“Boy,” the Coilhunter said. The child hopped up, dashing away a bit, then halting and looking back, unsure if he should take his marbles too. He caught the glare of the Coilhunter and decided to leave them. Nox spotted three other boys nearby, lounging against the side of a building, watching those abandoned marbles like vultures. One thing the Coilhunter knew for sure: they wouldn't take them while he was there.
He tipped his hat to poor, unconscious Billie. Unconscious was better than dead. He turned to Old Mad Dead Jack, who was painting the ground a shade of scarlet. There never was enough colour in the Wild North. Nox just thought it was a pity the most vibrant one was red.
He hauled the body up and pulled it closer to the monowheel. That wasn't Jack's getaway vehicle. It belonged to the Coilhunter. It was a large ring, which you sat inside, on top of the engine, clutching a small steering wheel. In a fairer climate he might have had a thin tyre around the outside of the wheel, but in the sinking sands he needed the thicker treads of a landship instead. That wheel rotated around the inner structure, so when it rolled, you didn't roll with it. You could tilt and turn, and gravity kept you firmly in place. It was as black as the blackest night, which made it stand out strongly against the yellow sands. Nox liked it like that. He wanted the criminals to know he was coming for them.
The Coilhunter put Jack's body in a large box behind the seat, his arms and legs dangling over the sides. You didn't want to be in the passenger seat of that vehicle. It usually always meant you were dead.
He drove off, just as the boy returned with his father, who froze when he saw the Coilhunter. Nox tipped his hat to him, then revved the engine, sending a plume of grey smoke up behind him, like a veil. When it settled, he would be gone.
He rolled through the dunes, the landship treads leaving deep tracks in the sand. Sometimes the land conspired against him, and travel was difficult, but other times it worked with him, shifting the grains to cover his tracks. Maybe there were prayers to say. He'd seen a lot of people praying them. But the land seemed to change its mind all the time. If there were gods, you couldn't trust them. Better to forge your path alone. Hell, better to see if there was a bounty on those gods too.
The journey was long, and he was thankful that Jack was a recent kill. He hadn't started to smell yet, aside from his natural stench, and the whiff of alcohol. At least he hadn't soiled himself, like some did. And he hadn't started to decompose yet. That was the worst smell. With the unsympathetic eye of the sun glaring down on them, that wouldn't be long setting in.
Every day reinforced a realisation he once had: that the land was trying to kill you, and not just you—everyone. It conspired with everything. There was no escaping it. You could only delay it. Sooner or later, it'd get you. The tribespeople tried to work with it, tried to appease it, communing with the spirits of the sand. But Nox didn't see spirits there—he saw a devil in every grain.
He passed between two granite cliffs, which met together at one point far ahead, a curved bridge of rock that some dared to traverse. From it hung at least a dozen broken, bird-pecked bodies, a warning from and to the rival gangs. Every time he passed beneath them, and it was often, the Coilhunter was reminded of a phrase General Rommond of the Resistance once told him: You hang your heroes. That way they'll never disappoint you. It also brought to mind his own retort: But what about your enemies? What about the villains? What do we do with those?
4 – THE BOUNTY BOOTH
It wasn't hard to find bounties in the Wild North. The Wanted posters were pasted everywhere, on the side of buildings, at the back of bars, right beside the finest whiskey. Hell, even the wind helped out sometimes, pasting the odd poster onto the prickles of a cactus. Then again, if you were on the poster, that wasn't helping at all. Told you the land was trying to get you.
If you wanted to cash in, though, well, you had to go somewhere special. That was the Bounty Booth, right on the easternmost edge of the Wild North, bordering Regime-controlled territory. It was barely a building at all, more like a ramshackle shed sitting out all by its lonesome in the empty expanse of the desert. The wood leant inwards, old and creaking.
