Gunship - The Series

by John Davis

  And that's how the story of the original Gunship crew would end. At least a story of how their time spent together would end. For each of them it was just the beginning. Fate had placed them onto their own paths to destiny. Roman had become immortal, and his agenda now included ending as many Hunters as possible. Adam chose the love of Sasha, and together they would begin a journey of their own. One that would introduce them to something horrific and devastating. Sarah took her place as the rightful queen of the undead, soon to launch a full scale war against every mortal being in the Skyla System. And Dalton found another job. One that included a visually breathtaking Captain and free drinks. It would present him and his faithful pooch with plenty of opportunities to tell the stories of his life so far. Including his favorite, the one where Roman was a fucking Hunter.

  Geartown

  “Never cry over spilt milk. It could have been

  whiskey.” - Dalton James

  And there he sat. Dalton James. A veteran of several wars and several bars, both the drinking and incarceration type. He wore a heavy brown duster as testament, if nothing else, to his storied life up until this point.

  He was a smuggler, and moving illegal merchandise through space while skirting the authorities had both an upside and a downside.

  For the past decade he had worked for his good friend and former military comrade Adam Michaels.

  After the first Glimmerian War they decided that no man in political position would ever force them to live out another day, choosing instead, to fetch a ship and begin the black market work of great risk and great reward.

  Anything they could do to earn a living, they did it. Every cargo hold of illegal merchandise moved, led to connections on the wrong side of the law. And with each underhanded deal they pulled off, their reputation grew. By the time the older model Gunship, one that the Glimmerian government leaned heavily on during the first war, was fully staffed with crew; they had become notorious.

  Such notoriety led to a job offer from the Hunter Clan, a sadistic group of Vampires who were both wanted and feared. Offering a huge payday, Captain Adam Michaels took the job, double-crossing the Hunters a short time later. He had fallen in love with his cargo, Sarah Blaine. And the direction his heart led him, also led the crew through violent times.

  Eventually they went their separate ways. Various reasons, of course, but Dalton's reasoning was simple. He was sick of running from the undead. A near death experience has a way of making a man feel alive, even if it includes bullets flying into his direction. But so many near death experiences, sometimes on a daily basis, has a way of wearing down even the best of men.

  Dalton had reached the point of wanting something more. A peaceful calm, if nothing else. And so he left the Gunship, and her crew, setting off onto his own path in search of his own destiny.

  A destiny that was sure to include his running mate Whiskey. The four legged bucket of fleas was Dalton's best friend. Whiskey was a good ear to talk to, had a stomach for alcohol and even a way with the ladies. They wore matching brown coats, and together would take on the Skyla System, one shot of hard liquor at a time.

  The former soldier turned smuggler quickly found himself hired by Cambria Sims, Captain of the Outer Heaven. She was brilliantly beautiful from head to toe, shocking blue hair and cream white complexion only further accenting her perfectly sculpted curves.

  She had offered him a paycheck, even paid for both Dalton and Whiskey to get fitted for custom brown coats, rather than the bargain rack faux leather that currently covered their backs.

  In exchange, Dalton would bring experience to a crew of faces that was fresh to the black market world of smuggling. Though none of that mattered to him.

  All that mattered was the fact that they would no longer be running from the undead. Dalton had made damn sure of it, or at least he had thought so up until the moment his eyes caught sight of a poster that plunged into his heart like a chilled dagger.

  The Outer Heaven had landed in the Drifts. A very primitive, yet extremely elegant string of planets on the fringe of uncharted space. A mixture of Victorian influence and steam powered engineering, its citizens had shunned the modern lifestyle of computers and thrust engines for wind-born airships and a luxurious, yet simplistic, style of living.

  Dalton had considered it a paid vacation of sorts, going to stay a while in a much calmer environment while throwing a few brews back. But all of that changed as he slowly read the header of a poster hanging on the wall of the airship transport terminal. Do not provoke the undead.

  Afraid to ask, Dalton simply sat there. Stunned. As they waited for a transport from the terminal to Geartown, he continued to stare at the poster which had shattered everything he thought he knew about their upcoming trip.

  The terminal was the one centralized location on the planet, and each Drift planet had one. Simply put, you landed your ship here and then boarded an airship. Hundreds of airships came through daily, each one stopping in even the most remote locations.

  Some of the destinations were large cities, Victorian styled skyscrapers peaking to the heavens with their clockwork shaped tops and brass accented artwork. Others consisted of dusty towns populated by colorful characters who had a curiously playful charm about them.

  “Is he OK?” Tank asked.

  His God given name was Greg Shelling, but was soon handed the name Tank based on his unbelievable size. A bit taller than anyone currently sitting in the transport station, Tank was packed out in terms of muscular composition. His skin resembled a thin coat of dark paint as it stretched across his physique, barely able to contain the bulging muscles that were easily seen as he wore a solid green shirt with short sleeves.

  Skulls simply shook his head.

  Trevor Lagrange by birth, Skulls earned his name branding through the odd hobby he took so seriously. Collecting teeth, bones and severed fingers from the dead. Easy enough for him, because when the Salvation model sniper rifle that currently hung down by his side was in hand, people had a tendency of dying.

