IC-
Caleb and Jeeva were walking again. Caleb, straight and tall with the barrel of the Winchester rifle resting on his shoulder. Jeeva, walking with his head hunch down and throwing embarrassed and self-conscious looks at the Blade. He didn’t remember much of what had happened yesterday at mid-day but he remembered babbling. Caleb ignored Jeeva’s puppy-dog eyes that begged for understanding.
Jeeva kicked a loose batch of rocks in his way, setting them scuttling helter-skelter. They scattered, much like his dignity. He grudgingly dragged his feet behind him and tried to force out the words choking his thoughts.
The slaver sighed heavily. “Caleb,” began Jeeva.
Caleb looked over. One eyebrow was raised and that was enough to express the measure of his emotion. “Forget about it, Jeeva,” he said. He turned his face again, a callous and unyielding side of rock, to the East where his dreams dwelled. There was no understanding in his eyes because sympathy was as foreign as not breathing to the old man. And with age, came less acceptance and willingness to learn.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!” shouted Jeeva, suddenly angry. He was tired, damn tired in fact. Following the Blade was crazy, but following a crazy Blade was even crazier. And he was afraid that his sanity was ebbing away, dripping easily out of his hands like dust. That was the worst part, even worse than starving.
“I don’t need to hear what you’re going to say cause I already know,” drawled Caleb in that arrogant, almost cracker-South dialect. “You went off your rocker, and that’s understandable.” He turned around and flashed Jeeva with a sickly cheerful grin all full of shiny teeth. He was surprisingly chatty today. “I can’t blame you since I’ve gone off mine a long time ago. Anyway,” picking up that lecturing tone, “You feel like a fool cause a man’s vulnerable when his wits have left him. Nothing wrong with that.” But the explanation felt false and insincere, as if the Blade was taunting him. “I’m not here to judge.”
This coming from a man named his guns Vindicator and Regulator? But Caleb was already nuts, so Jeeva felt it would be little good to correct him. Even if he did listen.
Jeeva scowled at the Blade, shooting him a dark look. “Don’t take that patronizing tone with me, old man. That’s rich, coming from a man who carries on an entire conversation between himself.
Caleb grinned again. It was a vibrant and rich one but the horrifying thing about it was that it showed genuine amusement, as if his madness was a grand joke. “I’ve already come to terms with my…loss. You just have to view it with some optimism, sunshine. With my sanity gone, there’s less I have to lose. Besides, the voice in here,” he tapped his skull, “is much better company than you.” He laughed spiritedly, throwing his head back. Jeeva declined in joining him.
“My God,” Jeeva said hoarsely. “This isn’t a joke, old man. I’m…I’m going insane because of you!” He wrung his hands in front of him, throwing them forward and trying to get his point through to the Blade.
Caleb shrugged helplessly, a lopsided grin on his face and his eyebrow raised up. Like a regular Harrison Ford. It was a “hey-what-can-you-do?” look.
“Don’t do that, Caleb! Do not just dismiss this, because I am dead-serious.” And the slaver was. The accusing finger he pointed at the Blade was steady and his struggling face was stern. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “I took my chances on you,” Jeeva said in a more reasonable and light tone.
But the grin just grew, gaining girth and giddiness. “Momma always said that the betting man was a damned man. She was shore right, I’ll tell you.”
Jeeva screamed now, stamping his feet down and thudding a rapid tattoo onto the ground. The roar echoed out of his lungs until he ran out of breath. Caleb blinked mildly, taking a few steps back. He may have taken the joke too far.
The slaver marched up the old man and grabbed the dingy overcoat with both hands. He tugged, brining the old man as close as he could. The Winchester rifle tumbled out of the Blade’s hand. “Now you listen here,” Jeeva whispered, his throat too strained to pickup a yelling voice. “I used to be a slaver, as you’re quite prone to remind me, but I’m still a man. You hear me, Caleb, I’m still a man!” He shook the overcoat at this, shouting the words into Caleb’s face.
“I don’t like this jive you’re spouting, boy,” Caleb grumbled dangerously. His hands floated to the inner folds of his coat but he did not go for the revolvers right away.
