Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.
Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.
Part Forty-One: Karen
11:35 AM, August 22nd, 1899
It chewed as she rotted obliviously in her own filth; Tilly and Mary-Beth had dragged her down the hill into the stream last week for a bath, but she hadn't lasted ten seconds before the flailing and fighting started. Now, she smelled worse than death, and somehow, worse than Uncle. She'd made a mistake last night, got up late sweating and twitching for a drink, but in the shadows, she couldn't see a thing, and when she rummaged through the chuckwagon (she'd smuggled a small vial of whiskey from Lagras in her… uh, feminine crevices when Bill found her and brought her back to camp) she accidentally grabbed a half-emptied tin of canned peaches and lifted it over her head to down it in one gulp as though it was her whiskey. When she retched it up and turned the can away, the golden sweet juices spilled down the side of her face, staining her hair and visage in the sticky solution.
And despite her stink, it loved her, that lovely scented sap that clung to her like perfume. And now, at nearly noon, it chewed and chewed, on her ear and her dirty-blonde hair (I say dirty-blonde instead of blonde because of all the dirt she was lying in). She didn't notice—the booze circulating through her helped with that.
The thoughts of Charles and Lenny dying echoed around in her head, but they were weak echoes, the kinds you'd find screaming your name at a wall, not the ones you'd uncover in a vast cave—which, it goes without saying, she had no idea stood thirty feet to her left presently. The fact of the matter was, she didn't really care about them anymore, didn't care about anything. She reflected on Sean, his crooked smile and intentionally harsh way of speaking, the way he laughed with everything he had, his foul sense of humor that she hated so much, the relentless teasing and prodding and flirting he subjected her to every day, and most of all his eyes, those stunning green eyes. She was relieved to find she felt even less for him now than she did for the rat nibbling on her ear. The pain was gone; the drinking was working.
She sucked in cold air and knew she was doing right. The leaves were wrinkling and tanning as though autumn simply couldn't wait this year. The frosty days ahead would numb them all eventually—she was just getting on top of things.
Her throat was dry suddenly and she doused it with the last remnants of her whiskey bottle she hid under the blanket Jack had brought for her two nights ago when it was especially cold. She didn't like that much. Moments such as those caused an evil knife of guilt, that smiling tapeworm, to pierce through the thick fog of liquor and instill her with feelings that were too complicated for what she wanted right now. That's why she told Jack there was a tick burrowed in his neck—at a spot he couldn't see—and it would reproduce and cover his throat with tiny black dots that would drink the blood down to the bone until his fat head got too hefty for his skinny nape and snapped clean off.
She knew it was wrong, but the sound of his crying to Abigail at midnight sounded so much more melodic than his charity.
The hooch settled Karen and she fluttered away to sleep where she stayed until around forty minutes after noon—though she'd never know it because she sold her watch to a stranger at Van Horn weeks back for a shot of moonshine.
Her companion (not the rat, who was still having the day of its life) didn't make a sound, but Karen was used to having people sneak up on her when she was passed out drunk—it was usually a pig-faced kid who was too shy and ugly to court a lady proper and too cowardly to rape her proper. They figured they'd split the difference. She'd developed a sixth sense for that kind of advance, and like a chameleon commanding its skin to go translucent, she willed the heavy drowsy spell of drink into remission enough to turn her head towards the figure standing over her.
"Mary-Beth," she groaned groggily, "how many times I gotta say it? Leave me—"
But it wasn't Mary-Beth. It was Bill, larger than life, wearing an offputting smile like the one a toothless boy who'd been struck by lightning would give out. He held two bubbling bowls of stew and crouched down to her level, holding it out. "You hungry?"
"No," she said, nodding her head away, almost crushing the rat underneath her skull.
"Okay," he said, still donning the dumb smile, stacking the stew bowls on top of each other, forgetting they were filled to the brim, and cursed under his breath as he tossed them to the side and wiped the chunky brown solution from his burgundy shirt. "I ain't hungry too much myself."
"Been eatin' well?" she asked, forming her lips together in a pucker and smacking them repeatedly. The sound they made was noxious.
Bill cleared his throat, attempting to ignore that comment. "Yeah… I don't know what Micah does to that meat, but it tastes better than Pearson's ever did." He cleared his throat again and looked up. "No disrespect sir, of course." he glanced down at Karen, shaking her left leg excitedly, trying to urge her out of bed. "C'mon! Wanna go collect another debt with me? Strauss mentioned a guy tryin' to hunt a vicious white leopard in the mountains or somethin'. Sounds pretty nifty, don't it?" She opened her mouth but he prattled on. "Heh, 'vicious white leopard.' Ya think he's huntin' bitchy ol' Grimshaw?"
