Gunslinger
Mildly Dipped
This story was started a summer ago, when I had just finished eighth grade. You can still tell its crudely written, even after I went over it with a fine toothed comb. The city of Glow, where this story takes place, is not the same Glow in Fallout. Enjoy.
Chapter One
“The Duel”
When the trouble started, Walter drew his revolver because, in the end, he had always left a scene with guns blazing and the acrid smell of sulfur hanging in the air behind him.
Things were looking bad the minute Walt stepped into the slums of the city. The obscene and overlapping graffiti of various shades of colors and rioting artistic creativity sprawled rampantly across the city walls and rundown, deserted buildings. The sun had also deserted the sky, as if it, too, did not dare to show its face in that area of the city, and the gloomy night fell over the slums. The occasional trashcan filled with burning refuse provided light when the lampposts, with their reserve of electricity long drained by now, failed and they threw flickering and ominous shadows across the corroded streets. An enterprising arsonist had torched the apartment buildings along the slums and the leftover remnants of steel infrastructure looked like charred skeletons rising to the sky, the caked and corroded plaster growing on their sides like lichen.
A full moon was hanging up in the sky that night, with its shattered and dry face now matching that of the scorched earth. Along with the celestial giant, a heavy shower of rain was failing steadily, a possible prelude to hail later that week. The shower of dew fell earnestly and coated everything under its path with wetness. The drops of water clung and slid down the nonplussed faces of fire hydrants, left dormant for ages now and containing nourishing water of itself. In mere minutes, the water from the sky, a cherished gift since the aftermath of the war, collected and overflowed in the streets. A literal river flooded into the street drains and the budding elemental force could not be contained.
As the water collected and flowed, the moon shone its eerie light that bounced and reflected off the river’s surface. The tears of the sky skipped and jostled over the infrequent and chaotic face of the cracked streets and the river surface rippled and sloshed about in a hypnotic pattern. And the rain fell as steadily as before, each drop capturing the moonlight before dashing upon the miniature river’s surface and becoming one with it.
As nature had its way with the city, Walter Zhentarsky walked in the center of the streets with indifference, not caring if he did get wet and not bothering to walk along the sidewalk or under the canvas overhangs of the remaining buildings for shelter. He had adopted a motto that seemed pessimistic and optimistic at the same time. And it was: “The world would go on, even if I don’t.”
His military boots, still freshly coated with dust from the road, sloshed determinedly through the pool of water collecting in a depression along the street. He even walked with determination; his head was thrust ahead and his massive shoulders pushed with each step as if he were a plow. The river fought back with little resistance against the invader since its current was carrying it downstream, but the rain made up for its absence of effort by pouring down even harder. A botch of water fell on Walt’s cracked yet serviceable, tanned yet supple, leather but hard as steel, brown flak jacket. Underneath, the shoulder mounted straps to the holster carrying his pistol was protected from the inconvenient wetness but the rain still seeped into the faded black T-shirt he wore. The rugged and battered pair of jeans Walt wore also absorbed the liquid greedily and sagged off his hips with the increased weight. Walt merely grunted at this and hitched his gait higher up to avoid drenching his pants even further.
The streets of the Glow were lonely this time of day. Normally a war zone for the gangs and hoodlums, the streets were abandoned for the comforts of a warm hovel. Walt scoffed at this thought. The rebelling teens would gladly shed each other’s blood over petty disputes but would balk at the horror of getting wet. Besides the ruffians, the rest of the residents of the slums knew better than to seek passage through the streets in the open at any time of day. Besides, there was no reason for others to be out and about. So Walt’s only and constant companion was the steady pour of rain hanging on his back and the rushing river of water following his heels.
The burnt out husks of the buildings flanked both sides of Walt and appeared to be looming over him with a disapproving eye. With shattered windows for eyes, empty doorways lacking doors for a mouth, and fallen roof tiles for a hairline, the apartment complexes acquired physical characteristics. A wind blew through the building’s doorway and came out sounding as howl. Walt, though not superstitious, still knew how to judge an omen and increased the length of his steps.
His path took him further into the heart of the city were the “livable” part of the slums laid. What “livable” meant was that a few resourceful citizens had decided to patch up a particular building or two and fix up a diner or other business. Nothing much in the slums was considered as livable by human standards but the people left after the apocalypse could never be picky. Far from it. They had to find what they could and cling to it with an animalistic ferocity.
Two burning trashcans marked the entrance of the livable slums and separated it from the burnt away apartments. From there, electric lights could be seen shining in a few windows. Another sign of life was the faint, faraway and muffled tunes of a jukebox. The screechy sound gritted horribly against any discernable ear but was appreciated because it was played through technology, a more and more seldom luxury found in these decadent days.
Walt followed this bittersweet sound down the road and his head passed under many broken streetlights and his eyes saw many curious signs bearing stick figure people that could serve no understandable purpose. The hum of fluorescent lights radiated from the abode of the few livable buildings and the pitter-patter of rain failing on the tin roofs greeted his ears. It seemed, for the Glow, that the slums were doing visibly well. He wondered if there was a school in the area that children would trudge to in the morning or if there was a militia keeping the peace or a fire service ready to move out on alert, all three an unheard of amenity in most places. The thoughts of warm pie cooling on the windowsill and the earthy smells of tobacco smoke from a father’s pipe invaded his mind.
That is, until the gunshot roared in the deafening silence of the night amidst the pitter-patter of raindrops and all nonessential thoughts fled from Walt’s head.
At the sound of the gunshot, muffled yet echoed probably by the walls of an alley surrounding it, all the fluorescent lights clicked off as one and the jerky, harsh grinding sounds of the jukebox ceased. This was followed by a series of clicks and slams as the residents of the livable buildings locked their doors.
Walt, standing in the open with no visible cover protecting him, looked frantically around, tilting his head to the side so his ears could recall the origin of the gunshot. Judging by the crack and thud sound of the blast, the gun was a hard-caliber. Walt would not be surprised if the bullet had torn through a few layers of brick or concrete. With a grim determination, Walt leaned forward, as if he was bowing before his honored enemy, and his own pistol slid free from his tooled holster concealed by his armpit and into his wet hands. The revolver was an ancient relic manufactured before the wartime and used to tame the West ages ago. The gun owed its functionality to its simple, trusty design and its easy maintenance.
As his father had taught him, Walt held the heavy pistol with both hands to steady it. He raised it before him, aligning his eye with the forward sight, and swept it about. As he scanned for an enemy, his finger tightened on the five-pound pull of the trigger.
Walt was no hero. Being one just wasn’t advisable in this post-nuclear world. But his father, and his father before him in turn, had followed the way of the gun and were well acquainted in survival. The gunshot was none of Walt’s business, who had just arrived fresh into town anyway, and most folks would have turned a deaf ear to the sound of violence and walked on. But Walt had to investigate it, on the basis that a gunshot fired in such a carefree manner was something he would have to face with also.
Not understanding or caring about the gravity of the situation, the rain poured down even harder. The drops of water dashed onto the road and skipped up high as it pounded down. Everything was bathed with a shimmering shroud of trickling water that distorted the vision. The only light present was the moon now and Walt’s limited vision caused him to squint into the darkness. Crouching, with the pistol held down, Walt scampered to the sidewalk where a newspaper-dispensing machine, long empty, awaited and he hunkered behind it. Breathing heavy with his heart pounding like it was trying to escape from his chest, Walt rested the pistol on top of the machine and pointed its barrel at the only present alleyway, a darkened slice of shadows sandwiched between concrete and brick, where the shooter could only hide.
