Judge laughed. “I’m a romantic.”
“I swear to hell, Judge, if you don’t take your sorry ass back to Hatch when we are through here and make good on Luna and the child you named after me, I’ll kill you my damn self. Don’t think I won’t do it. That kid deserves his daddy.”
“Now—”
“—All’s I’m saying is that I wouldn’t mind adding your body to my kill count by the end of the night, if you get my drift. Because it’s going to be a bloodbath. Them Killbillies got me riled up, and I ain’t a fan of absentee fathers. Plus, I know you well enough to know that as soon as you get that money the bandits have promised you, you’ll blow it on something.”
“First of all, we can talk about your confidence in me and my skills at handling money later. More importantly, have you lost your damn mind?” Judge asked. “There are hundreds of Killbillies over yonder. Close to five hundred last I heard. How are you going to kill all of them with a couple of zombies?”
Sterling equipped his paper and his bag of tobacco. He began rolling up a cigarette as he spoke again. “You’re right. I’m just pissed. Truth be told, I ain’t much interested in any of them fools, except for Commodore Bones, ‘Beto as I like to call him. He’s got something I want.”
Even though the Commodore may have been lying, if he actually had evidence of Sterling’s past life, Sterling wanted it. That was one of the things that bothered him to no end over the last five years. He had no idea who he was before the Reset, no earthly idea. But a lead, something to point him in the right direction, would be monstrously helpful. If Commodore Bones truly had information on Sterling’s past, where would it lead him? All he could tell in that moment was that a decision was coming, and he would need to decide which avenue to pursue once he verified the evidence. And then there was the fact that Roxy was alive and well, and possibly in Las Cruces, which would only complicate things. They had a history.
“Here’s what I want you to do, and I ain’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer,” Sterling said as he lit his cigarette. “I want you to take your sorry ass back to Hatch and look after Luna.”
“I already told you my plan,” Judge mumbled.
“Screw your damn plan. You got turquoise or silver?”
“Not enough.”
“Then take some of mine.” Sterling ashed his cigarette and equipped his satchel full of turquoise and silver. “I can’t give it all to you, because I’m going to need something to trade later on. But I’ll give you what I can.”
“You serious?”
Rather than answer his question, Sterling emptied most of the contents of his bag of silver and turquoise into Judge’s waiting hands, a few of the pieces scattering on the ground, which Judge promptly retrieved. “Now git. And before you do, I got two questions for you,” Sterling said as he focused his gaze on the supply camp. “Where’s the cemetery? And which tent is Commodore Bones staying in? Actually, we can handle those details in a moment. Do you think you can swipe me my sword and my gun? I mean, if it ain’t too hard to get. I’m definitely going to need them two.”
“Your weapons?”
“That’s right. I’m hoping they haven’t paid much attention to them, especially because the gun won’t fire for shit without my hand on the trigger, and people generally disregard my sword, considering its shape.”
Judge ran his hand through his beard. “As far as I know, they just give stuff like that to the flectomancer, who will toss it into the pile of things she’ll modify later. Yeah, I think I can get that, no one will be the wiser. I know what they look like.”
“Good, I appreciate it.”
“You wait right here, smoke yourself another cigarette, maybe drink a little more water, recover. I’ll get your stuff, but it may take me a minute. Just hold tight.”
“Will do,” Sterling said as he extended his arm to Judge so they could shake hands. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why did you name your kid after me anyway?”
Judge smirked. “Because you are the toughest bastard I know, and I was hoping that the kid will turn out to be a mancer like you. We shall see.”
“Yep, we shall see.”
Sterling was glad to have put some of his Technique Points into Stealth. His new Sneak Proficiency technique, and his Assassination and Cover of Night techniques, were going to aid him and what he planned to do. He still wasn’t at full Mana, but he had eighty-eight points, and he could always take power from Manchester if he needed to. His plan now was to do anything and everything he could to avoid having to do something like that. Sterling wasn’t stupid. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t going to try to take on the entire supply camp, his mind set on just one thing: the wallet in Commodore Bones’ possession.
