by john | Nov 13, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Serialized Fiction, Writing
Another chapter in the serial. No, I have no real idea where this whole thing is going. You’re all just along for the ride with me.
Chapter 6
I reckon it was a few minutes before noon when I followed Graves out to the courtyard of the inn, or bar, or whatever you want to call it. It was hot enough to melt the leather right off your shoes, and the dry desert heat made the concrete shimmer. “What are we gonna do?” I asked.
“We ain’t gonna do nothing. I am gonna talk to the Sheriff, and maybe kill him. Or maybe he’ll kill me. Or maybe, just maybe, we can come to some kind of understanding that doesn’t leave one of us lying in a pool of blood and brains.”
“But you doubt it.”
“But I doubt it.” Graves was dressed as much like a man going to meet his bride as a man going to meet his Maker. He shaved when he got up that morning, something he only did on Sundays most weeks. I still didn’t need to shave even that often. He wore a clean pair of pants, with leather chaps and his good riding boots, not the low-heeled things he usually wore when we were in town. His shirt was black, and not the worn-out faded black that clothes get when they spend years in the sun. No, this was a deep, midnight black of dark water at low tide, or a patch of starless sky. He even took special effort to brush the worst of the dirt off his hat, and ran a damp rag along the felt to clean it up as best he could.
Around his neck hung his Bullet. On a black leather cord, his Bullet lay outside his shirt, painted jet black just like his shirt and his boots. I’d never seen Graves wear his Bullet in plain view like that. Most of the time he kept it tucked inside his clothes, touching his flesh. I asked him why one time, and he said “Death come to us all, Wayland. It might as well be warm when it gets here.” Ever since that day, I wore my Bullet next to my skin, too.
We don’t wear badges. Badges are for Sheriffs and Deputies. Badges are for laws. We ain’t about the law. We’re about justice, which sometimes rides alongside the law, but it ain’t never the same thing. But every Brother, somewhere on his person, will have a black-painted Bullet to remind him of who he is, what he has sworn to uphold, and what will someday end him. Graves knew his day was going to end with a bullet, he just wasn’t sure who was going to catch it.
I reckon we stood in that baked concrete courtyard for most of half an hour before a string of six men on horses charged in like their asses was on fire and we had the only trough of water. They were all big men, Hybrids every one of them, with the jeweled eyes, high features, and delicate bones of the Voltarr-Human interbreeding. Every one of them wore a badge. They were all men of the law, and I had a bad feeling they didn’t give a damn about justice. The Deputies made a ring around Graves and me, their horses pawing and stomping and snorting inches away from our faces. Graves stood like a statue, looking at the mouth of the alley. He wasn’t worried about the warmup, he was waiting for the Main Event.
And the Main Event walked down the alley mere moments after the Deputies peeled off from surrounding us and formed up in an orderly rank of six men on the far side of the plaza, The Sheriff, and even before I caught sight of his badge there was no question that’s who this was, walked down the alley slowly, his spurs jingling with every step like a metronome. Ching…Ching…Ching…Ching. He stepped into view, and even for somebody who spent the last three years dealing with some of the worst sons of bitches in the West, he was an intimidating figure. It was apparent even as he stalked through the shadowed alley that he was a full Voltarr. That put him over seven feet tall, with a delicate face almost like a woman’s, only even finer in the details, and an upswept hairless skull under his black Stetson. His long arms swung down almost to his knees, and each of his fingers was longer than my hand. He moved with a lethal grace, like vids I’d seen of tigers, almost gliding with every step.
I’d never seen a full Voltarr before. Most towns have Hybrid Sheriffs, and some just have a Deputy. Some of them are Hybrid, but some are even full Human. Having a trueblood alien as Sheriff said something about the value Carson City held for our occupying lords and masters. His jaw swept down just like his skull swept up, and came almost to a point with his narrow mouth and chin. The dominant feature of his face was the huge pair of emerald-green faceted eyes that were in constant motion, flicking up and down Graves, then over to his men, then at me for half a glance before dismissing me as no threat. Ching…Ching…Ching.
He came to a stop ten yards across the courtyard, his cloak billowing royal blue in the slight breeze. “You were told never to return to Carson City, Brother Simon Graves.” It wasn’t a question, just a pronouncement of fact.
“Yeah, but I figured since the man who said that was dead, it probably didn’t matter none.” My head whipped over to Graves, and I’m sure the look of shock on my face was hilarious. I’d never known this man to provoke anyone, and now he’s bringing up the fact that he killed the Sheriff’s father in front of everyone.
“You were warned about the consequences should you return,” the Sheriff’s voice never wavered, never changed cadence. He just went on with his proclamations like Graves didn’t speak.
“Now you are here, and found guilty of criminal trespass, and unauthorized return from banishment, which is the violation of a direct order from a duly appointed Sheriff. You are a lawbreaker, Brother Graves, and I am here to hand down your sentence. Do you have anything to say for yourself before I pass judgement on you?”
Graves stood up straighter, if that was possible, and looked across the courtyard. “I do not acknowledge your appointment, your authority, the authority of these thugs you brought with you, or the authority of the bug-eyed bastards who dropped you off here. I do not give a good goddamn about your laws, or your rules, or your desires. I am a Brother of the Gun, and I bring succor with my left hand and call down Justice with my right. And I will kill you and every piece of half-alien trash you’ve got if any one of you thinks to clear leather on me.”
Graves was usually the level-headed one. For him to throw down a gauntlet like that, he had some kind of score to settle with this Sheriff. It didn’t matter what kind of grievance he had, through, because his words lit a fire in the Sheriff and his men. They drew as one, and as they reached for their guns, time slowed to molasses. Everything kept moving, but at a crawl, as if my mind sped up and the rest of the world kept right on at its normal pace.
