Guns of Seneca 6 (Chamber 1 of the Guns of Seneca 6 Saga)

by Bernard Schaffer

  Adam braced both hands against the doorframe and anchored himself inside the carriage. Charlie Boles kicked the side of the wagon and shouted, “Get out here before I drag you out!”

  Adam vanished. Harlan yelled at Boles, “Don’t scare him like that! If he gets panicked, he’ll have a seizure, you son of a bitch.”

  “Fine. If the retard wants to sit in there and bake to death, let him.” Boles slammed the carriage door shut and Adam started beating the inside of the door with his fists. The thumping stopped abruptly, and they could hear Adam gurgling.

  Harlan cried out and tried clawing past Boles to get the carriage door open, but Boles spun and wind-milled the butt-end of his pistol across the old man’s forehead. Harlan dropped to the dirt with blood bubbling through his white hair.

  Boles hurried to turn Harlan over and keep his blood from staining his clothing. “Can’t sell it later if there’s blood on it,” he said to Junior. “Remember that.”

  “Ok, Pa.”

  “You just keep an eye on that one,” Boles said. He put his gun down on the ground next to Harlan and patted the old man down. He removed the few dollar bills folded in Harlan’s shirt pocket. He continued searching, giving Junior instruction on where else to search for money. “Sometimes they hide stuff in secret pockets, and you got to check, now.”

  “Ok, Pa.”

  Jem grabbed the shotgun’s barrels and tugged while the boy’s eyes were on his father. Junior instinctively yanked the gun back and Jem shoved it forward, slamming the stock into the boy’s gut. Junior folded in half and sent a pile of sickness splattering onto the ground. Jem kicked the boy’s legs out from under him and sat him down hard.

  Boles spun at the sound of the commotion, scrambling for his gun. He nearly had it but froze at the sound of Jem cocking the shotgun’s hammer back. Boles put up his hands and said, “You wouldn’t shoot a man in the back, now would you?”

  Jem pulled the trigger.

  The weapon clicked, empty. Jem switched the hammer to the other side and said, “Still got another barrel. Let’s try that again.” Boles scrambled across the dirt like a crab and sat up to beg for mercy. Jem put the shotgun’s barrel against Boles’ forehead and pulled the trigger. Also empty. “You are one lucky son of a bitch,” Jem said.

  Boles grabbed his revolver off the ground and stood up, looking at Jem in disbelief. “You really would have shot me. You crazy bastard!”

  Jem dropped the empty shotgun and held up his hands. “I’m guessing Junior forgot to load his gun?”

  “I reckon he did,” Boles said. “First time in my life I’ve ever been grateful that boy is an idiot. Junior? Stop crying like a little girl and get up. I’m fixin’ to execute this murderous prick.”

  “That seems kind of excessive, friend,” Jem said. He scratched his stomach, feeling the Mantis two-shot tucked away behind the buttons.

  “You were going to shoot me from behind!”

  Smoke and flame flashed from Jem’s vest. The Mantis’ bullet hit Charlie Boles in the hip and Jem smacked the revolver out of Boles’ hand.

  Jem tore off his smoldering vest and threw it down. He pressed the Mantis against the side of Boles’ head and hissed, “You really must have an angel sitting on your shoulder today, you piece of trash. I was trying to gut shoot you. I was going to leave you here to die in the desert with your insides spilling out of you. I’ve got one more bullet though. Where do you want it?”

  Harlan Wells groaned and tried lifted his head. “Mr. Wells? Harlan,” Jem shouted. He pointed at Junior and said, “Get that carriage door open and check on Adam.”

  Junior limped over to the wagon to open the door. Adam was splayed across the floor motionless, with white foam spilling from of the corners of his mouth. “Harlan!” Jem shouted. “Get up and check on your son.”

  Junior helped Harlan to his feet and the old man staggered over to the carriage, clutching his head. He reached inside and checked for a pulse on Adam’s neck. “He had a seizure,” Harlan said. “But he’s passed out for now. He should come out of it soon.”

  Jem threw Boles against the carriage hard enough to rock it. He stuck the Mantis under Boles’ chin and used it to lift his jaw so that their eyes met. “Lucky again, Boles. I was going to shoot you between the legs if that boy was dead, but now I reckon I’ll settle for just taking you off the planet.”

