Gunner holstered the gun and stuck a cheroot in his mouth, striking a match off his palm to light it. The Baron strolled over, an impressed look on her face.
"Not too shabby."
He grunted. "Taking the wind out of a bag of hot air? Nothing to brag about."
"Well, as I said—I'll look into things for you. I guess you'll be staying in Town for a while."
"Just long enough to recover my Steed, then I'm gone."
"Might take a day or two. I think I have a room available upstairs. I'll give you an advance on it if you're interested."
"How do you know I can pay you back?"
The Baron smiled. "I get the feeling you'll find a way to enrich yourself pretty quickly around here." She handed him a pile of bulls. "Speaking of, these are for you—your cut of the bets. Winner gets a percentage. Consider it a perk of staying alive."
"Thanks. I'll consider the room. For now, I think I'll explore the Town a bit."
"Suit yourself. I'll see you around."
"Yeah. Thanks for the drinks."
He strode away, aware of the eyes watching him, gossip rippling through the crowds like wildfire. He ignored it, going only a few paces before furtive movement caught his eye. He stopped, squinting. A small figure crouched under the blistered deck of the inn across the street. The face was mostly obscured by a wide hood shadowing the features, but Gunner glimpsed gray, mottled skin and yellow eyes that flashed, reflecting the light. The figure caught his gaze and quickly scampered further under the deck, vanishing in the darkness.
Exhaling a stream of smoke, Gunner took a last look before continuing along his way, striding further into the dusty heart of the Town.
Chapter 3: Preacher of Righteousness
Paradise Inn was a half-crumbling ruin of singed wood barely held together by hastily erected rusty structural beams. The proprietor was a short man, stout in stature with a shiny bald head and a kindly look in his eyes when he looked up from the stove in the corner.
"Sorry, stranger. Place ain't open yet. Still renovating."
Gunner placed a gold bullion card on the counter. "For a room and meals. And conversation."
Roscoe's eyes gleamed when he picked the card up. "For a gold bull, you can have my room. It's the only one worth a damn in this dive. Take it as long as you like. What do I call you?"
"Gunner."
"I'm Roscoe Gibbs, the latest proprietor of this here Paradise Inn."
"The latest?"
"Property switches hands often in this Town. You probably noticed it looks like somebody tried to burn the place to cinders. And you're right—it was firebombed by the Judge's thugs when the last owner got behind on his protection payments. No one else was in a hurry to claim the property, so I made a lowball bid and got it for a song."
Gunner removed his duster coat and hat, setting them on the seat of a rickety old chair and eased himself onto a bench that creaked ominously under his weight. "What makes you think you won't fare the same way as the last owner?"
"I'm no drunk and not a bad gambler, so I reckon I'll do just fine. The interior might not look like much. Exterior, either. But I got a solarium in the back where I'll grow fresh produce and tobacco. The fusion reactor managed to escape damage, so I got power to spare. Got a deal with a bootlegger for my liquor, so all that's left is a little renovation. I can rent a few robots to do the bulk of that. Shouldn't take more than a week before I'm open for business."
He set a bowl of steaming stew in Gunner's hands. "What brings you to the Town? I figure you for a gunman looking for work. Yeah—you got that hard glint in your eyes and steel in your step like you know how to throw lead with the best of 'em. You a Nimrod? Fugitive? Bank robber? Or just one of those jack of all trades?"
"I got robbed by Waingrow and his crew yesterday. I want my Steed and guns back."
Roscoe shook his head. "That's more trouble than it's worth. You can get a new Steed and new guns. Can't get your life back, though. Waingrow is one of the Judge's main hands. Ranges back and forth robbing folks and brings the spoils to the Judge. They call him the Bushwhacker. He's actually pretty reasonable for a bandit, but it ain't wise to get on his bad side."
Gunner spoke between bites of hot stew. "Seems like everything runs through the Judge around here. I'm guessing he must have pretty deep pockets."