Anyone that got in the way between Sterling and his goal would be collateral damage.
He ate, drank, and smoked another cigarette in the time it took Judge to head back to the camp, get a horse, and miraculously retrieve Sterling’s weapons. He rolled up a cigarette for Judge upon his return, the two men smoking as Judge explained the layout of the camp.
Once he was done, Sterling spoke. “I’ll stop by Hatch at some point. You’d better have your shit together by then. I gave you almost everything I have there in silver and turquoise. Do your family right.”
“I’ll do my best,” Judge said.
“No, you’ll do better than that,” Sterling said, and both men laughed. “Now keep on the lookout for amalgamations. Stick to the highway. Get as far away from here as you can, just in case they send out search parties for me.”
“You got it.”
Once he saw his buddy turn north toward Hatch, Sterling whistled. He whistled again, and it took a couple of minutes, but eventually Manchester appeared, the moon reflecting off his bony exterior. “Glad to see you,” he told his skeletal steed as the horse galloped up to him.
There was a time not so long ago when Sterling would have just barged right into the camp and figured it out from there. But he felt differently now, more cautious. He needed a strategy. According to Judge, the gravesite was on the northern side of the camp, which meant it wasn’t very far from where he currently stood. That would be one distraction that would aid him.
Predictably, Commodore Bones’ tent was in the middle of the supply camp, which would be the hard part. Once Sterling had his wallet, he’d simply get out of there as quickly as possible, hop on his horse and ride off into the night toward Las Cruces. He also knew the alarm would be sounded if someone discovered the dead Killbilly near his crucifix, who Sterling probably should have animated when he had the chance. Too late now, he thought. The stables Judge had mentioned could be an avenue as well, a way to cause yet another distraction. Maybe two distractions: his animates, and some horses let out of their pens, whipped up into a frenzy. A plan was hatched. It was time to put his new techniques to the test.
Keeping to the shadows, Sterling noticed now that there was a pattern to the darkness as he approached where they were burying bodies. “Yup,” he said as he began summoning the dead. The ones in the fresh graves were the easiest targets, the gravel still loose. He heard the sound of the gravel falling away, the dead coming alive. He was in luck. The graves were shallow enough that it wouldn’t be hard for them to get out. It wasn’t long before Sterling had ten animates, and plenty of Mana for him to shoot a few magic bullets. He needed to be careful though. He definitely didn’t want to find himself without ammo.
Once he was psyched up and ready to go, Sterling approached the supply camp, his animates behind him. A Killbilly stepped away from one of the tents, looking like he was about to take a piss. Sterling watched him from the dark, and motioned for his animates not to move forward. He knew from the Sword and Marksmanship techniques he had picked up from the Buy Store that once he spent the point, it was as if he understood the technique all along. Even though there wasn’t much practice involved or needed, he still wanted to make sure he had it down. It was time to try out his new Assassination techniq
ue.
The bandit hummed some old country song as he finished up, peppering his tinkle with an occasional belch. He didn’t see Sterling creep around him, the cowboy necromancer now crouched in the shadow provided by one of the tents. The man was just about to turn when Sterling struck. He slipped his hand around the man’s mouth and pulled his neck back, cleaving his sickle-sword across his throat, the Killbilly gasping, throat hissing as hot blood sprayed into the air. Sterling brought him down and kept his hand over the man’s mouth, waiting for him to die.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw his animates all standing there.
“Not yet,” he whispered to them.
He didn’t know what had happened to the poor souls, and he was glad it was dark enough that he didn’t have to see their faces. It was clear that some of the zombies had once been tortured by the Killbillies, and others were simply Killbillies who had died, the bandit group not separating friend from foe when it came to burying their dead.
Sterling dragged the dead man away and thought again about letting the horses out. He wished that he was able to instruct one of his animates to do the task so he could make his way to the center of the camp, but they weren’t smart enough for something like that.
