Billy the Kid/Heffer drank and whored through the long afternoon. In a feelie, the fictional principal never slept, and there were no bad aftereffects. The recipient, on the other hand, technically slept all the time; although his or her brain was racing, the body was under the impression that it was enjoying deep, untroubled REM sleep. Garrett was coming at sunset, and the whole town knew it. A hot, lazy tension was building. Little kids played in the street, antagonizing scorpions with burning twigs. Tongue-lolling dogs stretched out flat in patches of shade under the wooden sidewalk. Someone somewhere was playing a guitar, a mournful Spanish dirge in a minor key, all about love, betrayal, and murder. "The Flowers of Evil." Heffer found that he could understand the lyrics even though he normally couldn't speak a word of Spanish. Inside the cantina, the men of the town sat with their tequila and their slices of lime and watched him. He was the marked one. He was the one who might be dead before the darkness gathered. They watched him for any slip, a word or a look, a shake of the hand, anything that might be a sign of weakness or fear. Billy the Kid/Heffer laughed at them. He had the wild confidence of the young, reckless, and drunk. Pat Garrett, badge or no badge, wasn't going to be a problem.
Finally, he was out on the street. The sun was dipping to the horizon against a blood-red sky. He positioned himself with his back to the blaze of the sunset. His shadow stretched out black in front of him, almost twenty feet long, straight down the center of the street. Garrett would be coming in from the east with the sun in his eyes. Billy/Heffer had the edge. His hands curled and uncurled, eager to grab the pistol in his belt, squeeze the trigger, and feel it kick in his hand. When Garrett was dead, he was going back to the cantina. Very soon, his time in the feelie would be up, and he wanted one more bottle and one more woman before he returned to the real workaday, Monday morning world of John Wilson Heffer. It would be a long time before he could afford another weekend contract.
Garrett was coming-the setting sun glinted on the pearl-handled six shooters in the crossdraw rig and the Winchester rifle he was holding at his side. Billy/Heffer laughingly called out a greeting.
"So how you doing, Pat? It's been a while since you were down in these parts."
"I've come to take you back to Santa Fe for trial, Billy."
"I really don't be planning to go anywhere, Pat. I kind of like it here."
"I don't want to be having to kill you, Billy."
"Hell, Pat, you been acting plain damn mean since you started working for the Santa Fe Ring. I thought you and me were supposed to be friends."
"The
country's changing, Billy, and friendships have gotta change along with it."
"So I guess there's no way out of this thing."
Garrett shook his head. "Not unless you want to surrender peaceable and come back with me."
"You know I can't do that."
"Then I don't see no way out. We better get to it." Without another word, Billy/Heffer's hand flashed to the Colt, but to his horrified surprise he wasn't fast enough. The rifle was in Garrett's hand before his own pistol was even clear of its holster. There was a bang, a puff of smoke, and, immediately afterward, a searing, burning pain in his chest that was made doubly bad by the overloaded tactile input. He was thrown back onto the hot, red dirt of the street. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He was supposed to kill Garrett and then go back to the cantina for a final fling. He wasn't supposed to die. Feelies didn't do things like this. He was suddenly on his feet again.
"So I guess there's no way out of this thing."
"Not unless you want to surrender peaceable and come back with me."
"You know I can't do that."
"Then I don't see no way out. We'd better get to it." Without another word, Billy/Heffer's hand flashed to the Colt, but he wasn't fast enough. The rifle was in Garrett's hand before his own pistol was even clear of its holster. There was a bang, a puff of smoke, and, immediately afterward, a searing, burning pain in his chest. He was thrown back onto the hot, red dirt of the street. This wasn't supposed to be happening. The software was crashing. It was stuck in some kind of loop. Someone had to be monitoring this. They had to notice that something was wrong and get him out. He couldn't just be left like this.
"So I guess there's no way out of this thing."
"Not unless you want to surrender peaceable and come back with me."
"You know I can't do that."
"Then I don't see no way out. We'd better get to it."
Without another word, Billy/Heffer's hand flashed to the Colt, but he wasn't fast enough. The rifle was in Garrett's hand before his own pistol was even clear of its holster. There was a bang, a puff of smoke, and, immediately afterward, a searing, burning pain in his chest. He was thrown back into the hot, red dirt of the street. This wasn't supposed to be happening. This wasn't just a glitch-this was a major malfunction. The software was seriously screwing up, and he was trapped inside it, going around and around and having an agonizingly painful bullet smash into his chest each time the cycle was completed. The worst part was that he was totally helpless. His guts were wrenching, already anticipating the next bullet from the Winchester. The detached part of his mind, the piece of his consciousness that would have no part of the Billy the Kid personality was well on the way to screaming panic. Someone had to be monitoring this. They had to get him out. He couldn't take being shot one more time.