The Gunner Chronicles

by Bard Constantine

  The Gunner Chronicles

  Fire and Brimstone

  A Havenworld Novel

  By Bard Constantine

  The Gunner Chronicles and all related characters and properties are © Copyright 2019 Bard

  Constantine. All rights reserved.

  Syn City: Reality Bytes is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  Help stop piracy. If you believe this novel was made available by illegal means, please report it to the author at http://bardwritesbooks.com

  Other Books in the Havenworld Universe

  ❖ Havenworld

  ❖ Silent Empire

  ❖ The Troubleshooter: Four Shots

  ❖ The Troubleshooter: New Haven Blues

  ❖ The Troubleshooter: The Most Dangerous Dame

  ❖ Vigil: Knight in Cyber Armor

  ❖ Nimrod Squad

  ❖ Syn City: Reality Bytes

  After the Cataclysm nearly wiped out humanity, the remnants of humanity survived in Havens: city-sized constructs built to reboot society and usher in a new age of humankind.

  However, the new age was not the type the architects had envisioned. The same greed and lust for power that existed before the Cataclysm resurfaced, and the Havens quickly became quagmires of political and economic conflict, threatening to destroy the future envisioned by their founders.

  This is a world where fortunes can be made in the lawless outposts and small towns outside the jurisdiction of the Havens. Where anything is for sale, everything is permitted, and tyrants rule their pockets of civilization with iron fists. Where there is only one universal rule: shoot first and shoot fast. This is the world of Gunner: A man with revolvers engraved with the words FIRE and BRIMSTONE. A man once righteous, now beset upon a wicked path.

  These are

  "He who is unjust, let him be unjust still;

  he who is filthy, let him be filthy still;

  he who is righteous, let him be righteous still;

  he who is holy, let him be holy still."

  ~Revelation 22: 11

  Chapter 1: Avenging Angel

  Pablo prayed for the strength to die with dignity.

  He dangled from a noose tight around his neck, hands tied behind him, feet precariously perched atop a pile of loosely-stacked stones that threatened to give away any moment. His neck burned from the rope, but even worse was the thirst, the desert feeling in his throat that matched the sparse surroundings; all dull browns and faded reds, dry heat, and whirling dust. The sun was a merciless tormenter, a raging ball of fire that blistered the skin and baked the sand until it split apart. In the cloudless sky, a pair of buzzards circled, waiting. Patient.

  Four other men witnessed his struggle to stay alive: Clyde sat in the shade while Reggie, Otis, and Jose stood. Laughing drunkenly, they passed a bottle of whiskey back and forth and played their little game of taking a swallow and then tossing rocks at the stone pile, betting on who would be the first to send Pablo to his death.

  Otis made this throw, missing by a yard. The other laughed, spitting on themselves, staggering like fools. Pablo teetered on the stones, legs cramped, tingling, threatening to go numb. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before they gave out, and he'd die anyway. But he fought for every second, soaked with sweat, ignoring the men's mocking jeers.

  He saw the stranger before they did; a fast-moving speck in the distance, leaving a plume of dust behind him. It turned into a man on a rumble bike, silhouette hazy in the grainy dust and blistering heat, rippling like a fever dream under the eye of the blazing sun, driving across the brownish-orange wilderness of shifting sand, stunted prickly plants, and striated rock formations. Not much else was visible for miles. Just heat, dust, rocks, and death.

  Jose finally turned, nudging Otis and pointing. Their hands drifted to their sidearms when they realized the bike was heading their way. Reggie lifted a rifle and peered into the scope for a closer look. Clyde didn't bother to stand. He sat in the shade of the cottonwood tree, lazily fanning himself with his hat.

  The stranger rolled the bike to a stop at a twenty-yard distance, kicking the center stand out and dismounting casually, pausing to pull the dust-caked bandanna away from his reddish-brown face. He had the lean, chiseled looks of a predator; keen eyes, a strong nose, and a square jawline. Faded scars like claw marks ran down the left side of his face from eyebrow to beard. Twin long-barreled revolvers hung on either side of his hips. Barely glancing at Pablo, he squinted at the four men, taking a thin cheroot from his jacket pocket and sticking it between his teeth.

