by Greg Dragon
The sun was rising in brilliant glory and the ranger knew it wouldn’t be long before the northern riders were on their trail. He cleaned and checked his guns. Antonia sat close, leaning against him. Neither spoke, simply taking comfort in the closeness of the other.
Antonia heard them first. Austin thought she was mistaken but she was sure. After a few moments, the ranger also heard the gentle thud of horses. It was low and approaching. Both prepared their weapons, then the thuds became less and went away all together.
“They’ve reached the edge of the city and now ride slowly,” said Antonia. “They have found our trail.”
Austin stared silently down the old street for what seemed like hours before the unmistakable Stormbringer rode his horse carefully around the corner at the end of the long street. He wore a blanket over his shoulders and carried javelins in one hand while the other held the horse’s reins. Five other riders followed behind them, all attired like their leader, covered in paint, cruelty, and old wounds.
Austin touched Antonia lightly. “I’ll take the one in front, you take the one in the rear. Wait for me to fire the first shot, then shoot as fast as you can. Understand?”
She nodded back and incredibly winked at him before turning to watch the enemy approach.
The raiders walked slowly gazing at the ground, masters at gathering information from the earth. Austin could see that several of the riders’ wounds were new, surely from the previous day’s battle. Stormbringer’s face was stern and twisted with concentration as they moved into the trap.
Austin slowly raised his rifle and aimed at the big leader in the front, but at the last second, as the ranger was squeezing the trigger, the barbarian looked up and saw Austin. He turned away as the bullet tore into his shoulder instead of his chest. A feathered shaft appeared in the neck of the last rider. Austin chambered another round as the riders milled about below them.
They both fired several more times until there was no movement below except a few riderless horses and some dying men. Austin counted the dead bodies. Only five. He counted again, still only five. Stormbringer was missing.
“Shit,” he said turning to Antonia. “You stay here and watch the stairs, I’ll be back.” She started to protest, but he silenced her with one look. He set the rifle aside, drew his revolver and stepped into the dark passageway.
He knew the man was wounded and losing blood, he could just wait until the raider died on his own and track him. The idea was tempting, but Austin was afraid the rider would continue to track their trail to Ginger and once mounted again might outrun them. He needed to find Stormbringer now.
The raider was certainly cunning and clever. Austin moved around each corner carefully, expecting to see the big man at each landing he descended, but soon he was at the street and saw nothing. The ranger whirled in all directions. Bodies were sprawled out, but he did not see the leader. He ran to where Stormbringer and his mount had fallen and saw a pool of blood. There was a light blood trail leading away from the street towards the building they had sprung the ambush from, but the trail did not lead to the stairs, instead it went up the side of the building.
Austin looked up in time to see Strombringer lift himself over the ledge far above into the room where Antonia waited.
“Watch out!” yelled Austin, but he heard her scream and a cruel laugh before the words were completely out of his mouth. He raced back up the stairs as fast as he could. He heard struggling and hard blows. Austin charged into the room with his pistol stretched out before him.
Stormbringer stood near the window with a near unconscious Antonia in his grip, a knife to her throat. Austin had a sense of déjà vu remembering her at the well the day before. Stormbringer grinned at him moving his head around behind the woman’s.
“You gonna shoot me like you shoot my man?” the raider asked with a smile.
“Let’s work something out,” said Austin.
“Parley?” asked Stormbringer, “I’m dying ranger, no parley.”
Austin moved slowly closer, his pistol steady and true looking for an opening. Antonia’s eyes fluttered and locked on Austin’s. “Okay, what then?”
Stormbringer kept moving his head around, preventing the ranger from getting a clear shot. “I’m ready to go to the land of my ancestors. They will greet me with open arms and much celebration. But I will not go alone. I will take this witch with me to keep me company at night.”
“No!” screamed Austin as he rushed forward firing, but the big man clinched the knife tightly in his hand and drew it deliberately and strongly across her soft throat. Blood spurted out of her neck and she slumped from Stormbringer’s dying grip.
Austin dropped his smoking pistol and gathered Antonia in his arms cradling her head. She looked up at him trying to speak, but no words emerged. Much too fast the bleeding slowed to a trickle and her eyes started to fade.
Tears stood in the ranger’s eyes and he pulled the woman close to him. He whispered in her ear, “You’re free, your own woman, no one’s slave.” Her eyes regained a glimmer of consciousness and looked at him. A slight smile appeared on her face before she slipped away for good.
The ranger sat in the dead city holding his love as the world ended again.
***
The town now looked odd somehow. Austin was entering New Hope by almost the exact same route, but it was different than before and so was he.
He rode Ginger forward slowly into the deserted street. Six ponies each carrying a severed Red Horde head followed along behind by a lead rope. He had buried Antonia in the dead city that morning. It somehow seemed fitting and wasn’t right to bring her back to the place of her bondage. Austin worked a rawhide rope in his hands as he rode through the hot dusty town.
Loud words came from the saloon where all the men must be gathered. A runner had surely gone to Devon’s Valley following the victory, but the rest of the town and their herds wouldn’t be back for several days.
