Dead Man's Debt

Jake Dollop paused at the gates, testing the waters before he treaded into the unknown. It had been a long time since he’d seen these parts. Of course, that was when he used his real name.

But names are powerful things. Especially the names of the dead that coated his life in subterfuge and lies.

Tonight he was Jimmy Watson, a lone traveling banker on the outskirts of civilization. He pulled his hat low, letting the brim conceal his face in shadow.

Jake’s price was high. It was a bounty he hoped no one would cash in. Jimmy Watson was an innocent man. He’d been traveling under the alias for several weeks now, trying to eke out whatever pitiful survival he could in these wastelands.

The town of Black Mesa was all but deserted. A pale moon peaked out behind gray clouds, casting the world in an eerie light. Shadows played on adobe walls. For a town on the outskirts of humanity, the place was mostly well kept and almost peaceful.

Peace can change in an instant, just like the weather out here in the wastelands. Weather that was already getting worse as the night stretched on and the temperatures dipped into freezing.

Judging by the light cast down from the moon high above, the outlaw figured it had to be close to midnight.

Wisps of smoke rose, twirling in the sky. They joined with the clouds and the moon in a strange surreal sight. He sighed and knew snow would fall soon.

Snow used to be rare out in these parts. But that was a long time ago, back when his father still walked the earth. The Russians had changed that when they listened to the Elven traitor and nuked the free world. Nowadays snow was something the sand folk got real used to.

Even in August.

His sweat froze in the unnatural cold. Dew froze to crystals on the scrub beneath his feet and bounced moonbeam back toward the heavens. Jake knew he was sticking out, but there was no cover here. And it’s kind of hard to fit in well past the witch’s hour, as it was. They had curfews now.

He knew he was going to be noticed. And he stunk too. There was no use hiding or slinking about. He didn’t want to give the marshal any ideas. It was already hard enough to lie once. But he knew those boys were up to no good.

Hell, they tried to rip him right before the town gates. It was highway robbery.

He laughed a bit at the stupidity of their bed tax. His voice echoed in the still night.

He stepped into the town square and caught movement off to his right. There was some kind of scuffle. He stepped off the main path and hid under the eaves of a nearby building to watch the show.

A girl was chasing her boy round and round. They looped the ramshackle house twice as she chased him. The kid managed to stay out of arm’s reach as he ducked and dodged every stick and stone she could throw at him.

He could hear him faintly on the soft breeze. “Help me mister.”

Help. Him? Hah. No one helped him when he was chased out of the last town. No one was there when the whore wouldn’t give him his cash back after he took his hat off and she saw his dead eye.

No. He would not help. Not tonight, not any night. This was a business all to themselves. It wasn’t worth getting shot dead over.

“Help yerself, kid.” Jake Dollop crossed his arms and sucked his bottom lip.

But the girl was starting to raise quite a ruckus. She’d make a mess of things. He had to keep a low profile. He couldn’t be here, not for this.

She caught the boy and tackled him clean to the ground.

He walked away when she started beating the boy with the heel of her shoe. It was better not to see anything. He heard the blood gurgling in the boy’s throat as she stabbed him dead with her stiletto heels.

No, this was not the place to be. Not tonight, not any night. The sands were dangerous, but cities were scary. Making yourself a dead man’s a lot easier in civilized lands than out there in the wastes. At least in no man’s land, you know where your trouble was. You knew your enemies.

But when you get yourself around people, that’s where the real trouble starts. Towns were dangerous beasts. Ain’t no doubt about that.

He stepped out of the shadows and into town square, a place no less wretched than the rest of town. Dried blood stains dotted the cracked asphalt, splatters of trouble long forgotten. No matter how recent it may have been. Weeds grew in the cracks of the shattered blacktop. Tiny dunes popped up in random spots, filling the gaps between weed and rock.

The jail was off to the right. Rusted bars filled the windows like cracked teeth and dripping fangs. Winds swirled about, caught in the tunnel between buildings. The wooden signs creaked an ominous sound.

A nail gave out, letters fell, screaming out in the silence. He stepped off into the darkness only to find that the marshal’s office was right in front of him. Crooked letters spelled out Sheriff on the rotting sign above. Its clapboard walls were painted with a dull, almost sickly looking blue. It stood out. Nothing else had color. Nothing, except that.

He stepped closer, a poster danced, its rotting edges swaying, decaying in the cold north wind.

He shivered, color draining from his face. The picture was good. Not great, he’d seen better. But, he had to give the artist credit. He felt better, his secret identity was at least still safe here.

Blood seeped back into his face, his skin turned back from the pallid color of fear to a sun scorched brown. Nothing ever has color out here in the sands. Well, that wasn’t the whole truth. There was always red. There was plenty of that to go around.

The paths between the sheriff and the jail met in the middle.

The road squared around, looping back to the gates and the rest of town.

In the center stood the gallows, it was a crude contraption of rotting plywood and rusting nails. It was there like some sick statue, as if the hanging man were something to celebrate. A thick hemp rope hung from the center, it swayed gently in the breeze. Icicles dripped down off the contraption.

More red to stand out against this land of gold and gray. No need to step closer. He knew what color well water was. No rust nor dirt had that shade, that hue. No, there was only one thing out here in the wastes that was that deep a red. Notches in the wood dripped more of the dark liquid.

The snows had begun to fall. Contrasting everything in their sickly yellow that stood out against the black of midnight. The stench of sulfur hung heavy in the air, drowning out the sweet iron of the gallows.

Stars fell away and vanished into the infinite darkness. Golden orange lights winked out as candles were snuffed to sleep. The faint ring of steel on stone meant the marshal was out. He had to find the saloon and get a room. There’d be trouble otherwise. Even more if they knew who he was or took the time to find out. He reckoned ‘Jimmy Watson’ didn’t need no loitering charge.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and wheeled around, his fingers closing around the wooden grip of his six shooter. He popped the snap and lifted it out. Slowly, not enough to present but just enough to give him the advantage. The cylinder cleared the holster. All that was left was a six inch barrel. And that would come out easy enough. He hunched his shoulders, pretended to be cold. They met at the gallows.

How fitting.

“Easy friend.”

He knew the voice. Mr. Balls of Steel. The guy sounded alone. Maybe that’s why he was so nice.

“You’re out late.”

“That a crime, marshal?”

“Actually, Mr. Watson, it is. Ever hear of something called loitering?”

“Can’t say that I have, marshal.”

“Call me Bill. Bill Graham.” The marshal held out his hand.

He paused, weighing the options. No rope. Just one gun. On Graham’s right side. He can’t draw if he ain’t got the hand to shoot with. Can’t hog tie or shackle a man without nothing in your hand. Easy. Maybe he was honest, had to be. The guy was a lawman. Then again, he had met plenty of crooked lawmen.

But the guy had that smile. That damned smile. Honest. Maybe. He grabbed it, shaking Graham’s hand.

“Pleasure, sir.” Graham said, all matter of fact. “So what brings you out this late? Thought you needed a rest.”

“Fancy getting the lay of the land. See your sights afore all them people get out and muck things up.”

“Ain’t much to see, Mr. Watson. We’re a small town, see. Everyone knows everyone. Nice and quiet like. Ain’t seen a rustler in almost two years. You’re not a rustler, are you Mr. Watson?”

“If I was out to be rustlin’ ya think I’d be here talking to the lawman?”

Graham nodded. “Good point. That is, unless you were fixing to befriend the law.”

“Way I see it, man can’t have too many friends. Especially in unknown lands such as these.”

“Friends is always good, Mr. Watson. But, friends don’t mean much nowadays anyway.”

He nodded.

“See, Mr. Watson, way I see it is words is cheap. Ain’t nothing talk like money does.” Graham dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “But you don’t seem the bribing type. You look like a man of scruples. Do you know that word, Mr. Watson?”

Another nod. “I know that word, Mr. Graham. Seems if yer lookin’ fer a man with no scruples, you best check your friend from the gate.”

“He means well. Really. Wants to help the town and his family. Seth’s just had his first little one. Times is tough, Mr. Watson. I’m sorry he treated you that way.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“A drifter such as yourself? That don’t surprise me much. You say bandits got your loot?”

“Everything I ever owned is in their hands.” He said, more truth than lie. But there’s different bandits out in there in this world. “I ain’t no lawman though. I hear all you civilized people look down on folks like that. Ain’t no good for a man to take the law into his own hands.”

“No. You may be right. But, I reckon we can help with that.”

“That’s mighty fine of you, Mr. Graham.”

“Here.” Graham put something cold and hard into his hand. “Reckon you need it more than I.”

Money. Cold hard steel money. Felt heavy enough for a bunk and a beer. Maybe a hot meal too. This was a treasure. “Thank you, Mr. Graham. You truly are a man among men.” He clapped Graham on the shoulder.

“Reckon you better get yourself on in. Man like you don’t need to catch no loitering charge. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Watson.”

He wondered about that. Would it make a difference? Figure, he already saw Saint Peter. They can’t hold his loitering against him no more. No, not since Jimmy was long gone back to the earth.

Nope, he didn’t need no loitering charge.

Cause dead men don’t loiter.

The inn was nothing special. It stunk of cheap whiskey and tobacco smoke. Dingy wallpaper hung loose, yellowed and falling off cheaper drywall. The place was probably pretty once. A rough rounded border crowned the wall where it met the ceiling. He imagined it once was painted a shiny white. The paint was probably fresh around the same time that green flowered wallpaper was in style. The floor was simple enough and made of uncured, rough hewn wood. The boards were stained with blood and bile for decoration, with an occasional blackened spot from where a lost cigar fell and scorched the ground. Oval tables with green felt liners were surrounded by drunken men that hooted and hollered, calling cards and naming bets.

A man with a handlebar mustache shuffled cards and laughed a throaty laugh while a card player told dirty jokes.

The room was alive with an energy he hadn’t seen in weeks. Young women leaned against walls and bannisters, their tight bodices highlighted every curve. And they all wore white. Funny. White was the color of purity, angels, and virgins. But, the girls were neither virgins nor angels. If this town was like the others, they were the ones to be most wary of.

A lady with certain - womanly ways - holds much power. Some of the whores in the last town were runners for bandits and local gangs. Some even led the crews, taking their own cuts of the larger prizes.

One of the girls sauntered over to him. Her hips bounced rhythmically in a perfect sexual tempo. She bent over, pouting rouge stained lips. “Fancy a drink handsome?” She sat down next to him and crossed her legs just right as she adjusted her ruffled skirts, showed a little bit of milky white calf. The flowered bonnet on her head held red hair about to burst from within. Perfect teeth. Perfect eyes.

“No thanks. Not thirsty yet.” He grunted.

“I didn’t mean for you. Care to indulge a lady?”

“Ain’t got money to spare.”

“Not even for a friend?” She held out a dainty palm for him to kiss. “What’s your name, mister?”

He ignored her hand. Names. Always with the names. “Jimmy. Jimmy Watson.”

Some girls were a different kind of trouble. Especially the government ones. A man can never be too careful. There’s certain secrets a man feels more comfortable sharing with a woman. Secrets like murdering poor innocents, stealing cattle, that sort of thing you don’t want to share but always do. It’s part of the thrill, part of the game. Some guys get off on telling war stories. He didn’t.

“Well, don’t you wanna know mine?”

“No.”

“Well, I never..” She flicked back stray wisps of hair and set about in a mood dark enough to bring the storm clouds on in.

She was good. But not that good. Whores never approach their customers. That was a golden rule and her fatal mistake. The doors slammed shut and he spoke to her no more. A third yell brought the barkeep running.

“What’ll it be, mister?” He huffed out a long sigh, wiping his dirty paws across a greasy apron.

“Whiskey and beef. And I’ll take a room too. Nothing too fancy now. I won’t be here long.” He noticed the girl’s ears twitch ever so slightly.

She scrunched her nose up and pretended to scratch her face. He smiled a private smile. A man could make a killing out here in this town. Everyone he met sucked at poker.

The barkeep came back with a steaming plate and a strong shot. He handed the key over. “Room 343. Upstairs on the right. That’ll be thirty dollars. You want it on credit?”

“No. Steel.” He tossed the heavy coin down on the wood. It spun round and round then fell with a dull thud.

The barkeep picked it up and took a bite of the steel. His grin lit the room up when his teeth didn’t sink in. “Reckon you’re gonna want some change for this? Hold on a sec.”

“It’s all yours my man. Consider it payment for a job well done. I ask just one favor.”

“Anything, anything!”

“Keep yer damn mouth shut. Anyone asks, you didn’t see me. Didn’t hear from me. Don’t know me from Adam. Got it?”

The barkeep nodded vigorously. “Your secret’s safe with me. Don’t worry. Me and Mathilda won’t tell a soul, will we dear?”

“Mathilda?”

“My daughter. The girl you’re sitting next to.”

He felt like an ass.

“Your secret’s safe with us, Mr. Watson.” She smiled sweetly. “I would so love a chat with you later. Say, by the fire. Reckon I’ll come visit in a bit, see how you settle in to your accommodations. Figure you’d be more amicable company once you got yourself a full belly.”

“No need. Thank you kindly. But, I don’t need no favors from y’all. You folk been more than accommodating. Reckon I’ll hit the hay now. Kinda tired from travel.” With that he stood up and pushed his plate away.

He could feel their eyes watching him, burning with their gaze as he walked up the steps to his room.

Morning came and burned away the last night’s snow. Sunrise called his name and brought him slowly into the waking world. He sat up gingerly, feeling the bones creak and pop. Standing would take a bit longer.

You gotta start the morning slow, or old age creeps up on you right quick; and then you find yourself broke and hurt, sleeping in the sands.

A man was only as good as his hands and strong as his foundation. He stretched his legs out, blinking back pain from the burn in his calves. When searing pain turned into a dull ache he stood and limped over to his clothes.

They were folded on a rocking chair. Shirt above pants above vest. Not the way he left them last night all crumpled in a ball on the floor. He picked the shirt up and brushed trail dust instinctually away. There was no dust. There was no odor. The shirt was stiff, almost new.

Maybe it was new? He did overpay, maybe they were gentle folk nice enough to buy him a new shirt with the money he spent. He pulled the pins and broke the fold. Nope. Same shirt. There was a slight red tinge right below the arm. The hole was stitched shut, but the scorch still remained.

He brushed his naked chest and felt the old wound rise up to greet him. The stitches should come out soon. But he didn’t want to be bothered with it. They were enough hassle just to put in. There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to do something that crazy again.

But, that night it was either live or die. A man does weird things when he sees the end of the light. Things he’d never dream of doing sober or sane. It ain’t easy to stitch up your own holes. The bullet was still in there somewhere. He was probably dying slowly anyway, so why not prolong the pain a little bit longer. He pulled the shirt on and finished dressing.

His belt was missing a few rounds. They were getting harder to replace. But the bandolier was still full. He strapped on the belt, readjusting the holsters. He wore them cross draw. More comfortable, easier to get to. Turn your body into the threat and you got a good shot dead on at draw. He wasn’t an expert shot, but he was good enough.

Good enough to stay alive.

Every man’s got his tools. Some farm, others wrangle horses. He killed people. And his tools were getting old and worn down. The six shot on his right hip was starting to rust out. He drew it and popped the cylinder in a single motion. Loaded brass fell to the floor. He used the last of the oil and spent a good time wiping it down and rubbing it clean.

It wasn’t just his gun getting old. Killing people takes a lot out of you. After a while they all blur together into one red hot mess. He was tired. So damn tired. Sleep didn’t kill the demons that crawled in his brain. It wasn’t healthy to be this cold, to be this numb. He remembered a time when he used to be warm. When things used to be good.

Then the bombs fell and the world he knew turned to dust. The squads came and made everyone go away. Everyone but him. That night he ran. Ran as hard and as fast as he could. Running away from the pain. Always running away from his problems.

On his twelfth birthday, everything died.

But you can only run for so long. Your legs give out and you either fall dead right there or crawl into a new day. When he met Betsy, he stopped running. She was his ground and now she was gone. And he was running away again.

He picked up the brass and dropped a round into the cylinder. He spun it shut and held it to his head.

Always running.

He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Well, something happened. Resolution. Reawakening. This was the last time he would run away.

There had to be some way to get her back. There had to be something. If only he had the money. If only he had the means. He reloaded the pistol and holstered up.

Dedication shined a light into his pale gray eyes. Money or honor. It’s usually one or the other. He’d seen his friends take up the business. Watched them corrupt themselves and end up in a pine box. But, he would have both. It could be done. He knew it could be done.

There were stories, of men from before the end days. Men among men whose deeds were still told in campfire nights. They had it all. The money, the power. And honor. They did great things. He heard a story once in a camp. A story of a man who fought in the wars. He was shot down and awoke in a strange land, only to battle back to his family.

And save the world below in the process. They were just stories, but they had meaning. They had purpose. Heroes need purpose. From here out, he would be a hero.

He stepped out of the room and found himself some company.

Bad company.

The kind you don’t ask for.

“Mornin’ Mr. Watson.” Graham tipped his hat with the weak hand. His strong hand was too busy holding the grip of his pistol to shake. “Beg pardon if I don’t shake yer hand. Seems we got some talkin’ to do.”

He sighed. “Reckon you got me in some kinda trouble, marshal?”

“Depends on if you can make mine go away.”

There was no escape. Graham got him good. They were right in front of the stairs. He had nowhere to go. All the doors were locked and the wall wasn’t going anywhere. “What kinda trouble we lookin’ at?”

“Maybe same trouble got your money. We got bandits in them hills. Maybe same boys got you the other day, maybe friends of yours. Either way, we need help. Seein’ how you owe us a tax still, I reckon you’d be willin’ to work a charge off. Tax evasion’s a felony in this county. You don’t want to know what the penalty for that is.”

“Think I saw your penalties last night.”

Graham pouted. “So I take it you’ll behave?”

“Ever faithful, sir.” He sneered. “Praise be his. Long live the king.”

Graham ignored the sarcasm. “North of here, out in the valley. There’s about six goons we need rustled up. They’re bad, bad men. We got a couple counts of murder on each of their heads.”

“Killing’s easy, marshal.”

“They ain’t that kinda killer, Mr. Watson. They. Eat. People.”

This changed things a bit. Hunting down cattle rustlers and murders is easy work. Fun and messy, but easy none the less. They usually get drunk on their cheap thrills. They like the shock and awe sorta games.

When tables get turned, they get scared. Ain’t nothing but bunch of yeller fools then. And that’s when the real fun begins. But there are two kinds of people in this world needed to die more than any other. Them that messed with kids, and them that ate people for dinner.

“That’s different. In that case, killing’s free. You want their heads?”

“Just one.”

He set out after lunch. The valley wasn’t that far away. It took him less than three hours in the suffocating heat before the head of the valley poked out from above the horizon. Brown and red stone rising higher than the tallest buildings in the east glared down at him. The narrow road curved down around a hill and disappeared into the mouth of sleeping giants. Save for needle brush sticking out in odd patches, the valley was bare. The day had been cloudy, half hazy. The path ahead shimmered and danced in waves of heat.

He stirred the horse forward. Better to get this over with. Make the killing quick and messy. Or, he could run. The road curved down around the hill out into parts unknown. It would be so easy to get away. But, what’s the point in running?

There’s nowhere left to run, no one to run to. Except for her. If she even cared anymore. But, what would he say? I’m sorry doesn’t seem fitting.

Failure was not an option, could not be an option. All the cards were on the table. He liked Jimmy Watson. Didn’t want a bounty on his poor head. Jimmy may have some use somewhere else.

It was just one of his names. One of his many names. The names of the dead have power. He had taken many names. But Betsy knew his one true name. She was the last to taste it on her lips. He could turn around, go back and challenge the Sheriff for his honor.

Honor. A useless thing, a toy to play with. And they always played with it. Just one little pull and he’d dance like a puppet on their string. He’d be better off without it. Not much honor in killing.

But these folk ain’t worth not killing. Maybe some honor in that. No use showing them mercy. He didn’t like the lawman. There was something odd about him. Some folk just ain’t right. Maybe he could get his honor. And then their loot. Lawmen make good money. No need to rob poor senseless bastards. Bed tax.

