Sterling groaned. His hands and his arms throbbed with pain; he could feel the strain of the torn muscle all the way past the shoulder and into his chest. Even worse, his revolver was gone, as was his sickle-sword. The two pieces were crafted for him by the flectomancer named Raylan Mossberg, one-of-a-kind works of art, something worth fighting his way through the Killbilly supply camp to find. Whatever happened, he was going to need to recover his gear.
“I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself to you,” the man said. “I’m Robert Bones, one of the three living founders of the Killbillies. People call me Commodore Bones around here. You should do the same.”
“I don’t give a damn who you are, puto, you’d better get my ass down from here,” Sterling spat, “or I’ll kill every goddamn bandit in this camp and then some.”
“Heh. They also said you had a temper,” Commodore Bones told him as he licked his lips. There were two Killbillies with him, both men wearing nicer gear. Sterling got the notion that these ones weren’t like the bandits that they had out in Truth or Consequences. “Truth be told, I should just leave you out here to die, Mr. Monedero.”
Sterling blinked a few times. “How did you know my last name?”
“Vultures will stop by soon,” the Commodore continued, “and after they pick you apart, maybe some coyotes will come up and get themselves a piece, bite off a toe or three. Hell, even the snakes will eat at you, lizards too. But I got a proposition for you, something you may find a little better than hanging here ‘til you die.”
Even though he didn’t have much spit left, Sterling spat again, this time trying to hit Commodore Bones, who stepped back to avoid his saliva.
“You missed. Like I was saying, there are plenty of tough sons of bitches here in the desert, and I can recruit any and all of them whenever I’d like. What I don’t have is a mancer, specifically one that deals in the necrotic arts, if you get my drift. Not to say that we Killbillies don’t have some mancers in our employ—a handful of pyromancers, some solimancers, gaiamancers, a hydromancer and a cryomancer—and anyone smarter than a cow patty has a flectomancer working for them. But no necromancers. The way I see it, Mr. Monedero, there are a lot of dead bodies between here and White Sands, where the White Sands Militia is holed up. And if you are on our side, we have ourselves a few fresh recruits in the form of dead bodies to overrun Las Cruces. Once we take our city back, we head to White Sands. You help us push that militia back to the east, to the godforsaken Texas border, where those dumbfucks belong, you become a hero. Who doesn’t like a hero?”
“Ain’t interested,” Sterling said with a snort. “Fuck you, fuck the White Sands Militia, fuck heroes, and for that matter, fuck the Texas border. I don’t give a shit about your delusions of grandeur, spare me your mission statement if you have one. I’ve already done heard enough.”
“You sure got a mouth on you, don’t you?” Commodore Bones asked as he clicked his tongue. “I figured you’d say as much, that you would have some swagger. Before I leave you out here to bake in the sun, and freeze your ass off in the cold night, I want you to think about what you really want out of this life.”
“I definitely don’t want this,” Sterling said, nodding his chin toward the supply camp. “But I ain’t nobody’s bitch.”
“That’s what most men say until you name their price. But before you start acting ornery, perhaps I should tell you how I see things.”
“Like I said, I ain’t interested. Tell someone else.”
Commodore Bones shrugged. “You may get interested when you start feeling thirsty or hungry. And sure, you can try to equip something right from your inventory list, but it’ll just fall onto the ground, adding insult to injury. I guess if you got enough items stored away, you could keep dropping things and maybe form a stack to reach your hand, but my guards here will see to it that you never get that far. Let me ask you: where were you when the Reset happened?”
“It don’t matter.”
“Did you happen to be in Las Cruces? Because I got this itching feeling you were, and I may have something that interests you, another incentive to join our cause. But I’ll get to that in a moment.” Commodore Bones shook his head. “It’s always the question people ask, right? Where were you before it happened? Everybody was something before the Reset, myself included. Before the Reset, I kept a journal, not one on the Internet either, a real one, on paper. I kept a journal for years and years. And can you believe this? After the Reset, I was able to figure out exactly who I was, who I had been.” He paused to take a look around. “Sometimes I wonder how many people did that, how many of the before people kept track of who they were. You ever wonder how many people did that?”
“You can stick that journal up your ass and twist it. We ain’t friends, I don’t care about your past, and the only thing I see in your future is imminent death if you don’t let me down from here.”
“You’re right, not many people were keeping real journals before the Reset,” Commodore Bones said, ignoring Sterling’s remark. “As I was saying, I found out some things about myself in those journals, who I was, and what that world before was all about. It was quite fascinating, enlightening even. One of the things I found out were my own thoughts on the power of controlling my own life, my destiny. Now, I’ll admit, there’s probably a self-help book out there about controlling one’s destiny. Heh, you may have one in your inventory list that you’d like to throw at me, but these were my words, from my perspective, and that became important to what I later accomplished.” Commodore Bones swept his arm behind him at the supply camp. “Del Caydito and Nina Otero? They got it, and together, look what the three of us have created. Magnificent, isn’t it?”
“A group of tatted up assholes that roll around intimidating people, kidnapping women, and collecting bullshit taxes? Something to be real proud of, ‘Beto. Real magnificent.”
