The Gunner Chronicles

by Bard Constantine

  They walked to the gatehouse: a squat, ugly wooden shack attached to the town wall adjacent to the entranceway, which was sealed off by laser bars designed to short out the motors of any unauthorized vehicle.

  A heavyset man in a faded leather aviator cap leaned out of the window, peering suspiciously. Sweat trickled down his sunburned brow into his long, unkempt beard, and the reeking stink of alcohol and armpits wafted from the cramped interior.

  "Hola, Tucker," Pablo said. "We'd like to go inside, por favor."

  Tucker snatched a pair of goggles and slid them over his eyes. "Preacher? Weren't you supposed to be swinging by your neck? The Judge is in a rage over the bodies you left in the dirt. Clyde was one of his favorite nephews, you know."

  "He'll have another favorite soon. He always does."

  "You got a lotta grit showing your face, Preacher. I almost hate to turn you in. But you know I gotta make the call. The Judge almost had my head last time I just let someone just waltz on through. Lucky I ain't the one hanging by the neck."

  "I won't take it personally, amigo."

  Tucker picked up a two-way radio. "Gonna need some men out front. The preacher is out here. Yeah, that preacher. Okay. I'll hold him here 'till you come get 'im."

  He put the radio down, squinting at Gunner. "Who are you supposed to be—his bodyguard? Not exactly gonna be a healthy occupation in the next few seconds."

  Gunner kept his eyes on the entrance. "Caught a ride on the way in. I'm just looking for work."

  A group of burly men approached, led by a tall, wiry woman in black from her boots to the open crown cowboy hat on her head. Her face was diamond-shaped with high cheekbones, her dark eyes hard as onyx chips, her nose sharp, her mouth the only soft thing about her. Slender as a whip, with two revolvers strapped to her narrow hips and a predatory swagger to her stride. Dark hair spilled from her hat past her shoulders, swaying in the wind.

  The laser bars hissed as they disengaged, allowing the crew to step outside the walls. Six men total, all well over six feet and built like bricklayers, faces fixed in the sociopathic grins of violent beasts. They formed a semicircle around Pablo and Gunner, muscles tensed, fingers tight on baton handles and rifle butts.

  "Well, I'll be damned," the leader said. He spoke through a thick gray mustache, the only indicator of his age. The rest of him was hard as knotted wood. A Marshal badge flashed on his vest. "If it ain't the Preacher. What happened to Clyde and the boys, old man? I know it wasn't you that did the killing; you being a righteous man and all."

  His cold blue eyes flicked over to Gunner. "Maybe it was your new friend here. Only he ain't even carrying. He one of your converts, that it?"

  "He's a drifter that caught a ride to town with me," Pablo said. "As far as Clyde and the others, they chose to do the Devil's work, and they paid the price. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."

  The Marshal slammed a rifle butt into Pablo's stomach, doubling him over. "It was bullets that killed them boys, not God. And you're gonna tell me who cashed 'em in, or I'll make you wish your neck was stretched the first time."

  He raised the rifle again but was stopped by Gunner's firm hand on his wrist.

  "That's enough."

  The Marshal stared in disbelief. "You gone plumb loco, stranger? Guess we gotta lump you in with the old man. Won't be a problem. No problem at all."

  Gunner kept his hand locked on the Marshal's arm, cutting his eyes at the men closing in with heavy scowls and gritted teeth, noting their weapons, the guarded way they approached. He glanced down at the Marshal's gun holstered at his side, then back up at the lawman.

  "You ready to meet the Reaper, Marshal?"

  The Marshal's lips peeled back in a snarl. "No. But it looks like you are."

  Everyone moved at once, hands darting for weapons, but one and all they were frozen in place by the woman's commanding voice.

  "Stop."

  Gunner turned, releasing his grip on the Marshal's revolver. The woman hadn't moved other than to hook her thumbs in the wide belt around her waist. The toothpick in the corner of her mouth was the only thing that moved, working up and down as she chewed it. She jerked her head at the Marshal.

  "Wiley, take the preacher to the cage and lock him up."

  His face reddened. "Baron, we got men dead on account of that old coot. By all rights, I should put a slug in his brainpan right here and now."