What a joke. Weren’t no bed tax, it’s just a fancy name for highway robbery. All legal and such way of robbing poor old bastards like himself. But he always did their jobs. Jobs was better than money.

It was something to do. And this was something worth doing. He couldn’t stand still for very long. Settling down never seemed an option. But, they usually paid him well. He felt good in his heart and got to keep his honor. And sometimes they even threw some bucks his way. He’d been saving them. There was close to fifty dollars, American paper, sitting in his saddlebag right now.

But, no one needed to know that. Last guy that asked died on his knife. People get real weird about their money. He didn’t feel bad taking it from the dead. He figured they were just going to take his anyway. So why not strike first. Take theirs. Dead don’t need no money. Except the pennies he left the ferrymen.

Always gotta pay the ferryman, lest you end up in a place worse than this. And there were places worse than this. Plenty of them.

At three he struck. He left the horse tied to a dead tree and snuck into the valley on foot. It’s easier to hide in plain sight. No use sneaking around and wasting energy best saved for killing. So, he walked into the valley without a second thought, without a care of consequence.

There were three waiting for him. They sat huddled around a campfire, backs to the mouth of the valley. There were supposed to be six. But, three were better than none. His stomach growled as the wind caught the embers. The sweet, fatty smell of meat slow roasting on a spit caught him by surprise, turning his empty stomach into twisting bile. He was hungry, always hungry. But not that hungry.

There was something different in the odor. It made him sick.

The closer he got to them, the stronger the smell became and the more flips his stomach did. Two were chewing on bones, the third was still sucking down blackened meat.

He licked his fingers, savoring the taste. The corpse was still roasting on the slowly dying fire. He couldn’t make the head from the feet, it was nothing more than a smoldering chunk of meat. The embers glowed softly, their orange light contrasted with the browns of the valley.

He shot the man with the meat first. One bullet to the back of the head was all it took. Blood spattered his face, staining his newly washed shirt. Before the second could react, he kicked him in the back and sent him head over feet into the fire pit. He burned and became one with their dinner.

The third man had time to react. But, the bandit wasn’t fighting with his brain. It was raw emotion that took over his every move and blinded him with rage.

With a cry, the man hurled himself forward; jumping the fire and dropping them both to the ground. They tumbled, twisting, kicking up the fire and sending embers flaring everywhere. Limbs flailed.

The world erupted in stars. There was a nasty ringing in his ears that he just couldn’t shake. He had a knife somewhere in his boot. If he could just get his leg up…

The bandit beat him back down. Every time he kicked up, he got beat back down. One shot. Two. The world was getting dark. He smacked the bandit weakly on the skull, nothing phased him.

He gave up trying to hurt the man, there was no good in hitting a man who could feel no pain. Instead, he thought outside the box. They were in a valley. In the desert. Sand. Perfect. He grabbed a handful and tossed it, catching the bandit in the eye.

He fell, rolling backwards and groping at his face. It was a small distraction, but it was enough.

There was just one rule of a fight: Don’t get dead.

It didn’t matter how you accomplish your goal, it doesn’t matter what you do as long as you don’t get dead. He pulled the knife from his boot. The bandit didn’t see it coming.

Quick and messy, just the way he liked it. The screams were disappointing. He expected more, but still, this was good enough.

The knife passed through soft tissue and hit bone and cartilage. The spine was always the hardest. He had to crack it, just like a lobster shell. Bone popped and separated. Then the cutting got easier.

Gore covered his clothes and splattered his face. He tossed the severed head on the ground and let the sand dry the blood. He bent to wipe his blade and sheathed it clean. He kicked the head all the way back to the horse. No sense in touching that dirty thing any more than he had to.

He rode hard and fast back to town, passing through the gates just after sunset. He made a stop at the Sheriff’s station to drop the package off. He left it on their doorstep and went to go drink away the day.

The saloon was empty except for a few haggard souls hunched up at the bar. There was a dirty old man babbling in the center of the bar. He sat on a rickety old stool that creaked with his weight. The strange man’s voice caught by surprise as he moved to sit next to him. There was fear in that voice. Honest to God fear.

The man was dirty, like he’d been running a while. Trail dust caked stained dungarees. There was dried blood in his white hair. Mud stained his shirt across his back and chest. Or, it looked like mud. The man was crying a pitiful wail into his drink. The old man brushed back his mane with a dirty hand. It came out still slick with blood.

“What’s wrong stranger?”

Mumbles.

The barkeep fixed a whiskey. “Evening, Mr. Watson. Didn’t think we’d be seeing you again ‘round these parts.”

“Things change. What’s his problem?” He pointed to the old man.

“He’s been here all night. Don’t want to speak to no one. Says he’s waiting for a stranger.”

“A stranger?”

“Some guy named Jake. Said he won’t talk to no one save him. But he don’t go looking. Hasn’t moved from that stool since noon.”

The name, his name.

Oh crap, who was this guy? He couldn’t be the law.

This guy was way too old for being a lawman. Seemed dead eye crazy too, the king ain’t that desperate yet for new sheriffs.

Guardian Corps were still keeping the peace out east. And they were a lot more intimidating than this old coot. But he was hurting, that much he could see. Both inside and out.

Something happened to him out there in the sands. He don’t want to talk to nobody, but he got his ass whooped clear from here to Thelma for whatever he got to say. Them secrets don’t die easy.

“You alright, Mr. Watson?” The barkeep handed him a water.

“Yeah.”

“I ain’t never seen a man turn that white. Something wrong with my whiskey?”

“No. It’s great. Thanks. I’m just - thinking.”

“Heard bout what you did today out in the valley. Reckon that kind of stuff don’t sit right with nobody. You’re a brave man, Mr. Watson.” He handed him another whiskey. “Room’s yours for the night. Drinks are on me. My son died last time they hit this town. You did us proud.”

He nodded. “Things needed doing out here. I did them. Somebody had to. I don’t regret it and I don’t weep for no man that deserved a killing. But, your son - I’m sorry to hear that. Them was bad people. But they shouldn’t be troubling your kind no more.”

The old man stirred. “I’ve heard that before. Good man I used to know out in wartimes used to say the same thing. I reckon you would have liked him, Mr. Watson. HIs name was Jake Dollop. He was a good man.”

There was a subtle shift in the old man’s voice. As the man spoke, he twitched his knee. Barely noticeable, almost accidental like. And when the old coot’s leg brushed against his in a quick kick, he knew that it was over.

He shuddered. The weight of the world came crashing down. He felt tired, the room started to spin. He would have lost it, but there was just the hint of a smile in the old man’s eyes. Something that told him it would be alright. And then he knew where the old guy came from.

“You talk about him in the past tense like somethin’ happened.” The bartender finished drying a glass and put it on the rack.

Crap. He hoped the man wouldn’t say. Things like that didn’t need to be said. But this old bastard wasn’t who he thought, or who he remembered. This was a broken man.

“He married my daughter. They had themselves a place up around Vendetta. It weren’t much, but it was just enough. Problem was the damn land wouldn’t yield. “

“Lot of men got that problem round these parts. Damn Russians saw to that.”

“That weren’t all they saw to. You know why they tried to kill this land?”

Jake sighed. His secret was safe for now.

“Treasure.”

The bartender laughed. “Ain’t no treasure in these hills.”

The old coot continued as if he’d never been interrupted. “Not just the gold and jewels kind of treasure. No, this was something more. Something the Russians didn’t want us to have. If we did, we’d be in a whole different world than this hell we’re living in. The Russians dropped the bombs on us because of what’s up in Diablo Hill. Reckon the man that holds the treasure can make or break his own way.”

The bartender poured them each another shot. “That what happened to you?” He wiped grimy hands against his gin splashed apron. “You go out looking for treasure and end up finding trouble instead?”

“Trouble always seems to find its way to me.” He looked at Jake. “Reckon you got yourself into some trouble too out there in the wastes?”

“You ain’t the only one trouble likes to find.”

And then trouble reared its ugly head. Graham. He burst through the door fierce enough to scare the spots off a cheetah.

He was screaming something, but Jake couldn’t hear it.

There was too much commotion, too much screaming; tables and barstools shattered as the few stragglers left inside ducked for cover. He could see it out of the corner of his eye. A shotgun.

And it was pointed downrange towards him. They knew. They had to know. Why else would you kick in a door all ready for war?

But, there was only one person who knew. And that person was sitting right there next to him. Betsy’s dad. But how did he even know Jake was there? It didn’t make sense. None of it made any damn sense.

Ghosts from his past suddenly show up the day he dies. How convenient. And today, what happened in his room - this was a hell of a way to go. It figured though, the day he decides not to die is the day it all ends. God’s funny like that.

Hell of a way to go.

But the buckshot wasn’t for him. He heard the deafening crack of the shotgun blast. And then all went silent and black. Time stopped, slowing to an infinite crawl. Moments dragged on into eternity.

Bright red spray.

Mush on his face.

The thud of a body and the shattering of glass blended together into a cacophony of violence as the headless body fell to the ground, the wood drank blood that still poured from the dead man’s beating heart.

Then everything stopped and faded to a trickle, the last of the man dripped out into a shallow puddle.

When the world stopped spinning and his ears stopped ringing, Jake Dollop began his chase.

When he left the body was still twitching on the floor as the sun slid down into twilight. Shadows lengthened, the desert rock stretched onward, its colors filtered through a purple lens that turned wasteland into paradise.

Midnight blue mixed with gold that fell from the sky and made the dim mesas erupt into a blast of color. White flowers caught the fading light and turned it into angel fire as he rode north. The path below was easy, it was just cracked asphalt caked with mud with no stones to catch a horse’s shoe, it led up a narrow mountain and then disappeared over the horizon.

Graham was a diminishing shape silhouetted against the darkening skies. The night blooms woke up for their evening love affair with the dry desert air. Stars came to life and twinkled in the night sky. Above, the moon’s pale eye dripped red with blood. Gray clouds passed over and through, breaking the eerie light that hung just off the horizon.

Deadwood branches of a fallen acacia hung over a nearby rise, skeletal limbs bleached in the desert sun, with just the slightest tinge of dried blood. He crested the ridge and stared down into infinity. Smoke trees dotted the lower end of the basin. Their stemless leaves shot up from below the ground and pierced the narrow path. Tiny blooms of hairy gray flowers hung low on the path.

He picked up speed as the path descended into darkness. The road bottomed out and he pushed the horse into a full gallop, holding the pace for several miles before the old mare got winded. He slowed back to a medium trot and let the horse get its bearing. Graham was still off in the distance, but close enough to see the outline of the fading form. He followed the man’s hat for a few more miles, grabbing speed where he could.

The road passed through silent ghost towns and rusted out old cars. Bullet holes tore through a nearby outbuilding, now a target for drunken cowboys. Potshots were taken at the rusted out Chevrolet that still sat, ever faithful, in the driveway of the charnel house. Its windows were shattered, the glass spiderwebbed and the thin clapboard on the house had all but rotted away. Pockmarks marred the siding where mold and dry rot ate through, showing the skeletal foundation underneath and the white fungus that now lived inside.

He left the dead man’s ranch behind and pushed away the thought of his own desolate homestead. Cracked asphalt gave way to broken earth as he found himself out in the wastes once again. There wasn’t a soul to see anywhere. Graham’s form had shrunk back to a tiny dot over the horizon, and if he didn’t pick the pace up, he would be gone forever.

Some men don’t deserve to live. Graham was one of those. To kill an innocent man in cold blood like that wasn’t human. At least the people Jake killed had a reason to die. No matter how petty those reasons were at the time.

Regret. Sure, everyone’s got it. But you can’t live in the past like that or you end up back alone in your room, gun to your head and praying for mercy. His mercy had come. Now it was time to live. To make the best of the days ahead.

And all that would start with Graham. For Betsy and her pa, for Bobbie and the life he never would know. Treasure would be nice too. Somewhere in those hills.

Those hills, rising off on the horizon. Diablo Hill stood heads above the rest of the range. It was so far away, but close enough to touch. The towering peaks were still snowcapped, a sharp contrast to the dirty brown all around. It glowed like a promise born on angel wings. The red of the moon burned bright against the horizon, but the purity of the snow resisted the corruption. Holding on like a dueling man’s last stand. It was hope.

It was the hope for tomorrow, for better days of fortune and fame. There was treasure in those hills. A treasure that would be his. With the money he could buy a new home, free of government loans.

With the fame he could build himself a brand new start. And whatever power that was up there, he could use it for the good of the world. To make evil men like Graham cower on their knees. To fix this fucked up devil’s playground of a world gone mad. How heroic.

How pathetic. And vain. To think that one man could change the world. But, wasn’t it true? One man could change the world. It was one man who came with the sign post. It was one man who killed Betsy’s father. And it was Jake alone that killed three men up in Blue Man Ridge.

Their worlds were different now. Well, the dead men were dead. It made no difference to them.

But did they have families? Children? Cows? Things that all men have, things that men used to take for granted. Life, liberty, property. They were freedoms taken for light back before the dying days.

But then the bombs fell. And what was free weren’t free no more. Betsy’s dad said there was power in them hills. Power the Russians wanted. What could be more powerful than the atomic weapons they had? It had to be something big.

Big enough to drop the bombs and start the war. Big enough for men to die for. But, he reckoned they didn’t have it. If they did, the bombs wouldn’t have fell and all them people wouldn’t have died.

What if the power was the bombs? And they just found it first and used it to go and off the rest of the world. Then there weren’t no use climbing all that way for nothing. But, that was the way Graham was heading. And come hell and high wind, that was the way he was going too.

Hell was already here. High wind is the devil itself out in these lands. All it takes is one good gust to get the dust devils stirring. And then you’re in a world of hurt. Shelter out here in the wastes wasn’t an option or a luxury.

But, there was some. Few and far between. What if Graham came back? What if he started shooting? Jake was a dead man then. He checked for cover and stopped his mind from thinking too far ahead. He had to live in the here and now. All that glory thought was for later.

An hour travel brought him into the center of an old adobe village encircling a run down fort. The heat had eaten away at the battlements, turning them into no more than blocks of clay deteriorating in the sun. The walls were faded and fallen, leaving tiny clay rock piles in their place. The stench of mold was overwhelming, and the scrub grass that used to stuff the walls was returning to the earth which gave it life.

His pursuit was long gone over the ridge. But the hour was getting late. And the moon would vanish soon, bringing back the heat and all its horror. He figured the man couldn’t run all night. Even the sheriff needed sleep. He scanned the horizon and caught the faintest wisps of black smoke against the midnight sky.

The moon was swallowed by angry clouds that pushed away the stars and all the light within. If not for the gray-black cloud dancing against the midnight sky, he would have travelled all night. But where there’s smoke there’s fire. And where there’s fire there’s camp, which means people. And there couldn’t be any more people out here. No more than Jake and Graham. It was unlikely, improbable.

So Jake settled down for an uneasy night’s rest. He pulled a soft apple from his pack and walked the horse into a field of scrub. He left his friend to its feast and curled up in a hollow against the ruined buildings, chewing lazily on the apple as he tasted the soft tissue of ripe fruit that pained him to swallow. His throat still hurt from the bandit in Blue Man Ridge. His back ached and he was tired. So damn tired. But, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep. Not yet.

He tossed the apple core into the grass and stood, drawing his pistols. He paced a clear path around the village. The town was full of broken dreams and broken men.

A skeleton danced the gallows’ hill in the center of town. The rope had frayed long ago. The poor bastard’s clothes were picked bare by vultures.

He picked through artifacts of a time long forgotten. Shattered cups and rusted weapons for nothing of use. He kicked through a door of the nearest house. It was large and hollow. The roof was open to the night air, where the grass rotted away and left brown hay on the cracked tile floor. Moth eaten furniture filled the inside with the rank odor of ancient land.

Upstairs was a rusted safe. He smacked the handle with the butt of his gun. It fell away with a tinny clatter. Jackpot.

Inside were faded photographs and worn currency. All American. A few old time pieces were there too. But they were ancient beyond his years. There was no windup dial or anything.

He thrust them in his pocket and pulled the gold chain out next. The chain held its metal fairly well. There was just a dull shine to it, nothing that couldn’t be polished. But, it wasn’t the chain that caught his eye. It was the pendant attached.

An angel, holding a sword of flame. The image was cast against the shell of an eagle-topped shield. It was amazing. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It seemed to glow a pale light, radiating against the blackest night. He couldn’t dare hide something so amazing. He thrust the rest of the spoils into his pockets.

And then he put the pendant on. It was an amazing feeling, something he’d never known before.

Calm.

It washed over him in a radiating warmth that poured from his head to his toes. He smiled for the first time in months. The rest of the treasure was pointless, inconsequential and almost petty compared to this.

The clouds parted and the deep red moon overpowered the pale glow of hope. It was a dark feeling of dread that washed over him then. Something terrible, like the winds of change from the foul storms ahead. He tried to wrap himself in the warmth of the angel’s grace, to feel the heat from the flaming sword.

But all he knew was cold. Terrible cold that soaked through to his deepest bones. He walked back to camp, a ghost of the man he was a few minutes ago. The shattered portal he passed through held no solace in the storm.

The wind picked up and he could feel the dust devils coming. The glass had shattered and the sands of time rose up through the haze. Winds beat their frightening wings against the fallen adobe walls.

There wouldn’t be much time. He unhitched his horse and led him towards the ruined fort. Thought rotted and rusted, the door still opened. It wouldn’t be much, but it was something. A flimsy form of protection against the inhuman creatures that roamed the midnight wastes.

The front gates opened into a large courtyard with paths leading to the four corners. Every corner and every door had fallen to fate. There was nothing there that could save him. The storm howled in the distance. He forced his way through the winds, towards the center court. Two wooden doors stood sentinels against the terrors outside. He pushed the door open, dragging his poor friend by the reins.

The inside of the building was still secure. The roof was intact and the gates could lock. He slammed the giant wooden bar across the double doors and collapsed, exhausted, against the far wall.

With a sigh, he reached into his patchwork pockets, pulling the crumpled prizes out from the darkness within. The money was useless, it had the mark of the fallen government; sure, there were people that would deal only in it, but as a whole - the paper wasn’t even good enough to wipe his ass with.

He tossed the money aside with a frown, in stranger days and olden times it would be worth much more. The whole of it was probably a small fortune back before the dying days, some poor guy’s life savings from back when you’d bleed to chase the paper, something he remembered his father dying for, not in a street duel or a robbery; no, his was a much slower, much more painful death. When the markets fell and the creditors came knocking, the poison had become too much to bear.

Jake tossed the paper aside in disdain.

It was getting colder. He shivered, picking the creased photographs up from the dirty ground. The inks would burn hot, just for a flash though, but it would be enough to stoke the flames into a warm night’s sleep. Fire was his friend, the slow burn kept the demons away, locked inside the rusted cage of his soul.

He couldn’t do it, his heart kept him from striking flame to faded memories. The man wasn’t him, the woman didn’t look a thing like Betsy, and his Bobbie wasn’t a little girl.

But, this was someone’s family in the portrait of still life left forgotten in time. The box was there to keep the images alive, even after the family had long since gone on. Maybe they’d be found by the kids years later. He pictured Bobbie finding the old safe in the dirt, long after Jake was dead and gone. Tears welled into his eyes.

He let the pictures fall to the ground like feathered down dropped from the wings of a drifting dove. He stared at the ceiling and its strange decorations until he could cry no more, his eyes fell heavy with sleep, brimming with a burning red.

He dreamed a fitful sleep to the howl of the nightmare outside.

Dreams filled with fire and brimstone, dripping with the blood of the fallen.

He tossed and turned, sweating out the terror of the night. And when he had just won the skirmish and regained his peace for a good night sleep, that’s when the dust devils came knocking.

There wasn’t much knocking to be done. Just one touch, the faintest tap, and the door disintegrated into dust, which only fed the howling devils. Jake woke up suddenly alone and terrified. There were only three, but three of them was like a pack of rabid wolves. Hungry, rabid wolves. The room shrank with their size.

Each stood taller than a man and whirling with a fiendish, howling rage. They were a twisting mass of sand and dust, whistling together into tiny tornadoes of pain. Their arms were small, but viciously raked with spikes and claws sharper than steel and carved from the blackest obsidian.