  "Don't guess I can bother you boys for a light?"

  The group relaxed just a tad. Reggie shifted his stance, jerking his head at the stranger. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"

  "Not supposed to be anyone."

  Reggie paused, wetting his lips as his eyes shifted from his partners back to the stranger. "Well, what's your name?"

  "Gunner."

  "That your first or last name?"

  Gunner gave the man a hard stare, chewing on the end of his cigar. "Yeah."

  A confused look flashed across Reggie's beak-nosed face, but his intended reply was cut off by Clyde's deep, rich laughter.

  "Stand down, Reggie. The man ain't no threat to us. Are you, Mr. Gunner?"

  "Just passing through. Saw you boys and figured there must be a town nearby."

  "You figured right. 'Bout four or five miles that away." Clyde jerked a thumb in the northeast direction, eyes glinting under the brow of his hat. "That's a nice machine you're riding. Don't see too many Steeds around these parts."

  Pablo risked a glance at the bike. Longer and wider than most motorcycles, the chassis was protected by armored fairing fashioned into a fierce warhorse. Massive pipes jutted from the back end, providing jet thrusters for the fusion engine. He didn't know much about bikes, but it looked fast. And expensive.

  Gunner shrugged. "It needs some work. Busted suspension and a bad generator, I think."

  "Well, you're in luck 'cause it just so happens that it's the only stop for the next couple hundred miles or so. Trading center right off the railroad. You should be able to find the parts you need. Might even find a sober mechanic if it's a good day. I'm Clyde. You met Reggie. The other two are Otis and Jose. We're from the Town. Had to come out here to get rid of this dead weight." He spat in Pablo’s direction.

  Gunner removed his cowboy hat, shaking the dust off before placing it back over his tangled mane of dark, wavy hair. "You rode five miles from town just to hang a man?"

  "Had to. Our gallows broke down from the last hanging. Fat bastard was nearly four hundred pounds. Ended up shooting him in the head after he snapped the timber instead of his neck. And since there ain't no good trees around town, we had to ride way out here to this cottonwood tree. That's why we're taking our sweet time with this preacher man. Since we had to come all the way out here, I guess we might as well enjoy it." He grinned, exposing tobacco-stained teeth.

  Gunner gave him a hard look. "You're hanging a preacher?"

  Clyde spat again, leaving a string of drool across his chin. "That's what he calls himself. Came into town, stirring the folks up about repentance and the wages of sin. Claims God is bringing divine judgment against the to
wn. Got the Judge right sore about it, so he had us put a noose around his neck to see if the preacher's God is able to save his sorry hide. So far, He ain't showed up." He and his men burst into raucous laughter.

  Gunner didn't even crack a smile. "This Judge always hang folks for preaching?"

  Clyde tipped back a flask, swallowing brown liquor. Wiping his mouth, he gave Gunner a cock-eyed stare. "The Judge hangs who he wants to hang. He runs the town. So long as his pay is good, we got no problem stringing up folks he wants strung up."

  "That's right," Reggie said. "And we don't care for no strangers poking their noses in our business, neither."

  Gunner ignored him, keeping his gaze on Clyde. "If you're hanging a man for preaching the word of God, then you're hanging him for the worst reason. You've stood here, put a noose on the man's neck, placed him on a pile of rocks, and laughed while he fought to live. Looks like you've had your fun. Why don't you go ahead and cut him loose?"

  Clyde paused in the act of raising the flask, eyes narrowing. "What did you just say?"

  The tension became instantly palpable. Reggie fumbled with his rifle; Jose and Otis looked up from the bottle they were sharing. Clyde's hand drifted to the pear-handled revolver strategically placed on the ground beside him.

  Pablo struggled to keep from hanging himself.