The Coilhunter pulled up, leaning the monowheel to one side and kicking out the support stand. Old Mad Dead Jack's arm lopped forward, reaching out to graze the desert floor. You can't blame him for wanting to touch solid earth again. That'd be his home soon enough.
Nox stomped through his own well-worn tracks up to the front door, which looked a little lopsided, letting the whistling breeze in through a large crack in the corner. Nox liked his music, but you never quite got used to the tunes the weather made. They were always haunting.
Nox halted as soon as he opened the door just an inch. The smell was different.
No tobacco, he thought. That wasn't like Waltman.
The Coilhunter sniffed again, just to be sure. The sniff was augmented by the mask he wore, making it sound a little mechanical, and a little frightening.
He stepped in, pushing the door wide, almost forcing it off its hinges. That wasn't hard. This old shack could've been huffed and puffed away. That sniff almost did it. The door clattered off a pile of crates behind, shuddering. The man inside, standing behind the desk, shuddered too.
Not Waltman, Nox thought. Unless he got younger and prettier. That wasn't possible. The dry heat cracked the skin as much as it cracked the earth. But you were lucky if you got to age at all. There were a lot of young and pretty souls in heaven.
“Who are you?” Nox rasped, keeping his hand close to his side, hovering, fingers craving the sudden, swift sling of a gun.
That man who wasn't Waltman, who didn't smoke, and who hadn't yet been touched by the dry fingers of the desert, stared back from beneath his straw hat and black curls. He was new around here. You could tell. He didn't duck for cover for a start.
“Hardwell,” the man said. “Logan Har—”
“Where's Waltman?” the Coilhunter interrupted. He glanced around the room instinctively, looking for the body. There was always a body. If there wasn't, maybe it'd be you.
“I don't know.”
“See, that disappoints me. I prefer people who know things.”
“Well, I know things, but—”
“You're new.”
“Eh, yes, I am. Who're you?”
“That's how I know you're new.”
“Ah.”
“Comin' back to ya, eh?”
“Well, I was … warned about you. The Coilhunter, right?”
“If you're on the right side of the law, I'm just huntin' coils. If you're on the wrong side, well, I'll be huntin' you.”
“I'm just a bounty operator.”
“You're Waltman's replacement.”
“I guess.”
“And you don't know what happened to him.”
“No.”
“See, that'd worry me.”
“Why?”
“Well, wouldn't you like to know?”
“Know what?”
“Who replaces you.”
He knew that unnerved Hardwell, but that son of a gun never played ball. He might have had a young face, but right now it might as well have been granite.
“I've brought you somethin',” Nox said. He popped out, then hauled Old Mad Dead Jack inside, and let the body slump to the floor. That was the thing about the Bounty Booth. There was always a body.
“Ah,” Hardwell said.
“Consider it a welcome gift. You know, first day on the job.”
“Old Mad Jack?”
“He ain't gettin' any older now.”
“I think he was one hundred coils.” Hardwell rummaged through the piles of Wanted posters.
“I think you're right.”
“Let me just see if—”
“Let me just help you out there,” Nox said, pulling a rolled-up poster from his pocket. He tossed i
t to Hardwell, who fumbled with it until it struck the desk. He unfurled it to reveal Jack's ugly mug. It was a bit prettier than the one he had now though. And he wasn't smiling anymore.
“All seems to be in order,” Hardwell said. He pulled open a drawer and took out a bag of coils. He threw it towards the Coilhunter, who caught it with those lightning fast reflexes.
Nox paused, clutching the bag. “I don't do it for the money, you know.”
“I never said you did.”
No, Nox thought, but I can see you thinkin' it. They all thought it. After all, he was a bounty hunter. He was the Coilhunter. He never gave himself that name, but it stuck. It stuck like the criminals stuck to the Wild North, like the flies stuck to dung.
“For me, it's about justice,” Nox explained. He knew what Hardwell must be thinking: Why are you explaining yourself? He didn't need to, but he felt he should. Hell, he felt like his own kind of criminal for taking the money. But he needed that. There weren't enough of his type in these lands. He had to make up for it by being resourceful. You couldn't be that without resources.