The nearest Deputy’s palm slid into the crook of his gun, the webbing between his thumb and forefinger nestling right behind the hammer on his pistol as his fingers grazed the leather of his holster. Over his shoulder, I saw the man next to him reach across his body for his pistol, slung low across his waist in a fancy-looking cross-draw rig that improved neither speed nor accuracy. Just inside the periphery of my vision, I registered a bunch of faces disappearing from windows and ducking back behind doorjambs as the whores and drunkards took cover.
I drew my Colt and stepped up to Graves’ side. His pistol was already barking, taking the first Deputy to draw in the meat of his thigh. The man went down with a strangled curse, his gun falling to the dirt beside him. Graves put his left hand out on the barrel of my Colt, pushing my arm down until it pointed at the ground. “The rest of your men don’t have to die, Sheriff. You can just haul the stupid one out of here, patch him up, and pretend like we never saw each other.”
“Why would I do that, Brother Graves?” The Sheriff asked, his high-pitched voice and heavily accented speech making him sound even more alien than he looked. The voice just didn’t fit the body, which fit with what I’d alway heard about the Voltarr, that they talked like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“Because you’re a ratfucking alien coward like your chickenshit father, maybe?” Graves said, the smile creeping across his face telling me that he never wanted to avoid violence at all, that he wanted to kill these men — all of them, and nothing I could say would change that.
The Sheriff didn’t respond to the latest insult, just drew his own pistol and fired. Graves was on the move before the alien cleared leather, putting bullets in two more Deputies before they even knew the fight was underway. I knew how it was going to unfold, Graves and I had practiced this kind of scenario before, when he was teaching me. He went right, aiming for easier center body shots instead of the more definite kills of a head shot. I went left, taking the side with the downed Deputy, and fired six times in half as many seconds. Two Deputies went down, but the third kept his head, and almost took mine because of it. He led me as I sprinted left, and put a round right in the center of my chest.
I tumbled up onto a porch and collapsed behind a water barrel, prodding at my chest with wondering fingers. I found a bruise, but no blood. The strange vest Graves made me put on before we left the bar had done its job. I was still alive, but from the shooting still going on around me, that wouldn’t last long if I didn’t do something, and fast. I took a second to reload, then got up on one knee and rested my Colt on the top of the barrel. My ribs felt like Hell’s own fire was burning in my chest, but I was alive.
The scene that greeted me was a grim and bloody one. Five of the six Deputies were dead, and the last one, the first man Graves shot, was on his knees with his empty hands high above his head. Graves stood over him, his Colt leveled at the blubbering man’s head. The Sheriff stood unmoved in the center of the courtyard, unfazed by the carnage scattered around him.
“These six deaths are on you, Sheriff. These deaths are the legacy your father left you. This blood is the payment for his sins and yours, and it isn’t near enough to wash this town clean.”
“I have done nothing, Brother Graves. I am the duly appointed Sheriff of Carson City, just like my father before me.”
“Yeah,” Graves spat. “You are just like your father before you. I could see that from the girl’s face when I rode into this courtyard.”
The Sheriff knitted his non-existent brow. “What girl? The Hybrid child? She is not of my get.”
“No, she wouldn’t be. But she is yours, nonetheless. Just like all the others I’ve heard tell of, all through NorCal and even into the cities of Advent. The Sheriff and his Hybrids, for sale or rent. You can do whatever you want with ‘em, because they ain’t human, and they ain’t Voltarr, so nobody cares, do they?” Graves almost spat the words, and a fury I’d never seen contorted his face.
“She is mine, that is correct. I bought her fair and square from her father. I paid him a good horse and two mules for her.” The Sheriff’s voice didn’t even change as he talked about buying that little girl just like he’d buy a saddle. I felt my finger tighten on the trigger against my will as I thought of the girl that took my horse to the stable. She was young, far too young to lay with a man, much less be treated the way Graves was talking. Hybrid or no, she was still a person.
“Well, maybe her papa will come back and haul your corpse to be buried on his fine new horse,” Graves said. “Until then, every complicit son of a bitch is going to die, then I’m going to put you down like the dog you are.”
“Please, mister, I didn’t—“ The man on the ground didn’t even get a chance to get started groveling before Graves put a bullet in his head. He swung his Colt up to the Sheriff, but another shot rang out before he got the gun up. Graves looked confused, then looked down at his belly, where a darker stain grew on his black shirt.
My gaze flicked back to the Sheriff, but his hands were empty. Then I glanced up, and a man stood up on the roof of a nearby building, rifle in his hand. “I got him, Sheriff!” the man called out.
Graves dropped to his knees, his Colt falling to the dirt beside him. My vision went red and I charged out from behind the barrel, murder on my mind and a pistol in my hand.
by john | Nov 7, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Serialized Fiction, Writing
Another chapter in the ongoing serial. Sorry I missed posting this yesterday, I had a lot of other stuff going on and it slipped my mind.
Chapter 4
It was near to sundown when we rode into Carson City, and Graves looked over at me with a grim look on his face. “Keep your tone civil, boy. The Sheriff in these parts don’t take much to the Brotherhood.”
“What does that even mean?” I asked.
“It means that he don’t like nobody questioning his authority, and that goes double for people he thinks is likely to take the law into their own hands.”
“Ain’t we on the same side as the Sheriffs?” I was naive then, no matter how wise I thought I was.
Graves gave a snort that almost sounded like a wheeze. “Boy, ain’t you paid attention to nothing besides shooting and whoring the whole time we been riding together?”
I didn’t answer that. Mostly because shooting and whoring were my two favorite things, and we both knew it. “So the Sheriff don’t like Brothers. I reckon I don’t care. If there’s a good lawman in town, we most likely won’t have to do nothing anyhow.” Brothers were often called in to act like constables in settlements too small to have a Sheriff or a Deputy of their own. Carson City was the biggest place I’d ever seen, so I felt sure there were probably a dozen Deputies. I couldn’t imagine there would be much for us to do.
“You’re right, Way. If there’s a good lawman, we don’t have anything to worry about.” I didn’t notice it at the time, but he never said what we’d do if the lawnman wasn’t good.