His suspicions were confirmed when a bulky figure stepped out from within the shadows. The shadows seemed to cling around him, the streetlights almost avoiding his presence. But judging from his outline, he was an impressively gigantic man. A great overcoat was draped over the man’s frame and flared on the sides due to the large bulge of his exceptionally broad shoulders. From this distance, and the shadows framing him, Walt could see a coarse and lengthy beard lined his chins. That, and the wisp of smoke rising from the pistol in his hands.
The shadowed man stepped hastily from the lips of the alleyway and took a precursory look around him before ducking his head and moving down the sidewalk, completely oblivious to Walt’s presence. His giant strides took him far along his path and he was quickly disappearing from Walt’s vision. Walt licked his dry lips and swallowed, a harsh lump moving down his throat, before he cocked back the revolver’s hammer with his thumb.
Click.
The giant must have had excellent hearing since he stopped suddenly in his tracks, his back straightening rigidly like a tree trunk. The cascade of raindrops was enough to drown out the noise of the click of metal yet he heard it still. Slowly, with an almost casual manner, the giant raised his enormous arms up into the air and shuffled his heavy feet in place until he was facing Walt.
Walt’s training took over and he hunkered further behind the newspaper dispenser and tilted the yawning barrel of his revolver, his earned legacy and heritage, up until it pointed at the shadowed man’s head. Walt got a closer look at him and what he saw made him glad he was armed.
The shadowed man was indeed a giant, most likely seven and a half feet tall. He was powerfully built, broad of shoulders, and his towering height made him seem like an unstoppable onslaught of human force. The sheer power of the shadowed man felt unnatural and Walt felt immediately repulsed by him. A dirty overcoat of faded gray covered most of his body and the hood thrown over his head cast a shadow over his eyes and most of his face. The only visible feature of the man’s face was the peppered gray length of beard flowing down to his chest. The cold hands clutching the gun and the thin pressed lips were unnaturally pale and pallid like a corpse’s. From out of the shadow concealing the man’s face, Walt felt two eyes boring inquisitively and incessantly into his own eyes and further yet into his soul.
Walt shuddered in revulsion rather than cold. The torrent of rain was being aided by wind now, and Walt was completely drenched wet. The coppery brown locks of hair, normally curly, were pounded flat on his head and Walt had to mop away a few strands from his eyes. His jeans had soaked up more liquid and the draft was making him even more uncomfortable. Though his water-encumbered jacket weighed down his shoulders, Walt kept his aim pointed truthfully at the shadowed man.
The shadowed man was standing still, unnerving Walt further. The young man wrapped both hands around the smooth, wooden grip of his revolver and found some confidence in the lethal weapon’s solidarity.
“H-hold it, stranger,” Walt stuttered. The revolver’s barrel shook slightly and he had to resolve his nerve to steady his aim. “I mean you no harm.” He winced at the shaky hitch in his voice and hoped the shadowed man did not notice.
The dark man had indeed heard for he laughed, a deep and hollow sound emanating from his belly and echoing far off in the skeletal remains of the abandoned buildings. He lowered his arms down to his side but Walt could see that the biceps on the arm holding his gun was tightening. “Someone who is pointing a six-shooter at my head is generally wishing me harm, boy,” the shadowed man responded in a cold and grating voice, sending shivers down Walt’s spine. The voice was totally devoid of any emotion and seemed on the verge of monotone.
When he took a step towards the street intervening between them, Walt shook his gun in a way he hoped was threatening and shouted, “Don’t make me use this thing!” Coldness was seeping through his body, one that couldn’t be attributed to the weather. It was the coldness of raw and disciplined determination.
The shadowed man laughed again. “You don’t pull a gun out unless you mean to use it, boy,” he mocked. But he stopped anyway.
Good, thought Walt. Remember that I have the upper hand here and don’t you forget it. But Walt was feeling just as confident as his shaking voice sounded. To tell the truth, he was replacing courage with outright bravado. He just hoped the shadowed man didn’t know that.
They stood there in a silent face-off. Though Walt had his gun drawn, he felt like he was losing the mental battle. The shadowed man was too enigmatic, cloaked in darkness, and Walt could not find a glimpse of humanity in him. The way the man stood perfectly still unnerved Walt deeply. It was as if he was holding bay a pride of lions that could easily rip him to shreds in a blink of an eye. Walt could not put a definite finger on it, but he somehow felt that this was no normal man he was facing.
And to his eternal horror, he looked down to see his hands shaking mightily. The barrel slipped from its point of reference to air above the shadowed man’s head and Walt gritted his teeth in an effort to steady his betraying hands. His lower jaw shook like a rusty hinge and his teeth clattered against each other. A wave of fear washed over Walt and the feeling of bravado evaporated. Gun or not, Walt was deathly afraid.
The man, who had down nothing but stand perfectly still, rasped, “Turn away, boy.” His voice was oily and coaxing, and Walt somehow knew that he was smiling behind the shadow of his hood. “Just mosey on away from here and pretend you saw nothing. This is none of your affair after all.” He raised his hands like a mediator, but Walt thought he looked more like a coiling snake.
For a moment, the young man was extremely tempted to holster his gun and walk away as the stranger had advised. He hardly knew the reason why a gunshot had rung and it wasn’t his duty to investigate it. The city’s militia was at fault for not being on duty instead of in pastry shops. And who could blame him, a man hardly out of his teens, for walking away from Death?
But Walt knew he was rationalizing. He wasn’t a heroic Lone Ranger but he knew better. In this world, helping others was a practicality. A helping hand was always welcomed especially when there were few people left anyway. If he walked away now, he would also be hurting himself.
Walt bared his teeth and the chill of determination returned. His hands steadied and the weariness in his legs was gone. His senses became more acute; his eyes pierced through the bleary shower of rain, and his ears quipped to the sound of each drop. He looked around and noticed his surroundings with a heightened clarity. The halo of lamplight shirked around the edge of the darkened man but provided enough illumination for Walt to aim at the shadowed silhouette.
“I don’t think so, stranger.” He settled the barrel of his revolver against the length of his other forearm. The revolver was in surprising good condition but Walt didn’t trust it enough to overlook a misfire. The callus on the inside of his index finger settled comfortably on the familiar wear of the metal trigger and tightened in preparation. He closed his left eye and lined the back of the hammer with the front sight atop the barrel and pointed it at the shadowed man. “Why don’t we just wait about until the police get here and we’ll sort this thing out, right and proper?”
The shadowed man’s hands dropped to his sides. “Be reasonable about this, young blood,” his cold, raspy voice insisted. “You know nothing of this situation.” He pointed a bent finger at Walt. “I can tell by the dust still fresh on your clothes that you are a stranger. None of the locals know of you. And they can be mighty suspicious of strangers, especially ones who carrying around shooting irons. They’d be as likely to blame you as they’d me.”
