The Gunner Chronicles

by Bard Constantine

Bracing himself, Gunner stood, hands high in the air. When no shots fired, he scooted sideways, limping on his injured leg.

  Waingrow edged upward, gesturing with his rifle. "All right, Rider. Stay right there. We gotta check you for valuables and such."

  The outlaws rose from the ditch, keeping their rifles aimed at Gunner. Waingrow led them, twirling his revolver before slipping it in its holster. His skin was brown as pine bark, his jaw square as a brick, his teeth clenched in a hard grin. Stooping down, he retrieved Gunner's handguns.

  "Well, looky here. A pair of top-break, long-barreled autorevolvers, personally engraved. Looks custom. Betcha these set you back a pretty penny, Rider."

  Gunner didn't answer. Two rifle barrels pointed at his face while another bandit searched him. Her face was crisscrossed with pale scars, and pale blond hair hung from her hat, braided into a long ponytail. Pulling out the satchel inside his jacket, she looked at Waingrow. "Got a bag full of gold bulls, boss."

  Waingrow smiled, slipping Gunner's revolvers in his belt. "Well, ain't he a gift that keeps on giving? How'd you get all this loot, Rider?"

  Gunner gave him a hard look. "The same way you just did, I guess."

  Waingrow chuckled. "I bet you did, at that. Well, much as I'd like to take on another bandito, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to trust a man I just robbed. So I'm gonna hafta let my gang take you for a little ride. Been nice doing business with you."

  Gunner smirked. "Thought you were a man of your word."

  Waingrow raised an eyebrow. "Oh, they're not gonna kill you, Rider. Just gonna beat you to a pulp and leave you out in the middle of nowhere. I figure the heat and the vultures will do the rest."

  They dumped him in the dust, battered and semi-conscious. He lay there, tasting blood and dirt, hearing their laughter and hooting fade away as they drove off into a fiery sunset. The sky was crimson; the heat still merciless even as evening fell. A lizard scuttled across the sand, stopping to peer with crusty, unblinking eyes before continuing its trek. Gunner dragged himself across the stony ground; teeth gritted from the effort of moving through so much pain. He made it three long yards before his injuries caught up, yanking him to the darkness. To the flames…

  ***

  He was there again. Fire all around and smoke so dense, choking him. Searing his lungs. Still, he ran toward the building. His skin blistered, his eyes blurred, tears carving tracks into his sooty face. Raspy laughter echoed around him. When he turned, the figure was barely visible. A silhouette, standing in the middle of the flames as if heat couldn't harm him. As if the fire was his to obey. Crimson lights blazed under the brim of his hat where his eyes should have been. A limp body lay prone in his arms. He extended it to Gunner as if offering a sacrifice, laughing with a sound like gravel raked across concrete. The flames rose higher and higher.

  ***

  Gunner sat up, gasping for breath, blinking in the grainy light that effused between the window shutters. The room was dim and dusty, poorly furnished, with cracks threading the adobe walls. He lay on a rubber mat on the floor, covered by a threadbare sheet. A medical wrap encircled his torso, feeding accelerators into his bloodstream through nanosensors to quicken the healing process.

  Every movement produced a jolt of agony, but he managed to lean over and pick up one of his boots and unscrew the heel. Inside the cavity was a small stack of bullion cards, a jackknife, a couple of cheroots, a pack of matches, and a cylindrical pack of painkillers.

  He removed everything, put the knife and bulls in his pocket, and popped the top of the painkillers, dropped two in his mouth, and swallowed them. Gritting his teeth, he stood and picked his shirt off the battered end table, fingering the bullet hole. Glancing at his shoulder, he saw the bullet was removed, and the wound treated and bandaged. The same with the wound in his thigh.

  The door creaked open as he buttoned up his shirt. The old preacher walked in with a stack of threadbare clothes, followed by an equally aged woman wrapped in a fringed shawl and her iron-colored hair braided in long pigtails. She carried a bowl of steaming water in her gnarled hands.

  The preacher's eyes widened. "What are you doing up, vaquero? You shouldn't even be awake."

  "Got places to go," Gunner said, flipping a gold bull on the table. "That's for your hospitality."

