The Bloody Sun

[Jedi-L]

(All right, I'll take another shot at a decent story as the other one is on hold, for now I would really like to know what you think and how I could improve. Oh and, if any of you can, will you tell me if I was any good with my pinyin. I'm not sure how grammatically correct it is.)

The Bloody Sun

Part 1: In the beginning

We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.
-Winston Churchill

To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

The boy was born on a cold, black winter’s night in Tennessee. Not even the stars shown in the sky, as he was ejected, wailing, from his mother’s womb and into life. He was not born free. For in God’s new year of 2100, Tennessee is a state occupied by a foreign army. An army that had invaded out of desperation and need for the things that could help rebuild their bleeding nation. Despite all their desperation, the PLA had proved to be more willing to fight and bleed and die for the land, than the Americans had. The prison camp doctor quickly clamped and cut the cord of flesh that had sustained the boy through his incubation, before tying the stumped remains at where the boy’s navel would be.

The boy still cried, even as his mother cooed to him and caressed his small body. He cried not out of cold, or hunger, or pain. He cried, instead, out of instinct. And among his instincts, the boy had been born with a yet unnoticed wanderlust, and a frightening penchant for violence.

Over two barracks away, the boy’s father is pleading with the Warden for more rations for the three of them. The warden looks away, his tired black eyes unable to bear the man’s pitiful face. The Americans in the camp were not abused; in fact they were safe behind the electrified chain-link fence that kept out the raiders, and the ghouls that were born in the viral outbreaks nearly five decades prior.

“Qǐng gěi wǒmen yìxiē yào. Wǒ de qīzǐ shēngbìng hé wǒ de háizi shì tài niánqīng le ， shēngcún rúguǒ tā shì gǎnrǎn”

The Warden looked at the new father, his face holding no emotion.

“Fēicháng hǎo , dàn búyào zhǐwàng rènhé gèngduō .”

The new father thanked him, and exited the barracks.

Many miles away, a man sat before a fire where a metal pot boiled over the flame. His fatigues were bloody, and the hatchet by his side glistened red and wet. The steam from the pot smelled slightly of herb, and to a passerby it would look as if he were preparing supper. However, the pot held nothing edible and the true contents were just as grisly as the hatchet that had helped prepare it. The man reached into the pot, and pulled out the head of the Chinese soldier, which had shrunk to the size of a baseball. He cradled the thing in his scalded hands, not noticing the blisters that had formed where the water had met his flesh.

“You killed a lot of good men today” growled the man to the head “I hope you can feel this, wherever the hell you are.”

He ran a rawhide string through the head, before putting it around his neck. It was lighter than he had reckoned it would be, and was pleasantly warm against the bloody, bare skin of his chest. The man picked up the soldier’s rifle, a replacement for his own, before walking off into the freezing dark of the night.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fifteen years later, the boy stole off in the dark. With him he brought only a wedge of cheese, a hunting knife, an extra pair of clothes and a stale loaf of bread all wrapped in a ragged tablecloth. The boy was leaving his cabin, and his father, behind for good. Off to satiate his ever growing lust for exploration which had been stifled in the company of his father.

His mother had died of typhus, just a month before the camp was liberated. The soldiers had been shocked to see the prisoners well fed and generally contented, and were perplexed as to why the Chinese had simply left them. The fence’s electricity was shut down, and all the armed guards had packed up everything and walked away. But the newfound freedom meant nothing to him then, as home life with his father felt just as confining.

“How many times do I got to tell ya’ boy? This here cabin is Shangri-fucking-la compared to that camp. And God damn my eyes if I allow you to ruin it for yourself.”

That was how his father explained the situation, not knowing that deep in his son a strange resentment was growing. It was this resentment that caused the idea of leaving to first enter his mind, with his wanting to journey cementing it in his heart.
The boy traveled the broken roads on foot, his bundle against his shoulder and the hunting knife on his hip. Twice he had to run from ghouls, the rotting abominations shambling after his scent as his long legs carrying him far away from the things as they groaned at him.

He stopped in Memphis, hoping to barter himself as a worker in order to resupply his dwindling bundle. He first stopped at a pub where many an ex soldier sat drunk and surly in both booths and at the chipped wooden bar where bottles of liquor glowed with a hypnotizing appeal. Langdon hoisted himself up on a stool, and tapped the bar top before the tired looking keep came over and leaned to him.

“Whatcha’ want, kid?”

“Straight bourbon whiskey, if ya’ got any.”

“Ya’ got money, fer bourbon?”

“I can work it off.”

“Fine.”

The keep pulled the bottle from the shelf and poured the boy a glassful and sent it down. The boy drank it in two throws, before shaking his head sharply as the strong alcohol burned his throat. He signaled for another, and the keep obliged. This carried on for six more rounds, until the boy put his head on the bar and knocked over the glass. The boy lay there in a stupor for a few hours; until he felt something soft and wet smack the top of his boot.

He looked down, and saw something black and glistening splattered over his boot. Another reeking wad quickly fell on the boy’s boot, causing him to look up. The man seated next to him was chewing tobacco, and was expectorating the juices all around him.

“You son of a bitch” started Langdon angrily “ya’ spat on my boot.”

“And what if I did, boy?”

“I’ll beat ya’ down, ya’ piece of shit.”

The man smiled mockingly, and spit the stinking juice on Langdon’s hand. The boy drew his arm back, and delivered a hard punch to the stranger’s nose. The stranger reeled back and fell off the stool, his hand clenched to his face.

“You broke my nose, ya’ little cunt!”

“I plan to break the rest of ya’.”

“Hey take it outside!” shouted the barkeep, but his indignant plea fell on deaf ears.
The boy tackled the man before he could recover, delivering three hard punches to the man’s head from atop him. The man kicked the boy off him, and followed up with another kick to the side. Langdon rolled away from the man’s third kick, and got to his feet. He charged the man and drove his head into the man’s gut. The man recovered quickly and brought his elbow down on the back of the boy’s skull, before jumping away from his retaliatory haymaker.

Langdon drew his bowie knife from the scabbard on his leg, pointing it threateningly at the man.

“I’ll kill ya’, ya’ goddamn sonuvabitch” growled Langdon. “I swear to God I-“

The boy was cut off by two loud cracks, which caused everyone in the pub to jump. He had lost all sensation in his chest, and when he looked down he saw to small holes had been blown into the left breast of his shirt, and were welling up with blood. The boy looked at the man, who now held a smoking 9mm handgun in his fist. He had been hiding it in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

“You’re done, boy” said the man in a nasal wheeze as he lowered the pistol, “ya’ fought hard, but you-“

The man halted in mid sentence as he saw the boy charge him, dumbstruck as to how the boy could possibly be alive.

The boy was running off adrenaline now, his ears were ringing and his legs were stiff. He closed the gap on the man as he was readying his pistol to put a bullet in his brain. He made a hard swipe with the knife, and half severed the stranger’s hand at the wrist. The stranger shrieked as his hand flopped uselessly, only connected to the stump by a few strands of tendon and flesh. The boy brought his knife up into the stranger’s throat, the man’s blood spraying like a coppery mist onto his face. The man fell, making gurgling noises that soon ceased; the boy wiped the bloody blade on the man’s shirt and sheathed it.

He staggered over to the nearest man, and grabbed his shirt in his hands.

“Doctor” wheezed the boy.

“Whassat?” replied the man shakily, afraid of the bleeding boy that grasped him.