  Skulls resembled an undertaker at first glance. That is until you got close enough to see the solider in him, the wrinkles on his face merely a map of battles seen and horrors lived; at which point you wished he were merely an undertaker.

  His rifle was a very unpopular model, the bolt action considered outdated. But Skulls preferred the weapon because it had pinpoint accuracy when looking through the large telescopic lens mounted on top. It was a very elegant weapon in his mind, and a well respected rifle among snipers.

  His stringy hair flowed from beneath a dark top hat, mushrooming out a bit in the back and falling wildly down between his shoulders. Loose-hanging black leather clothes covered the body of such a tall and thinly boned man. And for such a strange Human, vanity was important, regularly slicking his black pants with grease to create such an obvious luster.

  “Dalton. Are you crying?” Cambria asked with shock.

  Dalton didn't reply, though his eyes remained crisped with tears. He simply continued his stare onto the poster warning those entering the Drifts of the undead. Zombies you could call them, though citizens knew them as Drifters.

  “It's alright. They aren't a common sight, more like cattle if nothing else. They are mindless and without intention.” Cambria said in an attempt to calm Dalton a bit.

  “They're undead,” he replied, fighting back tears of rage as he bit into his lower lip. “I'm tired of the undead. So fucking tired of people that should be taking a dirt nap trying to put my ass six feet under.” he grumbled.

  Whiskey gave a long and deeply pitched whine. Even the charismatic dog had seen his share of immortals.

  “Best bite your lip because our ride is here.” Tank said with a bit of chuckling mixed in as he stood up and began watching a large airship swoop down to them.

  It was the typical transport airship, nothing more than a large and elongated hot air balloon; cabin area below constructed of metal with luxurious wooden trim.

  Dal
ton gave a look of ill intent as he also stood to his feet, his stomach turning into knots as he glanced one last time at the poster warning of Drifters.

  Everything about the Drifts came across to him as being outdated. Even the very poster which currently had his attention, reminded him of an old military poster. Bold words at the top with a poorly colored sketch below.

  Both Skulls and Cambria slowly stood, the Captain putting her arm around the experienced smuggler for a moment.

  She was from the Drifts, and to her, Drifters were just a common thing. A background detail, like snakes in a sand-filled desert or deer in woodlands. Even so, she tried to empathize with Dalton.

  “We'll be fine. Trust me.” she said with a poetic tone, her undefinable beauty helping to comfort Dalton.

  As the airship slowly elevated back into the sky, heavier by a couple dozen passengers, Dalton found himself staring out of the thickened glass windows surrounding them and wondering exactly what he had signed up for.

  He had known about the Drifts for most of his life, and honestly, up until now, hadn't cared about them one way or the other. In his mind, anyone who shunned technology deserved to live in huts made of dirt and grass. He had just thought them to be basic and written them off.

  The impression he had gotten since arriving was different. Much different. Sure, they lived without the modern technology that the rest of the Skyla System coveted. But they did it in a very artistic way. Even the very balloon they traveled in now, was a helium filled canvas of linen. The fabric was almost a portrait of style, dark browns accented with gold flakes. And then it was pulled together and held into place by brass links of chain. As it wrapped around the balloon, the links locked together with a large brass medallion; a lion's head designed and pressed into the coin-style lock.

  They were headed for Geartown and from what Dalton could gather, it was full of opportunities for a young smuggling crew. All kinds of people who had goods to move off world, and were willing to pay a smuggling fee in order to avoid having their goods so heavily taxed by local government.

  With his frustration of the walking dead soon turning to anger, Dalton sat in the wooden booth-style seat and continued to look out across the clouds and thriving green pastures below. He quietly cursed the Drifts and their damn regulations on modernized weaponry.

  Twenty seven. That's the number of capable weapons he had to leave back on the Outer Heaven. If a shotgun fired too wide of a spread, it was against regulations. A digital counter on the side of a battle rifle, against regulations. Needless to say his grenades had been left behind as well, adding to an already pissed off demeanor.

  He carried only two weapons at the moment, which was as close to naked in front of clothed women as he had been in a very long time. At least in public. A Magnum style revolver that held six rounds inside of a rolling chamber and would damn near cut a man in half, as well as a large buoy blade strapped to his leg that would complete the cut if his revolver failed.

  “I wouldn't sweat it. Hell, I hear they hunt Drifters down here like big game man. We may throw a few beers back and go on the hunt ourselves.” Tank said in a low voice.

  “I 'aint huntin' shit,” Dalton said loudly, gaining the attention of every passenger aboard the airship. “Anything comes at me and can't recite the alphabet is getting shot up.” he added, turning for a moment to glance across the isle.

  “The fuck you lookin' at?” Dalton asked belligerently as an older man with literate glasses and a finely pressed suit looked on.

  “Calm down Dalton, you're scaring people.” Cambria said, quickly sitting beside him.

  Dalton wanted so badly to mouth off in response, but after catching sight of her beautiful face he started to realize that his soul began to ameliorate every single time she was near. So calm down he did. For the next several hours Dalton was silent, staring out of the window by his seat as the airship coasted passionately through the clouds.

