The trader made a series of unintelligible cries and gurgles as Nox tightened the grip around his throat. His hat blew off in the next puff of smoke from Nox's mask.
“Spare me!” he pleaded. “I'll give you anything! Oh, spare me, please!”
“There's nothin' in this heap of junk I want,” the Coilhunter replied, taking his hand off the man's throat to gesture around. As he did, he saw all the random pipework, the mismatching grails, the netting full of random objects, and several crates of medical supplies. He paused.
“Those,” he said. “Do they have antivenom?”
The trader seemed surprised. “Uh … of course, love! This is the Wild North, after all!”
Nox sheathed his gun and leapt over to the crates. He dragged them down and opened all of them, pulling out the vials of antivenom and strapping them to his belt. It was more than he had at home.
“I don't want to know where you got these.”
“Genuine business, plum, I promise!”
Nox scoffed. “I'm sure.”
He prepared to leave, then spotted what looked like a special multi-purpose tool he'd devised to speed up repair work on vehicles, one that went missing from his workshop over a year ago. He tossed it in his hand and eyed the trader, who said nothing.
“You should join the Clockwork Commune,” Nox said. “You'd be right at home.”
“Why, I haven't got a home. Always moving.”
“Always runnin', more like. I never got your name. Just in case I see it on a poster some time.”
The trader hesitated. “Porridge. I never got yours.”
“I'm just a man with a mission.”
He kicked open the door and leapt down into the sand, tumbling down a dune. The copter veered off, and the Coilhunter reclaimed his stolen vehicle, giving it a once-over for damage. It was mostly cosmetic. He was lucky it didn't end up as part of the trader's vessel, or as another brick in the scrapyard walls of Rust Valley.
He fired up the monowheel and sped off, back into the wastelands that he had walked before. He pushed the vessel to its limits, knowing he didn't have that much time. He'd already lost too much.
He arrived at the patch of land where the unmarked grave was still noticeably fresh. He dug with a frenzy, exposing Handcart Sally's poor face. She often had a bit of soot on it from the mines, but now she had the soot of the grave. He pulled her out, jabbing her with the first vial of antivenom before she was even fully out. He tried another, and a third, before he even waited to see if they had any effect. The scorpion venom was slow, but he'd been slow to come back too. There was an antidote to the sting, but there was no antidote to death.
“Come on,” he whispered, gently tapping her face. She seemed quite peaceful. Maybe he wasn't doing her much of a mercy at all by trying to bring her back. Everyone wanted to live forever, but not in Hell, and to many the Wild North was just that. It even had the red sands.
He felt for a pulse, pulling off his glove to get a better sense. If it was there, it was weaker than his coarse fingertips could pick up. He tried another two vials. He didn't want to overdo it, or the antivenom would become a poison of its own.
To his shock, she stirred.
He gave her some water from his canister. She opened her eyes and gave a gentle moan. She seemed groggy. Nox supposed the sleep of death was a bit harder to wake from. If only it was this easy to wake everyone.
“What happened?” she asked.
“You were tellin' me about your hopes.”
She blinked.
“You didn't quite finish what you were sayin'.” He shrugged. “I had to bring you back to hear the rest. You could say I'm a sucker for knowin' how it all ends.”
She gave a faint smile. “I'm glad it didn't end like this.”
But Nox didn't smile, and he was sure she saw it in his eyes. He didn't say anything, but his thoughts rang out loud and clear: Don't be too happy. It might end worse.
32 – WORKSHOP
They left the wastelands, a little happier and more relieved than when they entered, but Waltman's revelation played on the Coilhunter's mind as they travelled. He cycled through the list of bounty hunters he knew. Some of them were dead. He hoped this one, the killer of his family, was still alive, so that he could kill him himself.
