He woke up the next morning as a cowboy necromancer.
“Just need to find me a place,” Sterling said to Manchester as he began looking around the abandoned village of Tijeras. It was small, and there didn’t seem to be a single soul that lived there. What buildings were left were ramshackle, and aside from the sign he’d seen earlier, there was only one other sign in the town, which pointed toward the Tijeras Pueblo Archaeological Site.
Figuring there would be something there for him to crash in for the night, Sterling headed toward the archaeological site, wondering as he trotted along why they had named the place Tijeras in the first place, which was the Spanish word for ‘scissors.’ From what he could tell by the setting sun, he was in a canyon, something he was able to confirm once he found a solitary building near the archaeological site for him to crash in for the night.
Now seated in a corner of an empty storage shed, the space clear of any environment, Sterling equipped his flashlight and his New Mexico travel guide. Flashlight in his mouth, his cowboy hat resting on the ground next to him, Sterling located the section of the travel guide that detailed central New Mexico. He found Tijeras, and read that it was located in a canyon that separated the Sandia and Manzano Mountains, briefly recalling seeing the mountains in the distance as he veered toward the highway. The village used to exist in a natural corridor that operated as an invisible line separating the Great Plains Indians and the influx of Spanish settlements. He imagined that the place used to be a war zone of sorts, that or a meeting ground, possibly both.
Flipping the page, Sterling read about Route 66, the road he had just traveled along for a bit, but didn’t understand why the guide kept referring to it as historic. The text claimed that the canyon drained to the west into an expansive dry wash known as Tijeras Arroyo, Kirtland Air Force Base not far off, a name that Sterling recognized. The Air Force Base was home to the Kirtland Airmen, who had been trying to clean up Albuquerque for years, to the point they had become just as bad as some of the gangs that fought for turf in what was once New Mexico’s biggest city.
Funny how that works…
A noise outside the storage shed caught his attention and he quickly stood, Sterling sending his flashlight back to his inventory list as he retrieved his revolver. He stepped out to find Manchester near the entrance to the shed, just where he had left him. He was just turning back when he noticed something.
Sitting on a small ridge not far from him was a lone coyote, Sterling experiencing a chill as the hairs on his neck stood to attention. He kept waiting for the coyote to morph into a woman, like he had seen back in Las Cruces, but it never happened. Eventually, the coyote moved on, Sterling never able to see the face of the canine due to the location of the moon.
“Damn thing spooked me,” he mumbled as he came back into the shed. He removed his duster and his shirt to get to his bulletproof vest. Once that was off, he put his shirt back on and equipped the bottle of tequila he had in his inventory. He finished it with one quick pull. He then ate more of the green chili jerky he had in his list, and smoked a couple of cigarettes before winding down, Sterling perusing his book of sketches and desert haiku as he felt the effects of the alcohol.
He found one he had written on tequila after a night of drinking with Kip, a smile coming across his face as he relived the experience:
Take my tequila
Throw it back and ask for more
The answer is yes
“We were damn fools that night,” Sterling said as he remembered some of the trouble Kip had gotten in over the years, usually involving women, but just as often involving the men that surrounded them. It was always something with that man, but Kip kept things interesting, and Sterling appreciated that.
Eventually, he equipped his wool blanket and brought it up to his shoulders, keeping it tucked under his chin as he slept with his back against the wall, revolver in hand, cowboy hat over his eyes.
Sterling awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. He dressed and had a cigarette for breakfast as he made his way around the archaeological site of the Tijeras Pueblo. According to a placard that was still standing, the pueblo was built in the 1300s, and at the time it had upwards of two hundred rooms, the terraced buildings arranged around a kiva.
Mention of the kiva reminded Sterling of what Abuela had said about him being the Skeleton Man, the Hopi god of death, and how he had welcomed the natives to the barren landscape with what was essentially a shrug and a stark statement: I have not anything; this is the way I am living here. Now if you are willing to live here that way too, with me and share this life, why come, you are welcome.
“Skeleton Man,” Sterling mumbled as he made his way over to Manchester, forgetting the actual Hopi name for the god of death. “Certainly is a nickname, ain’t that right?”
It was a cool morning, mist hanging over the canyon, lizards and snakes and scorpions in their dens, the only birds overhead migrating south, winter slowly creeping across the high desert. There were trees in this area of New Mexico, their leaves the color of piss, amber ale, watered-down lemonade, the occasional breeze whipping some of them up into a frenzy. There were some trees in T or C, sure, but nothing like what he saw here, the Sandia Mountains slathered with foliage, hiding their peaks, the tops of the trees golden like sunlight cutting through a late morning haze.
While Sterling needed to get to Madrid, he also got the urge to pen a desert haiku, to sketch what he was witnessing, the landscape awe-inspiring. He guided Manchester to a bluff overlooking the road and had his horse stand there for a moment while Sterling equipped his book and wrote what came to mind.
Amber gold yellow
Mountains painted by the gods
Metamorphosis
He thought about ending the desert haiku with ‘Nuevo México,’ making it part of the series on what was once the state, but liked his final version better. Metamorphosis. It was better than his first option, ‘the color of death,’ because the trees weren’t dying, they were simply shutting down for the winter to bloom again in the spring.