Walt considered. It did look like an unlikely predicament. Not many strangers would go about and make it their business to investigate a gunshot. But he called the shadowed man’s bluff. “Blame me for what? Carrying a fresh, unused gun with all its bullets inside? You are the one who is damned, stranger. The missing round in your chamber assures it. I guess you’re literally caught holding the smoking gun.” Walt grinned viciously at this, baring his pearly teeth, though he saw no humor in the situation.
The man, obviously balked at this, stood still as a statue and tilted his head down as if thinking it over. Finally, he raised his head and said quietly, “I may be damned, boy, but they can only kill me once.”
These detached from life words chilled Walt to the core. He detected a sense of desperation in the voice and a primal will for survival. The man bent his legs, as if getting ready to leap, and Walt opened his mouth to command him to stop when the shadowed figure burst into action.
The movement was fast. If Walt had blinked, he would have entirely missed it. The shadowed man threw back his overcoat, the sides flapping out like bat wings, and one massive paw reached inside for what would undoubtedly be the hard-caliber gun.
And then the battle instincts took over Walt’s mind. The world seemed to slow before him and his movements were sluggish compared to the enhanced, lightening quick reactions rolling inside his mind. The falling drops of water were suspended in the air, the ones landing causing a miniature explosion that sprayed agonizingly slowly everywhere. Walt turned his head back to the shadowed man and saw him running doggedly at him but reduced to a brisk walk’s pace in Walt’s mind. The flaps of the overcoat trailed behind him and his arm, clutching an ugly monstrosity of iron in his hand, was slowly being raised up. His face was still shadowed from the light but the darkness was giving away gradually, from his feet upwards, as the light from the electric lamps pierced its gloom. With every miniscule detail flashing in his mind, Walt watched as his finger, acting on its own accord, pulled hard on the trigger of the revolver.
The hammer fell forward and a flash of light exploded from the barrel, branching off into the shape of a star, as the bullet left. The recoil of the gun threw Walt’s shoulder back and he felt the revolver click as it rotated its chamber to a fresh, filled bullet slot. He almost saw the bullet itself, the air and intervening raindrops being torn apart as it blazed along its destination. With the first round still in mid-air, Walt found the time to pull back the hammer again and unload two more shots before the heightened peak of his senses disappeared.
Time resumed startlingly fast. The first bullet collided with the shadowed man’s right shoulder. His right shoulder was thrown backwards while the rest of his body was still in motion, causing his body’s entire right side to drag behind him. He shrugged, realigning his shoulders, and continued onwards, an unbelievable onslaught of force. But then Walt’s other two bullets caught him in his gut, stopping him in his course and throwing him onto his back. The giant of the man fell and water splashed as he landed in a puddle.
The adrenaline pumping in Walt’s veins was subsiding and his thundering heart was slowing down inside his ribcage. He realized that he had been holding his breath in the entire time and took a few deep inhalations. The hand holding the smoking gun fell onto his knees and Walt leaned his head against his propped arm. The feeling of victory was still washing over him when the dark man rose from the ground.
Walt jumped at the sight, nearly causing him a heart attack. The shadowed man with the coarse voice was sitting up now, looking around as if wondering why he was on the ground. His hands were hanging limply on his legs. From here, with the few splashes of light aiding him, Walt could see the distinct blotches of blood staining the areas of the man’s shirt. And then, the shadowed man’s scanning head stopped in front of where Walt was still crouching and he did the last thing Walt expected a man who was supposed to be dead would do. The shadowed man laughed.
The color faded promptly from Walt’s face. He stood dumbfounded with his lower jaw gaping at the unbelievable sight. He had barely managed the words, “Oh, my God!” before the dark man lifted his hand and fired the miniature hand cannon.
Walt threw himself to the side, using his bunched up calf muscles to propel him. He landed on the hard concrete directly on his shoulder and slid along the sidewalk. As he looked back, he saw a heavy ball of lead collide into the newspaper dispenser he was taking cover behind, throwing off a bunch of sparks. The ancient piece of machinery was pulled off its stand from the force of the bullet, like an uprooted tree before the power of a hurricane. The dispenser flew a good distance and then embedded itself into the side of a building.
The shadowed man was picking himself up from the center of the street now. He fidgeted with his gun as he reloaded it and then pointed it at Walt, who was lying prone on the ground and still admiring the effects of the last shot. Walt executed a quick roll to the side and then cracked his body like a whip, using the momentum to pick himself off his back. An overpowering light flashed from the gun’s muzzle and another lead ball of the proportions of a miniature cannon ball sank into the concrete of the sidewalk.
Walt cursed as he ran across the street, returning fire as he tried to find any decent cover that would protect him, preferably the flank of a tank. The dark man simply stayed in spot and traced Walt’s movement with the point of his gun. Walt dared not stop running and fired his last two shots at the dark man as he ran a wide circle around him. The first shot went wide but the second one hit the shadowed man’s hand, throwing the gun out of it and flinging it to the ground. It misfired as it connected on the ground and expelled another deadly shot. Holding his ruined hand close to his chest, the dark man howled like a wolf and then scanned frantically for his weapon. He gave a shout of triumph when he found it laying just a few feet away from him. As the dark man lunged for his weapon, Walt also threw himself behind a postal mailbox, long forgotten and without a purpose now.
Panting, he tugged on the chamber release pin and the circular compartment fell to the side on a hinge. He dumped the wasted shells on the ground, causing a musical clatter, and fumbled into his pockets for more ammo. His shaky hands came out with a bunch of cartridges and he hunkered over the gun to protect it from the rainwater. He made a conscious effort to slow down and calm his nerves as he fitted six bullets into the chamber. He rolled it shut with a snap of his wrist and felt more comfortable with the added weight of the piece. Walt loosened a primal roar from the pit of his stomach as he stood up to face his enemy.
The shadowed man was bending over in the center of the street a couple of paces from Walt, picking up his gun. His back was bent and the vulnerable figure made a tempting target. Just as the dark man was rising, Walt snapped the gun’s hammer back with his thumb and fired.
The shot pitched the man onto the ground face forward, the gun once again falling and sliding out of his grasp. He fell to the ground prone and laying still. Walt swept the heel of his left hand against the hammer as he used his right finger to pull the trigger and another shot pounded into the dark man. Walt cautiously advanced to the downed giant, firing a shot with each step he took until he was point blank with the man. The gun was hot in his hand now and felt empty. Walt used the steel-toed tip of his boot to turn the man over on his back.
Maybe it was the disappearance of the moonlight or the battle frenzy color of red flooding in Walt’s eye, but whatever the reason, he could still not pierce the shadows hanging around the dark man’s face. He could see the dark blotches of blood on the man’s coat but it was the shade of gasoline. A bitter smell arose from the shadowed man’s body, like the rotten egg smell of sulfur. Walt fell to a knee and bent close to the man to loot his body, a gruesome but necessary task practiced by all.
As his hand went to peel away the overcoat from the corpse, the shadowed man surprised Walt once again. The dark man’s hand, formally limp a mere second ago, leapt up from his side and caught Walt’s own hand. The giant took a deep, shuddering gasp as air rushed into his lungs. He lifted his head bear centimeters up from the ground and though his face was still shadowed, Walt felt his eyes boring into his own.
