The Quickdraw

Squinting through a haze the color of sickness, I focus on my target, situated a measured one hundred yards away. At this distance, I can barely make out the rectangular shape of a playing card wedged into the sun cracked wood of an old fence post, but barely is all I need.

“You ready, kid?” I shift my eyes in the teenager’s direction without turning my head, the shrill screams of the coaster riders a familiar soundtrack in the near distance. He nods, youthful eagerness stretching a mischievous grin across the pale blue flesh of his face.

Glancing past him, I see the rest of the Mad Cats gang making bets over my success. These hoods named themselves after some old-world cartoon they all resemble with their long lithe bodies, matching leather jackets and slicked back hairdos. The Mad Cats always mean trouble when money is involved. They hate losing and they almost never pay their dues, which means I've got to move twice as fast if I want to eat tonight.

“Here it goes, cowboy.” The kid flips the coin limply into the air, hoping to cut something off of its fall time. I chuckle to myself at his predictability. With movements faster than the young tom can see, I fire off two rounds from the .22 revolver attached to a swivel on my belt: the first bullet hits the silver dollar and sends it spinning high into the air, buying me an extra half second; the second round piercing the face card dead center. From one hundred yards out, there’s no way to see the hole, but I’ve done this far too many times not to know.

While he’s still recoiling from the sounds of gunfire, I swoop in like a dust-hawk, catching the heavy silver coin in the callused palm of my right hand.

“Bad game,” he exhales, his voice pinched into a whisper. Right on cue, the rest of the Mad Cats spring up from their pieced together motorcycles, youthful egos bent on maintaining their pride. Two kits break off from the group to get a look at the card, still wedged into the fencepost.

“You lost your mind, cowpoke,” asks the pack’s leader, teeth gleaming in the stinging sun. “You know how badly we could tear you up?”

This time I smile. Before he can open his jowl to add to his threat, I spin out the .38 hanging over my thigh and fire off two more rounds, planting a hole in the ground just an inch before each of his boots.

“Yeah, I know,” I growl at him, spinning the revolver back and holstering it. “It’s a good thing I’m a quick draw.” His mouth twitches as a bead of sweat drips down his protruding muzzle, glistening over his upper lip momentarily before a long rough tongue swipes it away.

“Rules are rules, son. I earned that dollar,” I tell him. “Now I suggest you move along. Maybe try out the spinning wheel. You kids seem to like that.” I glance over at the one standing next to me, his broad, stubby fingered hand still waiting for the silver dollar to drop; eyes wide in frozen shock. “Scat cat,” I whisper. With barely a moment’s hesitation, he tears off to join the rest of his crew as they turn tail, heading into the carnival crowd. The leader stops and turns, looking back at me as if he’s about to open his mouth, but thinks better of it and walks away.

My eyes scan the horizon beyond the humanoid gang. The far too familiar sight of the spinning wheel, the show tent and the drop tower coaster creating a skyline that stays the same in every city we go to, barnstorming our way back and forth across the Midwest. It’s got to be one of the most miserable places on the American continent. Somehow or another a lot of the radiation seemed to centralize itself throughout the Dakotas and southern Montana, even as far south as Colorado. The whole damned heartland is just one big poisonous waste pit full of mutants and marauders. And yet, we’re all of the same mind, I remind myself. We’ve got to keep fooling ourselves into believing it's all going to be just fine.

Forcing a more optimistic mood, I turn back to my post and flip the silver piece into the air, enjoying its weight and the assurance of a hot meal it gives me. My stomach grumbles in response to my thoughts as I look around for the next potential customer, but it looks as though something else may be coming my way.

“That’s some mighty fine shootin’,” drawls a broad-shouldered man in a sharp cut suit, black cowboy hat drawn low over a pair of dark tinted sunglasses, extra protection against the sun’s penetrating glare. “Might even be world class, yes sir.”

“Care to make a wager,” I offer, full well knowing he isn’t here to see the show.

“Oh, I think I know better than to bet against a draw like that,” he says, his heavily waxed mustache bouncing crisply with his words. “My name’s Randall Pollock.” He smells heavily of sunscreen, the final giveaway he must be from below the surface and not used to journeying top side very often at all.

