Lone Gunfighter of the Wastelands

by Rachel Aukes

Sikes gripped the bar his cuffs were looped through. “Whoa. Are you really going to drop me off there?”

  “I didn’t drive you all the way here because I’m a chauffeur,” Joe replied.

  “But, but, I thought we got along. I was hoping you might change your mind,” Sikes said, his nervousness raising the pitch of his voice.

  “Well, aren’t you an optimist,” Joe said wryly.

  Sikes shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t do me any good to be anything else.”

  “Good point.” When Sikes’s lip trembled, and it looked like he was about to cry, Joe offered, “It’s not so bad. Once you work off your crime, you’ll be free to return to Narrow Pass or wherever else you want to go.”

  Sikes grimaced. “I’m not very good at manual labor.”

  You’ll get good. Joe didn’t voice his thought aloud.

  He parked Monster near the entrance and powered down the cutter. He opened the door, stepped out, and walked around to the passenger door. He noticed fresh graffiti painted on the wall of the work camp that read, “Abandon all hope all ye who enter here.” Whoever had painted that would be dead, if they weren’t dead already. The murcs didn’t mess around with damage to their property.

  When he opened the door, Sikes flashed sad eyes that could give any dog a run for its money, but the expression didn’t work on Joe. He reached around and unhooked the hand restraints from the bar.

  “Let’s go,” Joe said as he tugged Sikes out of the vehicle by his restraints.

  His prisoner moved slower than a lizard caught in winter.

  Once Sikes stood on the sidewalk, Joe motioned at the dog, which was watching him expectantly. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. Go. Check out the town. Find a dumpster.” He thought for a second. “Just avoid Far Town. Rumors are, they eat dogs out there.”

  The dog didn’t move.

  “I think she likes you,” Sikes said.

  Joe sighed, still watching the animal. “Have it your way. Just don’t tear up the cutter.” He closed the door, locking the stray inside, and escorted Sikes to the entrance. Sikes walked with an exaggerated limp, and Joe knew his prisoner would drag his feet if he could get away with it. He continued to tug his prisoner along through the front door. Inside, four guards, all wearing exoshields, stood at the doors, while a clerk sat at the front desk.

  Joe pulled Sikes up to the desk, pulled out the ticket, and set it in front of the clerk.

  “There’s been some kind of mistake. I shouldn’t be here,” Sikes said to the clerk, an elderly man with gray eyes and leather skin.

  The clerk ignored Sikes, scanned the ticket, and looked Sikes up and down before turning to Joe. “Why was he limping?”

  “He tried to run,” Joe stated.

  “Please,” Sikes begged. “I’m innocent. It was all just a big misunderstanding.”

  The clerk turned back to his screen, scanned the ticket card once more, and set it back on the counter. “The prisoner has been checked in, and your ticket status has been updated; note successful completion of bounty retrieved.”

  Joe grabbed the ticket.

  “Don’t leave me here, Havoc,” Sikes said.

  Joe glanced at his prisoner before turning away.

  “Wait! Please don’t leave!” Sikes called out behind him.

  Joe walked out of the entrance, wasting no time. Sikes’s words following him like the ghosts of all his bounties he’d brought through those doors. The helmet did more than protect his head—it disguised the emotions in his eyes and on his face. He’d never been good at concealing his feelings. He’d seen the conditions of the work camp, and he wondered how many survived it. An optimist didn’t stand a chance in there.

  Chapter Eight

  Joe snatched the teddy bear from the dog. “Hey, that’s not yours.”

  He grimaced when he noticed how soggy the doll had become. He plopped it on the dashboard and drove while the dog moved her eyes from the bear to Joe and back again.

  “We’ve talked about this. It’s not yours. That’s for Little Nick.”

  The dog continued to watch him.

  Joe scowled. “Fine. How about I get you your own toy?”

  She seemed satisfied with that answer as she settled down onto the seat.

  Joe’s next stop in Cavil was to a corner bar a half-mile from the work camp. It was off the main road, which meant several turns to avoid dead ends. He parked at the bar with its name painted on its light stone exterior: Harry Haft’s.

  The dog chose to stay in the cutter once again.

  Joe grabbed the doll and slid it under a blanket in the back cabin. “Don’t touch the bear.”

