by James Axler
"Had to," Mitchum said, trying to stand and surprised to find that he could. His legs were throbbing like drums, but strength was returning faster than expected. Excellent. First good thing that had happened on this accursed island in months.
"You saved my life 'cause we're fellow sec men," Whyte said in an unaccustomed rush of pride. "Sir, I…I…"
"I shot the mutie because I needed you to move the fucking horse," the colonel snapped, pulling the Colt Woodsman .22 from his belt. "Thanks, feeb."
As Whyte gasped, Mitchum emptied the tiny revolver into the sec man. The small slugs drove the trooper backward, but he was still standing when they stopped coming. Blood soaking his shirt and pants, Whyte fought for breath as he tried to draw his own blaster, but the weapon dropped from nerveless fingers.
"Also needed your boots," Mitchum said as he calmly picked up the fallen weapon and finished the job.
Shoving the massive .75 flintlock into his belt, the colonel then tossed away the useless predark revolver. Five rounds and the man had still been standing. What kind of a shitty weapon was that?
Stripping the warm corpse of footwear, blaster and ammo, the colonel got dressed and reloaded the hot blaster. Then he proceeded to search among the dead for what supplies and additional weapons he could find. When he was finished, the sec chief had a little food and no water, but a good knife, two handcannons, a single longblaster, plus plenty of shot and lead. More than enough.
"Now it's your turn, Ryan," Mitchum muttered as he stumbled into the forest, searching the ground for the tracks of the hated outlanders.