“Well, Randall Pollock, if you ain’t here to help me buy a spot in the food line, what exactly can I do for you?” My hand nestles comfortably over the butt of the .22, nudging it just a few degrees forward on its hinge. I try to place his face, scouring the mental catalog of wrongs I’d done, people I’d hurt, but I can’t seem to find a connection.

“I’m here to offer you an opportunity to do something a little more suitable to someone of your talents.” A large well-manicured hand reaches up to tweak the tips of his mustache. “Something that might give you the respect someone like you deserves. How’s that sound to you?”

I glare at him from under the dusty brim of my worn hat, crunching a bit of sand between my front teeth. We stare at each other over the stretch of yellowed earth, the sun heating the back of my neck like a welding torch.

“Listen, mister, I’m not trying to poke fun,” he says, the cruel beams of daylight gleaming viciously from his silver tipped boots. “I’m here from the International Shooters Association. You’ve been makin’ quite a name for yourself up north here. Hell, you’re damned near all they can talk about down in Texas. That’s where I’m from.”

“No kidding.” Texas. The seceded state had closed off its borders and moved its entire infrastructure underground years before ‘the Cure’ was dropped. Today, it’s one of the most profitable regions on the continent, the epicenter of North American finance. “Figures it’d be a Texan all dolled up while we’re struggling to survive.”

He tips his hat up and licks the grit from his teeth, offering me a nice clean smile. “Hell, they told me you were an ornery bugger,” he chuckles. “Look, how’s about we sit down for some steak and whiskey, and we can talk it over. Get us outta this sun ‘fore the damn thing burns us up.”

“You wanna buy me dinner,” I laugh, pushing a halfcocked grin across my face. “Boy, you sure are a proper gentleman now, ain’t ya?”

He reaches a hand into his jacket, but I draw the .38 on him before he can pull it back out.

“Easy now,” he says, his eyebrows shooting up from behind his sunglasses as he reaches one hand in front of his body defensively. “I just want to give you an address, okay? The inn I’m staying at, in case you change your mind.”

“I can’t get below ground, you know that.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “The inn’s on the surface. Nice place though, good food. Or so I hear.”

I give him a terse nod and he slowly pulls a business card from his inside breast pocket. Extending it in front of him, he takes a cautious step towards me, stopping short of the barrel of my revolver. I stare through the reflection of my weathered face in his sunglasses and then spin the piece back into its holster.

“What in the hell does your Shooters Association want with a surface carny like me,” I ask guardedly.

“Well, there’s a competition coming up,” he answers, pushing the card towards me. “World’s Fastest Quick Draw. We think you might be right prime for a shot. Pardon the pun.”

I take the card from his hand and shove it in my pocket without looking at it. “Fastest Quick Draw, huh? You ain’t got no one in your big Shooters Association wants a title like that?”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, there’s some pretty serious competition out there. In particular, there’s one fella that we, er, well, nobody’s been able to beat.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and gives me a sheepish grin. “Anyway, word is you might stand a fair chance. And from what I just seen, I can’t say I’d bet against that.”

I let out a grunt of acceptance to the compliment. I know damned well what I’m capable of, but I also know I’ve been trying to avoid attracting any attention to myself. Looks like I haven’t been trying hard enough. Of course, getting the hell out of the Midwest as soon as possible has been part of my plan since the day I first arrived.

“Alright, let’s just say I decide to take you up on your offer. Where in the great lone state of Texas are they holdin’ this thing at?”

“It ain’t in Texas,” he says with a smile. “It’s in Japan. Tokyo.”

“Tokyo,” I scoff. “And how the hell am I supposed to get myself to Tokyo? I’m barely doing enough business here to keep myself fed.”

“The Association would be ready to send you. All expenses paid. If you’d be willing to represent us, that is.” He gives me the wink of a well-practiced salesman. “It’d sure be a good thing for us to have the winner wearing our logo.”

My stomach rumbles again, loud enough for him to hear.

“Take your time and think about it, mister,” he says, side stepping his way out of the sun’s wrath. “There’re quite a lot of people going hungry up here. You don’t have to be one of ‘em.” With that he strolls away, just the same way he came in.

I spend the next hour trying unsuccessfully to keep my head focused on earning another dollar before I give up and decide my stomach’s waited quite long enough. Standing in the food line, my mind keeps working over the faces of my past, but there’s just too damned many of them to find Randall Pollock’s polished features among them. Before ‘the Cure’ came along and forced all the world’s well-to-do into the underground cities, I’d done enough robbin’ and killin’ to create a world full of enemies, forcing me to be a bit cautious with whatever comes my way.