  She cocked her head as she watched Joe close the door.

  He headed inside the building. The usual drunks were bellied up at the bar, and all the poker tables were empty except for one. There, Arthur Law looked to be winning against two men Joe didn’t recognize, based on the sour expressions on their faces and the smiling working girl sitting on Arthur’s lap. People who frequented the bar liked Arthur Law, not because he was a gambler, but because he won often. It didn’t matter the game: bets, loans, blackmail…rumor was, Arthur was the richest man in Cavil.

  Arthur glanced up, noticed Joe, and tilted his head with a smile. “Havoc. Good to see you back in town. I saw Reuben earlier. I should warn you, he seems a bit itchier than usual.”

  “Thanks for the heads up, Artie.” Joe continued through the bar and to a door with Haft Agency painted on it. Below it read Reuben Tally, Owner. A large fist was painted below the sign, the same image displayed on the left bicep of Joe’s exoshield.

  He lifted his left forearm, which had a small tablet computer fastened to the armor, and scanned the armlet over the screen on the wall next to the door. With an accepting beep, it slid open. He stepped inside to another bar, this one reminiscent of a speakeasy, where bounty hunters sat around, sharing drinks. It was the only place you could find hunters in armor sans helmet. A person couldn’t eat or drink wearing a mask, and most hunters, Joe included, would never remove their helmets in public while in their exoshields. Too easy for an enemy to sneak up and shoot them in the head.

  Even in the general safety, only hunters having food or drink removed their helmets. The others in the bar, including Joe, kept their helmets on.

  He glanced over the faces of his counterparts. Even though they shared a drink together every now and then, there were none he called friend—hunters were too cutthroat and competitive for that. Everyone sitting in that bar worked for the Haft Agency, a guild that operated in the Midlands. There weren’t enough tickets to go around, which meant that the hunters scrambled for every one that came available. Here, reputation was everything, and Joe had spent eight years building his reputation…and a list of enemies.

  After three brutal wars over the course of a single decade, most people had lost the taste for blood and migrated across the land zones to begin new lives. Some, unable to settle into peaceful careers after spending too much of their lives at war, became bounty hunters. In that respect, Joe knew he was no different than the others at Haft’s. He may have belonged in that room as much as they did, but it didn’t mean he had to get along with them.

  He gave Flash a tilt of his head. She was their rookie and the least jaded, probably the only hunter who hadn’t been involved in any war. Her outlook wouldn’t last long, but while it did, he found it refreshing. He also found humor in seeing her exoshield with no scratches, buffed to a shine capable of blinding someone in the sun. She must spend hours every day on her armor, a habit he knew from experience would give way in short time.

  Each exoshield was different, having been customized to each person’s body. They were so expensive that hunters had to contract ten years of service to a guild in exchange for one. Joe was fortunate in that he had his from the Revolution and didn’t need to be contracted. Though his armor was an older model, he’d added composite patches for improved protection against blasters and knives. His helme
t was a simple design with eye slots, but upgraded to have night vision capabilities, hearing enhancement ear cuffs, and a breathing mask.

  Everything on his exoshield was functional except for the three crimson stripes painted on his helmet and the crimson cape he wore. Those items represented who he was and where he’d come from. Three stripes for the three wars he’d fought in, and the cape his only remnant—a banner—of the Ravens, which he’d served with through all three wars.

  The Ravens had been a specialized MRC team in the Revolution, and they’d switched sides to fight against the MRC after that, basically making themselves the enemy of anyone who wanted to be in control. Joe had served alongside the remaining Ravens in the third war, but there hadn’t been enough of them left to be officially considered a team.

  Through each attack, every Raven had carried a banner, and Joe knew any who still lived would never discard them. The Ravens’ tradition was that as long as the banner flew, they would be victorious. Most believed the Ravens had all been killed. Only a few believed the Ravens to be more than legend, and even fewer still recognized their crimson banner. Those who did generally held no love for the rumored death squad that had disappeared after the last war.

  Joe proceeded across the private room to the next door, only to be blocked by a pair of hunters. He recognized Bolt, a man with gold armor as polished as his words. Joe had seen Bolt without his exoshield before, and the man spent as much time on his clothes and hair as he did on his armor. The smaller man was all about impressing the world, which did nothing to impress Joe.