“A doctor, you son of a whore, find me a doctor.”
And with that the boy fell on his face, his blood pooling around him.

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Many miles away, in the Nevada reclamation zone, a young girl of seven years ran wailing after her father as he left.

“Why Papa” she cried after him, “why are you leaving me and Mama, you can’t do that! You can’t!”

She had her father’s fiery red hair, which now trailed after her in a long plait as she chased after him.

“Please Papa, please stay! I’m sorry for whatever I did! I really am! Please don’t leave me and Mama.”

Her father didn’t acknowledge her; he simply mounted his horse and took the reins in his hands. She caught up to him, throwing her arms on the horse as if she could anchor it in place. Her father reached down and punched her in the forehead, sending her sprawling, dazed, into the dirt. Her head was still ringing as she saw her father ride off down the old broken highway, before disappearing altogether.

She sat in the dirt crying for many hours, her Mother not coming out to fetch her. She clung pointlessly to the hope her father would come back, riding down the road where he would jump off his horse and hug her and apologize for hitting her the same way he said he was sorry every time he hit her mother. She lost all hope when the sun sank below the horizon, and no sign of him returning presented itself. She got up and walked home, rubbing the spot where her father had hit her, which now carried an ugly mauve bruise. Her mother didn’t rise to greet her when she opened the door, instead only looking at her with a sad, helpless expression.

“I’m sorry, Robin, I’m so sorry” she moaned softly.

“Why is Papa leaving? Why, Mama, why is he?”

“I don’t know, Robin, I just don’t know.”

Her mother spoke no more that evening and left Robin with her aching forehead and her sorrow.

[Polo]

I like it. And as you already know, I find myself wanting to know more.

[RustyMagnum]

Ain't no doubt who played Fallout before writing. A top-of-the-notch on DQ standards though, easy to keep up with and pleasuring to read. Do continue.

[Jedi-L]

Part 2: Pain and Pleasure

Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.
-Sigmund Freud

When an affliction happens to you, you either let it defeat you, or you defeat it.
-Jean Jacques Rousseau

The boy healed quickly, and within a month he was in the Texas panhandle, with centipede-esque scars on his chest, a resupplied bundle, a large .45 six shooter and a dandy hat. The boy had found the gun on a dead man in Oklahoma; the fellow had been bitten by a ghoul and had blown his brains out of his head to prevent himself from suffering the same fate as those who bit him. The hat came from a fellow he shot in Booker town, just a week after he found the gun. The man had tried to rob him, assuming he was just another teenage stray.

The hat was a wide brimmed Stetson made of waterproof black felt. It was incredibly elegant, and was exactly what Langdon had been looking for. He took nothing else from the would-be robber, and left the body in a small alley between a tiny butcher shop and a rundown Laundromat. On the way out of Booker, he shot and killed a Cardinal. The little bird fell in the dust, and he quickly severed its head and began cleaning it for dinner. Before he completely de-feathered the bird, however, he took a long tail feather and stuck the scarlet quill in his hat band. He felt completely content that night, with a full stomach and snazzy new hat.

Langdon walked into Amarillo a few weeks later, intent on purchasing a mule or working until he could afford one. He pulled a cigarette from its pack and lit it with a sulphur match. He had got both of these back in Memphis, where people had begun to give him things free of charge, convinced he was some immortal creature beyond men. The reality of the situation was less grand, he had simply been born with Dextrocardia situs inversus, meaning all of his organs and other some such were mirror what they should be. That was why the two bullets had failed to kill him, as the man had been aiming at where he assumed the heart would be.

As he walked through the city, he asked every passerby about a chance at barter or work. He finally found luck with a heavyset man named Cargill, who invited him back to his estate. They rode in a motor car, the first one Langdon had ever seen in operable condition. Gasoline was more expensive than medicine, with the lack of manageable supply lines making the transporting of refined petrol a risky operation.

Cargill’s estate was a massive manor, surrounded by a high wall. Hired men watched over them from sniper towers, their high-powered rifles slung over their shoulders. When they entered, they were immediately set upon by servants, asking them if they cared for a drink, or a cigar, or for their hats to be taken. Cargill nodded for all three, and told them to do the same for the boy. The servants responded quickly, delivering their smokes and drinks before disappearing from sight.

Cargill introduced his wife, his main man-servant, and his small army of Gillies. Langdon had heard about Gillies before, usually in crude jokes made by drunks in pubs. A Gilly was little more than a high class whore and concubine, bought by rich men who needed something to fuck without getting the clap. Cargill gave him the offer of a being his errand boy and, occasionally, enforcer. Cargill had made his fortune refurbishing the nearby Helium fields and exporting the liquefied gas as fuel. However, many people couldn’t afford the liquid helium fuel and had to take it on loan. It would be Langdon’s job to remind them of their debt, painfully if possible.

Langdon accepted immediately.


-------------------------------------------------------------------

Robin opened the front door to her home, a scrap of cloth pressed against the bleeding cut on her shoulder. Her mother looked up at her from her cooking, a look of worry in her eyes.

“What on Earth happened to you? Does it hurt; are you going to be okay?”

Robin removed the cloth from her arm, checking to see if the cut was still bleeding.

“Nah” she drawled “don’t hurt none, it ain’t deep either. Bobby cut me with his pocket knife after I decked him.”

“You did what?”

“Punched him down, Mama, he had it coming too.”

Her mother sighed and looked down again, focusing again on preparing supper. As Robin turned to go, she heard her mother speak again.

“Your brother had the same attitude, and look where he is now.”

Robin ran the rest of the way to her room, quickly closing the door behind her. She looked around the small bedroom, examining the various skulls and wood carvings that decorated the walls. Her brother had died before she was born, put down by his father after being bitten by a ghoul. She had inherited everything he owned, from his room to his clothes, and even his collection of intact animal skulls.

The bleached things now stared down at her, as she fingered the small wood carving of a bear which she wore around her neck on a rawhide loop. Even though she had never known her brother, she couldn’t help but miss him terribly. Her mother often spoke of him, a tone of heartbreak and nostalgia in her voice. It hurt Robin to hear her mother talk like that, and it worried her that she talked in that same tone more and more.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Langdon had been under Cargill’s employ for three months, and was enjoying himself immensely. Cargill paid him well, and gave him access to his servants, including the Gillies. He now lay in bed smoking a cigarette, waiting for Jessica to finish undressing. Jessica was only a year older than he, and had been in the employ of Cargill for two years.

He snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray when she entered, the light from the lamp shining off her bare skin. She climbed under the pulled back sheets, cuddling up close to Langdon. They lay in silence for a bit, both staring at the ceiling. She finally broke the silence, rolling to face him.

“Well are you?” she asked shortly.

“I actually wanted to talk first.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She laughed dryly, putting her hand on his chest to stroke it in a false show of affection.

“Fine then, what about?”

“Do you really like this?”

“Like what?”

“Your job, as a Gilly.”

Jessica laughed again, bitterly this time.

“No, I don’t. But it pays better than being a street whore, and Cargill’s nice enough.”

“Ya' don’t think ya' could do better?”

“No, I really don’t. Both my parents died when I was small, and I got no education. I’m not strong or willing to kill, like you. And I don’t have no technical skills, so it kinda’ got narrowed down for me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be, that ain’t your place.”

“It ain’t right, people be born with no choice. I know it all too well.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I was born in a Chinese prison camp in Tennessee. It got liberated ‘bout half a year ago. I ran away from home soon after that.”