Hell, maybe Pollock’s telling the truth. Maybe this is my ticket off this ride, my chance to start over. If someone was looking to trap me into a corner, they wouldn’t need to send a Randall Pollock to rope me in, they’d just come on up and do the business themselves. Unless of course it was someone I hurt in a real bad way. Someone hell bent on a long slow revenge. Sure as hell I’ve done the kind of damage that might provoke it.

I afford myself a few moments of melancholy reverie, thinking about the steeply wavering course of my protracted life. A sun-bleached rolodex of the sins I’d committed, the women I’d loved and the friends I’d lost long ago cycles slowly across the back of my closed eyelids. The soul draining heat of the day isn’t enough to reach the dark and cold corners of my heart. So deep becomes my trance of remembrance I’m barely aware of the footsteps that approach me from behind. Just another reminder of how dangerous it can be to grow old in this world.

A dark stream of tobacco spit breaks across my thoughts, smacking wetly against my boot. I stare down at the offending spray, listening to the quiet snicker coming from just over my left shoulder.

“Boy, I sure do hope you plan on cleaning that up,” I say without turning.

“You hear that,” an all too familiar young voice says. “He wants us to clean his boots for him.” A chorus of stifled laughs answers the voice, letting me know I’m not going to like what comes next.

“Here ya go, old timer,” the Mad Cats’ alpha male says, the arrogant lilt in his voice easy enough to recollect. I watch as a stream of dark yellow piss washes away the chew spit, their laughter breaking out in full.

The anger boils fast enough inside to catch me by surprise. Maybe it’s the trip down memory lane or maybe it’s the excitement of Randall Pollock’s offer that triggers this latent emotion. More likely however, is that I’ve been playing the quiet old cowboy role for too long now and the dam has finally broken.

Before I can tell myself to do otherwise, I whirl around, flipping the .22 forward in its Bridgeport Rig and squeezing off two rounds into the mutant greaser’s exposed prick.

Screams erupt all around me as passers-by duck for cover and the rest of the Mad Cats spring into action. Drawing the .38 from my opposite thigh holster, I drop three of them in midair, their bodies skidding into heaps of bleeding flesh on the ground. One of them manages to get in close and takes a savage swipe at my back with a gleaming straight razor, easily cutting through my shirt and jacket, and just barely grazing the surface of my leathery skin. I spin to face him, plugging the last two rounds from the .22 into his chest before he knows what’s happening. Two more of the blue skinned mutants try flanking me, but I hammer a .38 bullet into each of their foreheads, watching their long bodies crumple like napping kittens. I spin around to face the last one left standing, the rube with the silver dollar. He stares at me wide eyed, once again frozen in place.

“You kids just don’t know when to leave well enough alone, do ya?” I keep both pistols fixed on him as he stands there, mouth working like a fish out of water trying to suck air into his lungs.

“Get the hell outta here,” I snarl at him, holstering the .38, but keeping the .22 locked on target.

He staggers for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to will his legs into motion, but with a quick feint of movement from me, he gains traction and tears off towards the line of motorcycles abandoned by his freshly expired crew.

A commotion at my rear catches my attention and I whirl to see the tremendous girth of Octavius Henry, the carnival boss man, tearing through the gathering crowd, eyes wild and red, mouth frothing like a rabid animal.

He stops just a few feet from me, staring down at the litter of pale blue, leather clad punks bleeding out into the dirt.

“Are you outta your goddamn mind,” he screams at me. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?!”

“I sure do,” I say quietly, pulling off my hat and slapping the dust off against my thigh. “I got rid of some damned fools who think they can do whatever in the hell they please around here.”

“That’s because they can,” he shouts back, throwing his meaty hands into the air. “You see this kid here?” He kicks at the still twitching body of the Mad Cats leader, a dark pool of crimson spilling from his crotch. “Do you know whose son this is?”

“Aw hell,” I whisper, knowing what’s coming.

“That’s goddamn right, aw hell! This is Mr. Benedict’s kid! You know what that means for us? For every damned one of us?!”

I can practically see the steam coming from his thick earlobes as he takes a cautious step towards me. My hand goes to the heat of the revolver in its thigh holster as I narrow my eyes at the angry behemoth.

