The Wanderer and the New West

by Adam Bender

  The boy’s courage struck the Wanderer as funny. He laughed warmly. “Sure, you go sit with your ma. You keep her safe.”

  *

  Now this was the kind of job that Charlie Johnson liked.

  He was sitting on a park bench, watching the status bar on his wrist-worn computer slide right, one percentage point a second. The wide glass wristband had a big digital screen that always faced up no matter how much it was twisted, while a small pad extended out into his palm, allowing for one-handed typing. He could enter keys by tapping his fingers on his palm; a camera in the device scanned the movements and turned them into letters.

  He glanced up to the third floor of the university’s science building and looked into the only room with the lights still on. He could see just the pudgy back of his target, a professor of some sort — alternative energy, someone might have said. Sixty-four years old and too many donuts to count. A year ago, he’d suffered a heart attack, so the doctors installed a fancy new pacemaker. Charlie didn’t know the professor’s name, and didn’t want to, either.

  A girl in a short jean jacket and an even shorter skirt approached. She gave Charlie the eye, and he winked back. He was used to this kind of attention. He might be skinny and slightly shorter than average, but he had firm arms and a tight abdomen, which he liked to show off via tight T-shirts. Softly, the girl bit her lip and turned, sashaying a healthy bottom as she walked away.

  He shook his head and chuckled. Man, oh, man! Maybe he had missed out by not going to college. Then again, it didn’t matter. He was the right age, and that girl didn’t seem to think he was out of place. Maybe after this job, he’d stick around and sneak into a party or three, find himself a girl for the night. He’d be off again before anyone questioned whether he even went to school here.

  The status bar hit 100 percent. Charlie grinned. No one would ever suspect this was a hit. Just another sad case of an unhealthy man working too hard and paying the price. The best part was that Charlie didn’t even have to be inside the lab, just in range of the pacemaker. The device was equipped with a wireless chip that let it sync up with computers such as the scientist’s PC or his doctor’s medical equipment. A beautiful piece of e-health, but it came with one big security flaw.

  Charlie hit the kill switch, shutting down the pacemaker. The fat scientist stumbled backward into the window and sank slowly to the floor.

  “Too many donuts!” the bounty hunter laughed. “Too many donuts!”

  And that was ten thousand bucks for Charlie. Strutting over to the parking lot, he rang up the boss to report the job done.

  “We are pleased,” said the voice on the other line. It wasn’t El Tiburón himself. It never was. This was the crime lord’s right-hand man, Cochise.

  “Piece of cake,” replied Charlie. “Next time, I want a challenge.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “We might have one for you.”

  “Well, don’t be all mysterious, my man! Who’s the target?”

  “They call him the Wanderer. He was seen in Liberty earlier today — shot up a church.”

  “A church?” he exclaimed. He had to admit he was impressed. “Let me guess. Someone wants revenge.”

  “Didn’t say, but they’re putting up a hell of a lot of money.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  “There’s more in it for you if he’s alive, but we’ll leave that to your discretion. You should know he has a reputation as a marksman.”

  “Hey, chill. I’m not so bad with a gun myself.”

  *

  The train rattled hard along a rough section of the tracks, and the Wanderer, walking down the aisle, had to use his strong hands to brace himself against the backs of the seats. He still hadn’t the foggiest idea as to where to get off and find a hotel for the night, but he hoped a drink in the café car might provide some inspiration.

  He passed a harried businesswoman with a black-slab smartphone pressed against her cheek.

  “I’m not sure about the potato salad,” she said. “Not after last time.”

  He was still chuckling over that when he pushed through the pair of greasy doors that led into the café car. It was a small cabin with about four tables and a snack counter. There wasn’t a seat to be had, but that didn’t matter. He was sick of sitting. The other customers turned warily as he made his way to the bar to order, and he felt the heat of their eyes on his guns. The woman at the counter had leathery skin and a lot of freckles, as if she spent most of her off-hours sleeping on a rock absorbing the desert sun. A lizard woman. The Wanderer threw a few crisp green bills on the bar, asking her if she had any dark beers available.

