OOC- The reason I chose Hans to have a German lineage is because of their renown for marksmanship. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the GSG-9 police unit and I’m frankly awed by their tenacity, efficiency, and prowess.
IC-
Caleb and Jeeva were walking again. The ordeal of killing the two slavers was nothing new to Caleb but it filled Jeeva with a new profound fear and respect for his traveling companion. He had seen the Blade shoot, but only witnessed the massacre from afar. Seeing the harsh strain of muscle and the rigid blast of movement that strained each body part was astonishing, especially considering Caleb’s age. Jeeva doubted whether his men would have survived if Caleb had truly wanted to kill him and the rest of the slavers at the Fortress.
But Jeeva also felt confident now. He was traveling with a Blade, after all. In the last fight, he had been too stunned to even shoot the Winchester but Caleb had dealt with both slavers with ease. Plus, he was now armed. It was incredibly foolish to go out into the wastelands without a firearm, but the slaver had to leave Tabis right away since Caleb had posted little notice. The two dusty handguns were traditional slaver weapons: crude, pieced together semi-automatics that fired low-caliber bullets. Two clips, thirty rounds of 9mm ammo altogether. The rifle was a pathetic .22 hunting rifle. But it was better than nothing, which was exactly what Jeeva had started off with.
And, to his surprise, the strict life in the desert was doing him good. Of course, being a slaver, he was just to a few terms out in the desert, but always in the company of a wagon or other means of transportation. His calves bulged with larger muscles and his stomach became leaner and tighter due to his strict diet of eating nothing. He supposed the secret to Blade endurance is spending their entire life in the desert. Caleb was certainly a testament to that. And, if he were a conman, Jeeva knew there were many eccentric elderly people who would pay a king’s ransom to learn the secret to eternal youth. Welcome to the wastelands, also known as the fountain of youth.
Jeeva chuckled.
“Something funny?” asked Caleb, wearily. He hoped the slaver wasn’t going out of his gourd again.
The slaver only shook his head, an idiotic grin on his face.
It had been about a day and a half since they fought the two slavers. They had made camp just once, dining on shrillers. The buggers were fast, but not fast enough to outrun a bullet. The trick was to let them get in close. And to keep your sanity while they screamed throughout the night. Needless to say, it had been a restless night.
Now they were traveling abroad and on foot again. After leaving the unofficial “borders” of Tabis, the environment changed drastically, or as drastically as things can change while still remaining deserts. Now, great clusters of rock formations, ranging from spirals to skyscrapers, spanned throughout the deserts. Caleb had said the rocks used to be mountains before the acidic rain was through with them. Jeeva didn’t have a reason to doubt the Blade. Shrubbery and minute growth occurred more often, too. The budded cacti were their only source of water thus far, but water wasn’t lacking for now. Occasionally, Caleb would stop on the spot and manage to dig up a host of tubers. But more often, the pair would have to make do on what they hunted; whether they were radscorpions, mole rats, or shrillers didn’t matter. In a pinch, the lichen growing atop some rocks constituted their diet. It was better than nothing.
The walking was easier, also. There was something nice about the soil. It wasn’t like the hardpan in the desert that crumpled underneath your feet. Here, the earth had more water and was more compacted. Of course, Jeeva and Caleb were still sloshing through the stuff but at least they weren’t buried halfway to their torsos in it. The rich soil was probably the reason why plants grew so well in it; it was thick enough to allow roots to settle without the fear of being blown away by the wind.
For quite sometime, about half of an hour now, the pair had been hearing the loud and long howls and groans. When the noise had at first started, Jeeva, despite knowing better, was startled like a daft tribal. But Caleb knew there was a chasm ahead. The Great Divide, as it was known, since it practically split West from East. It was the wind, funneling through the tunnel of rock, which made the noise.
Judging by the now ear-splitting howls, they were getting closer. Jeeva knew about the Great Divide, of course. All seasoned slavers did; it came with experience. Sometimes, a select-amount of “prey” is able to outrun the slavers. Usually, they are tribal scouts who were used to outrunning. And if the prey is able to get across the Great Divide, it was considered taboo to further go after them. Once they left the realm of the West, they were out of slaver territory. The Blade Fatherland, located far to the north-east, established this mythical border of sanctuary.
“We’re getting closer,” Jeeva said unnecessarily. Caleb only nodded slightly. The slaver’s heart was pounding now. The surge of the chase, instinctive due to the sight of the chasm, began to build up. There was no prey ahead, but he could not help feeling excited. Old habits, especially habits recently dropped, died hard.
They could now see the great awning chasm, a pit almost twenty feet across. It was very, very dark looking down. Caleb, judging by his own internal compass and his knowledge of the landmarks, had altered their path so that they would encounter one of the few bridges stretching over the Great Divide. There had been more bridges, of course, but raiders had cut them down, preferring their quarry have less paths of escape open to them. For a time, there had been even a steel infrastructure bridge but that had fallen into disrepair. The art of making a new bridge with complex airlifts was forgotten. Now, only a handful of rope and plank bridges remained.
