“I don’t give a damn about anything else. None of it matters. But we need to know if he’s going to be able to fight tonight. What if the threat comes back for a yet another shot at us? We barely fought the bastards off again last night–even with the Pistolero.”
“Sir,” Watkins tried to explain, “we won’t know what his condition will be until later today. I will notify you and the other leaders as soon as we know anything. We have a doctor and a nurse nearby looking after him.”
“Well, keep him safe, Watkins, and don’t let anyone near him, especially civilians.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Because, unfounded rumors about last night are spreading. Many people don’t exactly care for the Pistolero’s handiwork. Many are saying he took out too many friendlies with some of his blasts, along with the enemy. Some are even calling him a murderer and want him to be hanged. Idiots, I know. Why, without this kid, most of us and them would be dead right now. None of us had any choice in what happened last night.”
“I quite agree, sir.”
“Do we know what happened to him yet, Captain? How is he able to do these things? Can it be replicated somehow with others? We’ve had reports of strange incidents–of people suddenly developing other weird abilities–but nothing like this.”
“Not that we can tell, sir. We sent people to check out the new lake on Allen Street, but the water isn’t glowing any longer. No other effects have been noted. His powers seem unique and exclusive to him alone right now. And most of us have been too busy trying to stay alive to do much of anything else.”
“General,” Blondie jumped in, “Mace is not a machine. He’s still flesh and blood. Last night was the first night that he pushed himself and his new abilities to the absolute limit. We’re lucky he didn’t kill himself or burn himself out somehow. Nobody knows how any of this works. He fought until he couldn’t go on, after many hours of sporadic and intense fighting and racing around. There are rational limits to everything. If you want to keep your precious Pistolero healthy and fighting, you’re going to have to work within those apparent limits.”
“Very well. Get him healthy–whatever it takes. Just get him back on the line…tonight. Like you said, no one knows what’s going to happen. After last night, we’re still having trouble assessing our losses and recruiting more troops. And we have thousands of dead and wounded casualties to deal with now as well.”
“Yes, sir.” Watkins said.
“So don’t either of you attempt to lecture me on our limitations and the unexpected. Make it happen, Captain Watkins. Make it work. And don’t let the boy slip away to Elkhart, either. He’s worried about his little girlfriend, when we have thousands of people dying every day? I don’t care if he has ten wives with kids or an entire harem over there in Elkhart. He’s staying put, right here. That’s the last thing we need is for him to wander away and disappear on us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mason didn’t ever recall signing up with the militia, or reciting any oath. Neither had Blondie.
Yet here they were, just as he feared. The authorities weren’t about to let him go. Too much depended on him now. He was too valuable a commodity.
Only he could make the magic work. He was the only one who could do whatever it was he did.
Mason Tyler–the Pistolero–the living weapon.
There was a chill in the air and on his face. He was on a bed in a house somewhere. There wasn’t any heat, but he had warm blankets over him.
He didn’t like the sound of people being angry at him, either. If friendlies got caught up in his wildly destructive blasts, perhaps that was just one of the costs of war. But, on the other hand, he could understand people getting angry and upset at friendly fire losses from his guns.
It didn’t sit well with him at all that he had killed others–even by accident. But he could see the militia’s side of things as well. They were the only defense the city had, and they were all barely hanging on. There wasn’t any exact, precise way to do any of this. And he recalled vividly that, despite his own misgivings, he had been under direct orders, several times, to keep firing in order to prevent them all from being overcome.
Screw the pain. He needed to get up and start moving around.
He needed to decide what he was going to do: stick around South Bend, or head to Elkhart on his own, if need be.
Mason winced and tried to flex his sore body. He had to loosen up, but moving hurt so bad that it brought tears to his eyes.
Blondie came in and then called out to Watkins. “He’s awake and out of bed.”
Captain Watkins came back in with the doctor and nurse. The medical people started checking his vitals: pulse, blood pressure, breathing. Mason put up with a little of that and then grew frustrated and waved them off.
“I’m fine. Just stiff and sore,” he told them. “Let me walk around and limber up.”
Watkins smiled. “You did good last night, son.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s why some people want to string me up.”
“Oh…you heard that?”
“Yeah, and according to the general, I’m not going anywhere. Be honest with me, Captain. Did you send anyone to Elkhart to try to locate that address and find my gal, Tori Nelson?”
Watkins looked offended. “Son, I can’t speak for others, but I keep my word when I give it. There are three different groups of messengers and scouts trying to make it to Elkhart at this very moment. Things are pretty wild, so I can’t promise they’ll make it there or come back. But if any of them do make it, they’re going to try to find that address and locate your girl. A lot of people are risking their lives do so. Is that good enough for you? And like the general also noted, this isn’t a game. Lots of people are dying each day. Deal with that, just like the rest of us are.”
Mason looked down for a second. “I’m sorry, sir. Thank you. Of course I’m grateful for everyone’s help. You’ll have to forgive me. I feel like crap, and I’m young and dumb and self-centered as it is. I know that for a fact. I don’t have a lot of patience, either. But I’ll try to do my best. Do you really think there’s going to be another battle tonight?”