“Why’d you run away?”

“I wanted to see the land for myself. Besides, I had seen enough walls for a lifetime.”

Jessica nodded in understanding, and turned back over.

“Well, are you satisfied yet, Mr. Eaton?”

“Not yet.”

And with that he rolled on top of her.

He left for the city early the next morning; his target was Rong Zhou, an old Chinese man who owed Cargill for at least three months worth of fuel. He wore his gun openly, a show of force to ward off anyone who felt like attacking him. When he arrived at the rotting building where Rong was said to live, he knocked twice on the wood door. When nobody came, he kicked it in. Rong sat at the far end of the room, a smoldering roach between his bony fingers.

”Nǐ yǒu shénme yèwù yǔ wǒ ，nánhái ?”

“Nǐ zhīdào gāisǐ de ，wèishénme wǒ zài zhèli ，nǐ qiàn wǒ de lǎobǎn de qián. Tā yùjì ， nǐ zhīfù tā de zhàiwù .”

Rong chuckled at the boy’s reply, crushing the roach out on the table.

“Zhège lǎozhànshǐ jiāng zhīfù rènhé fèiyòng .”

Langdon saw what Rong was doing, but was too late to stop him. Within a second Rong leveled, aimed, and fired the small .22 pistol which had been lying on the table.

Pain blazed in Langdon’s head, but it was mercifully short as all of his consciousness imploded into blackness.

Langdon’s body hit the floor with a great bang, blood seeping out of the hole in his head

[RustyMagnum]

Interesting. Goes even better with Otis Taylor in the background. We'll see what comes up next.

[Ivyn]

Quite interesting, I like it.

[Sirrin Nacht]

Interesting. Goes even better with Otis Taylor in the background. We'll see what comes up next.

You listen to Otis Taylor too?

Edit: The story's good so far Jedi-L. Keep it up

[Big Boom]

Overall I like it, but do keep a watch on the "foreign?" language you have included. Without any explanation of what it is/means I can see it becoming quite confusing. Also, if you ever do translate it, be careful of making the meanings have more than one word. If that makes sense. :S Making languages in stories can be very messy.

[Jedi-L]

(@Big Boom, The language is Pinyin, which is Mandarin Chinese written as it is pronounced using latin letters. However, it will remain untranslated, as I feel it adds to the story in a way. Anyways, this is 3 parts in 1 night, I think I earned myself the rest of the night off.)

Part 3: Do
Human beings must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it.
-Albert Einstein

Do you want to know who you are? Don’t ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.
-Thomas Jefferson

Langdon awoke with a terrible pain in his head, he tried to look around but all it served was to increase the agony. All around him he heard the soft whir of machines and a steady pulse. He closed his eyes and drifted off again.

When he awoke the second time, Cargill was above him, speaking with a white-clad doctor. Their words were incomprehensible to him, so he lost interest and allowed himself to fade back into oblivion.

He was awoken the final time by a stab in his wrist; the doctor was injecting him with something. Langdon feebly tried to grab his arm, but only managed to lift his arm a few inches from the bed sheet. The doctor withdrew the syringe and grabbed a small light.

“Langdon, can you hear me?”

Langdon nodded slowly in response, his eyes half open. The pain in his head had mostly faded, but now the light was burning his eyes. He tried to speak but the words came out as if his mouth was full of thick gelatin.

“Dotuh, dotuh stup. The li’ ith hurthin’ mah ey’.”

“Don’t try to speak; the pain killer has numbed your tongue. But you can hear me, correct?”

He nodded again, closing his eyes.

“Langdon, I need you to open your eyes again, please.”

He did as he was told.

“All right, Langdon, I’m going to snap my fingers by your ears and I want you to nod if you can hear it. Okay?”

The doctor snapped his fingers by each ear, and Langdon nodded both times.

“Very good, your eyes are focusing and you can hear. Not only that you showed me you can still speak. I’ll tell Mr. Cargill the good news.”

Langdon nodded, and went back to sleep.

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David stooped by the body, tomahawk firmly in hand. The shrunken head around his neck bobbed as he brought his arm up, then down in a sharp hack that separated the corpse’s head from its neck. He picked it up by the hair, turning it so the sun shone off its hazed eyes.

“Sorry, about all this nastiness. I’m just doing my job, but I hope you can take comfort in the fact you won’t be missed.”

He put the head in his leather satchel, and tucked the shrunken head under his shirt. He was being paid two grand, along with five boxes of ammunition, for the death of the man he had killed. Apparently, he had slept with his employer’s niece and needed to be made into an example.

David remounted his horse and rode back towards town.

When he placed the head on his employer’s desk, the older man reeled back like it was some poisonous animal.

“What is this, Mr. O’Malley?”

“This is Josh Kearny, y’know, the guy who screwed your niece. Well, this is his head at least. Did you want the whole corpse?”

“No, I really didn’t. Why are you giving me his head?”

“It’s the proof of the kill; I wanted to make sure you get your money’s worth.”

“A photo would have sufficed.”

“Photos can be faked, heads can’t.”

“Fine, whatever, just get rid of it. You’re pay is awaiting you outside.”

“It’s been a pleasure dealing with you, sir.”

“Likewise, now get out of here.”

As David walked back out into the hot Tucson sunshine, he tossed his head over the chain link fence where a couple of dogs set upon it ravenously. The sight amused him immensely.

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In the weeks of his recovery, Langdon read ravenously. Cargill had an impressive private collection, and he planned to make full use of it. He read hundreds of the works; from Rousseau, to Nietzsche, to Kafka, to Rand, to Locke and everywhere in between. He had never had such opportunity, and it displeased him to be so underfed with the knowledge of all those who came before him. As soon as he was able to walk, he said his goodbyes to Cargill and left the estate. He purchased his mule and plenty of supplies; he even thought of hiring a hooker but decided against it. He set off with no true goal in mind, save that he would keep going and doing until he made his mark.

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Robin sat with her friends in the schoolyard, checking occasionally to see if the teacher was still out of earshot.

“Your daddy still got that gun, Bobby?”

“You’re fucking-A he does!”

“Shut the hell up, you retard” hissed Brandon Peters “do you want ol’ bitch-tits over there to hear us?”

Brandon Peters and Bobby Meyers were old friends of Robin; the three were near inseparable, despite all their violent squabbling.

“Alright, Bobby” began Robin quietly “you get your daddy’s rifle and meet us on the sand hill after midnight. Bring some ammo too; if you all just keep your dicks up and don’t get caught we’ll be poppin’ coyote brains by moonlight."

That night the three met on the hill, as planned. Bobby came through and brought the rifle and ammo. And Brandon had brought the bait. Robin kept up her end and brought the cooler of pre-war soda she had amassed over the weeks.

She cracked open a red and white can labeled “Coca-Cola” while Brandon and Bobby snapped a can of “Dr. Pepper” and “Mountain Dew”. The three drank in silence, hoping for their quarry to present itself. Eventually, a small pack of the mangy animals were drawn to the bait and began to sniff it eagerly. Brandon readied the rifle on its bipod and put the scope to his eye.

“Steady” he muttered, “steady now.”

The rifle roared in his hands and one of the coyotes dropped.

“Quick, get up it’s my turn!” cried Bobby eagerly. He positioned himself and squeezed off a shot; the first one hit the thing in the leg, before he finished it with a second shot to the head. By the time Robin had positioned herself; the pack had gotten wise and had begun to scatter.