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. "The Judge has men dead. It's his problem. Now run along and do as you're told. Take the rest of the boys with you. Go on now."

  Wiley gave Gunner a venomous glare before reaching down and jerking Pablo to his feet. Shoving him forward, he motioned to the other men. They followed him through the town gates, glaring at Gunner as they passed. After a few moments he was left alone with the Baron, who studied him with hooded eyes.

  "You're either very stupid or very dangerous. You got a name, cowboy?"

  "Gunner."

  The toothpick stopped in midmotion. "The Gunner? As in the scourge of the Ferals in Texas? The same one that got into a shootout in El Paso that left thirty bodies eating dirt?"

  Gunner shrugged. "Lots of stories. I don't bother sorting them out."

  She peeled her glove back, tapping on the holoband around her wrist, casting a screen into the air that displayed a bounty sheet with Gunner's picture on it. "Pic's old. You didn't have those scars then. If you're the same man, that is. This says you're worth a mil in gold bulls from a bounty in Texas. Makes you a walking lottery ticket."

  "Plan on cashing in?"

  "No, but I'm pretty sure someone will. Then again, most everyone in Town has a bounty on their head. I won't tell if you don't." She shut the screen down and gestured. "Come on—let's take a walk. I think you might feel right at home here."

  He followed her past the gates, matching her stride along the broad main street. The sounds of the Town were nearly overwhelming: shouting voices, rumbling vehicles, humming generators, whirring drones, barking dogs, all intermingled together. And over it all was a rumbling, clanking sound that came from the power station that towered over the rest of the buildings, rusty and ancient-looking. He noted the number of cameras on every corner and nook. Electric eyes were everywhere.

  They stepped to the side as a giant motorized bipedal walker stomped by with a load of lumber, operated by a hefty man who looked more beard than anything else. A few riders trotted by on lizard horses. One of the genetic crossbreeds hissed at him, long black tongue flicking from its mouth. The rider jerked the reins, guiding the beast down the street.

  Gunner kept pace as the Baron continued her swaggering walk. "What are you gonna do with the preacher?"

  "Lock him up for now. The Judge will have the final word on that." The Baron gave Gunner a sidelong glance. "Lots of wild stories told about you. The wildest one I hear is you were a lawman once. How true is that?"

  He grunted. "I was a lot of things once."

  The townspeople were a varied assortment differentiated not by gender, social, or financial status, but by predatory nature. There was a visible pecking order seen in the dropped heads and wary steps of the oppressed versus the strutting, lounging manner of the killers that populated the Town as if homegrown there. Mercenaries, gunfighters, Nimrods, and desperados sat on balconies, leaned against buildings, or simply went about their business; Mexicans in big cowboy hats and sashes on their waists, Nubians with long dreadlocks, braids, and painted faces, Tribespeople wearing markings of their societies in wide and varied assortments of beaded and brocaded garments and jewelry. Nearly every face was unfriendly, almost every stare challenging, creating an undercurrent of barely restrained violence that could erupt at any given second.

  "This place started as a trading town," the Baron said. "The mines birthed it. They found a lode of hectorite here a few decades ago that started the boom."

  "Hectorite. They use it to harvest lithium for fusion, right?'

  "Exactly. That was befor
e crimsonium was discovered on Mars. Once blood shards were found to be a much richer yield for fusion, mining for hectorite and other minerals on earth went bust. This place nearly became a ghost town, but it was saved by being off the rails. Blood shards still have to be hauled, and the Town was able to survive as a layover for maintenance and trade since it's the only stop a hundred miles in any direction."

  A man exploded out the doors of a nearby saloon, hitting the ground in a cloud of dust. A woman followed, long braided ponytail swinging as she stalked out with a murderous expression on her heavily scarred face. The man cursed, scrambling to his feet while reaching for his sidearm. The woman pulled her gun faster, firing two booming shots that put the man flat on his back, limp and lifeless.

  She looked up at the Baron, who tipped her hat in response. "What's this all about, Janey?"

  "Caught that cheating dog red-handed in a game of Jackpots. Weren't nothing else to do but teach him a lesson."

  "Hard for him to learn when he's dead."

  "Oh, the lesson weren't for him. It's for anyone else that might think of doing the same."

