SMARMSLUT QUEEN: Hello again. You will all be happy to know that things have finally calmed down around here.

SMARMSLUT ADEPT: That's what YOU think!! I still say we should nail that closet shut so our guest doesn't get out again!

QUEEN: No need for that-all we have to do is make sure our Smarmslut Master doesn't get near the closet again.

SMARMSLUT MASTER: I told you that was an accident! I didn't think she'd be able to get by me when I was hiding the Christmas cookies in there!

ADEPT: She ate all the cookies and almost got away thanks to you!

QUEEN: I'm going to knock both your heads together if you don't clam up!! Our guest isn't going anywhere for a while. And we've got plenty of other cookies.

ADEPT: Aw but I HATE Nutter Butters!

QUEEN: Tough! Now-before our story begins, I'd just like to reassure everyone that this story is totally Y2K compliant.

MASTER: Which means you can rest assured that the Ezra angst and owies will continue into the year 2000.

ADEPT: Ezra might not be so happy about that, but we hope you are!

QUEEN: So here's the next part of our story-enjoy, and have a happy New Year!

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Ashes of the Mind, pt 16
by the Smarm Sluts


Night. Shouting and laughter.

Paralysis - security. Standing as still as a sapling that ignores the approaching storm. If he didn't move, he thought logically, no one would notice him.

Jed Maxwell and his gang stood in a half-circle across the fire from Ezra. The firelight filled the crags and valleys of Maxwell's angular, scarred features with dark shadows; a laugh split the bearded face with a flash of bright teeth as he watched two outlaws fighting inside the ring of spectators. Suddenly, the slender gang leader surged forward in anticipation as the men stumbled dangerously close to the campfire. Ezra saw one of the fighters realize the danger, and with a wicked cry jump back, shoving his helplessly imbalanced opponent into the fire. Cheers and laughter pummeled the night air as the man began to burn.

Logic fled; Ezra wanted to run. The burning man rolled, thrashing, out of the fire. Flames which had captured the man's coat snapped up around his head and slithered down to consume his legs; he bucked and screamed, beat the ground with flickering hands. He began to crawl, convulsing and jabbering, toward where Ezra stood unable to move.

The pungent scent of burning flesh reached Ezra as he watched the smoke billow up from the creeping body to disappear into the midnight sky. As the burning man struggled closer, Ezra saw the man's black hair dancing in a halo of fire around his head. The skin from his once-innocent face bubbled and peeled with terrible speed as he
shrieked; his blackening eyes begged Ezra for help.

The gambler couldn't move. *Do something!* his mind screamed. *Run! Shoot him! Help him! Run! Oh God do something*

"Oh God Ezra please do something -" the boy howled as his body collapsed into sparkling embers.

Ezra felt himself sinking to the ground. "JD -" He closed his eyes against the sight of his young friend's corpse, sensed the acid surging up from his belly, tasted the bile as it bit at the back of his throat.

"Get up."

Ezra opened his eyes, saw the form towering over him against the starless sky. Buck. Giving unheeded orders to his trembling limbs, Ezra tried to rise.

*Worthless, thieving cur,* Buck hissed. *You let him die, you slobbering coward.*

"Buck," the gambler moaned. "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry...."

"I said get up, scum!" *You were supposed to protect him!* the tall gunslinger bellowed. *Get up, you pathetic bastard! I want you standing when I blow your worthless head off -*

A boot connected with Ezra's churning stomach, and he jerked and began to retch.

"God dammit!" an unfamiliar voice shouted. "God damn son of a bitch! Aww - shit!"

Scraping sounds accompanied another string of muttered curses. Ezra forced open swollen eyes, coughing and gagging from the bitterness in his mouth. One of Branford's guards stood not a foot away, half-turned, using the sole of one boot to scrape at the vomit
spackling the other boot.

Raising a shaking hand to wipe at the dampness on his lips, the gambler began to push himself up from where he lay on the straw-littered floor. Vaguely he realized that they had removed his handcuffs, and his wrists were raw and very sore.

The guard saw his movement and glared at him. "You lousy bastard." The man lashed out with his soiled boot at a pair of bowls Ezra hadn't noticed resting on the floor between them. One bowl skittered noisily off to the left; the gambler threw an arm up to deflect the other as
it shot directly toward him. The bowl bounced off the wall over Ezra's head, showering him with thin broth and a few mushy vegetables.

He remained frozen, dripping, locked in a painfully half-raised position, quivering arm shielding his face, as the still-cursing guard stomped out of the room and slammed the door shut. When he was alone in the dark, Ezra let out a shaky breath and lowered his arm. He kept his thoughts carefully blank while he dragged himself up to a sitting position. He pressed his back against the cool wall, scraping the stew from his hair and wiping broth and sputum from his face.