  “Not that nice a train, darling.”

  “Shit,” he returned. “Your best ale, then.”

  The lizard woman gave him a brown bottle, and he gulped down half of it in one shot.

  She grinned victoriously. “Like that one, huh?”

  He drank the rest and slapped the glass container down on the counter. “Not so much. But I better have one more, just in case.”

  She procured another beer from under the counter and popped off the lid with a twist of her wrist.

  “I’d offer you a seat, hon, but we seem to be full up.”

  “That’s all right. You work here long?”

  “Last ten years.”

  “This line?”

  She nodded. “And I’m real tired of it, too.”

  He took a long swig of the beer. “Of the next several stops, what’s your favorite?”

  The lizard woman cackled. “They’re all shit. Why?”

  The Wanderer grinned widely. “If you had to pick one to stay tonight, where would you get off?”

  She laughed. “If I had to pick one? Freetown, I s’pose. Well, at least if I was planning on spending a little while. It’s not for another week, but they’ll have a nice fireworks display for the Fourth.”

  The gunslinger nodded appreciatively. He had almost forgotten about the coming holiday. “I reckon I do have a little while.”

  The doors to the café car slid open. A bearded man in a green flannel shirt rumbled toward the bar. “Whiskey,” he growled.

  The lizard woman smiled politely at the Wanderer and turned to take care of her well-muscled new customer. She brought out a short glass and poured it halfway full with brown liquid.

  “More, dammit,” said the bearded man. “All the way.”

  She did as she was told. “That’s fifteen dollars.”

  He guzzled the drink in about five seconds. “Another.”

  The bartender narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t you pay for that one first? Then we’ll see.”

  The man flashed a couple rows of yellow teeth. Then he brought out his gun, a semiautomatic Breck 17. “Get me another, and we’ll see.”

  There was a smattering of gasps as the other people in the car cleared out from their tables and made for the exit.

  The Wanderer sipped his beer thoughtfully. “Why don’t you put the gun away,” he commanded in a voice that was quiet but firm.

  The bearded man turned wide-eyed in his direction, as if noticing him for the first time. “You want to speak up, stranger? I don’t think I caught that!”

  The Wanderer smiled. A few seconds later, he had the asshole choked by the neck and was pushing him out of the café. In the space between the two train cars, he pulled an emergency lever to open the exit door and dangled the bearded man over the fast-moving brush.

  “Don’t worry,” the Wanderer said with a friendly sneer. “You’ll probably survive this.”

  He then tossed the fool like he was a rag doll.

  *

  Charlie took a seat at a cubicle desk in the university library and woke up his smart wristband. He scanned the wire for anything about the incident at Liberty — status updates, candid photos. He was surprised to find a full-length blog post about the incident and the small town’s reaction. It was titled WHO IS THE WANDERER? The piece was written in the succinct, objective s
tyle of an old-fashioned newspaper article — the kind of story no one wrote anymore.

  When he was finished reading, he rubbed a finger against his glass bangle to scroll back up to the top of the page. The blog was called The New West, and the poster appeared to be anonymous — at least, he couldn’t find the writer’s name anywhere. Something to check into later, maybe.

  The bounty hunter gazed blankly at the cubicle wall — chipboard with a wooden laminate, based on the warping. Someone had carved a crude image of a penis into it. So far, he hadn’t heard much commotion related to his completed kill. He wondered how long it would take until someone found the body.

  Just in case, he took his gun out of his bag and placed it gently on the table. It was a smart pistol he’d picked up in Canada a couple of years back. Breck Ammunition didn’t make anything like it. Canadians called it the Separatist, while most Americans just called it the Canadian. It was black and boxy like a Breck 17, but it had one key feature that the other semiautomatic lacked: a sensor on the handle that could read the user’s handprint. The gun would only fire for its owner.