  "You'll not get far in your shape," the preacher said. "The healing accelerators only work if you're in a state of rest. You need more days, or your wounds will fester."

  "My wounds never stop festering, Padre. Figure these won't slow me down much. How did you happen to find me?"

  "I followed you. Used the sand cycle you spared. I was headed to the town as well, you see."

  Gunner frowned. "Didn't the folks there just try to hang you?"

  "Not the folks. The Judge and his men. They didn’t like the message of reckoning that I preached."

  "Yeah, people get mighty prickly when you publicly condemn them. Guess you saw the ambush, then."

  "Just missed it. When I topped the hill, they were beating you up something bad. I waited until they loaded you up and followed from a distance until they dumped you in the desert. After that, I brought you here. Camilla patched up your wounds and bathed you. Trimmed you up a bit too. She says you looked like a wild man."

  The old woman set her bowl on the table and motioned for Gunner to sit in a rickety wooden chair. When he ignored her, she surprised him by placing a firm hand against his chest. Lips compressed, she shook her head and gestured again.

  "Siéntese, por favor."

  He gave her an amused grin and sat, ruining the moment by wincing in pain. She gave him a knowing nod, tsking as she peeled his shirt back and removed the bandage. Shaking her head, she turned to the bowl of water, breaking a capsule of antiseptic powder and stirring it into the liquid. Dipping a clean rag into the frothing concoction, she dabbed it against his bullet wound. The puckered flesh sizzled.

  "Ouch," Gunner said.

  The preacher leaned against the wall; his amusement nearly hidden behind his thick white mustaches. "Stings a bit, but it'll patch you up right quick. Camila thought you might be out for a few more hours, but it seems you're not the type with the good sense to know when to rest."

  "Guess I'll rest forever when I'm dead, Padre."

  The preacher raised a shaggy eyebrow. "Pablo."

  "What's that?"

  "That's my name, amigo. Not Padre."

  "Thought you preachers preferred being called Father."

  "Not so, my friend. Haven't you ever heard of the scripture: 'do not call anyone on earth your father, for you have one Father, who is in heaven?'"

  Gunner winced as Camila treated his thigh wound. "Don't think I have, Pablo. Who said that?"

  "Your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, said those words."

  "That so? Well, why do the church priests always want to be called Father or Pastor and such?"

  "Many such men seek glory and prominence from their parishioners, stealing what belongs to Jah." Pablo shrugged. "Nothing new."

  "Yeah. Nothing new. Well, since we're making introductions, my name's Gunner. Not vaquero." Gunner glanced at Camila as she finished applying new bandages and picked up her medicine bowl. "Gracias, señora."

  "Más remedio tiene un muerto." She patted his hand and gave him a wrinkled smile before shuffling across the room and out the door.

  Gunner barked a raspy laugh. "'Even a dead man has more to hope for.' A real sweetheart, ain't she?"

  "She speaks her truth," Pablo said. "Claims she doesn't have the time to mince words. I can do nothing with her. She's even older than I am."

  "Nothing wrong with being honest," Gunner said. "I appreciate a straight shooter, even if she says I don't have a chance in hell. I don't believe her, though. Been hurt way worse than this, and I'm still kicking."

  "She wasn't talking about your wounds, Gunner. She was talking about your soul. I have heard your name before. Tales from the railroad and travelers come through the Town. Sharpshooter, gunfi
ghter. Lawman turned hunter of Ferals. Stories say you took a thousand Feral scalps. That you ran with the most vicious band of bounty killers, and once burned down half the city of Laredo in a drunken rage."

  "Yeah. Lots of stories." Gunner glanced around the room. "Mind telling me where the hell I'm at, Pablo?"

  "You're in a farming village in Nueva Esperanza. Or New Mexico, if you prefer. Some still call it that, despite being a Territory of Mexico for decades now." He offered Gunner the clothes. "Nothing fancy, but better than the bloody rags you were wearing."

  "Much obliged. So, what village is this? No name?"

  "We don't bother with names in this part of the country. Nothing lasts long enough to bother."

  Gunner quickly dressed, buttoning his shirt in practiced fashion. "How far away are we from the Town?"

