The Gunner Chronicles

by Bard Constantine

  He'd gotten a plate of roast chicken, potatoes, and nearly half the bottle of rye down by the time a stir rose from down the street. He sat up in his chair, watching as townspeople leaped out of the way as Bane walked past, silent and dark, eyes glowing from the slouch hat that shaded his entire face. The Judge's bodyguard moved at a slow, jerky gait, head swiveling back and forth as if surveying the street and the people. He plodded past Gunner without a second glance and would have turned the corner, but paused when a man in a neat suit and a derby hat stepped from the porch of a nearby hotel and shouted.

  "Bane. I challenge you to combat, you cyborg devil."

  The Baron emerged from the saloon, leaning against the veranda railing beside Gunner. Chewing on a toothpick, she smiled. "I was wondering when someone would give it another go. That there is Fred Hopper. They call him the Gringo. Made a name for himself crossing the border and bringing back some of the worst bounties that escaped to Mexico."

  The Gringo stepped into the middle of the street, a sneer on his face. "I figure there's still enough man in that metal shell to kill. And since I done killed the best, I might as well focus on killing the worst. The Judge's time is up. And when you're put down, he won't be far behind."

  Bane silently trudged further into the street, tattered poncho flapping in the wind. The two men squared up at a distance of about twenty yards. Townspeople stopped to observe; faces peered from blinds and shutters at the windows of the buildings nearby. A hot breeze blew by, scattering dust and discarded paper along the ground. A smirk spread on the Gringo's lips.

  He pulled his revolver faster than the eye could follow, firing three shots before Bane even moved. The bullets ricocheted; sparks glinted from Banes armor under the poncho. He pulled a massive handgun from his side holster, aimed, and fired one booming shot. The Gringo's torso exploded in scarlet spray as the round entered his chest and exploded out his back. A man standing ten yards behind screamed and toppled to the ground, struck by the same bullet.

  The Gringo lay in the dust, blood rapidly staining the ground around his body. Bane slammed his gun back into the holster, looking back and forth as if for another challenge. None came. He turned and continued his slow, lumbering journey down the avenue as people shied away and found other places to be.

  The Baron eased into a chair beside Gunner, a small smile on her lips. "And that's the main reason why the Judge doesn't have to worry about anyone trying to topple his throne. He allows anyone to challenge Bane to a gunfight. Trims down the number of people trying to kill him. And so long as his monster is around to protect him, he's insulated. Bane's invulnerability is matched only by his loyalty to the Judge."

  Gunner took a swig of rye from the bottle. "Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat. Or take down a Judge, if that's what you're into. Especially if you know exactly what his next move is gonna be so you can get a jump on him and stop it."

  "Really? And what would such information cost me?"

  "Let's say thirty thousand in gold."

  "That's pretty steep just for some word-of-mouth."

  "It'll be worth it, I promise."

  She slipped her hand inside her jacket, pulled out a small velvet sack, and tossed it to him. "Should be around thirty, give or take. Now, what's the word?"

  He slipped the sack inside his vest and leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head. "There's a shipment of blood shards coming in by train. Waingrow and his gang are gonna blow the rails and jack the shipment so the Judge can power his generator motor and put your mine outta business. Supposed to make the hit first thing tomorrow morning. I'm pretty sure you can get word to the railroad and warn 'em in time."

  She nodded, a pleased expression on her face. "Yes, I can. Thanks, Gunner. I'm glad you chose the right side. I get a feeling this will be a profitable partnership." She stood and turned to the saloon. "Now if you excuse me, I have a call to make."

  He lifted the bottle in salute. "Happy hunting."

  The bottle dropped from his hand as soon as she went inside. Standing up, he walked back toward his hotel, trudging alongside the dusty streets, cutting through the milling crowds like a shark through schools of fish. Pausing, he watched as a wagon rolled by, pulled by a team of robot horses, gears whirring and pistons hissing as their metallic legs churned, tearing up clods of dirt. Crossing the street, he almost made it to the Paradise Inn when he saw Roscoe peering out the window, finger jabbing at the upper section of the building opposite them.