“Don’t even think about it, you burned out son of a bitch.” He glowers at me, fingers crawling, ready for a fight he knows he doesn’t stand a chance of winning. “I got a business to run here. Lots of folks with nowhere else to go, ya see? You think any of us can afford to let Mr. Benedict tear this show down for a scum sucking dog like you?”

Looking around, I can see some of the roustabouts and razorbacks seem to agree with their irate employer. One by one they push through the crowd, carrying blades, bats or whatever they can improvise. I know I’ve only got a single round left in each of my revolvers, but that may be all I need to walk out of this situation.

“Ya see,” the fat boss man chortles with laughter. “You can’t shoot all of us.”

“I don’t need to,” I smile back at him. Before he has a chance to take another step, I kick up the heel of the .22 on its swivel and fire the revolver’s final round directly through his left eye, making an easy upward tunnel into his brain. All three hundred pounds of the man’s bulky frame crash to the ground, creating a plume of dust that billows out and over my boots.

Turning around slowly, I cast an angry eye at each of the carnies, daring them each to even twitch in my direction. But they’ve all seen my act enough times over the last few months to know better. Instead, they just look nervously at one another, each one hoping someone else will make the first move.

“You’ll figure things out,” I tell them. “One of you’ll take up his position and everything will be just fine.” Once I’m sure none of them have the balls to try sneaking up on me, I walk off towards the choppers left behind by the greasers.

It only takes me one moment to know which one belonged to the leader of the group, and a moment longer to know which belonged to the monkey wrench. I roll my hat up and cram it into the back of my belt, jumping on the kickstart and firing her up on the first try. A genuine smile of appreciation spreads across my face. It’s been a long time, I think to myself, and damn it feels good to be back.

Dropping into the saddle I crank the throttle a few times, looking back at the carnies, still standing around, unsure of what to do, none of them bothering even for the sake of ceremony to tend to their former boss’s body. I lay into the throttle for good this time and tear off down the road, spitting up a trail of dust behind me that plumes out until I can’t even see the carnival skyline anymore.

I crank through the gears until I’ve spent them all, the bacon grease smell of the biodiesel engine filling my nostrils as it sifts up from the engine between my legs. Without a speedometer, I can only guess by the force of the sand blasting against my hardened skin I must be doing close to 80mph. Within the first hour of my ride, I come across an old filling station. By the state of the building, it looks as though it hasn’t been touched in decades, but a fresh set of tire tracks ending at a rusted out long bed pickup truck parked right close to the front door tells me otherwise. It’s a rare thing to see a four wheeled vehicle running around out here. The oil container and the half dozen portable biodiesel tanks tied down to the truck’s flatbed serve as advertisement and explanation enough.

I pull the chopper under a dilapidated awning to hide it from the sun’s angry rays. Killing the engine, I listen for any signs of life inside the sad looking structure, but silence is all I can hear over the soft tick of the bike’s cooling metals.

Walking past the fuel tanks and through the front door of the small concrete walled building, I’m greeted by the sound of a rifle being cocked, reminding me I’ve only got one round left in the .38 and nothing in the .22. If I’m about to find trouble, I don’t have any room for error.

“Help you with somethin’?” The voice comes from a thin old man sitting behind the counter, a cob pipe between his teeth and an old rifle in his hands. His long, bone thin frame makes him look like a plucked bird dressed in oil-stained coveralls; the bulge of his pale gray eyes only adding to the effect.

“Lookin’ for fuel,” I tell him, stepping slowly in his direction.

He stares at me without saying anything for a moment, his head making small jerky movements to glance out at the chopper and then to his own truck. “I got a fresh batch I just whipped up. Fine quality pork source too. You ain’t gonna need much for that little tank, which is good cause I ain’t got a lot left.”

His face twists up with a look of disappointment and he lifts the rifle as I take my second step forward. “You don’t need to come no closer. ‘Less you got some coin you’d like to show me.”

I cautiously take one more step forward, palms open and away from my guns. “I don’t have any coin on me-”

“Well then you sure as hell don’t need to move another inch,” he interrupts me, settling the rifle into his shoulder.

“But I do have an empty .22 I’d be willing to part with.” I glance down at the piece on my hip, guiding him with my eyes. He takes the bait and draws his head away from his iron to get a better view.

