Dusk Mountain Blues

by Deston Munden

  “Where we goin’, anyway? We seem mighty lost out here in the middle of nowhere.” Big Thunder kicked his feet out of the window. “Won’t be long til some ferals come in on us. I worked a mighty long time on those brews back there to get ’em up and ready. Do ya know how much work goes into just a single keg of my stuff back there? Months, sometimes years worth of work. Ain’t gonna lose it to some wildfolk.”

  “Some people call us the wildfolk.”

  ​“Anyone that says that don’t know real wildfolk. They’ll strip you dry. At least we don’t take the bones.” Big Thunder laughed.

  ​“Aye, guess you’re right. We have a little bit of class left.”

  Drifter turned the truck, cutting through the suburbs. Despite his jokes, his brother wasn’t wrong. Danger lurked in the huddled shells of dead cities and towns that once held life. A tall spire, a former business building, stretched into the from the dead city and around it came more hordes of the wildfolks. Drifter tapped against the wheel. They were watching, he knew - on the roofs, within the buildings, through every crack on the street. They knew their own kind, feared them. They weren’t that much different, all things considered. Smaller animals feared the predators whose mouth they could fit inside. Drifter tasted their apprehension in the air, smelled their rank odor against the dust cloud kicking up underneath their wheels. They weren’t going to attack. If they did, it would be the last mistake they ever would make.

  I want them to try. Drifter licked his teeth, his long tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. A bit of green acid dribbled down the side of his chin, burning a small hole in his blue checkered shirt. I want them to try their hand against mine and see who’ll win.

  The car grew oddly silent. Big Thunder exchanged his over-the-top smile for one of guile and mischief; there was a familiarity in that one. It had gotten him beaten. It had gotten all the brothers into mighty big trouble. Black cats, broken mirrors, walking under a ladder - nothing brought more bad luck than that smile.

  Big Thunder reached to his side, fingers barely touching his pistol; Drifter shook his head. He would start all kinds of hell when no one else wanted to. With a single bullet fired into the air, every frustration they had growing in their chest would have an outlet. There would be bodies around them in this dead city. There wasn’t that much time. Where they were going was gonna be trouble enough.

  ​“This ain’t nowhere near Pete’s post,” Pit muttered.

  ​“We aren’t going to Pete’s today. We gotta keep him guessin’.”

  ​“I’ve always hated Pete,” Big Thunder added with the calmest of venomous disgust. “Owes me some beers.”

  ​“Who doesn’t owe you some beers, Bobby?” Drifter asked.

  ​Big Thunder’s smile grew. “It’s not what you owe me, it’s how you owe me. I’d be willing to let things slide if he didn’t dodge me. I might’ve promised that the next time I see him, I was gonna break his skinny neck on my knee. Who we going to instead?”

  ​“Old Coyote’s place. He got something for me - well, not for me.”

  ​“Ain’t that where the Bluecoats trade though?” That caught Pit’s attention.

  ​“Is it?” Drifter grinned.

  He knew it was. The Old Coyote didn’t play for either side. Drifter respected the man enough to give him space from this war when it came to that. Sometimes, though, Old Coyote liked a good ol’ fight in his place it brought customers and livelihood to his old, stale world of trade.

  Gotta give ’em what he wants. Things to sell and entertainment. What could be better than that? The trick was gonna be finding him; never stayed in one place, the ol’ kook. Thought if he wasn’t worth finding, you weren’t smart enough to barter with. After a while, Drifter caught on to his vagrant ways. It took one to know one. Back in his twenties, home was a four letter word without a meaning.

  “I can’t lie to you fellas, I’m expectin’ trouble when I get there and I expect you guys to go a little wild and have a good time. Know when to quit, got it? Don’t need to make an enemy out of him.”

  Slow nods filled the space afterwards. Big Thunder Bobby exchanged a look with Pit over the shoulder of the seat. Drifter eyed him too. There was relief there in those harsh red eyes, the color of the tip of a burning cigar. They melted from red to orange, dripping with a dark contempt.

  I’m gonna have to stop him from burning this place to the ground. Drifter rolled the thought in his head, chewing the bitter thought in the hard edges of his mind. We ain’t that much different than those wildfolks lurking in the shadows. Given the chance, they too would rip the meat off a bone until nothing remained. They were animals, a plague, a force of nature on the slowly civilizing Dusk Orbits.