  Gunner dove the side, turning as he hit the ground. A bullet struck the building behind him, followed by the boom of the rifle from the gunman at the window. Gunner drew his Reaper, pulling back on the hammer to charge the round before firing. The window exploded, and a second later the assassin crashed through, screaming as he struck the ground engulfed in flames.

  A shadow moved to Gunner's left, rising from behind a stack of barrels with a rifle in hand. Gunner fired again, destroying the barrels along with the gunman, who ran a few steps before the flames ate him alive. Gunner stood and rotated in a circle, eyes scanning every alley, every shadow, every hiding place. People scattered, running for cover as the wind kicked up clouds of dust down the street. Gunner remained where he stood, Reaper charged and ready to spit fire.

  "Anyone else? If you don't wanna get killed, best come on out before it's too late."

  "Don't shoot!" A man's empty hands waved from behind a stack of timber across the street.

  Gunner motioned with his Reaper. "Step away where I can see you."

  The young man was visibly trembling when he shuffled out, hands raised above his head. "I dropped my rifle. Please don't kill me. This ain't my fault. I swear I tried to talk Hank out of it."

  Gunner kept his Reaper aimed. "You boys a Nimrod squad?"

  "Yessir. Just small fries mostly. Hank and Randy thought we'd make a name for ourselves by taking you out. I told 'em it was a bad idea, but they kept talking about the big payday. Said we could take you by surprise." His eyes cut over to their smoldering corpses. "Now…now they're dead." His bottom lip trembled, and tears slid down his cheeks.

  "That's right. And by all rights, you should be laying there beside 'em. Who offered the payday?"

  "Don't know his name. Tough old guy. Mean-looking. Thought I saw a badge under his duster. Said he'd pay us one hundred thousand apiece. Plus the bounty already on your head."

  "Sounds familiar. What's your name, boy?"

  The man took his hat off, twisting it in his hands. "Roy…sir."

  "Well, Roy—how do I know you won't come gunning for me soon as my back turns?"

  "Oh, no—I ain't gonna do nothing like that, sir. I never really took to this line of work anyways. All I know is steers, really. Used to be a ranch hand 'till rustlers cleared us out for the last time. I ain't no killer, though. Swear to God."

  "I got your word on that, Roy?"

  "Yessir."

  "If a man's word ain't nothing, the man ain't nothing."

  "Yessir."

  "All right, Roy. You turn around and run outta town, hear? I see you again; I won't be talking, understand?"

  "Yessir. Thank you, sir." Roy turned and ran, kicking up clouds of dust in the direction of the Town gates.

  Gunner scanned the area a final time, waiting for the flicker of movement, the creak of leather, the metallic click announcing imminent gunfire. When no further attacks came, he holstered his Reaper and walked into the hotel, where Rosco waited inside. The inside was a little cleaner, with new wood paneling installed on the walls and the railings and stairs refinished. Gunner slapped a couple of gold bulls on the dusty countertop.

  "Much obliged, Roscoe."

  The innkeeper grinned. "Call it protecting my investment. I couldn't stand and do nothing while my only patron was gunned down."

  Gunner picked up a small pot of cold beans and a piece of crusty bread from the stove, shoveling the food into a wooden bowl. "Guess that would be bad for business."

  "How did your meeting
go with the Judge this morning?"

  "I'm still alive."

  "So I see. Which means he must have found work for you to do."

  "Something like that."

  "Be careful, my friend. The Judge uses bait to cover up a nasty hook. Once you're in with him, he expects complete loyalty. And obedience. Ask Waingrow if you don't believe me."

  "What's his story?"

  "Used to be run his own unit, freewheeling here and there until the Judge hired him on. Now, he's at the Judge's beck and call. Taking big risks and not getting paid his worth. But like everyone else, he won't say complain. Not where anyone can hear him, anyways. The Judge has a way of finding things out. And making examples."

  "Like those bodies I saw at the farm."

  "Exactly. They tried to incite a little rebellion, more talk than anything else. But the Judge ended that right quickly. Had Bane take a whip and beat them until their backs split into raw meat, then left them out in the sun to rot. Needless to say, the rebellion talk died with them."