  The Baron shook her head, trying to hide her amusement. "Better check in with Marshal Wiley, then. Might have to hang up your irons for a couple of days until this gets sorted out."

  "C'mon, Baron. How am I supposed to defend myself with buck naked leather?"

  "We both know you're capable, Jane."

  Janey responded with a sinister grin. "We do at that, Baron. I'm off to see Wiley now." Pausing, she narrowed her eyes at Gunner. "Say, do I know you?"

  "Don't think so," Gunner said.

  "Huh." She hopped off the saloon deck and sauntered down the street, taking a last suspicious look at Gunner before getting lost in the crowd.

  The Baron glanced at Gunner. "Things have changed since the Judge took over. This place has grown so lawless that the railing companies bypass it, taking the longer routes through the Badlands. Now, the main trade that keeps the place going is in hired guns."

  "Hired guns, huh?"

  "Yeah. No shortage of folks that hire Nimrods to track bounties, or need men to escort them across the territory. Plenty of gangs looking to stock up on gunmen too, I hate to admit."

  "So bandits are allowed free rein around here. I'd never have guessed."

  "It's not to my liking," the Baron said. "I'm more of a law and order type. And since the railroad stopped coming, it's been bad business for everyone. Not a day goes by without another body fertilizing the ground. So much blood spilled that the ground is saturated. They say that's why the sand is so red around here. I'd like for things to change. Become civilized. But it's not my call."

  "The Judge makes that call, I guess."

  "That's right."

  "Don't sound like you're his greatest fan."

  "I'm a practical person. Any fool can see that the way he runs things isn't good for commercial enterprise."

  "So why doesn't anyone do anything about it?"

  "If it were that easy, it would've been done by now." She jerked her thumb at a saloon across the street, one of the few buildings that had a coat of paint on it. A painting of a woman slashing a man's throat and catching the blood in a wine goblet was mounted above the entrance. "This is Bloody Mary. My joint. C'mon, I'll buy you a drink."

  He walked through the planked doors. The interior was spacious, sporting a long paneled mahogany bar, scuffed hardwood flooring, poker tables, a pool table, a massive wrought-iron chandelier, and a polished self-playing piano in the corner playing a jaunty tune.

  Heads turned as they entered, weighing, accessing. He ignored the distrustful looks, walking over to the bar and nodding to the slender barkeep. Like most bartenders, it was an android, rolling on wheels behind the bar. It looked over, expressionless behind its iron mustache and monocle over one eye.

  "Red Eye," Gunner said.

  The whiskey slid his way. The Baron leaned beside him against the polished bar, propping her elbows on the countertop. "Looked like you and Janey have a history."

  "A brief one. It might hit her later. I got a wash and a shave since she last saw me."

  "When was that?"

  "When she and her gang robbed me yesterday."

  The Baron whistled. "You sure you're the Gunner I heard about? Don't seem like he'd let a two-bit bunch like Waingrow and his bunch get the jump on him."

  He downed the whiskey. "Maybe I'm not that guy. But I'm here to get my Steed back. Figure I can do it the easy way or the hard way."

  "What's the easy way?"

  "You're a person of authority, it appears. Maybe you inquire into the matter."

  "Maybe I do. But you should know that nothing comes for free in this Town. What's the hard way?"

  "I look into the matter myself. Tracking down each member of the gang until I get what I want. And I'll start with Janey."

  "That's gonna bring a heap of trouble on your head. Janey is one of the Judge's granddaughters. Mess with her, and you mess with the Judge."

  "Everyone around here related to the Judge?"

  "Not everyone, but a lot of his people are. He doesn't trust anyone but family. And he brought in a lot of blood into this place."

  "Is that so? Well, maybe I'll just skip the little fish and go straight to the Judge myself."

  A smile slid across the Baron's face. "Just walk on in and have a face-to-face? I'd like to see that. But tell you what—before you do something stupid and get yourself shot, let me look into the matter. I'll see what I can do."

  "Hey, Gunner!"

  They turned around as a clean-cut man in a suit and bowler hat lurched up from his seat at a nearby table. He had his holoband open to a Wanted poster, stalking over with his other hand hovering over one of his pistols.