“That’s some fancy holster you got there.” The rifle slowly drops away from his shoulder, the barrel still aimed at my heart. “Is it locked onto yer belt, or what’s going on there?”

“It’s an old trick of the quickdraws,” I explain, my hand circling the swivel joint, keeping his eyes locked on target. “See, there’s no front to the holster. So it just kicks right up and you’re aiming straight at your target. You’re welcome to try it out.”

I hold my right hand up, high and away from the subject of interest. And just like that, he lowers the barrel to aim at a place a bit in front of my feet. The intrigue of the barter is one hell of a tool in this life.

He opens his mouth to ask me something, but before the sound comes out, I sling the .38 from my thigh holster and send the only round I have left to crack through his skull right between his eyes. The amplified sound of the gunshot rings about the small concrete structure, accentuating the following silence.

“Sorry ‘bout this, fella,” I say, watching the rifle drop from his limp fingers to fall with a crash to the tile floor.

I slowly make my way around the small shop, filling an old metal bucket I find with anything that may prove to be useful to me over the next few days. Regretfully, what I don’t find is any ammo for either of my revolvers. On top of that, his rifle turns out to be empty. Looks like I may be living on luck until I can find a supplier willing to trade up for whatever fuel I don’t burn on the way.

Leaving the body where it falls behind the counter, I snatch the keys for the pickup truck and using a small aluminum ramp I find out back, I manage to load the chopper onto the rusted out eight-foot bed, squeezing it right in alongside the fuel cans. The sun is almost set by the time everything is tied down and ready to go, meaning I won’t have much time for travel on such a dark moonless night. I pump the modified hand crank welded on to the driver’s side front fender of the truck until the engine turns over and I head out into the desert, realizing it’d be best to avoid the roads for a while. As if the usual threat of marauders isn’t enough, I know damned well Mr. Benedict’s gang of thugs is going to be hunting me down before long, seeking revenge for the death of his derelict son.

I manage to find myself a decently hidden little spot about five miles away, just at the edge of a dried lake bed. I stash the bike and two of the gas cans in a rundown old shed that feels like it's standing on its last leg and park the truck a few yards off. Just in case someone does come along and get the drop on me, I need to know I have more than one means of escape. Once everything is settled into place, I cover myself up with my hat and jacket, propping my head up on a small rock, and close my eyes to get some rest.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sleeping when the sound of approaching footsteps wakes me, but my senses immediately kick into high alert as I’m surrounded by a group of six mismatched bodies. It’s too dark to make out anyone’s features, but the forms I see silhouetted against the light of an oil lantern range from short and thin to tall and boxy.

“Well, well, looks as if he’s awake after all,” the shortest member of the group says, stepping forward from the ring of marauders. “Sorry to disturb you on this fine evening,” he says with theatrical etiquette.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure,” I ask, propping myself up onto my elbows and drawing my heels up close enough to be able to spring into action when the moment calls. “I’m outta coin and my belly’s good and empty.”

“Well, in that case, we’ll just be needin’ the keys to that gas truck of yours out there.” He bends over at the hip in an act of mock civility, extending an open palm for the item in question.

“Aw hell,” I grumble, pushing myself forward to get to my feet. The instant I’m upright, the mockery of a gentleman smashes me in the face with a surprisingly solid right hook, sending me back onto my ass and elbows.

“Shoot, I’m real sorry ‘bout that, fella,” he says, shaking his wrist out. “I shoulda warned that I startle easy.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” I answer. “I shoulda guessed as much. Let me try again, but a little slower this time.” Instead of being good to my word, I lunge at the short man’s legs, tackling him to the ground with a heavy thud. I manage to get one solid blow to his face before three sets of heavy boots begin smashing into my rib cage. Just as I’m hoping for some relief, I’m thrown onto my back and pinned down while the others stand over me like predators relishing in the moment before attacking their prize.

“You don’t count too well, do ya, stupid,” asks a breathless voice, a little less gentlemanly this time. Before I can answer, his boot comes stomping down on my stomach, forcing the wind from my lungs and a lonely bit of bile up my esophagus. Another stooge seconds with a hard kick to my face that makes me see stars for a moment. “You’re all alone out here, cowpoke! And now you’re gonna die alone out here.”