She sighted one of the runners, steadied the rifle, and fired. The thing jumped, and then slumped into the sand with its brains dribbling from the holes blown through its head.

“Fucking-A, girl” muttered Brandon “that was plumb-center.”

She giggled and lifted the rifle, handing it back to Bobby.

“We better move our asses if we want to get back before sun up.”

And with that the three moved down the hill and back towards their sleeping homes.

[Jedi-L]

(No update in 24 hours? Unacceptable,)

Part 4: Fifteen years gone

At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing ever since.
-Salvador Dali

You have to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was.
-Abraham Lincoln

Langdon rode the mule all the way to Laredo, his journey across the state of Texas held less excitement than he had hoped. He had only encountered two of the infected, and had easily gunned down the ghouls before they could get close. Ghouls aside he had encountered only one other soul wandering east along the broken highway, an old man who spoke no English or Mandarin, who left him quickly.

He hitched his mule at the largest tavern in town, the burned out neon sign proclaimed it had once been a sports bar, but now none of the televisions were alight and the only entertainment to be found were the whores making their rounds amongst the barflies and the pair of fiddlers that sawed out reels on their pieces. He stepped in, and at once realized he was the only boy there. Unlike Tennessee, frontier country like Texas was dry as far as teenage strays were concerned and a boy at a bar was usually considered a pest, at best. He hoisted himself up, and tapped the bar loudly. The bar keep passed him over, instead choosing to wipe a pool of vomit that a lay reeking on the bar top. He tapped again, this time the bar keep shot him an annoyed look.

“Get lost, kid, I’m not going to serve you shit. So piss off.”

“I ain’t leaving ‘till I get a damn drink.”

“Stop acting the man and get out.”

“No.”

“Are you stupid, kid? Or are you just an inbred hick?”

“Excuse me?”

”Judging by that stupid twang in your voice, you’re from the Appalachians. In those parts siblings are just as likely to fuck each other, as they are to fuck the livestock.”

The boy’s faced darkened; he started to reach for his gun, but decided against it.

“You best be choosing your next words mighty careful, bar keep, or I will punch all your teeth in and take a drink if you won’t give me one.”

The keep pulled a .45 colt pistol from under the bar, leveling it at the kid.

“Get the fuck out, last chance.”

The kid snickered, looking down the length of the gun.

“That thing won’t do shit, it’s all for show and I can see that, the damn slide’s broke and it won’t fire even if you were stupid enough to load it.”

The keep reached down again, and the boy leapt from the stool just quick enough to avoid the baseball bat.

The keep walked around the bar, dropping the training weights from the bat as he did. The boy readied himself, bringing himself off the balls of his feet and on to his toes. The keep swung once and the boy ducked, swung a second time and the boy sidestepped then jumped back to avoid the third swipe. He vaulted over the bar, pulling two full bottles from the shelf. He jumped back over and ducked the keep’s attempt at interception. He swung the first bottle into the man’s gut, knocking the wind out of him and doubling him over. The boy swung the second bottle up into the man’s chin, sending glass shards in all directions along with a spray of foam and blood. The boy finished the stunned man by shoving the broken bottle neck into the left eye.

The man screamed as blood flowed from the bottle neck like water from a tap. He tried to turn and retreat from the boy, but the boy grabbed his shoulder and spun him back. He punched the bottle neck deeper into the man’s eye socket, before shoving him to the ground. The keep lay still and lifeless amongst the shattered glass and cigarette stubs.

The boy uncorked the unbroken bottle and drank deeply, his arms starting to ache from the sudden exertion. He was halfway through the bottle, when he noticed everyone was looking at him. All the barflies had stopped doing what they were to observe the fight, and were now regarding the victor with mixed gazes. It was bad enough he had walked in at all, and now he had murdered a man. He was getting ready to draw his gun, when one of the men stood and shouted “Bar’s free boys!”

The promise of free liquor was too much for the men, who all began a stampede to try and grab what they could. Within the hour all were drunk and merry, the murder forgotten. Two men had dragged the body outside and left it in the street, so it would not be a tripping hazard. Langdon was knocking back the last dregs of a corn whiskey, when the man who started the impromptu party sat next to him.

“You fight hard, boy, I’m impressed.”

Langdon threw the bottle, grinning drunkenly as it shattered.

“Yeah, it ain’t my first time killing a fucker. I’ve gotten real good at beatin’ people who piss me off.”

“Is that so?”

“You could bet your goddamn life on it.”

“My name’s David, yours?”

“Langdon.”

“Mighty fine to meet you Langdon, I think we’ll get along swimmingly.”

“What?”

“I want you as a partner Langdon, a mutual business agreement. There’s pay in it for you.”

“What kinda’ work you do, Davey?”

“A bit of this, and a bit of that, all sorts of things really.”

“That’s a bit vague, Davey.”

“I mostly do killings, but I also work as a delivery boy, and sometimes a man-whore if someone’s desperate enough.”

“You travel a lot?”

“Hell yeah, I came here from Tucson.”

“You stick to the frontier?”

“Mostly, I went to Maryland once, but it was too quiet there.”

“Will we split the earnings fifty-fifty?”

“Sixty-forty.”

Langdon laughed and shook David’s hand.

“You got yourself a man, Davey.”

“Excellent, now let’s drink to our arrangement.”

Later that night, among the whores and barflies, a massively inebriated Langdon danced wildly. His shirt had come open, revealing the snaking scars on his chest, and every time his hair came up, the smooth, round, hole-shaped scar was seen by all. Everyone in the bar agreed the boy could dance like no one’s business and clapped and cheered him on as he continued his maniacal revelry. He howled and whooped and stomped all night, crying out to the crowd and the heavens that he will never die. All night long and into the morning he proclaimed what he believed to be the truth of the universe. That his name was Langdon Eaton and that he would never die.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The year was 2130, and Robin sat in the lonely saloon in Mesquite, turning a glass of whiskey in her hands. Her hair was short now, cut close like a boy’s. She had meant this to be masculating, a sign of grit, but had only succeeded in making herself look more feminine. She turned the whiskey again, allowing the light to shine through it. Fifteen years ago she had been a young girl of seven, shooting coyotes with her friends by moonlight. But since her mother’s suicide, she had grown fast. She killed her first man at eighteen, a half crazed hermit who had tried to rape her when she took refuge in his shack. By nineteen she had stolen a horse and a gun and left her home county. And now at twenty-two, she simply sat and spent the days half drowning herself in rundown saloon in the piss poor little town of Mesquite.

Today was the fifth anniversary of the day she left home, and the day her mother slit her wrists and bled herself dry in the bath.

“To you, Mama, hope you’re happier now.”

She drank down the glass and ordered another round.

[RustyMagnum]

You refuse to let me down.

[Jedi-L]

Sorry about the lack of updates, but I am still writing and still hold the full intention of putting the parts up. I believe the next update will be sometime next week, and I greatly appreciate all the patience you give me.

[Shinoi]

How could I miss this before? Interesting story so far, please continue.

[Mr.Evilmidget]

I'm enjoying it. Rather on the talky side, though. When you type a conversation, remember to include facial expressions and tone of voice. If someone retorts, then say that they retorted. If someone snarls and hisses their reply, type that in.

[RustyMagnum]

I actually think the lack of describing the characters' expressions is a good detail, gives the reader's imagination some work on judging their reactions.