  There was no place for people like them anymore in a world like that.

  ***

  They found Old Coyote’s pop-up shop by the edge of the Fleetbroken Sea this time. It had gotten its name from the countless salt-bitten and wind-eaten spaceships poking from the sea in metal glaciers. Red light gave the water and the fallen ships a blood-stained hue.

  Drifter found himself pleased; he didn’t get to go to the sea very often. It was far away from the mountain, and he didn’t have enough gas to be gallivanting around like that. The water was a reminder of softer days. He hadn’t ever seen the sea on the planet they’d lived on before.

  Lived, that was rich. He hadn’t lived on that awful prison planet of sand and dust. They had been sold into it, one by one like cattle to pay off a debt. In the end, he bought his freedom with his family’s blood and slept well at night. Standing on a pier while feeling the salt rough against his skin and sour in his mouth reminded him of how far he had come. He listened to the waves rolling in as he parked the truck in the small dirt lot.

  ​Big Thunder and Pit whistled their approval at a few shuttles coming in and out of the lot. Most of the patrons recognized them; ain’t hard to remember a few old men rolling around in an old truck when they could be flying. He had a bit of a reputation here.

  Drifter plucked the keys from the ignition and stepped out. The whispers rose all around them in hushed layers. Pit and Big Thunder began unpacking the cargo from their truck, heaving the ship fuel and bigger items first on their backs. Drifter took a few of the weapons, inspecting the guns for anything he wanted to keep. In the end, he took one of the refurbished rifles for himself. No reason to sell such a mighty fine gun to someone who wouldn’t appreciate its beauty. He placed it aside, packed the rest in his signature beat-up black duffle bag, and slung it over his thin shoulder. All packed up, they approached the Huntsman’s Cabin on the sea.

  ​The shop wasn’t a big whoopdedoo. The walls and the roofs of the Huntsman’s Cabin were made of a thick, collapsible metal, tinged with red rust and bullet holes. The small shack had seen worse days, though, in its hasty construction from planet to planet. This time, at least, the walls and foundation looked stable instead of slumping in on itself as though it was standing on pudding. Old Coyote had the decency to put the windows in this time, normally foregoing them altogether out of sheer laziness. The energy field within the bar itself protected the bargoers well enough from the elements, it seemed. Despite this and without fail, he managed to put up that stupid neon light sign right above the two swinging wooden doors. Green and white flashed at eye level, burning spots in his sight. The urge to rip the sign from the bolts only intensified when a light sparked and went out against his face. Drifter growled, stooping under the low-hanging frame.

  ​The wave of smoke and cheap beer hit him in the nostrils first. The small shack was already crammed from wall the wall with patrons, growling and muttering under their breath. If you couldn’t speak softer than the jukebox, Coyote figured you didn’t have enough courtesy in your blood to live.

  Drifter liked the music; the old kook had good taste in that, at least, but not much else. The lighting was bad. The planks creaked under Drifter’s sneakers, tempting to buckle with every step. Not for the first time, Drifter wonder
ed how the building stayed together. He shouldered through some grisly-looking men taking drinks and exchanging wares to approach the counter. One of the men turned, frowned, sipped from his tall, cloudy mug; and then grinned with all brown teeth, a purple tongue poking from the empty spaces.

  “Ay, don’t I know you from somewhere,” the purple-tongued man barked.

  Drifter eyed him. He recognized him as Staff Sergeant Bills, the highest rank of the Bluecoats that was on the planet before Debenham and Xan showed up. He was a thin, muscled man with dark blonde hair the consistency of badly-cooked spaghetti. Drifter and the family made him look an absolute fool time and time again. He was a weaker mutant, a poor attempt to recomplicate where the previous Chairman of the Civilization succeeded and it showed. Seeing him out of his uniform and in beaten, poorly-stitched fatigues, drinking and muttering, was quite the hoot.

  Bills stared, drunk eyes flickering up and down Drifter’s body. Recognition slowly dawn on the Staff Sergeant’s brutish face, a sneer ripping through his hard features. He straightened his body, reaching for the pistol sitting on his hip. Didn’t recognize Drifter well enough, apparently; that little weapon wouldn’t even scratch his hide, even when he looked like a normal, hardworking fella. Stupidity glistened in those dark eyes, the obscene willingness to act on whatever pride held him together. “Luke Caldwell, what ya doin’ here?”