  "Yeah, I recognize you. Scanned your face when you came in. You're worth a lot of bulls, you know that? One mil alive, three hundred thousand dead. Which means someone has something personal against you, my friend. Now, I'd rather take you alive, but either way you're coming with me."

  All eyes had turned in their direction. The poker games paused; the conversations stopped. The Baron didn't say a word, observing with a small smile on her lips.

  Gunner gave the Nimrod a cool glance. "Looks like you got me at a disadvantage. You know who I am. But I don't know you from a stick in the mud."

  The man stuck out his chest. "The name's Arthur Bright. I know you heard of me."

  Gunner's eyes narrowed. "The Texas Terror. Every man with a bounty on his head has heard of you."

  "That's right. Because I'm the best Nimrod in the business. I've had an eye out for you for a long time. Guess this is my lucky day."

  "Maybe it is, maybe it ain't. Because there's something that Wanted poster ain't telling you, Texas Terror."

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "The number of other folks that tried to collect that bounty. A lot of Nimrods better than you have tried. Now, are you gonna let me finish drinking in peace and go about your business, or do you wanna get your name added to the list?"

  Arthur hesitated, taking a quick look around before zeroing in on Gunner's empty holsters. "Hell, you ain't even heeled. You can't intimidate me by tough talk. Now gimme your wrists. I'm taking you in."

  "Gotta kill me first," Gunner said, "and I don't think you got the stones."

  Arthur licked his lips, eyes shifting. "I'll do it."

  Gunner sneered. "Seems like all you'll do is talk. Go ahead and pull. Or is flapping your gums the only thing you're good at?"

  "Don't insult me. I'll put you down. I got the right." He cut a quick look at the Baron. "I got the right, don't I?"

  She spread out her arms. "No law against taking a bounty out."

  He focused on Gunner again. "You hear that? Give yourself up, or I cut you down."

  Gunner stifled a yawn behind his hand. "You gonna kill me with a bullet or with boredom? If you were the real Texas Terror, you'd have already shot by now."

  A bead of sweat trickled down Arthur
's face. "What do you mean, the real one?"

  "I'm saying you're not Arthur Bright. Because I rode with Arthur. I robbed with him, and I ran down bounties with him. I was there when he died. We were ambushed by Slasher Bob and his gang of no-good cutthroats. Both me and Arthur took more shots than a professional drunkard, but we managed to put Slasher Bob down like the mangy beast he was. Arthur died two days later, cursing the doctors to hell. So like I said—you ain't Arthur Bright. You're just a two-bit charlatan posing as a man whose air you wouldn't be fit to breathe."

  "Damn you." The conman reached for his revolver.

  Gunner threw the whiskey glass with a flick of his wrist. It smashed into the imposter's forehead with a loud crack, stunning him. Leaping from his barstool, Gunner snatched the conman's revolver from the holster and clubbed him behind the ear with it. The pretender crumpled to the floor as if his knees shattered.

  Gunner slid the gun into one of his holsters. "You still got one gun left. You wanna keep disgracing Arthur's name, you meet me outside and we'll settle up right now." He glanced at the Baron. "Hope this ain't gonna get me in trouble with the law."

  The Baron raised an eyebrow. "No trouble at all. We play it pretty loose around here, so long as the fight is fair and square."

  "Much obliged."

  He turned and strode out the saloon, walking ten paces into the street before turning around with a hand hovering over the revolver. Passersby stopped to stare, anticipating a showdown. The Baron stepped out of the saloon, followed by the majority of the patrons, most excitedly taking bets on the outcome.

  The conman burst out the doors a few seconds later, rubbing the back of his head with a murderous frown. "It doesn't matter whether I'm Arthur Bright or not. In a few seconds, I'm gonna be the man that killed the notorious Gunner."

  Gunner gave his beard stubble a lazy scratch. "In a few seconds, you're gonna be dead."

  The imposter took a few steps forward, fingers dancing over the grip of his revolver. "That so? Well, just say the word."

  "Waiting on you."

  The conman hand darted for his gun. It hadn't even cleared leather before Gunner's shot rang out. The imposter's eyes widened, staring at Gunner in shock. Blood bubbled on his lips. He tottered a few steps before falling face-first into the street. Cheers rang out in the street, people laughed or moaned depending on what bets they made.