[Jedi-L]

Part 5: Red
“Friendship is a single soul living in two bodies.”
-Aristotle

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art…it has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.”
-C.S. Louis

Langdon and David rode into Mesquite early that morning, and had just now left the hotel. The place was an old casino by the name of “Casablanca”, and was one of the few buildings left in the dying town that had running water and electric lights.
The two strolled easily across the street, approaching a saloon that appeared to have once been a daycare center. In the fifteen years of partnership, the two had become close. Even as men, they felt a familial affection for one another, which transcended their business relationship.

“So Davey, you think we’ll find one here? Hardly seems the place.”

“I know that, boy, and I don’t think we’ll find much here besides old folks and settlers.”

The two stopped outside the faded glass doors, David putting a hand on Langdon’s shoulder.

“Listen, I gotta’ go take a shit. Warm a seat and get me a drink, I won’t be long.”

Langdon nodded, and pushed open the grimy door into the inside gloom. The inside of the saloon was pitiful as the rest of the town. A peeling wallpaper showed smiling animals in a meadow, and the reception desk had been partially hollowed out to fit the various bottles and decanters. Overhead, gas lamps prevented the inside from being an impenetrable murk of dust and tobacco smoke while a small circular fan attached to a whirring generator stirred the otherwise stagnant air.

He avoided the bar at first, instead walking over to an old man who sat alone in one of the makeshift plywood booths. David and he had been searching for many months for another gun for hire, someone to pick up the slack brought on by David’s aging. At fifty-three his aim was beginning to worsen from the muscle degeneration that afflicts the elderly, and his troublesome stomach ulcer wasn’t helping matters.

The old man didn’t notice ate first when Langdon sat down, it was only when he whistled did he realize he had a guest in the ramshackle booth.

“Oh, sorry there, didn’t you hear you sit. Old fellows like me tend not to notice things like others do.”

“Would you happen to know if anyone around this town is good with a gun? My partner and I are looking for somebody who can assist us in our trade.”

“Stop sugar-coating it, lad, you’re a killer and I can tell. You got a mean look in those eyes of yours, and you reek like gunpowder and blood.”

“You’re more perceptive than you let on, old man.”

“I was a soldier once, served during the initial viral outbreaks those eighty years ago. I remember when we used the nukes to stem the tide. Oh, God almighty, when I heard we used nukes.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Oh yes, it worked well. Wiped out sixty percent of the western horde and nearly eighty percent of the east, but at what cost?”

“Well I’m sorry your conscience still bother’s ya’, old man, but you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Right, another gunman to aid you in your killings, yeah I know one. See that red-head, the one at the bar there? She’s been in this town for two months, and she’s killed two men.”

“Just two, that’s hardly impressive.”

“She’s got grit, lad, and she don’t take shit from nobody.”

“Right, well thanks for your time, old man.”

He put a small stack of coins on the table and pushed them towards him.

“I think this is worth seven minutes.”

He walked to the bar right as the red-head downed her glass, she had said something, but he had not heard. As she motioned for another round, he stopped the bartender.

“Wild Turkey bourbon for me, I’ll be paying for her round too.”

The keep shrugged and reached under the counter, as the girl turned to face him.

“Just what are you getting at?”

“A man can’t be chivalrous to a fine young woman like you?”

She laughed, reaching out for her now full glass.

“That’s funny, what’s next? Are you going to hold the door for me and lay your coat down so I don’t step in the dust? Listen, sir, I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t fuck a man just for being nice.

“Did I say I wanted to fuck you?”

“No, but I assumed-“

“Never assume anything about me.”

She drained her glass, motioning for another.

“You’ll be paying for this one too?”

“Of course.”

“Alright, what do you want?”

“That old man over there said you killed two men, is that true?”

“Yeah, why?”

She began to slowly reach down to her calf, where a ka-bar knife was strapped on to her worn jeans.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a lawman, I just want to know.”

“Yeah, but a murder is not something people just want to know.”

“Was that your first time killing?”

“No, I killed a couple other men over the years. Why the hell does it matter?”

“My partner and I are looking for a gunman, someone to take on as an associate in business.”

“You a bounty killer?”

“Yes.”

“What are your benefits?”

“We won’t shoot you, and we’ll keep you fed.”

“Fair enough, what’s the typical pay?”

“Anywhere from five-hundred to three grand, sometimes bartering of supplies is involved.”

“Who’s your partner?”

“I’ll let him introduce himself.”

She turned to the front entrance, where an older man now stood. He was stocky, with an aggressive bulldog like face. He had scars along his wrinkly jowls, and around his neck hung a shrunken head on a rawhide loop decorated with gold teeth.

“You get me a drink, boy?”

“No, but I think I found us a gun.”

“Who?”

“This young woman, right here.”

“He looked over Langdon, his eyes working over the woman seated next to him. He was making a detailed list, mental notes to later correct or support his opinion of her.

5’3, early twenties, Caucasian, red hair, no visible tattoos or scars. At a glance, low mileage. Doesn’t seem to like brandishing weapons, unless that knife on her leg is all she’s got.

“Pleased to meet you miss, you got a name.”

“Robin Jeanette. And you are?”

“David O’Malley and my associate here is Langdon Eaton.”

“Yes, Langdon and I were just talking about me joining in on your profits.”

“Were you?”

“Yes, we were.”

“And have you two come to some sort of agreement?”

“That depends, what will be my cut.”

“We split three ways.”

She looked at him, her pale blue eyes meeting his dull hazel. Trying to judge his mood, and unlike the way he had gotten through her, she couldn’t read a thing from him.

“Fine, you got yourself a gun.”

“Well that’s great, but where is your gun, girl?”

“In my hotel room, you boys staying the night here?”

It was Langdon who spoke this time.

“Yeah, you staying at the Casablanca?”

“No, I got lodgings at the Eureka.”

“Fine, we’re riding out after sun up. Meet us on the main road out of town.”

“Which way?”

“South east, towards Arizona.”

“I’ll see you there.”

The three parted ways outside the bar, walking back to their temporary dwellings, along the way David began the inevitable conversation.

“You sure she’s what we need? I don’t want to be dragging dead weight.”

“She’s killed before.”

“Killing doesn’t mean shit if you just do it as instinct or for self defense only. This is our job, boy; we don’t need little girls who can’t commit a premeditated killing for profit.”

“Once the blood starts flowing, she’ll be solid. Besides, don’t you trust my opinion?”

“A cute face and showgirl legs, a killer does not make.”

“Stop worrying, she’ll do fine.”

“Yeah, but if she doesn’t have a gun, let alone a horse, I think I’ll have to break those nice long legs of hers for wasting our time. Then I’ll come after you, boy.”

“She does have some nice legs, doesn’t she?”

“Damn nice.”

“How’s your ulcer?”

“Ain’t hurting too bad today, and I only puked once. But it’s still there, and I’m afraid it might be getting worse.”

“And you’re sure there’s a guy in Arizona who can get you medicine for it?”

“I’m sure.”

They didn’t talk anymore after that, walking the rest of the way in the silence of the rotting town.

[Paperback Writer]

Would it be possible to request on completely trashing the old story and just continue with this one?

