Coilhunter - A Science Fiction Western Adventure (A Coilhunter Chronicles Novel) (The Coilhunter Chronicles Book 1)

by Dean F. Wilson

   He stepped forward, ready to swoop in, but she turned and caught his gaze. It wasn't just animals that knew the scent of predator and prey. Humans knew it too. Before she'd even got a good look at him, she was out the door on the far side. She didn't stop to look back. You didn't survive in the Wild North by looking. You survived by running. So she ran.

   And the Coilhunter followed. This was the part he liked the most. The hunt.

  9 – THE HUNT

  Boy, she could run. She thundered down the corridor and leapt out of the window without a glance at what was below, tumbling on the cobblestones, and getting up just as quick. Then she was off again, down the street, zig-zagging between the crowd, hopping over the traders' tables like hurdles on a race track.

   But the Coilhunter could run too, and dive and dodge just as well. He was after her like lightning, tearing his way through the throng of people, crashing his way over those same barriers, taking an accidental souvenir or two with him. The only reason he didn't brandish his gun was because he couldn't get a clear shot, because of the risk of some poor sod walking into the bullet.

   So he ran.

   And he soon realised that Harvey the Hound wasn't lying when he said she'd be hard to catch. The Coilhunter had his toys, his tools of the trade, but there was one thing you could count on with criminals in the Wild North: they'd cheat, steal, and kill for some of their own.

   Mid-stride, Handcart Sally took an ornate, copper pistol from her belt. Nox spotted it with his eagle eyes, and was ready with his eagle claws to fling some bullets of his own, but she didn't even turn to fire. She aimed it behind her, shooting a sprawling net at him, which he charged right into. He faltered for a moment, tearing his hand from the handle of his gun, and taking a knife instead from his belt. He sliced through the ropes, and the net fell down around him, catching on his ankle before he kicked it off mid-run.

   Everything that Nox was carrying slowed him down a little, but even if it didn't, she wasn't just fast on the ground—she was fast on the walls as well. They turned into a tight alley, where she bounced her feet off one wall, then the other, criss-crossing her way up with ease, before hopping onto the roof.

   Nox didn't even bother trying to scale the wall. He clenched his fist and shoved his arm up straight, triggering a mechanism in all the strapped-up wires running up his forearm, which fired a grappling hook to the top of the building. It latched into place, and yanked him upwards as the wire coiled tight. He grasped the rim of the roof and pulled himself up, tearing the grappling hook free, letting it recoil into its case.

   Then he turned around and looked. She wasn't there.

   “Damn!” he shouted, glancing around for some sign, some little dot of a figure dipping off into the sunset. Then he saw her, up on one of the higher roofs, leaping across to another, never stopping or slowing, never giving him a chance to catch up. You didn't get many chances in the Wild North, so you didn't give them to anyone either.

   But he didn't need her. He'd make one for himself.

   He fired the hook again and swung over to the higher roof, barely ripping the metal claw free from the tiles before he was off again. He didn't even get much of a run up before he threw himself over the gap between the buildings, only just clearing the chasm. He stumbled a little, but he didn't care, so long as he stumbled forward, towards the target, towards the kill.

   There was a long stretch of level roofs ahead, with varying gaps between them. This was where she gained even more distance, her lean figure making her movements lithe. He trudged along behind her, making those same leaps, regaining a little speed of his own. He reached for the canisters on his belt, dislodging one mid-jump. It broke apart in an alley below, sending the gas out in all directions, and the civilians walking there into a pile on the ground. They'd be fine. Everyone could do with a nap every now and then. As soon as he landed on the other roof, he tossed a canister ahead of him, timed to explode right where she ran. But she must have heard him, or had some sixth sense, because she dived down into the next alley, letting the gas explode on the roof. Nox ran straight into it, and out the other side, breathing out his own black fumes from his mask.