"Oh, yeah. Got rich somewhere in banking somewhere in Arkansas. Way I hear it, he stole all his customer's money and made his way across the Territories until he shook the dogs off his tail. He muscled his way in here, established himself as the de facto mayor, and taxes every enterprise in the Town. Took a hefty share off the blood shard trade too before that dried up."
"I talked to the Baron earlier. She seems to think the Judge is to blame for chasing the blood shard business off."
"There's a lot of blame to go around. Don't be fooled by the Baron's civilized exterior. Inside, she's as cold and mean as the worst of them. You didn't hear that from me, by the way."
"Won't be the first time someone hid their face behind a mask. What's her position here? Does she work for the Judge?"
"The Baron? She'd say she works with the Judge. And that's about the right of it. The Judge has the manpower, runs the guns, and controls the currency, but the Baron oversees the operations of the Town. It's because of her that the place hasn't been run into the ground."
"How's that?"
"She got the mines running again. Got some labcoats in here to overhaul the generator to use lithium synthesis again so the town can keep running once the blood shards ran out. That's the loud sound you hear coming from the old mill. Makes a helluva racket, but no one complains. Beats the hell outta not having power."
"And Marshal Wylie? He's in her pocket from the looks of it."
"Yeah, he's her right-hand man."
"What about the Sheriff?"
"Dead. Random shootout, or so it was made to look."
"You don't think so?"
"He was the Judge's man. With him gunned down, the Judge takes another hit."
"Another?"
"The Judge has been on the receiving end of some pretty bad luck lately. His people are dropping like flies. Just a few weeks back, his favorite nephew went and got shot by some Nimrod he was trying to get saucy with. Well, the Judge didn't like that too much, so he sent a whole squad of his men to chase the Nimrod down. That didn't end so well when her squad turned out to be better than his. A whole lotta bodies were left in the dirt from that fiasco. And just yesterday, his other favorite nephew got filled with lead while out trying to hang the preacher fella."
Gunner coughed into his hand. "Sounds pretty bad."
"Yep. Caused the Judge to be spread out pretty thin for the time being. And with him being in a foul mood, he's been pressing pretty hard to collect his dues. Whole town's a pressure cooker right now. On top of that, someone keeps messing with the generator."
"Messing like how?"
"Like stealing parts. Flipping switches and pulling wires. The town has periodic blackouts. Never used to happen. The Judge and the Baron aren't directly blaming each other, but the word on the street is that they're nearly at the point of going to war. I tell ya, all it'll take is a single match to make this whole place explode."
Gunner grinned. "Sounds about right."
"Right for what?"
"For a man to make a few quick bulls. I got a good feeling about this place."
"You shouldn't. This place is a den of serpents. Not a good idea to stir things up. Keep your head down and go about your business. Maybe you wake up to see tomorrow."
"Maybe. But that's no way for a man to live." Gunner stood, setting the bowl on the table. "Good stew. What was that meat—rat?"
"Rabbit."
"Close enough. Is there a place that sells clothes around here?"
"General store is two buildings down the street."
Gunner put his hat on. "Guess I'll mosey on over."
"Stay clear of trouble, Gunner. Room's in the back wh
enever you're ready."
"Where are you gonna sleep?"
"Upstairs. I'm pretty sure the floor will hold up."
Gunner strolled out the inn and over to the general store, a two-story frame building with MERCHANTILE on the faded sign. Men and women streamed in and out, carrying bundles to pack into their vehicles or load onto rusted auto-carts that chugged alongside them. Other people gathered on the spacious raised porch, talking gossip or interacting with the public screens to access banking accounts, read messages and bounties, or check on public events.
He walked through the double doors into the crowded interior. Display tables stocked goods of every sort, from food and drink to hardware, men and women's clothes, and more. Shelves, bins, and display cases lined on the walls, stuffed with household items, guns and ammo, machine and motor parts, used robots and androids, tobacco products and accessories, medical supplies, and an endless number of varied items. A clerk rang up customers behind a long countertop filled with so many impulse items that he was nearly hidden from sight.