He drove through the yellow sands, where the sun reared its ugly eye again, and into the red ones, while the sun began to fade. Sally was still weak and groggy. She moaned periodically, especially when the sun tried to finish her off. Nox had to stop twice to make small repairs to the monowheel and refill the tank with the two diesel cans strapped to either side of the box.
In time, they arrived at the Canyon Crescent, though by now it was so black that he had to guide the vehicle with the faint front lights, and a bit of muscle memory, and a dash of intuition. The cold came out to hug their once roasting bodies, forcing them to sit a little closer to the vehicle's engine. Sally wrapped her arms around Nox for warmth and faded off into a restless slumber, where she would shiver every so often. He wasn't sure if it was from the cold or from whatever venom was still in her veins.
He followed the winding paths of the canyon, down slopes, around sharp bends. The red walls flew by in a haze, seen only in a fleeting glance of the headlights. The monowheel tilted here and there, turning down narrow channels in the rockface, until finally he slowed to a halt in a cavern that was barricaded up with large metal doors.
Sally stirred, blinking sleepily and murmuring to herself. It reminded Nox of how little Aaron used to wake. He was such a dreamer, it took him a long time to come back to the real world, with its cactus pricks ready to burst all hopes and dreams. Maybe in Sally's sleep, she dreamt the world wasn't withered, that she wasn't indebted to a ganglord, that her sister wasn't making a living in a whorehouse. Nox never dreamed like that. He only ever seemed to have nightmares.
“Where are we?” Sally asked, climbing off the monowheel. She almost faltered.
“Home,” Nox said, pulling open some of the latches on the door. “Of a sort.”
The great door creaked open, revealing a network of chambers etched into the rock, all man-made and reinforced with metal. Sally was used to mines, but nothing like this. It was a colossal workshop, filled with machinery, with tools carefully organised on the walls, and shelves full of little toy contraptions.
“Wow,” she said. “You live here?”
Nox ushered Sally in, then went back for the monowheel. He parked it inside and closed the door behind. For a moment, everything went black. Then a motor kicked in and a series of lights came on, lining the top of the walls.
“Is that … electricity?” Sally asked.
“Yes.”
“I've never seen it up close before. Well, at a fair once, but I thought maybe it was a trick.”
“Everything's a trick, of sorts.”
“How do you make it?”
“I have windmills up on the top of the cliff. When we get sandstorms, they generate enough electricity for a month. I haven't figured out how to use it in vehicles yet, not in a reliable way anyhow.”
“Amazin'.”
“I suppose.”
“It is. Really.”
Sally approached a series of shelves lined with toys. There was even a little metal windmill, which must have been like the ones perched on the cliff above. She reached towards them, but the Coilhunter charged in swiftly, swatting her hand away.
“Don't,” he barked.
“Why? What's wrong?”
“Just don't.”
“I've never seen anything like these. Did you make 'em?”
Nox turned away, walking further into the next cavern. He said nothing.
“Nox?” she called after him. She followed him into the next room, where there was a kind of landship, heavily modified. It looked incomplete. Parts and tools were scattered
around it.
Nox continued through the next door.
“Why won't you tell me about your toys?” she probed.
He stopped. “Because those don't matter now. Not for this.” He continued on, revealing another room, lined wall to wall with weapons. “These are the ones that matter now.”
33 – PREPARATION
The Coilhunter barely rested that night. He toiled on his weapons and gadgets, taking two machine guns meant for his as-yet-unfinished landship and attaching them to the monowheel instead. Nothing quite beat that beast for speed. He thought that now that he was getting close to the prey, he'd need speed the most.
“How're you gonna find 'im?” Sally asked. She was feeling a lot better now, and looked it too. It seemed a good snooze in a grave did some people a world of good. For others, for the criminals, it just did the world good.
“I have my ways.”
“So you do.”
“There's the Deadmakers for a start.”
“Oh,” she said. “Them.”
“One of 'em is bound to know something.”
“Why?”
“That's the who's who of the bounty huntin' world. Anyone who's anyone'll be there.”