We rode along the main thoroughfare, Graves leading on Louise, me following on Mazy. She was excitable around all the people, and between trying to keep my horse under control and whipping my own head around at the bright lights and the paved streets – real, paved streets! I was about useless at paying attention to anything around me, I was so drunk on the sights and the noise of it all.
After a good quarter hor of riding through town, Graves led us down a narrow side street, just barely wide enough for the horses and a person to walk abreast. He slid down off Louise, and I followed suit, keeping tight to him in the sudden crush of people. I stroked Mazy’s neck, whispering calming nonsense words to her as her eyes rolled.
“She don’t like all these tight spaces,” I murmured to Graves’ back.
“Not much further,” was all he said. But, true to his word, he led us another dozen yards or so, then the alley opened up onto a wide courtyard with a big patch of open sky overhead. Mazy settled right down as soon as she had a clear view of the clouds and open air around her, and I felt my own chest loosen. A dirty-faced child of maybe twelve ran up to Graves and took the reins right out of his hands. I snatched Mazy’s lead back when he reached for mine, and the boy looked up at me, his eyes wide. That’s when I realized it wasn’t a boy at all, but a fine-boned hybrid girl, slight of build with round, deep blue pupilless eyes that marked her as part Voltarr.
“I sorry, sir,” she girl said, and her voice was scratchy, like her hybrid voicebox didn’t work quite right. “I take horses to stable. Louise is old friend here. What is new horse name?”
It took me a second to untwist the stunted syntax, then I just said, “Mazy.”
“I take Louise. I take Mazy. To Stable. To Food. To Water. You go to inn with Gravesman.” I handed over the reins without a word, and she stepped right up to Mazy. Even as a yearling, Mazy dwarfed the half-alien girl, but the child showed no fear. She just bumped her forehead right into Mazy’s long nose and snuffled up against her like she was another horse. Whatever she said to the horse in whatever language she said it, Mazy didn’t pull away, just went quietly away with the child.
I shook my head and started off after Graves, who was almost to the door of what I reckoned to be the inn. It had a sign over the door with a pair of crossed bottles, and from the rudimentary reading lessons Graves had inflicted upon me, I knew that it said “COLD BEER INSIDE.” Those were my favorite words at that particular moment, so I hurried across the courtyard into the tavern.
I stepped inside the dim room and blinked, trying to force my eyes to adjust from the bright sun outside. At first glance, it was a typical saloon, the kind every town has a couple of. A wooden bar stretched the length of one wall, with a man behind it moving dust around with a rag that probably held more germs than some hospitals. A pool table sat ignored in a clear space near the back wall, where a pair of doors led to his and hers restrooms. A dozen round tables took up most of the floorspace, with an upright piano abandoned against the wall opposite the bar. I spotted Graves sitting at one of the furthest tables from the door, already set up with a bottle, two glasses, and a vantage point that let him see the entrance and every other table in the place.
I walked over to him and sat down, the hair on the back of my neck prickling as I put my back to the door, but there was no help for it. I took a glass and poured myself a slug of whiskey, then almost spit it out all over his face when I knocked it back. The bitter taste of watered-down tea filled my mouth, instead of the cutting burn of even bad whiskey that I’d hoped for.
“What the hell is this shit?” I asked, leaning forward and dropping my voice so as not to be overheard by the other tables. “If you paid for a bottle of liquor, that barkeep swindled your ass, Graves.”
He gave me that little smirk he always used when he knew something and I didn’t, which happened with annoying frequency back then, and said, “Harrison keeps a special bottle for me behind the bar. He won’t sell that to just anyone, and I hardly ever share. Every man in here knows that, so understand what a privilege I’m showing you by letting you drink from my bottle, boy.”
I paused in mid-splutter, trying to be subtle as I looked around. Not a soul in the place was looking at us, which told me that every man in the bar was paying very particular attention to every single thing we did and said. I nodded to Graves, poured myself another drink, and sat back to sip it. “I appreciate your kindness, Mr….?” I stopped, unsure what to call him in this suddenly strange new world of subterfuge. I’d ridden beside this man for half a dozen years or more at this point, but I’d never seen him be the slightest bit cagey in his dealings with anyone, nor the least bit interested in hiding who he was. But since we rode into Carson City, he had almost been a different person entirely. I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed.
“You can call me Graves,” he said. I noticed he didn’t mention the “Brother.” We don’t have badges, and we don’t have a uniform, so a lot of the time if a man doesn’t want you to know he follows The Way, he just won’t tell you. There are a few things that give us away, of course – the stillness most of us have, the way our eyes scan every room when we walk in, the walk of a man who’s always ready to turn on his heel and draw down. But those things are usually only noticed by other Brothers, or people who have been around us for a long time. For some reason, Graves didn’t want it widely known that we were Brothers of the Gun in Carson City, and I was at least smart enough to follow his lead.
We sat, and drank, and Graves watched the door while I got more and more twitchy as time went on. Might have had something to do with all the tea pressing on my bladder, too. I got up and nodded to the back of the room. “I’m going to visit the euphemism. Try not to get too drunk while I’m gone.”
Graves just nodded, and I pushed my chair back from the table with a loud screech. Silence blanketed the room as my boot heels clumped across the floor, then the shrill howl of uncoiled hinges on the bathroom door filled the air. I went inside, locked the door behind me, and took care of business. A faded and tattered poster of an overblown woman falling out of a few triangles of fabric hung over the toilet. I’d never seen anyone dressed like that, but as old as the poster was, I figured it was from Before. She was sexy enough, I figured, if you liked blondes with nothing to hide in the world. I washed my hands and looked at the dingy towel hanging by the sink. I looked from the towel, to my dusty jeans, then back to the towel. Finally I shook my hands through the air a couple of times and ran them under my armpits to dry them off as best I could.