  Drifter smiled. “Staff Sergeant Lincoln Bills. Pleasure as always.”

  “Ya show yer face here outta all places. Here, where I drink, where I--”

  “Voice, Lincoln. Voice!”

  Old Coyote came out from the back room. He stumbled, leaning on his right leg--the last thing made of flesh on his entire body. Drifter assumed for a long time that he was a ‘roid made by the Civilization, but learned later that he was, indeed, human, once upon a time. There was little to show that now. Aside from that last piece of bone and flesh, his body was made of a flexible metal alloy, each with perfect parts that made no hissing or cracking.

  A bright green light searched the two men, flickering back and forth. Old Coyote tugged his leather cowboy hat over his optics and muttered with his husky, synthesized voice. He plucked the burning cigarette from the small slit on his head that served as his mouth, smashing the butt into an ashtray. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Drifter. Whatcha got for me this time?”

  “Quite a bit actually. My brothers are unloading it as we speak.”

  “You’re gonna trade with this ruffian?” Staff Sergeant Bills barked.

  “I’m trading with you, ain’t I?” Old Coyote snapped. “Now sit down and drink your beer before I take it away. Adults are talking.”

  Bills frowned but shut his mouth all the same, nursing his drink and hurt feelings. Always the one to bark first, ain’t ya?

  ​Drifter heaved the duffle bag over his shoulder and onto the counter. Old Coyote took it with every intention to be unimpressed. He unzipped the bag and whistled. “What’s the occasion? You never part ways with your weapons, not of this quality. What’s going on?” Old Coyote's voice took a low, serious tone. “What war do you wanna start?” The question came out as serious as a heart attack. When it came to Old World weapons and drink, there was no equal. Drinks were okay to sell. Guns weren’t.

  A sold gun from Drifter was the harbinger of the devil; everyone on the planet knew this.

  The Bluecoats in attendance stopped their drinking, their drunken banter, even their breathing, it seemed. Only the music rolled through the bar and trading post. They sat in stunned silence, eyes caught on the dusty old man with the knife to the world. Staff Sergeant Bills was the one the broke the silence with a laugh.

  ​“This is about that mutt of yours that you lost to Debenham, ain’t it?” Staff Sergeant Bills barked another laugh. “How does it feel to be outta your depth, old boy? How are you - ?”

  ​Drifter didn’t say a word when he smashed the man’s own beer glass into his head. Shards of glass sprayed on the ground and the counter. The Staff Sergeant howled, holding his eye in pain, almost kicking off of his stool. Drifter caught him by the hair. A cold, quiet rage filled him as he smashed the man’s head repeatedly into the counter until purple blood oozed off the table and onto his black and white sneakers. Drifter yanked the man’s head up by his hair, allowing the open wound on the man’s ugly face to close. Staff Sergeant Bills had suffered burns, cuts, bruises, everything across the planet. His healing ability had saved him from a lotta those. This was an experiment, a thrill for Drifter to test how far he could go. A soft kinda savagery filled his gut with each satisfying crunch of the man’s skull.

  “I don’t want to hear your voice anymore,” Drifter said, whispering in the man’s ear. “This don’t involve you. So shutya trap ‘bout my folks.”

  ​“That’s enough, Luke,” Old Coyote groaned. I don’t want any trouble in the place.”

  ​“Tell that to them.”

  ​The rest of the Bluecoats squad in the Huntsman was standing now with guns raised. Drifter looked from person to person, amused at their quaking expressions. The door swung open, revealing Big Thunder and Pit standing in its frame; the tension in the room rose.

  They hadn’t heard what Bills said. Good. Better that Drifter started than either one of them. This way he held the reins, had control over how this went down. A quiet kinda hoedown. Drifter rolled his shoulders, smiling at the only backup he needed.

  Old Coyote sighed and lit another cigarette, a habit he still had despite not even having a human tongue or mouth to taste it. “Just try not to break anything important...or whoever’s still alive is gonna pay for it.” And with that, he returned casually to the back room.

  ​The brawl started all at once.