And sure enough, Caleb had led them to one of these bridges. A length of sturdy twine rope fastened to wooden stakes on each end, with a series of wooden planks making up the steps. Jeeva was not afraid of heights but it wouldn’t necessarily be a thrill if the bridge were to come apart.
They were ten yards away from the bridge. A few of the malformed rocks, some big enough to be boulders, littered the area around the bridge. The chasm below howled.
“Does that seem safe to you, Caleb?” asked Jeeva. The Blade was already in front of the bridge, getting ready to cross.
Caleb turned around, about to make a witty reply, when he caught a glint of metal from the corner of his eye. He turned around, but it was too late.
Hans had been chewing on a stick of dry military rations when he saw a pair of figures coming forward. At the sight, he promptly dropped the distasteful stick into a can marked: “UNITED STATES ARMY RATIONS< BREADSTICKS”. He wiped the crumbs off his mouth and hands, picking up the Mauser Karabiner.
He was crouching behind a boulder on the opposite side of the bridge. The sun was to his back, which was always good, but any reflective shine would give away his position. So he had prudently taken off his steel helmet and wrapped his vintage rifle with strips from his blanket. All of the metallic bright steel parts were covered, except for the tip of the barrel and the trigger guard which were naturally matte black.
Carefully, with the rifle set against the boulder, he peeked over the top of his hiding space. Two men were indeed walking up to his position. That was also good, because his senses were still sharp. One of the men was dressed in blue jeans and a leather breastplate. A rifle was slung on his back and two pistols were tucked under his arms with a holster rig. A freshly grown black beard lined his face. Hans ignored this man because his demeanor bespoke raider, slaver, or some other desert scum.
The other man begged more consideration. He was long and lanky, like a forest stag. A great overcoat hung off his thin frame, partly opened in the front. He wore ragged black jeans and a simple button-up shirt underneath the coat. Hans caught the sight of a massive leather gun belt and noticed the startling amount of cartridges lining the man’s belt. The man was wearing a wide brimmed hat and glossy gray hair sprayed in the wind. What was more, he wore a red bandanna with a crescent moon pattern over the lower part of his face. A Blade mask.
This was the man Marcus wanted dead.
The Blade walked up to the front of the bridge and Hans slowly grabbed his rifle. Hunched behind the rock, he twisted the dials on his sniper scope to compensate for windage. The mercenary peeked up again and saw the Blade turning to his companion. He took the opportunity and raised the rifle, setting its length atop of the rock. He sighted down the scope, licking his lips.
But the sunlight towards his back bounced of the Blade’s shiny steel buckle and reflected into the scope, both blinding Hans and giving away his position. The Blade caught the reflection off the corner of his eyes and he had one second to react. And with that one slim second, the Blade’s hands were already halfway to his revolvers.
But Hans steady finger tightened on the trigger, regardless of where his riflescope was pointed. He whispered, “I am become death, shatterer of worlds,” using the same words Oppenheimer used after witnessing the first nuclear explosion. He fired the Mauser and the Blade went down.
It all happened too fast for Jeeva to follow. He saw Caleb turning around to face him but at the same time, the old man’s eyes were tilting to the left. And then all of a sudden, Caleb was whirling back towards the bridge, the flaps of his coat flying as he tried to go for his pistols. Then there was a bright flash and a loud roar coming from the other side of the bridge. And to Jeeva’s shock, the Blade was sent sprawling backwards.
“FUCK!” roared Caleb on the ground, writhing in pain. Jeeva scrambled to help him up but the Blade vehemently shook his head. “Get the fuck down!”
Jeeva stopped and took cover behind one of the man-sized boulders. The Blade was feebly crawling behind another boulder. He watched as the old man grunted and heaved, finally tucking himself behind a boulder across from his own. Caleb slipped his back up against the rock and Jeeva could see a blossom of blood flooding out of the old man’s right shoulder.
“Ah shit,” whispered Jeeva, seeing the extent of the injury. An angry crimson hole bored straight through Caleb’s arm. The bullet had passed cleanly but it had still done its job. Bright white bone could be seen clearly, amidst the gore and blood. His arm was connected to his shoulder by a thin flap of skin.
Caleb was tearing strips from his already threadbare overcoat, making a hasty tourniquet around his shoulder. The blood was flowing readily.
Jeeva scanned the area across the bridge, looking for the sniper. He was obviously hiding behind one of the boulders as they were currently doing. He looked back to his companion and called back, “Anything I can do to help, Caleb?”
The Blade used his teeth to tear off the loose end of the tourniquet and began wading up more strips to use as a bandage. He spared on look at Jeeva and nodded. “Yeah. You can kill that fuck who shot me.” Then he turned back to his injury.
The slaver gritted his teeth. Easier said than done. He picked up a nearby piece of rock to his side and threw it up into the sky. Instantaneously, there was another sharp gunshot and the rock splintered into gravel in midair, sending a shower of hail over Jeeva. Yeah, this one was pro, all right.
Jeeva snapped the safety catch of the .22 off and gathered his feet underneath him, bunching up his calves. He turned to Caleb and said, “I’ll need a distraction.”
