Old and Young

The old man stood near the fence, one hand resting on the pearl inlaid butt of the revolver at his hip. A brief puff of wind tousled his silver-grey hair. He brought up his hand to smooth it back down. Aside from that small movement, he was stoic and relaxed, but vigilant.

The much younger gentleman next to him was quite the opposite. He paced anxiously, frequently hiking up is loose-fitting jeans. The constant stream of one-sided conversation that flowed from his mouth began the moment their shift had started. His topics had ranged from his favorite meals, to his favorite football team. From his love of motorcycles to the crew he had once run with. From women he'd slept with to places he'd visited. Now, as they were nearing the end of their time together, the subject had shifted to the old man himself.

“I don't know why we bother keeping you around. Old people are a waste of space. You probably can't even remember who you are or where you're from. The most humane thing to do would be to put you and anyone else your age out of your misery. You can't survive long in a place like this. Seriously, what do you even bring to the table?”

The younger of the two was looking at his elder expectantly as their watch relief strolled up. The old man brought up his revolver, aimed briefly, and fired a single shot. The young man's ears rang as the .45 caliber round hit its mark. In the distance, a solitary, lurching, and fetid corpse ambling toward the gate collapsed as the bullet exploded from the back of its head.

“Well, son, for starters, I'm a pretty good shot.”