  ​Fists began to fly first. Big Thunder roared into the brawl. Though shorter than most opponents he faced, Thunder knew how to fight. He swung, his meaty knuckles connecting with one of the nearest men’s face and shattering his jaw into pieces. Within seconds, he was surrounded by men, each falling left and right to his blows. The more he fought, the louder his punches sounded. As his muscles began to warm, his skin took on a yellow-gold color, resounding blow after blow.

  Drifter tossed the bloody pulp of their Staff Sergeant to the ground; his healing mutation hadn’t stopped him from losing consciousness, it seemed. Shame. That was fun while it lasted.

  Drifter approached the chaos with a few causal steps. A heavyset man went for a swing at Drifter’s face, only to be caught by his knuckles and have those digits crushed. Bigger men always thought that it’d be smart to fight him, that he was an easy picking. The boys at the mines learned the hard way after a while that there was no messing with Drifter like this.

  Wordlessly, he tossed the man over his shoulder and knocked him out cold with a swift punch. Fighting was a quiet type of hobby for him, like knitting a sweater. The more that came, the more fell to his fists. Thousands of days in the pits was edged into his body. A group full of drunk spacemen wasn’t gonna be much of the problem; that is, until the weapons came out.

  A blue beam brushed past him, searing his cheek. Drifter touched the burn mark for a second. Get a real weapon, he wanted to say, but his mind was too focused on the attack. He stepped around a table, kicking it over for cover. They couldn’t put their lasers on maximum heat unless they wanted a fire, and they didn’t want that among the pile of crap they put themselves in.

  Drifter loaded his revolver with six causal clicks. Only six today. Ain’t gonna need much more. He peeked over the cover and fired, the heat of the gun feeling nice against his knuckles. Five in the chamber, one in the grave. They wanted to bring out a gun, they needed to know the consequences of that. Another bullet and another body slumping dead on the floor. The rays of blue rained in earnest after that.

  Drifter rolled from cover to cover, being wary of when to use his bullets. Energy guns had their own weaknesses. While they didn’t need to reload like Old World weapons - unless the batteries were completely spent - they did
need to cool off after a few shots. Every gun was different, depending on the manufacturers of the cells. The key, Drifter learned, was learning which cell went with each gun by ear. Though a dangerous strategy in its own right, it was the best he’d learned to deal with the technology. Drifter popped out of cover, hearing a sharp hiss from one of the men’s weapons. Drifter saw the brief slither of steam and shot another bullet. Dead. A clean shot through the chest.

  There were a few spacemen left in the Huntsman now. Drifter saw Big Thunder, skin the color of an overripe grapefruit, laughing over limp bodies with raw knuckles. Pit stood over a few other men, his serrated hunting knife freshly pulled from a dead man’s neck. He too laughed his amusement, a slow huffy laugh more akin to a woof.

  We’re monsters, aren’t we? The thought struck a dull satisfying chord in the back of his head, better than the songs escaping from the speakers of the jukebox. Drifter eyed the five remaining members of the squad, scattered in the small space with the same look of apprehension glued on their faces. This was the moment that made men heroes; it was also one that made cowards. Drifter wasn’t a betting man, but he knew which one they would choose.

  Four fled the moment Drifter stepped forward. A shame, but he didn’t have enough ammo to kill them all anyway. They left one brave man who was too drunk or too stupid to realize he was outmatched. Drifter thought to let him go, let him live his life. He even played with the idea as the stupid boy raised his weapon and shot, a bright red laser shooting from its barrel. The ray came close to hitting, burning through the flesh of Drifter’s shoulder in a searing pain. With a bit more clarity and a lot less fear, he might’ve done the deed. Brave kid, wrong place.

  Unflinching, Drifter shot the boy in his chest. Not a cough or a gurgle. Like that, they were done, and the room was quiet again aside from the light sounds of bluegrass.

  “Does it make you feel better?” Old Coyote asked after a long while.

  “It was never ’bout feeling better.” Drifter took a soft look at the heaving Pit in the corner. If he had heard what the Staff Sergeant had said, nothing on heaven and earth would’ve stopped him from burning this place to the ground. This way there was only dead bodies and burns. “I’m sorry ’bout this, Coyote, in a way. They came all this way to trade with you. But now, look at it this way - their stuff is yours now. Plain and simple. They’ll think we stole it, you get free stuff. Win-win.”