“Commodore Bones. You will call me Commodore Bones. I may speak Spanish, but I don’t go by my first name, or any abbreviation of it. Now, as I was saying, there are some other groups in what remains of the great state of New Mexico that we Killbillies will eventually topple—most notably some of the gangs out in Albuquerque, the Barelas Glyphs and the Alta Monte Homecidos just to name a few—but we need to take care of the White Sands Militia first. We do that, and we control the southern part of the state. We’ve started to push toward Silver City and into Arizona, even if the damn pueblo Indians there fight real dirty against invaders, justifiably so if you ever opened a history book.”
“I have, and Christ, I can’t believe I have to say this again, but I don’t give two shits about your little power fantasy. Let me down from here, ‘Beto, or I swear to whatever God is left you are going to regret stringing me up.”
“Commodore Bones, and as I was saying, we first retake Las Cruces, then we destroy the White Sands Militia. Once we’ve done that, we start heading north, expanding. All we need to do between here and Albuquerque is deal with the Culto Demente Sagrado, and if we push west of White Sands, we’ll have to either make a treaty, or make an enemy of the Texas Rangers. But all in due time. We’ll bring order to this place, just like it used to have before those Godwalkers showed up.”
“You are either deaf, dumb, or some combination of both,” Sterling hissed. “I ain’t interested. To hell with you and anything you’re planning to do.”
“You keep saying that, but from where I stand, looking up at a man who has been crucified in the desert, I’ve got all the time in the world, and you don’t. Maybe in that time you will figure out that what I’m offering you is life after death.” Commodore Bones placed his hand on his vest pocket. “Let’s put it like this: you either live to eat another pepper—heard you were a fan—or you die here on the stake like just about the worst form of a Savior the Southwest could shit out. The world is a cruel place, Mr. Monedero, similar to how it was before the Reset, only worse. It is a world overrun by a panicked people that has lost ninety percent of its population; those who hav
e ascended and gained incredible powers, the Adapted like yourself; Godwalkers still exist, as you very well may know, and destroy things whenever they see fit; plus there are the amalgamations out there like the one you killed earlier. Good job, by the way, hope you enjoy that XP.”
“How the hell do you know so much about me?” Sterling asked, starting to feel bewildered.
“You mean the surly cowboy necromancer who has a pepper farm outside of Truth or Consequences? Seems pretty notable, don’t you think? Rides into town on a bone horse, occasionally raises hell. Speaking of which, where is your horse?”
“It’s a pile of bones back near the amalgamation that I killed. Whichever one of your goons sucker punched me from behind probably heard it fall,” Sterling lied.
“You sure it isn’t in your inventory list?”
“Nope.”
“I can’t say I have ridden a bone horse before. How’s that feel after a few hours?”
“Depends on the saddle and how fat you are,” Sterling told him. “Are we done yet? I’d rather die in peace than hear your bullshit any longer. You can spare me the ‘why this world needs law and order’ story. I’ve heard it before, and I ain’t interested, and even if I were, you ain’t the one to bring order to this disorder. This is a chaos you aren’t going to be able to tame with your band of broke ass bandits. If it wasn’t for your boys, and hell, if I’m being honest, a Godwalker, I’d be minding my own goddamn business and harvesting my crop right about now. I was just waiting for them to turn red when everyone showed up at once… What I’m trying to say here is this: everything I do after this is on you. Remember I said that. It’s on the Godwalkers too—don’t think I forgot about them—but it’s on you as well.”
“Who’s the one telling the story now?” Commodore Bones asked as he peered up at Sterling. The older man cleared his throat and started to turn away, still holding Sterling’s cowboy hat in his hand. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then, Mr. Monedero. You might not believe it, but I’ve broken plenty of men on that same crucifix. Regular folks and the Adapted alike. It’s a little bit harder with certain types of mancers, but eventually people either see it my way, or they don’t. And when they don’t see it my way, I’m usually the last person they see.”
“So you’re going to kill me yourself? Because if that’s the case, how about you just do it now and spare us both the drama.”
“They said you were a churlish bastard, and they weren’t wrong. Remember my question earlier about your origins? About Las Cruces?” Commodore Bones turned back to Sterling. He reached into his vest pocket and retrieved an old leather wallet. “Look familiar?”
“If it ain’t made of turquoise or silver, it ain’t worth nothing.”
“I agree, but there wasn’t much money here to begin with.” He slowly turned the wallet over in his hand. “This wallet belonged to you.”
“Bullshit.”
The Commodore placed Sterling’s cowboy hat on his head and opened the wallet and looked at the identification. “Ahem, Sterling Monedero. It says so right here. It even looks like you, a bit pudgier and with short hair, but I’m certain it’s you.” He lifted the wallet to check the picture on the ID against Sterling’s face. “Certain of it.”
“Where did you get that?” Sterling asked, taking the bait.
