Bailiff v. Balloonist

Both pistols tucked under his belt, the Bailiff relocates the body of the Baker. Then walks west down the fence line. He passes the bodies of the Animator and Background Artist. He walks to the point closest to the Aviator's overturned Sopwith Camel, lying partially dismantled on the turned black soil. A filthy-looking boy, head covered in a brown tuque, swaddled in an oversized barn coat squats beside the skeletal fuselage. Eating something from his mittens. Quickly, like a squirrel. When the boy sees the Bailiff he shoves the food into his coat pocket and gazes, eyes dull and feral.

Hey son! shouts the Bailiff. Have a shovel you can spare?

The boy turns away. Two men emerge from the far end of the plane. One fat, one thin. Their features are vague, yet their faces and hands clearly show greasy and oil-stained. The thin man grabs the boy roughly by the back of the coat and hefts him to his feet. The three walk behind the plane, out of sight.

In the distance, flying south on the northern currents, a spec appears. The Bailiff squints. Rubs his eyes, spits, and squints again. He waits as the spec nears. A balloon of white and blue fabric. Beneath not a basket but a wood structure, a small red tool shed.

He watches as the balloon gracefully glides closer, ever lower. It seems on target to land in the field. But at the last moment, just a hundred meters from the northern fence, a sudden gust from the west sends the shed swiveling. The balloon's pushed east, over the northeast tip of the fence and into the forest. It disappears from sight just before the sound of cracking branches, splintering timber. The great thump - then whoosh of a punctured air bladder.

The Bailiff rushes as fast as his stout little frame'll carry him to the eastern timber fence. He puts one foot on the timber and peers into the woodland. Inscrutable shade, thick brown bramble, dense foliage. Hello? he says. He hears a fall. A great umphf. Then steps over crisp leaves.

The Balloonist, a gangly ill-kept in denim overalls, walks from forest. He holds his arm, broken in two places, bone showing.

The Bailiff helps him over the fence, then to the oak. He sits at the base of the tree.

Jesus pal, says the Bailiff, you look like you need a doctor.

I think I can still fight, says the Balloonist. Just my left arm's broken, eh? He demonstrates. It's broken good. Let's fight, he says, and then I'll put up right in a sling.

Well fine, says the Bailiff. You want me to mark your job down? The Bailiff indicates the List of the Dead. The Balloonist shrugs. The Bailiff writes 'baloonist'. After the Bailiff helps him to his feet, the Balloonist sees the error but is too week to care.

They take their place out on the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.