“Why aren't you?”
“'Cause I don't wanna be. They invited me, but I turned 'em down. They're in it for the wrong reasons. I don't wanna be in a killer's club.”
“No,” she said. “You wanna be alone.”
He said nothing.
“Is this you?” she asked, holding up a newspaper clipping. It showed a black and white photograph of him with his wife and kids, labelled: Nathaniel Osley Xander and his loving family. Those were the kind of words that could've been etched on a tombstone. They might still.
He snatched the paper from her and put it away. He fought the urge to carry it with him. He thought maybe it might get rumpled or ripped. It was the only picture of them all together. He remembered the day well, when he was being celebrated as the local jack-of-all-trades for Loggersridge, having helped turn the town into a mechanical wonder, with its own steam-powered train, and lots of miniature ones for the children. He gulped down the thought and wiped the memory away with a tear.
He waited until Sally was well on the mend, giving it the better part of the next day. Otherwise, he would have already been off. He was itching to go, just like his fingers were itching to hit the triggers. He locked up his workshop and dropped Sally off outside the Burg, giving her a bag of coils to tide her over.
“What about Blood Johnson?” she asked.
“Don't you worry about him.”
“I might have to. What if you don't come back from your little huntin' party?”
“Don't you worry about me.”
“Not to seem selfish or anything, but I'm kinda worried about myself.”
Given everything they'd been through, and the fact she was still standing, he wasn't that concerned. Fate'd taken a shine to her. “I think you'll do just fine.”
“Well, I guess this is goodbye.”
He revved the engine. “I guess it is.”
“My hopes,” she said, pausing.
“What's that?”
“Before … y'know. I was gonna say somethin'.”
“Yes.”
“I hope you don't just find that killer. I hope you find some peace.”
He tipped his hat to her, then pressed hard on the accelerator. For now, all he wanted was the killer. He thought maybe to find peace, he'd have to fight a war.
34 – THE DEADMAKERS' DEN
The Deadmakers' Den didn't have a location. It travelled around the Wild North, so no one except the Deadmakers themselves knew where it was supposed to be. It crawled across the desert on gigantic metal treads, travelling under the veil of night, acting as a hideaway for the elite bounty hunters during the day. It was a place of outcasts, and yet the Coilhunter was an outcast even to them. Though he'd been invited to join their exclusive club, where they would share tales of prized bounties, and sometimes contribute human trophies to the Den's Museum of Kills, he shunned them, finding no glory in the job, just duty.
Danny Deadmaker himself was there that night, lounging back in his great sofa, pipe in hand, gin in the other. He was adorned in black from head to toe, a little like a priest's attire, which gave rise to the idea that he was there to administer anyone's last rights. A priest might have done it with a holy book, but Danny Deadmaker did it with a pistol and a grin. His beard and moustache were as black as his clothes, and maybe his soul was blacker still.
Then there was Long-eyed Lizzy, with her augmented eyepiece, permanently attached to her skull. They said she could see a mile away with that, though Nox had his doubts. What he couldn't deny though was that she could see farther than him. She was the go-to bounty hunter for a quiet kill. By the time the victim fell, she was already long gone. She often came back to the Den to boast about the latest distance. She always seemed to be in competition, but only with herself. No matter where she went, or who she was chasing, she always wore a dress. “A gal can be a killer and still be pretty,” she often said. There was nothing like saying it with a skirt and a gun.
Then there was TNT Tom, Danny's father and the oldest of the Den-goers at close to a hundred. Somehow he'd escaped death, though the sun left many scars in the wrinkles of his skin. He hadn't let many escape himself, so sometimes they called him the Flycatcher. He could barely walk now, but this was probably due more to the crates of explosives he carried around with him. His art wasn't in the draw of the gun, but in luring his target into a trap. They usually couldn't walk after that either.