“That’s what we expect. And if there is, we’re going to need you badly, once again. There’s no avoiding that fact.”
“How long do you think it will take your people to reach Elkhart and get back?”
“With as tough as things are and the roads all broken up, we gave them up to three days out, and three days back. Less if they can make it happen. They left yesterday, so with any luck, they should return by the end of the week, if not sooner.”
“Well, I can’t really say that I could get there any faster or at all, so I’ll wait. And I’ll do my best to help out here. But I don’t want to be treated like a prisoner.”
“You’re not, Mace. Go anywhere you like, within reason, and we’ll go with you. Consider us your bodyguards.”
“All right. I like and respect you, but I’m putting you on notice, Captain. If no one comes back with any word on Tori, I’m going there myself. And no one is going to stop me–not you, and not the general.”
“Let’s cross that Rubicon when we reach it, and don’t do anything rash, son. A lot of people are depending on you.”
“Yeah, like the ones who want to hang me.” After stretching and loosening up, he felt a lot less stiff and sore.
“You shouldn’t focus on them, “Watkins told him. “They’re an ignorant, vocal minority. Most people who know or learn the real facts are still very grateful that we have you on our side. We could all be dead today.”
Mason nodded, grabbing his jacket and hat. He belted his pistols on and loaded up. “I want to go back to my duplex and see if there’s anything else I can salvage. Ready to go for a little walk?”
Watkins smiled. “Ready whenever you are.”
Once they were outside, Mason determined that they were less than a mile away from the lake. He and Blondie walked ahead of the rest.
&n
bsp; “You remember who you are yet, Blondie?”
“Nope. But once I got to sleep, I had some very weird dreams last night. They didn’t make any sense, however. I’ll let you know when anything coherent comes to me. You put on quite a show last night, Mace.”
“To my mind…I kinda had to.”
“I know. Don’t feel guilty. Don’t let anyone ever blame you for anything.”
“Thanks, Blondie. I’m trying not to.”
Bands of militia, refugees, and civilians were out and about now that it was daylight and safe. There was much to do, and little time until the next sunset. Lots of bodies to be buried.
Teams of volunteers struggled to identify human remains and prepare them for the burial details, wrapping them up in whatever could be found–even trash bags. That was all harsh enough by itself.
The dead monsters slowly dissolved into foul-smelling vapor and slime if left in the sun, and blackened the earth where they lay. Some people tossed such remains into partially burned houses or burn piles, and immolated the bodies in order to cut down on the stink.
Bad smells abounded almost everywhere as it was.
Mason and Blondie recognized some faces among the refugees: Officer Tim Reinert, his wife Helen, and Denny, their twelve-year-old. All three of them looked wounded and beaten up. They just had the clothes on their back. They stumbled along, bandaged up and staring straight ahead.
Mason turned to Watkins, pointing out the Reinerts. “Those people are our friends. We need to help them.” Watkins nodded, and called up their doctor and nurse, who had come along with them as ordered. They and the militia pulled the Reinerts out of the shuffling mob and started checking them over. From their injuries, it looked as if they had passed a very rough night on their own.
It worried Mason greatly that he didn’t see Howard or the younger boy, Tommy, along with them. For the moment, he was too afraid to ask, but he knew that he’d have to work up the courage to do so.
“The Pistolero,” someone whispered. “That’s him right there, in the gunslinger hat and dark brown duster.”
Mason turned and stared at the whisperers, who pointed at him and then nervously looked away in fear.
Other voices and interest grew and turned his way, as people passed by, in all directions. People continued to point him out, and look his way in a mixture of fear, wonder, and sometimes anger.
Various emotions played across their faces as they stared, or smiled, or scowled at him. And the hushed voices continued to whisper.
“Are you sure? Is that him?”
“He looks so young–like a college kid.”
“Look! They say that’s the Pistolero.”
“That’s him, all right.”
“Don’t look at him. Don’t piss him off or get too close. He could blow us all away with one shot.”
“They say he blew up half this section of town last night.”
“So what; he killed thousands of those monsters, everyone says. We might all be dead if it wasn’t for him.”
“They say he saved the militia’s ass last night. They all ran, and he stood his ground and kept shooting until his guns were empty, and the only thing left around him was a ring of dead monsters.”
“Yeah, because he cut down everything around him–friend and foe.”
“What the hell do you know? They say his guns are never empty. He fires them like magic…somehow.”
“We should be thanking him.”
“They should string the bastard up. He cut down a bunch of our people, too. He went crazy and started killing everything in sight.”
Mason finally tried to ignore them and walked up to Tim and Helen, while their wounds were being looked after. “What happened?” he asked.
Both of them glanced up at him and broke down. They started crying. They couldn’t speak.