Their red eyes glared down at him.

This was bad. Dust devils weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to be real. But real as daylight, there they were.

Hungry and pissed.

He didn’t know what they ate or where they came from, but he had his guesses. And knew enough to know this would be trouble.

It only took one to bring down the caravan up in Rattlesnake Valley. He talked to their lone survivor. Or what was left of him.

At the time he listened with morbid curiosity and a hint of pity. The horrible visions danced behind his eyes. Visions of dripping fangs and the creatures swallowing the caravan whole. At the time, he thought the man was half mad with the heat. But, no.

They were real.

He rolled back on his head, scrambling to get up. His guns were hanging from the broken wall behind him. If he could crack out a round before they swarmed, maybe one would fall.

Maybe.

He grabbed the guns from their holsters and cracked off a round from each of his pistols. The room lit briefly from the flash and the thunder boomed in the still hallways. No time to aim, no point in aiming. The things were massive, it was like shooting the broadside of a barn.

The rounds hit dead center. The creature reared back, missing a beat, rocking on its foundation. It stutter stepped and paused for a second as if measuring this new threat. He hit the thing center mass, there were two gaping holes where its heart should be.

It didn’t bleed. There were no red spurts of arterial death. He didn’t even have the satisfaction of watching sand pour out like a tiny avalanche. There was nothing but two smoking holes.

Two smoking holes that did no more than piss the creature off.

How you supposed to kill something that ain’t real? Real men bleed.

This thing just smirked a vicious fanged smile.

And struck, whirling forward with the weight of a freight train. He fell backwards, tumbling down cracked stairs that scratched and scraped at his bare chest. But it was better than those wicked claws. They came next, swiping at air, just a hairsbreadth from his face.

Too close for comfort. Way too close. He lost his pistol somewhere in the fall. There was still his Bowie down in his boots.

But now there was nowhere to run. He bent down, feeling for his Bowie, pausing midstrike; there was no use in cutting the thing. And after it shrugged off his rounds like gnats.

He didn’t carry varmint cutters. No. These were good bullets that aren’t supposed to just hit something and disappear. They don’t leave tiny smoking holes.

No, they’re designed to leave giant fucking craters. If the trauma alone didn’t kill, the lead would do the trick. Usually they go in real clean, through and through.

Everything bleeds out.

Everything but this. This was like cutting water with a knife. Like roping the wind. Try as hard as you want, it just ain’t happening. He drew the Bowie and sliced two quick jabs, just to see what happens. A layer peeled off the devil’s tail. He struck again, kicking, punching stabbing.

Sand spilled out and got sucked right back into the raging twister. It wasn’t as tall now, but it was still a deadly, ugly beast. And it was just getting angrier.

He jumped up and lunged slicing through the thick sand. With a roar he drove it in, twisting it through the smoking holes in the thing’s chest. He pushed forward and slid the blade as deep as it would go. It was like cutting water. Sand poured out onto the floor, dust spilled out of the leaking wounds. But, the thing pressed on.

It struck out with the wicked claws. Jake parried the best he could, throwing up his arm at the last second. The spikes missed his face and gouged his forearm, cutting clean to the bone. He’d been hurt before. Shot, stabbed, even had his ass kicked a time or three. But nothing could compare to the pain at that moment.

In a single instant, flames hotter than the sun shot through his body, it traveled the length of his arm and down into his shoulder. Then up into his neck. Burning pain. White hot. The world got dim, the light went out in his eyes and he could feel himself falling into the black.

Instinct forced movement. He still held the blade. He’d been in fights before. Almost died before. He could do this, or damn it he’d take another one with him. Misery loves company and if he was going to hell, he was taking this thing with him. He tore the bowie up, through the thing’s neck. He pushed higher and higher until it caught in something solid. And then he cut right, cold stone bounced off his hand.

He kept pushing until he broke free to the other side. There were two soft thumps as tiny stones fell to the ground. The devil faded to dust. The red glow of the stones faded to a dull black and then went dim forever.

The beast didn’t move again.

So, these things can be killed. Just like that. It was easy, so easy he almost felt disappointed. These were creatures of myth and legend, things that no one has seen and survived. To be felled by something as simple as a dropped stone was almost sacrilegious. But, there was no time to think about that.

Too much time had already passed. He was surrounded. Flanked on the left and right by the last two. The steps faded away a few feet behind him and fell off into a black pit. A pit he didn’t want to see any closer. That was luck. But they were closing the distance.

And closing it fast.

Ahead was another wall, but he couldn’t run between those things. They’d swirl and he’d be swallowed up before he could get two steps in front. His pistols were there, somewhere. Unless he lost them to the black. There was his knife. But, the wound on his arm had already started to fester and leak a thick poisonous puss. That left his hands. And he didn’t want another cut. There had to be something.

There. On the floor. Two stones. The brains of the dead beast. He scooped them and chucked them as hard as he could. The rocks went flying, cutting through the air. He hit the one on the left first, knocking its right eye out of place. He caught it in just the right place, another inch and he would have sailed clean over. The eye fell to the ground with a thunk.

The one on the right was better aimed. Better shot. Dead center in the middle of its eyes. Two stones fell, but one remained. The one he threw. The thing didn’t fall.

Neither did the other.

The one on the right stumbled a bit, looked like it may have gone lame. The left devil just got angrier. He ran forward pushing past both of them and found his pistols by the bedroll.

The winds stirred. There was a foul shriek and the dust danced, spinning upwards into a tiny tornado. He thumbed the hammer back, took a deep breath and sighed down the barrel. He let lead fly.

The devil on the right was still dancing in circles when the bullet struck, striking it clean in the eye. The stone shattered and fell to the ground in dozens of pieces. The pile of sand grew bigger.

The last devil shrieked and spun. Its two good eyes were flaring up, like staring straight into a raging inferno. The room got smaller and the beast got bigger. It swallowed its friends whole and grew larger than life.

The top of its head brushed against the ceiling and whirled round and round. It got faster and the faster it got, the larger it looked. The roof came ripping off and fell to the ground in crumbled rock and sand.

Which the devil swallowed in one giant spin. The thing was massive. The light in its eyes grew deeper, angrier. And smaller. Arms like massive trees rained down powerful blows against the floor. The stone shattered and was absorbed by the twisting vortex.

He emptied his gun on pot shots that had little effect. Gaping wounds opened up in the thing’s body, raining sand down in a tempest of whirling dust and debris. He was backed up against a wall and going nowhere fast. It was only a matter of time, seconds even, before the hourglass cracked and he died in the sands.

Thick hands with claws large as a man scooped down and struck again and again. He jumped onto a massive limb as it came down. He ran up to the thing’s shoulder.

It caught on quick and tried to shake him like an annoying bug.

Jake held on and rode the bucking bronco all the way up. It swatted again at the man who was no bigger than a gnat. Jake dodged out of the way of the lumbering strikes. The thing realized its attacks were in vain. Jake stood on its wrist. The monster lifted its massive hand and opened its dripping jaws.

The fangs were massive. The eyes were larger. When he was close enough to smell the rancid breath of death he cocked the other pistol.

And fired. Three shots into each eye. The thing screamed an inhuman death gurgle as the stones shattered, shooting shards in every direction.

The twisting, twirling vortex slowed to a crawl and stopped altogether. With a great tearing sound the levy broke and he rode the sands of his victory back down to the wastes below.

The next morning brought no solace for his pain. Everything hurt. His arm was festering with infection, it leaked out an ugly blue-yellow pus thicker than curd. He couldn’t move it too much, and he didn’t want to risk any permanent damage.

He walked the cracked asphalt with his horse, ever faithful, canting slowly behind him. There was no need for reins or a lead. He knew where to go. They had been together a long time, and the trust was equal. Nothing had felt better than finding his friend standing off in the pasture. Unhitched, he waited for his master.

Travel fared better than the previous day’s journey. Here, the roads weren’t as damaged. His ears popped the lower he traveled. And he found himself below sea level, in a wide wash that ran over the concrete basin below.

The arroyo stretched beyond the horizon, where a trio of boulders stood guarding the pass.

The sun was high up in the sky, broiling the already caked earth and faded shrubberies. The cacti had swollen with the snows of the days past, their black needles shimmered in the dry heat.

One had started to bloom and he rested a moment under the shade of an old acacia. The smell of the night bloom passed over in a sweet succulence as he passed a lone cactus, taller than he’d ever seen. Tucked against the corner of the saguaro was a small red fruit. It had fallen recently and was a little dirty. He rubbed it against his shirt and bit into it, the hot juices ran down his mouth and stained his shirt.

He wrapped the fruit skin around his cut and let the last of the juices drain into the wound. The sting lessened, but the pain remained.

The road curved around a small hill and into a small homestead. Two small children blitzed past him to the east chasing down stray cattle. The house was sturdy and the pen was new. This didn’t look like old land. An older woman was tending to the water pump, a large wooden bucket was filled to the brim. The pump raised and lowered on a lift that desperately needed oil. It squealed with each pull, cutting through the silence.

The woman looked up as he passed. He tipped his hat and smiled his gap tooth smile as he walked on. He made it to the heart of the farm without hearing the ratchet of a shotgun cocking. A good thing. A very good thing. He thought about stopping to ask after Graham, but decided he didn’t want to scare the kind folk. The man tipped his hat as Jake passed by. He returned the wave with a grin and a blessing. He passed through the property and back into the dead lands beyond.

He caught the white flash of a rabbit out of the corner of his eye as the Scree swooped down from a fallen log to snatch the poor creature in its talons.

Darwin would shit himself if he knew what evolution theory had created. It proved itself each day out in the wastes as new things adapted to survive this harsh new land. The Scree was a terrible thing, but this one was still a baby. Its wings weren’t their full twenty feet yet, the teeth hadn’t fully developed. The claws were still deadly, but nowhere as bad as mama Scree. It was a large beast, to see it prey on such a small rabbit didn’t sit well with him. They were the bullies of the waste. Some had even been known to attack travelers. Thankfully, this one didn’t.

Woodsmoke caught the air off to the east, tiny wisps played against the brilliant blue of a paradoxical sky. To look at the heavens was to see pure beauty. To gaze at the ground was to know the hell below. He could taste the grit in the air as the wind picked up and gusted from a nearby valley. He checked the sky and the silhouette of Diablo Hill, always there to the north. The smoke came from somewhere farther west. Just over a low rise. It could be Graham.

He changed heading and crossed into the camp just as the sun dipped into the late afternoon sky. Graham was nowhere to be found. The campfire was deserted. Steel pots still hung from the crossbar, the smell of something gamey drifted out of the pot and made his stomach twitch. He thought back to the cannibals by Remington and looked for cover.

Nothing. Just scrub and smoke tree. He heard the crunch of boots against dead grass behind him. His hands went for the pistols. He hadn’t reloaded the chamber. Jake dropped into a low crouch, he hoped for an even score.

His horse didn’t whinny, there were no cries of terror or warning. He was usually good for that. Animals have a strange sacred sense of danger. They know what’s coming before you can even think of it. There was no alert. No fear.

Jake eased his guard slightly.

A coyote stalked out of the wastes, its gray pelt rose and fell with the timing of paws slapping earth. But its movements were strange, not animalistic. They were almost human. The beast came closer, close enough to touch.

Jake crouched in his guard and didn’t blink. No need to startle it, whatever it was. If it was a beast, then he’d be dinner. If it was human, then it was cracked, crazier than him.

It was man. It skulked closer and closer until its nose was right up against Jake’s hand. He grit his teeth and hoped the bastard wouldn’t bite. He wound up his other hand, ready to lash out if the thing made any sudden moves. Seconds stretched on into moments that lasted forever. They stood facing each other, measuring strength and gauging weakness. The weird man-wolf stared hard into the cold grey eyes of Jake.

And then it sniffed him.

There was a roar of laughter as the man-wolf rolled onto its back and howled low and mournful.

“Cowboy smell funny. Need hot bath.”

“Says the guy in the stinking animal hide,” Jake bit back, “reveal yourself.”

“I am Oolan Tilan, chief of Thunderwulf Tribe. You see me as I am.”

Indian or Elf? Jake did not know.

“You suffer greatly, gunner. Speak your name and feel peace that I give.”

Names. It was always about names. Screw it. This far from civilization, it didn’t matter if another crazy out in the wastes knew him as he was. “Jake. Jake Dollop from the Flats.”

Tilan nodded. “I know this name. Big price on your head. I kill you, my people eat well.”

There was no way he’d get his gun in time. He gulped and took a deep breath. His hand moved ever so slightly towards his boot.

“You have no need for that.” Tilan said, pointing a gray furred paw towards the knife in his boot. “If I want, you be dead by now.”

Jake sighed.

“You hurt. Fight demon last night. My people saw this. Very proud. You hero to us, Jake Dollop from the Flats. And for this I help you. Give me your hand.”

Elves were the bastard step children of the faerie. Jake hated Elves. So did the rest of the survivors. Most of this mess out in the wastes was their fault. But he hadn’t known them to shape shift.

Then again, last night he hadn’t known dust devils to be real. Anything was possible now. Tilan didn’t smell like an elf. Didn’t talk like one either, but they were sneaky bastards. Still, this wound wasn’t getting any better. He figured maybe a week before he’d have to cut it off.

And he liked that arm.

Warily, Jake allowed Tilan to inspect his hand.

“Oh yes. Very bad, Jake Dollop. You cursed. Only demon can fix.”

Another demon? Great. Three were bad enough. He couldn’t fight another one. Not without bigger guns, maybe a pocket nuke or two.

“You have stones? Yes. You have stone. I can feel it. Give me stone, Jake Dollop.” The man-wolf nuzzled against his bag and wagged its tail vigorously. “Give me stone, Jake Dollop.”

He shrugged. What good was a stone from a dead demon anyway? He couldn’t remember why he took it in the first place. Jake reached into his bag and felt around, pushing away crumpled American paper and broken clay.

He found the stones and pulled them out. They were warm in his hand. Energy thrummed gently, barely noticeable, it pulsed against his skin in a slow rhythmic beat. His neck grew hot, burning his skin as the stones touched sunlight.

The longer he held them, the hotter the pain got. His arm started to throb and his eyes glazed over in bliss. It was getting harder to breathe.

“Give me stone, Jake Dollop.” The man-wolf said forcefully.

Jake shook the cobwebs from his head and dropped the stones onto the dry earth. “Take them, they’re yours.” He dropped the stones and the fire around his neck faded. He could breathe again.

“Evil things. Bad medicine.” The man-wolf chided him. “But we can fix. You have power, Jake Dollop.”

The stones grew brighter and the winds of change howled in the distance. Jake blinked and the man-wolf wasn’t there anymore. In his place stood a dark skinned man.

A long fur cape dangled off his shoulders. On his head was the skull crown of a wolf, a pair of teeth hung low on a thong around his neck. The man held a feathered staff of dark wood. With it, he traced a circle around the stones.

“Bird man help us make bad medicine good. Healthy. Make you strong.”

At least Tilan wasn’t an Elf. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your medicine is bird man. You must ask his help. He will come.”

Tilan was babbling, speaking in tongues. Jake turned to walk away. This guy was nuts.

The winds picked up, dust devils formed in the distance. He hoped they were just storms. The sky darkened overhead. Just storms.

Please be just storms.

Blue lightning arced overhead. A thunderclap roared in the distance. Cold air washed up around his face. Something was glowing. As the storm grew more fierce, the light brightened against the darkening sky.

Soon it was like a lantern in the midnight storm. He turned around to find Oolan Tilan talking to a demon. Jake thumbed the hammer as he pulled his pistol from its holster. He didn’t want to be bothered with another one of these things. Last night was bad enough.

“Do not shoot.” The voice was neither Oolan’s nor his. The dust devil turned to face him. Blue eyes pierced his soul. “Jake Dollop. We know of you. You seek that which you cannot have. That which no one can have.”

This thing was talking to him. Lecturing him like a school marm disciplines her trouble child. Who was this thing to tell him he couldn’t do something, or tell him that he wouldn’t have his revenge. Jake had killed many people, many things. He would kill one more and he would kill again. It was just that easy. And no talking dog or fucked up hallucination would tell him otherwise. “I’ve got work to do.”

“You will listen!” Oolan Tilan shouted, his words echoed on the hills.

Jake froze in his place, unable to move.

“You will have your revenge. But when the time comes, you will make your decision. You cannot make the wrong one. Or things will get worse. Much worse.”

Ain’t nothing in this world more worse than in the wastes. But, they wanted an answer. And Jake had their answer. He nodded. “I promise.”

With that answer, his pendant flared a brilliant blue. The angel flashed before his eyes and he saw the flaming sword come crashing down.

The storm faded. The dust settled.

“Take what I have given you. You have a long path to travel, and you will learn many things. You will make many mistakes. But do not make the wrong one.”

Way he felt, a mistake was a mistake. How you going to make the wrong mistake? But Jake nodded anyway.

Oolan handed him the stones. “If you need help, all you need is to call. They will come.”

The man-wolf returned. And with a howl, he padded off into the fading sunlight. Jake dropped them into his pouch and saw his arm for the first time.

The wound was gone. Only thin scars remained, crisscrossing his hand and fading towards his elbow. Where his hand was cut to the bone, a metal bracelet sat. Blue stones glittered against the fading light.

He didn’t know how this day could get any stranger.

Clouds danced across the round red moon. He found Apex just as twilight gave way to night. The village was deserted, desolate even. The place was hastily constructed, full of shoddy building and clapboard contraptions. People packed up just as quickly as they packed in.

Ruined automobiles mixed with carriages that were still left in the streets.The sign for the general store had fallen, the glass was shattered. The whole of the place stank of death and desperation. The horse whined and refused to travel further into the wastes.

He tied it to a rotted fence post and cautiously walked into the city. His pistols were reloaded, and pointed downrange in low ready. He skulked about, making himself as small as can be. Timbers creaked in the gentle breeze. Signs groaned on their rusted nails. A fine mist had settled in the valley and coated the village in an ethereal glow. Detail faded to blurs and blobs in the distance.

Graham was standing inside a faintly lit doorway. It had to be him. No one else had the balls to venture out this far into the wastes. The figure wore a dark cowboy hat and a six shooter in its holster. He was barely visible, almost ghostly in the glow of the faint moonlight.

The shadow looked up from its chair and caught sight of Jake, backlit against the open desert. It stood hastily and vanished into the mists. Jake gave chase and lost it in the village square.

Too many buildings to hide in. Too many shadows to lurk within. It was creepy. He wasn’t happy here. There was the ever pervasive feeling of dread and doubt cast over the shallow valley. Light from the moon faded the further into the city he walked.

The mists grew deeper and thicker the further he ventured into the town. He wiped slimy liquid from his brow and paused to shake out his hat. He hit a dead end. The town curved into a narrow cul-de-sac with three houses flanking each other, trapping him in.

He looked behind him towards the path he came from, but the mists had swallowed it whole. There was nothing left. Not even the gray light of a cobblestone caught in shadowed light.

He could walk back and venture into the mists, but they were swirling and getting thicker as the hour grew later. Or, he could take his chances in the open field to his left. The only shape in the field was a slim fence line. He decided to take his chances in a house. At least there were walls and hopefully a lock. Something he could defend. Something he could protect himself with.

He whistled hard and shrill, but the mare did not come. He was alone in the shadows.

He stood in the road, hidden behind the shape of an old telegraph pole. He eyed the buildings warily. There were three. All two stories. And all black as the night that surrounded him. They were all a crap shoot. Untold secrets lurked everywhere. He took his chances and ran for the one with the most cover.

Which wasn’t much. A skeletal tree here, an empty telegraph pole there, fences and dead hedges. Not much protection from the shadows. There was a tightness in his chest. A feeling of unease. Something was watching him from beyond the mists. Something mean.

His guns were his friends. He walked low on bended knee towards the house in the center, ducking behind cover every time he saw the chance. He’d wait a beat, hide out for a moment and try to see through the soup beyond. Then he’d continue, slower than before. The thirty foot walk took him close to a half hour. Nothing jumped him. No one surprised him. All was calm and quiet, as if he was the last living thing on earth.

