The Gunner Chronicles Read online

  Chapter 5: Wicked Schemes

  He returned the way he came, pretending not to notice the blinking lights from numerous cameras installed in the corners of every room and hallway of the manor. The sound of voices outside gave him pause. He listened as Waingrow gave orders to his gang.

  "This is gonna be the last haul of blood shards coming this direction for a while. Tomorrow morning they'll divert and cut through the Badlands like the others, but once we blow the track, they'll have to stop and send the bots out to repair it. That's when we move in. Use the EMP to take out the engine and any android security. Figure they'll have some red-blooded guards too, but they'll be too shook up to be much trouble. We take them out, unload the shards and head out to Devil's Gorge until things blow over. We got one chance at this. Screw up, and you might as well not bother coming back, 'cause the Judge ain't gonna be happy. Understand?"

  Gunner waited for the chorus of acknowledgments before stepping out the manor doors. He was greeted by silence and suspicious stares from the gathered crew as he walked down the steps, placing a cheroot between his teeth and lighting it.

  Waingrow dismissed his crew with a curt gesture, eyes locked on Gunner. "Y'all go on now. Be with you in a minute."

  They rose from the table and streamed past, staring at Gunner with expressions that ranged from curious to enraged. He ignored them, casually leaning against the stair railing while looking at Waingrow.

  Janey was the last to leave, lingering at the gate looking from Gunner to Waingrow. "Need me to stick around?"

  He waved her away. "No. This won't take long."

  He waited for her to leave before speaking. For a long moment, he stared at Gunner as if unsure he existed.

  "Thought my gang took care of you."

  Gunner exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Not well enough."

  "I see that. Is it true, then? Your name's Gunner? The one from Texas everyone talks about?"

  "What do you think?"

  "Don't think a man like him would get caught in the open so easily. They say Gunner killed twenty-nine soldiers that came with two Rangers to charge him with murder. A fella like that—seems like me and mine wouldn't just be able to get the jump on him."

  Gunner's fingers tapped the butt of his pistol. "Easy way to find out who we both really are. If you got the grit to throw down, that is."

  "No need." Waingrow unbuckled the gun belt around his waist and tossed it to Gunner. "These belong to you."

  Gunner glanced at the twin revolvers, feeling the familiar surge of excitement and revulsion he always experienced when he reunited with the weapons. "You're a smarter man than I took you for, Waingrow."

  "Don't take much brains to figure out what those are. The inscriptions: Fuego and Azufre. Spanish for Fire and Sulfur. Those are Reaper handguns. Even checked the payload. Hellfire rounds. Only people that carry those are Clerics. Which means you were one. Or you killed one and stole his pieces. I really don't know which one scares me more."

  "Guess it don't matter."

  "Yeah. Guess not." Waingrow hesitated, clearing his throat. "Look…if you still hold a grudge and we gotta go at it, I guess that's what we'll do. But I had no idea who you were when we shook you down the other day. I hope you understand that."

  Gunner finished cinching the gun belt around his waist and glanced up. "The Steed."

  "What about it?"

  "Where is it?"

  "Took it to a dealer on the other side of Town. Dusty Pete's. Made twenty thousand off the sale. Judge got forty percent of the deal."

  "Forty percent? That's a helluva cut considering you did the work and took the risk."

  Waingrow glowered. "That's how he runs things. A lot of folks complaining about it, but ain't no one gonna do nothing about it."

  "And you? You happy about how he's running things?"

  Waingrow's expression turned neutral. "What I am is too smart to complain about my situation. So look—I'll give you my cut of the sale. When I can scrounge up some more, I'll get that to you too. Or give me a couple of days to get the full amount, and I'll repurchase it for you. Will that square us up?"

  "The only thing that squares us up is if I beat you within an inch of your life and leave you stranded in the desert. But since I don't feel like going through the trouble, getting the Steed back is good enough. I might even meet you halfway with the bulls. Since we're on the same side now."

  Waingrow's eyes slid toward the manor doors. "The Judge hire you on?"

  "That's right. Consider me as an independent contractor. I'll be working closely with him on a few projects."