The old man winced as he picked up a rock and threw it over his head. Simultaneously, Jeeva ran towards a boulder even closer to the bridge. As he ran, he caught sight of a man dressed in World War 2 combat fatigues popping up from his cover with a sniper rifle. The sniper took one look at the flying rock, dismissed it, and swerved his gun towards Jeeva. The slaver dived, springing himself behind the rock just as the sniper fired. The report of the rifle was very loud.
Jeeva panted, his back behind the boulder. He could hear the German throwing back the bolt of his rifle. He could hear Caleb cursing, “Goddamn, Goddamn, Goddamn,” over and over again.
The slaver was never a good shot, personally. Slavers didn’t need to be good shots in their line of profession. That’s why they packed such lower caliber rounds; in the unlikely even that they did hit their target, it would only be a crimpling shot and not a kill. The .22 hunting rifle wasn’t the choicest weapon in a gunfight, either.
The German, on the other hand, was good. If he had found the time to collect an entire set of Third Reich officer uniform, then that bespoke some of his pride in his ability. Jeeva recognized the type of rifle the sniper was using. It only carried five rounds and he had used three already. That meant that he would have to reload soon, which meant a delay in fire. Unless, the German was using stripper clips, of course.
A grenade would have been mighty useful about now. Skik, the ghoul back at the fortress would be a godsend if he were to show up. Jeeva snapped up from his cover, swinging his rifle in the general direction of the sniper, and pulled the trigger three times before he sank back down. The German sniper unloaded another round, this one ricocheting off the boulder perilously close to Jeeva’s head. One more round left.
Jeeva slung the hunting rifle to his back and grabbed the two handguns from his holster. He pulled the slides back on both guns and crossed himself, though he was not a Christian. “In da name of da Fadda, da Son, and da Holy Ghost,” he quickly inchanted.
The slaver flung himself from his cover, taking advantage of a bunch of bristles to disguise his movement. He rolled himself back up, bending his knees, and rushed blindly towards the sniper on the other side of the chasm. The sniper caught sight of the movement and brought the rifle up to bear. Jeeva saw how quickly the German targeted him and skidded to a stop. He brought up his handguns but it would be too late.
But Caleb had seen want the slaver was planning and leaned feebly over his boulder. Regulator was in his left hand and began firing painfully slow, using only his thumb to cock back the single-action revolver. Despite being injured and hastily drawing a bead, Caleb’s shots came remarkably close to the sniper. The six shots ricocheted off the rocks and the soil at the German’s feet.
Hans panicked as Caleb intended and quickly fired his last shot and Jeeva. The slaver skipped and the bullet simply thudded into the ground, throwing up debris and dust. Jeeva took the opportunity and jumped behind a rock directly across from Hans. Now, only the deep chasm separated them.
The slaver was unloading his two handguns now and the Blade was moving in for a closer position. It would only be seconds before the cowboy found a sufficient angle to fire his Winchester. Hans cursed, laying the Mauser Karabiner gently to the side. He pulled a Luger from a hip holster, daring not to reload his rifle.
Caleb was inching himself closer to the rock Jeeva was firing from. The Winchester was in his left hand. It would be hard firing a rifle with just one hand, but he would have to manage. As he got closer to the bridge, Hans leapt up and fired a few potshots at both the slaver and Blade. One pistol round rebounded off Jeeva’s breastplate and he was forced to take cover. The pierce of armor had deflected the bullet but the slaver knew he would have a sore under the same spot for weeks.
On the ground, commando-style, Caleb crawled to Jeeva’s position. The slaver extended his arm and pulled Caleb up against the rock. The Blade was panting hard and a trail of blood was spilt onto the ground. He grabbed a handful of Jeeva’s sleeve and leaned in close. “Make some noise, hoss. Reload your rifle.”
Jeeva did not waste time to argue, not even bothering to tell the Blade that he was all out of ammo. He loudly undid the magazine, tilted out the remaining shells, and reloaded.
From behind his rock, Hans heard one of the bliksems reload his gun. There were four remaining shots in his Luger and he had to make them count. He jumped up from his rock, ready to blast the reloading man.
But as he did so, he came perfectly in line with the rifle Caleb Rutgers was aiming in his direction. He realized his mistake too late and the Blade shot him in the throat. Hans gurgled in dismay, clutching his throat with his free hand as he fell over.
“Got that sumabitch,” muttered Caleb, levering another shot. Both the Blade and the slaver stood up from their cover and grimly advanced on the bridge to put the German sniper out of his misery.
But before they could even place one step on the bridge, Hans stumbled away from the rock again. He pointed his pistol at the can of gasoline he had placed besides the bridge stake. Caleb saw what he was doing and fired the rifle at the already dying sniper. But Hans managed to pull the trigger just as his head exploded from Caleb’s clean shot. Simultaneously, the Luger round hit the gasoline tank, causing it to pierce and heat up and then explode. The dry planks and twine quickly caught fire and erupted. Soon, the cindering bridge burnt free of its wooden stakes and tumbled down to the chasm in fiery conflagration.
Caleb watched the bridge fall, the only passage to the East for at least miles.
“God. Damn. It,” he cursed.