The blows start coming in such rapid succession, I can’t tell whose boots and whose fists are hitting me. I try rolling myself over for protection, but I’m immediately kicked over and stomped for my efforts. Somewhere in the midst of the melee, I seem to get hold of someone’s leg. I yank with all my strength and manage to pull the rest of the body down on top of me, giving me a small bit of shielding. I grab onto a wrist as its connected fist tries smashing me in the face and I pull it to my mouth, biting down until its owner screams and I can taste the heavy iron of blood pooling onto my tongue. A hard boot heel comes crashing down onto my skull, forcing me to let go as everything goes black for a second or two.

“Kill this piece of clod!”

As the hits keep coming, I snatch up another ankle with both of my hands and twist with everything I’ve got in me until I hear a loud satisfying snap. A pair of hands grabs me by the back of my shirt and throws me over. Following with the momentum, I roll myself upright so that I’m facing four heavy breathing men, hands up before me in case one of them strikes, but they all stand back for a moment.

“Come on boys,” I grunt, spitting the blood from my mouth. “This ain’t no time to quit.”

One of them charges me and I deliver a powerful blow to the stomach, lifting him from the ground and making him lose whatever was in his belly. The other three stand there staring at me, the short one looking nervously at the others.

“To hell with this,” he says, turning tail and running for the road. The other two watch as their leader abandons them. I take advantage of the distraction and rush at the nearest one, delivering three powerful back and forth blows across his jaw, the last one putting his lights out. Without waiting for his unconscious body to drop, I grab him by the hair and use his skull to shatter his partner’s nose.

“You may as well just sit there and bleed, son.” I stand over the crumpled man and catch my breath, letting his partner’s limp form settle into a heap next to him. I can’t keep living like this, is all I think. That’s twice in one day I got snuck up on and both have come at a price of pain, each in their own way. I’m starting to wonder if my senses are getting dull or if the new generations are adapting and mutating to a point us old timers may not be able to keep up. Maybe it’s all we get to do, let nature take its course.

I shove my hands into my pockets and readjust my britches to find a little more comfort, ignoring the painful new sensations these thugs have added to my body. Thankfully, a stubborn resistance to serious injury is just one of the ways my body seems to have responded to the nuclear fallout of “the Cure”. Add to the fact I haven’t aged a day since those bombs were dropped so many decades ago.

One hand finds a sharp piece of paper in my pocket and I pull out the card given to me by Randall Pollock. ‘The Great Northern Inn’ is stamped across the bent little rectangle in plain bold letters along with an address in smaller print. My eyes bounce back and forth between the card and the awakening marauders that have begun to pick themselves up from the ground. Well, I think, maybe nature asks us all to evolve in our own ways.

******

“I’m looking for a ‘Randall Pollock’,” I tell the man behind the front desk. “Room 138.”

“I’ll go ahead and ring him up.” Aside from his skin being tinted orange, the concierge doesn’t seem like he’s been too terribly changed by the surface’s new ionized state of being. It isn’t until he turns and reaches for the phone that I realize he has an extra eye on the side of his head where his thinning gray hair should have been. The cloudy orb focuses on me for a moment before bouncing off towards the steady clomp of a pair of boot heels coming down the wooden floored hallway. I turn my own gaze to follow and see the polished image of a familiar big city southerner waving his large hand at me.

“I had a feeling you’d change your mind,” Randall Pollock says with a broad smile.

I try to return his smile, but the movement hurts my face where I’d taken a boot or two to it. Instead, I just nod at him and reply, “I ran out of bullets.”

Thirty minutes later, two steaming hot plates of steak and potatoes are set down in front of us at an aged oak table. The smell is mouthwatering and my stomach snarls furiously at me in response.

“Mm-mmm, that does smell good.” Pollock sets his own napkin down in his lap and picks up his utensils, eyes glowing at the sight before him. “Don’t get much free-range cattle down below.”

I let out a laugh that is quickly pinched off by the pain in my head. “I don’t believe that we do either, despite what they may be advertising.”

“Well, either way,” he winks at me. “It still smells damned delicious.”

I nod at the remark, remembering the sickly grotesque state of some of the mutated cattle I’d seen throughout this part of the country. “Bon appetit.”

“I gotta ask, where in the hell did you learn to shoot like that?” The Texan forks a large bite of steak into his mouth and chews like a gentleman as he waits for my answer. I consider how much information I can safely give this man about myself without entirely incriminating myself. I decide it’s easy enough to just leave out the years of the story I spent making myself a wanted man.