  "A few miles. Why, are you planning on heading over there?"

  "Yep. Got a score to settle with the bandits that worked me over. Plus, I need to get my Steed back."

  Pablo sadly shook his head. "Feet in a hurry to run to badness. You're fortunate you weren't killed, Gunner. Why not take that blessing and leave well enough alone? Judgment is coming to that place, mark my words. On the eve of the storm, the town will reap the fire and blood they have sown. You don't want to be around when that comes to pass."

  "This whole region is in the middle of the drought season, Pablo. By the time a storm comes, I'll have finished my business and been long gone."

  "The will of God is more powerful than any drought. But if you insist on following this path, you may ride with me."

  "You're still going back? After what you just told me?"

  "My mission is a godly one, amigo. I go where God's spirit directs and speak the words He compels me to speak."

  "Even if it means another noose around your neck?"

  "A slave is not greater than his master. Didn't the Lord die for us both? If I should fall in death, I have faith I will see life again."

  Gunner slid the duster on and picked up his hat from the table. "You're a braver man than most, Pablo. But I gotta warn you: I'm not saving your neck a second time. You get in trouble in Town; you're on your own. I'm going there for my Steed, and then I'm gone."

  Pablo grinned as he walked to the door. "Not to worry. I was doing this long before you got here, señor."

  He led Gunner outside, into the dry heat and blazing sunlight. The village consisted of squat adobe huts and a few buildings composed of junk wood and metal. Dust storms had claimed several buildings and submerged rusty vehicle husks. A few women wandered the streets of packed earth; others sat in the meager shade tending to various tasks, all around the same age as Pablo. The villagers regarded Gunner silently, disapproval sharp on their weathered faces. Several yards away, a large group of children frolicked on a square of stunted grass, playing with makeshift toys under the watchful eyes of a pair of grandmotherly women.

  Gunner grunted. "A lot of old women and kids."

  "The Town breeds widows and orphans at an alarming rate. Many flee from the violence and eventually find their way here."

  A crowd of children immediately surrounded him; arms waving, grubby hands outstretched, large eyes shining, toothy smiles flashing. Pablo laughed softly, calling each child by name as he reached into a small sack and passed homemade candies into eager fingers.

  "Easy, easy. I'll be back soon. Watch after things until I get back, comprende?"

  The women stared from windows and doorways, solemn-faced as if at a funeral procession. Gunner glanced at Pablo.

  "They look like they're not expecting you to come back."

  Pablo kept his eyes forward. "Experience has taught them many hard truths about living in a lawless land. A lot of hope has been buried in these red hills."

  "I don't see any guns here, old man. How in the world do you expect to protect your own if you won't fight?"

  Pablo stopped in his tracks. "You mean kill? Even if we were so faithless—old men and children against seasoned shooters and killers? It would be a bloodbath. But no, we would not take up arms against our oppressors. This is an oasis of love and forgiveness, Gunner. Not of hatred and violence."

  Gunner flicked his eyes over the villagers. "If there's one thing I know, it's that violence doesn't stay in one place. It hunts. You don't have to look for it. You can try to hide from it. But it tracks you down. A place like this…it's like an injured sheep out in the wild. The beasts will be coming, mark my words."

  "The beasts have already arrived," Pablo said. "This is their territory. And the only reason we live is that we're useful to them."

  He pointed to the fields of geodesic dome greenhouses and bio shelters that surrounded the village, where green crops were visible behind the transparent panes. Unlike the town, the greenhouses were new and clean, glinting in the harsh sunlight like newly cut diamonds. Women and children went in and out the buildings with slumped shoulders and exhausted steps, heads downcast as they trudged along, weighed down by tools, bundles, and sachets.

  "Some years ago, the Town was a modest trading post. They called it New Jerusalem; can you believe that? This area was once rich and fertile; farmland as far as the eye could see. The irrigation was well maintained, and the farms provided for the townsfolk. Wheat, soy, corn, potatoes, watermelon, peanuts, along with some fruit trees and herbs. The Town paid for our provisions, and everyone got along well enough. But then the Judge and his gang rode in and seized control. Anyone who stood up against him was killed. And in short time, no one was left to challenge his claim."