He got the notion to climb the tops of the large canvas tents, but after examining it, he worried it wouldn’t support his weight, even if it gave him a vantage point. He felt like his mind was truly searching for all avenues of attack, something he hadn’t quite experienced before. This only made him wish he had more Technique Points to utilize at his disposal. What would higher levels of Stealth bring him?
Sterling crept toward the stables, which were on the eastern side of the supply camp. He paused at one point, spotting another Killbilly on patrol. Close enough to the man to smell his rank body odor, Sterling held his breath as he passed. He tilted his head down, relying on his black clothing and his dark cowboy hat to disguise him. Once the man started to turn back, Sterling surged forward and brought him to the ground. His sickle-sword went straight to the man’s stomach. He pulled up, placing a hand over the Killbilly’s mouth as he gutted him. Sterling dragged him away from the camp, a trail of blood and entrails in his wake.
He continued on.
The stables were guarded by several men and women, all with firearms. They had their ATVs parked in this area of the camp and a fueling station, likely another reason for the increased presence of armed bandits. Sterling had to be extra careful over here. If he spooked one of the horses, they would give him away, and the lights were even brighter here, providing less shadow for him to hide in. Crouching again, he listened in on the conversation that two of the Killbillies were having, one male, the other female.
“You see the man they crucified on the other side of the camp?” the woman asked in a twangy country accent.
“Heard he’s a mancer.”
“Ain’t seen proof of it yet.”
“Pfft. The man in black thinks he’s some kind of badass, and Commodore Bones seems to agree.”
“What do you think, Gary?” the female Killbilly asked.
“I think we need to stop looking for mancers; we have plenty in our ranks. Besides, we can’t trust the Adapted, if you ask me. They ain’t going to be loyal for long.”
“And Las Cruces?”
“The sooner we rush in there and kill us some militia members, the better. We won the last two fights, you know.”
“Not that one, though,” said the female Killbilly.
“That was a draw, sure, I’ll give you that, Dawn. Right now is the time to strike. I don’t know why Bones, I mean Commodore Bones, ain’t moving in right now. Man seems to be out of touch.”
Sterling waited for their conversation to finish, which ended abruptly when the woman began talking about her boyfriend in Silver City, the man clearly not interested in that particular conversation.
Once he felt that he was in the clear, Sterling slowly crept around their makeshift stable, which was nothing more than a hastily erected pen holding about thirty horses, at least from what he was able to count in the darkness. The gate was held tight by a rope, which Sterling slowly unfastened, the cowboy necromancer just about thirty feet away from the two guards. He finally got the gate opened and crept off to the side.
Now it was time to spook the horses.
The easiest way would have been to fire a shot to the air, but that would draw attention to him, which meant he’d need to manually stir them up. Once he reached the back of the makeshift stable, he located one of the horses standing near the fence. Sterling approached and the horse snorted, immediately noticing him. “I’m going to call you Jumpy,” Sterling whispered as he drew closer to the creature.
Sterling threw his arms out and made as if he were going to jump at the horse, which caused it to rear up onto its hindlegs, spooking some of the others. Moving quickly now, he ran to the other side of the pen and did so again, scaring some of the horses there. When he heard the Killbillies cursing, he knew he had succeeded. The horses were out. They were a wild bunch too. Sterling was just coming around to the far right of the stables when he saw that the horses had already taken down one of the tents, the Killbillies frantically trying to stop a mini stampede.
Got to go, Sterling thought as he once again kept to the shadows, moving toward the center of the camp. He came close to being spotted once as a pair of bandits raced past him, the commotion caused by the horses slowly starting to awaken the Killbillies. But they were too distracted by what was happening to see the man hidden in the shadows.
His revolver out now, Sterling carefully made his way toward the center, hoping that Commodore Bones’ tent was clearly marked. He came to a pole with a speaker on top that had been slathered in red paint, an alarm system of sorts. If he’d had more time, Sterling would have found the generators and disconnected some of them, but this was going to be an in and out mission.