Sterling didn’t know where some of these words came from in his head when he created his poetry, and they certainly didn’t match the words that came out of his mouth, his unique Southern patois riddled with Spanglish. But something about his pen on the paper, the rough texture as he moved the ink across it, the connection between himself and what was unleashed from his soul in that moment of respite, produced words locked deep in his psyche. The cobwebs clear for a moment, his twang nonexistent unless needed for syllabic purposes.
If only that worked on his memory; if only he understood the picture he had found in his old wallet. Aside from the obvious—that she was his wife—who was the woman named Isabella? Who was the boy in the photo? Who had Sterling once been?
“Questions for another day,” he mumbled as he sent his book of desert haiku back to his inventory list, and he continued on, eventually coming to a patch of rocks that looked almost anthropomorphic, the stones stacked atop one another, Sterling not able to tell if natives or the weather had sculpted the formations. He felt an energy from the place and paused there to smoke a cigarette before moving on.
The road to Madrid was relatively clear of debris, and aside from an occasional rock or an abandoned vehicle, Manchester was able to move quickly. Once again, he felt and suppressed an urge to turn the horse around and head toward Albuquerque where he would confront the bounty hunter named Ram. He thought about the Sunflower Kid and what he would tell the Kid after he broke through the barrier protecting the Culto Demente Sagrado. He thought about Don Gasper, and wondered if the crazy old shaman had made it to Alamogordo by now. He also thought about Roxy, what had gone wrong between them three years ago, and what he was going to tell her once he freed her from the White Sands Militia.
He needed to tell her the truth.
“You got a lot on your plate,” he said as the cracked asphalt started to turn, Sterling finally reaching his destination.
Madrid had once been an old mining colony revitalized by artists and hippies before the Reset, many of the buildings built right up to the rock that surrounded the village, a rustic feel to the place, Madrid about half a mile long from start to finish. There were a few people out, and Sterling wished he had walked into town rather than riding on his bone horse once a child screamed and pointed at him. Sterling hopped off Manchester, collapsed his skeletal steed, and sent the bones and the saddle to his inventory list. He was dusting off his hands, trying to make sure he looked presentable, when a woman approached.
“What do you want, mister?” she asked as she eyed him suspiciously. The dark-haired woman was in a pair of overalls, one of the straps unfastened. She wore a red shirt beneath this, her arms exposed, her skin browned by the sun. She carried a defiant look on her face, but she was pretty, her black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, the woman in a pair of turquoise earrings the same color as her eyes.
“For one, I ain’t here to cause no trouble, so let’s just get that out of the way. I wouldn’t mind some breakfast, though. Which one of these here houses is Raylan Mossberg living in?”
That same pair of turquoise eyes darted from the revolver holstered at Sterling’s waist to the scabbard of his breakaway sickle-sword. “Raylan made your weapons?”
“Can’t you tell?” Sterling asked the woman as he used his hands to sweep the sides of his duster away, giving her a better look at his customized accoutrements.
“What are you? Some kind of mancer?”
“I could ask you the same question,” Sterling told the woman as he took a step closer to her. “You the town inquisitor?”
Her turquoise eyes started to turn red as plumes of fire scaled up her arms and quickly dissipated, the smell of burning fuel reaching Sterling’s nostrils. “Does that answer your question?”
“Let me guess, yet another fiery pyromancer,” he said as he licked the front of his teeth. “I don’t know what them Godwalkers were thinking when they gave us these powers, but for some reason, pyromancers always seem more fiery than other folk, in abundance too. Shit, maybe it has something to do with astrology. Are you a Leo? Sagittarius? What’s that other one?”
“I’m an Aries.”
“Bingo. I’m pretty sure that I’m a Scorpio,” Sterling told her. “Sort of makes sense, if you think about my personality.”
“I don’t believe in astrological signs. Just more bullshit from the before people.”
“Yeah,” Sterling said as he glanced up at the sky. “Maybe it is stupid to base our personalities on where the sun and the moon were when we were shat into this godforsaken world.”
“Is that what you call childbirth?”
“No, that’s what I call a joke,” he said, still trying to get a read on the woman. Sterling would be lying if he said he didn’t feel some type of spark between them, but that could have been her desire for violence if he got out of line, Sterling possibly misinterpreting what the pyromancer was putting off.
“So you are here for Raylan? Would he remember you?”
Sterling laughed at the question. “I don’t think he would forget someone like me.”
“He makes a lot of stuff for a lot of people. You’d be surprised.”
“Did he ever tell you about a necromancer who tried to bring down a Godwalker three years ago, and partially succeeded?”
The woman shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t know if I would believe a dumb story like that. It sounds like this necromancer would be incredibly stupid to try to take on one of them things. Not that Raylan lies or anything. Just sounds a bit… hyperbolic.”
“Is Raylan known for tall tales? Because from what I remember, he was always a straight shooter.”
“That he is.”
An elderly woman stepped out of one of the buildings and said something to the pyromancer, Sterling not able to understand her on account of the elderly woman’s thick accent.