  Charlie pulled up a rail map on his wrist device and determined which train line went through Liberty. He grabbed the geographic coordinates of each stop, matched them to a train timetable, then entered all the data into a social media search. Immediately, a list of every public social media message made on the train that left Liberty at 11:00 a.m. appeared on the screen. For the first several hours, he found nothing of interest. But recently, very recently, there had been a surge of social activity.

  JohnTheFifth:

  Some whack job holding up cafe car on my train.

  PilgrimFan1:

  Guy in cowboy hat just grabbed perp and threw him off train. So awesome!

  A different one was accompanied by a picture showing the back of a man wearing a leather coat and a gray Stetson hat. He was pushing another man through the door of the train cabin. To their left was a panicked-looking bartender. She had her phone out and appeared to be typing something.

  Charlie scrolled down the social feed a few more inches.

  GreenAngel92:

  Just got held up over a whiskey. FML

  He clicked this last message and hit REPLY. Smirking, he typed a message under the name Darwinning, one of his many handles.

  Darwinning:

  @GreenAngel92 omg r u ok?

  After a minute, he got a reply:

  GreenAngel92:

  @Darwinning I’m ok, someone saved me.

  The Internet stepped in before he could respond.

  TaterSaladLife:

  @GreenAngel92 @Darwinning Who?

  GreenAngel92:

  @TaterSaladLife @Darwinning Didn’t tell me name. Bought beer and asked my favorite stop on the line.

  “Too easy, this is just too easy!” chuckled Charlie, winding up his fingers.

  Darwinning:

  @GreenAngel92 @TaterSaladLife Wow! What did you tell him?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gonna Get You Good.

  Stepping off the bus in Freetown, Charlie had to squint to see the screen on his arm under the bright sun. The wristband showed an inexpensive motor lodge on State Street that didn’t look far and seemed fairly anonymous. It only had a 5.5 out of 10 average customer rating, but that was okay since he didn’t plan to stay long. He adjusted the straps of his hiker’s backpack and set off on his way.

  He looked up from the wristband only once, when the wireless signal abruptly cut out, and he couldn’t access anything on his device. He was annoyed but not surprised. This kind of thing happened often in rural areas. The telecom oligopoly had never found much of a business case in small towns like this to keep the network humming. No one was on their backs to fix things, either.

  The wireless came back on when Charlie arrived at the motel, and he showed the manager his wrist to get access to his room. The manager transferred a key to the wristband and told him he had room number three. It was located in the middle of a long row of doors facing State Street. Charlie tapped his wrist against the lock and it clicked open.

  The room wasn’t much — just a double bed, pinewood desk, and florescent overhead lighting — but it would do. With a grunt, he lifted the pack off his back and placed it gently on the floor. The bag contained all his things — his pistol, tablet, sniper rifle, and several days’ worth of clothing.

  Charlie checked himself out in the mirror. His hair was starting to show again. Better shave it tonight or it would start looking like a ’fro, and no one wanted that!

  The first order of business was to confirm that the Wanderer had arrived and find out where he was staying. Charlie checked for any social buzz in the area but it proved to be a dead end. Apparently his target had managed to keep himself out of trouble.

  The saloon maybe. Based on the reports from the train, the Wanderer had a taste for beer. Besides, Charlie was hungry. It had been a long-ass bus ride with nothing but crackers and a bottle of water.

  He strutted down State Street until he found a bar called the Happy Gunfighter. The place had one of those “ye olde west” themes that were so popular these days. Charlie slapped open the double doors and stepped inside. It took forever for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Except for the bored-looking barkeep, the saloon was quiet and empty. Charlie pulled up a stool and took a menu.

  “Sorry about the lights,” apologized the bartender, wiping his black-rimmed glasses with a bar cloth. “The owner doesn’t like us to put them on during the day. Says it doesn’t make any sense when it’s so damn bright outside. I’ve tried telling her the sun don’t come in here — windows are too damn small and facing the wrong way — but she don’t ever believe me. I reckon it’s because she only ever comes in at night.”