I turned around and unlocked the door, but when I pushed against it to step back out into the bar, it didn’t budge. I pushed harder, and it gave a little before slamming back into the frame, almost catching me on the nose. I reared back and threw a shoulder into the door, and this time when it slammed back, a voice came from the other side. “Keep your shirt on, kid. We got a few words to share with your drinking companion, then we’ll let you out.”
“You’ll let me out of this room now or I’ll start pumping lead through this door,” I growled.
“Do you really think that sounds smart, kid?” The voice replied, a chuckle nestled under his question. “You ain’t got nowhere to take cover in there, and I got a double-barrel scattergun pressed up against the door. You got six bullets, but I got two barrels full of shot that’ll cut you in half before you come close to hitting me. So why don’t you just sit back down in there, spend a few more minutes staring at Farrah’s tits, and as soon as my pal is done conversating with Brother Graves, this door’ll open again.”
I backed away from the door, not because he sat he had a shotgun, but because he knew Graves was a Brother. Everything we had done since we stepped into this saloon was to keep that one fact hidden, and he just tossed it out there like a bad penny. I closed the lid on the toilet and sat down, drawing my Colt. I might have to stay in the bathroom, but eventually they’d let me out. When they did, I’d make them regret locking me up in the first place.
A couple minutes later, the door swung open a hair, and I could tell the pressure on the other side was gone. I sat for a count of a hundred, giving anyone on the other side plenty of time to get bored or get out of the way, then I stood up and walked out of the bathroom. The bar was empty except for Graves and the bartender, who stood in the same spot he’d held when I went into the crapper, his gaze glued to the surface of the bar like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
I walked back over to the table with Graves and sat down. “You want to explain why I just spent five minutes trapped in a saloon shitter because some asshole wanted to have a conversation with you?” I was something of a hothead back in those days, and I felt mighty aggrieved at being trapped in a toilet against my will. Never mind the fact that it was a clean and perfectly comfortable toilet, I just needed something to be annoyed at about once a week when I was a young man.
“I don’t,” Graves said, his voice devoid of any emotion. After riding with the man for night on a dozen years, I knew full well he’d tell me, but I also knew that few things amused him more than seeing me get hot under the collar over stupid things. Especially when the stupid thing was me. This time I told myself I was just going to wait him out. I’d show him that I hadn’t just learned how to shoot and ride, I’d learned how to allow things to unfold in their own due time. I wouldn’t rush him, not even the least little but.
But that didn’t mean I had to sit there and drink his godawful tea while I waited for him to get his head out of his ass and talk to me. I stood up, walked over to the bar, and said, “How much for a bottle of whiskey?”
“You particular about a brand?”
“I’m particular there weren’t too many rats floating in the barrel.”
“Dollar.”
I slapped a quarter round of gold onto the bar top. The man picked it up, bit into it, looked me up and down, and said “This is a dollar and half worth of gold.”
“Then gimme a half dollar’s change.”
“You could leave a tip.”
“I might. But if you don’t give me my half dollar’s change I won’t have a half dollar to leave for a tip.”
He looked befuddled by my logic for a second, but handed me back a couple of silver quarters, along with a pair of glasses and a quart jar of brown liquor. I unscrewed the top of the jar, took a deep sniff, and smiled. This was not sour tea. I slipped the money into a pocket, carried the glasses and bottle back to the table, and sat down.
I held the jar out to Graves, who shook his head. Whatever was coming that made him want to stay clear-headed, it hadn’t happened yet. I poured two fingers of whiskey into my glass, then screwed the top back on the jar. I sipped my whiskey and looked at Graves.
He looked back at me, unwavering in his silence.
I took another sip, didn’t speak.
Graves said nothing.
We went on like that for a good five minutes or more, long enough for me to drain my drink and think better of having another, before Graves leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and began to speak.
“The Sheriff wants us gone as soon as the sun comes up tomorrow. He says if we’re still in town by noon, he’ll have us both arrested and hang me at sundown.”
“On what charge?” I asked. We hadn’t been in town long enough to break any local laws, and had no warrants outstanding to warrant hanging. There were a few farmers looking for me on account of some dalliances with their daughters, but those were all a week or more by fast horse from Carson City, and none of those fathers had any reason to hunt Graves.
Graves let out a laugh, a dry, reedy thing that sounded like it didn’t get used much. It didn’t to be honest. I’d only heard him laugh half a dozen times in the years we rode together, and they were pretty much always situations just like this – nothing funny at all. “I asked that same question. Sheriff said he had plenty of time between now and noon to come up with something worth hanging me over, and then likened as how he’d probably flog you bloody before he hung me, so I could see you ruined for riding alongside me before I went to see my maker.”
“Good lord, Graves. What the hell did you do to this Sheriff?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.
Graves looked up at me, his grey eyes boring a hole straight through me. “I gunned down his father in the street like the dog he was. Seems the son holds a bit of a grudge for that.”
“What are we going to do?” I could already tell running wasn’t an option. Graves wasn’t a man to retreat, not even if the odds were stacked against him. This time it looked like the whole town was stacked against him, but I knew better than to think that was going to matter.
“Well, come noon I reckon I’m going to walk out into the center of town and shoot the Sheriff right between his damn eyes. Then we’ll see how many Deputies I have to kill to get out of here this time.”
by john | Oct 30, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Serialized Fiction, Writing
This is the third chapter of an ongoing serialized novel that is currently in progress.
Chapter 3
A quarter hour later, with their thirst quenched and their canteens filled, they were back on the road, Liza sitting with her arms around Wayland’s chest. “I suppose you’ll be wanting that story now, won’t you?”
“You did give your word, after all. I fear that you would undermine the integrity of your brotherhood were you to lie to me, and that is a mighty heavy burden to lay on a poor memory-starved child out here in the wilds with no recollection of herself.”
“For an amnesiac, you have certainly not lost a single step in knowing how to twist a man’s words against him. But a promise is a promise, and since you have laid the integrity of the entire Brotherhood at my feet, I suppose I have to hold up my end of the bargain now.”
