Hush's dream

Hush was standing on the sheet of white canvas in the hole they’d dug. It wasn’t very deep but the soil was stony and they had to be quick. He was holding the tiny native girl’s naked and broken body in his arms. Flynndian stood above him leaning on his shovel holding the flashlight. The fat fuck was breathing heavy and shaking his head.

“This is fuckin’ bad Hush,” he said. “This is so fuckin’ bad.”

“Quiet,” Hush hissed at him as he lay the body down gently.
He looked down at the girl they had all called Princess. The little hustler who was always outside the Ledo Hotel selling braided wrist bands and dream-catchers for change or cigarettes. She was seventeen but looked much younger, a feature she used to ingratiate herself to the business owners downtown. Sweet looking little Princess, always bright-eyed and friendly, asking her questions and watching.

 Always watching.

None of those shop owners, not even the jewelers suspected her. The first time she approached his crew asking if they wanted to make some money they laughed at her and told her to beat it. She was persistent though, so finally one night Hush indulged her.
Turned out she had eight places clocked, six high-end clothing shops and two jewellery stores. She had the hours for cash pick-ups, the names of all the employees, keys for some of the doors and the alarm codes. She even drew little maps and memorized a couple of safe combinations.
Hush liked her and admired her. The little waif with the perfect hustle.

Now she was dead with her neck broken so bad her head was almost twisted around backward.

“Why did this happen?” Flynn said in a low voice, almost as if he was talking to himself.
“Why, Hush?”

Hush didn’t answer. He heard the hollow tap of his own blood hitting the canvas, blood dripping from his knuckles that looked black and oily in the flashlight’s yellow beam. He felt bad that there would be no ceremony to mark her death. He wouldn’t say a prayer over her or anything, fuck that….but he did whisper goodbye.
“I’m sorry,” Hush said to the girl’s lifeless shell.

Suddenly he realized he couldn’t hear Flynndian’s heavy panting anymore. The only sound was the wind rustling the tops of the trees and the steady chirping of the crickets from the surrounding bush. Hush climbed out of the hole and looked around.
“Dickie?”

“Dickie’s gone,” a voice said from behind him. It was a familiar voice, but one he hadn’t heard since childhood. Hush didn’t want to turn around.

“Face us,” said another voice.
Hush saw Father O’Sullivan first, wearing the white basilica robe he used for Sunday mass. Beside him was the first man Hush ever killed, the bookie from the motel in Kitchener. The side of his head was caved in just like the way he left him on the dirty grey carpet of that scuzzy room all those years ago. His left eye still hung beneath the socket ,stuck against his cheek like a squashed grape.

On the other side of the priest stood the European scumbag named Serge Jesinek. His throat was open from when Hush slashed it and the blood was stained black from the collar of his  white polo shirt all the way down to the crotch of his dirty blue jeans. He was trying to say something, but all that came from his mouth was a wet gurgling sound.
“These men await you, Henry,” Father O’Sullivan said in the loud booming voice he used during his sermons from the pulpit. “The little indian princess is waiting too. They wait for you beyond the wall of death where you will answer for all you’ve done.”
“It won’t be long now,” The bookie with the smashed face croaked.

Hush heard Serge Jesinek gurgling again, and saw he was pointing up at the night sky. This time Hush knew the dead man wasn’t trying to speak. This time the gurgling was sputtering laughter.
Hush looked up and saw the moon hanging fat and pregnant in the starless black sky. It was smeared with blood.
What do you see?