“Well, it sounds like mawmaw over here needs you for something,” he said, interpreting that she was being summoned. “If you’ll just point me in the direction of Mr. Raylan Mossberg, that would be mighty kind of you. Or I could just walk around until I hear some tinkering, which is also a good way to find yourself a flectomancer. Like I said earlier, I’m also in the mood for some breakfast, and while I’m not opposed to eating alone, it would be nice to have some company. My treat. Hell, I’ll even throw in some special peppers I got called jalmundos. Damn things are spicy; if you know anything about the Scoville Scale, I can get into that while we—”
“—Do you want company over breakfast? Or do you want Raylan?” she said, smirking at Sterling. The pyromancer placed an arm behind her waist, which accentuated her breasts as her shoulders pressed back.
“I want both, but the question is, what do you want, ma’am?”
“I’ll take you to Raylan, and the name ain’t ma’am. It’s Sierra.”
“Sierra, huh?” he asked as he mulled the name over. “Just like the mountains, huh?”
“Just like. Now come on.” Sierra turned, motioning for Sterling to follow her.
Sterling didn’t know why there was a small airplane hangar in Madrid, but it served as a perfect space for Raylan’s workshop, the flectomancer obsessed with order. Everything was stacked and labeled, no clutter on his workbench. The mustachioed man himself was barely over five feet tall, with a pair of repurposed goggles over his eyes. He wore a plaid shirt that had seen better days, the elbows with corduroy patches on them, his jeans clearly repaired multiple times, and shiny steeltoed boots to complete his outfit.
“Raylan,” Sterling said as he approached. The flectomancer hopped off his stool and looked up as Sterling extended his hand to him. The two shook, Sterling nodding as they did so.
“How are my weapons holding up?” Raylan asked, the grin on his face lifting the corners of his mustache.
“Good, although the Mana drain from the revolver may cause me trouble down the line. Hasn’t yet, though.”
“I see, I’ll take a look at it,” Raylan said as he looked to Sierra. “Sierra, this is Sterling.”
“Oh, we’ve met; he came parading into town like he owned the place.”
“Says you,” Sterling told her. “And I tried to discard Manchester outside the town, although some of the locals probably saw him. My mistake there.”
“Your bone horse?” Raylan asked.
“You have a bone horse?”
“Sierra,” Raylan said as he turned to her, “Sterling and I have much to discuss. Would you run along to the restaurant and order breakfast for both of us? You are hungry, right?”
“Shee-it, I’m famished.”
“Run along to the restaurant?” Sierra frowned at the flectomancer. “I’ll walk over there with the two of you, but, no offense, Raylan, I’m not like some of the kids around here, nor am I like some of the regular folk. You can’t just order me around.” Sierra winked at him once Raylan started to apologize. “I’m just messing with you. I got some chores I need to take care of at the restaurant anyway. See you later,” she told Sterling, her eyes locking onto his just a second longer than they should have as she left.
Sterling snorted once she was gone. “Damn pyromancers, I swear.”
“Yes, she can be a bit…”
“Fiery?”
“That’s one word to describe her, yes. She’s one of the newest in Madrid, showed up earlier this year. Sierra is good to have around, however, and she has been useful a couple times when unscrupulous groups have come to town looking for easy targets. I like her.”
“You ain’t the only one,” Sterling said.
This made Raylan smile. He pushed his goggles to the top of his head, his silver hair pressing back, and nodded once again as he looked at Sterling. “As much as I want to think you rode all the way up here just to have breakfast with me, I have a feeling that’s not the case.”
“I’ve got a lot to talk about,” Sterling said. “And maybe some questions too.”
As they made their way out of his workshop, and back down to the main road that ran through Madrid, Sterling told Raylan everything, from the Godwalkers and the Killbillies attacking his ranch, to his crucifixion and how Don Gasper—a man whom Raylan was acquainted with—made his prediction, thought Sterling left out the part where he had heard a coyote speak to him. He also left out his little side quest in Truth or Consequences with Kip to get some fundage. He briefed the flectomancer on what he had learned from the Hopi natives, how a solimancer named Paco had led him to the Sunflower Kid. By that point, they had arrived at the restaurant, the two seated by a friendly fifteen-year-old waitress at a table outside on the patio, another couple enjoying a meal as well.
“So the Sunflower Kid is with the Culto Demente Sagrado?” Raylan asked when Sterling got to that part of his journey. “And you need the Kid to get the team back together, because you plan to ride down to the White Sands desert to free Roxy. Am I following?”
“Yup. There’s someone else I want to add to my team, now that we’re talking about it,” Sterling said as the waitress approached again. “I’ll have a beer, and don’t give me any hell about beer for breakfast.”
“No qualms with me,” Raylan said, showing Sterling his palms. “Coffee, Jennifer,” he told the young waitress.
“And for breakfast?” she asked in a southern twang.
“Y’all got green chili stew?” Sterling asked her.
“We have some from yesterday we can warm up. Might take a minute.”
Cowboy Necromancer: Infinite Dusk Page 30