  Gunner's spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. He stuffed the rest of the bread in his mouth and crunched, wiping his hands on a cotton napkin. "Well, I'll be careful."

  "I doubt it. Where are you going now?"

  "To bed. It's been a long day."

  "What if someone else comes in for another shot at you?"

  Gunner patted him on the shoulder as he headed toward his room. "Then you shoot 'em, Roscoe. Or give 'em some of those awful beans you cooked. Should be even more painful of a way to die. Just don't wake me up. I got a feeling tomorrow's gonna be a big day."

  Chapter 6: Innocent Blood

  The coffin was too small.

  Gunner started his morning with a mug of coffee and plate of burnt bacon and toast, standing on the hotel deck watching the funeral procession pass by. The group of grievers was small and pitiable, just a few stragglers: weeping old women with gray and white hair tied in neat buns, following a woman in mourning black with the tortured face of a martyred saint. One of her eyes was scarred and paled with blindness; her face etched with runes of sorrow. It took Gunner a minute to realize she was younger than she appeared. Hard life and anguish had sapped her youth, and she tottered like a person three times her age.

  On old man steered the motorbike that towed the coffin cart. He puffed on a pipe and nodded to the onlookers as if he imagined himself part of a parade procession. They made their way through the streets, going slowly because no one bothered to make room for them. People paused to stare, some shaking their heads, others sneering or even laughing. Gunner recognized the last person in the procession. Myrtle, the young girl he'd seen trying to give Pablo water. She walked with her head down, dropping white flower blossoms on the ground that the townspeople immediately trampled underfoot.

  Gunner stepped from the deck of the hotel, following from a distance. The small group made their way to a barren field on the outskirts of Town, where hundreds of makeshift markers stood in testament to the dead. A squat, multi-limbed gravedigger scuttled over, whirring its mechanical head into the ground like a burrowing beetle, digging until it created a mathematically precise grave for the coffin, which it then lifted and slowly lowered into the ground before creeping away, legs clicking and clacking.

  Myrtle stood a few paces back as the women gave way to wailing and weeping, clutching one another in a feeble attempt at comfort. Gunner strode forward, making sure Myrtle noticed him as he approached. Her eyes widened as she looked up, recognition dawning on her face.

  "Why are you here?"

  He glanced at the mourning women. "What happened?"

  Her expression darkened. "Boy died. Name was Benjamin. A sniper killed him."

  "A sniper?"

  "One of the watchmen in the towers."

  "Why would he kill a boy?"

  "They said Ben snuck into the mines. The Marshal went in to fetch him. When he dragged him out, the sniper shot him."

  "With Marshal Wiley standing right there?"

  She scrunched up her nose as if from a foul smell. "Wiley is the one that put the notice out. Says no one can go into the mines or they'll be shot. They don't want nobody to see what goes on down there. This ain’t the first time a kid's been shot for straying in. He's done worse to others. Ben didn't know any better. Snuck off before his Ma knew what happened."

  "And now he's dead." Gunner squinted at the women, fingers unconsciously tapping his holsters.

  Myrtle looked at the weapons, then back up at him. "Why do you care, anyway?"

  "Who says I do?"

  "You helped Pablo. And you're here asking questions. Why?"

  "Maybe I'm just bored."

  "Bored?"

  "Yeah. You know what they say: the devil finds work for idle hands."

  "I know what the Holy Word says. God hates hands that shed innocent blood."

  "Don't worry, girl. The blood I've shed ain't never been innocent." Glancing up, he saw the women had stopped crying. They stood in a group, the wind blowing against their tattered blacks, watching with expressionless faces. The mother took a step toward him; hands clasped tightly together.

  "Can you help us?"

  He took a deep breath. “If you think I’ll go to war singlehandedly against the Baron..."

  She shook her head. "What can one man do, even if he wanted? No, I would not ask you to die. We have no headstone for my son. We need to gather stones for his marker. My mother and her friends are old. Can you help?"

  He nodded, removing his duster.