Then there was Iron Ike, a clockwork construct made to resemble, for the most part, a man. He was made of iron pipes and pistons, with copper rivets holding it all in place. No one was quite sure who made him, or if he wasn't really just a spy for the Clockwork Commune, but he worked like the rest of them, hunting the wanted, killing the marked, and when he was here in the Den, he rested and played like the rest of them too. For a place of outcasts and oddballs, he really did fit in.
Then there was Gold-barrel Jane, with her ponytail of auburn hair, tight trousers, and antique Treasury-forged gun. It was so old, it often jammed, but it was her signature piece, and she made it work more often than not. She was the newbie of the group, finding her way amongst the lawmakers of a lawless land. There were rumours she was the daughter of a Treasury duke, that this was her little rebellion. Some came to the Wild North to hide, others to make a dirty fortune, but some came to feel alive. It was always when you were close to death that you felt it most.
Then there was the Coilhunter, standing at the door, hands hovering over his revolvers, ready to draw, even more ready to shoot. It was almost as if he had just appeared there, and so it might have seemed to even the other bounty hunters, for he came in a haze of smoke, which was like the prelude of a smoking gun.
“Nox,” Danny Deadmaker said, surprised. He sat up, attentive. He wasn't used to that, not in here. This was a place where you didn't have to look over your shoulder, but not tonight. “What brings you here?”
The Coilhunter's eyes were cold, even colder than theirs. The black smoke exploded out of the vent of his mask like that smoke that hung over a funeral pyre. He looked at them each in turn, one by one, marking them off on a list, drawing their faces on the posters of his mind.
“Waltman sent me.”
“Waltman's dead,” Long-eyed Lizzy said. For all her augmentation, she didn't see him coming.
“I know,” Nox replied, “and one o' you is gonna join 'im.”
35 – THAT DANGEROUS DRAW
There's nothing more dangerous than drawing a gun on a bounty hunter. That was something many criminals learned the hard way. It was quite something then when Nox drew both revolvers on the crowded room, and they, just as quick, drew theirs.
“Now, Nox,” Danny said, ne
rvous. His own pistol wasn't quite as steady as it should have been. He'd blame the drink, of course, but neck oil didn't make his fingers slip.
“What is this about?” Iron Ike asked in his usual dull, monotonous tone. He pointed a shotgun in the Coilhunter's direction, without a hint of unsteadiness.
Nox had one gun pointed at Danny and the other roaming from target to target. Each of them in turn reacted as it got to them, cocking their own guns, pointing them more forcefully.
“You know what it's about,” Nox said. “Or at least you should, Danny.”
Danny Deadmaker sat up. “Why me?”
“Why not?” Nox moved his roaming hand to his coat pocket, slowly. Any sudden movements could set off all those trained trigger fingers. He used one finger to pull out the slip of paper that contained Waltman's code and flicked it into the centre of the room. It swung in the air like a feather, landing face up.
“I don't get it,” Danny said.
“You know that code as good as I do.”
“Sure. Is that not code for you?”
“Or you. Or her. Or him. Or all of you together.” The travelling gun bobbed from one to another. The bullets almost begged for release.
Danny still seemed confused, so Nox made it nice and simple for him. “Waltman found out that the killer was a bounty hunter.”
“The killer?”
“Of my family!” Nox roared.
The guns trembled. They knew how close he was to firing. They knew that even with a dozen guns pointed at him, he could take out a dozen of them before his body hit the ground. There were score charts in the Den, and some of them had the Coilhunter at the top, even though he wasn't a member. He was the one to beat. They never thought that maybe he was the one to kill.
“One of us?” Gold-barrel Jane asked. It likely wasn't her. She was too young, too fresh, too new to the game. She was also late to draw. She'd learn soon enough you couldn't do that too many times.
Coilhunter - A Science Fiction Western Adventure (A Coilhunter Chronicles Novel) (The Coilhunter Chronicles Book 1) Page 11