“For us it's about justice too,” Hardwell replied. He straightened up his Regime uniform, that black leather with the red cross and black square on the shoulder, the mark of that new governing force in the south and the east, and heading west. It didn't touch the north, not here. This was Coilhunter territory. Hardwell hadn't learned that yet, because he was new. He was an Iron Empire man, one of those so-called “demons” that came from another realm. He looked pretty human to Nox, but to him that was not much better at all.
Nox humphed. It was only justice for them if it aligned with their plans. They had posters up for all sorts, not just the criminals. They had one of General Rommond, leader of the Resistance, and one of Taberah Cotten, his right-hand gal. Sometimes Nox would pull those posters down, just in case the other bounty hunters got their sights on them. Other times he didn't bother. Those two were tough. They could take care of themselves.
“I suppose I'll see you again some time,” Hardwell said. Seemed like he was trying to get rid of him. Nox couldn't help but think: maybe like he got rid of Waltman too.
“Sooner than you think,” Nox replied, spotting a new poster on the wall. It was a woman. You got your fair share of those up there too. But this one had a familiar name. Handcart Sally. She was known for robbing the mines in the east. Iron mines. Those were precious to the Iron Empire, so it was no surprise that they were offering a big reward for her, bigger than Old Mad Jack. It said Dead or Alive, but once the Coilhunter got on the trail, it might as well have just read Dead.
He yanked the poster from the wall and rolled it up.
“Got another one already?” Hardwell inquired.
“Yeah. Well, I haven't got her yet.”
He glanced at the line of faces as he left. There was old Rommond again, looking prim and proper, like he always did. And there was Taberah, looking fiery as ever. Yeah, they could take care of themselves. But this one, this Handcart Sally—well, the Coilhunter'd take care of her.
5 – THAT SAME DAMN JOURNEY
The sun was setting, which was a kind of mercy, but it wouldn't be long before it vanished altogether, letting the night take its place. You had to fend off the icy cold then, and whatever else came out of cracks in the earth.
Nox didn't know where to start with the search for Handcart Sally, but he usually went to the border towns first. There weren't many of those. Hell, there weren't many towns in the first place. There were dens all right, and hideaways, the kind of places the convicts holed up. But he needed a place to start, and people to ask. He had a special way of asking.
Yet this was Sunday evening, which meant it was getting close to a special day for the Coilhunter. Monday meant a lot to him, though not for the right reasons. No matter what he was doing, he dropped it all—contracts, bodies—to head far west, out of the no man's land of the Wild North and onto the dirt roads near Copperfort, one of the cities not yet taken by the Regime.
The night deepened, forcing him to turn on the headlights on the monowheel, powered by a big battery in the back. It was a faint light, and the battery wouldn't last for long, but in a world of steam and iron, this was a godsend. Pity there didn't seem to be any gods left to send more.
He bypassed Copperfort, where he knew he wasn't welcome, and carved a path through the unmarked roads of the desert. He'd carved those paths before, but the sands were always shifting. That was good for him, when he didn't want to be followed, but it was bad for him when he was following someone else. He had a good nose, and a great sense of direction, but he'd lost the trail before, when it really mattered. Regardless of where he was or what he was doing, he was always looking to find it again.
The journey was long, long enough that he had to bring an extra canister of diesel. You didn't want to get stuck out there, in day or night. He could already feel the monowheel getting sluggish, but he knew he wasn't far now. The air seemed to change when he got close. Maybe that was just the memories. Maybe it was something more.
He arrived at a small cemetery, untouched by grave-robbers, and largely untouched by the weather. The winds were less fierce here, the sun less oppressing, and the night air less piercing. Even the ground itself was better. This was near the farming lands, the few remaining patches of earth that got a little rain. It was why he brought them here. It kind of reminded him of how things used to be, before it all went bad, before it all crumbled apart.