Denny piped up, still carrying his old nightstick clutched in his hands. It looked even more battered than before. He almost sobbed when he spoke. “The monsters attacked our house and set it on fire. Mom and Dad fought their way out the back, but the monsters were waiting for us there, too. We tried to get away. They–”
The young boy’s red eyes got real wide, and brimmed with tears. “They got Tommy and he was screaming. Howard tried to save him with that golf club. He whacked a couple of them before they dragged him down, too. There were just…too many monsters.”
Mason put an arm around the kid and tried to comfort him. Denny was having trouble getting the rest of his words out.
“I watched them…kill my little brother Tommy and Howard. The monsters enjoyed it. They kept laughing and stabbing them with their rusty weapons, over and over. So much blood. Mom and Dad grabbed me and dragged me away. We kept running, hiding, and fighting. It seemed like that’s all we did, all night long. I was never so glad to see the sun come up. But Tommy’s still dead. They killed my brother.”
Captain Watkins dispatched a squad of militia to look after the trio. “Get them to one of the shelters. Make sure they’re safe.”
But Mason looked all around them. There were too many people ambling around just like this family. An entire sea of them homeless, wounded, and in shock.
Their band regrouped, minus the squad, and kept going.
At Mason’s ruined duplex, there really wasn’t that much to retrieve. Most of Mason’s belongings from his room had been tossed into the new lake when the Merge happened.
But he did manage to worm his way back into the collapsed house, along with Blondie, and drag out a few personal items: clothing, boots, leather saddlebags, and shoes.
When he got around to it, he’d have to ask the general for two horses for him and Blondie, and some kind of pack animal.
For the rest of that day, they returned to the house they were using nearby, and made ready for battle that night.
Mason went over, cleaned, and loaded all of his guns and tested them. Blondie focused on making crossbow bolts for his new crossbow, which had a scope and everything. He made dozens and kept making them.
Mason didn’t ask where his strange new friend had acquired that crossbow–most likely on the battlefield somewhere, the night before. Blondie was normally tight-lipped about anything he did, and Mason didn’t bother to prod him about much.
To Mason’s great joy and relief, all of his remaining powders and shot all functioned the same way as the others. He only used half loads to save on his precious supplies, but he also experimented with mixing different components, either in the powder or mixed in with the lead shot.
The effects of those experimental loads also varied widely.
Iron filings and aluminum seemed to produce more incendiary effects over a longer, but narrower, area of effect. Whereas copper and brass increased the explosive yield of each shot, and did greater damage over a wider area closer up.
He spoke to Captain Watkins and Blondie about experimenting further with various types of other materials. He was anxious to try small quantities magnesium, if they could find one of those fire starters.
Mason thought about what had happened to the Reinerts, and what had happened to the city in general. And he still spent a lot of thought on hoping that Tori was still alive and okay, somewhere. They were both just two people in a mixed up world gone insane.
At sunset, Mason and Blondie waited with the militia for another enemy attack.
No attack came that night.
No attacks came for the next two nights after that.
But no word returned from Elkhart, either. None of the scouting parties or messengers returned.
11
So many memories of growing up with his parents and becoming a man in that car. David’s car–Gandalf.
To him his reliable, faithful car had been more than a companion–it had represented his freedom, his adventure.
Now it all meant nothing. So much of David’s world was now gone, lost so abruptly and completely.
Jerriel must have sensed his shock and discomfort, as he sat there help
less, almost paralyzed with loss and regret. She put her slender, white hand on his arm, but how could she know what he was going through?
She had to be just as confused, if not more so.
Jerriel had no idea what a car was.
Perhaps losing her ability to do magic was just as upsetting for her.
There was no way in hell for David to even begin to explain to her what a great car meant to someone on Earth. What it had meant.
In a world that once depended on safe, economical travel, David’s old car had taken him everywhere–all over the U.S., Canada, and even parts of Mexico. Just one of the many aspects of modern technology that Earth people would probably never take for granted again.
They never knew how good they had it. They might not ever get a chance to understand and appreciate that all over again.
All of that was gone now–perhaps forever.
He swallowed hard and faced many cold facts.
Even if humanity survived the Merge, they had still suffered great harm–and losses that they would be dealing with for centuries to come. Many would yearn for the golden ages of the past.
They had gone from being Earth, to being Urth.
And that loss would mess with humanity in many serious ways, from this time forward.
Damn the Merge.
“Daeved...” Jerriel said softly.
“I know.” He’d already wasted too much time feeling sorry for himself and his dimension as it was. Time to push on, and do what needed to be done in the present.
The old Earth was already gone. What the new Urth would become remained to be seen, as did whether they would even survive and have a say in it.
David climbed out and ransacked his now useless car, filling the bike cart with his katana, wakizashi, and other spare weapons, more bolts for his crossbow, arrow-making supplies. He had several spear heads that would come in handy once they were set on poles. There was plenty of medieval garb, and a couple of shields someone could use. He preferred to fight two-handed.
And finally, his suit of armor. A fully-functional suit of fourteenth century field plate, complete with coat of plates, chainmail, tassets, gorget, and gambeson. Shoulder, arm, leg, and foot armor.
B00M0CSLAM EBOK Page 9