Cowboy Necromancer: Infinite Dusk

by Harmon Cooper

  Sterling tipped his hat to Noah and turned to Kip. “I’ve got to get moving,” he told his old drinking buddy, who carried a bitter look on his face as he looked down at his bloodied legs. The stone spikes that had been pinning him to the ground were long gone; Kip lay on his side. With a whistle, Sterling summoned his bone horse to his side. The gaiamancer had tried, but he had been unable to do any damage to Manchester’s skeletal form in the end.

  “Sterling, man, you won’t believe the day I’ve had,” Kip said, offering him a crooked smile, his voice indicating to Sterling that he was half drunk. “You just wouldn’t believe.”

  “You ain’t the only one who’s had themself a day, but we can shoot the shit later. Look, I need to figure out where the hell Don Gasper is. You got any idea?”

  Kip frowned, a dark look coming over his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he spoke. “Screw Don Gasper. You know my opinion of the man. I don’t know why you give that crazy old shaman the time of day. I got something better than Gasper, and you’re going to like it.”

  “Kip, not now.”

  “I heard about something over on the south side of town, on the other side of the Rio Grande, over yonder,” Kip said, gesturing with his chin in the direction of Riverbend Hot Springs, near Turtleback. “Word is there’s some treasure out there. Killbillies buried a bunch of turquoise and silver in a beached yacht, and now it’s protected by an amalgamation, believe it or not. One of them armadillo ones.”

  “Beached yacht? A treasure?” Sterling asked, hiding his skepticism. Kip was always scheming up something. “As much as I would like to go get that money with you—Lord knows I could use some—I’m going to have to take a raincheck. Don Gasper. Where is he, and what have you heard?”

  “Give me a cigarette and I’ll tell you everything I know,” Kip said, faux desperation in his eyes.

  “I’ll give you one, but then I’ve got to scoot. Killbillies will be here any minute now. Shit, they should have already come by now.”

  “Don’t you worry about them boys; I’ll smooth things out. Just you watch.”

  “You ain’t understanding me, Kip,” Sterling said as he helped Kip sit up by offering him a hand. “I killed a dozen of them boys earlier. And that’s not to mention the Godwalker that destroyed my ranch. You said you’ve had a day, well let me tell you…”

  “Did you say a Godwalker destroyed your ranch? Here in T or C?” Kip asked, looking up at Sterling. “What about your crop?”

  “Bona fide Godwalker. Goodbye pepper farm.”

  “Fucking hell, man. Rest in peace, crop. I can’t believe they got your peppers.”

  “They sure did. You can ride your happy ass out there and check for yourself when your legs are healed up. But all that’s in the past, unfortunately, and to get to the future I need to find someone. I’m going to ask you one more time: do you know where Don Gasper is?” Sterling equipped his bag of tobacco and a rolling paper.

  “Yeah, yeah. Last I heard, Don Gasper was cooped up in Las Cruces. He came through here about two weeks ago, the old kook, on his way down there for some shamanic festival or something. At least that’s what he was muttering about. Speaking Spanglish as always. You know I don’t speak Spanish, Spanglish barely. Just know how to order food and a couple cervezas.”

  “Las Cruces? You sure?” Sterling gave a freshly rolled cigarette to Kip. He crouched in front of his old friend and his lighter formed in his hand, Kip taking a long drag off the cancer stick as soon as Sterling lit it.

  “Damn, you roll a tight cigarette.” Kip exhaled a cloud of blue-gray smoke and looked back down at his bloodied legs. “Son of a bitch gaiamancer. Anyway, Don Gasper. Las Cruces, that’s what he said anyway. Who knows if he’s still there or not, but you’d be best to start there.”

  “Then that’s where I’m going. I’ll hit you up next time I come back through.” Sterling mounted his skeletal steed. “Try to stay out of trouble until then, you hear? And before I get on out of here, I’ve got to ask: what the hell did you say to that gaiamancer to piss him off anyway?”