“Now, a man’s gotta pay back his debts, right?” He shook Caleb again. “And sometimes, the debts are for higher-stakes and require something more than money. In this case, a life. I don’t know how I’m going to give you a life for a life, but I still gotta try. Cause a man pays back his debts and I am a man, whether you think so or not. I’m just so damned tired of you treating me like scum.” Jeeva pushed Caleb away, letting him go.
Caleb stepped back, his hands still holding the folds of the overcoat. “No one’s pointing a gun to your head, Jeeva.”
“No, but they might as well be doing so. A bullet’s nothing when you’ve got my dignity in tow. And I mean to earn it back.”
But Caleb was not listening. He wasn’t looking at Jeeva, in fact. The old Blade was staring over his shoulder, his attention enrapt.
“Caleb?” asked Jeeva. He could see deadly intent in the old man’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s two men ahead of us,” Caleb said in a dreamy, faraway voice. He said it out loud, not really answering the slaver.
Jeeva turned around slowly. But all he could see was the stretch of deserts spanning far away from him, a flat and featureless land of dry ground and shrubs. Amidst the hazy horizon, he could make out two cacti. “I don’t see anything,” he said, shading his eyes.
“They’re slavers,” Caleb said with stark certainty. He did not squint or strain his eyes at all.
Jeeva turned back to his stalwart companion. “How can you be so sure?” Jeeva did not doubt that they were two men, since Caleb was a gunfighter and sharpshooter, but he highly doubted if the Blade could tell they were slavers.
Caleb finally looked down at Jeeva. His formally jovial expression was replaced with a chilling detachment. Without a word, Caleb took Jeeva’s right hand and tapped the skull’s head tattoo traced into his palm. “They wear the mark of the slavers on their foreheads.”
Jeeva nodded in realization. It was a common practice for slavers to shave their heads and brand the tattoos on their foreheads. It was bad advertising, asking for trouble, but some still did it.
These two men were probably part of the vanguard left to secure the borders around Tabis. Their orders were to kill all who were leaving town. And a renegade slaver traveling with a Blade elder was not the most inconspicuous fellow.
“Do they see us yet?” Jeeva asked. His throat was suddenly dry again. And for the millionth time, he wished he had had the forethought to carry a gun. But Caleb had left with little warning and there was no time to find a heater.
Caleb shook his head. “One of them has a rifle. If they had, we would have been dead by now.” Jeeva found himself agreeing to that ideology. The Blade sighed heavily and picked up the Winchester rifle he had dropped. He pulled the lever and chambered a shot.
“What are you doing?” hissed Jeeva in alarm. He turned back to the hazy cacti who were getting closer.
The Blade lifted the rifle to his eye and he licked his lips. “We gotta take them down.”
Jeeva grabbed the Winchester barrel and tilted it down. Caleb looked at him with angry eyes. “Wait!” the slaver said. “You’re a good shot, Caleb, but I doubt you can hit these men. Even if you did, they’ve got a rifle of their own.”
Caleb clattered his teeth, staring back and forth from one slaver to the other like a trapped animal. “What do you suggest, Jeeva?”
“Give me the rifle,” the slaver said.
The old man looked at him as if he was the crazy one. “You just said I couldn’t hit them. What makes you think you could?”
But Jeeva only shook his head. “They don’t know I’m no longer part of the slavers anymore. We’ll have to trick them. Now give me the rifle.”
Caleb stared at Jeeva for a long moment but his eyes kept flickering back to the steadily advancing men. With great hesitance, he handed Jeeva the Winchester.
Jeeva took it, handling the old antique clumsily. He got behind the old man and shoved the barrel convincingly behind his back, too close for Caleb’s comfort. “You’ll have to trust me on this, Caleb.”
But Caleb did not truly trust Jeeva, or at least he did not trust Jeeva’s wiliness. No, he was hedging his bet with his quick-draw hands and the two revolvers hidden by his overcoat. He just hoped Jeeva could get them close enough for the revolvers’ range.