Karen grunted. "I know what you're doin' Bill."
"What?" he asked innocently." Tryin' to ask a friend on a mission?"
"You think I'm dumb? You want me on my feet. You want me sober, that's what this is about. You want me to stop leeching off of everyone, that it?"
"No, that's not it at—"
"Fuck you, Bill! I like bein' a leech, no, a tick. I like it, and you ain't gonna get me to stop! It's my life, it ain't yours, so you can stop pesterin' me and go tell Dutch the bad news."
Bill exhaled deeply. A stream of light irritated his eyes and he moved his hat down to block it. "Sadie told me to be patient with you, that you might say some things you don't mean. And I want to, but I really think you ought to come with me. It'll give you somethin' to do." He chuckled, tapping her leg again. "And, let's be honest, weren't it always more fun drinkin' with a partner? C'mon… it'll take an hour and then we'll hit Rhodes' saloon." He stood to full height and lightly tugged her arm. "C'mon… get up…"
She yanked away from him. "You're right, Bill, I could use somethin' to do." She shifted her weight to the side and farted in his direction. His eyes were hidden beneath the hat, but his smile faded and his nose scrunched up.
After a modest gag, he tried again. "I-I know things have been hard on you… but ya gotta move on. My… I've never told anyone this, but… my daddy used to drink, ya know? A lot. Called me a lot of mean names, too. C-called me -a-a-a worthless mooching—"
"Fuck off, Marion," she interrupted. "Go haunt someone else with your sob stories." She summoned the strength and whipped the blanket above her head, hiding in the black fabric. The rat was pleased; the sun had been getting in its eyes too.
The lack of Bill's ugly mug was a pleasant change, but that joy was overridden when his voice recheated insistently, closer to her this time. "Remember what happened to Hosea when Bessie died? Drinkin' broke him for a year, and he said it was the worst year of his life. You're not doin' yourself any favors here, Kar—"
That did it. Anger ignited through the murky drunken fog of her mind and she shouted. "I ain't Hosea, and Sean ain't Bessie. And you ain't Sean, Bill. You ain't nothin' to me!" She flung up with such violent haste that the rat hadn't let go and now dangled from her ear as she sat up, staring Bill in the face. Or at least she would, if he wasn't looking down—all she could see was the brim of his hat.
"I… I thought we was friends," he whispered. He didn't seem so big anymore.
And Karen cackled. "You thought we was friends?" Her bowels shook with laughter and she farted again. She tossed her head back and the rat went soaring. "You're just a brute, a workhouse. You're that mangy dog the gang keeps cuz you reeeeeal good at sittin'. You're a pet. If anyone else had been collection' debts that day back in Shady Belle, you think there's a chance in hell I woulda ridden with you?" She poked his hat's crown with rough fingers with every word she said next. "That's why I drink ya know. I want the firewater to wash… your … stench … off… of… me!"
A hard hand caught her finger and tore so hard she yelped. And when the hat's brim slowly rose, she stared deep into eyes the color of hellfire.
Then he was on top of her, going for the neck, squeezing until his hands were pale as death and her face was pink as a babe's. "You're just like the rest!" he yelled. "Like Kieran. Liars, traitors, fakers. Been makin' a toy outta me until you grow bored a' playin' with me!" Her eyes were wide. She couldn't breathe, couldn't feel anything except the drumming of her heart and his claws in her throat. He leaned so close she saw nothing but the unrelenting hate in his eyes. "I'm glad Sean died, glad you've become so miserable. You deserve it, for what you done to me! He spoke softly after. "All I ever was was nice to you and Kieran…" Her vision went blurry, except this time she knew she wouldn't wake with a bad hangover. Wouldn't wake at all.
"I hope it hurts…" was the last thing she heard as red darkness smothered her.
Then it was the second to last, as an unreadable voice rang out and then a dark figure was jockeying with Bill. They shoved and fought until Bill's talon's left her throat and she inhaled a sharp breath.
The next thing she knew, Tilly was standing over her, holding her hand as she wheezed for air. The voices began to clear as did her vision, and she saw Dutch strolling from his tent to the center of camp, where John had Bill on his knees, a sawed-off shotgun touching the man's ear.
"He tried to kill her!" John bellowed, loud enough for all to hear.
Mary-Beth and Kieran followed behind Tilly, while the rest of the camp herded around Bill, many with their guns drawn, making sure he wouldn't try anything.
Tilly screamed to Dutch, refusing to leave Karen. "He needs to get gone, Dutch! He can't stay here anymore!"
"I say we put a damn bullet in him!" Grimshaw barked, confounding everyone. Lady couldn't pick a side of the fence. "We got rules, Dutch."