“You’ve made a grave mistake today, young blood,” he managed through fits of coughing and retching. “We will remember what happened this night. You’re a dead man from now on.” And then, his hand felt lighter in Walt’s own. Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in Walt’s eyes as he tried to distinguish from the blotting colors of black and red biting into his mind. He fell back in pain and cried out as a turmoil of overwhelming bleary blackness and violent violet clashed in his mind’s eye. He fell to the side and doubled over in pain, a pain that felt like all his hangovers combined together.
And then the pain miraculously disappeared. And so did the dark man’s body. All that was left was a puddle of stagnant, black blood where he had fallen.
Walt shoved his revolver into his holster and bent down closer to investigate the puddle. He dipped two fingers into the blood, to confirm its corporeal presence. The blood was semi-hardened, almost congealed as if it had stayed out in the open for weeks instead of minutes. Walt withdrew his fingers and wiped the gunk onto the concrete ground.
Walt stood up from his crouching position, standing uncertainly before the pile of blood that looked like gasoline. He shook his head, clearing out reminisces of red blotches from his vision. He felt lightheaded and strangely detached, as if he had just awoken. Pressing his palm against his forehead, he scrunched up his face in an attempt to recall what had just happened. Or if it had indeed happened.
But that was foolishness. Walt was certain that the dual with the dark man had, in fact, occurred. His body was tired from the rush of adrenaline coursing through his shot veins and his pocket, originally bulging with cartridges, felt visibly lighter, both evidence proclaiming the midnight fight. He looked around, surveying the area, and saw the blasted indentations on buildings and on the street. The wasted shells of ammunition, both from the dark man’s heavy-caliber gun and his own six-shooter, littered the ground and the smoke was still rising from a few. But the main conviction to his suspicions laid a few feet away from the congealed glob of blood.
The miniature hand cannon rested lonely on the street, surrounded by a halo of streetlight.
Walt crept closer to it, cautiously as if he was approaching a coiled up snake. The hand cannon’s barrel was glowing hot as a red ember of coal and Walt was amazed to see that the iron could still keep its form. The raindrops sizzled and hissed as they impaled themselves onto the flaming brand and wisps of smoke and steam rose freely into the sky. The smell of sulfur hung obsessively in Walt’s nostrils and his mouth was filled with a brackish taste from all the particles of residual gunpowder hanging in the air. He was soaked completely with rainwater now and there wasn’t a dry spot on his skin. The young man was eternally glad that he kept his bullets in a waterproof bag in his pocket, fearing that the water would seep into his caps and ruin the powder within.
Cautiously, Walt walked up until his toes were centimeters away from the still burning gun. He lowered the right sleeve of his jacket until a flap was covering his bare hands, making a makeshift glove. He bent down, feeling the hot air rising closer to his face and almost singing his eyebrows, and used his wrapped hand to pick up the gun by its handgrip. He raised it up disdainfully with his forefinger and thumb clamping down on the bottom of the handgrip and the massive monstrosity of iron swayed back and forth in the air. The barrel was still glowing and Walt held the gun carefully away from himself, thrust forward. The heated air from this distance dried the drops of rain from his face and partly evaporated the water in his clothes.
Walt walked over to the center of the street, the hand cannon safely in tow, to where a pool of water was amassing inside the depression in the center. Like a blacksmith, Walt lowered the burning piece into the pool that had its water level rising a good few inches in height. The water immediately bubbled and a gasp of steam escaped its surface. Walt knew he was ruining the gun by dipping it into water, possibly permanently if he could not break it down and dry out its mechanisms, but he was eager to see if the weapon held any ties to its owner.
The rain had stopped falling in ferocious bombardments of water clumps and was now reduced to a light, but thorough, drizzle. The tiny specks of water broke the surface on the pool of water but Walt kept his eyes enraptured upon the pool, his eyes gazing deep through the clear water to the vague form of the submerged gun. Finally, probably five minutes had passed but Walt cared not, the pool of water stopped bubbling and the gun within was finally cooled off.
Eagerly, Walt sank his entire forearm, almost up to his armpit, into the water and grasped randomly. His hands closed upon the handgrip of the gun and he hauled out the gun, the specks of water flying about. Not looking at the gun yet, he crawled over to the alleyway where his opponent had first emerged and leaned partly into the shadows, breaching only the lip of the alley so that his prize could be protected from any further assaults of nature.
His hands were cupped around the gun and he raised it closely up to his face. In his eagerness, for Walt had been impressed upon the damage the gun had inflicted and was eager to see if the gun bore any identification of the shadowed man, he had overlooked the odd feel of the gun as he first retrieved it.
Now, seeing it close up, he was dismayed to see its crude and ugly shape. The gun was crafted from dark, lopsided steel and was formed into the shape of a declining J with the hook shape at the end bent slightly back, like the shape of the earliest flintlock pistol. It was a huge monstrosity, dominating Walt’s entire hand, and he struggled to lift it, so heavy was its weight. Flecks of rust, long present before its harsh treatment, clung all over the gun. Walt’s practiced fingers slid along the length of the barrel and stopped when he found a break. Taking the front of the barrel in his hand, he snapped his wrist down and the barrel fell forward on a hinge, revealing an impressive bore. Walt furrowed his brows at the gun’s strange design; it had the size of a handgun, albeit a very large one, but had the barrel and loading procedure of a double-barrel shotgun. He inspected the width of the bore and figured that the caliber of the bullets to fit it would have to be enormous, almost the size of the ancient bullets once used to take down a buffalo in a single shot. The man he had just waited was one mean customer.
For no particular reason, Walt placed the pistol inside his jacket. Maybe he could fetch a buck for the scrap metal. He straightened up, just about to leave, when he spotted a murky trail of crimson muck oozing from the alleyway the stranger had emerged from. The droplets of rain poured over the blood and it ran like a murderous river.
The blood was calling out to Walt. It oozed down to the tips of his boots, as if it was a vagrant grabbing at a passing stranger. “Help me!” it seemed to scream in Walt’s inner mind.
The young man looked around. The streets were still empty and the sounds of gunfire would be dismissed. Walt could leave now, without further investigating this crime. No one would blame him. It was the cop’s job, anyway.
“Help me!” the blood screeched inside his head. “Avenge me!” The pull was powerful. Walt could not stop himself, despite his inward misgivings.
He took a step forward, into the bathing darkness of the alleyway. And what he saw made his stomach heave and legs loosen.
Lying sedately across the concrete was a fish pale corpse. Its arms and legs were sprawled out from its torso, twisting at uncomfortable angles. One arm was propped against the alley walls, as if raised in salute to the young man. Walt swallowed down the bile rising up his throat.
He took a step closer, holding a hand across his mouth. It took all his courage just to bend closer. The corpse was dressed like a college professor, a brown suit with leather elbows. Half its head was blown off, revealing bloody brain fragments and tattered skin clinging to the skull. It stared blankly upwards, as if imploring the celestial gods in the sky to redeem him.
Walt could only shake his head. Underneath his breath, in a weak voice, he repeated, “No, no, no, no.” All the while, he was shaking his head in negation. Something about this gunned down professor refused to register inside his head. He could not accept this.
The young man was about to stand up. He wanted to scream, to get far away from this gruesome sight. He was about to run away from the face of Death.
But then, pain exploded from the back of the head and he started falling forward, his body completely out of his control. On the way, for the fall seemed like an eternity, Walt wondered horrifically if he would land atop the corpse.