In the mists he saw people in shadows. They milled about like workers in broad daylight. They ran to and fro, ducking between awnings and eaves. He heard voices, innumerable and enthralling.

Men and women talking, children laughing and playing. There was the low mournful call of a hound pining for its master’s return. Their voices joined as one in a bitter cacophony loud enough to drive him insane.

He grit his teeth and pushed onward, shaking his head. He bounded the small steps and pushed through an unlocked door into the empty house beyond.

A kettle sat alone still cooking on the stove it whistled in a shrill cry as he entered. The hearth was burning with a dull green flame that flickered and sputtered, fading to nothing as he came through the door.

The sitting room was furnished with moth chewed couches and the stench of rotting cloth. Wonderful tapestries and paintings lined the walls with their warming colors. Pictures of family memories sat, sepia toned behind broken and dirty glass. He picked up a discarded teddybear that was left decaying on the floor. One button eye dangled on a faint string. He hugged it tight and thought of home.

Places were still set in the kitchen. Rotting food still on plates had long turned to maggot soup and food for ghosts. The water was running, dripping a coppery brown liquid into the drain below.

It was here that he did not feel alone. Some one was watching him.

Or some thing.

He glanced about nervously, his pistol followed the movement of his eyes. He nervously cocked the hammers, wiping away the sweat that beaded on his forehead.

“H-Hello?” He called out to the waiting shadows.

There was no answer.

“I know you’re out there.”

The wind whistled through the shattered window, tattered curtains billowed in the breeze. He stepped out of the kitchen and walked up the stairs. They creaked with each step, groaning in agony. There were three doors at the top of the stairs. Only one was open. He cleared the open room first. Scattered toys stood transfixed, frozen in time on the ratty carpet. The closet was empty. The bed was unmade. Nothing living was anywhere in sight.

He pushed through the closest door to find an empty bathroom.

The tub was stained with rust, patched through and through with rot. Black holes gouged into the fixture hid the blood spatter on the walls.

Something was following him, watching him. His every move was being analyzed He knew it and could feel the eyes burning against the back of his neck.

“Show yourself.” He called to the darkness.

Silence filled his ears with an ever present ringing, it was the sound of blood rushing and pounding behind his skull.

Skittering. Somewhere in the darkness; it was the scratching sound of clawed feet scraping against plank floors. Something was out there. Something close.

He caught a faint flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. He wheeled, paranoid, and fired a round through the plaster wall. A rat squeaked and scurried away, tail between its legs.

And then there was nothing. He was jumping at shadows. Jake sighed and scratched his head with the butt of the gun. No sense in being all yeller.

There weren’t nothing here save the ghost of his overactive imagination. Weren’t no thing as ghosts. This place was abandoned, and dead to the world. People move. Ghost towns boom and bust, coming and going, following the trail of precious metals.

Uranium mostly, all the gold was long gone. But uranium sold in bulk was worth its weight in gold. The Russians would buy it, the Americans wanted it. Anything that could be found and weaponized was fair game. Ain’t no one around these parts to claim their rightful place no more.

This was one of those towns, fallen to the bust of the metal trade. Nothing here but some rats and buzzards circling overhead. Everything was just a product of his hyper active imagination. Delusions. That’s all they were, just the paranoid thoughts of a vagabond long gone crazy.

Just when he got comfortable in his thoughts, there came a tap on his shoulder.

Ghosts don’t exist, or shouldn’t exist for that matter.

Sure, there were stories out on the plains and in the sands.

But, for the most part they were just legends and stories told to scare small children, or to keep the rustlers away from their homestead.

Be wary where you travel at night, friend, for these sands are haunted. Why my old Aunt Mattie saw herself a ghost out there over yonder.

It was nonsense.

Or, so he thought. Say what you want about Jake Dollop, but he was always a reasonable man. A reasonable man not given in to the fancy stories of the plains. But here was proof positive. Right there in the flesh, or what wasn’t rotting and destroyed, was the man he watched die. The man he killed.

Jake sighed. Why couldn’t it be bandits, or treasure hunters, or even a giant rabid coyote. Or the Scree. He could deal with Scree. Scree was real.

“Mr. Watson, I presume?” The real Jimmy Watson said with the voice of a Harvard gentleman.

“Jimmy!” He laughed awkwardly. “You look - well.”

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

Jake took a deep breath and looked the thing in its one good eye. The carnage of its face was terrifying.

Jake lowered his eyes, focusing on the gaping hole in the thing’s chest, where sickly green ichor pumped through veins powered by a heart that still beat. He didn’t want to look at the thing’s face ever again.

“Look at me.” Watson’s voice wavered on crazy. “You did this to me. And I want to know why.”

“Way I see it, Jim, is I did you a favor.”

“Why? Why would you do this to somebody?”

“That one’s easy, buddy. You paid me.”

“You weren’t supposed to shoot.”

“What’s a man s’posed to do when you throw a big bag of money in his hands and say ‘shoot me.’ What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I want my money back.”

“Damn it, Jim, you’re a dead man. You ain’t got no use for money. I paid the ferryman to take you to better lands. The hell you still doing, hanging around and haunting me all ghostlike? Besides, it’s gone. I spent it all on whores an’ whiskey.”

“You’re an asshole, Jake Dollop. You always were.”

“Maybe so, but I’m an asshole still breathing. Whereas, you, well, you ain’t lookin’ too well.”

“You were my friend. Friends don’t let other friends shoot themselves in the chest.”

“And friends don’t ask friends to finish a job they screwed up.”

“I had no choice.”

“I ain’t talkin’ bout killin’ yourself. But if’n you was as smart as you said you was, maybe you’d have gone for the face so I didn’t have to. You was yeller. You always was. You shoulda been there. Good men died because of you, Jimmy. Good men. Better’n you’ll ever be.”

“They were coming for me! I was a dead man anyway. What’s it matter?”

“You had a job to do. You failed. That’s what matters. Not the law, not the money. Nothing. You had yourself a job to do. All nice and easy like. There weren’t no killin’ involved! It was perfect. All you had to do was give us the money from your drawer. That’s it. Nothing more. You woulda been rich, Jim. Richer than you’ll ever know You woulda been the victim, not a suspect. Lawman weren’t comin’ for you. They don’t shoot the good guy, Jim.”

“I was rich long before I met you.”

“Why’d you help us then? What’d you say? Your wife. That’s right. Weren’t she dyin’ of Polio or something? You couldn’t afford the medicines no more. Needed some fast cash, so you went to the fastest guns in town. We tried to help you. For a small profit, of course. But we tried. That’s more than I can say for you.”

“They knew, Jake. What don’t you get? They were coming for me. I was a dead man. You promised you’d save her. That’s why I gave you the money, for Mary. Not for you to piss away on cheap thrills and cheaper women. You promised you’d take care of her. I trusted you. I figured with the issues you had with Betsy, you could appreciate something like that. But no. You let me down.”

“You leave her out of this. She ain’t nothin’ to do with you. Betsy was good people, better’n a man who stabs his boss in the back. What was it? Three thousand dollars? We were gonna get ourselves three thousand dollars. Split up, that gave you what? Three hundred?”

“I didn’t die for three hundred dollars. I died for her honor. Something you know nothing about. My family name would be destroyed if they knew I was crooked. She’d be out in the wastes, alone with a kid. With my daughter. If the law had me, our lives would be ruined. But if I died chasing down the bandits that robbed our bank, well, then I’d die a hero.”

“So you tried to kill yerself afore lawman could do the job? That ain’t bravery. That’s stupidity. I know. I been there. More times than you’d think.” He sighed. He could still feel the cold steel pressed against his temple. He still wondered sometimes if he won or lost that game.

“Oh yeah? You say that now, but I’ve been watching you. I saw you back there in town. Back in your room. Guess what, buddy, you didn’t get lucky. Your gun jammed. You know why it jammed? Because my dead fingers were there, right behind the trigger. So now, it’s my fault you’re still alive. And you know why? Because you don’t deserve to die. That would be too easy for the likes of you.”

Jake blinked. Thunder rolled in the distance. He heard the faint plinking of rain on a hard tin roof.

“And you know how I knew? Because you called me. Every time you said my name. You called me. I know everything. Everything. Oh, my name’s Jimmy Watson, from back east. I’m just passin’ through. Reckon you won’t mind if I grab a tit here, steal a coin there. Ain’t no big deal for a dead man. Well guess what. You’re the whole damn reason I’m still walking the earth. Seems Saint Peter ain’t too bright. My book’s big’n’thick. And it’s all your damn fault. The only reason you aren’t dead yet is because I haven’t had the pleasure. But now you’re here. And you’re a dead man, Jake Dollop.”

“Stop this, Jim. You’re talkin’ foolish talk.”

“Oh am I? See, the way it looks to me is this: You knew I’d chicken out. You went and had to tell the law the plan. That’s why all your buddies are dead. That’s why I’m dead. We’re all dead because of you. Because of your greed. What’s three thousand split one way? More money than you’d ever dream of. Nope, I bet you knew more than you let on. Good old innocent Jake Dollop. The poor victim, all his friends are dead. And I bet they’d all love to talk to you. When you see them in hell, give them all my regards.”

The house grew suddenly cold. Lights flared and dimmed down to deathly black. The flickering, pale light of the dead man lit the room in an eerie glow. Sticky ichor caked his legs and hands. He couldn’t move. It poured down his throat, filling his nostrils and blinding his sight. Couldn’t breathe. Choking rancid stench of decay, he could feel the cold breath of death play against his face, like a playful lover come to bed.

In the pale light, the room grew brighter, flaring with the anger of the spirit come for revenge. Tendrils of smoke traced light against his body. From his neck down his arm, always playful, almost enjoyable. He heard the soft break of leather and felt the weight on his hips grow lighter. The pistol was out. He heard the hammer cock back. Suddenly the rattle on the roof wasn’t there. The rain was a faint background of white noise in this house of death. Watson laughed long and hard.

The explosion ripped through the silence. But he was still alive. Or was he? He tried his arms, they wouldn’t move. Same with his legs. The sickly choking feeling was still there. If the gun didn’t kill him, whatever was around his neck would. It was just a race to the slowest death possible. There were four more rounds in that pistol. And a full chamber in his other. Where was the other gun? Could be there too, he felt lighter. Colder.

Another explosion. This time the hot lead whizzed past his skull, just grazing his ear. A third, between his legs, it missed his manhood by a hair.

The ropes squeezed tighter. Hard to breathe. Only light from the white glow of a tunnel ahead. Warmth. Piercing, hopeful warmth. Draining out of him and down his clothes. It was love, peace. Blood.

He was bleeding.

And suffocating.

A choking hot death fit for a liar, suited him just fine. How many more were there? How many had he hurt? Names, always names. They flooded out in strangled cries. He named the names of all he had wronged. He could feel them there with him, watching from a jury box. He could picture the smug looks plastered on all their faces. There he was, at the gallows’ hill.

And it felt fine.

Then there were screams, followed by the sound of a struggle.

But it was too late.

He heard their cries as the world faded to black.

He awoke to the sound of tearing ropes and grumbling voices. He was cold. And feeling sick. But, he could breathe. And Jake didn’t think he was dead. Not yet, at least. That means one thing, Someone out there gave a damn to rescue him. Which meant someone else was out there, that meant someone was following him. Jake was getting old and bad if someone was following him. No one sneaks up on Jake Dollop. No one. The few that do don’t tend to live long.

But, for the moment, it meant Watson was gone. Or was he? Whoever it was that cut him down could have other plans. Diabolical plans that involved cutting out entrails and drying them on the fence. Or something more terrifying. But he didn’t have time to think about it. Whoever it was had been pawing at him, they were slapping his face and trying to drag him somewhere.

“Get yer grubby paws off me.” Jake groaned.

“Shut up. Come with me if you want to live.” A familiar voice.

“I can’t move my damn legs.”

“Then crawl, damn it. I can’t touch you.”

“Then who was”

“Don’t worry about it. Just move. The quicker we get out of his house the better we’ll all be.”

“This is his house?”

“Don’t say his name. Actually, don’t say anything. Just keep your mouth shut and keep moving.”

It was slow going. Jake couldn’t move his legs. Crawling’s hard work when you ain’t got no feet. Well, he had them. Or, he thought he had them. Couldn’t tell, couldn’t see.

He felt nothing. Walking ain’t easy when you do it on your hands. It felt like eternity before the door opened and the cool night air hit his face. The rain had stopped. He crawled through puddles and mud. The town was deserted. Not a soul in sight. Except for the soul in front of him, it glittered faintly, shimmering in the lightless night.

Just a vague outline of the man he used to be. But, he knew the voice. It was that hard gravel type you don’t soon forget. But it was just a voice. You couldn’t tell by looking at him. He didn’t have a head. But, the voice was unmistakable. So were the tree trunk arms of a man who worked for a living. But, it still was a voice. Just a voice.

Betsy’s dad.

“Keep walking, Er, crawling. Don’t stop now. We’re almost there.”

Infinite time passed in silence. He felt so small, so helpless. Tall buildings and taller trees seem a lot more massive when you see them from your knees. He was dwarfed by the giant’s world. He tried to speak, but his mouth was parched dry. He gummed his lips and tried to make the words come, but all he could do was croak out a feeble moan.

Clouds stretched out over the evening sky, blanketing the night and silencing the stars. He felt something warm and squishy beneath his hands and knew it was not dirt or mud. The stench overpowered him. He lifted his hand out from the sucking ground and wiped it on the cracked asphalt. He was getting his sight back, slowly.

First vague outlines, then blobs, now shapes planted in the earth. The closer he got, the more they popped out at him like new spring flowers rising up from the shattered grounds.

And finally he could see just where they were heading. It was a tavern, he knew the name from a camp he shared with stragglers out in the sands. The Horse’s Mane. Long since abandoned, just like the rest of the god-forsaken town.

The black paint on the rickety wooden sign had long since started to peel and fade. “Te Se Me.” He laughed a strained laugh at the sound of it. “To See Me.” Too fitting for a world of ghosts. Too funny. A tavern in a city of ghosts. He hoped for whiskey and water. The buildings around didn’t look ransacked, they were still mostly in place, that could mean good things. Hopefully.

Apex had always been a ghost town, long as he could remember. Then again, most towns that sat off these faded roads usually were. How many were there out in the wastes? Too many to count. All the paths had fallen into disrepair after the great washout.

It was pure luck he found the damn place to begin with. The village sat in the middle of a saguaro forest where cracked roads wound round and round in infinite circles. Dead ends upon more dead ends. Circles upon circles, and on and on the path went.

Road signs had faded and fallen, only to be claimed back by creeping vines and passing vultures. He remembered the skull that pointed the way. Like a great demon long dead to the world, its one crooked horn pointed the way. South. Towards Apex. Towards this village of the damned.

The city had fallen off the maps long before the bombs fell and the world broke. It all started back when the railroad was built. Great steam engines passed it by, leaving it to fall away into the wastelands and be claimed by the shadows of a world gone mad.

Travelers never had good things to say about this place. Especially the last couple he broke bread with, their scars told the story. But the scars didn’t tell the same story as the pleading doe eyes they looked at him with. “Please don’t go, mister. Treasure ain’t worth it.”

That’s what it was all about. Treasure. But what it was, he couldn’t remember. All he knew was the faint reminder of the name: The Horse’s Mane .

To See Me .

He figured he’d see soon enough. But one thing just didn’t make sense. Why this place? There couldn’t be any treasure here. It’d been a ghost town for so long, he figured the vultures would have long picked this place clean. But, then every town has it’s secrets.

Something about the bar, the tavern. Upstairs. Or was it down? The basement? Did this place have one? If he could only walk. Maybe he could get away from Betsy’s dad long enough to figure it out.

He racked his brain, trying to remember what they said. But every time he came close, it darted away, like a fleeting shadow in dusk. But, yet it danced like twisting dust motes, right there. Right in the back of his head.

Damned if he couldn’t remember. But he’d find out soon enough.

The door creaked open and in he went.

Rowdy rotting corpses.

Everywhere he turned, the strong stench of dead skin and decay filled his lungs with their putrid odors. He gagged and coughed up last night’s dinner. Skinned hare, raw. It tasted worse going down than it did coming back up. The windows were splintered and cracked, their spiderweb panes refracted the light into twisting shades of orange and grey.

The bar was shattered, mahogany wood splintered the floor, their sharp points buried deep into the dirt. The walls were bare, except for the flickering, sputtering candle whose light was slowly dying.

Shadows passed across the faces of the once-men who stood and sat. They hooted and hollered like drunken fools, the bartender was missing his left arm. He poured shots and mixed drinks with his right, spilling amber and ochre liquid everywhere.

They all laughed a hollow echoing sound. A woman danced on the splintered bar, her skeletal legs kicking out from dirty skirts of white stained with crimson. A bow around the neck kept her head connected to her shoulders. Hollowed eyes stared him down, piercing his soul.

The legless piano player stopped the twinkling sounds and the cold gaze of dozens of dead souls found his face.

He shivered against the unnatural cold. They shambled forward, vacant eyes staring towards him and beyond into the depths of his soul.

He stared back, feigning fearlessness. He tried desperately to stop the knocking of his knees and the shivering of his teeth. His breath hung on the still, rank air, just a tiny ice cloud against the rise of the frozen tides.

One large, hairless corpse stood from his stool, as he lifted rotting legs and forced ancient bones forward. He held up his hand and they all stopped in their tracks. The lone ghoul approached within inches. They stood nose to nose, Jake fought back another urge to retch.

Staring contests can last forever. This one almost did. But, he didn’t want to play their game if it meant he’d lose. They wanted fear - or brains, something that Jake had little of.

But, he didn’t have much left, and what he did wasn’t about to be spent on some half rotting husk of meat. He lifted his chin, elongating his neck. Like an intimidated turtle that didn’t feel like hiding anymore. It’s kind of hard to play tough guy when you can’t stand or control your own guts.

“You don’t belong here, warm blood.” It was the perfect voice of a corpse, full of maggots and grave dust.

“Partner, I reckon you got about three seconds to get away from me.” It was false bravado, but maybe he could scare the thing into backing off.

It didn’t work. “Or what? You’re going to bite my ankles off? Reckon I’d like to see you try. Partner.” It spit the last word out.

“Easy, Nathanial.” Betsy’s dad finally spoke. “He’s here to help us.”

“Warm blood? Here to help? You’re a funny guy, Quincy.” Nathaniel’s laughter was the last wheeze of a dead man struggling to hold on. “The maggot can’t even stand. He ain’t no good. Just let me kill the bugger. I’m hungry.”

“No.”

“Warm blood’s dinner over there been deader longer than you. You ain’t got no say. This here’s my land.”

“Was. Your land. You’ve been here long enough. Feel like maybe it’s time you moved on.”

“How you reckon that’s gonna happen?”

“With his help. What’s holding you back?”

Nathaniel sighed. “Damn sheriff got my rope.”

“And where were you hung?”

“Same place you got yourself dead in.”

“And who killed me?” Quincy asked.

“Sheriff Graham.”

Quincy nodded. “Jake, tell him why you’re here.”

“Revenge.” Jake said, matter of fact. “Gold.”

“Ain’t no gold in these hills, boy. You in the wrong place for treasure.” Nathaniel laughed a hollow laugh. “I been here a long time, son. Probably longer ‘an you been alive. Ain’t nothin’ but trouble in them hills. Lotta trouble and no gold.”

“I like me a little trouble now ’n’ again.”

“That what you like son? Reckon I can oblige a little.”

“Well then, let’s dance.” Jake pushed off the ground and tried to get to his feet. He stood shakily on knocking knees. He stepped into the ghosts reach.

And fell. His left knee gave out, buckling under the sudden weight. They laughed at him. He pushed back up and evened the weight between his legs. He squatted low, finding his center. He curled his fingers into fists and dropped them just above his eyes.

The dancer girl stepped off the bar, her moth eaten skirts twirled as she moved. She came close. She smelled pretty. Pretty and dangerous. Like rotting roses dusted with stale vanilla. She kissed his forehead. The kiss of death. He bent away from the kiss.

“Good luck.” She whispered. “You’ll need it.”

She stepped away. Jake and Nathaniel circled each other, intense stares silenced the room. They danced the fighter’s dance, circling outward in a spiral of boundaries. Testing each other’s measure with feinted strikes and subtle mockery.