“...I saved us all,” Austin heard the unmistakable voice of Tel.
“We saved us,” said someone who might be Edgar, “along with the ranger and no thanks to you!”
“How dare you speak to me like that!” replied the mayor.
“And what about the reverend?” asked someone else. “Those bastards killed him for no reason other than to speak to them the Lord’s Word.”
“Reverend Timmons’ passing is a tragedy, but he dug his grave years ago and hasn’t been sane since his wife died, you all know that,” cried out Tel pleading.
Austin had heard enough. He rode Ginger right up the stairs of the saloon, dropping the lead rope of the ponies behind him. The ranger had to duck his head to get in under the doorway and when he raised it back up again saw shocked and silent faces. Austin stared at them all in disdain and hatred.
He swung his leg over to dismount, but saw Tel signal his big goon who rushed forward at the ranger. Austin let go of the saddle letting himself fall on his back onto the floor drawing his pistol as he went down. The big man was nearly on top of him when Austin shot him in the face, blood and gore exploding all over the ranger. He slowly pushed what was left of the dead man off of him and stood up.
The ranger strode deliberately over to the now cowering mayor and backhanded him across the face with his heavy revolver. Tel fell to the floor in a heap. Austin holstered his bloody pistol and retrieved the rope on Ginger he had worked into a noose. Austin tossed the noose over a rafter near the bar and then placed the noose around the mayor’s neck.
“Now ranger—“ said someone in the crowd.
Austin whirled on them with finger pointing. “The next man who speaks a word is dead.”
He turned back and grabbed the end of the rope and walked over to tie it securely to Ginger’s saddle horn, taking up all the slack. Then he backed the horse up towards the door.
The mayor seemed to come awake and began frantically pulling at the rope around his neck furtively. He was yanked to his feet and then with another backward
s step of the horse into the air. Tel stared at them with wide terrified eyes that threatened to pop out of his skull. His feet kicked frantically in the air and he made muffled sounds. Austin rolled and lit a cigarette.
After several long minutes Tel stopped struggling and simply hung limp, his hands at his side. Austin deliberately finished his cigarette before leading Ginger forward to drop the mayor onto the plank wooden floor in a meaty dead pile. He untied the end of the rope from the saddle horn and tossed it over on top of the mayor’s body.
“You,” Austin pointed at a random man, “take my horse and feed, water, and rub her down. You,” he pointed to another, “take those other horses out there and do the same, stake the heads at the north road trenches.” The man looked confused, but Austin went on, “the rest of you get these pieces of filth,” he indicated the mayor and his goon, “out into the desert. Strip them naked so the scavengers can have them. Anyone tries to give them a burial will regret it.” The men stared at him silently without moving before Edgar went over to the mayor and removed the rope from around his neck breaking everyone’s paralysis. The others soon followed.
All the men were eager to get away from the ranger, and nearly out of the saloon when Austin saw Mister Elder. “You! Bring me beer and lots of it, and then begone.”
The barkeep hurried down into the cold cellar and brought up four earthen jugs, nearly dropping several in his haste. He set them down in front of the ranger and practically ran out the front swinging doors.
The ranger popped the cork from a jug and drank in the cool quiet stillness, alone with his thoughts.
***
“Sure you don’t want to stay?” asked Edgar.
Austin finished strapping his gear down on Ginger. He turned to the smith with a wry smile. “You don’t mean that. The harvest festival is in a few weeks and the people of this town can’t wait for me to be gone and get back to some sense of normality.”
Edgar nodded. “True enough I guess.” The town had made the smith its new mayor and he appeared to be taking his leadership role seriously. He reached out to shake hands with the ranger. “Thanks for everything, if we have any more trouble with the Red Horde, we’ll send for you.”
“No you won’t,” said Austin swinging up into the saddle. “You know what to do now. Don’t send for help, help yourselves.”
Edgar simply nodded, “Yeah...”
Austin tipped his hat at the smith and rode Ginger south out of town leading one of Stormbringer’s horses as a remount. The town’s people stopped what they were doing to stare at him silently, but Austin ignored them. He wanted nothing more than to be away from these people. He began galloping out of town past the herds of sheep, goats, and gawking shepherds.
“Being a lawman’s no kinda life,” his father had said and he was right. But Austin Reynolds knew no other.
He rode dead south straight into the heart of the lifeless old city, no longer afraid of its ghosts.
The End
Find many more Ryan King stories on his Amazon page: http://www.amazon.com/Ryan-King/e/B0070D7BFW
The Protectors
by
Ryan King
I was born in the Dust Year, exactly twenty years after the Great Plague, when my mother was born. This December I’ll be sixteen and able to Take the Chit if I want. Not that we’re that bad off since Mother knows how to sew, but plenty of girls have.
“Get back to work, Teal,” hissed Mother under her breath, not even daring to look up at me. Reaper, the Protector assigned to watch us leaned against a nearby wall, his long whip curled around his massive tattooed neck.