  “Go ahead and shoot, you son of a bitch,” Boles said. His foul spittle splattered Jem across the face. “You think I ain’t ready to die?”

  Jem was about to squeeze the trigger, when Harlan Wells wedged himself between him and Boles. “I won’t let you do this,” Harlan said.

  Jem pushed Harlan away, but the old man grabbed the front of the gun and covered the barrel’s opening with his hand. “I said, don’t.”

  “Are you insane? He was going to kill you so he could steal your clothes. Look what he did to your son.”

  “Look what you’re doing to his,” Harlan said.

  Jem looked at Junior and said, “Walk away, boy. Get going. I’m doing you a favor.”

  Junior stood in place, covered in his own sickness, begging Jem not to shoot.

  Harlan stared Jem in the eyes and said, “Let him go, son.”

  “Stop calling me that! I am not your goddamn son.”

  “You let him go. Or you shoot me too.”

  Jem slammed the Mantis across Boles’ face. Boles dropped to the ground and Jem kicked him in the gut several times, then spit on him. Boles fell over on his side and Junior pushed past Harlan to dive on top of him to protect him.

  Jem looked down in horror at the boy.

  Boles spat out a mouthful of blood and groaned, “I’ll find you, you son of a bitch. I’ll find you and when I do, I’ll kill you.”

  “I hope you do, Charlie,” Jem said. “I’ll be at Seneca 6. Just ask for Jem Clayton. They’ll know where to find me.”

  Charlie Boles and his son limped off into the wasteland long before Jem opened the rear of the carriage to remove his weapons. Harlan looked at him and said, “So which is it? Tom Howard or Jem Clayton?”

  Jem strapped on his gun belt and said, “I know it must seem a surprise to you, being that you don’t associate with people like me and Charlie Boles, but it doesn’t pay to get familiar nowadays.”

  “We were going to Tradesville,” Harlan said. “What’s in Seneca 6?”

  “You and Adam need to see a doctor, and it’s the closest main settlement to us. Plus, we need to get to safety. It won’t take long for Boles to get fixed up and come looking for us.”

  “What makes you think he’ll come looking for us?”

  “Because that’s what I would do,” Jem said. “Just get in the back with Adam and I’ll handle it.”

  In the distance, Junior was walking beside his father, helping him stay on his feet. The boy looked back at Jem, and Jem paused at the hatred in his eyes. He recognized it intimately. Jem snapped the reins on the wagon and got it moving.

  9 . Ghosts

  Flames licked the soles of his feet, bringing him to consciousness. He started to flail, panicking, ripping off the chunks of red hot metal that left hissing welts on his bare skin. Jimmy McParlan tried yanking his legs away from the fire but was pinned by one of the ship’s support pylons. A hundred different pieces of the hull were piled on top of him and all around. McParlan rolled over on his side, struggling to escape from the pylon’s weight before his clothing caught fire. He was still strapped to the co-pilot’s chair, buried under a pile of smoldering debris.

  Ash filled his mouth and he gagged on the taste of burnt plastic. Finally, he managed to unbuckle the restraint and press the column an inch off of his legs. Enough to slide them from the flames. He rolled away and crawled through the wreckage on his belly.

  There was the smell of roasted meat. McParlan saw a blackened body on the ground nearby. The hands were not cuffed together. McParlan cursed and poked his head up, looking around. “Elijah? You dead too?”

  He tr
ied to get his cybernetic eye to focus, but instead of scanning the landscape, it filled his head with static. McParlan unscrewed the thing and tossed it into the ashes.

  A pair of shackled hands raised in the air, ten feet from the frame of the shattered rear wing of the ship. McParlan climbed over sharp paneling and tangled wires and debris. He tore his elbows and knees as he crawled toward Elijah. “Still alive, you son of a bitch?”

  Harpe laughed, “The Lord just isn’t ready to take me today, Marshal.”

  McParlan drew his Balrog and put the barrel an inch from Harpe’s head, then laid flat and panted, trying to catch his breath. “We’ll see about that, Elijah. Here’s the deal. I don’t think I’m long for this world, but if I feel the claw of the reaper come around my shoulder the last thing I’m going to do is tighten my finger around this trigger.” He coughed up something black and oily. “You break anything in the crash?”