   He threw himself down into the alley, and just as she tumbled delicately, he crashed into the ground, before stumbling into the wall, taking a chip out of the brickwork. Yet just as quickly, she was back up the wall again, and onto the roof. He fired a token shot at her foot, just as it vanished over the edge, before aiming the grappling hook. It jammed. He couldn't afford to figure out what the problem was, so he ran towards the wall, simultaneously throwing a knife from his belt at the stone, where it lodged in place, and then another a little further up, and another higher still. He used them like stairs, dashing up the sides of the blades.

   They were back on the level roofs, and this time Nox decided against using gadgets, in case she'd dive back down into the crowds again, and he'd lose more time trying to get back up. She already lengthened the gap, and showed no sign of slowing her relentless pace. That was the thing about knowing you were being hunted. You found some reserves of will and energy you didn't even know you had. But the Coilhunter had his own, and knew all about them. He didn't give up the chase so easily.

   They approached the end of a set of roofs, which led to the outer wall of the city, and the deep dive down the plateau to the desert all around. He thought she was going to try to make that jump, crazy as it was, but she turned instead, setting off on another race across the next line of roofs. He wasn't sure where she was going, or if she was just trying to tire him out. He was getting tired, no doubt about it, but she could go for gold all she wanted; he was going for cold, hard iron.

   In the charge, he noticed his monowheel like a toy far off to his right, parked outside the Dust Barons' jurisdiction. Then he saw why Handcart Sally took this route. Straight ahead, across many more rooftops, was a hang glider, a flimsy-looking contraption made of sticks and cloth. She dived straight into its harness, before running with it off the edge, letting the wind catch her.

   Nox turned to his own form of gliding. He pulled a different kind of grappling device from his belt, firing one end into the nearby roof, and the other into the cliff-face far below, close to where he'd parked. Then he grabbed hold of the handles and curled his legs up, letting gravity pull him down the sloping wire, off the rooftops, across the city streets, over the city wall, and the vast drop below, right down to where he made a tumble in the sand, before hopping into the monowheel.

   He started it up, scooping up the metal duck that stood guard nearby and casting it into the back. He took the binoculars from the front and stared through in the direction Handcart Sally had taken off. He saw her flying like a kite. So he bashed his boot down hard on the pedal, and set off to continue the chase across the desert, ready to reel her in.

  10 – CHASING KITES

  The Coilhunter bolted off in his monowheel, sending out a huge plume of thick, black smoke behind him. The diesel engine purred and thrummed beneath him, and the wheel span around him nice and brisk. He carved his way through the sand, the treads leaving their uniform print behind, while Handcart Sally cut through the clouds, leaving just a momentary blotch on the skyline.

   He dove down dunes, letting gravity become his brief ally, even as it seemed to be doing nothing much to pull that woman down to her doom. He circled past a tall cactus here, or a small one there, flattening the desert brush, and evading the odd outcropping rock revealed by the shifting sands. He kept one eye on the changing terrain, though it didn't change much, and the other on his target in the sky.

   “Come on, little bird,” he said to himself. Even birds got tired and had to land. He just had to make sure the monowheel didn't tire out first. He had the extra diesel canisters on standby in case it got a little thirsty.

   The wind started the grow, pushing her back a little, betraying her like it did to everyone sooner or later. The Coilhunter fell directly behind her for a momen
t, but she let a compartment of studded metal pieces open at the back of the glider. They tumbled down right into his path, creating a little minefield for him to traverse. They were packed too closely together for him to evade, and he was pressing the pedal too hard to slow or turn. He drove straight over them, rocking along the path, losing speed as the nails pierced straight through the metal treads. If it had been a tyre, he wouldn't have gotten far now—but this bike was adapted from the landships used in the war. It was made to take a beating. He was just a little surprised she was beating him at all.

   She's good, he thought. Another one followed that he didn't like to think: that she was a bit like him, resourceful and cunning. Maybe that was where the comparison ended, or maybe she was also just as ruthless.