  He helped her find and carry the rocks, uprooting and brushing off the dirt before stacking them into a small cairn. Afterward, he stood among the women, gazing at the small memorial. The grieving mother turned to him, her one good eye searching his face.

  "Pablo usually speaks at the funeral services. He speaks of the time when those dead will hear the voice of the Lord and be resurrected to a new life. And I must believe because without hope, I may as well be a dead woman. But I don't have the words to speak this day. Not when I lost so much. Will you say a few words over the grave of my only son?"

  He felt as though a hand had seized him by the neck, hearing the voice inside his head chant the mantra as if time had never passed.

  Remember, O Lord, the God of Spirits and all Flesh, those whom we have remembered and those whom we have not remembered, from righteous Abel onto this day…

  Clearing his throat roughly, he shook his head. "Been a long time since I spoke any words of faith, miss. Don't think I could do 'em any justice."

  May you yourself give them rest there in the land of the living, in your kingdom, in the delight of Paradise…

  She dropped her gaze, attention drifting back to the cairn of stones. "I understand. Thank you for showing kindness to a stranger, then. I pray the Lord bless you."

  In the bosom of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, our holy fathers, from where pain and sorrow and sighing have fled away, where the light of your face visits them and always shine upon them.

  He tipped his hat. "If He will, ma'am."

  Turning away, he headed back toward the Town, feeling the women's eyes on his back. The blistering wind blew against his face, moaning as if sharing the women's grief, burning his skin, blurring his eyes so that a single tear slid down his cheek.

  The train gleamed in the glaring sunlight, flying down the desert tracks like a silver bullet, kicking up plumes of dust high into the air as it passed. Silent on maglev rails, it whirred along its way using electromagnetic suspension and propulsion for a frictionless transport, propelling at upwards of four hundred fifty miles per hour.

  Waingrow watched it approach in the distance from his vantage point atop a small hilltop where he sat in his monowheel, encircled by a ring-shaped metal frame with thick, massive tread wrapped around it. He lifted his wrist and spoke into his holoband.

  "Blow the track."

  The response was immediate. An explosion erupted further down, tearing the monorail tracks apart and casting debris high into th
e air. The train automatically shut down its acceleration system, retrorockets firing to further aid in safely coming to a stop approximately half a mile from the damaged rails.

  "Time to move," Waingrow said, gripping the handles and hitting the throttle on the monowheel, activating the frictionless drive that magnetically spun the treaded wheel. He placed his feet on the bike pegs when the tire whirled around him as he sat inside of it, automatically balancing on gyroscopic stabilizers when the vehicle sped down the hill, slinging dirt behind him. He pulled a monitor down from the top of the inner frame, zooming in on the target and accessing its vulnerable points.

  The rest of his gang was already en route, streaking toward the train in clouds of trailing dust; some in monowheels like him, others on thick-treaded Steeds, still others in rusty all-terrain vehicles. The massive cargo hauler rumbled behind him, ready to be loaded with the payload of blood shards. A drone loaded with the EMP flew ahead of them, preprogrammed to detonate when it got within fifty yards of the target.

  It never had a chance.

  Panels slid open on the side of the train, revealing turret guns that popped out of the compartments. A single ion blast took out the drone before it got within range. The rest of the weapons opened fire, splitting the air with explosive thunderclaps. The air flashed and hummed with charged rounds, kicking up plumes of broken earth and tearing through vehicles. Broken bits of metal and gears rained down, bouncing across the dirt as the lead vehicles were pulverized from the intense bombardment, filling the air with smoke and the scent of scorched flesh from the trapped bodies burning in the wreckage. Waingrow heard the agonized screams as he sped past, desperately trying to avoid the deadly barrages. The narrowness of his vehicle made it hard to target, but he knew it was only a matter of seconds before he was taken out. He felt the heat as the cargo truck exploded a few yards away, nearly unseating him from the force of the blast. Dirt and debris slung through the air like shotgun pellets, perforating his duster and jeans, tearing into his skin and muscles. He grunted from the pain as he continued to dodge and weave, raising his arm to yell into his holoband.