"I'm inclined to agree with the old hag on this one…" John said, tightening his grip on the trigger. Bill didn't say a word.
"Calm down!" Dutch said. "Bill ain't goin' nowhere. This is a man's life we're talkin' about. Let's just take a deep breath and go about this patient-like. I want both sides of the story."
Wordlessly, he sauntered to Karen, shadowed by many others. "What happened?" he asked impartially.
Karen croaked out the essentials: she was choked, couldn't breathe, Bill at fault. Her head was still throbbing.
Dutch went to Bill next, looming over the man. "Did you strangle this poor woman?"
Bill glanced down. He spoke angrily but lowly. "I didn't do nothin'."
John laughed. "I pulled you off of her myself, you fool. What… are you tryin' to say… we're both lyin'?"
"I-it weren't my fault." He looked around the camp for support, finding none. "I-I mean, it was an accident!"
"Ah, there's the admission of guilt," Strauss said, taking a note in his journal. "Thought we'd have to work harder. There's the beauty of simpletons."
"I ain't confessed to nothin'!" Bill cried insistently. "I-I… there was a, uh, tick… on her neck, yeah, and I went to squash it, and… squeezed… too hard."
"Alright, I believe him," Uncle quipped. "Let's let him go… to hell! Heh, see what I did there…"
"Bill," Dutch said, his voice imposing and frightening, scaring all other sounds away, "I'm gonna ask you how it 'weren't your fault,' now. I want you to pick your words very carefully because they'll be the last you utter as a member of this gang."
Marion froze, comprehending the vast depths of the pit of shit he was in. His face folded into a child's, begging and whimpering. He was on his knees and he fell onto all fours like a dog. "No, Dutch! No, please, please!" He clasped the man's shiny ebony boots, scrubbing his head along Dutch's leg until his hat fell off and he continued with his patchy bald head. "I can't lose this too. I've lost too damn much… please, don't take this from me…"
Karen felt her breathing stabilize now, but something else was filling her chest now at the sight of Bill, and for what she said. A smiling tapeworm. She found part of herself wanting to forgive Bill, to concur with his ridiculous tick story.
"Please Dutch…" His clear saliva dripped in thick splashes onto the obsidian boots. "I'll be loyal. I'll never ever disobey the gang again. Never, never, never, never…"
Karen would never know if it was the drinks, the beating, the glare from the sun, or her imagination, but she swore she saw Dutch's eyes glimmer at that fifth word…
Eventually, after a long breath of quiet, Dutch sighed. "Seeing as how this was an isolated incident, and Karen's drunken behavior has been a problem for some time now…"
"No," Tilly whispered.
"... I will not kick Bill out of the gang."
"What?!" Mary-Beth flared, alongside Kieran, John, Abigail, and more.
Dutch waved them down until they fell silent. "Provided of course nothing even remotely similar occurs, and beli—"
Karen tuned the rest of what he said out; her ears were ringing, and not from the rat. The quick relief of Bill staying was followed by something far stronger. Shouldn't this be what I want? she asked herself.
But she was already standing up, spitting curses everyone's way. None more so than Dutch's. "Pardoned?! He's fuckin' pardoned?! He woulda fuckin' killed me!"
"Karen…" Bill began before staring back down at his master's shoes.
She leered at Dutch, aiming her broken finger at him. "You… your hypocrisies, your lies… it was you. You killed my Sean!"
Dutch raised a hand, as though he could will her words away, will her to sit down and stay. But he couldn't—not anymore. "Karen—"
"You killed Arthur, and Lenny, and all them good men and women. My friends!"
She stormed on dizzy feet to the horses stationed by the camp's entrance. Her vision was still a mite cloudy, and the alcohol was never a friend to her eyes, but she found Old Belle's reins and after nearly a dozen tries, climbed on top of her.
"Karen," Mary-Beth cried, "you can't go! They'll be lookin' for you, you won't last a week!"
"At least let us look over them wounds, girl," Abigail begged.
Uncle snorted. "I'll try to make your funeral, but I am pretty busy next week."
"Good luck," said Swanson.
Karen let the sorry sight of camp soak into her mind. She hoped a couple drinks would wash it out, wash all of them out. "Fuck all of you."
She spurred Old Belle around and rode away down the hill, disappearing from Beaver Hollow forever. The last thing she saw was Dutch stroking the head of his leal mutt.
END OF ACT II
There we are... pretty much thirty-two chapters of setting up Bill/Karen to bring us here. Hope you enjoyed!
Lotta things to look forward to next act, from Molly/Micah, James Langton, Dutch really kicking it up as master manipulator, more time with the Indians, the return of a character we haven't seen in a few chapters, the completion of a few character's arcs, and the second and third cripple...
... and Uncle being a delightful sleazebag.