  Gunner's eyes flicked from one to the next, taking in their bloated, sweaty faces, the empty bottles on the ground, the way the men shifted and refused to meet his gaze. Except for Clyde, whose face twisted into a cruel sneer.

  "Looks like we got us a hero, boys. Tell you what, hero: I got extra rope, and there's plenty of branches left. You wanna join up with the preacher, we can arrange it for you. If you don't, better go on and git while you still can walk. We'll take that sweet Steed off your hands for the trouble, of course."

  Drunken chuckles all around. Gunner focused on Clyde. "You ready to meet the Reaper?”

  Clyde blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me. You've been out here drinking hard in the hot sun. Standing around, muscles getting locked up. Reflexes slowed. Dehydrated. Reggie over there has shaky hands. He's scared witless. Otis and Jose are just here for the liquor. They won't be any good. So, I'll ask you again: you looking to die? Because that's all you're gonna do if you don't cut the man down in the next two seconds."

  Clyde spat, reaching for his gun. His partners cursed as they clumsily went for theirs as well. Gunner drew his long-barreled autorevolver and fired three times by the time Clyde's fingers touched the grip. The bodies were already crumpling to the ground when he raised the weapon. Gunner spun, dropping to one knee as Clyde pulled the trigger. His shot missed, going wide over Gunner's head.

  Gunner's didn't.

  Clyde jerked twice, red mist exploding from his chest. His eyes bulged, staring in disbelief as he fell backward and slammed into the ground in a heavy cloud of dust. The echoes of the shots still rang in the air, crashing in the distance like soft thunder.

  Gunner turned and fired again, splitting the rope that Pablo dangled from, catching him as he fell and easing him to the ground. Pablo immediately clawed at the noose around his neck.

  "Easy, Padre," Gunner said, helping him remove it. "Take it easy."

  Pablo doubled over, hacking and coughing as he massaged the bruised flesh of his neck. "Gracias, mi amigo. I think I will be all right."

  "All right, Padre." Gunner stood, reloading as he surveyed the dusty landscape. "Best you get to moving, then. Only a matter of time before someone checks up on these stiffs. Can you ride?"

  "I think so."

  "Even better." Gunner glanced at the sand cycles the dead men had parked in the dirt: two side-by-side, one in the shade behind Clyde's corpse. Clicking back the revolver hammer ignited a humming sound from his weapon. The resulting blast detonated two of the sand cycles, engulfing them in flames. The fires crackled, creating thick plumes of black smoke. Gunner used the nearest flames to light his cheroot before kneeling to rummage through the men's pockets.

  Pablo shakily stood, looking at the corpses with dazed slowness. "You killed all of them."

  "Better them than you or me, Padre." Gunner pulled a small bag from Clyde's belt pouch, reaching in to withdraw a handful of gold bullion cards. He stuffed the bag into his inner jacket pocket.

  "A man as swift on the draw as you surely could have wounded them instead."

  Gunner gave him an irritated glance. "Sure. And then maybe a day goes by. Maybe two months. Maybe ten years. But eventually, they find me down the road. Only this time, there's more of them. Now I gotta kill two dozen instead of four men. That strike your fancy, Padre?"

  "Killing never strikes my fancy, vaquero. But please forgive me. I don't mean to sound ungrateful for your assistance. Many a man would have just passed by."

  "The thought crossed my mind." Gunner strode to his Steed and hopped into the saddle. "You from around here, Padre?"

  "For many years, vaquero."

  "You seen a man with red eyes pass through?"

  Pablo hesitated, shaking his head. "I do not think so, amigo."

  "You'd know if you saw him. Sometimes he wears a man's face. Sometimes his face is a death mask. But the eyes are always the same. Red and bright like freshly spilled blood."

  "I never laid eyes on such a man, if he's a man at all. I see something in your face when you mention this person. You're pursuing him for vengeance."

  "Retribution, Padre."