Plunging my hands back down into the rich earth, I pulled out weeds carefully avoiding the tender shoots of carrots. I could feel the other women and girls around me. We communicated in subtle ways. Miriam who supposedly was once a math teacher, whatever that is, moved casually as if to tend the melons, but we all discretely spied her shadow. It was almost lined up with the first corn stalk. When that happened we would get a break for lunch. Most of the women would go to other assigned tasks, but Mother and I would return home to work on clothes for our fellow Newton residents or possibly a new order from the Shriekers.
I stole a glance at the Protector. The Shriekers were once a road gang back when there were such things. You could still see the rusting relicts of their motorcycles in front of the courthouse if you liked. It wasn’t simply the fact that gasoline was as scarce as to be nearly mythical, but except for the small roads and tracks around town, it would be suicidal to travel at any speed on the old highways. Those long wide roads were covered in thick layers of kudzu that was nearly a foot deep and to ride a bike on them would be impossible. The motorcycles were worthless for anything more than a monument to the Shriekers’, now our Protectors, earlier days.
“Alright,” said Reaper staring at one of the few functioning watches strapped to his beefy arm, “that’s it for Morning Shift, my little doves. Take your breaks and then report for Afternoon Shift.”
We all stood as one and moved to the fenced-in garden’s one exit, all of us funneled into a single line and consciously avoiding Reaper’s gaze. Even so he slapped us all lightly on the butt with his whip as we departed, the closest thing to affection this man is probably capable of, I imagine. Cringing as he slaps Mother’s rear, I prepared to walk through myself. Reaper’s arm reached out to block my way. Instinctively, I stood there still and silent, so like a rabbit under a circling hawk, hardly daring to even draw breath.
“Look at me, little dove,” he grumbled.
Reluctantly I raised my eyes up to his oversized shaved head. Cruel eyes and a wicked smile greeted me. He licked his lips.
“You’re about ripe there, my little tomato,” he said. “Come see me first if you decide to Take a Chit. I treat all my girls good, you’ll see.” As if to prove it to me he reached out and caressed one of my small breasts lightly showing me his gentleness.
I felt Mother tense in front of me, but I dared not look at her. Technically, it was against the Code for a Protector to touch a girl in such a way if she hadn’t taken the Chit, but who was there to complain to?
I nodded and forced a weak smile.
He removed his hand from the front of my course shirt and slapped my ass with his coiled up whip. “Get along then, my little cherry tomato.”
Forcing myself not to run, I walked out of the garden and Mother fell in beside me. I could tell she wanted to talk about what just happened, but what was there to say?
It didn’t take us long to walk home. Newton was once a much larger town, but after the Great Plague and the Black Years, every home and building outside of a quarter mile circle was burned to the ground. The reasoning of burning the dead bodies and their numerous scavengers while making it easier to defend the town against road gangs, had certainly made sense at the time. Now we understood it also made it easier for The Shriekers to control the dwindled and traumatized population.
We recognized faces as everyone returned to their homes or the Dormitory after Morning Shift. Few people spoke although it was allowed. We limited our interactions to brief nods or light waves of our hands. Several pretty girls strolled more casually with no regard for time as they did not have to work outside of the Shrieker House. They wore a round chit of wood around their neck by a cord. On the wood was a symbol corresponding to the Shrieker they were “mated” with. Several of the women wore chits upon which the original symbol had obviously been scratched out and changed, evidence that they had been traded for something or someone.
Mother crossed to the other side of the street as she always did when we approached her own mother’s old bridal shop. The actual dresses were all gone. Lace and veils had been taken to cover broken windows, satin long ago gone to bind wounds or sores. Peering through shattered windows you could see dusty floors littered with naked female manikins, many of them defaced by paint or knife.
I still liked to gaze in there and see the faded pictures on walls. The women seeme
d too clean and healthy and happy in their unearthly white dresses. Nothing was truly white anymore, not even the clouds. I imagine that if I could glimpse an angel, it would closely resemble one of these women. Grandpa assured me that it was not uncommon for women to dress this way for something called a wedding, but I had learned to disregard much of what the old man said. It wasn’t that I doubted its truth, the information simply wasn’t useful.
“My mother taught me to sew,” Mother said suddenly.
I was so startled I almost stopped walking. It was unusual for her to talk about anything that was not absolutely necessary. “You told me once,” I finally respond.
Mother’s eyes were distant. “She was already sick by then. Grandmother and my brother all died from the Plague, but she had something else.”
“The Small Pox?” I ask with a shudder.
Mother shook her head. “No, it was another disease. Doesn’t matter. She knew she only had a limited amount of time left and wanted to teach me what she could.”
“Had the Shriekers come yet?” I was always eager for information of those days.
“Not yet,” she said, “although we were under near constant attack by other road gangs and lunatics. Even what was left of the army came through once and took all we had. We were still struggling to find our way. I think most people at the time were surprised they were still alive and figured it was only a matter of time before they weren’t. There were still so many bodies and rats and wild dogs, you dared not go into a strange house or building even if there might be food hidden away.”
“Was this after everyone had to eat other people?” I asked without thinking.
She looked at me sharply. “You know it was. This was after the Year of Despair. Let’s not talk about that,” she said and picked up her pace.