Then darkness claimed his consciousness.
Chapter One
“The Duel”
When the trouble started, Walter drew his revolver because, in the end, he had always left a scene with guns blazing and the acrid smell of sulfur hanging in the air behind him.
Things were looking bad the minute Walt stepped into the slums of the city. The obscene and overlapping graffiti of various shades of colors and rioting artistic creativity sprawled rampantly across the city walls and rundown, deserted buildings. The sun had also deserted the sky, as if it, too, did not dare to show its face in that area of the city, and the gloomy night fell over the slums. The occasional trashcan filled with burning refuse provided light when the lampposts, with their reserve of electricity long drained by now, failed and they threw flickering and ominous shadows across the corroded streets. An enterprising arsonist had torched the apartment buildings along the slums and the leftover remnants of steel infrastructure looked like charred skeletons rising to the sky, the caked and corroded plaster growing on their sides like lichen.
A full moon was hanging up in the sky that night, with its shattered and dry face now matching that of the scorched earth. Along with the celestial giant, a heavy shower of rain was failing steadily, a possible prelude to hail later that week. The shower of dew fell earnestly and coated everything under its path with wetness. The drops of water clung and slid down the nonplussed faces of fire hydrants, left dormant for ages now and containing nourishing water of itself. In mere minutes, the water from the sky, a cherished gift since the aftermath of the war, collected and overflowed in the streets. A literal river flooded into the street drains and the budding elemental force could not be contained.
As the water collected and flowed, the moon shone its eerie light that bounced and reflected off the river’s surface. The tears of the sky skipped and jostled over the infrequent and chaotic face of the cracked streets and the river surface rippled and sloshed about in a hypnotic pattern. And the rain fell as steadily as before, each drop capturing the moonlight before dashing upon the miniature river’s surface and becoming one with it.
As nature had its way with the city, Walter Zhentarsky walked in the center of the streets with indifference, not caring if he did get wet and not bothering to walk along the sidewalk or under the canvas overhangs of the remaining buildings for shelter. He had adopted a motto that seemed pessimistic and optimistic at the same time. And it was: “The world would go on, even if I don’t.”
His military boots, still freshly coated with dust from the road, sloshed determinedly through the pool of water collecting in a depression along the street. He even walked with determination; his head was thrust ahead and his massive shoulders pushed with each step as if he were a plow. The river fought back with little resistance against the invader since its current was carrying it downstream, but the rain made up for its absence of effort by pouring down even harder. A botch of water fell on Walt’s cracked yet serviceable, tanned yet supple, leather but hard as steel, brown flak jacket. Underneath, the shoulder mounted straps to the holster carrying his pistol was protected from the inconvenient wetness but the rain still seeped into the faded black T-shirt he wore. The rugged and battered pair of jeans Walt wore also absorbed the liquid greedily and sagged off his hips with the increased weight. Walt merely grunted at this and hitched his gait higher up to avoid drenching his pants even further.
The streets of the Glow were lonely this time of day. Normally a war zone for the gangs and hoodlums, the streets were abandoned for the comforts of a warm hovel. Walt scoffed at this thought. The rebelling teens would gladly shed each other’s blood over petty disputes but would balk at the horror of getting wet. Besides the ruffians, the rest of the residents of the slums knew better than to seek passage through the streets in the open at any time of day. Besides, there was no reason for others to be out and about. So Walt’s only and constant companion was the steady pour of rain hanging on his back and the rushing river of water following his heels.
The burnt out husks of the buildings flanked both sides of Walt and appeared to be looming over him with a disapproving eye. With shattered windows for eyes, empty doorways lacking doors for a mouth, and fallen roof tiles for a hairline, the apartment complexes acquired physical characteristics. A wind blew through the building’s doorway and came out sounding as howl. Walt, though not superstitious, still knew how to judge an omen and increased the length of his steps.
His path took him further into the heart of the city were the “livable” part of the slums laid. What “livable” meant was that a few resourceful citizens had decided to patch up a particular building or two and fix up a diner or other business. Nothing much in the slums was considered as livable by human standards but the people left after the apocalypse could never be picky. Far from it. They had to find what they could and cling to it with an animalistic ferocity.
Two burning trashcans marked the entrance of the livable slums and separated it from the burnt away apartments. From there, electric lights could be seen shining in a few windows. Another sign of life was the faint, faraway and muffled tunes of a jukebox. The screechy sound gritted horribly against any discernable ear but was appreciated because it was played through technology, a more and more seldom luxury found in these decadent days.
Walt followed this bittersweet sound down the road and his head passed under many broken streetlights and his eyes saw many curious signs bearing stick figure people that could serve no understandable purpose. The hum of fluorescent lights radiated from the abode of the few livable buildings and the pitter-patter of rain failing on the tin roofs greeted his ears. It seemed, for the Glow, that the slums were doing visibly well. He wondered if there was a school in the area that children would trudge to in the morning or if there was a militia keeping the peace or a fire service ready to move out on alert, all three an unheard of amenity in most places. The thoughts of warm pie cooling on the windowsill and the earthy smells of tobacco smoke from a father’s pipe invaded his mind.
That is, until the gunshot roared in the deafening silence of the night amidst the pitter-patter of raindrops and all nonessential thoughts fled from Walt’s head.
At the sound of the gunshot, muffled yet echoed probably by the walls of an alley surrounding it, all the fluorescent lights clicked off as one and the jerky, harsh grinding sounds of the jukebox ceased. This was followed by a series of clicks and slams as the residents of the livable buildings locked their doors.
Walt, standing in the open with no visible cover protecting him, looked frantically around, tilting his head to the side so his ears could recall the origin of the gunshot. Judging by the crack and thud sound of the blast, the gun was a hard-caliber. Walt would not be surprised if the bullet had torn through a few layers of brick or concrete. With a grim determination, Walt leaned forward, as if he was bowing before his honored enemy, and his own pistol slid free from his tooled holster concealed by his armpit and into his wet hands. The revolver was an ancient relic manufactured before the wartime and used to tame the West ages ago. The gun owed its functionality to its simple, trusty design and its easy maintenance.
As his father had taught him, Walt held the heavy pistol with both hands to steady it. He raised it before him, aligning his eye with the forward sight, and swept it about. As he scanned for an enemy, his finger tightened on the five-pound pull of the trigger.
Walt was no hero. Being one just wasn’t advisable in this post-nuclear world. But his father, and his father before him in turn, had followed the way of the gun and were well acquainted in survival. The gunshot was none of Walt’s business, who had just arrived fresh into town anyway, and most folks would have turned a deaf ear to the sound of violence and walked on. But Walt had to investigate it, on the basis that a gunshot fired in such a carefree manner was something he would have to face with also.
Not understanding or caring about the gravity of the situation, the rain poured down even harder. The drops of water dashed onto the road and skipped up high as it pounded down. Everything was bathed with a shimmering shroud of trickling water that distorted the vision. The only light present was the moon now and Walt’s limited vision caused him to squint into the darkness. Crouching, with the pistol held down, Walt scampered to the sidewalk where a newspaper-dispensing machine, long empty, awaited and he hunkered behind it. Breathing heavy with his heart pounding like it was trying to escape from his chest, Walt rested the pistol on top of the machine and pointed its barrel at the only present alleyway, a darkened slice of shadows sandwiched between concrete and brick, where the shooter could only hide.