   Yet, as much as he slowed, she couldn't keep her place in the clouds. She was already starting to dip a little. She was largely at the mercy of the winds, and they were rarely merciful. Nox could see her struggling to keep the glider in check, adjusting her position to turn it away from him, pulling on ropes and mechanisms to give it a little extra lift.

   But there was no denying it. She was slowly coming back down to earth.

   Nox drove alongside her, though she was still a good thirty feet up. She glanced down at him and scowled, as if to say, “You! You're still chasing me?”

   She kept her focus straight ahead, to where the sand gave way to some old abandoned mines, likely long plundered.

   “You're better off surrenderin',” the Coilhunter rasped.

   She didn't even look at him in response. There was no surrender at times like this. There was only living and dying. When the Coilhunter flipped the coin, it had death marked on both sides.

   He answered for her with the swift draw of his pistol. He fired, and she cried out as the bullet hit her leg. The blood drizzled down her denim jeans and left a dappled trail in the sands—as if those grains needed to get any redder.

   But she didn't give up or give in. One bullet wasn't going to cut it. It was rare that the Coilhunter had to use two.

   He aimed the pistol again, and worked his fingers around the handle, getting that intuitive feel, that lucky rub that helped him get the final shot.

   He fired.

   The bullet streaked across the sky, but it didn't strike her. She threw her weight on one side of the glider and it span full circle out of the way. Yet, in doing so, she lost even more height, and was now barely ten feet off the ground. She might as well have been running on foot.

   And then she was.

   She slipped out from the frame of the hang glider, dropping to her feet, and barely touching the ground before she sprinted off towards the mines. The wind yanked the glider back, then let it sail on its own course, winding and diving down near the monowheel, blocking his advance. It finally touched down right in front of the Coilhunter, and he drove straight into and over it, crushing the wooden beams, tearing through the cloth. He came out the other side, hot on Handcart Sally's heels.

   He readied another shot. Some said a real man doesn't shoot a woman, but some said stealing and lying and cheating and killing weren't the roles of women either. Yet, maybe the Coilhunter wasn't a real man. Maybe he was something more. Maybe he was a nightmare the criminals couldn't wake up from.

   It was too bad having a conscience. It was what separated him from them, but it was also what sometimes slowed his shots. He gave it a little too long, didn't give in to instinct, and by the time he had reasoned with himself, she had already dived deep down into the mines.

   And while it was bad having a conscience, it was worse to let Handcart Sally retreat to the mines. That was her territory, just like the whole of the Wild North was his. He swept the sands for the scum, and she lived beneath them, where God-knows-what she did.

  11 – HOME TURF

  The Coilhunter never did like mines. There was something about going deep underground that made him feel on edge. Maybe it was the darkness. Maybe it was the odd sounds. Maybe it was because the further you went down, the harder it became to breathe. There was one benefit though: you got to hide from the blistering sun. The problem was: you didn't know what else was hiding with you.

   Nox took a careful step into the blackness, keeping his hand ready by his waist, letting his eyes adjust. He knew he was giving Handcart Sally a lot of extra time this way, but she knew where she was going. When you were playing the game of life and death, sometimes you had to play it safe.

   He crept in, slow and steady, watching the scree tumble, hearing the gravel crunch beneath his boots. There were far-off sounds like racing feet, or falling rocks, amplified by the acoustic channels of the man-made caverns. He sniffed out the smell of smoke, and spotted a few stray wisps from a newly-extinguished oil-lamp hanging from the ceiling.

   He carried on, banging his head off another just-snuffed lamp. She wasn't just trying to hide. She didn't want him to see the way. That made him more cautious than ever. What he hated most was the thought that maybe it was just mind games, a way to slow him down for fear of phantoms.

   Then he stepped on something that he knew wasn't gravel. His boot rocked on it, and he halted fast. He looked down, trying not to move his foot. It looked like rope, dusted over with sand and dirt. Sally hadn't disturbed it, because she knew where to run.