They started walking, Jeeva nudging Caleb along with the barrel of the gun. Caleb played his own part and kept his hands raised behind his head. The two slavers finally got into visible range and Jeeva could make out the tattoos branded on their heads. They caught sight of the advancing men and paused in their tracks, raising their guns in surprise. Caleb had to resist the urge to chuckle; it wasn’t as if they had snuck up on them.
Thirty feet away. One slaver had a dingy breastplate made from tanned leather. The other slaver was decked out in full black leather and chains and his attire was causing him to sweat. They both had pistols but the slaver with the breastplate had a rifle, which was trained steadily in their direction. “Halt, wayfarers!”
Jeeva clumsily switched the rifle to his other hand and held out his right hand palm-side up, exposing the death’s head tattoo. “I’m of the Guild! I’m of the Guild!” he shouted.
Leather-boy visibly relaxed but Rifleman still kept his weapon pointed at Jeeva. “Come closer!” He shouted.
Jeeva heard Caleb cursed but he kept edging slightly forward. He went on taking baby steps until Rifleman told him to stop. Ten feet away. Jeeva licked his dry lips and displayed his hand again, splaying the fingers wide. The two slavers leaned in closer and Leather-boy nodded to his companion.
“Who are you?” shouted Rifleman. He had lowered his rifle but Leather-boy had drawn his pistol as a precaution.
Jeeva chanced a few steps closer so he wouldn’t have to shout. “I’m Jeeva.”
“That sounds familiar.” Rifleman pursed his lips in concentration, looking down at his ugly boots. He looked over at Leather-boy. “Weren’t we supposed to keep an eye out for a Jeeva?”
A cold pit grew in Jeeva’s stomach and he looked at the slavers anxiously. He could feel Caleb coil up right next to him, ready to unleash hell.
But Leather-boy simply nodded his head. “Yeah, Jeeva, the leader of the preliminary force sent to Tabis. He was supposed to kill some freedom fighters or something.” His eyes dropped to Caleb.
“So?” asked Rifleman anxiously. Both slavers leaned forward expectantly.
“So what?” rejoined Jeeva, truly baffled.
“Don’t leave us in suspense, man!” piqued Leather-boy. “We’ve been waiting around this wasteland for three weeks now with no updates. What’s the situation? How’s the battle over at Tabis?”
“It’s going fine,” lied Jeeva. These two slavers had probably not received word of Tabis’s true fate or encounter any families leaving the town. “In fact, the battle’s already over. We won.” He decided to keep his words simple, not wishing to dress them up and lay it on too heavily.
Leather-boy’s face lit up in jubilation but Rifleman narrowed his eyes at Jeeva. Jeeva though he was going to be a problem. “And what’s the status of your mission, brother?”
Jeeva nudged Caleb with the Winchester. “Taken care of. This Blade here has been causing problems.”
“Problems?” asked Leather-boy.
“Yeah, the usual. Rallying up dissent, offing a few officials, and blowing up some of the town. My commando killed the townspeople foolish enough to listen. Now I’m taking this Blade for interrogation.”
“What luck!” Leather-boy said with honest excitement. Obviously, he was new to the trade. “A convoy of about forty Blade elders passed us a week ago, heading for Grey Cliffs. They’re going to be used for a demonstration or something.”
Jeeva could feel Caleb tighten at the mention of his brothers and he hoped the old man would not do something foolish. Fortunately, the Blade was keeping his head down.
“Good job, Jeeva,” congratulated Leather-boy. He patted Jeeva on the shoulder with high camaraderie. Then he turned to Caleb and shook his head. “Well, let’s this over with.” Leather-boy pulled the slide on his pistol and pointed it at the Blade.
Caleb’s eyes widened and his hands dropped from his head. This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Wait!” shouted Jeeva, holding up his hand. Leather-boy and Rifleman looked at him suspiciously. “Don’t you want to interrogate him?”
“Interrogate him?” asked Leather-boy in disbelief. “We were given orders to kill any Blades or Borderpatrol we encountered.”