His suspicions were confirmed when a bulky figure stepped out from within the shadows. The shadows seemed to cling around him, the streetlights almost avoiding his presence. But judging from his outline, he was an impressively gigantic man. A great overcoat was draped over the man’s frame and flared on the sides due to the large bulge of his exceptionally broad shoulders. From this distance, and the shadows framing him, Walt could see a coarse and lengthy beard lined his chins. That, and the wisp of smoke rising from the pistol in his hands.
The shadowed man stepped hastily from the lips of the alleyway and took a precursory look around him before ducking his head and moving down the sidewalk, completely oblivious to Walt’s presence. His giant strides took him far along his path and he was quickly disappearing from Walt’s vision. Walt licked his dry lips and swallowed, a harsh lump moving down his throat, before he cocked back the revolver’s hammer with his thumb.
Click.
The giant must have had excellent hearing since he stopped suddenly in his tracks, his back straightening rigidly like a tree trunk. The cascade of raindrops was enough to drown out the noise of the click of metal yet he heard it still. Slowly, with an almost casual manner, the giant raised his enormous arms up into the air and shuffled his heavy feet in place until he was facing Walt.
Walt’s training took over and he hunkered further behind the newspaper dispenser and tilted the yawning barrel of his revolver, his earned legacy and heritage, up until it pointed at the shadowed man’s head. Walt got a closer look at him and what he saw made him glad he was armed.
The shadowed man was indeed a giant, most likely seven and a half feet tall. He was powerfully built, broad of shoulders, and his towering height made him seem like an unstoppable onslaught of human force. The sheer power of the shadowed man felt unnatural and Walt felt immediately repulsed by him. A dirty overcoat of faded gray covered most of his body and the hood thrown over his head cast a shadow over his eyes and most of his face. The only visible feature of the man’s face was the peppered gray length of beard flowing down to his chest. The cold hands clutching the gun and the thin pressed lips were unnaturally pale and pallid like a corpse’s. From out of the shadow concealing the man’s face, Walt felt two eyes boring inquisitively and incessantly into his own eyes and further yet into his soul.
Walt shuddered in revulsion rather than cold. The torrent of rain was being aided by wind now, and Walt was completely drenched wet. The coppery brown locks of hair, normally curly, were pounded flat on his head and Walt had to mop away a few strands from his eyes. His jeans had soaked up more liquid and the draft was making him even more uncomfortable. Though his water-encumbered jacket weighed down his shoulders, Walt kept his aim pointed truthfully at the shadowed man.
The shadowed man was standing still, unnerving Walt further. The young man wrapped both hands around the smooth, wooden grip of his revolver and found some confidence in the lethal weapon’s solidarity.
“H-hold it, stranger,” Walt stuttered. The revolver’s barrel shook slightly and he had to resolve his nerve to steady his aim. “I mean you no harm.” He winced at the shaky hitch in his voice and hoped the shadowed man did not notice.
The dark man had indeed heard for he laughed, a deep and hollow sound emanating from his belly and echoing far off in the skeletal remains of the abandoned buildings. He lowered his arms down to his side but Walt could see that the biceps on the arm holding his gun was tightening. “Someone who is pointing a six-shooter at my head is generally wishing me harm, boy,” the shadowed man responded in a cold and grating voice, sending shivers down Walt’s spine. The voice was totally devoid of any emotion and seemed on the verge of monotone.
When he took a step towards the street intervening between them, Walt shook his gun in a way he hoped was threatening and shouted, “Don’t make me use this thing!” Coldness was seeping through his body, one that couldn’t be attributed to the weather. It was the coldness of raw and disciplined determination.
The shadowed man laughed again. “You don’t pull a gun out unless you mean to use it, boy,” he mocked. But he stopped anyway.
Good, thought Walt. Remember that I have the upper hand here and don’t you forget it. But Walt was feeling just as confident as his shaking voice sounded. To tell the truth, he was replacing courage with outright bravado. He just hoped the shadowed man didn’t know that.
They stood there in a silent face-off. Though Walt had his gun drawn, he felt like he was losing the mental battle. The shadowed man was too enigmatic, cloaked in darkness, and Walt could not find a glimpse of humanity in him. The way the man stood perfectly still unnerved Walt deeply. It was as if he was holding bay a pride of lions that could easily rip him to shreds in a blink of an eye. Walt could not put a definite finger on it, but he somehow felt that this was no normal man he was facing.
And to his eternal horror, he looked down to see his hands shaking mightily. The barrel slipped from its point of reference to air above the shadowed man’s head and Walt gritted his teeth in an effort to steady his betraying hands. His lower jaw shook like a rusty hinge and his teeth clattered against each other. A wave of fear washed over Walt and the feeling of bravado evaporated. Gun or not, Walt was deathly afraid.
The man, who had down nothing but stand perfectly still, rasped, “Turn away, boy.” His voice was oily and coaxing, and Walt somehow knew that he was smiling behind the shadow of his hood. “Just mosey on away from here and pretend you saw nothing. This is none of your affair after all.” He raised his hands like a mediator, but Walt thought he looked more like a coiling snake.
For a moment, the young man was extremely tempted to holster his gun and walk away as the stranger had advised. He hardly knew the reason why a gunshot had rung and it wasn’t his duty to investigate it. The city’s militia was at fault for not being on duty instead of in pastry shops. And who could blame him, a man hardly out of his teens, for walking away from Death?
But Walt knew he was rationalizing. He wasn’t a heroic Lone Ranger but he knew better. In this world, helping others was a practicality. A helping hand was always welcomed especially when there were few people left anyway. If he walked away now, he would also be hurting himself.
Walt bared his teeth and the chill of determination returned. His hands steadied and the weariness in his legs was gone. His senses became more acute; his eyes pierced through the bleary shower of rain, and his ears quipped to the sound of each drop. He looked around and noticed his surroundings with a heightened clarity. The halo of lamplight shirked around the edge of the darkened man but provided enough illumination for Walt to aim at the shadowed silhouette.
“I don’t think so, stranger.” He settled the barrel of his revolver against the length of his other forearm. The revolver was in surprising good condition but Walt didn’t trust it enough to overlook a misfire. The callus on the inside of his index finger settled comfortably on the familiar wear of the metal trigger and tightened in preparation. He closed his left eye and lined the back of the hammer with the front sight atop the barrel and pointed it at the shadowed man. “Why don’t we just wait about until the police get here and we’ll sort this thing out, right and proper?”
The shadowed man’s hands dropped to his sides. “Be reasonable about this, young blood,” his cold, raspy voice insisted. “You know nothing of this situation.” He pointed a bent finger at Walt. “I can tell by the dust still fresh on your clothes that you are a stranger. None of the locals know of you. And they can be mighty suspicious of strangers, especially ones who carrying around shooting irons. They’d be as likely to blame you as they’d me.”
Walt considered. It did look like an unlikely predicament. Not many strangers would go about and make it their business to investigate a gunshot. But he called the shadowed man’s bluff. “Blame me for what? Carrying a fresh, unused gun with all its bullets inside? You are the one who is damned, stranger. The missing round in your chamber assures it. I guess you’re literally caught holding the smoking gun.” Walt grinned viciously at this, baring his pearly teeth, though he saw no humor in the situation.
