“Call me Commodore Bones,” the man said, gritting his teeth.
“Heh, listen to you. Thinking you’re some kind of tough guy, like you have power, when all it would take is very little effort on my part to make sure you never live to shit another day. Maybe if I keep telling you this, you’ll hear me: you are one lucky son of a bitch, ‘Beto, but you are only going to be lucky if you do exactly as I tell you. You said you were at the top of your little desert mafia, right? You and two other dimwits. Then make good what I’m telling you here. Otherwise, I’ll come back for you, and when I come back, it won’t be pretty. I’ll keep you staked up for days like you failed to do to me, zombies slowly eating at your flesh; I’ll string you up and drag you off into the desert, leave you nice and ripe for an amalgamation after I’ve cut off your legs. You don’t want to die in the numerous ways that I could kill you, ‘Beto. Nobody in their right mind does. Do you understand me? Nod if you understand what I’m telling you here.”
Commodore Bones nodded, the hint of fear in his eyes shifting to glee once an alarm sounded, multiple alarms triggering across the supply camp.
“You’re the one who’s dead now,” Commodore Bones said. He kicked at Sterling, causing the cowboy necromancer to fire a shot to the far side of his tent. “Guards!”
Flames rushed into the front of the tent, Sterling immediately firing his revolver at the fire. It was instinctual, and after two shots, he quickly realized his weapon wasn’t going to be able to do anything, especially once he came to understand that the flames were coming from a pyromancer. Getting a grip on the situation, Sterling went for his sickle-sword and cut into the canvas near Commodore Bones’ bed.
He had a notion to draw his revolver again and shoot the man, and perhaps he should have, but another burst of flame came searing in his direction. Sterling had to move. Once outside, smoke already billowing out of the canvas, he looked to the front of the tent to see a pyromancer floating into the air. The woman’s entire body was cast in brilliant red, orange, and blue hues, everything shining bright around her. A fireball struck him in the back just as he started to run. Sterling dropped and rolled. In his panic to put out the fire, a Killbilly guard jumped toward him. The brute landed on top of Sterling, and he struggled with the man until he could bring his hooked sword around into the bandit’s side, a nasty wound to follow.
The fireball that had hit him was out now, but it had singed some of Sterling’s hair, which he could smell as he ran toward the outer perimeter of the camp. There was too much commotion here for him to whistle for Manchester at this point, and Sterling figured it was high time to add a little terror to the equation.
He couldn’t see them or hear them, but he knew his animates were coming.
They would attack from the north side, and he would let them cause commotion while he got away. But he would still need to get to the outer rim of the supply camp while being pursued by a relentless pyromancer. Another fireball nearly hit him, Sterling jumping to the side just in time, the flame igniting a wooden crate of supplies. He sheathed his blade and went for his revolver. Sterling turned and began firing at the glowing red woman racing toward him. But she was fast, and his shots missed, the pyromancer reaching Sterling in a matter of seconds.
“I ain’t here to fight you,” he said as he aimed his revolver at her, flames licking off her skull, her eyes nonexistent, the smell of fuel overpowering around her. He could feel her heat, sweat already on his brow. It was never fun to encounter a mancer looking for a fight, but a pyromancer was something else entirely.
“Lower your weapon and come with me,” she said, small plumes of fire escaping from the corners of her mouth as she spoke.
“Like hell.” Sterling squeezed the trigger, his magic bullet going right through her chest. He thought this would be the end of it, but it was as if he had shot a literal flame. His bullet simply passed through to the other side.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” The pyromancer threw her arms out and a blistering ball of fire leveled everything within a ten-foot radius around her, including Sterling, the flames charring his hands, his sleeves catching fire. He lost his revolver, his flesh screaming as fire blazed all around him, as he tried to beat the flames out. Sterling found himself on the ground once again, everything coming to him at once, his skin tight, the smell of burning flesh violating his nostrils. He saw his revolver and slowly began to reach out for it. He still wasn’t able to properly use his hands. They had been burnt too badly by this point, Sterling only able to scoop the revolver in his direction and tuck it under his arm.