Rifleman lifted his rifle again. “Yeah, the same orders they gave to you and your commando, Jeeva. Why did you keep this Blade alive when you were sent on an assassination mission?”
And the shit hit the fan.
Jeeva was about to tilt the Winchester towards Rifleman, picking the biggest threat, and scream “Freeze!” but Caleb was already moving.
The Blade reached his lanky arms into the folds of his coat, crisscrossing as his hands grabbed onto the revolvers hidden inside. Leather-boy saw him reaching for a weapon and raised his pistol. But Caleb was still moving. As his hands were busy hauling out Regulator and Vindicator, Caleb was rushing into Leather-boy. He slammed into the slaver shoulder first, knocking the gullible man off his feet.
Seeing his companion go down, Rifleman finally reacted. He raised his rifle to his chin, sighting down with his eyes. And the rifle was pointed at Jeeva. Jeeva, the Winchester entirely forgotten in his hands, stared dumbly into the barrel.
But Caleb was still moving even then. He had sidestepped over Leather-boy and was turning on Rifleman. His hands were still drawing his revolvers however, and he saw he would not have enough time to completely level them before Rifleman pulled the trigger. So the Blade drew back his foot completely back, as far as it would go. Then, keep amazing balance, he brought his foot forward in a powerful kick directed towards the rifle in Rifleman’s hand. Anyone who had seen Caleb would have recognized a classic football punt. And the kick had the same effect; the rifle went careening out of Rifleman’s hand.
What happened next was too fast for Jeeva to follow. Caleb recovered from his kick, nimbly dancing on spot to keep balance. The folds of his coat flew back like the wings of a bat, exposing the heavy gun belt and rows of bullets lining the belt. The two revolvers sparkled as Caleb loosened them from their leather holsters. The dual clicks of hammers resonated loudly.
With his right hand, Vindicator rose steadily upwards in a rising arc. The front blade of the revolver settled on Rifleman’s head and the slaver stared into the massive barrel and into the bronze tipped bullet within. Caleb pulled the trigger, causing a series of actions to perform. The trigger broke back easily, and the hammer pushed forward, causing the firing pin to pierce the primer within the bullet. The miniature combustion erupted the gunpowder, causing the bullet to leap out of its shell. And the bullet traveled dutifully down the contours of the barrel, picking up momentum. The air between the barrel and Rifleman’s head shrieked as the speeding bullet ripped through its surface. A plume of flame blossomed from the barrel and tendrils of fire chased after the bullet as the lead jacket ripped through tender flash, shattered the cranium, and passed into the vulnerable brain. Rifleman’s brains were reduced to gray matter and he was already dead before he hit the floor.
All this in but seconds.
Leather-boy had rolled onto his palms, edging away on the ground. Caleb rolled Vindicator on his finger and shoved it into his holster. He passed Regulator to his right hand and pointed it at Leather-boy, who promptly stopped squirming away. Jeeva snapped out of his daze and likewise trained the Winchester on Leather-boy. “Ah Lord,” Leather-boy croaked. “Don’t shoot me.”
Jeeva did not pull the trigger.
Caleb did.
The report of the gun was lord but Leather-boy’s dying scream was even louder.
When it was over, Caleb blew the smoke off his gun and returned it to his holster. He looked over at Jeeva who had the still full Winchester in his hands, staring numbly at the dead corpses on the ground.
“Strip their bodies of anything valuable,” he commanded the slaver.
The idea did not sound appealing but Jeeva complied. He handed the Winchester back to Caleb, glad to be rid of the weapon. The two survivors stripped the dead of their belongings. The Blade took off two canteens and an assortment of tubers they had been eating. The slaver donned Rifleman’s leather breastplate over his tattered shirt, took the rifle, and the two pistols as his own. Having to wear the loot of the death still did not feel right.
Caleb and Jeeva left the bodies for the carrion and continued East.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
IC-
Marcus, the darkman, grinned happily at the tall man standing in front of him. He was several miles ahead of Caleb and Jeeva, making up time by traveling while they slept. He had been surprised at how easily he could slip to and fro around that cussed Blade. And he was eternally delighted that both Blade and slaver were losing their minds.