  "What kind of projects?"

  "Guess you gotta ask him about that, since you're so close and all. Meantime, I got things to do. See you around, Waingrow."

  Dusty Pete's was several sectioned acres of junk vehicles, old robots, and outdated contraptions. Gunner walked into the dimly lit, cramped confines of the shack that served as the storefront. The floors and counters looked as if no one swept or wiped down since the place opened, and a strong scent of urine hung in the air. Old tools and vehicle parts lined the walls and storage bins, all rusty and worn. A man sat in a ratty wicker chair with his oversized boots planted on the counter. He was shirtless, exposing his protruding belly and sunburned skin, red as a lobster. A battered hat lay slumped over most of his face.

  Gunner rapped on the counter with his knuckles. "You Dusty Pete?"

  The man stirred, pushing the brim up just enough to glare with one bleary eye. "What's the sign say?"

  "I'm looking for a Steed that was brought in a couple of days ago."

  Dusty Pete spat on the grimy floor. "Weren't no Steed brought in here."

  "I got in on good account it was."

  "Your good account is a liar. I don't recollect no Steed being brought in."

  Gunner swatted Dusty Pete's boots off the counter. Leaning over, he seized a handful of bushy tobacco-spattered beard, slamming Dusty Pete's chin on the countertop so hard and sudden that his teeth clacked together.

  Gunner leaned in close. "Maybe I can jog your memory."

  Dusty Pete's eyes rolled in the sockets, wide with fear. "A Steed, you say? Now that I think about it, someone might have wheeled one in. Big black fella, works for the Judge."

  "Waingrow. He sold it to you for the tune of twenty thousand. Where is it?"

  "Ain't got it."

  "You're lyin'."

  Dusty Pete whimpered, squirming in Gunner's grip. "No lie. It was bought right quick. Sold it to another fella for fifty-five grand."

  "Who?"

  "Didn't get his name."

  Gunner yanked harder. "Don't run that line on me."

  "Don't ask fer names. Ain't no refunds here. No receipts. Cash and carry or goods exchanged."

  "You see folks come and go all the time. You gotta know every name and face in town."

  Dusty Pete winced, teeth gritted in pain. "Don't know every name. I can get you a face, though. Got cameras. Just let go of my beard, and I'll get you what you want."

  Gunner released him, wiping his hand across his duster. "All right, pull it up."

  Dusty Pete scrambled to the wall, where he brushed the dust off a plastic keyboard with one hand, typing frantically with the other. A console with a splintered screen fizzled to life on the wall, displaying video feed from the cameras inside and outside the building. Pete used an old joystick to manipulate the speeds, selecting video from the appropriate date.

  "That's him. The one that bought the Steed. You deal with him if you got problems with it. The deal was fair and square far as I'm concerned. I don't ask no questions; I just buy and sell."

  "Yeah, I bet," Gunner muttered, staring at the grainy feed capture. "That's the Marshal. Wylie Hubbard."

  "I never said that."

  "You're telling me you don't even recognize your own Marshal?"

  "Sheriffs, Marshals, deputies—we go through 'em like bottles of cheap whiskey 'round here. How am I supposed to keep track? I'm just a man tr
ying to run a business. He come up in here with a real mind to buy that Steed, so I sold it to 'im. You'd have done the same in my shoes, mister."

  "Yeah, maybe so." Gunner dug in his pocket and pulled out a silver bullion card, placing it on the grimy countertop. "You know where he took it?"

  Dusty Pete eyed the bull like a kid at a piece of candy. "Can't tell you that. Rolled it into a van and hauled it on out."

  "Is that right? Guess I'll have to find out the rest myself. You go ahead and keep the silver for your trouble. Long as you don't tell anyone I been here."

  Dusty Pete broke out in a snaggle-toothed grin. "Ain't seen yer face in my life."

  Gunner turned and exited the shack, squinting as the sunlight struck him like a hot slap. The wind blew past, but it was hot and vicious, flinging coppery sand across the lot. Gunner paused in the act of lighting a cheroot, catching a flicker of movement from the shadows of a pile of junk vehicles. A tiny figure crouched in the shade, staring at Gunner with flashing yellow eyes. The wind pushed the hood back, revealing gray, speckled skin on a young female face.