Using the smoke as his cover, Sterling started to crawl away. He glanced back to find the pyromancer was down on one knee, charging up again, her eyes focused on him. The mushroom cloud fireball she’d let loose just moments ago was some sort of special attack, some technique she had developed, and Sterling knew, without a shadow of a doubt, if she struck him, he’d be barbecue, or at the very least, toast.
Something caught his eye; Sterling had never been so happy to see a corpse in his life. There happened to be a cart of fresh animal carcasses near them that had been recently slaughtered. Sterling’s eyes fell on a couple pigs. He couldn’t help but smirk. “Y’all are about to be bacon.”
Two of the dead pigs came to life with a twitch of Sterling’s finger. They toppled the cart and took off toward the pyromancer, their squeals startling her. They were easily a pair of fifty-pounders, large enough to take down the woman.
His Resolve already kicking into high gear, Sterling ignored the pain in his hands as he holstered his firearm. He had been burned badly before by a pyromancer; it would heal, and it was better than being staked up to a crucifix. What mattered now was getting the hell out of the Killbilly supply camp. He started whistling like a madman, Sterling just about twenty feet or so away from the edge of the camp.
He cleaved through a pair of Killbillies coming in his direction, Sterling now in a mad dash to get away from the calamity, especially now that his animates had entered the equation, screams and gunfire peppering the air. It took both hands to wield his sickle-sword because of how badly they’d been burned, but he had managed, and it wouldn’t be long before they would be ready to go again.
Sterling kept running.
His assailants were close, and as they neared him, his heart started pounding in his chest. Even with all the commotion behind them, and the sound of his own heart roaring in his ears, Sterling heard Manchester galloping in his direction.
“Come on, come on,” he told himself, his voice scratchy now.
“Get him!” one of the Killbillies shouted, just as Manchester neared Sterling. Rather than try to mount up, Sterling simply launched himself at his skeletal steed, bullets flying over his head, one of them grazing against the side of Manchester’s skull. The bone horse took off running, Sterling flung over his body like a burlap sack. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they sent ATVs and a platoon of men after him. But at least he could get a little distance between now and then, and hopefully lose them.
“I’ve never been happier to see you, Pingo,” Sterling told his skeletal steed as they rode toward the east, back to the highway. Eventually, the bone horse slowed, and Sterling was able to mount up properly. He could check himself out later, but from what he could tell, his clothing was still intact, and the skin on his hands had already started to reveal a fresh layer of pink flesh. While the skin still stung to some degree, he didn’t feel as much pain as he thought he would have. It wasn’t like a sunburn, and he wondered if it had something to do with the fire getting to his nerve endings, or something like that.
It didn’t matter. He would be healed up by morning if not sooner, good to go.
His hands were still too raw to properly hold the reins, so Sterling kept his palms on Manchester’s bony neck instead. He needed to find somewhere to camp out, to heal and rest. A flourish of energy came to Sterling once he released his hold on the animates back at the supply camp. He felt a burst of power
, the elation in his chest dampened once he heard the roar of ATVs.
Sterling assumed that they would know he rode toward the highway, so rather than continue along his current trajectory, he began to make a wide V, Manchester aimed back in the direction of the supply camp to the east. Something told him that hiding in plain sight was better than trying to run away, Sterling chalking the thought up to his recent investment in stealth techniques.
There were some trailers on a road jutting off the highway, a small mesa beyond that, and Sterling located what looked to be an abandoned home. The moon lighting his way, he made his way around the trailers and up the mesa, guessing he was about a mile or so away from the Killbilly camp now. Maybe more.
“Anyone in there?” he called out, his eyes tracing over the abandoned home he’d discovered for any movement. “I’m armed. Just looking for a place to crash for the night.”