Gunner passed a pair of old men seated across a table, playing checkers on a holographic board. Stopping by the men's clothing display, he picked out a pair of sturdy jeans, a loose-fitting tartan fabric shirt, and tried on several pairs of boots before settling on one. Glancing up, he caught a couple of men staring his direction, Nimrods from the look of them. One kept pointing to the display on his holoband, but the other shook his head.
"Didn't you hear? He just shot Arthur Bright dead right in front of the Baron's saloon. C'mon, before he puts you down the same way."
Gunner grinned as the smart one led his partner away. Taking his gear, he nodded to the clerk behind the counter. "I'm getting these. I'll take a pack of cheroots and some .44 rounds too. And a bottle of rye."
"What kind?"
"Bulleit. You can put everything in that leather messenger bag. I'll take that too."
Walking out the store, he slung the bag over his shoulder and tipped his hat at a pair of ladies passing by. The sun sank behind the buildings, casting shadows and turning the dust into glimmering motes. He paused, listening as a familiar voice carried over the din of the Town, fearless and strong.
"An avenger. An avenger approaches. He will arrive with the storm, bathing this Town in fire and sulfur. A destroyer comes, and the wicked will not escape his wrath. Tremble, you sinners. Repent and wash your hands of blood and violence. Flee from this place, for in just a few days, God's wrath will be upon you. A storm comes. It approaches, and it will not be late."
"Ain't no rain coming, you old fool," someone shouted. "If it did, I might just thank your God. This place is a dust bowl."
Laughter rippled through the gathered crowd. Gunner made his way through as others mocked and jeered. When he got to the center of the street, he saw the cause of the commotion.
A wrought-iron cage hung from a beam in the town square. Inside of it was Pablo, cramped so tight he could barely move. Despite the discomfort, he continued to deliver his sermon of judgment.
"Will you be like those who witnessed the construction of the Ark, but didn't heed the warning of Noah until it was too late? Will you be like those in Jericho, believing in the strength of their towering walls and fortifications until they came tumbling down? Will you be like those in Sodom and Gomorrah, indulging in lust and violence until the fires fell from heaven and devoured them all? Or will you be like those in Nineveh, repenting in dust and ashes and thereby moving Jah to stay His mighty hand?"
The crowds jeered, shouting and cursing. Some threw stones and junk metal, the impacts ringing as they struck the bars of the cage. Pablo continued his deliberation in spite of the mockery and missiles, gesturing like a master storyteller even as his voice was drowned out by boos and catcalls.
Gunner planted a cheroot between his teeth and shook his head. "You old fool. I tried to tell you."
Adjusting his bag, he turned and walked back to the inn as the crowds continued to shout and heckle behind him.
Fire all around and smoke so dense, choking him. Searing his lungs. Still, he ran toward the building. His skin blistered, his eyes blurred, tears carving tracks into his sooty face. Raspy laughter echoed around him. When he turned, the figure was barely visible. A silhouette, standing in the middle of the flames as if heat couldn't harm him. As if the fire was his to obey…
***
Gunner blinked his eyes open and slowly sat up, scrubbing a hand across his face. Moonlight bathed the room in orange light, its glow transformed by the constant film of dust that hung in the air. The clamor of the Town lessened, although drunken laughter and conversation drifted from the bars and saloons. A gunshot rang out, echoing like thunder. Two more shots boomed, followed by a momentary silence. Then the voices continued as if nothing happened. The streetlamps flickered, dimming for a few seconds before brightening again. The clamor from the power plant seemed to grow even louder.
Gunner got up from the lumpy mattress fully dressed, pausing to slide into his boots and throw on his duster before leaving the miniscule room. He paused by the tiny stove, plucking two sausages and a heel of bread left over from the dinner Rosco cooked earlier. The innkeeper's snores rumbled from upstairs, vibrating the floorboards. Gunner smiled, shaking his head as he wrapped the food in a cloth napkin, picked up a canteen of water, and walked out the door.