Now, he was standing before a bridge, a rickety length of cord and wooden planks suspended by a deep chasm. Before the war, the fault lines in California were already expanding. And as the tectonic plates grinded against each other, it was suggested that California would eventually tear apart from the continent and become an island. That had not happened but the shifting plates sure did fuck up a lot of other things. This chasm, for instance. The darkman knew that the chasm made a clean split between Tabis and the East. There might be a way to go around it but you would have to travel far up north. Only the shitty little rickety bridge allowed safe passage. And Marcus owned it.
“Can you do this for me, Hans?” the darkman asked the tall man standing in front of him, his back to the bridge. The devilish grin sparkled charisma and insanity.
The mercenary, Hans, nodded. “Ja, mein freund. But I’ve got a question of my own.”
“Yes?” the darkman said, with his swashbuckling grin. He chuckled lightly. “Shoot.”
Hans took the cigarette from his mouth and rolled it between his thumb and middle finger. A brief cloud of smoke breezed from his nostrils. He pointed his index finger at Marcus, the cigarrete clenched between his other fingers drawing an arcane trail in the air. “Can you pay me enough?”
Marcus laughed loudly, as if Hans was a regular Johnny Carson. He laid a leather wrapped hand on Hans shoulder and the mercenary grimaced in disgust. “Oh, my friend. Ever the practical one, eh?” Marcus’s grin suddenly dropped, his jaw sagging down to a clenched line. He took his hand off Hans’s shoulder and pulled out a hefty bag from his jacket. He shook it lightly and numerous coins within jingled happily. “Is this enough, mein freund?” Marcus asked, his joviality gone and his eyes staring at the mercenary lackluster.
The German mercenary took the bag from Marcus. He did not open it to count the contents; he merely jostled the bag once, nodded his head, and placed it into a pocket on his gun belt. “This’ll do, Marcus. I’ll do your dirty work.”
The darkman’s grin returned and chuckled deeply. “Dirty work?” asked Marcus with mock shock. “I’m only asking you to kill a man, Hans. Nothing new in your line of work.”
Hans stuck the cigarette back into his mouth, clamping his teeth between it. He inhaled the stale tobacco and exhaled the smoke slowly. “From what I hear,” said Hans, looking at his combat boots, “this man you want me to kill is a Blade elder.”
“So?” Marcus rejoined. His eyes crinkled in delight and he playfully punched the mercenary in the shoulder. Then he made his eyes widen in understanding. “Oh, that’s right. You tried to join the Blades once, didn’t you, my friend? And you were rejected, right?” Marcus’s grin flashed again.
The German’s eyes blazed in fury. “I was not rejected, dunkel ein,” he spat. “I left of my own volition. They could not recognize a survivor when they saw one. The Blades were so pompous with their high ideals and morality. They should have known better.”
Marcus’s grin dropped. “Then you should have no qualms about killing this Blade. He is just as self-righteous and arrogant.” Then the darkman’s cheery exterior returned again. “So is the gunslinger dead, Hans?” The coaxing oiliness dripped along his words.
Hans hefted his rifle. “Die revolvermannen est verstorbene,” agreed the mercenary.
Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man, Hans.” He stared into the mercenary’s eyes, for the first time dead earnest and serious. “But do not fail us, my friend. The Four Horsemen’s wrath knows no bounds. You know the price of failure.”
“Ja,” whispered Hans softly.
The darkman started walking away. “Goodbye, Hans. And good luck.”
“Goodbye, Marcus,” Hans replied, turning around. But the darkman had already disappeared, ready to spread his mischief in the deserts.
The German mercenary sat before the bridge, waiting. He donned his steel battle helmet and laid the Mauser Karabiner atop his knees. He was decked completely in a German officer’s uniform from World War 2. The iron cross atop the helmet shone resplendently and the broken-cross armband he wore gleamed in crimson in the sunlight.
The Bridge Keeper waited.
OOC- I just waited to put this in before Welsh carries out his plan with the darkman. And I’m very sorry for butchering the German language. It’s not my first tongue.