He waited. No response.
“I’m coming in. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya…”
The home was made out of clay and wood. It was missing its roof, and there was nothing inside aside from shattered pottery, the place severely looted. Sterling got down from Manchester and stepped inside, confirming it was empty of people, varmints too. He used his leg to sweep some of the pottery bits aside. Manchester stepped over a crumpled section of the wall and came into the home after Sterling whispered for him. He lowered his hand, and Manchester collapsed.
Accessing his inventory list, Sterling returned with a wool blanket he’d gotten in northern New Mexico a few years back. He also summoned a bottle of tequila he’d been saving. He was going to need it for tonight, especially if he wanted to stay warm, ignore his wounds, and pass out quickly. Once he was situated and finally able to catch his breath, Sterling found a bit of moonlight and went for the wallet he had taken from the Commodore.
He stopped on the photo ID, squinting at it in the darkness. He would need to get a flashlight or something the next time he passed a trading post. He’d had something like it in his ranch house, but hadn’t had a chance to grab it on his way out.
“Hey,” he said to the picture as he shook his head.
The photo ID was slightly reflective, and Sterling was able to confirm that it really was him. He was about twenty or thirty pounds heavier in the picture, his hair short, a little mustache over his upper lip as well. He noticed that he had those same dark eyes and the same dark hair, although it was definitely shorter. His name was there—Sterling Monedero—just above an address. The piece of plastic was pretty marked up, the license number and his date of birth scratched out. Yet the picture was intact, as was the address in Las Cruces, New Mexico.
“Shee-it,” Sterling said as he set the ID down and went for his bottle of tequila. He took a swig, and then sent it back to his inventory list, the liquor igniting inside his stomach, the skin on his hands still stinging. He returned the ID to its plastic sleeve and then opened the billfold to find a photo of a woman and a child that had been folded, crease lines across the center. He still didn’t recognize either of them, and the photo had been ripped in half, indicating that another person was in the picture. He tried to examine the picture more deeply, but his vision slowly blurred.
Was the Commodore right? Did he have a wife and kid? Sterling stuffed the photo back in the wallet and sent it to his inventory list. It seemed to be the case, but the leader of the Killbillies could have been manipulating him in some way, and it wouldn’t have been hard for him to stuff any old photo in his wallet. He could check the address out in Las Cruces, that would be a start.
“What a damn day.” Sterling removed his hat and sat with his back against the wall, the blanket over his body. He positioned his revolver so it was loosely in his hand and then leaned back, staring up at the stars for a moment. “Let’s get you some sleep,” he told himself with a yawn. “Las Cruces, mañana.”
.Chapter Seven.
A rattling woke Sterling up. His first thought was that there was an amalgamation nearby. He lifted his revolver and fired toward the sound, killing a large rattlesnake that was coiled in the opposite corner of the abandoned home.
“Good morning to you too, motherfucker,” he said as he lowered his firearm.
Sterling focused on his stats for a moment, seeing where he stood when it came to XP. It was clear that he should have at least attempted to kill more bandits back at the supply camp, and taking out the pyromancer would have been to his advantage. But that was easier said than done.
You have received 600 XP!
Name: Sterling Monedero
Race: Human
Mancer Class: Necromancer
Class Ranking: Blood Mage
Level: 59
Fortitude: 117
Strength: 35
Resolve: 152
Mana: 136/138
Current Armor Rating: 28
XP: 296,851
XP to Next Level:5,265
Stat Points Available: 0
Technique Points Available: 0
Figuring it would work well enough to warm him up, he ate one of his peppers, a green Big Jim, which had just the right amount of kick. He ate some of the jerky he had left as well, and drank from one of his jugs of water.