They paced out their ring and nodded. Respect, it ran deep in these old lands. Most fights that weren’t drunken brawls boiled over out of respect. But there was none here. Jake swung first. One hit, that’s usually what it took. If you’re going to hit somebody, make it count. The quicker you can end a fight, the better off you’d be.

His punch went wide, turning into a nasty haymaker that knocked him clean off balance. His weakened knees struggled to get balance. The ghost didn’t move. He just stood there, with a stone cold smirk on his cold dead face.

He stumbled and spun into a defensive crouch. He waited for the return that never came.

Jake grit his teeth and broke his turtle stance.

Nathaniel made his fatal mistake. He stepped into the jaws of a pissed off coyote.

He struck out in a wicked uppercut that should have ripped the grinning skull clean off the thing’s body. He followed up with machine gun arms that struck and lashed out in an intense combo. One. Two. Three. And then a fourth uppercut to finish it off. He was certain the thing was dead.

But it didn’t die - again. He hit only air.

Jake slumped down into a ball, exhausted. He was still weak from Watson, but he gave it his best shot. For once, his best wasn’t enough. He was defeated, devastated. And thirsty.

Damn thirsty, like he swallowed the whole of the wasteland. The sand ground in his guts and filled his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt. Not the kind of hurt you suddenly feel after a rage when you can lick your wounds. No, this was a different, deeper hurt.

The kind you don’t come back from the brink of. He couldn’t tell if it was the pain of the defeat or the pain of his body. Either way, it hurt.

Bad.

He choked back tears that did not come. They washed up like a prairie flood, breaking the shallow pools of the dried up ravines. The pain inside filled the shallow hole of the heart he used to have. He was defeated. Utterly and terribly defeated. Without even breaking a sweat, the thing had taken him to his limit.

And it didn’t even touch him once.

The dead left him be. He was one of them now. Everything inside was dead. All the years in the wastes, he’d never met a challenge he could not win. There was never a threat he did not fear. Coyotes, cannibals, killers, and creeps. They all died just the same. But, how do you kill something that’s already dead?

This week was a terrible awakening to the truth of the wastes. Things were different now. Jake was a creature of reason and routine, he didn’t like change.

And this week was already full of them.

“Feel better?” Nathaniel pulled a seat and set about to drinking. The ghost pounded three shots of strong smelling whiskey and went back for more.

“So, what do you think?” Quincy asked, pulling up the next stool. Jake heard a strange sucking sound and turned his head to see Quincy for the first time. The man’s head was half hanging on a lopsided neck, the left half of his face was no more than ground meat. A vacant blue eye twinkled in the dim light coursing through the right side of his face.

“Not too bad. He ain’t great, but he’ll do.” Nathaniel pulled out a bar stool and grabbed an extra shot glass. He filled a glass with dark liquor and slid it down the bar. “Fancy a seat, Mr. Dollop?”

Jake limped over and sat down warily.

“You got heart kid. I like heart.” Nathaniel poured himself another.

“You did good, son. Real good.” Quincy smiled a gap toothed grin. “Look, Jake. I’m gonna level with you. We need your help.”

Jake downed his shot. “I’m listening.” He slammed the glass on the shattered bar.

“Great. Here’s what we need done.”

Plans always sound easy when they’re just plans. It ain’t the thinking that’s hard, it’s the doing. And this one didn’t sound too hard. Kill the bad guy, save the girl, find the gold. No big deal. Typical hero bullshit.

But Jake Dollop was no hero, he never was. Heroing wasn’t in his blood. But killing was. So was revenge. And treasure hunting. Those were fun things. Nothing complicated. But as they were, things got complicated.

Especially when the girl’s dead out in the wastes somewhere. Wastes was huge. Revenge isn’t too bad, the good kind involves some sort of killing. Usually, the messier the better. But when the target don’t stand still long enough to get dead, well that complicates things. That left only gold. How hard could that be? Head out somewhere into the mountains, find a cave, get the treasure.

Live long and prosper. Be rich, go back home and bring back the one thing that really matters. He hoped for a couple nice big nuggets. American paper was worthless, especially when the country didn’t really exist any more. The few patriots out there would accept American and nothing else.

But to the rest of this world, it was kopeks and rubies or whatever they was. But no one was foolish enough to turn down gold. Real nuggets for real money. Gold was some crazy hundred dollar thing that made men crazy. People’s eyes get all starry when you mention the “G” word. Which is why this probably wouldn’t be fun. Or easy. But no, nothing ever is.

Quincy had the map hidden in the church. An actual treasure map. Jake laughed, it couldn’t get any weirder than this. It felt like he was some character in a fireside tale: walking side by side with a ghost, on his way to a secret place to get an ancient treasure map that held the mystery of untold riches.

“Why can’t you touch me?” Jake asked Quincy, mostly to kill the silence.

“Some ghosts aren’t allowed.”

“By who?”

“Good question. It’s just one of those things. It is as it’s always been.” They had been walking side by side in the mid evening’s warmth. The humidity had just started to creep into the air and slick the stones below their feet.

Jake paused mid stride. “What else is as it’s always been? This town’s ancient. What secrets does it keep? What does it have that it always had?”

Quincy shrugged. “Nothing here but dust and dead men. You saw same as I did.”

“But how’d you get here? I mean, I’ve never known where this place is. You’ve got no business in this town.”

“It is as it’s always been, Jake. I was just-” He paused, thinking of the right word “-drawn here. I woke up in a dark place. Kind of wandered for a bit. There was a voice.”

“What’d she say?”

“Get up, old man.”

They shared a smile and felt the warmth of awareness wash over them. It quickly froze and turned to dread as they passed the shattered ruins of the sheriff’s office. It was nothing more than a windowless box that had fallen in on itself. The door hung half open on rusted hinges. It swung slowly in the breeze. A fresh rope was strung up on gallows hill. It twisted and turned in the wind, dancing the macabre dance of a dead man swinging on the limb.

They followed the dirt path in silence until the gallows were safely out of sight. When the hanging tree was nothing but a shadow against the sky, Jake let out a long sigh. “What’s it like to be dead?” He shivered. “To be up there, twitching like that?”

“Well, it hurt. Getting shot in the face usually does. But it was a quick hurt. Kind of like getting callouses. It was over real quick like.”

“How’s it feel now?”

“The hurt’s only just begun. It’s kind of like waking up in a new nightmare, day after day. I’ve got no eyes, but I can see. Everything’s this weird gray-blue color. I can’t touch anyone, can’t do anything. I went back to your old house, saw Betsy and the sheriff.”

Jake gulped, stopping in his tracks. “How, how’s she doing?”

“Hell, Jake, it’s all sweets and desert roses. You know, she couldn’t be happier.”

“That’s, that’s good.”

“Damn it, boy. I can’t do you wrong on this one. She’s absolutely freakin’ wonderful. Cried all day and night. You know, I sat there for a bit, just watching her cry. Sheriff came in, they got to hootin’ and hollerin’, acting real lovey like.

Bastard smacked her around when she wouldn’t quit with the tears. Didn’t work, ya know. That shit never does. So he left her there, soakin’ up the carpet with bloodstained cheeks and dripping eyes.

All I wanted was to touch her, to give her a hug and just let her know - you know - that daddy’s here. I put my hand on her shoulder and it fell right through. I tried to talk but she wouldn’t listen. So, I just watched a while. But she just sat there in her parlor cryin’ the whole time. I wanted to help her. I want to help so bad.”

It was one of those earth shattering feelings, those revelations that come only through faith and prayer. But Jake wasn’t praying tonight. We canonize our dead as saints and heroes, as legends born of great things. But Quincy did nothing great. He was just a father, as best he knew how. A man who accepted Jake and all the bad things he did, a man who loved his family and respected his daughter’s wishes. Jake watched the ethereal tears fall down and splash onto the dried ground in tiny wisps. Death and its many forms are universal. Dead is dead, as dead as it goes. Once somebody dies, they’re gone. The end. Game over.

Even when the dead are standing next to you crying like a scolded child.

Killing’s easy when you don’t think of the consequences and don’t know the corpses. They’re just bodies, there’s nothing else. Not people, they’re not real. And when you shoot ‘em dead, they fall just the same - just a pile of meat left turning rancid in the burning sun. But, what if they end up like Quincy? Stuck between heaven and hell, begging the living for one last chance of salvation.

They were ghosts of memories and tasks left undone. He’d always been a survivor. But everyone else wasn’t strong enough, fast enough. Their corpses littered the wastes. For the first time, he saw the dead as more than just faded memories of scars that won’t heal. He’d killed a lot of people. They all had to have families. Friends. Unanswered dreams…

…Sure, there were lots of people that deserved to die. They couldn’t have families or people that cared about them. Could they? That didn’t much matter though anymore. Dead was dead. And that was that. He could only move forward.

The church loomed off in the distance. It wouldn’t be much longer now. He could see the ancient cross reaching up to pierce the heavens. Its rounded tower reflected the light of the moon. The closer he stepped, the colder he got. Something in the air changed, tingling on his skin, it danced across his neck and arms like a scorpion stalking its prey.

It was a building ripped out of ancient picture books and untouched by the hands of father time.

He stepped through the courtyard and found an old friend.

“Mr. Watson? So nice to see you again.” Graham shot first.

So much for prayer. The shot went wide and high. It was almost amateur, really. But most sudden shots from that distance usually are a crapshoot. Waste of ammo, really. All it did was let Jake know he was prey. Like throwing a gauntlet, he knew the challenge was made.

Jake returned fire at the shadow within. It passed harmlessly over the retreating figure. He ran through, following in Graham’s footsteps.

The inside was dimly lit, with thick wooden pews that made for good cover. Closed doors weren’t much of a threat. It was the opened ones that worried him. He couldn’t clear the church with a ghost. If it couldn’t touch another living thing, it was useless. Or was it?

“Can you clear this place?”

Quincy nodded.

“Find him.”

Jake stepped into the shadows as Quincy vanished into the aether. Incense hung heavy in the air. The church was deserted, abandoned to the wastes. There was nothing but silence interrupted by the occasional call of the Scree chasing their prey.

A dark shadow passed overhead and perched on the windows above. Its black form broke through the moonbeams and hid the skies above. He checked the shadows, bouncing wary glances across the slick tiles and wooden ceilings.

The balcony above was deserted and dark as the full moon glared down from the heavens, casting its light against marble and sandstone tombs that bounced blood red light back into the temple.

The graveyard was out there to the north, right in front of him. Oval windows of hollowed out marble let in night air and shadows of things that go bump in the night. There was a thump outside and the Scree took flight. It didn’t go far. The thing perched on a Joshua Tree in the graveyard. It’s massive form swallowed the window.

Quincy returned and shrugged his wraithlike shoulders. “Nothing out there except ghosts and more ghosts. Couple of Scree up by the cross. But he’s gone. Reckon we should do what we came to do and scram. I don’t like these places. They’re too hot inside.”

Jake nodded. It was getting warm in there. “Where’s the map?”

Quincy pointed to the alter, “Behind there.”

The alter. Of course it would be in the alter. He kneeled down behind it. There was the faint outline of a hole carved into the center, barely visible in the dimly lit chambers. He touched it, but the drawer did not open. With cracked fingers he traced the sign of the cross along the alter. Still nothing. He sighed and bent his head in silent prayer:

I ain’t much a religious man. If it weren’t for Saint Peter keeping my book, I’d have lost faith long ago. But, I know I can do some good afore you take me from this earth. I done a lot of things I regret, I done some things I don’t regret. Reckon, you know all that already though. It hurts so much to keep going on alone and away from everything.

Lord, I hurt a lot of people. Jimmy Watson, Memphis Cole, Danny Thomas, and everyone else. I wish I didn’t. Some of the things I did to them and their families would make even the devil cry. This is my chance though, I can make it right. I guess what I’m asking for is one more chance. Let me live through this mess and I’ll make it up to you. Please.

He wiped away a tear as the fires of heaven rose up to answer his prayers.

With a sudden crash, the silence shattered. Jake looked up from the alter and the breath froze in his lungs.

Jimmy Watson came to crash the party. And he brought six of his closest friends.

The smell of gore and burnt flesh ripped through the incense laced air. turning sanctity to insanity. They were a shambling mass of limbs and fangs. And they were hungry. Watson had no words as his goons attacked. They overpowered him and Jake fell to the ground, kicking and flailing against the crushing limbs.

Three of them. Three pairs of rotten flesh and clawed hands. They wrestled and struggled against his fading strength. His arms were pinned, he couldn’t grab his guns. Had to fight them off by force.

They outweighed him.

They outnumbered him.

He was still weak, still hurting from the last fun they shared. He wouldn’t last long. The odds were stacked against him and he was slowly losing the war. But, Jake liked being the underdog. Three to one was just right.

One of the monsters had crawled off of him and grabbed his leg. Gnashing fangs were coming quickly towards sheared jeans. His leg was open, exposed. The weak armor he wore was no defense against it. Saliva dripped onto his exposed flesh, burning it. He let the thing get close enough to taste his flesh.

Jake kicked down into the stone, sharp spikes popped from his boot. He stabbed upwards, catching the thing in the eye. It made a blood curdling scream and pushed against his leg, trying in vain to rip the impaled spike from its eye. Jake held on. The zombie lifted up, he slid to the right.

The blade stuck harder, deeper into the beast. Clawed fingers scraped the stone. The thing died a second time on Jake’s boot. It was still twitching when he dropped the spike back into its sheath. He kicked it a third time and sent its limp form sprawling onto the floor. His legs were free.

Jake pulled one leg under him and pushed off, standing up slowly. He got his balance and shoulder checked the one on the right. Again. And again. Pushing and crushing it until the thing finally stopped moving. Sticky ichor covered his clothes and coated his hair in thick gum. The third one held on. It wouldn’t go down without a fight. And he was more than happy to oblige. He checked the zombie into the wall again and pulled off, it still held. He had a free hand. Drew his gun.

And fired. One shot. It caught the thing in the skull, causing it to rear back, stutter-stepping in time with the staccato explosions of his revolver cycling.

He fired thee more times into the thing’s head. It was getting weaker, but its hits were getting quicker.

Fiercer.

Like they were fueled by adrenaline pumping through its dead veins. They broke grasp and backed up. He was breathing heavy.

Gashes covered his arms and neck. Another cut down the side of his face, complimenting the wicked scar on his neck.

“I’ll see you in hell.” He emptied the cylinder into the beast. His shots made a perfect pattern, a small circle around its chest. Tight groupings of hot lead that did nothing to slow the thing’s angry attack.

He threw his gun, it caught the thing in the head. The zombie paused and swatted at the air. Jake backed up, creating distance. It was an age old formula. Distance equals survival.

They circled, dancing round and round. It was just a test. This was just a bad dream. But it hurt so much it had to be real. Deep inside he knew it was real, but he didn’t want to accept it. Another dead thing that just won’t die. It was getting old real fast. They paced around the alter waiting for the other to strike first. Seconds stretched into minutes that felt like hours. He was tired. He was winded.

He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. Something caught his eye, just barely there. It was a shadow in the dark. Something in the red light of the moon that didn’t look right, but felt so familiar. It was a shape he knew. Something he had seen before. Clouds passed overhead, darkening the moon. When the sky cleared, he knew.

But it was too late. He was gone.

It was just a distraction. Something he didn’t need. Not now, not ever. It proved another ancient theory. Distraction equals death. The thing took notice of the dropped guard. It was there for just a second, but it was enough for it to make a move.

The zombie charged, lunging forward. It crashed into the podium and thrashed out with the strength of a man possessed. He caught a slash against his arm. It hurt and burned bad. He dropped his weak hand. Something was beat in there. He wouldn’t be shooting for a while. The thing lashed out again, Jake ducked under the podium and drew his blade. The bowie knife came out with the hiss of steel breaking leather. It was the hiss of an angry snake, hungry for blood.

Or grave dust.

He stood up and dropped his leg back, bringing his guard up into a knife fighting stance. It would come. Now he just had to play the waiting game.

The zombie came again, throwing wild haymakers as it lashed out with just one purpose: Kill.

Its fangs dripped that strange sickly liquid that burned through stone, melting it into a sizzling mist.

The last strike it would ever make came wild and high. Jake ducked it easily and came up with the blade, slicing the thing through the shoulder. Muscle separated from bone and the arm fell, still flailing to the ground.

It crawled on wounded fingers and tried in vain to make its point. He followed up immediately, twisting the blade mid strike. He caught the thing in the shoulder and kept cutting. Blade met bone and melted muscle.

The head fell easily enough. It rolled off the podium and crashed onto the floor below. The thing kept coming. His final strike caught right between its shoulder blades and tore through a feeble rib cage. He pinned the thing to the alter, the world grew still and calm.

Like the quiet before a storm.

He breathed heavily, sucking wind. He looked through a red haze, scanning the room for Watson. But he was nowhere to be found. He heard a faint pop in between the ringing of his ears. Something came out, hitting him in the knee. It hit like a bullet, he felt his leg shatter and he collapsed.

As he fell he saw it. The drawer.

Open.

He reached in and grabbed the map.

He clutched it to his heart, proud for a moment.

But it lasted just a minute, only a brief flash of hope.

Moonbeams caught the tattered paper, turning the map to dust that fell from his fingertips and scattered his dreams into the four winds.

Fate sure has a funny way of fucking up your life. It was so easy. So simple. It was there, in his hands: The answer to his prayers, a chance for his salvation. It was riches beyond compare.

But all of that was gone now. Gone and lost to the winds of time.

The walk back to town was cold and lonely.

Quincy was in a mood. The horse clopped on next to him, a silent scowl pinned across its face. Wind whistled through bare trees. Clouds played tag with the red scarred moon above. Its bloodshot eye stared down to earth, mocking them with its fiery glare.

Planking snapped behind him as the wind raged through the desolate town. Rotten wood went tumbling away, rolling down the street like a lost tumbleweed. A shingled sign smacked against the roof of a hollowed out building.

He read the sign as he passed:

Chauncy Crematorium and Coffin Emporium.

Fitting.

The chimney was long gone, reduced to steel ribs that lay rusted and ruined. The copper and iron had long been scavenged by scrappers. The ribs rose over the center of town, a headless skeleton king in a land of the dead. It started to drizzle.

The rain came softly, washing the filth from his clothes and his mind. It only lasted for a few fleeting moments, and when it was gone, it left the air stifling and humid. Grime dripped down the crematorium, oozing a fetid black goo that fell to the ground in a sickening plop.

The butcher shop was next to the doctor’s office. He figured they were one and the same. Empty pens stretched off to the front and side. Through the lightning and the shattered window, he caught sight of the meathook swaying in the gentle breeze.

Shivers ran down his spine. In the dim light, his mind’s eye saw a carcass dancing the gallows’ waltz as it spun and circled slowly around and around.

Everything came in circles: Life and death. Fear and love. Hatred and hope. All just points on an infinite wheel that never stopped and never slowed.

Jake broke the silence. “Where to now?”

It didn’t matter if the ghost answered. He didn’t care. It was just a voice he wanted to hear. Something to let him know he wasn’t alone in an alien world. He was surprised when an answer came.

“North, to the hills.”

Diablo Hill loomed north and slightly west in the distance. Its bulk towered above everything. The storm seemed to be centered there. Its top was cut off, obscured by dark clouds that swirled in tendrils, swallowing the summit.

Jake figured they’d be heading that way. But where from there? The mountain was massive. There was an exploration there, years ago. Far as he knew, the charters never came back. Most of the place was shrouded in mystery and despair. It was the last place he wanted to go. But, that was where he belonged. All signs pointed forward.

“I’ve a friend or two in Rattlesnake City.” Quincy flickered against the dim light of the waning moon.

Jake was rubbing his temples with a dirty hand. “You do know you’re dead, right?”

“Does it mater?” The city gates came up suddenly, the ghost flashed through and popped up on the other side. “I’m talking to you just fine.”

“Excuse me if I’ve never been this close to death before.” Jake stepped through the arch.

“You’re a murderer, Jake. You can’t get any closer to death than to have the blood of thousands on your hands.”