“Well, the aim came easy enough when I was a boy, I suppose.” I cut a portion of steak for myself, enjoying the scent of the cooked and seasoned meat, but the images of the ranches are too fresh in my mind for elation. “The speed I worked on for years. Kept getting faster and faster until no one around could beat me in a draw.”

“You must’ve had some damned good competition where you grew up.” He nods his head at me, almost as if he’s prodding me into divulging a bit more about my history.

“You wouldn’t be wrong to say so.” I take my first bite of the steak and close my eyes for a moment, pushing out the thought of multi headed steer, spider-limbed calves and pulsating tumors.

“Damned good steak, eh,” the Texan says with a chuckle. “No denying it.”

I nod and wash it down with a sip of whiskey, which is equally worthy of pause. My body quickly begins to absorb the nutrients from the meat and the sweet poison of the alcohol, endorphins quickly washing over me from head to toe.

“And so that’s that, huh,” Pollock interrupts my bliss. “Practice makes perfect until you end up getting paid to shoot?”

I swallow what I have before I dig out another cube of steaming beef, piling some potatoes onto the fork before pushing it all into my mouth. Another chew and swallow drops more nourishment into my eagerly accepting body.

“Well, I wound up spending a bit of time with the Navajos,” I tell him, skipping over the years I spent putting people into their caskets.
“The Navajos?” He tucks a mouthful of meat into the side of his mouth with his tongue. “I didn’t think there were any left. I thought the Reservations were all empty.”

“Not all,” I answer without mirth. I can feel the lumps I took last night beginning to greedily suck up everything the meal has to offer, and the satisfaction it brings my body allows me to drop my guard ever so slightly in my recollection.

“I stayed with them for a time”, I continue, pausing my chewing as my emotions provide more memory than my thoughts. “They taught me to get in touch with something inside of me. Can’t really say what, but ever since then, well, the rest of the world seems to move at a much slower pace.”

He stares blankly at me for a moment, his mouth paused in mid-mastication. “Are you puttin’ me on?”

“I ain’t much for wastin’ words,” I tell him, squinting a sore and still aching eye at him.

“No, I don’t suppose you are,” he answers. “It just sounds a little like you’re talkin’ about some kind of Indian voodoo.” He quietly sets down his knife and his fingers move to smooth out his mustache. “All the data you see on the Bus seems to say the Cure did away with the Indians.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about Indians; I’m talkin’ about American Navajos.” I squint both eyes at him now, trying not to take his terminology as a slight against a people I learned to respect. “Anyway, what did you say about a bus?”

His eyes twinkle as he struggles to keep a smirk from spreading across his face. “I almost forgot. You don’t have the Data Bus on the surface here.”

“Nope. Just good ol’ fashioned folklore.” I look back down at my food, trying not to let his big city underground arrogance get to me.

“Aw hell, I didn’t mean nothing,” he starts by way of apology, but then, like a good salesman, he switches gears. “They say you’re all a bit stronger up here. Tougher, really.” Pollock wipes his mouth with his napkin, setting it down on the table next to his plate. “It makes sense I suppose. Adapting to a much less forgiving atmosphere. I’ve read quite a bit of data about that, too.”

“Yeah, on your bus, right?”

“That’s right,” he says, licking his teeth clean and giving me a slow nod. “All of the information you could ask for, about anything. Pretty dang handy to have, if I may put it lightly. Truth be told, I couldn’t imagine being without it.”

I huff out a sound, something like a laugh. He seems to catch my thoughts and gives me a shrug in response.

“Sorry to sidetrack you, my friend,” he says, leaning forward in his seat to retrieve his knife and fork. “Tell me, how’d you go from Navajos to carnivals?”

Taking another bite to stall for time, I decide to give him the same story I’ve given to everyone else since the day I left the reservation. “Well, I guess I knew someone who knew someone,” I lie. “That someone showed me over to the carnival circuit. Told me he knew I could make an honest dollar as a quick draw.”

“That’s it, huh?” He swallows down his steak with a nip of whiskey.

“Yeah, that’s it.” I mirror his actions without meeting his eye. “No big romance here.”

“Oh hell,” he says with a chuckle. “I guess you just seem like a fella with a bit more of a, well, more of a story behind him.”