  “Ha! I told him I fucked his sister while his momma watched,” Kip said, grinning, the man clenching the cigarette between his yellowed teeth.

  Sterling snorted. “Now why in the hell would you go and tell him something like that?”

  Kip started laughing. “Because I did, and I’m a man of my word, you goddamn know that. Them two gals came onto me, though. And you best believe I tried to tell him that to smooth things over, but it didn’t work. Plus, he was looking at me funny. Actually, on second thought, I think that’s why I told. I don’t like it when people look at me funny.”

  “You’re a drunk, Kip. And a liar. Ain’t no woman this side of the equator that wants anything to do with your drunk ass, before or after the Reset. Damn liar.”

  Kip snorted, and nearly lost his cigarette. “Takes one to know one, Sterling.”

  “Look here, if anyone comes asking for me, anyone, don’t tell them I went to Las Cruces. I don’t care if my long-lost grandmother from Cheyenne shows up with a wool sweater and a chocolate birthday cake. Send them somewhere else.”

  Kip exhaled a cloud of smoke and took another drag off the cigarette, practically extinguishing it. “Anyone comes asking for you, and I’ll tell them that I sent your necrotic ass to Texas, tell them you’re in Marfa getting all artsy fartsy or some shit. I’m pretty sure they are still an art commune out there. Lots of beautiful women too, least that’s what someone told me.”

  “Don’t you bring Texas into this.”

  Kip and Sterling both laughed until they heard the roar of the Killbillies’ ATVs. “Well, that’s my cue to exit.” Sterling turned south, and was just about to trot off when Kip called out to him again.

  “Say, what the hell do you want from Don Gasper’s crazy ass anyway?”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Sterling called over his shoulder.

  Kip paused for a moment before asking, “Does this have something to do with what happened three years ago?”

  “Good guess. When I return, we’ll go after that treasure.” Sterling tipped his hat to his old friend and took off.

  .Chapter Three.

  Sterling rode south out of town, past a few scattered trailer homes with caved-in roofs, an old Mexican restaurant with letters missing from its sign, and a police station, which had been painted in abstract graffiti that had a native touch to it. The area on the outskirts of Truth or Consequences used to be called Williamsburg, which Sterling knew due to the map in his New Mexico travel guide. Of all of his possessions, the travel guide was certainly one of the more useful items he’d acquired.

  As he rode, Sterling quickly accessed his stats to see that he had gained a level for killing the gaiamancer, his first one this year:

  You have received 1,500 XP!

  You have gained a level!

  You have received six Stat Points!

  You have received one Technique Point!

  You have received one bonus Technique Point!

  Name: Sterling Monedero

  Race: Human

  Mancer Class: Necromancer

  Class Ranking: Blood Mage

  Level: 59

  Fortitude: 117

  Strength: 35

  Resolve: 151

  Mana: 91/132

  Current Armor Rating: 23

  XP: 293,339

  XP to Next Level: 8,750

  Stat Points Available: 6

  Technique Points Available: 23

  Do you want to assign your Stat and Technique Points now?

  “Might as well,” Sterling said as he neared the highway. The Adapted were worth more points than regular folk, which was why Sterling had received 1,500 XP for killing a single gaiamancer versus the dozen or so Killbillies he’d slaughtered earlier on his property.

  Figuring he was going to need the Mana with what he planned to do once he rendezvoused with Don Gasper, Sterling dumped all six Stat Points into his Mana, which brought his base t
otal up to 138. He was down close to fifty points with all the magic bullets he’d fired, but they would reset tomorrow.

  You are currently a Level 59 Blood Mage.

  Once you gain another level, you will be a Level 60 Bone Sculptor. Reaching this achievement will come with a class proficiency bonus.

  It will also come with a new class skill!

  “About goddamn time.”

  Every ten levels came with a new classification title. Before Sterling was a Blood Mage, he was a Reverse Undertaker. He didn’t know what he would be classified as once he reached Level 70—if he made it to that level. He’d have to reach the achievement to find out, not that the title even mattered.