“Your estimates are grossly exaggerated.”

“Somehow I doubt that. How many have you killed?”

“Enough to know that when you die you ain’t supposed to come back. But, hell, here you are. All glittery and ghostlike.”

“How many?”

He ground his teeth. Jake set a his mouth into a grimace and said nothing.

“How many?” Quincy pressed the topic.

“Who we seeing in Rattlesnake?”

“Answer me.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Jake Dollop. Dead or alive, I’m still your father-in-law. You will answer me.”

“Go to hell.”

“I should never have given you her hand.”

“No. You shouldn’t have.”

Fire flickered beyond the rise. Deafening silence settled into the valley, falling into place like the morning mists or a night time snow. The skies sank low over the horizon shrinking closer to the earth. Nothing dared to move or make a sound. Not even the coyote came out to prowl.

Wildflowers and night blooms filled the valley with the sweet aroma of a peaceful night’s sleep. He thought about making camp in the dustbowl below, but his feet kept moving.

He wasn’t tired. His mind spun thousands of thoughts through his head, each one drifted and bumped back and forth from ear to ear. It kept him wide awake, that and his body aching with the pains of a thousand blistering suns.

There was no point to sleeping yet. He had work to do and distance to travel. Jake didn’t want to be on the road any longer than he had to. A six hour rest would put him into Rattlesnake come midnight on the third day. But, if he pressed on he could find the town in late afternoon.

Even the shattered remains of Phoenix don’t let drifters in past sundown. He knew how small towns treated strangers, especially late at night. His arm throbbed with a dull ache of repressed memories, each one mixing with scarred nerves that just would not heal.

The big cities were usually more liberal towards drifters. But, everything had its price. It was a price he’d paid in big cities before, it was something he wouldn’t do again, not if he could avoid it.

Say one thing about Jake Dollop, say that he never makes the same mistake twice.

No. Sometimes he makes them three times.

“And that’s how we’ll get it back.” Apparently the ghost had been speaking, Jake wasn’t listening.

“It’ll be easy this time. I promise.”

Jake hated liars.

“How’s Bobbie?”

There was a pause. “He’s -” Quincy walked in silence for a minute. “-Good.”

“Tell me about my son.”

“He’s happy and healthy.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re a smart man.”

“Spare the bullshit.”

Something changed in the old ghost. “You were right, Jake.”

“You mean?”

“They came. To collect on your debt. We couldn’t pay.”

“You son of a bitch. What happened to the heist money? You knew what to do with that.”

“Law came for that too. We had to pay the sheriff. But money weren’t enough. He wanted…more.”

“Betsy?”

The ghost nodded. “Sheriff always fancied her. Even afore he was old enough to marry he wanted her. Nothing made him happy. When his posse showed up at the door, Betsy did all she could to talk him down. But he knew where you was. Said he’d call the U.S. Marshal out if we didn’t do what he said. She did it for you, Jake. Much as I hate to say it, she really loved you.”

Clouds coiled up around the crescent moon, hanging tight against its horns. The earth sucked up the last of the day’s heat, cooling the scorched plains into a comforting inferno. There was a chill in the air though, something sharp and biting.

The weather was crazy these days, snow one day and fire rain the next. Cold and hot weren’t even an option anymore. Jake had heard some funny stories about how the weather used to be, how they had scientists that could predict days in advance what would happen. He heard they were often wrong then, he couldn’t imagine how they’d fare now.

“What did you do to my son?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Quincy was adamant.

“Where’s Bobbie?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

“Slavers got him.”

That was enough. Jake pulled his hat down low and choked back dusty tears.

Slavers. The lowest of the low.

They were monsters hiding in a human shell. The levy broke, tears held in check came pouring out like the River Grande. There was no stopping it.

He bit his cheeks until they bled black and red. Rage welled up and he bit it back down.

Slavers. He’d be happier with Oger. Or Scree. Or even the damned business class. But not slavers. The things they did…

“We tried to keep them away, Jake. But the businessmen came. Nice fellow in a three piece suit. Slicked back hair black as midnight. Said his name was Stuart and he was an old friend of yours. Businessman from back in the old days. Told us he was here to collect an unsettled debt.”

“We shooed him away the first two times. But the third, he wasn’t too happy. He had one of those fancy push button knives. He cut her til she talked. And when she talked, they weren’t the answers he wanted to hear. So he cut me too. Never touched the sheriff. He agreed to settle our debt. Took Bobbie that day. Found him a couple days later downtown at market square. They sold him, Jake.”

“To who?”

“Wish I knew, but Stuart said the debt was settled.”

“How-” Jake’s voice cracked. “-could you let them?”

“I didn’t. Guy knocked me on my ass. I don’t remember anything after the blades and his fist.”

“Sheriff?”

“Didn’t care. It wasn’t his son.”

There was no use talking anymore. Jake had all the answers he needed. Dark thoughts danced across the shadows of his mind; the village came into view as the road took a sharp turn, dropping down into a valley. Wooden spikes from the guarded gate popped up like deadly wildflowers, encircling the village beyond the pines.

Rolling thunder tore a sharp crack through the midnight air. Jake dropped to the ground, rolling under a sagebrush and into a briar patch. Nettles stabbed at him as the arrows whizzed past.

Standoffs are never fun. You never see or hear anything about ‘em because they’re mostly boring. If it weren’t for the other person trying to kill you every time you popped your head up, it’d be like a trip to the frontier dentist. Actually, that’s more fun. He decided he’d rather stitch up another stab wound or bullet hole by himself, without the whiskey, than sit there any longer while the guards took potshots at him.

He sent Quincy out to find another way in. More arrows whizzed harmlessly overhead. They were getting better though. The second shot caught his hat, sending it spinning across the wastes.

It was time to move. The first rule of standoffs is don’t get stuck in one. The second, and more important one, if stuck in one, get out of the area quick. Keep moving or start dying. It was a simple philosophy he tried to live his life by.

Seeing the world from the eyes of an ant really makes you feel how inconsequential you are in the grand scheme of things. Rocks were large and sharp. They stabbed at him, cutting tiny gashes into his already torn clothes.

The earth smells different when you’re under siege. It’s got this funky iron odor, or maybe that was the blood streaming out of his nose in a slow trickle.

He coughed out some trail dust. When another arrow responded to the sound, he decided to suck up whatever may come. A bug crawled on the tip of his nose. He was bare in the sand, there was nowhere to hide. It tickled and danced around his face. He kept crawling.

Inches at a time.

He knew the way. Rock City backed up to a valley. The south side was considered impenetrable. The Elves and the Indians had tried several times in recent history. They failed each time. But, nothing is perfect. Everything has to lead somewhere. Quincy came back into focus and confirmed his suspicion.

There was a hole on the south side of the village, near the mountain that guarded its rear. It was a sewer grate that led out into a tiny chasm where rainwater and sewer waste would flow during floods. It was disgusting. But, it had to be done. He needed to get in there and he needed in now.

Another night out on the road would kill his horse and his morale. He stole a glance to the pine forest where the horse was waiting for morning to come. He couldn’t keep riding her like this. It was too hard, they were too old.

The poor beast was wheezing and hurting after this last run. The old girl needed a stable and a chance to rest for once. They had been riding hard for the past few weeks. The poor bastard kept going, too stupid and proud to lay down and die.

And for that, Jake was glad. If the old mare gave up the ghost, he’d be devastated, even heartbroken. It was the last memory he had of a stable life, a steady constant reminder of the world before it went mad. He let the beast rest every night, but the higher they went in the desert, the harder grazing land was to find.

He was running out of oats and apples. The last few he had were already starting to get the rot. He wouldn’t feed the crud to a slave, let alone a creature he loved. He figured the woods back behind him were probably the last good ground this side of ten thousand feet.

He reckoned the path was straight up from here. Jake wasn’t a mountain goat. Neither was the horse. The rest of the trip would be trouble.

Yeah. The old girl needed a stable.

But, he needed money for that.

And money weren’t easy to come by now. He had a couple crisp bills left in his pack. Maybe a slim nugget of silver too.

No. That was gone, he had traded for a warm meal and a warm bed two months back. He had some steel left, he knew that much. It jingled when he walked. Maybe he could barter some time with the last of his cash.

He may even find someone stupid enough to accept work in trade.

Yeah - and maybe pigs fly.

The arrows stopped flying and for a moment all was calm. The clouds parted and the devil’s hook of a pale moon shined down bright white, like a bleached corpse out in the wastes, just another product of the fallout.

The terrain sloped down suddenly. He was in the wash. The bug jumped off because it knew better. The ground sucked at his every step. Muck covered his clothes, grime shrouded his face in a sickening camouflage of piss and shit.

He hoped they didn’t run the dogs tonight. If they did, he was screwed. Royally and totally screwed. There wasn’t enough water in the town to wash the funk off his body.

Hiding from a bloodhound would be like pissing in the wind. The grate was rusted and old. Green algae climbed up the narrow bands, slicking the steel. He grabbed at the grate, his hands slipped off and he burned out the last of his energy. He needed rest.

A baying of hounds sounded in the distance. Far off to the north and east, but close enough. Just what he needed. Hounds. At least three that he could hear. They were probably out looking for him. Archers and guards were generally stupid. But stupidity isn’t an excuse for smart soldiers.

When you vanish like a ghost, people do get suspicious. Especially the ones who are supposed to keep the ghosts and boogeymen away. There were horns too out there. Horns meant guards, which meant roving patrols.

He closed his eyes and picked up the soft thudding of hooves on pavement. Three separate pairs, out of sync, and marching like a drunken Oger. Timing wasn’t just for morale and discipline.

No. Out here, it meant a way to mask your numbers. When thousands of boots thunder as one, you can’t guess how big an army is. But here, he knew there were three.

Three men were no big deal. It was the hounds he was worried about. Jake hated hounds, almost as much as he hated having to kill them. They were just tools, loyal tools to the bad guys.

Tools broke and were replaced. But, he couldn’t rationalize it. They were still animals, simple and pure. Just following orders of whoever happened to be trying to kill him this week. He hoped he didn’t have to kill the beasts.

There was something else out there though in the wastes. The faint screech of birds of prey, wings high on the midnight air. Not a pack, no. It was just one. But, it was big. The screech came again, closer, piercing his ears and chilling his blood. It was a call he knew well.

Scree.

Great.

Just one, but one Scree was bad enough. So now he had a bigger problem. Scree don’t die easy as man. Hell, Scree don’t die easy, period. They were nasty creatures with just one goal, one singular mindset.

Kill.

Everything and anything. Human, horse, dog, goat, whatever. If it bled, they fed. He needed to get inside to somewhere with walls and a roof. He needed to get the horse in too. He wouldn’t let them eat his horse. He’d die before that happened.

Renewed purpose fueled his strength. There’s no time to rest when Scree are on the prowl. No dice. The thing wouldn’t budge.

“Quincy! A little help here?” Jake groaned against the tension, his hands turned white as the blood pulsed with his fading strength.

“Go Jake. Go. Hooray. You can do it.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence.”

“What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything, really.”

Quincy melted through the wall. “Holy shit it stinks down here.”

“Try swimming in it.”

“I think there’s a way in. Move to the right a hair, no. No. Too far, back to the left. Now up.”

Jake struggled to follow the ghost’s commands.

“Too high. Back down, to the left a few inches. There! Yeah. That’s it. You feel that?”

It was there. A lever or something else hard and out of place. He pulled down on it. The thing was rusted and gave him a hard time. With a groan and the last of his dying strength he yanked it down.

The grate screeched upwards and vanished into a recessed hole. He squeezed through the tiny cut, barely fitting. His hips stuck a bit, he tried to wiggle but it wouldn’t budge.

“Your guns, genius.”

Jake sat up and undid the clasp. The belt fell from his waist, the muck sucked at the iron. He scooped it up and crawled through the hole until he could crouch. It was darker than hell inside. And it stunk something fierce.

He reached back and pushed the lever up, the grate dropped back down into the earth.

“Got a light?”

Quincy popped into focus, shining his pale blue light across the chasm. It stretched out as far as he could see, infinite blackness slick with glowing lichen. The moss hung low and puffed up as he passed. Rising and falling like living things moving to the beat of his heart. The sewer curved ahead out of his sight. There was a steady drip-dripping from somewhere above.

Slimy water fell in cold, hard drops against his head, slicking his hair with a sticky goo. He crawled further into the darkness and around the curve as he sloshed through knee deep water.

The path opened, stretching wider as he went farther into the unknown. Here, the water deepened and he found himself struggling to stay above the sewage.

There was a ladder off to his right. He climbed onto a concrete slab that dropped down into the black beyond. He could stand, finally.

Jake dropped the gun belt from his shoulder and pulled off his vest, wringing it out. Black water fell in a puddle at his feet. He shivered against the unnatural warmth. The air was humid with a tinge of decay.

He tied his vest around his waist and put the belt back on over it. He stepped into the darkness. The skittering of claws followed his every step.

The skittering soon turned to full on thundering of wolves on the hunt. Except, these weren’t wolves. They were big enough to be, mean enough to be. But they weren’t wolves.

Jake laughed. You can’t take something that cute serious, even with the dripping fangs, and the dark beady eyes.

Wicked claws scratched deep gouges into the pavement. It swished its long skinny tail back and forth. The barbed spikes on the end cut into the walls and stuck to the concrete. It flexed and shook its rear, freeing the trapped tail. Its whiskers twitched as it tasted the air, pinpointing his position. Its bulk twisted on tiny legs as it lumbered forward.

“Quincy, is that?”

“A giant mouse that’s about to eat your face? Yes. Yes it is.”

“Got any ideas?”

“Don’t know - throw some cheese at it? You’re the big bad killer. You tell me.”

Jake took a deep breath. It was too cute to kill. The mouse reared back on its two hind legs. It was surprisingly lithe. Quick and deadly. He spent too much time eyeing it, too much time considering the consequences.

While he thought, it attacked. The beast lunged forward, swinging its two front paws in wild haymakers. Razor sharp claws danced inches from his face. He dodged the first flurry, the second caught him on his cheek, gouging skin. Warm blood dripped down his face. The thing boxed with the best of them.

“Where’d you learn that?” Jake ducked the next flurry and blocked with his forearm.

Claws raked his skin, slicing through his arm. The mouse sniggered, mocking him. It’s whiskers danced up and down on its snout. It seemed confused, not expecting any resistance.

“My turn.”

He closed the distance, throwing a feint with his weak hand. He jabbed out with his strong hand, catching the thing on the snout. As he pulled his hand back for the next shot, he grabbed a handful of whiskers and pulled.

Fur tore, thick whiskers came loose in his hand. He dropped them on the ground, stepping back and to the right. The mouse blinked, it brought its paw up to feel the new holes on its face. Its beady eyes grew wide and sad.

Jake felt bad.

But it didn’t last.

The thing’s sad eyes turned vicious. It lunged in one ferocious movement.

Claws slashed skin, he felt new wounds tear open.

His clothes turned to shreds.

It flailed wildly. Jake ducked his head under his forearms, turtling his body. He tried to block, tried to defend himself. But the thing was too massive, too mad, too vicious.

It had to die.

The beast twisted on spindly, twiggy legs. Its tail swished back and forth.

It twisted up and slammed straight down.

And then the spinning started, like a great whirlwind of pain. That was all it took. You can’t defend yourself if you don’t see what’s coming.

The mouse spun, turning its back on Jake. That was all it took. Two seconds for the thing to spin and get its momentum. Two seconds to die.

Jake stepped back, drawing in the same motion. He lined the mouse’s head with the backstop of the concrete wall. He pulled the trigger before it could face him. He didn’t want to see its eyes and the horror they would hold. His heart broke with the gunpowder explosion.

Its brains painted the gray walls a deep red. Jake wiped tears from his eyes. Grime coated his cuts, the mud mixing with his white blood cells as the wound scabbed over.

He didn’t bother to check the corpse as he walked past.

“Well, that sucked.” Jake popped the cylinder and counted rounds. He was a few short.

“What? Not dying? I think that went pretty well, all things considered.”

“I don’t feel good.”

“It’s just another corpse.”

“No. I feel like this was wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with fighting for survival. Some of us wish we had that chance.”

“It’s not that. I don’t kill what don’t deserve to die.”

“It tried to kill you.”

“Just business. They don’t know right from wrong. It’s just following orders or instinct.”

“You think something was controlling it?”

“Not something. Some one.” Jake finished reloading.

“What makes you think that?”

“When’s the last time a mouse tried to eat someone’s face?”

Quincy couldn’t answer.

“Not even since the Great Mutation. They’ve always been passive. Something’s up down here.”

“You planning on saving the world, cowboy?”

“Not exactly.”

“When’d you become so heroic?”

“I’m no hero. It’s just not right. They’re innocent. No reason for them to be manipulated like that, to make something so passive so deadly.”

“Maybe you were a threat?”

Jake glared at him.

There was a crossroads before them. Three different paths branching off into darkness. Cool air wafted down the corridor to the left. The air was fresh, free from sewage and decay. It had to lead out.

It had been a while since he’d been in Rattlesnake City. But, still, the grate in the center of town was hard to forget. It was like a well, almost. He remembered the flowers surrounding it, mostly to mask the smell. Cool air usually meant exit. So, he followed it blindly, against his better judgement.

The corridor twisted and turned half a dozen times before he found himself utterly and hopelessly lost. He wandered aimlessly through roads with no end. He followed the paths blindly until a light shined in the distance.

Faint at first, but as he got closer he could make out shapes. Boxes stacked on top of one another. They almost looked like buildings. And buildings meant people. Or people like creatures. He secretly hoped they weren’t more mice things. But, at the same time, he wished they were. Long as they weren’t there to eat his face.

Why would there be buildings here? A city beneath the city? Or maybe it was an ancient ruin, from before the breaking of the world. Either way it was flat out weird.

Yeah. They were buildings alright. Solid block with windows and all.

Dim light barely penetrated down below from the street lights dangling on black steel poles. There had to be at least a half dozen houses, stores and other structures scattered about the sewer.

The town was all quiet though. No one moved. He paused just outside the view of the village. His ears strained to pick up the sounds of skittering claws or thundering hooves, or even just flat out people. The only sound was the thudding of his heart and the shallow breathing from his mouth.

“What do you think?” Jake whispered.

“Looks like people.”

“I know that. But why? Why here?”

“Cheap land? Good scenery? Got me.”

“Ever seen anything like this?”

“Once, back in Phoenix. The underworld was safer than the surface. Met a good friend there actually. Then times got tough, he moved out here somewhere. Supposed to be in Rattlesnake now. Soon as we get up there, you’ll meet him.”

“Maybe mouse was a guard dog?”

“Could be. We shouldn’t be here.”

“Too late to go back. Think we should check it out.”

“Sounds stupid. I love it.”

“What you got to lose?”

“Less than you. Don’t think we should do this.”

“What if they’re the ones who screwed up the poor mouse and made me kill her?”

“What makes you think it was a her?” Quincy flickered in the dim light. “At least let me go first.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”

“I have my moments. Back in a flash.”

Quincy faded back into the aether. Jake took the time to catch his breath. He dabbed at the cuts on his face and frowned at the ones in his clothes. Good shirts were getting hard to get. And he didn’t wear just any old tailor’s clothes, they were light kevlar mixed with a thin chain mail. Armor that was supposed to protect against all the big and scary things out there that try to kill him on a daily basis.

He overpaid.

The promised results were highly exaggerated.

Just about everything and anything had outclassed him. Maybe his gear was getting weaker or getting older. It had been a while since he went clothes shopping. But then again, these things out there were meaner than your average bear.

Guns and knives didn’t really bother him. It was demons, devils, and big ol’ mice that had been his downfall. Myth, legends, and all sorts of stuff that shouldn’t exist, but somehow does. Things just weren’t the same anymore.

He leaned against the wall and pulled the pendant from under his shirt. He spun the gold chain around his palm, wrapping the necklace across his hand. The angel face stared at him. The charm throbbed lightly against his shattered skin. He felt only warmth and exhaled a long drawn out sigh.

It was peace, for a moment. A calm washed over him, sucking away the chill of the air and damp of his clothes. He could feel the warmth of the light soothe down to his bones. His skin mended.