   He waited for a moment, unsure if he should go back or press forward. He couldn't tell where the rope led, but he knew it couldn't be good. Reason told him she surely wouldn't light a fuse down here. You don't blow up the mountain when you're at the top. You don't strike the dynamite when you're deep beneath it either.

   But she did.

   He heard the sizzle of the fuse up ahead, coming towards him. Anyone else would have ran away from it, but he darted forward instead. That little spark of flame wasn't the problem. It was where it was going, to a pile of hidden dynamite near the entrance of the mine. She had the door rigged, and he wasn't just going to get shut in—he was going to get strewn apart.

   He raced through the tunnel, following the sound, letting it guide him when the light wouldn't. He kept his arms out on either side, feeling his way, tripping now and then, and whacking his head twice off wooden beams used to support the roof.

   He saw the glimmer of light approaching, and made for it. He stomped on the flame, trying to smother it, but it crawled through the cracks in his heel, a little weakened, but just as determined as ever to eat up the rest of the rope. He could have kept running, but he wasn't just here to catch Handcart Sally. He had to drag her body out as well. He couldn't do that if the entrance caved in.

   So he leapt towards the fleeing fuse, dropping to the ground near it. He took out a knife strapped to his leg with the swiftness of any gunslinger and quickly severed the rope. He stood up, clutching the still-burning bit of twine. The flame travelled all the way down to his gloved fingers, where he snuffed it out.

   “Boom,” he said, letting the charred rope drop to the ground.

   Then he paused.

   Something didn't feel right. He moved the heel of his boot and felt something else. It wasn't the remnants of the rope, or the other bit still waiting for a light. It was another fuse, but it felt different. He didn't hear a light. Yet, on turning, he saw a barrel of TNT shoved into an alcove in the wall, masked by shadow. The fuse led straight up to it, and he'd bet his life that the other end had a switch. He might've had to cash in on that bet soon enough.

   He ran, following the trail of the fuse, even as he heard the plunge of the detonator, and then the tremendous explosion behind him, which sent a fireball through the tunnel. The flames licked his heels, propelling him on. The chamber shook, and rocks dislodged from the ceiling, tumbling down all around him, striking his shoulders, grazing his legs.

   He reached a larger cavern and dived, just as the passage behind him sealed off completely. The ground trembled for a moment still, then settled as he got to his feet. He saw the detonator there, turn
ed on its side, as if whoever pressed it charged off before they'd fully pried their fingers from the handle.

   She can't be far then, he thought. She should've kept on runnin'.

   He looked around. There were three passages available, not counting the sealed one behind. Two of them had signs pinned above them: one a skull and crossbones, the other an exclamation mark on a triangular frame. Neither of them could be good. The third path had no label at all, but he couldn't be entirely certain if these were accurate indicators for true miners, or something a criminal like Handcart Sally came up with to lead bounty hunters astray.

   He crouched down, dusting with his hand, looking for tracks. It seemed she'd covered hers well. What remnants there were seemed to lead to all three passages. Handcart Sally was good at running, but she didn't have six feet. She didn't have long before she'd be six feet under either.

   “Come on, canary,” he whispered. “Let me know which way you went.”

   He pulled a box from his belt and pressed the four buttons on all sides together. It opened, and out came a little mechanical bird. It fluttered there for a moment and landed on the index finger of his right hand. It looked at him with those same blank eyes he'd stuck on only a week back, but there was something about how it bobbed its head that made it seem like maybe it was alive.

   “Find yourself a mate,” he told it, hooshing it away. It flapped in the air, cocked its head at him, then turned and looked at the three routes. Maybe it read the signs, and maybe it even made something of them, but it chose the middle path, more likely out of probability than anything else.

   He repeated the process, pulling a second box from his belt. This was the last he had on him, so he couldn't scout out all three paths. This little birdie told him nothing, but it might as well have told him he meant nothing to it, for it took the left, unmarked path, leaving the one on the right—with the skull and crossbones—for its master.