  One thing was for certain: between now and then, he would surely get plenty of Stat Points. Sterling had four options to dump his Stat Points into. His Fortitude was his strength of mind, his guts, of which he had plenty. Sterling had heard once from the flectomancer named Raylan Mossberg that every five Stat Points of Strength was double the strength of a normal person before the Reset. As it stood, Sterling’s strength was seven times that of a normal person. His Resolve was his ability to heal, every ten points doubling a normal person’s ability to mend their wounds. Sterling had put a lot of focus into this early on, when he gave a shit about the game-like system forced onto him after the Reset.

  Fortitude, Strength, Resolve, Mana—these were the things he could improve with Stat Points.

  There wasn’t much he could do with the two Technique Points he had received from the level up, one of the points coming as a bonus due to the leather bracelet that he wore, which was known as a charm. He could always search for a new technique to learn on the Buy Store, which was what the locals called the digital store available to every person who had survived the Reset.

  The Buy Store was accessible in the same way Sterling could navigate to his stats, the store simply appearing in front of him in a glowing box, and allowing him to purchase various techniques. Sterling had really only focused on two techniques over the last five years—his sword skills and his marksmanship—but he didn’t have enough points to level up any of those ones.

  Sword Expert Level 4 - 30 Technique Points to Level 5

  Marksmanship Level 6 - 36 Technique Points to Level 7

  What he really needed was to find a flectomancer who could craft a charm that really gave him some bonuses when it came to Technique Points. That, or a quality trading post where he could just purchase the charm outright. Trading posts were generally in abundance, but flectomancers were harder to come by.

  A flectomancer was one of the Adapted, just like Sterling. These people had a unique gift to create charms and improve items, flectomancers specializing in crafting. Sterling’s weapons, his sickle-sword and revolver, had been created by Raylan Mossberg, a flectomancer he had partnered with several years ago. Raylan had told him at the time his weapon was of Egyptian design, and it had a name that Sterling could never get right. At some point, he would need to find Raylan as well. Last he heard, the flectomancer had set up shop on the Turquoise Trail, in an old mining village called Madrid, somewhere between Santa Fe and Albuquerque, the latter a city Sterling would go out of his way to avoid, due to gang warfare.

  Manchester kept to the side of I-25, the skeletal steed tracing the Rio Grande River as it headed south, its waters growing choppier. Sterling knew better than to ride on the interstate itself; there could be ambushes, checkpoints, and generally that was where anyone with a vehicle would be waiting to take advantage of someone else, even if fuel was harder and harder to come by as the years dragged on. From his previous trips around what used to be the state of New Mexico, Sterling had developed a policy of riding a half mile off the highway. He could still use the stretch of road as a point of reference, but he was less visible this way. If someone did happen to see him, he had a head start in trying to get away or planning an assault.

  There were green road markers along the interstate, and Sterling saw that the small village of Hatch was a little over thirty miles away, Las Cruces about seventy miles from his current location. Sterling could certainly reach Las Cruces by midnight, but that would put him in the city that he knew was currently a war zone between the Killbillies and the White Sands Militia, and Sterling was unsure of what the night hours looked like there. It would be best for him to find a place to squat along the highway, maybe the rooftop of an old convenience store, or an abandoned rest stop. Something like that.

  The sun was almost over the ridge line now, the glowing beacon sinking fast. “Come on,” Sterling told Manchester, and his skeletal steed picked up speed. The ground seemed thirsty, Manchester’s hooves kicking up plenty of dust. But there were signs of life in the desert, little shrubs with yellow flowers blooming everywhere, a variety of cacti as well, which Manchester was able to easily ride through considering he no longer had flesh.

  Manchester had been with Sterling about four years now. He had been there three years ago, when Sterling had tried the unthinkable and had lived to regret it. Manchester was a fine horse, strong and intimidating. In T or C, the locals had grown accustomed to seeing Sterling ride into town on his skeletal steed. But he knew the rest of the state would be different, and he would have to hide Manchester by sending his pile of bones to his inventory list.