“Indeed you do,” she said, leaning forward and pressing her cheek to his back. Her face felt warm between his shoulder blades, moreso even that the sun beating down on his neck, but he didn’t mind. Something about her felt…comforting. Wayland gave his head a tiny shake, as if to gather his thoughts, then began to speak.
Graves and the Bandit Boy
His name was Graves. No first name, just…Brother Graves. I always teased him about that, once I got to where I could tease him. On account of he said his whole purpose was to preserve life and make it better, but his name was Graves. He didn’t find it funny, but I don’t think he minded much. He found me south of Wichita, in a little town called Arkansas City. I guess caught me would be a better way to tell it, since I was rifling through his saddlebags in the stable where him and Louise had bedded down.
Louise was his horse. She was Mazy’s dam. Graves and Louise were asleep in the stable, a big low building that used to be a firehouse in the time Before. At least I thought they were asleep, but not ten seconds after I reached into the first saddlebag, I heard the click of a revolver and felt a set of horse’s teeth clamp onto my behind. She didn’t bite me, not really. She just kinda latched on and let me know that if I tried anything else stupid, it was going to hurt. So I put my hands in the air and turned around. Standing there in the shadows, his featured masked from the moonlight but the gleam of his Colt shining clear.
“What are you doing, boy?” he asked. I didn’t have a good answer, so I just shrugged.
“You trying to steal my money, or my food?” I thought for a second about how best to answer that, because we were still in Kandaska, and it was perfectly alright to shoot a man for trying to steal from you, no matter what he was trying to take. Since I was just as likely to get perforated for one answer as the other, I decided to tell the truth.”
“I was looking for food, sir.”
“Why didn’t you just walk up while I was eating earlier and ask if I would share?”
“Like anybody’s going to just give me food. I ain’t stupid, and I ain’t looking to trade nothing I got for your dinner.”
“Don’t look to me like you’ve got…oh.” His eyes went a little wide, and he looked me up and down. “How old are you, son?”
“I reckon about eleven or twelve. Ain’t got nobody to tell me true, so I just kinda figured that up against other boys what got mamas to keep track of such things.”
“I’m guessing from your speech that you haven’t had much schooling? No apprenticeships? No training in anything?”
“I know how to do lots of stuff. I can ride, I can shoot, I can get in and out of just about anywhere without anybody hearing me. I’m light-fingered, and quick of foot, and the constable ain’t never laid hand on me. I ain’t bad with my blade, either.” To prove my point, I slipped the small hunting knife from under my shirt and twirled it around my fingers. I managed not to drop it, but Graves didn’t look nearly as impressed as I wanted him to.
“Well, you’re a regular Jesse James, aren’t you?”
“Who’s that?”
“He was an outlaw from Before. Hell, he’s been dead so long I reckon we could say he was from the time Long Ago.”
“Before? Before what?”
He holstered his gun with a sigh. I reckon he decided I was too ignorant to be dangerous. He was right, but I was too ignorant to see it. I saw the gun find leather, and I turned to bolt. I didn’t get far, especially since Louise still had a good grip on my hindquarters. She bit down, and I yelped, trying to reach around behind and swat at her. I took one swing with my blade, thinking to graze her nose and make her let go, but the tall man stepped up and slapped the knife out of my hand.
“Hey!” I yelped, turning to swing at him. He backhanded me across the jaw, and I dropped to one knee. I glared up at him, and he shook his head down at me.
“This is not how you want to do things, son.”
“I ain’t your son,” I snarled, and sprang at him. At least, in the movie in my head I sprang at him. In the real world, I stood up and found his foot in my chest. Then I fell right back down onto my butt in the straw.
“Calm down, boy. Nobody’s going to hurt you, but I might put you to work if you’re willing to earn your food instead of stealing it.”
“I don’t do that,” I said. I was young, but I’d already long been exposed to men who have ways for young boys to earn things from them.
“I don’t either,” the man said, then crouched down in front of me. “Look at yourself, boy. Then look at me. Do you think for a second that you could stop me from doing anything I want to you? I’m bigger, faster, and I’m the one with the gun. You’re a scrawny little alley rat who learned just enough to stay alive in Arkansas City, but not forever. You keep on this path and you’ll be dead before you see sixteen. You’ll either starve, get shot in the back running away from some heist, or some girl’s daddy will string you up for defiling his daughter, no matter how willing she is to succumb to your charms.”
“You ain’t gonna get me killed?” I asked. “And you don’t want a piece of my ass?”
“I have absolutely no interest in your ass, but I can’t promise that riding with me will lead to a long life. I am Brother Graves, a Brother of the Gun. We do not often live to see old age, but we try to do some good before we leave this world.”
“That ain’t a real appealing offer, Brother Graveyard,” I said. “I think I’d about rather get shot here where I know everybody than ride around with some troublemaker Brother and get shot in some strange place.”
“I will feed you. I have biscuits and fatback left over from my supper that you are welcome to. You will not eat like a king, but you will not go hungry riding by my side. Who knows, maybe you’ll take an interest and strap on a Colt of your own some day.”
“Don’t hold your breath for that, Brother Corpse. But if you’ll give me a couple square meals a day, I reckon I’ll ride with you until I get a better offer.” I said it with all the worldliness a preteen could muster, which is to say not very much. I had no idea how the world worked, but I thought I understood everything. The next few years would prove very enlightening.
We chased the sunrise out of Arkansas City the next morning with me riding pillion on Louise, much as you did on Mazy today. Brother Graves was good to his word; I never went hungry the time I rode with him, and I never lacked for at least the same meager shelter he lived under. We rode together for a many years, long after he got tired of me crowding him in the saddle and got me a scrawny little horse to care for. Then along came Mazy, and I raised her from a foal into the cantankerous old lady who sits under us now.