The man, obviously balked at this, stood still as a statue and tilted his head down as if thinking it over. Finally, he raised his head and said quietly, “I may be damned, boy, but they can only kill me once.”
These detached from life words chilled Walt to the core. He detected a sense of desperation in the voice and a primal will for survival. The man bent his legs, as if getting ready to leap, and Walt opened his mouth to command him to stop when the shadowed figure burst into action.
The movement was fast. If Walt had blinked, he would have entirely missed it. The shadowed man threw back his overcoat, the sides flapping out like bat wings, and one massive paw reached inside for what would undoubtedly be the hard-caliber gun.
And then the battle instincts took over Walt’s mind. The world seemed to slow before him and his movements were sluggish compared to the enhanced, lightening quick reactions rolling inside his mind. The falling drops of water were suspended in the air, the ones landing causing a miniature explosion that sprayed agonizingly slowly everywhere. Walt turned his head back to the shadowed man and saw him running doggedly at him but reduced to a brisk walk’s pace in Walt’s mind. The flaps of the overcoat trailed behind him and his arm, clutching an ugly monstrosity of iron in his hand, was slowly being raised up. His face was still shadowed from the light but the darkness was giving away gradually, from his feet upwards, as the light from the electric lamps pierced its gloom. With every miniscule detail flashing in his mind, Walt watched as his finger, acting on its own accord, pulled hard on the trigger of the revolver.
The hammer fell forward and a flash of light exploded from the barrel, branching off into the shape of a star, as the bullet left. The recoil of the gun threw Walt’s shoulder back and he felt the revolver click as it rotated its chamber to a fresh, filled bullet slot. He almost saw the bullet itself, the air and intervening raindrops being torn apart as it blazed along its destination. With the first round still in mid-air, Walt found the time to pull back the hammer again and unload two more shots before the heightened peak of his senses disappeared.
Time resumed startlingly fast. The first bullet collided with the shadowed man’s right shoulder. His right shoulder was thrown backwards while the rest of his body was still in motion, causing his body’s entire right side to drag behind him. He shrugged, realigning his shoulders, and continued onwards, an unbelievable onslaught of force. But then Walt’s other two bullets caught him in his gut, stopping him in his course and throwing him onto his back. The giant of the man fell and water splashed as he landed in a puddle.
The adrenaline pumping in Walt’s veins was subsiding and his thundering heart was slowing down inside his ribcage. He realized that he had been holding his breath in the entire time and took a few deep inhalations. The hand holding the smoking gun fell onto his knees and Walt leaned his head against his propped arm. The feeling of victory was still washing over him when the dark man rose from the ground.
Walt jumped at the sight, nearly causing him a heart attack. The shadowed man with the coarse voice was sitting up now, looking around as if wondering why he was on the ground. His hands were hanging limply on his legs. From here, with the few splashes of light aiding him, Walt could see the distinct blotches of blood staining the areas of the man’s shirt. And then, the shadowed man’s scanning head stopped in front of where Walt was still crouching and he did the last thing Walt expected a man who was supposed to be dead would do. The shadowed man laughed.
The color faded promptly from Walt’s face. He stood dumbfounded with his lower jaw gaping at the unbelievable sight. He had barely managed the words, “Oh, my God!” before the dark man lifted his hand and fired the miniature hand cannon.
Walt threw himself to the side, using his bunched up calf muscles to propel him. He landed on the hard concrete directly on his shoulder and slid along the sidewalk. As he looked back, he saw a heavy ball of lead collide into the newspaper dispenser he was taking cover behind, throwing off a bunch of sparks. The ancient piece of machinery was pulled off its stand from the force of the bullet, like an uprooted tree before the power of a hurricane. The dispenser flew a good distance and then embedded itself into the side of a building.
The shadowed man was picking himself up from the center of the street now. He fidgeted with his gun as he reloaded it and then pointed it at Walt, who was lying prone on the ground and still admiring the effects of the last shot. Walt executed a quick roll to the side and then cracked his body like a whip, using the momentum to pick himself off his back. An overpowering light flashed from the gun’s muzzle and another lead ball of the proportions of a miniature cannon ball sank into the concrete of the sidewalk.
Walt cursed as he ran across the street, returning fire as he tried to find any decent cover that would protect him, preferably the flank of a tank. The dark man simply stayed in spot and traced Walt’s movement with the point of his gun. Walt dared not stop running and fired his last two shots at the dark man as he ran a wide circle around him. The first shot went wide but the second one hit the shadowed man’s hand, throwing the gun out of it and flinging it to the ground. It misfired as it connected on the ground and expelled another deadly shot. Holding his ruined hand close to his chest, the dark man howled like a wolf and then scanned frantically for his weapon. He gave a shout of triumph when he found it laying just a few feet away from him. As the dark man lunged for his weapon, Walt also threw himself behind a postal mailbox, long forgotten and without a purpose now.
Panting, he tugged on the chamber release pin and the circular compartment fell to the side on a hinge. He dumped the wasted shells on the ground, causing a musical clatter, and fumbled into his pockets for more ammo. His shaky hands came out with a bunch of cartridges and he hunkered over the gun to protect it from the rainwater. He made a conscious effort to slow down and calm his nerves as he fitted six bullets into the chamber. He rolled it shut with a snap of his wrist and felt more comfortable with the added weight of the piece. Walt loosened a primal roar from the pit of his stomach as he stood up to face his enemy.
The shadowed man was bending over in the center of the street a couple of paces from Walt, picking up his gun. His back was bent and the vulnerable figure made a tempting target. Just as the dark man was rising, Walt snapped the gun’s hammer back with his thumb and fired.
The shot pitched the man onto the ground face forward, the gun once again falling and sliding out of his grasp. He fell to the ground prone and laying still. Walt swept the heel of his left hand against the hammer as he used his right finger to pull the trigger and another shot pounded into the dark man. Walt cautiously advanced to the downed giant, firing a shot with each step he took until he was point blank with the man. The gun was hot in his hand now and felt empty. Walt used the steel-toed tip of his boot to turn the man over on his back.
Maybe it was the disappearance of the moonlight or the battle frenzy color of red flooding in Walt’s eye, but whatever the reason, he could still not pierce the shadows hanging around the dark man’s face. He could see the dark blotches of blood on the man’s coat but it was the shade of gasoline. A bitter smell arose from the shadowed man’s body, like the rotten egg smell of sulfur. Walt fell to a knee and bent close to the man to loot his body, a gruesome but necessary task practiced by all.
As his hand went to peel away the overcoat from the corpse, the shadowed man surprised Walt once again. The dark man’s hand, formally limp a mere second ago, leapt up from his side and caught Walt’s own hand. The giant took a deep, shuddering gasp as air rushed into his lungs. He lifted his head bear centimeters up from the ground and though his face was still shadowed, Walt felt his eyes boring into his own.