  Gunner took a step forward, raising a hand. "Hey."

  The Feral girl took off, scampering like a cat between the piles of rusty parts and battered vehicles. Gunner tried to keep up, cursing as he stumbled over an upturned piece of steel.

  "Hold on; I just wanna talk."

  The girl ignored him, zigzagging across a mound of old tires, pausing when she reached the zenith to take one last look at Gunner before leaping down the other side.

  By the time Gunner made it around the pile, the only sign of life was a half-starved dog, limping on a lame foot. It showed its teeth in a silent snarl before slinking off like a shadow. But there was no sign of the Feral girl.

  It was a ten-minute walk back to his side of Town. Striding past the square, he glanced over at Pablo in his cage. A girl that looked to be in her early teens tried to give him water, pouring from a canvas waterbag into a long-handled dipper. A circle of children and teens surrounded her, laughing and jeering. Every time she raised the cup, one of the children would swat it, spilling the water everywhere. Red-faced, eyes downcast, she tried again to the same result. Every time the water splashed, the crowd of bullies erupted in peals of mocking laughter. Some shoved her around; others threw rocks at Pablo as he scolded them from his cage.

  Gunner glanced at a woman sweeping clouds of dust from her front porch. "I'll need to borrow that broom."

  She looked up at the children with narrowed eyes and nodded, handing over. Gunner advanced, swinging the handle left and right. Every swing connected to a child's limbs or head with loud cracking sounds, followed by squeals and cries of pain. They scattered, running down the street, leaping over balconies and fences, shouting profanities as they fled.

  Townsfolk paused, watching with expressionless faces as Gunner walked back over and handed the broom to the woman. "Gracias, senora."

  "They do this all the time," she said. "Worse than dogs. At least dogs will listen sometimes. These brats listen to no one. Just like the banditos that run wild around here."

  "Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline will remove it far from him," Pablo called from his cage. A weary smile wrinkled his cheeks. "Or the broomstick of discipline in this case. Better for them than two she-bears, at least."

  Gunner walked over and looked up, placing his thumbs in his gun belt. "You're not looking too good, old man."

  Pablo touched his leathery face, peeling from sunburn and raw with cuts from hurled rocks. "If prophesying were an easy job, everyone would be doing it."

  Gunner snorted, turning to the girl. She wore a faded cornflower-patterned dress along with a flat-topped hat and jacket too large for her skinny frame. Her dark hair was braided into twin pigtails that hung to her shoulders. "What's your name?"

  "Myrtle."

  "Why didn't you just throw the waterbag to him, Myrtle?"

  "The Judge says to only give him enough to keep living. Says he don't want him to get comfortable."

  "Well, you can't be coming out here by yourself, girl. You'll get yourself in a world of hurt trying to do some good."

  "Nobody else is giving him water."

  "Well, you don't need to. Get a man to do it."

  "We don't got no men. Not anymore. The Baron run them all off. The Judge shot or hung the rest."

  "Who's we?"

  "The Remnant."

  "Hush now, girl." Pablo gripped the bars of the cage, leaning over and lowering his voice. "You don't say that name where these folks can hear you. Best you run along. Don't come back here, no matter what you see."

  Her face turned stubborn. "What about you, Brother Pablo?"

  "I'm in God's hands. No need to worry. That storm will break in just a few days. It'll be over soon. Go on, now. I thought your Mama would have known better than to have you out here, drawing attention to yourself."

  "Mama don't know. She ain't been the same since they shot my Daddy."

  "Give me the waterbag," Gunner said. "You do like the preacher says and run along home."

  She hesitated only a moment before handing the water over and backing away as if from some fearsome beast, staring at Gunner's revolvers. Turning around, she quickly trotted off, throwing cautious looks over her shoulder before turning the corner.

  Gunner tossed the waterbag up to Pablo. "The Remnant, huh?"

