly important.

Urubu lost her first fight.

She fought fiercely, but experience won out.

Nehemiah took it calmly. For him, it was not about winning. The bird had done what she always did — charged into attack without a moment's hesitation. That was enough. Besides, she had tried. And more importantly, she seemed to enjoy it. Or did she? God only knew what went on in her bird brain.

The decision to enter the Grand Tournament came as spontaneously as the purchase of Urubu itself. No preparation, no calculation. More like a continuation of what had already begun.

He did not seriously train her. Not unless you counted the way she trained every day anyway: dive-bombing from the sofa onto the defenseless dog, ambushes from the armrests, lightning strikes with a leap over her owner's knees — all honed with remarkable persistence. The dog, to give him credit, had learned to dodge masterfully.

But in any case, it was not about winning. Not even about the fights.

Didn’t remember how he’d gotten in.

Didn’t remember where he’d been going.

It felt as if he had always been here.

He opened his eyes. Not at once. Not on the first try.

First, the stirring of his lids, a barely perceptible flutter—as if his body were testing whether it was even possible. Then another. His eyelids unsealed themselves heavily, as if they had fused together, and the motion seemed excessive, unnecessary.

As if he had been sleeping.

And sleeping.

And sleeping.

Too long to wake up.

When his vision finally returned, he slowly swept his gaze across the room. Empty, quiet, still. This place had no feeling of life, yet neither did it look ruined.

The windows were intact. The glass was murky but not broken. The door stood in its frame, slightly crooked but closed. The building looked abandoned—not for a year or two. And yet there were no signs that anyone had visited it since.

It had simply been left.

And forgotten.

A fat black fly buzzed past, annoyingly persistent.

Its sound was too loud for this silence. Almost irritating.

Bo waved a lazy hand without lifting his head. His arm moved on its own, without effort, as if this were the only action that still made any sense.

The fly disappeared.

But not a minute passed before it came back with company. They circled slowly, heavily, as if the air itself held them in place. Now and then they landed—on the floor, on his clothes, on his skin—and took off again.

Bo no longer tried to shoo them away.

It didn’t seem to matter.

His clothes were dusty. Thin.

Pants of an indeterminate color—gray, faded, the kind of color everything becomes if left motionless for too long.

A shirt that might once have been white.

The fabric sagged, lost its shape. Clung to his body where it should have moved.

And there were no shoes, for some reason.

He didn’t remember why. Not that it mattered.

He must have stunk.

The thought came, but provoked no reaction.

He couldn’t smell anything.

Couldn’t feel anything at all.

Not the cold of the floor.

Not the hardness of the planks.

Not the weight of his own body.

It was as if sensation had been severed. The body remained—but everything that filled it had been removed.

It felt as if he could lie here forever.

Without moving.

Without thought.

Without purpose.

Gradually dissolve into that smell of dust and mildew that he couldn’t even perceive. Spread across the boards, become part of this floor. First just rot, then a dirty stain, then something indistinguishable from the rest of the decay that had been here before him.

Sprout into fungi.

Crawl into moss.

Become part of what had already been here before him.

What would remain after.

And stay.

Forever.

The thought didn’t frighten him.

There was nothing in it at all.

But somewhere deep inside—where something still remained—an itch began.

Faint at first.

Like a mild irritation. Like the bite of an insect you could ignore at first.

Then stronger.

More insistent.

Almost like those flies.

Something demanded.

Not in words. Not in conscious thought.

It demanded action.

To sit up.

To rise.

To move.

To shift one foot, then the other.

He didn’t know where.

Didn’t know why.

He just had to move.

To go.

This inner demand felt more real than anything else. The only thing not blurred, not empty.

Bo stirred slowly.

His body responded with a delay—as if the signal were taking too long. As if he were not here but somewhere to the side, merely operating what lay on the floor.

He sat up.

The motion took longer than it should have.

The world swayed slightly.

The flies scattered for a second.

Then returned.

He raised his head.

Then himself.

He stepped outside.

In the nocturnal gloom, just beyond the house, stood a horse.

Gray.

Too distinct against the darkness.

It wasn’t grazing.

Wasn’t shifting its weight.

Wasn’t tossing its head.

It wasn’t moving at all.

Just stood there.

Like a statue.

Like a stuffed animal.

Like something placed here and forgotten. As if it were part of the house itself.

Bo looked at it without blinking.

And at some point, a thought appeared.

Not formed. Not arrived.

Just emerged.

This is his horse.

He didn’t try to verify it. Didn’t compare. Didn’t seek confirmation.

He knew.

He had never owned such a horse before.

He would have remembered.

Probably.

But it didn’t matter.

Because this horse was his.

As surely as the darkness existed.

As surely as this place existed.