I thought I knew how to shoot, but Graves taught me what it meant to hold a gun, to carry death on my hip. A rifle can be used for hunting, for protection from wild animals, yes, even to kill a man. But it has other uses. A Colt…well, a Colt was made for one purpose, and one purpose only. A Colt is a gun meant to kill men, and that oughta be a burden that weighs on a man like a heavy mantle. Graves taught me how to shoot, but he also taught me how not to shoot, and that’s more important a lot of days. I carried his shotgun for years before I strapped on a Colt. I kept an eye out for rattlers, for poison lizards, coyotes, even Wolves. Two barrels full of silver shot might not kill a Wolf, but it’ll hurt it bad enough it leaves you alone until the moon ain’t full no more.
After carrying his scattergun for a year or two, he bought me a Winchester. A fine gun, and I still keep it slung beside my saddle to this day. A rifle is the working man’s gun – it can take down a deer, even a bison if you can find a scope with the glass still in it that doesn’t cost you an organ. A rifle can kill predators before they get close enough to kill you, and it’s a lot more accurate in a fight than a Colt. But it’s slow, and it’s hard to turn with, and there’s no surprise when you put a rifle on a man – he knows where that conversation is going, sure enough.
I reckon I rode with Graves for ten years before he gave me my first Colt. We were in Phoenix, at the Brotherhood enclave there, and there was a whole ceremony. I took a test, to show I could handle a shotgun, then a rifle, then a pistol. I shot clay disks out of the air, and straw men, and glass bottles that a Younger Brother tossed up in the air end-over-end. I drew on Graves, and the Younger Brother, and several full Brothers – unloaded draws just to test for speed. After a full day of shooting, the Eldest Brother of the enclave came out with a battered old Colt laying on a black velvet pillow and held it out to me.
The gun itself didn’t look like much. It wasn’t all that clean, it didn’t have fancy pearl handles, and if there had ever been any kind of pretty scrollwork engraved into the cylinder or barrel, that was long gone. This was not a gun made to impress gunslingers and trick shooters. This was not a gun that made a saloon girl sit up and take notice of the handsome stranger that just walked through the doors. No, this was a gun meant to kill men, and I could almost feel the chill of death run up my arm as I picked it up.
Graves stepped up behind me and reached around my middle, fastening the gunbelt on me. I held the Colt in my right hand as the Eldest Brother handed me six bullets, one at a time.
The first one he dipped in a basin of water, then handed it to me. “This bullet is tipped with Holy Water, and it is the shield of God, protecting those who need your aid.” I flicked the cylinder open with a snap of my wrist and put the bullet in the gun.
He handed me another bullet, this one painted red around the cartridge. “This bullet has been passed through Fire, and it is the flame of a vengeful God, meting out justice and striking down those who would hurt the innocent.” He passed me the bullet, which looked just like the first one, and I put it into the chamber.
The next bullet was tipped with what looked like gold, but I knew it wouldn’t be. Gold was much too soft to use in a bullet. “This bullet is cast from the golden treasures of the Brotherhood, and it is the bulwark against those who would steal from the smaller and weaker.” I slid it into the chamber.
The fourth bullet had a cross cut into the tip. “This bullet is God’s mercy, and it is the sword of peace that you may someday grant to another.” My fingers trembled a little as I took it. I wasn’t afraid to grant peace to somebody who came back Wrong, but the thought of killing somebody before they Returned wasn’t pretty. The bullet clicked against the side of the cylinder as I slid it home.
The fifth bullet had a reddish glow about the tip, and I knew it for what it was immediately. Vanadium. The most precious element in the world, and the whole reason the world was the way it was. The thing that brought the Voltarr here more than a century ago. “This bullet is of the Earth. It is for the Earth, which you are pledged to defend from those who would harm her, be they native or alien.” I had always heard rumors that the Brotherhood hated the Voltarr, but everybody hated the Voltarr, so that came as no surprise. What did surprise me a little was the Eldest pretty much coming right out and saying “shoot the damn Blue-Eyes.” He held my gaze for a long time before he gave me that bullet. I slammed it home without even looking down. He nodded, and picked up the last round.
This final bullet was painted jet black, and I could see some tiny writing on it, but I couldn’t make it out until he handed it to me. “This bullet is the one we all know is out there. This is the bullet with your name on it. Some day, Brother Wayland, you will fall. You will fall with your gun in your hand, and with a bullet in your body. You will likely fall in defense of another, and hopefully you will fall with honor. But nonetheless, you will fall. This bullet represents the one that will kill you.”
I took it, and my fingers trembled as I did. It was cold, and felt strange to the touch. I held my death in my hand, and stared at it. I slid it into the last open spot in my Colt, and snapped the cylinder closed. I nodded at the Eldest, and he nodded back at me, casting an appraising eye over me under his bushy white eyebrows. “Brother Wayland, you are now a Brother of the Gun. Protect the weak, defend the innocent, avenge the wronged. This is your charge.”
“Protect, defend, avenge,” I repeated. I holstered my Colt, and it hung heavy on my right hip. The words the Brother spoke over every bullet echoed around in my head, and gave a new weight to the iron on my belt.
“Now, you are welcome as a Brother,” The Eldest clasped my hand, then pulled me into a rough hug. It had been a long time since I’d been hugged by anybody, and the warmth of that kind man’s arms around me put a crack in something deep inside me, like a dam starting to succumb to the force behind it.
“Now, we drink,” Graves said behind me, clapping his hand on my shoulder. And drink we did, until the sun crawled over the horizon and send us scurrying to our beds.
We rode along good for several years after that. Two full Brothers, riding together, looking after those weaker than ourselves and holding the world to a higher standard of justice than the Sheriffs could or would provide. We helped farmers hunt down Wolfpacks, helped towns defend against roving hordes of the Wrong, destroyed the occasional nest of Nightwalkers, and put the fear of the Gun and God into more than one small-town bullyboy who thought to set himself up a little fiefdom.