  Harpe pointed at the thick white bone sticking out of his thigh. “I can’t even feel that,” he said. “Reckon I’m in shock. God be praised.” Harpe laughed again, but his chest was clogged with dirt and smoke. He spat something yellow into the dirt and propped himself up on one elbow, looking at Franklin Carlisle’s body. “Got yourself another one? Racking up quite the little body count, aren’t you? Honestly, you don’t look too good Marshal. You fixing to check out on me now?”

  McParlan heard three Elijah Harpes speak and saw twice as many. His eyelids fluttered and he nearly pulled the trigger, but was able to shake his head enough to focus on Harpe’s sweaty, snickering face staring at him. “Don’t know how long we’re gonna be out here, Elijah, but I bet that shock is only going to last a little while. Pretty soon, you’ll start screaming for your mama and that thought is what’s gonna keep me hanging on.”

  ***

  Jem Clayton looked at the tall tower of black smoke rising over the peaks of Coramide Canyon and strapped the destriers across their hides to move them toward it. Harlan Wells leaned against the window beneath Jem’s feet and said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Some sort of crash down in the Canyon. I’m going to check on it real quick. How’s Adam?”

  “Seems all right. He woke up, but he’s sweating like a dog. I think the heat is getting to him.”

  Jem smelled burnt fuel and plastic, but there was another smell, the kind that lingers around kitchens. Jem worked the animals up the path to the overlook, and peered down at the canyon below. He eased the animals down the path, drawing one of his Defeaters and cocking the hammer back. There were two men lying together at the edge of the crash site, one wearing shackles, and the other pointing a gun at that man’s head. Neither of them were moving. Buzzards circled overhead, waiting to feast.

  Jem stopped the carriage at the bottom of the path and knocked on the rear door. Harlan opened it an inch and frowned. “You aren’t going over there are you?”

  “Just to see if there’s any survivors.”

  “What if it’s a trap?” Harlan said.

  Jem looked at the crash site and then up at the canyon, checking for snipers. “Doesn’t seem likely. Hell of a set-up just to hope somebody comes across this mess. I think this is genuine. You want to hold onto one of my guns just in case?”

  Harlan shook his head no and closed the carriage door. Jem removed both weapons and headed for the bodies.

  There were dead buzzards scattered across the ground, their carcasses blown to pieces. Jem saw that the old man was holding a Balrog 6K pistol. Standard issue for PNDA Marshals, Jem thought. He crouched beside the old man and tapped him on the shoulder with his gun. “You alive, friend?”

  McParlan groaned and he tried squeezing the Balrog’s trigger. The gun slipped from his grasp and he muttered, “Not yet, damn you. Get your claws off me until it’s finished.”

  Jem picked up the Balrog and slid it into his belt. He rolled McParlan onto his back and inspected him. The old man’s lips were white and cracked. Jem waved over to the carriage and called for Harlan to “Bring the water. Hustle up.”

  McParlan’s eyes rolled back in his head. “I can’t go with you. Not unless he goes too. It isn’t finished…”

  Harlan carried two canteens over and handed one to Jem. Jem unscrewed the cap and poured a little onto the old man’s grizzled face, letting it trickle between his lips. Harlan went to pour water into the mouth of the prisoner but Jem said, “Keep away from that one until we figure out what’s going on.”

  McParlan’s eyes fluttered open. “Keep it coming,” he rasped.

  “In a minute,” Jem said. “Not too much at once or you’ll choke.”

  The Marshal cursed Jem and started to cough. Jem waited for it to pass before he slowly poured another few capfuls of water into his mouth.

  Jem let McParlan lay back down and carried the canteen over to Elijah Harpe. He squatted down next to him, keeping his pistol ready. “Give…me some…you son of a bitch,” Harpe croaked. Jem splashed him in the face and Harpe swiped his tongue around his mouth, sucking in every drop. Jem held Harpe’s head up and poured a little more water into his mouth.

  While both men nursed their canteens, Jem had Harlan bring the carriage closer to them. He kicked a few of the feathered corpses out of the carriages way and said, “You shoot all these buzzards?”

  “Bastards kept trying to eat us,” McParlan grunted. “I’m obliged you came along when you did.”

  Jem looked back at him. “You with the PNDA?”