  “Uh-huh. So, how’s the BLT?”

  He shrugged. “It’s got bacon on it.”

  “Sold.”

  As the bartender went to the kitchen to inform the chef about Charlie’s high-cholesterol meal, the young bounty hunter got a sudden image of the university professor suffering a heart attack. He cursed himself for thinking about that. It was just a job. They were all just jobs.

  Charlie ordered a Coke when the bartender returned. “Diet,” he added.

  The bartender lifted a hose and shot the brown, fizzy liquid into a glass. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before. Here for the fireworks?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, you’re a week early. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he said with a wave around the empty saloon, “but most of the year, Freetown ain’t all that exciting.”

  “That’s okay. I make my own excitement. You feel me?”

  The bartender shrugged.

  “Hey, I think a friend of mine’s in town. Maybe you seen him? Dresses like a cowboy and likes his beer dark.”

  The barman made a little hum. “I reckon there was a fellow like that last night … Does he wear a glass over one eye?”

  Charlie grinned. “That’s him all right. Hey, don’t tell him I was here? I wanna surprise him.”

  *

  Charlie spent all of the next day observing the Wanderer and getting a feel for his daily movements. Mostly, he watched him eat and drink. For a guy who’d shot up a church, the Wanderer didn’t do anything very exciting.

  They made eye contact once while devouring tacos at separate tables in a Mexican place. It was the kind of throwaway exchange that any two strangers might have in a restaurant. Even so, the look sent a chill through Charlie’s spine. Something haunted the Wanderer’s weary eyes.

  Charlie wondered who he was. It probably wouldn’t be too difficult to figure out — just use facial recognition software and match the man to an ID. But the bounty hunter quickly dismissed the idea. He didn’t like to know anything more about his targets than he needed to. Knowing too much about them only ever made the job more of a bitch to complete.

  It was cool knowing he could do it, though. The good think about working for El Tiburón
was the access to gear. Years ago, Charlie had first impressed the crime lord by using a stolen laptop to shut down the security system in a bank and rob the place blind. But that computer hadn’t been all that powerful compared to the stuff he got from El Tiburón. The glass wristband, for example, had more than ten times the capability of that laptop despite being a fraction of the size and weight.

  The funny thing about technology was how vulnerable it made everything. With nearly everything connected to the Internet, there was no limit to what a good hacker could exploit. Sure, people were always patching the holes to increase security, but the hacks evolved just as fast as the defenses. Cybersecurity was an impossible battle. Given enough time, Charlie could always find a new backdoor.

  A buzz brought Charlie’s eyes to the screen on his wrist. The hack was complete. He now had access to the location chip built into the Wanderer’s eyeglass. Now he could track him wherever he went. Charlie finished his Coke and asked for the bill.

  Tomorrow night he’d make his move.

  *

  Charlie looked through the scope of his rifle to make sure it was still pointed at the entrance of the Happy Gunfighter. He was getting restless. Two hours so far of waiting on top of this building. It was getting late. The Wanderer hadn’t stayed out this late last night. Charlie had hoped to be done the job in time for a drink, but that plan was looking increasingly unlikely. The Wanderer was apparently going to stay at the bar until closing time.

  Charlie still thought he’d found a great perch — a bank with a flat roof located directly across from the saloon. He had his Montag sniper rifle set up on a black stand, placing it as close to the edge as he could get. It was a perfect view, but he was getting sick of it.

  Two gunshots rang out from the far edge of town. Charlie looked but didn’t see anything. Probably came from one of the houses out that way. He couldn’t be sure.

  A squeak of hinges brought his attention back to the double doors of the saloon. He pulled in close to the scope and wrapped his finger around the trigger. The Wanderer came out propping up an old timer. The drunkard was raving wildly about something, but Charlie couldn’t tell what.