Then we rode into Carson City on the wrong day, and everything went to shit.
by john | Oct 22, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Fiction, Serialized Fiction, Writing
Chapter 2
“I reckon we need to come up with something to call you,” Wayland said as they chewed their breakfast of tough jerky and tougher coffee. “If you have no recollection of your name, then I suppose you pick any name you like.”
The girl smiled at him across the fire, the denim in his shirt making her eyes blaze blue. “I think I should be called…Elizabeth,” she pronounced with a nod of her head.
“Elizabeth…” Wayland said, rolling the name around on his tongue. “I can get behind that, I reckon. I might call you Liza for short, though.”
“I suppose as how I could live with that, as long as I can call you Way. Calling you Brother Wayland all the time might get tiresome,” she gave him a playful grin, and he grinned back. They settled into an easy silence for the next few bites, then Elizabeth cleared her throat.
“What’s on your mind, Liza?”
“What are we going to do?”
“Well, now we come back to you asking questions that can go in a myriad of different directions. How about you narrow the focus for me a touch, and I’ll consider my answer.”
“What are we going to do about the fact that we are apparently several days’ ride from anywhere to get more food, with one horse, two people, and I am wearing nothing more than your castoff shirt? I think that might be a fair place to start.”
“Those are indeed fine questions,” Wayland relied, popping the last chunk of jerky into his mouth. He chewed on the leathery meat for a long moment, then washed it down with a big gulp of coffee before continuing. “Well, the way I see it, we need to find some shelter, and some provisions, and then look to acquiring a horse. That is, if you wish to travel along with me.” He held up a hand as Elizabeth opened her mouth. “I’m not saying you don’t want to, but I also don’t want you thinking you have to accompany me through the desert. If you should decide you’d rather strike out on your own, I will help you acquire such food and water as I can spare, and you can retain ownership of my shirt. I suppose I can buy another one sometime.”
“I think I should stay with you, at least for now. Since I know neither where I was coming from nor where I was going, nor, in fact, who I am, I think it might be useful to have someone around who is familiar with weapons. I assume that part of your work as a Brother of the Gun does involve the use of one?”
“I have been known to make use of a shooting iron on more than one occasion.”
“Then I think I’ll stay with you for the time being, if you’ll have me.”
“Well, you snore less than Mazy, so that’s good,” Wayland said with a half-grin. “Now all we need to do is find a spring to replenish our water, someplace to trade for food, and some boots for you, and we’ll be in fine fettle.”
“Pants might also be nice,” Elizabeth said, gesturing at her bare legs.
“I can see as how that might be a benefit,” Wayland agreed. “For today, you’ll ride pillion with me on Mazy. She won’t hardly notice the little bit of added weight, and I can roll up a blanket for you to sit on. If we make good time and don’t encounter any interruptions along the way, we can make Pecos in about two days. Shouldn’t be any trouble to resupply there and get you some clothes and a good hat. Until then. Make sure you keep your sleeves down and tie these bandannas around your face so the sun doesn’t scorch you completely blind.” He handed her a pair of faded red squares of cloth, and she did as he said.
Wayland got up and rooted around in his pack, coming up with a pair of tattered jeans. “These are gonna be a might long and big around for you, but it’ll be better than going naked. I dug out a pair of socks, too, so your feet will have some cover. I don’t have anything for shoes.”
“Thank you. This is more than I expected. I’m sure you don’t plan on rescuing half-dead amnesiac women on the road.”
“It’s not an everyday occurrence, I’ll grant you that,” he said, that half-smile flashing across his face again, moving him almost partway to handsome. “Now get your britches on and let’s put this fire out. I’m going to get Mazy saddled up and we can ride.”
*****
Hours later, Wayland snapped the reins and clucked the horse to a stop. “Whoa, girl,” he said, his voice dry in the midday heat.
Liza stirred from where she drowsed against his back, then sat bolt upright. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing back away from him. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“It’s fine, little one,” Way chuckled. “But I need you to slide down now. Mazy needs to drink, and it wouldn’t hurt us to refill our canteens.”
The girl looked around, then peered around Wayland’s shoulder. “Where is she going to find a drink? I don’t see anything.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not there,” Wayland said. “Take my hand.” She did as he instructed. “Now sling one leg over Mazy’s rump and slide down.” She did, then immediately dropped to her knees in the sand.
Wayland dismounted and looked down at her, a kind smile reaching across his face. “Let me get this old girl unsaddled, and I’ll help you up. For now, just let your legs stretch out a bit. Ain’t nothing easy about your first long ride.” He loosened the cinch and pulled the saddle off his horse, then tossed it onto the dirt. He pulled the saddle blanket off and laid it on top of the saddle, then reached down for Liza’s hand.
She took it and stood, rubbing her thighs and grimacing with every small step. “Where are we going? I still don’t see anywhere to water the horse.”
“You won’t,” Wayland said. “You have to know it’s here.” He led the horse and the limping girl across the broken highway to a smooth patch of concrete and the last remaining wall of a ruined building. The small cinderblock building had crumbled through neglect or malice many years ago, but two four-foot high chunks of wall still rose in a rear corner, marking where the building once ended and the desert began. Now, the desert claimed the entire space, and just a few splintered blocks and a patch of cracked concrete floor marked it as a place of men. Wayland led them around to the back of the building, along the outside wall, and reached down to turn a small valve on a pipe that jutted out of the wall. The pipe coughed, sneezed a brown explosion of water, then after several seconds of spluttering muck across the ground, a steady trickle of clear water ran from the faucet.
“How in the world…?” Liza’s tone held wonder, and more than a little fear. “How did you find this?”
“I didn’t,” Way said, his voice soft. “Someone showed it to me, when I was a young man. He took me through the desert, and taught me the places where water still runs from the Time Before. There aren’t many, and they dry up faster and faster, but this one still has a few drops left for us.”