  As they made their approach, Dalton's first reaction was one of curious suspicion. When he had first met Cambria Sims, she stood out. Her loudly colored hair and choice of clothing style was refreshing, but out of place. Looking across the streets of Geartown as the airship landed softly, Dalton realized that he and Whiskey would now be the ones out of place. Every citizen he caught sight of looked unique. Women with blue, watermelon green and even neon purple hair walking abroad. Outfitted in corsets and carrying small umbrellas that were stitched of glamor.

  It 'aint even fucking raining. Dalton thought as he watched the women, all who seemed overwhelmingly attractive to him, twirling their parasols a bit as they walked in Victorian-style dresses. The men he caught sight of, appeared to be the opposite for the most part. Tophats, aviator style caps of leather and even a few gas style masks. Most wore either Victorian influenced shirts filled with ruffle or sharp suits, complete with a pinstriped vest.

  He knew deep down he was about to step off of the airship and into a world he knew nothing about. Usually comfortable in his brown coat, this was the first time he began to feel that he would have to shell inside of it a bit; do his best just to try and fit in.

  And he felt sorry for Whiskey as well, having to endure the same type of out of place awkwardness. That is until he glanced down at his flea-bitten friend only to discover Whiskey wearing a pair of oversized goggles. Tank and Skulls had placed them on the pooch, and the goggles seemed to have the perfect fit as Whiskey stared back at Dalton. Sad eyes now protected by clear lenses and rounded brass as he stood a bit more firmly, proud of both his brown coat and his Victorian specs.

  “What the?” Dalton managed to mutter as everyone stood to their feet ready to exit the airship.

  “It's showtime.” Cambria said playfully as she cast a warm smile into Dalton's direction.

  “You call it showtime, I prefer go time.” he replied in a low voice, glancing down to make sure his revolver was still holstered before breathing deeply and following the crowd off of the airship.

  Geartown wasn't nearly as large as Dalton had envisioned. It was in fact...a town, and a small one at that. The fact that so many people wanted goods smuggled off world held true. It's just that a majority of the citizens in and around Geartown favored the around part. Houses scattered throughout the croplands and wooded terrain that surrounded such a Victorian-style town. Still, Geartown had everything it needed; including a watering hole for those who preferred adult drinks.

  “Trading Post?” Dalton asked.

  “Yep. That's the name of Geartown's busiest building. Serves as a general store, mail dispatch, surplus shop and saloon.” Cambria replied.

  “I've never heard of a mail dispatch and saloon in the same building.” Tank added as the group walked from the recently landed airship into the heart of Geartown.

  They continued to skim the town with their eyes, each wrapping their thoughts around the same idea. If it weren't for the beauty, the damn near artistic perfection of the town around them, it would otherwise be a dusty town on the edge of nowhere. But the Victorian influence around them was obvious, as the gold flaked trim and brass accents of daily life in Geartown were simply marvelous to anyone who visited.

  “At this point who gives a damn. She's buying and I'm drinking, don't really matter what sign is hanging from the front door.” Dalton replied, a grin of long-overdue plastered onto his face.

  “Well said.” Skulls added, holding his bolt action rifle behind his neck.

  Tank and Skulls broke from the group, heading into the direction of Geartown's finest, not to mention, only hotel; The Stage Inn. Meanwhile, Cambria, Dalton and a slightly promiscuous Whiskey made their way to the Trading Post. Dalton quick to notice that Whiskey was walking with a bit more strut.

  Must be the goggles. Dalton thought as the three entered the large building of wooden shingles and thick brown logs.

  Dalton just wanted to fit in, maybe slip into the building unnoticed and hang out until they found a job and got their asses back into the familiar territory of
space.

  However, as the three entered through a heavily creaking door, nearly forty people suddenly turned to see who had arrived. A shroud of unnerving quiet draped across the room as only small sounds of glasses connecting with wooden tables could be heard. Maybe it was Cambria's look of angelic sexuality. Possibly Dalton's rugged look of a poverty-stricken ranch hand. Of course, there was always a dog standing close, outfitted in a thick brown coat with large brass goggles to accent the look.

  But the truth was it had nothing to do with any of the above. They had recognized Cambria Sims, and knew all too well her badly ended romance with Johnny Edmonds. The same Johnny Edmonds who currently sat at the bar looking into her tantalizing eyes, and the same Johnny Edmonds who had earned his nickname the hard way. The Revolver. He was by all accounts the fastest gun in or around Geartown and everyone knew it to be the truth.

  “Welcome back.” Johnny said as he rose to his feet, clapping loudly in the process.

  He had everyone's attention, except for Dalton, who quickly walked past him and sat down by the bar.

  “Double shot of your strongest.” Dalton said quietly to the barkeep as he too turned back to watch the former lovers speak.

  “When you told me you were leaving Geartown to live out in the black, leaving to find a ship and crew,” Johnny said as he stood close to Cambria, their eyes interlocked. “I had no idea you'd come limping back with a single buster and his homely looking bag of fleas.”

  “Let it go Johnny, we've been over for a long time now.” Cambria said, noticing Dalton finishing the large shot of rum before standing to his feet.