  Gunner struck a match against the palm of his hand and lit his cigar. "The gang that robbed me. They work for the Judge?"

  "Si, amigo. The same one who forced us to work the farm. Not for food, but for the right to live."

  He rolled back his sleeve, revealing a barcode imprinted on the skin of his forearm.

  "Branding us and injecting trackers so we can't escape. We used to maintain the machines that did the work in the greenhouses. Now, the machines break down more often than not, but the Judge doesn't care to provide parts or repairs. He says we can do the same work that the machines can, not caring to understand how computer upgrades and climate control are essential. When crops fail, he makes examples. When workers try to flee, he makes examples. And all the while, the production lessens. Soon, there will be no more crops to provide food for the Town. And when that day arrives, the Judge will have no use for the people here. I fear that what was once New Jerusalem has instead become Gehenna, the Valley of Slaughter."

  Gunner's eyes narrowed as he focused on some of the examples left to rot on stakes in the dirt outside the greenhouses. Ragged enough to be mistaken as scarecrows until he gave them a second glance and saw they were bodies. The flesh had long been picked clean by scavengers, the ragged clothes faded, nearly colorless from baking in the relentless sun. The skulls grinned at him, empty sockets staring into oblivion.

  "They don't let us take them down for a proper burial," Pablo said. "The Judge enjoys his brutal delights."

  "I'm sure he does," Gunner said. "You sure you want to show your face in Town again? A man that does this sure ain't gonna take it easy on you the second time around."

  "The spirit of Jah instructs me to deliver His message of judgment to the wicked in that place, and I have no right to question the will of God. So yes, I will return."

  Gunner kept his eyes on the rotting corpses. "Guess I'll ride with you, then."

  Chapter 3: Valley of Gehenna

  A boy that couldn't be older than nine years old drove like a madman.

  The truck had no roof and no doors. The body was scarred, pitted with holes, missing the fenders and pretty much anything else besides the engine and wheels. It rattled and creaked as if about to fall apart any second, kicking up clouds of dust behind it. Gunner had his scarf over his face to keep the grit from choking him. He gritted his teeth and held onto the roof handle to keep from being thrown out of the vehicle every time it hit a crevice or bu
mp, with was practically every other second. It was a relief when the Town finally came into view.

  At first glance, it looked like a massive junkyard, until a closer look revealed the scrap piles were actually buildings. It appeared to have originated as an ancient steel plant, the bare bones having survived the Cataclysm, but just barely. Several generations had either tried to restore the plant or turn it into something else, each attempt leaving unfinished silos, skywalks, towers, and piping behind as a testament to their ambitions and ultimately, their failures, as only the shadow of their work remained; majestic ruins in the spirit of mighty Ozymandias.

  The rest of the town appeared to have grown organically in the shadows of the plant, consisting mainly of corroded shipping container architecture, rickety wooden units, and buildings constructed from whatever junk or scrap could be used for construction. A battered concrete wall plated with rusty corrugated sheet metal surrounded the Town, more as a barrier marker than to keep anything in or out. Grit covered everything; the only colors were rusty reds and dusty browns.

  The truck pulled to a stop a hundred yards away from the Town's entranceway. Pablo glanced at the boy and smiled.

  "Good job, Javier. Don't wait for us—take the truck straight back to the village, comprende?"

  The boy grinned. "Si, señor."

  Gunner jumped out the truck, wincing as pain lanced through his injured leg. Adjusting his hat, he turned to Pablo.

  "Don't know why you didn't just drive here yourself."

  Pablo watched as Javier turned the truck around and drove away, tiny figure bouncing in the driver's seat. "They'd just steal the truck."

  "Truck's worthless."

  "Men rarely steal and rob because something is valuable. They do it because they can." Pablo looked at the city walls and took a deep breath as if bracing himself for what waited inside.

  Gunner glanced at him. "Last chance to turn around, old man. I don't know what you think you hear in your head, but I saved your life. Not God. I'd hate to think it was just a waste of my time."

  Pablo's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Mercy is never a waste of time, Gunner. Come on—time to face what's coming."