A bullet-riddled corpse was sprawled on the ground outside, illuminated by a pair of hovering drones. They circled the vicinity as a rusty robot trudged over, lifted the body, and set it on a wheeled cart. The drones floated upward as the robot nonchalantly pushed the cart away in the direction of the undertaker's building. People walked by without a glance, some even pointing at the bloodstained ground and laughing.
Gunner walked past, making his way to the cage in the town square, where Pablo sat slumped against the bars. Gunner dragged a crate from beside a nearby building and stood on it, stretching up to offer the canteen.
"Wake up, old man. Figured you gotta be thirsty."
Pablo's eyes dragged open. "Gunner. You shouldn't be here. You saw the cameras, didn't you? They watch everything. They're watching right now."
"Let 'em watch. I told you I wasn't gonna get you outta any more scrapes, and I meant it. Didn't mean I'd let you die of thirst."
Pablo accepted the canteen, tipping it back and taking careful swallows. Wiping his whiskers, he glanced down. "Gracias, amigo."
"Yeah. Can't say I didn't warn you, Pablo. You could be sleeping in your village right now, instead of being locked up like a dog in a cage."
"You don't like my accommodations? The view is better than most of the boarding homes and hotels around here."
"Very funny. Here, I brought you some grub too."
"Very generous of you. So, you've seen the Town up close now. What do you think?"
"It's dirty."
"Yes, it is—a terrible place. You should leave as soon as possible. This air in this place is infectious."
"The folks here don't look like they're sick, Pablo."
"No? Then you're not looking closely enough. I'm not talking about the air we breathe, although that's foul as well. I'm talking about the spirit of this place. The Holy Word speaks truly when it describes such people as lovers of self, covetous, boastful, haughty, blasphemers, disobedient, unthankful, disloyal, without natural affection, trucebreakers, without self-control, prideful, lovers of pleasures instead of lovers of God. This spirit spreads like a contagion, infecting all who dwell here. You would do well to forget what you lost and escape this place before it's too late."
Gunner snorted. "You just described every frontier town, every major city, and every Haven in the Territories. May as well leave the world behind if you're trying to escape the evils of society."
"Exactly."
"Exactly what?"
"Leave the world behind. It's not impossible."
"You sure I gave you water, old man? Because you sound like a man taken with whiskey."
"Wisdo
m from God appears as foolishness to the eyes of men. But again, we're talking about a state of mind. Jesus Christ himself said that his followers would be no part of the world just as he was no part of the world."
"Yeah, I know what he said."
"Ah," Pablo said, nodding with a knowing glint in his eyes. "I figured you for a spiritual man, Gunner. You've read the Word, haven't you?"
"Ain't nothing spiritual about me, old man. And no one reads the Bible anymore. Not since the Church restricted it to ordained men of the cloth."
"That hasn't stopped the devout from educating themselves apart from the so-called Holy Church of Divinity. Do you know why it's the only sanctioned religious organization in the Territories?"
"They claim because they're the true religion."
"But you don't believe them."
"I never said—"
"You don't have to." Pablo's gnarled hands tightened on the cage bars. "I hear it in your voice. Because if the Messiah's followers are to be no part of the world, how can a church be sanctioned by a human government? It goes against the very spirit of being a follower of Christ. Yet the church embraces their relationship with the government all the same, prostituting itself for the sake of status and privilege. They have a Divinity mission right here in this Town. The Judge is a prominent member, as is the Baron. They and their kind love to preen in front of the very people they subjugate, pretending they ascribe to a higher power. The same hypocrisy has prevailed throughout the ages, but true children of God know that righteousness is proved by works, not appearances."
"I'm sure that's all true, Pablo. But I didn't come here for a lecture on theology."
Pablo tilted his head. "No, you didn't. You came here because of troubled dreams."
Gunner's head snapped up. "You don't know anything about my dreams."
"I know you have trouble sleeping, Gunner. It's in your eyes. The strain of being hounded by demons from your past."
The Gunner Chronicles Page 4