[Jedi-L]

Part 6: Outsiders

“I felt early on I wasn’t going to be a respectable citizen.”
-Cormac McCarthy

“I trust no one, not even myself.”
-Joseph Stalin

The three trekked five weeks southwards through Nevada, stopping only once to refill their water supply from a pumping station run by a clan of inbreeds who wanted to eat their horses. They slaughtered the clan easily, their guns proving more than superior to the inbred family’s homemade muskets. David was getting worse, however. He vomited thrice daily, and each time the sour smelling mash was tinged with blood. He was forced to take the majority of their water, to prevent dehydration, and couldn’t stand to eat but once a day.

When they finally reached Yuma County, David was on his last legs. They had drunk up all their water, which had forced them to turn to the odd bottles of tonic, soda, and alcohol which only worsened David’s condition.

They were outside Mohawk, when they encountered the savages. There were fifteen in their party, and all but one was shirtless. On their skin they had painted bizarre, schizophrenic patterns of red clay. Tribal lines mixed with nonsense phrases and smiley faces glared brown in the Arizona sunlight. The party of raiders moved quickly westward on the back of an odd assortment of mules and horses, all emaciated.

“Hey Davey” whispered Langdon “you see them?”

“Yeah, are they armed?”

“Looks like a few have knives, I count one or two with homemade spears. And their leader has some sort of hunting rifle, can’t make out the manufacture from here.”

“How much ammo does you and the girl got?”

“I have three fresh magazines for my M16, a couple of shells for my Lupara, maybe sixteen in total. I also got plenty of ammo for my six-shooter.”

“And the girl?”

“I have five magazines for my rifle and two for my Colt” piped up Robin from behind him.

“Good, I have four magazines myself. Chewed up all of my .357’s at the pumping station though.

“Have they seen us yet, Davey?”

“No, we can flank around them.”

“Let’s kill them then and be done with it.”

The three kicked their horses and got them running, the soft sand deadening the sound of the horses’ foot falls. Langdon drew his Lupara from its hip holster, keeping his free hand on the reigns. He rode up alongside one of the raiders; the man saw him and tried to pull his knife from his waist band. He fired his Lupara, the powerful twelve gauge shells blew apart the raider’s head and set bits of brain and skull flying at the riders beside him. Robin and David opened fire when Langdon took the first shots. Robin’s Type-56 and David’s QBZ-97 ripped through the riders easily. The leader of the devastated party tried to rally his men, but to no avail. His cries stopped as Langdon severed his jaw, and then blew out his brain with his M16A3. As the dying raiders lay bleeding in the sand, the three checked their weapons and took inventory. Each had partially drained their current magazines, and Langdon was down two shot shells. None of them noticed the smell of blood that lay thick in the air. They had all grown used to it. The three had grown to life as humans outside the boundaries of civilization, and had accepted the fearful glances those who lived in that realm of life gave them every time they passed through. They were ambivalent to the fear, and kept those who did not wish to work with killers at an arm’s length. They did not trust those who lived life unlike them, because it was them that targeted their kind as a menace to be destroyed.

That night, they sat around a campfire. Holding one of their typical debates, these often stemmed from their lack of agreement in their personal convictions. Robin had asserted that she felt people were good at heart, but it was a combination of base instincts and corrupting environment that made people the way they were. David had countered, with his conviction that humans were little more than animals, who acted out their instincts with reckless abandon. It was a folly to try to rise above these instincts, as the illusion of greatness would eventually devolve into what it was; a hypocritical fantasy that had no more right to exist than those who made them.

This carried on for the rest of the night, as the fire burned down to embers and the moon sank in the west.

[RustyMagnum]

This is probably the greatest story i've yet to read on DQ.

[Jedi-L]

Part 7: New World

In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.
-Hunter S. Thompson

Cowards die many times before their deaths.
-Julius Caesar

The three were almost to Yuma, their goal of the past weeks spent trekking the desert. It was on the banks of the Colorado River, that they encountered the trio of raiders. The three raiders were dressed the same as those they had encountered prior, and shook their spears threateningly at them as they approached.

“Davey, you feeling up to icing these guys?”

“Yeah, get your pistols ready, no need to waste rifle ammunition on these fuckers.”

The trio of raiders turned and fled up a path that led up to a high rock wall. The three began to give chase, but stopped when they saw what was occurring just above them. A group of several dozen savages had formed a line across the natural wall. All of them carried either bows or rifles, and had begun to ready them.

“Oh God” whispered Robin as a storm of whistling arrows descended upon them.

The three turned their horses, and fled with the arrows and bullets smashing into the hard packed dirt of the river bank. The savages gave a loud cry and descended the rock wall like a modern day Mongol horde, firing arrows and bullets while screaming obscenities at their targets.

Langdon heard Robin give a cry, and turned back to see her horse bucking wildly without its passenger. He swore and called out to David, demanding they turn around.

“Are you crazy, boy? We ain’t got the ammo for this!”

“We can’t leave her, you know what those bastards do to the people they capture.”

People feared the raiders for one reason above all; capture meant guaranteed torture and rape. It didn’t matter who you were, or where you came from, you would be systematically raped, flayed, scalped and devoured if they took you alive.

David and Langdon turned their horses and loaded their rifles, dropping the reins of their horses. They saw Robin sitting in the sand, firing her pistol with one hand and clutching at her left leg with the other. The band of savages was quickly surrounding her, not caring when members of their party were laid down by her pistol fire. Several had even exposed their penises in preparation for the preliminary raping, the diseased and dirty appendages sticking from the flies of their trousers like bloated worms. Langdon gave a whistle, and caught the attention of a small number of the band. The rest looked up when he began to fire his rifle. David joined in with his own fire, and by the time the two reloaded they had killed two dozen of the party. The remaining savages gave a shout and brandished their odd assortment of spears, shivs, machetes and kitchen cutlery. The two began to back up their horses, as the painted raiders charged them, mowing down their ranks with fully automatic fire. As the last raider finally fell with his chest shredded, the two had exhausted nearly all of their ammunition and were breathing hard.

“We killed ‘em, we killed ‘em all, Davey.”

“Yeah, where’s the girl?”

“She’s over there, shit, looks like she’s bleeding.”

They found Robin sitting a few meters from where she had fallen, a bloody trail in the dirt showed her path. She was groaning and whimpering, clutching at where and arrow had pierced her thigh but had not gone through.

“Shit, Robin how bad is the bleeding?”

“Bad, it’s really bad, Langdon.”

“Listen, don’t panic. But I need to know, what kind of arrow is it?”

“Broad head I think a fixed-blade one.”

“God damn it.”

“It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

“Like all hell, girl, like all hell.”

“Hold on then.”

She let go of the bloody shaft, and undid her belt. She folded the thing over, and stuck it between her teeth and bit down on it.

“You ready? Yes, good, now stick out your leg for me.”

She did as instructed, and Langdon grabbed the shaft firmly.

“Alright, on the count of three. One, two-“

When he completed his count Langdon pulled hard on the shaft, Robin gripped the ground on either side of her, and let out a muffled scream. Langdon pulled the missile from her thigh, the wide, sharp head glistening scarlet as Robin’s hair in the sun. She let her belt fall from her teeth and gave a few choking sobs.

“Is it out?”

“It’s out.”

“Thank God.”

“Now, I’ll need to disinfect that wound and I can also stop your bleeding. So put aside your pride for a moment and drop your pants for me.”

She nodded and unbuckled her trousers, pushing them down to her knees. He could see the torn skin where he had removed the arrow and blood was flowing steadily from the laceration. He went over to his saddlebag, pulling out the small roll of gauze and a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

“This is going to sting, okay?”