  “Havoc,” Bolt said with a hint of surprise, then he added, with his usual haughtiness, “Sorry, but you’ll have to wait. We’re next in line.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m here for a payout today, not a ticket,” Joe said.

  The second hunter shoved Joe back a couple of steps. “Didn’t you hear him? He said we’re next in line, so move it, chum.” This hunter was new to Joe, but his exoshield looked well-worn and was detailed with dents and scratches. Where Bolt was smooth and shiny, this one was rough and grubby.

  Joe read the callsign on the second hunter’s chest plate, cocked his head, and grinned. “Why do they call you Tumbler? You fall down a lot? From the looks of your shield, that’d be my guess.”

  Tumbler took an aggressive step toward Joe, his hand on his blaster. “What’s up with the red cape? You think you’re Superman or something?”

  “Or something. And if you’re thinking of pulling that weapon on me, you’d better be fast enough to use it.”

  Tumbler seemed to grow taller. “I’m more than—”

  Bolt interrupted, stepping between the two. “Easy, partner. No need for arguments today. Havoc, go ahead of us. I plan to have a drink first, anyway.”

  “Don’t be stupid, B. Someone needs to teach this fella some manners—”

  “No, Tumbler,” Bolt corrected, voice stern. “Not today. Besides, you’d be a fool to underestimate him.”

  Joe smiled and nodded in Tumbler’s direction. “Go ahead. Underestimate me. Let’s have some fun.”

  Bolt pressed his partner to the side. “Don’t mind Tumbler here, Havoc. He’s new and thinks he’s got something to prove.”

  The pair moved to a table, and Joe noticed the room had gone silent. He didn’t need to turn to know that everyone had watched the scene. Bounty hunters were known to get into their share of fights, but anyone who’d worked with Havoc knew that he wasn’t a fan of arguments.

  Joe swiped his armlet over the scanner next to the door to let Reuben know he was there. He waited, had expected to wait for several minutes, but the door unlocked right then, and a light on the scanner turned green. Surprised, he stepped inside the office, the door sliding closed behind him. The small room stank—someone had eaten too many beans for lunch, and Joe was glad that his mask helped filter the air.

  Across the room, Reuben Tally, owner of the Agency and Joe’s employer, sat behind a simple brown-composite desk. On the other side of it stood two men with their backs to Joe. He recognized T-Rex’s stocky exoshield with chipped green paint; the man had been with the agency since it began, and Joe suspected the hunter had been sleeping with the previous owner, Reuben’s mother. T-Rex was the most relentless, hard-headed, crude person Joe knew, and possibly the only hunter Joe would almost consider a friend if he didn’t want to kill him the rest of the time. T-Rex was also gutsy enough—or crazy enough—to be seen in public without his helmet. He even went so far as to pick a callsign that had his real name in it: Rex.

  The other man in the room wore plain clothes—likely a client since no one except contractors and clients tended to meet with Reuben. The man looked far more confident than he should’ve, based on the way Reuben nervously scratched his chin.

  Reuben acknowledged Joe before turning back to the man. “I’m disappointed that you reneged on our deal, Phillipe.” Without looking up, he added, “Havoc, tell this gentleman how I feel about clients who refuse to pay for their completed tickets.”

  “You don’t like it,” Joe replied without hesitation.

  “That’s correct. I don’t like it one bit. In fact, I find it hard to run a business if my people and I don’t get paid for our hard work,” Reuben went on softly.

  The man took on a defensive posture. “I told you, circumstances changed, and I didn’t need the ticket carried out after all.”

  “The problem is that the job was already finished, by T-Rex here,” Reuben motioned to the other hunter.

  The client seemed to shrink from Rex before turning back to Reuben. “Then that’s too bad.”

  Reuben’s lips thinned before he spoke again. “T-Rex, please show this gentleman what I think about clients who refuse to pay for their completed tickets.”

  “I’d be glad to.” T-Rex pulled out his blaster and shot the client in the head before Reuben stood and held out his hands.

  Joe clenched his eyes closed before opening them. Here we go again.