He climbed off the monowheel and took something out of the box in the back, cradling it in his hands, keeping it away from the prying wind and the spying stars. There were a few out tonight. He always wondered if maybe, just maybe, that was them. It helped a bit, but not enough.
He walked into the graveyard, bordered with a little iron fence. His boots didn't thump down like they normally did. His stride was slow, and his footfalls were soft.
He knelt down before three graves, which got progressively smaller. They had little headstones, with little phrases on them that didn't seem to do them justice. Emma, beloved. That was on the biggest. And boy was she beloved. Not just by Nox. By everyone. You couldn't meet Emma and not fall in love with her. She was a farmer's daughter, tough and tender at the same time. She tilled the earth, and she tilled hearts too, helping some seeds of hope and love grow there. She made him a good man. Her death made him bad again.
He didn't have a rose to put there. Those were hard to come by now. Sometimes you had to hire a smuggler for them. But if he did have one, he knew that while laying it down upon the grave, he'd feel the thorns through his gloves.
He turned his attention to the second grave. Ambrose, a light doused too soon. She was a gentle girl, the kind that'd interrupt her mother's farming to pick up a little insect and bringing it to safety. She was fascinated by learning, and was often found asleep with her books. She knew all the names for the birds, knew all the types of fish. Hell, she even had names for the different types of clouds. She used to say that she wanted to be a professor when she grew up. Nox sighed. She never got the chance.
He turned to the last grave, the smallest yet. Aaron, dear wild wanderer. He was a curious boy, keen to explore. He didn't care to learn the names of rocks, but he wanted to climb them, and look out over the vast reaches, and then hike out to those other places he spotted from the heights. This caused Nox and Emma all kinds of worry, as he'd often disappear for a day or two in his travels. That child was happy with his own company. Nox hoped that wherever he was wandering at the moment, he was happy now.
He uncupped his hands, revealing a miniature monowheel, made up of little pipes and bits of wood and metal. Aaron used to ask him for one just like his, so he could travel farther, see more places. He wanted to explore the world. Nox refused, fearing the child would get into mischief, or get lost somewhere, or never come back. None of that mattered now.
He gave a sigh, echoed by the wind. H
e laid the toy down upon the grave. Perhaps the ghosts would play with it.
It'd been three years since it happened, and it never got any better. Time was supposed to heal wounds, and maybe somewhere else it did. But in this world, Altadas, it just seemed to make things fester.
He made that journey every week, without stop. It used to be every day, when the pain was raw, before it scabbed over with vengeance, before he buried it with the dead. Every week was enough. Enough to remember them by. Enough to reignite the anger. Enough to then forget a little before he did it all over again.
Forgetting was like ointment. But for him it only dulled the pain. It was still there, beneath the surface, beneath the cracks and crags, waiting.
“I'll find him,” he said. “I'll find who did this. I'll keep searchin'.” He paused, taking a deep breath, letting it rattle out of the mask with a puff of grey smoke. “I'll keep huntin'.”
6 – BAD FOR BUSINESS
The journey back to the Wild North was always quicker. Maybe it was because he was trying to get away from the pain. Maybe it was because he was keen to inflict some of his own. He thought of himself as a noble man, though perhaps his own kind of noble. It meant he couldn't just take it out on anyone. They had to be bad. Good for him that the Wild North was full of bad.
There was a small shanty town on the border, with one foot on either side. Some say “the best of both worlds,” but if both worlds are bad, maybe you just end up with the worst of both. They called it Edgetown, and living there was like living on the edge. They got fierce sandstorms, and often had to lock themselves in their cellars. When they emerged, those rickety wooden buildings were even more broken and battered than before.
Coilhunter - A Science Fiction Western Adventure (A Coilhunter Chronicles Novel) (The Coilhunter Chronicles Book 1) Page 2