  "Different word, same meaning. You should abandon this path you're on, vaquero. Violence only begets more of the same. It's a demon that eats away at you the longer you embrace him."

  "Trying to save my soul, Padre?" Gunner tossed Pablo a canteen of water. "Don't bother. Me and my demons get along just fine."

  Gunning the throttle, he took off in a cloud of stinging dust, leaving Pablo alone with the dead.

  Chapter 2: The Good Samaritan

  The Town was barely visible in the distance, nestled against a rocky mesa; squat, rusty, and uninviting. Gunner figured it was kept alive only by the rails that brought superconducting maglev trains into town for trade stops. Blood shards for fusion tech, weapons and ammo, foodstuffs, tools, parts, the latest fashions, and more.

  He was nearly a mile away when the first bullet tore into his shoulder.

  It struck him like a heavy punch, nearly throwing him from the saddle. The sound of the gunshot followed a full second behind. Gunner immediately released the throttle and swerved, allowing the Steed's armored hide to deflect the next two shots, bullets sparking as they ricocheted. Adrenaline flooded, making his muscles tremble as he slowed to a stop and tried to leap from the saddle and use the Steed for cover. A second bullet struck his thigh, instant agony as he tumbled and hit the ground hard. Ignoring the pain, he stayed low, scooting as close as possible to his Steed.

  Blood seeped into his pants and shirt, darkening the fabric. Heat flooded through his veins, breaking his pores out in sweat. Drawing his revolver, he kept still, listening. For a long time, there was only the wind, kicking up dust as it passed along.

  Someone whistled a warbly tune, going on as if he had all the time in the world. He finally finished with a bout of coarse laughter.

  "You gonna hide come out from behind there or make us come and get you?"

  Gunner removed one of the side mirrors, slowly sliding it along the ground until it cleared the side of the bike. Tilting it slightly, he was able to make out a group of bandits crouched in a robber's ditch, visible only by the tops of their hats. A rifle raised over the ridge, and a second later the mirror shattered, flying out his fingers.

  He grimaced, shaking his hand in pain. "If it's all the same, I think I'll stay right here."

  "I'm afraid that don't agree with us," the voice said. "We're not the patient sort, you see. Now I got five with me, all good shots. I figure if we flank you and come in shooting, you might pick off two, three maybe. Four if you're good, and it's your lucky day. But you ain't shooting all of
us before we gun you down. Not a chance."

  Gunner leaned against the Steed's hull, listening to the inflection of the man's words, trying to find the truth behind them. "What are you saying, then?"

  "We only want the bike. You toss your guns and come on out; we let you go. Take a hike in the opposite direction. Maybe you get lucky, and someone picks you up. Still a better deal than dying right here."

  Gunner laughed. "You must think I'm a fool."

  "You got my word. The Judge ain't keen on us killing folks within sight of the town walls. Says it's bad for business. Come one, Rider. Give us the bike, live to fight another day."

  Gunner rested the back of his head against the Steed, weighing his options. He looked at the revolver in his hand. A skull encircled by runic symbols was engraved in the bone grip, along with a single word stamped into the backstrap: FUEGO. He sighed and chucked it five yards away from the bike so they could see it hit the dust.

  "That's a good start, Rider. But I'm guessing you got at least one more of those on your person. Why don't you go ahead and give that one up too so we can get this over with?"

  Gunner shook his head. "Man of your word, huh?"

  "A man's only as good as his word, Rider. And you got mine. We ain't gonna kill you."

  "Is that right? What's your name? I outta know the name of the man I'm trusting my life to."

  "The names Waingrow. Jim Waingrow."

  "All right, Waingrow. I'm tossing my gun."

  He pulled his second revolver, fashioned as a twin to the first, only with the name AZUFRE engraved. For a second, he stared at it.

  "What the hell. You always find your way back."

  Wincing, he tossed it beside the other handgun. "All right, I'm unarmed. Nobody shoot."

  "Let's see them hands, then," Waingrow said.