  Reuben’s eyes were wide as he stared slack-jawed at Rex. “Why’d you do that?”

  The hunter seemed pleased with himself as he replied in his gruff voice, “I showed him what you thought of him. And what I thought of him. That was pretty rude of him not to pay. Seriously, who does that?”

  Reuben sat back down and rubbed his neck before looking back up. “I meant for you to scare him, not kill him.”

  Rex shrugged. “My mistake. Though, don’t you think it’s better all ’round this way? I mean, he had the worst gas. I put Mr. Smellsalot out of everyone’s misery.”

  “Now, how is he going to pay what he owes me? What he owes you?” Reuben asked, exasperated.

  “I could pay a visit to his family,” Rex offered.

  Reuben held up a hand. “No. You’ve done quite enough already.”

  Joe stepped closer to the desk and eyed Reuben. “You really should know Rex better by now, that if he has a chance to shoot someone, he will. He just can’t keep his blaster in his pants.”

  “Sometimes I can,” Rex said. “Sometimes, I want a little variety, and I bring out my laser cutters.” Rex dramatically looked Joe up and down. “Nice shield. What, you been cruising the hog lots, searching for a new girlfriend again?”

  “Nah. I just came from your mother’s,” Joe countered.

  Rex snickered. “That would explain why you’re so filthy. Reminds me of this night I had with your mother—”

  “Enough.” Reuben sighed and then pointed at the body. “Rex, that’s your responsibility. Get rid of it.”

  Rex shrugged. “Sure. You want it in the open, billboard style, or incognito, meaning no one will ever find it?”

  “I know what ‘incognito’ means, and that’s not the correct usage for it,” Reuben said. “And, yes, I would like you to neatly dispose of the body so that no one ever finds it.”

  “I know just the place. Do you want to know? It’s perfect. It’s—”

  Reuben held up his hand. “No, I trust you. No need to tell me.
I have enough bad dreams the way it is.”

  “If you need some pills, I can hook you up,” Rex continued. “There’s these blue pills, called Zees, and they’ll give you the sweetest dreams you could ever imagine.”

  “Those aren’t dreams; they’re hallucinations, and I don’t think that’s what he wants,” Joe replied.

  “Fun hater,” Rex mumbled.

  “Enough already,” Reuben said, scratching at his hairline.

  “Migraine coming on?” Joe asked.

  Reuben nodded. “It doesn’t help when my clients are shot dead in my office.”

  “Non-paying clients,” Rex said. “That makes him more of a deadbeat than a client. I just want to set the record straight.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Give me your tickets,” Reuben said and held out his hands, palms up.

  Joe and Rex each placed their tickets on one of Reuben’s palms, and their boss pulled out the mini-computers that were shaped like rectangular black boxes with screens. Reuben scanned Rex’s ticket first. “We know that Phillipe didn’t pay, so all I can afford to pay you is a tenth of the payout.”

  Rex grumbled something under his breath, pulled out his blaster, and shot the dead man again.

  Joe grimaced. “I think he was dead the first time.”

  “Well, now he’s doubly dead,” Rex said.

  Reuben guffawed. “What did you do that for?”

  “Because I was in a good mood until Stinky McStinkface ruined it by not paying,” Rex said.

  Reuben shook his head. “Whatever. Give me a minute to transfer the funds from my personal account.”

  “Take all the time you need. If you fat-finger a few extra credits in my favor, I won’t hold it against you, just to let you know,” Rex said.

  Reuben ignored him, wholly focused on his screen. Reuben was young, still in his early twenties, and he’d inherited the bar and agency when his mother, Harry Haft, died. The story was that she was killed by a greedy bounty hunter who managed to sneak up on her. The problem with that story was that anyone who’d known Harry knew that no one could sneak up on her. Not if she was dead asleep, and not if she was in a dark alley. The rumor was that Reuben killed her to take over the family business, but Joe didn’t believe that. Reuben Tally was smart, but not callous, which made him one of the least successful guild owners in the wastelands. Those same traits didn’t make for a murderer. Joe had liked Harry, and he liked Reuben, and since Reuben didn’t open a ticket to track down his mother’s killer, Joe figured there was a reason, and he didn’t press, though he had suspicions that Rex had likely been involved.