Quincy appeared next to him. “Jake, we need to leave. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Actually. I did.”

Jake laughed.

“We need to leave.”

“One minute. See that building?” Jake pointed towards the three story in the center of town.

“Move and you’re a dead man.” A pistol cocked, he felt cold steel against his neck, close enough to know the voice was serious.

And then there were three.

Four if you counted the one with the gun to his head. They popped from the shadows like deadly desert flowers. Four on one. Just the way he liked it. Outnumbered, but not outgunned. He gauged the threats.

Three formed up into a triangle of death. He’d have to be quick. One miscue and he was dead. If he took a minute and had himself a deep breath, he may be able to take one or two with him to Saint Peter’s gates.

The biggest threat was the one behind him. Contact shots are always fatal. If the shooter sensed his intentions, they could end the uprising before it began.

It was better to play into their hands for a few. He couldn’t draw. That would be stupid. Any sudden moves towards his waist wouldn’t look too good, he’d have to use their own weapons against him. He felt something move behind him on the contact. The gun wasn’t held right.

He could feel the barrel sloping down towards his shoulder when it should be pointed at his head. Seemed like a weak hand grip. He wondered where the other hand was. Maybe off to his side? To give hand signals to the rest of the bandits. That was the only rational explanation.

But, he put himself in the shooter’s shoes. Seemed like a waste of time. He figured the other hand had to be close, it’s what he would have done. Maybe near his waist. Close enough to disarm him before he knew. Or maybe it had another weapon in case the one at his head was a decoy. Two weapons just to throw one away didn’t seem rational.

Every time you bring a gun to a fight, you better be prepared to use it. Because, if you’re not - then your opponent will.

It was a simple rule of the gunfighter.

The other was shoot first.

Could Quincy help? Maybe for target acquisition. Ghosts only show what they want you to see. So, maybe the ghost could be his dead eye. Paint his targets, let him know where he needed to aim. It could work. But how to let him know? He hoped the ghost wasn’t that stupid.

Steel jabbed him in the ribs. So that’s where the other gun was. Probably a smart move. Whatever it was, it complicated things. He couldn’t take out six guns by himself. Not like this.

Counterattacks went out the window. Survival became the new plan.

“Who are you?” The guy with the gun turned out to be the girl with the gun. The voice behind him was definitely female. And definitely pissed off.

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Reckon you ain’t in much a position to be asking questions, stranger. I say again: Who are you?”

“Just a lost traveler. Thought I was in Rock City. Guess I was wrong. My mistake. I think I’ll be going now.”

“Move and you die.” Her voice was colder than high mountain winter.

“I kind of figured that, what with all these guns pointed in my general direction. I wonder, do y’all know how to use these things? Or is it just for show?”

She laughed, it came out as a hollow sound with just the slight tinge of ringing bells. One gun fell. His pack opened. She rifled around in it, finding one of the rotten apples. “Do we know how to use these things?” She set the apple on his head. “Randy, if you’d please.”

The farthest gunman in the triangle of death raised his pistol. Jake grit his teeth as the round exploded through the air. He faced death and swallowed his pride. He took his last few seconds to say a silent prayer. The round soared high, the wind and hot lead rushed past his head, the apple shattered with a great sucking sound.

“Does that answer your question?”

Jake nodded.

“Feel like talking now? I find near death experiences always have a way of loosening lips.”

“I should call the sheriff.”

“Oh honey, you just don’t learn do you? There’s no sheriff down here, no law in the darkness. It’s just me and mine. I am justice.”

“That’s funny. So am I.” He slipped his elbow free, catching her in the gut. The low gun dropped from his spine. He pulled down on her other hand, smacking it against his shoulder. The gun came loose. He fired three rounds faster than he could blink. Guns went flying. Screams filled the room. No one died.

Just the way he wanted it.

“Nice shooting. ‘Fraid I’m just a little bit better though. Now don’t go doing nothing stupid. Leave your weapons where they lay. I promise you, I won’t spare your lives a second time.”

He stepped away from the fallen bandits, stooping low to pick up their guns. And that’s when she did something stupid.

It wasn’t too well thought out. More of a last ditch effort, she had to know it wouldn’t work. He heard her coming before she moved. The whole damn thing was telegraphed so blatantly that he couldn’t figure out how they got the slip on him to begin with. But, that was the beauty of it.

He knew she was coming with her first strike, which meant he wasn’t ready for the second one. She lunged at him, charging full speed ahead. She barreled forward, catching Jake flat in the back.

He rolled with her, they tumbled down the path and into the village. He didn’t expect to lose his gun. In the tumble, she managed to disarm him of both weapons.

One went flying. He struggled to get control of the second. He grabbed at the barrel as it met him between the eyes. She had him good.

“I should kill you right now for being so stupid.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing myself.” Jake kicked up, striking out with his shins. They caught her in the chest. He flipped her over but lost control of the gun. She landed on her back.

He ran to her, throwing himself on top of the gun, putting the whole of his weight on her arm and Jake pushed with all his strength, trying to pry her fingers off the handle.

She held on, punching, flailing out with her weak hand. The blows caught him in the neck and shoulder. He felt his arm go dead as the pins and needles shot through his shoulder and down to his fingers.

The girl twisted and whipped her body into weird angles he never thought humanely possible, breaking his hold. She stood panting at the opposite end of the road. They stared at each other.

He squinted, reading the engraving on the gun. That was all the assurance he needed. He charged forward, headlong, oblivious to the danger. She brought the gun up, he knew he was in her sights, which suited him just fine.

He saw her finger go back, tensioning the trigger. His time was running out. Soon she would know. He tackled her as she drew back. Nothing happened. Just as he thought.

That gun was empty.

She fell to the ground, knocked down under his weight. He saw her reach down behind her back. Of course. He’d have the same plan. Which meant he had to get his up first.

In a flash, their knives clashed. Sparks flew. They circled each other in a deadly dance. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, someone else acting stupid. Randy maybe?

He ducked her slice, it went high and wide, cutting through the air just above his head. He tossed his blade and jumped backwards, dropping to the ground and rolling away. His knife struck home, catching the man in the hand. Just feet before he could grab the gun.

Perfect timing. Perfect pin. But perfection has its price. He spent too long checking his throw.

She lunged, catching him in the gut. Steel sparked as the chain checked the blow.

His armor actually worked! Then again, he was pretty sure she wasn’t a demon.

Or was she? The blade caught armor and she shrieked a high pitched wail of despair. Anger gave way, turning a calculated killer into the devil of emotion as patience and rational thought vanished.

He could see the rage welling up in her eyes. She struck out wildly, the strikes were hard, telegraphed perfectly. He blocked them all. She struck out again, carving a nasty Z into his armor. The kevlar gave up ground with a great tearing sound.

She twisted the blade up last second, catching him in the throat. It was a glancing blow, just above his old scar. Crisscrossing it in a sinister X.

Another scar. Just what he needed.

This had to end. He couldn’t hold on much longer. Sweat dripped down his face and into newly opened wounds, salty sweat mixed with his bloody wounds as his flesh burned hotter with each passing second.

Jake was getting tired. It was getting harder to breathe. He had enough for maybe one more shot. Then it was game over. They’d overpower him and he’d be done for.

“We can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to kill you.” Jake was breathing heavy. He found himself back in the triangle of death.

“I’m just getting warmed up.” She stared cold and hard into him.

“Somehow, I doubt that.” He stepped back and put the knife down.

She quirked an eyebrow. The bandits rose slowly to their feet.

“My name’s Jake. Jake Dollop. From out east. I need to get into Rock City. Tonight.”

She sighed and lowered her weapon. “I’m Robin.” She pointed to the goons around her. “And these are my Hoods.”

“Pleasure. I’d tip my hat, but I uhm, lost it. Up there.”

“Guards?”

Jake nodded.

“Yeah. They keep the trouble out.” She smiled.

“I noticed.”

“So, what’s so special about tonight?”

Jake looked around at the Hoods. Should he tell them? There was nothing to lose anymore, what did it matter? The map was gone. He was lost and needed all the help he could get. Robin and her Hoods circled around him like he had set to tell a campfire tale. He shared his story, and when he was finished, their eyes stared in wonder at the ghost before them.

“Okay. We’ll help. Here’s what you need to do.”

Darkness gave way to faint light shining down from the bruised sky above. The grate moved easily enough, like it’d been designed to open and close on a whim. He stepped up the ladder and out into the dry air above. The town wasn’t as large as the wall made it out to be. It looked more like a sprawling mishmash of stone and survival.

Stone mixed with steel as the gates wrapped around the complex. Log and adobe buildings popped up with no rhyme or reason. For being so new, everything looked so - sick.

Grime and soot scarred ramshackle houses and dirtied storefronts. Tonight, the streets were deserted, desolate. Yellow sulphur streetlights lit the world in a jaundice glow, the lights flickered and popped with the burning chemical reaction.

Soldiers posted at buildings without names. Carbines held at point, they stood at attention, eyes darting across the roadway to Jake and his crew. They nodded curtly as he passed.

“What’s up with the guards?” Jake whispered when they were out of earshot.

“We’re still at war out here.” Robin said.

“But the Russians won, why are they still fighting?”

“That’s only half the battle. Now the Indians and Elves want a piece of the pie. We’ve been hit with a blitz every night for the past two weeks. If it’s not one tribe, it’s another. The city’s on edge. Guards are supposed to make things better. Truth is, they don’t.”

“Too many guards are never a good thing.” They paused on the porch of the sheriff’s office. Wanted posters were tacked to the wall. “What’s your story?” He stared at the pencil sketch on the wall. Brunette, long dark hair. Slender eyes. That strange black patch on the arm of her jump suit. “One day you said ‘I want to be an outlaw when I grow up?’ Didn’t much peg you for the lootin’ and shootin’ kind of girl.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Mr. Dollop. I could ask the same of you.”

“I’m no outlaw.”

“Oh really? Because the picture I see here tells me something different. So, who is-”

“Don’t. Don’t say that name.”

She quirked an eyebrow.

“Remember Quincy?”

She nodded.

“Yeah. Like that, only more pissed off and violent. Trust me, it’s better if we don’t talk about it.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask. The fact this is here means we got bigger problems than which one of us got the bigger bounty. Graham’s here.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a wanted man. Sure. But, Jake Dollop’s a wanted man. This - person, he’s not wanted, shouldn’t even be known. Only a few people out there know that name. And one of ‘em is dead. The other is me. Which leaves only him.”

“Him, meaning Graham?”

Jake nodded. “Look at the charges. Horse thievery, defrauding an innkeeper. I was only in town one night. I paid in cash for my room and board. The horse was my own. And then there’s murder. Of one Quincy Campbell. Who, by all logic, would not be standing next to me if I killed him. Right?”

“No doubt about that.” Quincy stepped closer to the wall, his glow illuminating the fine print. “And if that didn’t seal the deal, check the bounty request. Bring proof of capture to Marshal Bill Graham, city of Black Mesa Police.”

That settled it.

“He’s around here somewhere. Let’s finish this.” Quincy’s aura faded, changing from a light blue to a deep red.

“Wait a minute. Don’t go doing anything stupid.” He held his hand out, blocking Quincy’s path. His hand fell through the air.

“Jake’s right.” Robin said. “We need to think about this. If he’s here, he’s ready for war. We can’t just go in guns blazing, making him beg for his life. No. That doesn’t make sense. We don’t even know where he is.”

“I’ve got a good guess.”

The shrill call of the Scree out for prey shattered the silence. Shadows passed overhead, mammoth wings fluttered above. His horse was still out there beyond the gates, trapped in the wastes. Jake looked towards the barred fence at the three men standing guard.

They stood flanking the massive steel structure. Carbines held at point, they stood perfect examples of everything a soldier should not be. The real threat was at the turrets above. They were the ones raining hellfire and arrows down at him in the wastes.

These two here were half drunk from sleep and stinking of stale booze. If he could get past them, he’d be okay. All they had to do was shout up to the turret guards. Let them know he was heading out. They’d have to let him in on principle alone. It was worth a shot. The thought of his horse as dinner for some savage beast was too much to bear. He had to try.

“That’s him. Jonas Hill. Holy crap he looks like shit.” Quincy said.

“You’re kidding, you know that louse?” Robin asked.

“We go back a ways. He was my sister’s godfather.”

“Go figure.” Jake shook his head. “This who we’re here to see?”

“Hell no. This guy’s a worthless prick. Screwed her out of everything she ever had.”

“Payback’s a bitch.”

“Got any spare change? Or cheap booze? Maybe we can bribe our way out.” Robin dug through her pockets. “I’m all out.”

Jake shook his head. “Or talk. Talk is cheap.”

“Maybe we can knock him out? Or kill ‘em both?” Robin licked her lips. “Everybody wins then.”

“I don’t much need another bounty, thanks though. Wait here.” Jake stepped forward, leaving his friends behind. “Pardon me gentlemen. Perhaps you can help me out tonight?”

“Curfew’s in a half hour. You need to head home, boy.” The guard met him halfway.

“I know, but you see I’ve got - Jonas? Jonas Hill? Is that you? Holy crap you’ve changed. How’ve you been?”

Jonas blinked and stumbled away from the wall, his helmet fell below his eyes. He lifted it up and slurred, “Who’s that?”

“It’s me, you old bastard. You don’t remember? Really? Has it been that long?”

The guard snapped. “Mind your tongue, boy.”

“Wait. Wait a minute. Hold on Hodges.” Jonas took a step forward, swaying as he walked.

“It’s me. Jimmy. Jimmy Campbell. Quincy’s son!”

“Quincy? No shit. How’s the old man doing?”

“Oh just great. He’s positively glowing. Oh man, the news I got. Tell ya what, I need a quick favor, then we can go back to the bar and shoot the shit. It’s been forever. We got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Sure boy. What you need?”

“My horse. Damn stupid beast. We were in the stables before sundown, I’d been helping muck the pen. We just got a new bridle and I was fixin’ to try it on. Bitch bolted, quick as lightning out the pen. Lost her out in the wastes. I been trying to find ‘er, but the city don’t let strangers in past nightfall. And I reckon they don’t know me well as I know you.”

Jonas nodded. “Right right.”

“Bastard’s worth some change to me. I’d really like to get her back afore she’s Scree bait. Some drunk in the saloon told me they’d seen a mare out wandering just past the gates. Gotta be my girl. It’s worth a shot, you know. The bond between a horse and man, well, you know.”

“Exactly. You say she’s right out that gate?”

“Jonas, you’re not seriously considering this, are you?”

“Oh Hodges, shut the hell up. Stupid rookie. Sorry, don’t mind him. Anyway. Yeah, I suppose we can help you out. Don’t go far.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “You know I’m putting my ass on the line for this one, right? Think you can spare a little something to - ah - you know, ease the pain?”

“Tell ya what, you let me out and if I find the damn mongrel, drinks are on me tonight. Fair enough?”

“More than. My shift ends in an hour.” Jonas smiled a drunken, toothless grin that soon turned into a frown. “Hey Jimmy - what happens if you don’t come back?”

“Then I guess they’ll find my bones picked dry come morning.”

“Want I should go with?”

“I don’t think that’d be necessary. But if you want, I won’t say no.”

A screech pierced the midnight air. Hodges ducked under the wall. Jonas stared up at the heavens in wide eyed terror. They cowered in the shadow of the gate, clutching each other like lost children. The fluttering of heavy wings echoed in the canyon. The Scree flew in low circles over the village. Then all went silent and calm once more.

Jonas stood up and pushed Hodges away. His voice grew with alcoholic fury. “Andy - pop the gate for a few. We’re sending a party out after the Scree.”

“What’s the codeword?” Andy shouted back down.

“Buttered beans.”

“Good enough.” The gate swung open. “You’ve got five minutes to get the hell out, then we’re sealing up and calling it a night. You gotta be crazy to be out on this wall when that thing’s up there. Almost as stupid and crazy as going out looking for trouble. They don’t pay us enough for this shit.”

He stepped through the gate, into the clearing and beyond the walls. Robin and Jonas followed close behind. Hodges brought up the rear. The pine forest wasn’t far beyond the gates. He found the horse still waiting in the distance where he’d left her. Jake whistled high and shrill. There was silence for a moment, quiet enough to make his heart stop. Then the galloping, thudding sounds of a horse happy to hear its owner call her name.

The Scree called back. But, Jake had mounted up and rode hard for the closing doors. They cleared the walls just as the gates slammed shut. Andy called down from the turret: “Knew you weren’t that stupid.”

“Yer goddamn right we ain’t.” Jonas slurred his reply.

Jake thanked the guards and sent Robin to wait for them back at the saloon. He watched them walk off into the shadows before turning and riding through town. Jake woke the stablehand up with the promise of gold. The man ran off in a hurry and set to mucking the stables and baling the hay. He came back a short while later, all nods and polite smiles. He gave the man the last of his coin. He promised more riches when he returned.

When the stablehand left, Jake sat with the horse. They shared a moment of silence. He stroked its mane and patted its head gently. He rubbed its flanks and held on tight. “You’ll be here a while. It’s a vacation. I don’t want anything to happen to you. This road’s about to get mighty dangerous. It’s best you stay here a while. They’ll take care of you, I promise.”

Big brown eyes stared back at him, innocent and ancient. They misted over.

Jake bit his lip. “Don’t make this any harder than it already is. I’ll come back, girl. I promise.”

The horse nuzzled his neck.

“Please.”

He heard her footsteps before he saw her coming. He pulled his knife and twisted it back, as the girl stepped forward, she brushed aside his knife. “So, this is where you went.” Robin sighed. “Put that away. Who’s this?”

“The only friend I ever had.” He turned away and gave the horse one last kiss on its snout. “We should go.”

She nodded. “We need to be back in the bar. They need to know we’re there if this is going to work.”

The saloon was packed. They pushed through the crowd back to their table in the corner. There were only two seats. The Hoods were nowhere to be found. Thick smoke hung heavy on the still air. A drunken man swaggered forward, two buddies in tow.

He slammed his glass on their table, spilling his beer. He leaned forward, breath heavy with the booze. He looked at Robin, checking her figure. He brushed back her brown hair. She gave him an icy stare.

“Ey there purty thing. Y’all here for the gold too? Well, you ain’t gonna get it. Me and mine got these hills on lock. We just bought a map, got the last one. Treasure’s mine, purty. And when I get tha’gold, I’m comin’ back for you.” He licked his lips and stumbled away.

“Friend of yours?” Robin shuddered. “You two smell the same.”

Jake eyed the table across from them where men threw cards onto green felt. They looked like high rollers. He thought about flipping his wealth. Robin cautioned against it. Two surly men in brown dusters were throwing dice on another table. One reached back to toss his load, the silver frame of a Colt Peacemaker stuck out. A gold star hung next to it.

Marshals.

And behind them, leaning against the wall, was his old friend.

Sheriff Graham stood in the shadows, wiping an oilcloth across the frame of his gun. With his hat worn low and the brim just above his eyes, he cast an imposing figure. The man wasn’t looking their way. Better for Jake to stare and prepare. Bill Graham wasn’t alone.

The two at the table were definitely marshals. The three others that sat on either side of him had to be too. Maybe eight at most. Eight to his two. Not good odds. Then again, with twenty in the bar, more could be hidden. Secret agents of the old guard, ready to spring and take him down. The bounty on his head was getting larger. So was hers. There was too much money in the bar for his liking.

“Where’s everyone else?” Jake took a deep breath, centering his mind and body.

“Better you don’t know. Just in case. When the alarms sound, just get outside. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Alarms?”

Right on cue, smoke filled the room. There was a scream and frantic shouts. Bells tolled out loud and angry in the midnight air. Soot coated his throat, he choked, coughing out black lung goo.

Chaos. It was infinite chaos. People tumbled from chairs and ran, screaming from burning timbers that came crashing down. Two people were pinned under smoldering lumber. He shielded his eyes and looked for Graham, but he was gone. Lost to the winds.

“Go.” Robin screamed, smacking him in the back of his head. “We’ll take care of this. Get out of here.”

Jake ran as the walls came crashing down.