She nodded and swallowed her spit, trying to wet her dry throat. He unscrewed the bottle cap and dribbled the peroxide on the wound, she groaned softly as the stinging liquid bubbled up pink with blood. He wiped away the foam, and began to dress the wound with a cotton pad and gauze bandages. He tied up the dressing, and rose to his feet.

“Can you stand?”

“I’ll try.”

He took her hand and pulled her up, catching her as her leg gave out and propped her against himself.

“Shit, this is embarrassing” she chuckled.

“Come on; let’s get you back to your horse.”

He helped her to her horse, before handing her the reins. Over to the side, David let out a small geyser of blood tinged vomit into the river.

“Come on, we’ve wasted enough time as is. Yuma’s just five kilometers from here.”

The haggard party set out down the bank, leaving the scene of destruction behind them.


----------------------------------------------------------------------


It was sundown when they reached Yuma, and the city was wide awake. Yuma had become a haven for mercenaries and thieves after the Chinese had been driven back, with the American military forced to withdraw back to the east coast to aid in the reconstruction.

“So where’s the sawbones, Davey?”

“In that old clinic, down the road and right ahead of us. The doctor who works there is named Samuel, he knows me.”

Langdon nodded and flicked the reins of his horse, casting a sidelong glance at Robin as they moved down the street.

A small bell chimed as they pushed open the door, and a huge man with skin the color of fresh top soil came to greet them.

“Well look at this, David O’Malley,” said the man in a dry, gravelly voice “what do you need this time, you old psychopath?”

“What we need” interrupted Langdon, “is some treatment for this girl’s leg.”

“Alright, set her down on the cot, I’ll have a look.”

“Langdon, this is Samuel Irons, professional apothecary and occasional butcher.”

“Very funny, David” rasped the man as he examined Robin’s leg. “What the hell happened to you, girl?”

“Raiders attacked us by the river, and I took an arrow to my thigh.”

“Was your wound disinfected?”

“Yeah, we put some peroxide on it.”

“That’s better than nothing, I suppose. Anyways you’re going to need some stitches. You know my charge, David.”

“That I do” chuckled David “and while you’re messing with her leg, could you get me something for a stomach ulcer?”

“Yes, I can get you that.”

“That would be splendid, Sam.”

Samuel cut the thread, and put away his suture kit.

“Now try not to walk around a lot, but you should make a full recovery.”

The three took the medicine, thanked Samuel, and stepped out into the city lights.

[Jedi-L]

Hey guys, I will be too busy to upload any more parts this week. Expect another update sometime aground next Monday.

[Jedi-L]

(Here's the update, as promised. It's a bit short though, sorry.)

Part 8: The distant clouds

“When written in Chinese, the word “crisis” is composed of two characters. One represents danger and the other represents opportunity.”

-John F. Kennedy

The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Robin woke late in the morning, with a hangover pounding in her skull and a terrible pain pulsing in her left leg. She swore viciously at the light pouring in from the unblinded window, reaching over the side of the bed for her pants and belt. She dressed herself carefully, before limping down the stairs and into the Inn’s dining room. She saw David sitting by himself, and gimped her way over to his table.

“Good morning, sunshine. How’s that leg feeling?”

“You know damn well how it feels.”

“No need to be hostile.”

“Says the man with the shrunken head around his neck and an assault rifle slung over his shoulder.”

He took a sip of his Fernet, before sliding the glass to her.

“Drink this, it’ll help that hangover. If only for a time.”

“Thanks.”

She gulped down the bitter alcohol, the thick, sour taste of myrrh hanging in her mouth after she did so. She suddenly realized that their party was down a man, mistaking his lack of presence for silence.

“Where the hell’s Langdon?”

“The fool went off into town earlier this morning. Dunno’ what kind of hell he’s raised or shit he’s fallen into since then.”

“You worried about him at all?”

“The boy’s been shot twice in the chest, and once in the head. So no, I don’t worry.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Major Carl Picowski sat at his desk, a cigarette burning between his fingers. As an officer in the United States Reclamation Force, it was his duty to rebuild the shattered nation and bring hope to the beleaguered citizens of the states most devastated by the infected hordes, and the nuclear response to them. It had sounded easy on paper, with much glory to be had and many a grateful citizen to idolize him. However, reality had proven much less glamorous, as often was the case. Even with the recent amendments made by President-for-life Scudder trimming down the bureaucracy, the chain of command was still a nightmare of clearance and doctrine that bogged down any attempts to perform as they should. However, the USRF had been given clearance to hire third parties, to supplement the rather pitiful reserves. The man who now stood at the window hailed from Germany, and his signed contract was held in Picowski’s free hand.

“I hope you understand I disapprove of men like you, killers for profit who will change allegiances as soon as money changes hands.”

“That’s rather harsh, wouldn’t you say, Major?”

“No, I wouldn’t say.”

“That’s unfortunate. However, for the sake of civilized conversation I must request we keep our opinions to ourselves, and focus on business.”

Picowski nodded in agreement, and looked over the contract again.

“You are being paid one thousand a head; my men will oversee you while you complete your objectives.”

“That’s agreeable; however I must request that they stay out of my private affairs.”

“Do you have something to hide, Herr Kaufer?”

“No, I’m just a private man, Major.”

“Fine, they won’t tail you.”

“Excellent.”

“And you do understand that there may be others like you, who will sign on with us.”

“Of course.”

“Good, the convoy will leave at 0700 tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll see you then, major.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Robin limped down the street, the blazing Arizona sunshine beating down everyone who stood in the open. She found Langdon sitting by the boat landing, staring into the Colorado River. He turned to face her, grunting a greeting, before turning back to the slowly flowing channel.

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking at the river, what else?”

“The river?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you. But I have always enjoyed rivers, they just interest me.”

He looked to the Southwest, where gunmetal grey clouds had amassed like the leering head of Typhon.

“It’s gonna’ storm soon” he said calmly “looks like the sky’s really gonna’ split.”

“You reckon?”

“I reckon, and I reckon right.”

“Are we going to wait out the storm?”

“No, I think David’s found us a contract. Besides, it would get real boring real fast if we stayed for too long.”

“So even if it’s the end of the world, we’ll be leaving Yuma tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“When do ya’ think it’ll reach us?”

“Tonight, maybe. Definitely by tomorrow.”

“Well we better make the most of today then.”

“Agreed.”

Later that night, at the bar, the three began another confabulation. Again, it had started between Robin and David, this time concerning the ability of a man to find true happiness.

“Well, the world might be in a sorry state” began Robin turning her glass of rum “but I do think that if you really want happiness, you’ll find it.”

David chuckled bitterly, chasing down his gin and tonic with milk of magnesia.

“The world has always been in this sort of state. We humans can never have ‘true happiness’, because we will never transcend our basest desires. As such, the only way to dull the pain is to give into these desires. I’ve said it a thousand times, if you don’t experience all you can in this world you ain’t getting a second chance.”

“That’s a might bleak.”

“Yeah it is. But it’s the truth, girl, so get used to it.”

“Just because we’re killers, doesn’t mean everyone is. What about all the decent people out here that are just trying to make a life for themselves? Are you saying they’re stupid?”

“No, just ignorant of what the world is like. And besides, those oh so moral people would kill and rape each other in a heartbeat if you gave them the right incentive.”

Langdon crushed out his cigarette on the bar top, blowing the smoke from his last drag through his nostrils.