“Las Cruces. I did some poking around—you will find I am a man that likes to dig deeper into the details—and it turns out that you left your wallet at a bar the night of the Reset. Stumbled out of there like a madman and somehow forgot all about it. Well, here it is.” Commodore Bones folded the wallet and placed it back in his vest pocket. “There is a folded picture in there you’ll probably want to see for yourself, one that may connect some dots for you. Agree to work with me, you get your wallet back with your information inside. You’ll also get your cowboy hat back, which I’m sure you would like right about now,” he said, tilting his head up to the sun. “After we take an army of the undead to Las Cruces, and then to White Sands to deal with the militia, you’ll be free to pursue the contents of this wallet, to find your family. Think about it.”
Family? Sterling thought, alternating between glaring at the man and looking at him incredulously.
“Up to you.” Commodore Bones offered him a two-finger salute. With that, the man slowly shambled away, quickly joined by his bodyguards.
It was a long time to be out in the sun. Sterling struggled through the first hour, hoping that he would be able to undo the bindings around his legs. Yet another problem slowly started taking shape. His healing factor, which was tied to his Resolve, kept starting up, the wounds in his palms healing only to be opened again and again. The iron stakes pinning him to the crucifix were long and thick, and they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. He had hoped that his healing factor would reject them; it never turned out that way.
Calling upon his Death Sense ability, he also tried summoning the dead around him, but the Killbillies had been smart enough to crucify him in an area that didn’t have any bodies buried in the vicinity. Without his hat, the sun blinded him and constantly beat down on his face, his black clothes only making the heat he was experiencing that much worse.
“Y’all trying to cook me out here?” he asked one of the guards who stood with his back to Sterling. “Because if that’s the case, now would be the time to add whatever marinade you plan on using.” Neither of Killbillies standing guard paid any attention to him, Sterling cursing them under his breath.
“Y’all want to see a magic trick?” he asked an hour later. He’d been going over this phrase again and again, the sun making him feel unhinged. One of the men guarding him finally turned to Sterling, but as he approached the crucifix, the Killbilly began unzipping the front of his camouflage pants.
“You put your pecker up,” Sterling warned him.
The man did no such thing. He took a piss at the bottom of Sterling’s crucifix, the air filling with the sour stench of urine.
“You’ll be the first one I kill when I get down from here,” he growled as the man stepped away. “The first one.”
The day grew hotter, the supply camp blurring like a mirage. The men guarding him switched out at some point, and the ones that took their place ignored his comments just like the first pair had. As Sterling hung there, his body began to droop forward, pain once again surging through his arms. His muscles pulsed, and every now and then he would let off a string of furious curses in English and Spanish, anger blooming in his chest.
Another hour and Sterling found that he was full on talking to himself inside his head, his eyes closed now as the sun continued to bear down on him.
You’ve got to figure a way out of this, amigo. You could just join up, and once you get your gear back, fight your way outta here. Yeah, that could work. Why didn’t you think of that in the first place? All you had to say was yes. Commodore Bones would have had you taken down from the crucifix, you’d be healed up in no time, and then you could summon an army of the dead indeed… Kill every goddamn Killbilly in the supply camp… Get that picture from Commodore Bones, your wallet. Kill every one of them…
Sterling didn’t know if the man really possessed his wallet; it could have been just another lie designed to convince him to join up. Commodore Bones hadn’t actually shown Sterling the picture of himself, so he couldn’t verify that it was indeed him.
He’s lying to you, amigo. You’ve got to figure a way down from here. I already told you, next time he comes around, say you’re going to join up. Hell, tell the two dumbasses standing guard that you’re ready to throw in the towel. Get your gear back, summon the dead… there’s got to be some dead around here, fight your way out of here, and burn this place to the ground. They’re going to leave you to die if you don’t. Don’t you want to learn more about your family? What if the son of a bitch really does have your wallet? You gave up on trying to find out about your previous life, remember? Now’s your chance; now you can take that identification and figure out who you used
to be.
“Yeah,” Sterling said, agreeing with himself. His throat was parched, his lips beyond chapped. His dark clothing, which was once wet with his own sweat, had since dried. His bones screamed with pain. “I’m… I’m ready to talk,” he told the two men standing in front of him. “You boys hear me?” he asked, his voice feeling as if he were raking it over coals. “I’m ready.”
“What’s that?” one of the men asked without turning to him.
“You heard me. I’m ready to talk. Go… go get your boss.”
“Commodore Bones will be around when he comes around,” said the other man, with a heavy accent. “Until then, cállete la pinche boca.”
“What’s that, pendejo?”
“Ya te lo dije: cállete la pinche boca, puto.”
“Chinga tu madre, güey…” Sterling shot back.
This didn’t seem to get the rise out of the man that Sterling had hoped it would. As he remained crucified outside the Killbilly supply camp, Sterling couldn’t help but think back to the images he’d seen dozens of times in abandoned and repurposed churches across the state, the Mother Mary and Jesus Christ with superstar status across the Southwest. Sterling knew their names, and he knew a little bit about their lives, but he had never been one to read the Bible, at least not after the Reset. He had no idea how religious he had been before, but he was damn certain the Bible didn’t say anything about floating black monoliths appearing in the sky and destroying cities across the world, killing ninety percent of the population by exploding their heads, taking humanity off electricity, scattering everyone, creating desert monsters, and giving people superpowers.
Cowboy Necromancer: Infinite Dusk Page 8