  Sterling hadn’t the faintest regarding the number of necromancers in the world, but it certainly was one of the rarer types of mancer. Raylan claimed there were twelve kinds of mancers in total, but he had only encountered a handful of them, each encounter unique.

  A small herd of gazelle caught his attention, Sterling watching as they took off toward the west, their white tails flipped up. He was getting closer and closer to the start of a mountain range, which was going to make it harder to follow the interstate. Having been in this position plenty of times before, Sterling decided to stick to the highway rather than attempt to climb the side of the mountain. He guided Manchester closer to the interstate, where he saw an overturned eighteen-wheeler, a warning spray-painted on its side telling people to repent.

  Sterling rode on.

  He wasn’t opposed to sleeping out in the open, but it could get cold at night in the desert. It would be much more comfortable if he could find some shelter. He figured he would find something around the small village of Hatch, and he could always call on a friend named Judge to put them up for the night. But he had to be careful approaching the place at night. It could be covered in Killbillies.

  Mountains began to rise out of the earth on his left as if they had been summoned by a lazy god. Sterling saw a sign affixed by two of its bolts that read Caballo Reservoir. Since it was off the highway, Sterling guided Manchester toward the reservoir. Movement to his left caught his attention, and Sterling placed his hand on his revolver until he saw a coyote run off.

  He wasn’t a superstitious man, but Don Gasper had warned him about coyotes enough times for Sterling to wonder if the coyote could have been a witch. There was also the rumor that Ava, his former neighbor, was a witch who could turn into a coyote. This wasn’t logical, but nothing about what had happened since the Reset was logical, none of it.

  One day everything was hunky-dory, the next day most of the world’s population was gone, their heads exploded, and Sterling could animate the dead. There were floating Godwalkers in the sky destroying any and everything having to do with electricity, and the people left standing were either given a unique mancer class, or had enhanced speed, strength, unique skills, and the ability to heal. That, and everyone had their memories wiped.

  That was the part that Sterling hated the most.

  He had grown used to living in a Southwestern dystopian wasteland, but the fact that he couldn’t remember who he was, or why he had been in Las Cruces to begin with when the Reset happened, irked him to no end. Had Sterling had a family? Who had he been in his former life? The only thing on his person once he woke up after the Reset was the pill bottle full of pepper seeds. No wallet, no way for him to identify him
self.

  There was no telling who he used to be.

  Sterling watched what was left of the setting sun ripple pink and blue arcs across the murky reservoir. He finished his cigarette and rolled another, smoking the second one slowly, enjoying it, the brim of his hat low over his eyes. He felt the urge to write a desert haiku. He knew he didn’t have much natural light left, so he decided to write one that was part of a series of haiku on New Mexico he had been working on, ones that shared the same finishing line.

  Sterling took a look around, let his environment come over him, his cigarette still hanging out of the side of his mouth as he jotted down his thoughts.

  Hazy purple mountains

  What kind of cactus is this?

  Nuevo México

  He read it again, checked that the syllables were right and, once he was satisfied, continued on his way. Rather than try to ride along the interstate, he took Highway 187, which passed by an abandoned town known as Oasis, the place mostly quiet aside from a bar in front of an old RV Park. It was too dark for Sterling to completely read the signs in front of the RV Park warning off trespassers, but he had been to these kinds of places before, and knew that they could be well guarded.

  Definitely not looking for trouble, Sterling thought as he pressed on, aware that Highway 187 would eventually connect back with I-25. Sterling could see the highway marker ahead, the moon reflecting off what was left of its numbers and letters.

  He had to hand it to the people that had thrived before the Reset. They were organized, and the things they had left behind were monstrously helpful. The people after the Reset were different. They were territorial, often animalistic, and aside from some of the pueblos and a few enclaves he’d heard about up in the high desert around Taos, the people weren’t able to put together the same government structures that existed before, their world defined by constant chaos.