  McParlan nodded. “I’m Marshal James McParlan. This here piece of human waste is Elijah Harpe.”

  Jem’s eyes narrowed, “Harpe? You’re kidding me. I read about those boys.” He turned to look at the other body, “Is that his brother?”

  “No. Just the unfortunate soul who happened to be transporting us.” McParlan’s face twisted in pain as Jem pulled him to his feet. He draped an arm around Jem’s shoulders and limped toward the wagon. “No matter what, you cannot let that man out of your sight. If he tries to run, kill him. He’s done things you couldn’t imagine in your worst nightmares.”

  Jem looked at the empty socket of McParlan’s missing eye. “I’ll make sure to keep my eye on him.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t.” He helped McParlan into the carriage and walked back over to Elijah Harpe. “Is all that stuff they put in the paper about you and Little Willy true?”

  Elijah squinted up at him. “Like what?”

  “That you some wild boys who go about raping, killing, and pillaging whatever you please. Real barbarians. Take whatever and don’t care who stands in your way. That might be my kind of party.”

  “Well, then I reckon the good Lord has delivered me into the hands of an angel.”

  “Amen to that,” Jem said.

  “You believe in the Lord, our God?”

  “You better believe it,” Jem said, crossing his heart.

  “My brother, here is what I want you to do then. Go put a bullet into that heathen of a Marshal’s head and send him to judgment. Then me and you can get out of here and figure out a way to signal Little Willy. Parties? Shoot. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Jem glanced over his shoulder at Harlan, who was leaned over the carriage, watching them carefully. “What about the old man? He’s got his son along with him. I expect they’ll be in the way.”

  “How old’s the boy?” Harpe said.

  “Why?”

  “Thought you might want to keep him. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck out here? Any port in a storm, so they say. A man’s physical needs must be fulfilled so that he might do the good work, my brother.”

  Jem nodded and reached down for the knob of bone sticking out of Harpe’s leg and twisted it like a doorknob. Harpe clawed at Jem’s hands, trying to wrench them away, but Jem slapped him and twisted again until Harpe screamed and beat his fists against the dirt.

  When Jem let go, Harpe laid there panting and said, “You son of a bitch.”

  “There will be no more speakin
g from you unless you are spoken to, understand?” Jem said. “You so much as look at that boy and I will cut out your eyes. Speak to him and I’ll take your tongue.” He waited for Harpe to nod and then heaved him to his feet. Harpe stood there, waiting for assistance, and Jem just pointed at the wagon. “Move it. You’re riding up front with me.”

  Harpe pulled himself into the carriage’s forward carry and tried to shift his injured leg inside without bending it. He collapsed into the seat and groaned, muttering a prayer as sweat dripped down the tip of his nose and stained his shirtfront.

  Jimmy McParlan knocked on the bottom of the boards and peered up at them. “Hey, Elijah,” he said. “Shock wear off yet?”

  McParlan slid into his seat and waited for the carriage to start moving before he removed the tablet from his belt and turned it on. He looked at the photographs he’d taken of his rescuer. The interface was broken but he could still access information already stored there. He loaded the photographs and began searching the database for Seneca. The computer verified the man’s physical description, and started to provide details about a particular outlaw that made McParlan’s eyebrows rise.

  ***

  Elijah Harpe’s open flesh sizzled in the harsh sun and his blood was filling up in the boot of his broken leg. His head rolled forward and stayed there until they would hit a bump, and he’d suddenly cry out. Jem ignored the noise, whistling an old severian miner’s tune as he worked the reins. Elijah reached for Jem’s sleeve and said, “Put a bullet in me. Give me your gun. I’ll do it myself.”

  Jem yanked his arm away and swatted Elijah across the mouth with the back of his hand. “Keep your filthy hands off me.”

  McParlan knocked on the window below. “Stop the carriage.”

  The Marshal limped around the side of the forward carry and frowned at Harpe’s leg. “You know how to make a tourniquet?”

  Jem looked into the distance and said, “Nope.”

  “Mind stepping down here for a moment, boy?”

  Jem shrugged and came down, walking around the front of the destriers while still keeping an eye on Harpe. “That prisoner is going to bleed out in a few short minutes if you don’t tourniquet that leg,” McParlan said.