He just wanted the wallet.
Here we go, Sterling thought as he came to the largest tent he’d seen so far. It looked like they had stitched several tents together to craft it, high ceilings too, practically something that belonged in a circus. There were guards out front, which were going to create an issue, unless…
He confirmed that there was a generator powering the lights around Commodore Bones’ tent, another unit next to it, Sterling surprised to see a portable air conditioning system. Really living like a king here, ain’t you, ‘Beto? he thought as he crept over to the generator.
While the tent had been staked to the ground in an almost seamless way, there was a large plastic tube necessary to cycle air, the tube entering the tent through a slit. “Yup,” Sterling whispered once he found that he’d be able to creep into the tent through the slit by crawling on his belly.
He did just that, prepared for anything on the other side.
As soon as he made it in, he drew his weapon again, glad to see that he still had cover within the tent. Commodore Bones was a collector of sorts, and the space was large enough for him to have furniture and wall partitions. Everything had an Asian feel to it, the space lit by a bit of light coming in from outside, watchfires adding a splash of orange. The antiquities either belonged to Commodore Bones before the Reset, or they had raided a rich man’s home who had an Asian fetish. Either way, they provided some cover.
Crouching now behind a chest, Sterling held his breath until he could confirm that the Commodore was sleeping. He crept over to his bedside and finally stood, his shadow extending over the man.
“Nice and quiet,” he said. “Morning, ‘Beto.”
The man came awake to find the muzzle of a revolver aimed at his face. Sterling lifted a finger to his lips.
“You going to be quiet? Because if you ain’t, I’ll put a bullet right between your eyes, one you won’t be able to recover from. Imagine that, everything you worked so hard to build over the last five years gone to shit because you pissed off the wrong hombre. Sort of poetic, if you ask me. In case you were wondering, I
already killed your men outside,” Sterling lied, “and the rest of the camp is dealing with some other disturbances. You going to keep quiet for me?”
“Yes,” Commodore Bones finally said with a deep breath out. “How did you get down?”
“Ain’t none of your concern, ‘Beto. Where’s my wallet?”
Commodore Bones glanced at the dresser near his bed.
“Get it. Nice and slow. I’ll be honest with you: it’s taking every ounce of willpower I can muster not to shoot you for crucifying me out there, believe you me, but you may be more useful to me alive. What do you say to that? Get the wallet first, then we’ll talk. One word, and I’ll paint your pillow with your brains.”
The man slowly reached toward his dresser.
“And if there’s a weapon in there, I’ll shoot you in the pecker just for the hell of it. Nice and slow, ‘Beto.”
“No weapon, not in the dresser. On top of the dresser, under the silk,” Commodore Bones said, his voice firm. Sterling was actually surprised at how calm he was; it was clear that the man had been held at gunpoint before.
“Let’s just move that out of the way.” Sterling touched the handgun with its custom silver grip, the firearm under a silk cloth with dragons and clouds stitched across, just like Commodore Bones had said. He quickly sent the weapon to his inventory list.
“That’s mine.”
“Yours?” Sterling almost laughed. “Shut your goddamn mouth and give me my wallet. Ain’t nothing in this world yours, even if it is bolted down. Remember that.”
Commodore Bones slowly opened the drawer and got the wallet out. Sterling sent this to his inventory list as well. He could check it out later.
“Good, now I’m going to need your help, ‘Beto. Consider it a gift from you to me for sparing your useless life. It’s real simple, too. I don’t want your Killbillies fucking with me anymore. I ain’t ever going to join your side, and just so we’re clear, I don’t care about your wars, your politics, the little journal you kept before the Reset, your shitty little life for that matter, or your bullshit plans of expansion. A word to the wise: You ain’t going to unite nobody by terrorizing folks, so until you fix that little part of your operation—which ain’t going to be anytime soon considering the idiots and inbreds you continue to employ—you might as well put a damper on your hopes and dreams there, ‘Beto.”
Cowboy Necromancer: Infinite Dusk Page 10