“For the record” he started “I believe people can find true happiness here. They just gotta’ earn it first. You can’t get anything for free, and that’s the truth. You gotta’ earn it all, one way or another.”

And with that he stood from the bar and ascended upwards into the dark of the boarding rooms.

[RustyMagnum]

Two weeks. Aarg, the wait!

[Jedi-L]

(I'm sorry, but updates may become more infrequent as I focus on college.)

Part 9: Legion

"Civilisation has ever accompanied emigration and conquest, the conflict of opinion, of religion, or of race."

-Alfred Russel Wallace

"Conquest is not in our principles. It is inconsistent with our government"

-Thomas Jefferson

When Langdon awoke, the torrent of rain that had begun the night prior had yet to cease. Roars of thunder rattled the windows in their frames, and arcs of lightning illuminated the sky. He descended trhe stairs and emerged in the sitting room, where many of the townspeople had come to seek refuge from the storm.

He sat with Robin and David, listening to the details of their next job. Their targets were a trio ranch hands who had made off with a large sum of their employer's horse stock, presumably to sell to the highest bidder. The rancher was paying them one thousand each for the deaths of the ranch hands who had committed the theft, and explicitly instructed them to bring him the heads. Something David would have obliged him in the first place.

They rode through the downpour, North towards Somerton where it was said the thieves were fleeing to. The rain lasted through the rest of the day and into the night, and it rained still when they reached Somerton. The streets were slick with mud, and were deserted save for a few souls who rushed between the buildings.

The three placed their horses in a livery run by an old, nearly toothless, unpleasent man who tried to charge them too much before Langdon threatened to rip the old man's arthritic spine from his back. Once their horses were situated, the three headed to the nearest saloon to wait out the storm. The saloon was much like the one in Yuma, but now very few men were armed and those that were carried there weapons with prudence. They sat at the bar, and ordered drinks. Eventually the torrential downpour softened into a steady rainfall and many of the patrons cleared out to return home.

"Listen, I gotta' go take a piss" slurred Langdon drunkenly.

He stood from his stool and headed out the back door towards the outhouses that were located in the dirt lot behind the saloon. Planks had been laid to create a path across the mud, but were only wide enough for one. On the way to the outhouse he encountered another man, who was swaying with drink and held an empty bottle in one hand.

"Outta' my way." grumbled the other man, trying to push Langdon aside. Langdon grabbed the man, and punched him hard in the jaw. The man stumbled back and seemed stunned, before flipping the bottle in his hand to brandish it like a club.

"You gon' regret that." slurred the drunk as he lunged with the bottle. Langdon ducked the first blow, but was unable to avoid the second as the bottle was shattered over the side of his face, putting deep lacerations into his cheek and temple.

"I'm going to kill you, ya' son of a whore!" shouted langdon as he wrestled the man off the planks and into the mud. The man bit his wrist and squirmed free, pulling a small dagger from his boot. Langdon drew his massive Bowie knife and the two began to circle crab-wise.

By now Langdon's threat had devolved into a single word, which he now chanted like a crazed accolyte of some obscure and diabolical cult.

"Kill, kill, kill, kill!"

The man lunged and tried to stab his foe, Langdon dodged and feinted, before coming around to slice through the man's neck. The man sashayed back and lunged again, and missed again. Langdon made a swipe with his knife, and severed three of the man's fingers.

The man howled in agony as the stumps on his diminished right hand squirted blood in thin ribbons. Langdon tackled him, and plunged the Bowie knife again, and again into the man's chest. He was so enthralled with his victory, that he did not hear the bar owner come up behind him with a huge shillelagh. The bar owner struck him soundly over the back of his head and sent him sprawling, unconcious, into the mud. He would have died if someone had not turned him over.

When he awoke the sun shined bright in the sky, and the storm had blown East without a trace. He rose from the mud, his head pounding and cuts stinging.

"Morning" piped Robin from behind him.

He turned to face her, and grunted a greeting.

"You seen my knife?"

"Got it right here."

She pitched the massive blade to him, and he wiped it clean on his filthy pant leg before sheathing it.

"Who the fuck hit me?"

"The bar owner, hit you with some sorta' club. You plan on killin' him now, aren't you?"

"Damn right I am."

"You killed a man last night."

"I know."

"It was one of the thieves."

"How fortunate for us."

"No, the other two skipped town when they heard their friend got iced. David's trying to pin their location now."

"Damn it."

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly."

"C'mon, let's go kill this son of a bitch and be done with it."

The two walked into the saloon, and accosted the barman for his employer's location.

"He's upstairs, sleepin'."

"Thanks."

"He'll kill you, he'll shoot you did and finish the job from last night!"

"I highly doubt that."

The two made their way upstairs, stopping in front of the owner's room. Robin pounded on the door, only to be greeted with silence.

"Maybe he's not in, that boy downstairs could be lyin' to us."

"He's not" growled Langdon "I'll just have to smoke the bastard out."

He pulled his box of matches and struck a bundle of ten, placing them under the door. He pulled paper scraps and lint from his pockets to feed the flame, and soon the varnish on the door began to burn.

"Hellfire!" screamed the owner from inside the room. The two stepped back as the door opened and the half naked owner came out with a towl around his hand to turn the hot knob.

He tried to retreat back into the room, but Langdon dragged him to the ground. He reached down and tried to pry out the owner's left eye with his thumb, the owner squirmed beneath him and tried to push him off.

"Kick his mouth in!" screamed Langdon.

Robin took a step back, before kicking the owner hard in the face.

"Kick him, aw kick that son of a bitch, baby!"

She kicked him until he stopped squirming. Langdon got off him, and stomped on his head a few more times unti, he was satisfied he was dead. By now the fire had spread into the hall and people were fleeing their rooms.

The two fled down the stairs and were met half way by the pimply young man who worked as the barman.

"You hot son of a bitch!" shouted the young man, as he tried to level a .32 revolver at Langdon.

Langdon was higher on the steps, and he lashed out with his boot and aught the young man in the throat. The man sat on the steps, wheezing through his crushed windpipe. Langdon kicked him in the forehead and sent him rolling down the stairs.

The two fled the bar which was now pouring greasy black smoke into the blue sky.

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Later that night, the three sat in the only other saloon in town. Word had spread of the arson, and people were giving them a wide berth. Langdon was calmly sipping his tequila, his body still plastered with dried mud, when his eyes wandered to Robin. The young woman sat in silence, her eyes had a hollow and pained look. He at once understood.

"I'm sorry" said Langdon simply.

"For what?"

"For getting you involved with that nastiness, it was my job to do. You've never killed a man like that before, have you?"

"No, I haven't."

"Listen, for what it's worth I appreciate you helping me."

"Yeah."

Suddenly a great roar of motors filled the room, and the patrons flocked to the windows. They stared in awe at the convoy of military Humvees which had pulled down the main road, stopping to let out dozens of uniformed soldiers armed with Heckler & Koch 416 assault rifles.

Several of the soldiers entered the bar, and stood with their pristine uniforms and armor a glaring contrast to the ragged crowd within.

"We are looking for vollunteers to aid with the reclamation of the Western territories!" recited one of the soldiers from a notcard in his hand. "We can assure you excellent wages and adequate supplies."

The three stood from the bar to face the soldiers, who looked back at them with mixed gazes.

[RustyMagnum]

Apologize my impatience, but do you have any idea when you could publish the next chapter?