“You’ve made a grave mistake today, young blood,” he managed through fits of coughing and retching. “We will remember what happened this night. You’re a dead man from now on.” And then, his hand felt lighter in Walt’s own. Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in Walt’s eyes as he tried to distinguish from the blotting colors of black and red biting into his mind. He fell back in pain and cried out as a turmoil of overwhelming bleary blackness and violent violet clashed in his mind’s eye. He fell to the side and doubled over in pain, a pain that felt like all his hangovers combined together.
And then the pain miraculously disappeared. And so did the dark man’s body. All that was left was a puddle of stagnant, black blood where he had fallen.
Walt shoved his revolver into his holster and bent down closer to investigate the puddle. He dipped two fingers into the blood, to confirm its corporeal presence. The blood was semi-hardened, almost congealed as if it had stayed out in the open for weeks instead of minutes. Walt withdrew his fingers and wiped the gunk onto the concrete ground.
Walt stood up from his crouching position, standing uncertainly before the pile of blood that looked like gasoline. He shook his head, clearing out reminisces of red blotches from his vision. He felt lightheaded and strangely detached, as if he had just awoken. Pressing his palm against his forehead, he scrunched up his face in an attempt to recall what had just happened. Or if it had indeed happened.
But that was foolishness. Walt was certain that the dual with the dark man had, in fact, occurred. His body was tired from the rush of adrenaline coursing through his shot veins and his pocket, originally bulging with cartridges, felt visibly lighter, both evidence proclaiming the midnight fight. He looked around, surveying the area, and saw the blasted indentations on buildings and on the street. The wasted shells of ammunition, both from the dark man’s heavy-caliber gun and his own six-shooter, littered the ground and the smoke was still rising from a few. But the main conviction to his suspicions laid a few feet away from the congealed glob of blood.
The miniature hand cannon rested lonely on the street, surrounded by a halo of streetlight.
Walt crept closer to it, cautiously as if he was approaching a coiled up snake. The hand cannon’s barrel was glowing hot as a red ember of coal and Walt was amazed to see that the iron could still keep its form. The raindrops sizzled and hissed as they impaled themselves onto the flaming brand and wisps of smoke and steam rose freely into the sky. The smell of sulfur hung obsessively in Walt’s nostrils and his mouth was filled with a brackish taste from all the particles of residual gunpowder hanging in the air. He was soaked completely with rainwater now and there wasn’t a dry spot on his skin. The young man was eternally glad that he kept his bullets in a waterproof bag in his pocket, fearing that the water would seep into his caps and ruin the powder within.
Cautiously, Walt walked up until his toes were centimeters away from the still burning gun. He lowered the right sleeve of his jacket until a flap was covering his bare hands, making a makeshift glove. He bent down, feeling the hot air rising closer to his face and almost singing his eyebrows, and used his wrapped hand to pick up the gun by its handgrip. He raised it up disdainfully with his forefinger and thumb clamping down on the bottom of the handgrip and the massive monstrosity of iron swayed back and forth in the air. The barrel was still glowing and Walt held the gun carefully away from himself, thrust forward. The heated air from this distance dried the drops of rain from his face and partly evaporated the water in his clothes.
Walt walked over to the center of the street, the hand cannon safely in tow, to where a pool of water was amassing inside the depression in the center. Like a blacksmith, Walt lowered the burning piece into the pool that had its water level rising a good few inches in height. The water immediately bubbled and a gasp of steam escaped its surface. Walt knew he was ruining the gun by dipping it into water, possibly permanently if he could not break it down and dry out its mechanisms, but he was eager to see if the weapon held any ties to its owner.
The rain had stopped falling in ferocious bombardments of water clumps and was now reduced to a light, but thorough, drizzle. The tiny specks of water broke the surface on the pool of water but Walt kept his eyes enraptured upon the pool, his eyes gazing deep through the clear water to the vague form of the submerged gun. Finally, probably five minutes had passed but Walt cared not, the pool of water stopped bubbling and the gun within was finally cooled off.
Eagerly, Walt sank his entire forearm, almost up to his armpit, into the water and grasped randomly. His hands closed upon the handgrip of the gun and he hauled out the gun, the specks of water flying about. Not looking at the gun yet, he crawled over to the alleyway where his opponent had first emerged and leaned partly into the shadows, breaching only the lip of the alley so that his prize could be protected from any further assaults of nature.
His hands were cupped around the gun and he raised it closely up to his face. In his eagerness, for Walt had been impressed upon the damage the gun had inflicted and was eager to see if the gun bore any identification of the shadowed man, he had overlooked the odd feel of the gun as he first retrieved it.
Now, seeing it close up, he was dismayed to see its crude and ugly shape. The gun was crafted from dark, lopsided steel and was formed into the shape of a declining J with the hook shape at the end bent slightly back, like the shape of the earliest flintlock pistol. It was a huge monstrosity, dominating Walt’s entire hand, and he struggled to lift it, so heavy was its weight. Flecks of rust, long present before its harsh treatment, clung all over the gun. Walt’s practiced fingers slid along the length of the barrel and stopped when he found a break. Taking the front of the barrel in his hand, he snapped his wrist down and the barrel fell forward on a hinge, revealing an impressive bore. Walt furrowed his brows at the gun’s strange design; it had the size of a handgun, albeit a very large one, but had the barrel and loading procedure of a double-barrel shotgun. He inspected the width of the bore and figured that the caliber of the bullets to fit it would have to be enormous, almost the size of the ancient bullets once used to take down a buffalo in a single shot. The man he had just waited was one mean customer.
For no particular reason, Walt placed the pistol inside his jacket. Maybe he could fetch a buck for the scrap metal. He straightened up, just about to leave, when he spotted a murky trail of crimson muck oozing from the alleyway the stranger had emerged from. The droplets of rain poured over the blood and it ran like a murderous river.
The blood was calling out to Walt. It oozed down to the tips of his boots, as if it was a vagrant grabbing at a passing stranger. “Help me!” it seemed to scream in Walt’s inner mind.
The young man looked around. The streets were still empty and the sounds of gunfire would be dismissed. Walt could leave now, without further investigating this crime. No one would blame him. It was the cop’s job, anyway.
“Help me!” the blood screeched inside his head. “Avenge me!” The pull was powerful. Walt could not stop himself, despite his inward misgivings.
He took a step forward, into the bathing darkness of the alleyway. And what he saw made his stomach heave and legs loosen.
Lying sedately across the concrete was a fish pale corpse. Its arms and legs were sprawled out from its torso, twisting at uncomfortable angles. One arm was propped against the alley walls, as if raised in salute to the young man. Walt swallowed down the bile rising up his throat.
He took a step closer, holding a hand across his mouth. It took all his courage just to bend closer. The corpse was dressed like a college professor, a brown suit with leather elbows. Half its head was blown off, revealing bloody brain fragments and tattered skin clinging to the skull. It stared blankly upwards, as if imploring the celestial gods in the sky to redeem him.
Walt could only shake his head. Underneath his breath, in a weak voice, he repeated, “No, no, no, no.” All the while, he was shaking his head in negation. Something about this gunned down professor refused to register inside his head. He could not accept this.
The young man was about to stand up. He wanted to scream, to get far away from this gruesome sight. He was about to run away from the face of Death.
But then, pain exploded from the back of the head and he started falling forward, his body completely out of his control. On the way, for the fall seemed like an eternity, Walt wondered horrifically if he would land atop the corpse.
Then darkness claimed his consciousness.