So, he finally ventured to mull, Maxwell had decided to let him eat. Ever since...since the last time he'd seen...well, a guard had come in every half hour or so to check on Ezra, and to wake him up if he was sleeping. One guard had told Ezra that Maxwell would visit in the morning, and it occurred to him that the stew could be breakfast. He
glanced up toward the single small window; he could barely make out its outline. Still, a cool breeze had carried the scent of rain into the cell all night, so heavy cloud cover could account for the dimness. He wondered if he should expect Maxwell soon.

He shivered as images from their last encounter forced themselves on his mind, the inmates howling and clawing at him, the flames leaping at his face, the cruel taunts ringing in his ears. Had it all really happened? Ezra grimaced; the pain from his bleeding, untreated wounds left no doubt. Would it happen again? A cold trembling overtook Ezra's body at the realization that yesterday's incident was no doubt just a prelude to what Jed had in store for him. Maybe he really was dead and in hell...

He set a hand on the overturned bowl laying by his leg, but didn't pick it up. He probably could have stood to eat something, but he had no desire to lick the empty bowl clean like a dog. The second bowl had probably contained water. If it hadn't flipped over in its dash across the floor, perhaps it still did. Aided by the thread of lamplight outlining the locked door, the gambler's eyes slowly began to grow accustomed to the dark again. He peered along the wall to his left, searching out any shape that marred the smooth shadows.

Supported by the wall, studiously ignoring the pain caused by the movement, he inched across the floor, patting carefully at dark, bowl-shaped clumps of straw. Finally his hand came down on a concave form and his fingertips struck the surface of tepid water.

Much of the water had sloshed out of the bowl; about an inch of it remained. Carefully cupping the bowl in hands growing more steady with wakefulness, the gambler sipped enough of the liquid to swirl around in his mouth. He spit it out, thankful for the modicum of freshness the water offered. He sipped again, swallowed, and groaned as the water hit his uneasy stomach. He gripped the bowl, willing his stomach to settle. At least, he thought irritably, the stew was no loss. He obviously couldn't have kept it down anyway.

He should save the water, he'd need it once he felt a little better. A grimace stole across his face in the darkness. If he felt better. He honestly doubted he would. Maxwell meant to kill him; slowly, to be sure, but regardless of the expediency, he would be dead soon just the same. In that light, what difference would a little brackish water make? He lifted the bowl, tilted his face up slightly, and poured the liquid over his head. The bit of water ran down over his forehead, trickling into his hair and ears, pooling around his eyes. He tossed the bowl aside, ignoring its thump and clatter, and drew his palms across his wet face. He must have a fever, he realized; the water felt exquisitely cool against his skin. Ezra smiled to himself. Josiah insisted that God had a sense of humor, and it would indeed be a wonderful irony if he were to die of a fever before Maxwell had a chance to kill him.

Josiah must hate him, Ezra thought suddenly. Well, the preacher may not hate him yet, but once he found out what Ezra had done to JD...or rather, what he hadn't done -

A burning face flashed in the darkness of the cell *Oh God Ezra please* -

Ezra moaned and buried his face in his hands. He knew that was wrong, he hadn't watched JD burn to death. No, he'd simply watched while Branford's men dragged the boy away to be killed, had sat mute and helpless in his dark little cell while Maxwell's malicious laughter faded down the hall.

He clapped his hands over his ears to drown the memory of the sound, then yanked them away angrily. This was ludicrous; he was acting like a child. What had happened to JD...well, it was done. The boy had known Ezra was helpless to do anything, he had understood when Ezra had pointed out the futility of attacking their captors when they were so outnumbered and outgunned. Such a foolhardy and impetuous action would have gotten them both killed.

Instead, JD was dead anyway, and Ezra was about to die. So much for practicality.

The gambler shivered in the chilly darkness. JD shouldn't have died; Ezra should have protected him. But still the truth was it was done. Nothing to do about it now. He knew JD wouldn't have blamed him, the boy was so damned trusting and accepting. Couldn't think badly of a fly, or even a black-hearted, idiot, coward of a gambler; JD wouldn't have blamed him. That realization tore at Ezra's soul. He had to survive. He had to find that boy's body and take it back to Four Corners so that JD's friends could give him a proper burial. Regardless of the fact that Buck, Chris, Josiah, and the rest would most likely lynch him as soon as he set foot in town, he resolved to try to survive long enough to take JD's body home. It was the least Ezra could do.

Surprisingly, the decision afforded him a tenuous sense of peace.But the peace didn't last. Heavy footsteps approached his door, and voices paused outside as a key worried the lock. Maxwell and Branford. Ezra took a deep breath and tried to relax as the door swung open.