  "You'd be better off not saying that name either," Pablo said between gulps of water. "It's against the law in these parts."

  "I heard about you folks. Separatists from the Church, forming your own set of beliefs."

  "Not separatists. We never bought into the apostasy. We remain loyal to the word of Jah and the rulership of the Lord Jesus Christ, following the Way he told his true followers to live."

  "Don't seem like that won you any popularity contests."

  "Jesus said his followers would be hated by the world. It's expected. The world has always loathed any who dare to defy its spirit. History runs red with the blood of those who chose to stand against the tide of popular belief and self-veneration."

  "You said the Judge killed those folks at the farm. From what the girl said, the Baron ain't much better."

  "The Judge and the Baron are two sides of the same coin. Both lust after the same thing: power. Have you met our beloved Judge yet?"

  "This morning."

  "I suppose he entertained you in his faux Garden of Eden, full of joy, peace, and the gentle laughter of children?"

  "Yeah. Not what I expected."

  "What did you expect? A mustache-twirling villain? Some hunched, balding old man, withered and decrepit, face riddled with wrinkles etched by hate and bitterness? Even Satan himself was a glorious angel of light. Demons don't take the form of monsters, you know. Why would they, when they can beguile with their beauty instead?"

  "You know better than me, I guess."

  "You know as well as I, Gunner. You looked into the Judge’s eyes and saw the truth. His every word, every flashing white smile is as fraudulent as his surroundings."

  "His surroundings?"

  "His Eden. An illusion created by digital wizardry."

  "You're pulling my leg."

  "Not at all. Do you think a man so ruthless would have grandchildren going about like that, so openly exposed to his countless enemies? The children were fabrications, the garden just old turf and plastic trees. Everything else is a digital simulation. The Judge is a mean, nasty, lonely man bent on ruining lives because his life was ruined long ago. Because at some point, he was convinced that the only way to live is at the expense of others. I pity him."

  "You pity the man that tried to kill you, and has you locked away to rot right now?"

  "Yes, I pity him. No man is born evil, Gunner. It takes a great deal to twist a soul into something so cruel and heartless. I pity anyone determined to reap the whirlwind of their wickedness because their retribution will be as harsh as their deeds. The justice of men is fault
y and unsatisfying, but the justice of God is perfect. Who can stand and look Him in the face when the day of their judgment arrives?"

  "No one, I reckon," Gunner said. "Because according to the Word, we're all sinners and deserving of death, ain't that right?"

  "It's not the sinning that condemns us, Gunner. It's the lack of repentance."

  "Yeah, maybe. Or maybe this is all a sick joke. Look at you. You claim to speak for God, yet here you are. Maybe God is real. Hell, I can't say. But if He is, He must have stopped caring a long time ago. Cause I seen too many good people cut down before their time to believe anyone up there cares."

  "Someone cares, Gunner. And very soon, you'll see for yourself. This place will be plagued by fire and water, and you will look upon its destruction with sadness in your heart."

  Gunner scoffed. "Why in the hell would I be upset if this place burns down? It's nothing to me."

  The wrinkles and furrows in Pablo's skin carved his face into an ancient effigy, eyes dark and ominous. "What will come to pass will come to pass."

  Gunner met the proclamation with a wry grin. "No offense, but I'll take my chances. Ration that water, Pablo. Might be a while before you get some more."

  The afternoon was spent on the veranda of the Bloody Mary, watching the townsfolk go about their business, a bottle of rye to keep him company. He observed until he could tell the differing factions of the Town. The brutes that belonged to the Judge were rough and bad-mannered, their clothes plain and sturdy, favoring long dusters and ponchos. They strutted the streets, shoving people out of their way, daring anyone to start trouble with them.

  The Baron's people were more refined, dressed in fashionable vests and jackets, engaging in polite conversation with storekeepers and townsfolk, yet still as eager for a fight as the Judge's men. A lot of posturing and insults erupted whenever a group of one would meet another in the bars or on the streets, but it rarely ended in anything beyond a fistfight or a stabbing or two. Both the Judge and the Baron were strict about not allowing an upset of the balance by starting a war.