Sterling retrieved the New Mexico travel guide he kept in his inventory list and checked out the map. After tracing his finger along the roads for a moment, he found Radium Springs, and he estimated it was between fifteen and twenty miles to Las Cruces from his current position. As he often did when he looked through the well-worn travel guide, Sterling got lost in some of the text. Counties in the Southwest part of the state included Catron, Socorro, Grant, Sierra, Hidalgo, Luna, and Doña Ana. The highest elevation was the Oregon mountains at 9,000 feet, and Aguila National Forest was over three million acres, but that was further to the west, out past Silver City. There was a little place named Pie Town that got its name from a 1920s era bakery known for dried apple pies prepared at an annual pie festival, where they even crowned a tiara-wearing Pie Queen.
“Hell,” he said with a chuckle, imagining what that pie festival would have been like. “Wouldn’t mind one of them pies right about now.” Reading about the pies made him hungry, and Sterling hoped he would be able to find a trading post along the way to Las Cruces where he could get a proper breakfast. He’d kill for some tamales. After rolling up a cigarette, he kept reading about Pie Town and a restaurant called Pie-O-Neer, which, according to the travel guide, was worth its weight in apples, chili, piñons, and chocolate.
“Fifty-five miles past Magdalena on US 60, huh? Free wi-fi?” Sterling exhaled a cloud of smoke. “There ain’t no more goddamn Internet,” he told the pile of bones that would later become Manchester.
Now that he had proper light, Sterling sent his travel guide back to his inventory and went for his wallet again. The more he stared at the photo of himself, the less he recognized who he had once been. Hell, he thought, if someone had shown me this photo three days back, I probably wouldn’t even have known it was me.
The last five years had hardened Sterling, which was pretty much the same for anyone who had survived the Reset. With ninety percent of the world’s population gone, and a small number of those remaining given mancer skills, life was radically different than it had been before. Cue the cults, militias, bandit groups, and general crazy ass denizens clinging to existence, and add to that wild bunch a slew of amalgamations. Talk about a recipe for extreme survival. And that wasn’t to mention the Godwalkers, whenever they decided to show up, cause havoc, and instill fear.
He then took another look at the torn photo that had been in the billfold. The woman had dark hair with blonde highlights, her eyes large, a paleness to her skin that didn’t match the child, who was darker, closer to Sterling’s complexion, a bit chubby too, a boy. Was this really Sterling’s family? They looked like any picture he’d seen anywhere in the last five years, yet the thought that they could be somehow related conjured numerous questions. Where had they been when the Reset happene
d? Were they dead? Were they really his family?
“Ain’t going to solve this right now,” Sterling mumbled as he sent his wallet back to his inventory list. “Let’s go find Don Gasper.” He brought Manchester back to life, the horse’s bones clinking in place. The skeletal steed immediately turned his head in the direction of the rattlesnake Sterling had killed.
“You ain’t wrong,” Sterling said as he went over to the snake and placed his hand on it, sending it to his inventory list. “Certainly worth trading.”
Once he got Manchester’s custom saddle in place, Sterling hopped on. “Hold up,” he said as he rolled himself another cigarette. He lit it, now realizing that he could have used his lighter to look at his photo last night.
But he couldn’t blame himself. He had been exhausted.
A cigarette perched on the corner of his lip, his black hat casting a brown shadow over his face, Sterling started down the mesa. He was keenly aware of the location of the highway, and stopped occasionally to make sure there weren’t any ATVs, dirt bikes, or horses in the distance. He came to a patch of cactus that had grown up around a bathtub seemingly in the middle of nowhere. “How the hell did this thing get out here?” he asked Manchester, Sterling continuing to puff on his cigarette as he examined the tub.
He continued onward, the highway to his left, the terrain parched and rough, purple mountains in the distance, dark clouds gathering over one of them, the air dry. “You think it’ll rain?” he asked his skeletal steed. Once the horse didn’t respond—mostly because he couldn’t—Sterling nodded. “Nope, I didn’t neither.”
Cowboy Necromancer: Infinite Dusk Page 11