He ran out past the smoldering ruins of the bar, through the gates of the city that crept open as he passed into the sunrise beyond the ruin. Graham couldn’t have gotten far. Footprints still fresh in the sand below pointed the way towards his prey. It hadn’t been long since the alarm sounded. He could still taste the woodsmoke on his lips. Flames still licked at the roof of the smoldering bar.

Sunrise surrounded him, coating the wastes with all the colors of the rising sun and all of the beautiful danger flickering behind. He caught the slim outline of dust clouds on the horizon, moving quickly towards the Hill. He followed. The morning mists coiled around his legs, blocking view of the path below. He followed on instinct alone.

Something nagged inside his head, it was a little voice telling him secrets he already knew. They were both after the same thing. Gold. Treasure, whatever’s up in them hills.

Of all the ways and all the roads in this blasted land, why’d he have to run to this one? Apex, Rock City, hell, even the church. He had to know. There was no other explanation. The question wasn’t what he knew, it was how.

Quincy? No. That didn’t make sense. Or did it? One way to find out. Could ghosts read minds? He didn’t know. This was all new. Jake hated new. He liked old familiar things.

But, it was possible. Hell, anything was possible. He walked through the solitary sands, red and pink light crawled up the horizon, like spiders up the web. Morning was coming, and with it the heat of a new day. Something didn’t feel right though. His skin crawled as the sun crested the horizon. The evening’s chill remained.

His eyes followed the line of the horizon up towards the mountains. The jagged tips of spiked parapets were small in the distance. Rattlesnake City was still a few hours’ climb, but he could still see the majesty of the stone. His mind wandered back to happier times. Times before the war. When the engines still ran and the greatest distance was just a short journey away.

He passed through hulking relics of ancient train cars and rotting railways as the road curved upwards. Once glorious signs of an industrial revolution, they now sat rusted and forgotten only to be cast down like a toddler’s broken toy.

He had rode the trains once. Jake closed his eyes, and heard the ghosts of the old world call his name in the rickety thunder of a machine steaming towards new adventures.

Jake walked along rusted steel rails, lost in the memories of happier times. Rattlesnake City. The wonder of the west, it had been carved out of the mountain itself. Dad took him there, just before ten thousand suns changed his life forever.

Spices carried faint on the air: Mint, cilantro, cumin and lime. The veiled lady who had given him a prize. The rock candy sweet as the summer sun that he bit down into and cracked a tooth. His father ruffling his hair and telling him everything would be okay.

The tooth never healed. But, it didn’t matter. Teeth grew out back then, they had real dentists with real tools and machines. It hurt, but he pressed on, all caught up in the wonders of that day.

They stopped at another booth with all the colors of the rainbow painted on the awning above. The man there gave him a dolly toy with floppy hands and floppy legs. He hugged it close.

The man said it was special, at the time Jake thought it was a gift from the gods. They passed through the market and into the center of town. Buildings pierced the sky.

Gleaming glass bounced light back in a dizzying prism of color. Men and women bustled by; each one was lost in their own thoughts as they passed by talking to people without looking at them.

Everyone held boxes to their ears talking away and lost in their own world. Cars flew past lights that changed from red to green, and then green to yellow. There was noise everywhere.

His father gripped his hand and held it tight. They wandered from building to building, stopped at a tiny house on a corner street. A kindly old woman had brought them food: Some meat in a shell. It tasted like heaven.

They spent the day there. Night came and they rode the train back. Millions of stars twinkled in the velvet sky.

Two weeks later, the bombs fell. And everything changed.

Where once sturdy oak had held rails that glittered in the sunlight, now the wood had rotted out in the middle, their rusted rails flopped against the wind, hanging down into the chasm below. Jake stepped gingerly over the opening and onto the weakened wood beyond.

He dropped to all fours and climbed slowly, testing each spike before he stepped. Beams creaked with his weight. The depot was just ahead, and it wouldn’t take much longer now. Jake blinked against the blinding sunlight as he rounded the last curve in the track and came into the old train station.

Time had not been kind. Ancient bronze lanterns had long since turned green with age. Granite pillars crumbled and lay in rumble. The roof was caved inwards, leaning down towards shattered marble floors.

Old ticket machines were pried open, their fronts creaked in the gentle breeze, decayed paper turned to ash that coated the pitted plastic chairs with a thick grey dust. It had been ten years since he last saw the depot. The trains still ran back then.

He walked through desolate streets lined with newspaper, now old and yellowed. Garbage and rubble littered ancient cracked asphalt.

Jake shuddered against the silence. “Quincy?”

“I’m here, Jake.”

“You sure someone still lives here?”

“I’m certain.”

“Looks like Apex.”

“Only bigger.”

They passed through alleys lined with bleached bones. “More like the Russian death camps. Let’s get out of here.”

Rattlesnake’s grid was still in place. The streets still went where they should, power pulsed through silver lines above.

Lights flickered green, then yellow, finally settling on a steady red. Rusted cars didn’t move; their skeletal drivers weren’t paying attention anymore. Crumpled newspaper rolled south, it was the only movement in this dead city.

They walked south on Sequoia, following the trail of fallen paper.

“We’re getting close. There. That’s it.” Quincy pointed off in the distance, where a large warehouse squatted between a dried canal and a rusted chain link fence.

“Looks just like everything else in this place. Empty.”

Quincy nodded. “How long’s it been since you’ve seen this place?”

“Ten years, give or take.”

“Things - changed.”

“I can see that.” Jake sighed, tracing the whitewashed lines on the sign in front of him: Vista Point. “Dad used to take me here. Once was you could see the whole of the city from right here. Big buildings and ancient trees were all over. We had a picnic right here.” Jake stepped under the cracked bough of a fallen tree. He kicked absently at the dust and sand, something hard stubbed his toe.

“Find something good?”

“Don’t know.” He started digging. “One way to find out.”

Sifting through debris isn’t as tedious as it sounds, especially when there’s the possibility of treasure involved. American money was useless, using the Russian money just seemed dirty. He made his way with real things: Tangible property that could be bartered and trade like gold, silver, trinkets and toys. Especially old toys.

There was something about the allure of a tiny doll that made the mind wander to happier times. Dirt caked his fingernails, his hands turned black with the soot. It didn’t take long though to find his prize: It was an old metal tin.

The handle was still intact. He squinted at the picture painted on the front of a man wearing a mask as he rode an old horse. There was lettering on the top, somebody’s name, he couldn’t make it out anymore. The clasp popped easy enough. Inside was a book.

“Anything good?”

“No. Not really.”

“Oh come on, Jake. I saw that look on your face. What is it?”

“Nothing, just some junk.”

“You know I’m dead, right? What good is it to me?”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s them.” Jake raised his hands and dropped down to his knees as the raid party stepped closer, he knew their uniforms, but in that moment he found himself more concerned with the rifles they carried.

They led him through cracked streets. Giant buildings loomed over him, towering above trees and mountain peaks. The towers scraped the sky and stabbed upwards piercing into the heart of heaven itself.

Large chunks were missing, concrete rained down as he passed through. Few buildings were still intact, the rest looked like broken fingers or prison bars.

Jake stopped to stare at one of the intact buildings. A kick set him back on the right path. They prodded at him, guiding him towards the warehouse. Dead eyes stared at him as he walked by. The doors swung open and slammed shut as he passed through into the open room

Inside was civilization, or what was left of it. The tiny tents and shops he remembered from his youth now sprawled across the open warehouse floor. Spices mingled with the musty air. The people inside the shelter looked a little better, or at least close to healthy.

Their eyes were still dead, like walking corpses come back to life, but they mingled and spoke with one another. It was a just a tiny spark of life. Canvas tarps hung suspended from metal wire; their flaps stood open, letting oscillated air from bladed machines flow into the rooms.

Inside children slept peacefully, their bodies curled into little balls.

The soldiers marched him past the shops. As he passed, people stopped to stare. They led him down a corridor, past a crossroads, and to a door. Here there were walls. The door swung open and an old man beckoned him forward.

“Found him up on the hill, scavenging our ruins. He took something.” The guard ripped the tin out of Jake’s hand and tossed it on the ground like a piece of trash.

Jake cried and lunged forward, grasping at the air as the tin clanged harmlessly onto the tile floor.

“Must be valuable. See how he cries?”

The old man nodded. “Leave us.” He waved them away.

They paused, unsure of the message.

“I said go.”

“But that man is dangerous. He fought us!”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

The guards grumbled and left, shutting the door behind them. “We’ll be outside in case there’s trouble.”

There was silence for a moment after they left. The old man stared at him. His mouth was twisted in a frown. “Pick it up.”

Jake blinked.

“I said pick it up. Get that trash off my floor.”

He scrambled forward, scooping up the tin, he clutched it tight to his chest. “Thanks. Thank you.”

“Is Quincy with you?”

“I’m sorry? I don’t know what you-”

“Daniels, damn it’s good to see you after all these years.” Quincy’s red shadow flashed into a solid form in front of them.

“So, then I guess it’s true?” Daniel’s eyes misted over. Whether from happiness or grief, Jake could not tell.

Quincy nodded.

“Excellent. There is hope for us yet. I take it this is your boy?”

“Excuse me?” It was getting warm in there.

Another nod. There was a rush of energy above, air whooshed through vents and blew down into the chamber. Jake stared at the old man. Gray hair flew wildly like wisps in the wind.

Bushy eyelids rose and fell with the man’s exasperated expressions. They were babbling in strange tongues and speaking words he’d never heard before. Like a secret code between coconspirators. Jake felt uneasy. The wind blew harder, the heat evaporated.

“You know I’m standing here, right?”

They both paused mid-sentence. “He is here to help.” Quincy was finally speaking to him. “Jake, this is Old Man Daniels. He’s been around since before ten thousand suns. We met years ago on a scavenging mission out in Old Phoenix. He told me about the treasure in the Hills. He’s supposed to help us with it. Only problem is, well, you see. He’s got a city to run.”

“It’s not half what it used to be. But, we’re working hard out here. Or we were, until the bandits came and the Scree went hunting. I can’t keep the gates guarded, it’s a free-for-all out there. The best hope we have is to kill them all, but that, well, that seems impossible. I’ve pulled the best and the brightest from the city into this tiny town. We’re going to rebuild from their spirits. Here they’re safe. Out there, they’re snacks for the Scree.”

“Yeah. It’s a shitty world out there.” Jake shivered. Even with the ice blowing through vents above, he was still sweating through his clothes. “But what’s that got to do with me?”

“I just need you to make a choice. I hear you’re in want of some money. And, to us, that’s no object. I’ve got plenty to go around. But, I need that golden statue. You can keep whatever else you find in the cave, but I want that.” Daniels’ bushy eyebrows drooped low, “Please. Help me help my people.”

“Do you have the paper?” Quincy asked.

“Will you help?”

“Yes.”

“Is anybody going to ask my opinion of this?” Jake stood up, backing towards the door.

“No.” The ghost and the old man answered his question.

“We already know your answer.” Quincy smiled.

“Head to the library, go tell Della what you’re looking for. Quincy knows where it is.”

“How much money we talkin’ bout?” Jake had to ask.

“More than you’ll ever need. And then some.”

“Show me.”

“A skeptic? Still? Even after all that you’ve seen? All that you now know?”

“See, old man, that’s the thing. I can’t keep y’all straight. Is this even about the money anymore? What the hell is this thing? What’s your motive in this game? Somebody needs to make a move before I lose my mind and tell you all to go fuck yourself.”

Quincy sighed. “There’s a lot of bad people in this world, badder than you. They say this thing’s a weapon powerful enough to move heaven and hell. It’s supposed to be the whole reason for this goddamn war. Think about it for a minute. Picture somebody worse than you with the power to change the world. You think shit’s bad now? If that falls into the wrong hands, it’s going to get a whole lot worse. Now picture Old Man Daniels here, or even me and you. We’re not so bad see, now imagine that power in our hands. We can fix this blasted place. Put the wrong things back right again. Think about the city. Hell, think about old Phoenix. We can do this, Jake.”

“I get all that heroic bullshit. Fine, I’ll play ball with you. But what I don’t get is what’s your stake in it? What do you have to gain? You’re a dead man, a freakin’ ghost for fuck’s sake. Okay, he’s got the key to finding the damn thing. He’s your friend. You bring me to him, we get the map or the key or whatever it is. We go save the world and ride into the sunset, but why? What’d Graham kill you for? What stopped you from going into the Hills all by yourself? You’ve hunted before, then you’ve hunted again. You never took me with you. I was never good enough. What’s changed?”

“I’m just thinking about my family.”

“The fuck you are! You’ve never given a damn about us, why all of a sudden now, in a bar in some dead gulch backwater little shit of a town? How’d you even find me?”

“Consider this, Jake. I didn’t find you. You. Found. Me. You found me because you needed me, you needed my help. Admit it, there’s things out there, things above us all. Things that even you or I don’t understand, probably never will. But, maybe the fact that my dead ass is standing here talking to you, maybe that’s a sign enough that we can fix this goddamn world.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Old Man Daniels held up his hands, shaking his head. “Your theological arguments are sound. But, really, I believe you have a job to do. You’ve all got your own reasons, that’s fine and well. And if you can complete this task, well, then you’ll both get your own rewards. We’ll all live happily ever after. The end. I grow weary of this talk. Now get out of my chambers. Guards? See this man out.”

“Wait, one more quick question.”

“Yes?”

“Where’s the library?”

“Down the hall. To the left.”

“Thanks.” Jake had to get the last word in.

Two grunts pulled open the door, big meaty paws grabbed his shirt collar. He felt himself being pulled up off the floor and into the air. They dropped him suddenly. He fell with a thud, cracking his head on the tile floor. Thin blood seeped out the side of his skull. They dragged him out the door.

“Oh wait. I almost forgot. Watch out for the thing in the cave. Tell your friend.”

The old bastard won. He got the last word as the door slammed shut.

Newspaper clippings. He did all that for newspaper clippings. Damn useless things. It wasn’t until he sat down that night to read them that it all became clear. The next day they chased him out of town.

Lies. Everything he knew was a lie. He didn’t know if he should thank or damn Old Man Daniels; the words on the page still twisted around in his head, lurching through his mind in a sickening spiral that brought nothing but pain.

War was a useless thing, but this one was worth fighting for. He couldn’t let Daniels or Graham have the idol. It was a thing that needed to be destroyed. Jake had read the words between the lines.

This thing was dangerous, and when he tried to challenge them, it got ugly real quick; Daniels had a goon squad designed just to make his life a living hell. The dust cloud behind him was getting closer, they were catching up fast. He thought there was a chance he’d make it away alive, just far enough to get into the high desert and find himself some cover. He’d meet the goons with a lead rain of his own.

But the goons never came. Jake settled under a stone arch on the banks of an ancient pine forest. Behind him stretched endless rock and the jagged mountains of the Stonetooth Trail. Noon sun vanished behind darkening storm clouds that threatened to drown any approaching force. Thunder tore through the silence above, forked lightning ignited the skies in white flame. The rains came hard. Thunder rolled across the distance, lightning flashed in the sky.

The winds picked up, a vicious, wicked howl that made his blood run cold. Rain came down in large drops that fell hard and heavy against the arroyo wash. The hungry ground soaked up the rain until the basin had drank all it could. The levy broke and the river roared, the basin came alive with the raging torrent of crying gods.

Jake was soaked through and through. His clothes hung heavy and bloated against his skin. His body temperature dropped and the cold came hard. His teeth chattered, he was freezing to death.

The rain fell harder and heavier, blinding him and turning the valley into the gray shadow of nothingness. He couldn’t see in front of him, and couldn’t see behind either. He was trapped in the raging storm.

Jake caught his breath under a ponderosa pine. Lightning cracked and shattered the tree to his left. The electric shock tingled his feet and tickled his head in a prickling fear. The fire smoldered and faded to cold smoke in the drenching downpour. Woodsmoke filled the air and danced into his nose.

It was a choking, terrifying smell. The water rose to his ankles and he trudged on.

The storm did not quit. Lightning came faster, and the thunder grew louder. The sizzling shock of the blasting storm was getting closer and closer. What started as minutes between strikes soon turned to seconds and then almost instantly.

Wicked forks of electricity shot through the sky and trees fell in the fury, damming the valley. He was trapped. The rocky outcropping was behind him now, but Jake still walked in the wash.

The water was ever rising, turning to a raging river in minutes. The winds blew and branches fell, leaves dropped from trees and whole cacti fell in the blitz. Some struck by fierce lightning, others blowing over and turning to spiky bridges across narrow ravines.

Wind blew off to his right, pushing him off course. The further he traveled into the heart of the storm, the more the vortex wrapped around him. Soon, he was in a slim tornado of dirt, rocks and debris that stirred up in the rising tide of destruction.

Tiny sandstone rocks battered against his head, he pushed down his soaked hair, brushing it out of his eyes. It wasn’t good, but it was good enough. He lidded his head with his hand, it was all he could do to keep the stabbing shrapnel out of his eyes.

Lightning lit up the sky, casting white light across the horizon. For the first time since the deluge began, he could see shelter, just ahead, above the raging river.

It was a small cave. If he could get up there, he’d be fine and could wait out the storm. There he could have a chance to rest and puzzle through everything in shelter. He hoped he could find branches dry enough for a fire to dry out for a bit.

But the cave was high up on the hill. Finding it was easy, getting in there would be tricky. The mud path leading up to the hill had eroded away, leaving nothing but a slick ramp to nowhere. The cave looked solid enough. If he could only get there.

He wondered about the girl. Should he go back? Could he? No, it was too dangerous. He had to look after his own now. She could make do, her brigands seemed more than capable when they met last night.

Curiosity flickered on the back of his mind. What happened in the fire? Did Robin make it out? If she did, where would she go? They set the fire, they had to. There was no other explanation.

After the fire, where would they go? The Hoods couldn’t go back underground. Not in a town they tried to burn down. They had to take to the wind. Which meant they were out here.

Out somewhere in this storm. Probably lost in the wastes and the wind. They’d be looking for shelter too. Somewhere out here, but where? There had to be other caves. This was gold country. There had to be mines all over the place. Surely they found one just as he had. He couldn’t worry about them, there was enough to worry about in the here and now.

Thunder roared in the distance as another great ironwood met its fate. One tree stood above the rest, it glowed faintly in the gray light of the raging storm as the smaller pines around it fell in waves.

The water rose to his knees, Jake waded through the raging river to the other end of the hill. A small path had been cut into the sandstone. He stepped onto it, the path turned to dust beneath his feet. There was no way up. He resigned himself to floating in the rising waters.

He felt bad for the horse, trapped in the stables probably drowning under the rising tide. This wasn’t the way they were supposed to die. He regretted leaving the beast there.

No. He had to keep positive and just keep thinking happy thoughts; everything would be alright.

Yeah.

And maybe he could fly.

No, this was better. Leaving the horse there meant someone would take care of her. If the poor bastard wasn’t hiding, cowering under the eaves, waiting for her life to end.

She better not be, not for the price Jake paid. He knew in his heart it was the right thing to do. The old mare couldn’t take much more adventuring like this.

It was an adventure alright. He shivered. An adventure full of fierce weather, fiercer beasts and baddies. But his poor horse couldn’t handle it. The poor girl was getting old, fear from the storm alone would probably kill her. Just like it might kill him too.

But, at least he could swim. For a little bit. Maybe wade his way out to a plateau and sit, staring at the frothing waters below.

He heard a shout, faint in the raging winds. He looked up to the hill. Rain blinded him. He shielded his eyes against the thick drops and saw a woman. She was faint on the mountain, but her uniform stood out.

It was green and brown against the gray. There was a black patch on her shoulder. A rope fell from the ridge. He caught it and wrapped it around his waist. He rose slowly from the waters below. There was a loud thud against the raging winds. It sounded again and again.

A faint voice called against the storm and a great ironwood fell into the valley below. It landed at an odd angle, a bridge over the rising waters. Spiked rock formations guarded the entrance of the cave, each point rose from the ground and dripped from the ceiling like fangs of a hungry serpent. The group stepped through the browned gates and into the waiting maw of a sleeping giant.

They walked in silence, lost in the darkness of the mine for several minutes. Robin grabbed Jake and pulled him off to the right at a sudden fork in the road. Behind them, gold eyes glittered against the black of the night.