I keep my eyes on my plate as I cut another bite. I know he’s fishing for the truth, but I just can’t tell quite why. Maybe I killed his brother or his best friend. It might be I robbed him blind at some point down south. Tough to say what his motivation is at this point.

“Sorry ‘bout that Mr. Pollock,” I answer through a mouthful of steak. “The biggest part of my story is just what the Navajos taught me. Course, I happen to think that’s big enough.”

“And you’re right to think so,” he answers with a salesman’s swagger. “Hell, your speed and your aim are proof enough. In fact, I’m glad to hear it.” He nods at me and takes a large swig from his whiskey glass, polishing off the last of it with a grimace. “See, there’s a long list of surface outlaws we’ve been instructed to stay away from. The bitch of it is, the list is mostly just names. No faces to go with them.”

I slug back the contents of my glass, hoping to drown out the pulsing sense of panic trying to take over. I listen carefully for the sounds of footsteps or the hammers of revolvers being pulled back, but nothing comes other than the casual sounds of the few other diners enjoying their meals.

“You see, as a representative of the International Shooters Association, my job is to investigate anyone the association takes an interest in.” He stares me down hard while he speaks, trying his best to break my nerves. He’s coming damned close to succeeding, but there’s something else I see in his eyes: hope. He’s got a lot of hope I may just be a straight and narrow kind of shooter. That means he doesn’t know. And that means I may have found my ticket out of this town. “-just making sure, is all.”

“I hear ya,” I tell him, giving him something like a smile.

“So, I’ve just got a couple more questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I lie, already knowing what both of his questions are.

“First off, what the hell happened to your face?” He pinches his own features up as if he’s the one who got hit.

“Well, Mr. Pollock, it’s like you said. This is a much less forgiving atmosphere up here.” I run my hand gently over the bruises on my face. “Angry sun creates angry men. Lack of food turns angry men into desperate men. You get the picture.”

“No, I’m not so sure I do.”

Jesus, this guy really is an investigator. “Marauders,” I confess. “Got hold of me in the night.”

After a beat, Randall Pollock breaks into a hearty laugh, attracting the suspicious eyes of the other patrons. “Oh, I get it now,” he says, holding his belly for emphasis. “You ran out of bullets.”

I grunt and smile in response, the closest thing to a laugh I can muster up. I’m starting to get a bit irritated with this over-polished cowboy, but if I have any hopes of getting the hell out of this place alive, I’m going to have to put up with him for just a bit longer.

“I just have one more question then,” he says, recovering himself. “I never did catch your name.” It’s a damned good thing I’m out of bullets. Every bone in my body is screaming at me to get the hell out of here or kill this son of a bitch in his seat. Instead, I take a deep breath and remind myself he’s only prying.

“That sounds more like a statement than a question, Mr. Pollock.” I’m stalling, but for what I don’t know, maybe just out of reflex. He chuckles in response.

“You really gonna make me ask?” His voice is quiet, almost conspiratorial. His eyes bore into mine, probing, hunting, daring. The air between us becomes thick and electric, a volatile situation if I was an armed man. I force out a much more realistic version of a laugh to break the tension.

“Hell, Mr. Pollock, I thought for sure you read it in the carnival directory,” I bluff. “Name’s David Cunningham, but on the circuit, they call me Dakota Quick Draw.”

He eyes me cautiously for a moment and then lets out another belly laugh. “Shoot, you almost had me worried for a moment there,” he says, removing his hat and wiping his napkin across his forehead. “Yeah, I was real worried.”

“I don’t rightly see why, Mr. Pollock.” I keep smiling, despite the painful bruising around my mouth. “I’m sure I’ve broken a law or two in my day, but nothing serious.”

And just like that, my cover story has been sealed in the eyes of this investigatory cowboy.

One thing I learned a long time ago: whatever it is you do, you find yourself a good alibi and do every damned thing in your power to make it become the truth. Even if that means killing a man named David Cunningham and spending the next few years answering to his name and taking over his profession as the Dakota Quick Draw.

THE END

Bio: Justin De Moulin is a city police detective in New York's Hudson Valley and was previously a musician in Las Vegas. Aside from reading and writing, Justin loves to ride horses and motorcycles. He has been previously published in the July issue of Aphelion: The Webzine of Science Fiction and Fantasy.

E-mail: Justin De Moulin

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.