He knelt, passing his hands under the water and scrubbing them across his face. Lisa stood and watched as he filled his cupped hands once, twice, and sipped long draughts from the stream. “Now you,” he said, standing up. “Might be easier if you just fill the canteen.”
She looked at him, then, seeing no mockery in his face, knelt in front of the faucet. She rinsed her hands and face, then filled her canteen and stood. She sat on the top of the broken wall, sipping the water.
“Drink your fill,” Wayland said, pulling his hat off and placing it upside down on the ground, making a basin for the horse to drink from. He filled a canteen of his own, then stepped away so Mazy could drink from his hat. The horse stuck her head down into the stream, then backed away, spluttering and giving Way a nasty glare. “You know better, you glutton. If you wait until I turn the water off, you won’t get your nose soaked.”
Liza laughed, then looked around, as if surprised.
“What’s wrong?” Way asked.
“I don’t know…I guess it just feels like I don’t laugh very much.”
“You don’t have to lose your memory for that. Nobody laughs very much. Haven’t for a long time, from what I’ve read.” Wayland took another long swig from his jug, then reached down to turn off the water. Mazy ducked her head and started to drink from his hat, delicately keeping it from tipping over.
“She’s a very smart horse,” Liza said.
“She’s pretty extraordinary,” Way agreed. “I don’t say it often, at least not where she can hear it. I don’t want her to get the big head.” Mazy lifted her head to throw a baleful eye at the man, drawing another laugh from Liza.
“Is she…I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask.”
“Enhanced? No, she’s all horse, and all Earth-native, at least as far as I know. She’s just really smart is all. If we’re going somewhere we’ve been more than twice, I can just tell her where to go, and I can sleep in the saddle if I have to. Comes in handy if I’m hurt, too. More than one time I’ve passed out in the saddle and woke up in front of a doctor’s office or hospital. Took me a while to convince her that a vet wasn’t the best solution.” He laughed and looked down at the horse. “She’s a good girl. A good partner.”
“How long have you had her?”
“Almost ten years now. Ever since…” His voice trailed off and he took another drink. “Ever since her last rider, the Brother that mentored me, died.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?” She held up her hands as his face whipped around to her. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I was just making conversation. I don’t have a lot to contribute, since…” She gestured toward her head as if to remind him that she had no memories.
“No, it’s fine,” he said. “It’s just not something I talk about often. But I reckon we’ve got a fair bit of riding left to do, so let’s make sure all out canteens and waterskins are filled, and I’ll give you the whole sordid story once we’re back on the road.”
by john | Oct 16, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Fiction, Serialized Fiction, Writing
Here’s the next chapter of that serialized thing I’m working on. Let me know what you think.
Chapter 1
She jerked awake, sitting bolt upright with her mouth wide open. Silent at first, she drew a breath to scream, but he was there with his hand pressed tight to her lips.
“That would be very bad,” he whispered. “There are things out there in the dark that I cannot save you from, cannot save myself from, either. So in order to keep us both alive long enough for me to answer your questions, you must be very quiet. Can you do that?”
She nodded. He took his hand from her mouth and moved a few feet away, far enough to let her feel less threatened but not so far away that she had room to escape, should that be on her mind. She looked around, at the rough campsite that was nothing more than his bedroll, the spare blankets and clothing he had scrabbled together for her, a small cookfire surrounded by rocks, banked to glowing embers and dug deep enough into the sand as to be invisible from more than a few feet away, and a metal pole jammed into the ground with a ring atop it. His horse was tied to the ring and stood staring at her, as if waiting to see if she was going to be interesting, or edible, or both.
Other than the three of them and his meager belongings, there was nothing to see but the night sky. The moon had set, or perhaps had yet to rise, and stars dotted the dark like some demented toddler had thrown a bucket of glitter into the blackness, with little clumps and streaks of shininess blinking overhead. The moon was down, but one of the blinking Voltarr motherships hung huge in the sky, too small to be a moon, but obviously too large and close to be a star. It could only be one of the orbiting homes of the invaders. Turning her head past each shoulder, the girl saw no lights in the distance to indicate the presence of a town or city, or even fires to show some sign that they weren’t the only people in the world.
She looked at him, sitting cross-legged by the fire. His wide-brimmed leather hat lay on the ground beside him, and he watched her with a steady gaze. His eyes, reflected flickering crimson in the dancing light of the cinders, tracked her every move like a wolf staring down a rabbit. His face was narrow, with chiseled jaw and cheekbones covered in greying stubble, and the creases in the corners of his eyes seemed like they came more from squinting against the sun that any tendency to smile.
“Wh-whe-“ she tried to speak, but couldn’t force the words out through sun-scorched and desert-parched throat. He tossed her a battered metal canteen, and she looked at it for a moment like she’d never seen such a thing, then twisted the cap off and took a sip. Clear water flowed over her teeth, quenching her mouth and throat. She gulped, raising the bottle higher and letting the glorious liquid dribble from the corners of her mouth and down her chin. She lowered the bottle from her lips and took a breath, then raised it again.
“Careful,” his whispered voice sliced the night like a razor, and she stopped, hand halfway to her lips, and stared at him.
“You’re dehydrated,” he said. “If you drink too much at one go you’ll throw up. Then you’ll be even more dehydrated, and I’ll be out a half day’s worth of water. I don’t think that’s something either of us wants.”
She looked back at the canteen in her hands, longing writ large on her face, but she screwed the cap back on and extended it to him.
“Keep it. You need to drink, just don’t drink the whole thing at once.”
She nodded and set the round canteen upright in the sand beside her, leaning it against her leg so it didn’t fall over.
“Where am I?” She asked.
He chuckled, an unexpected sound that rolled across her in the darkness and warmed her fingers and toes. “That’s an interesting question, miss. How do you want me to answer that? Do you need your location, because you were set upon by bandits, or reavers, or sand dogs and don’t remember how far you ran? Do you think you are dead, and this is Hell? Because you surely wouldn’t be the first to think that, although I must unfortunately notify you that we are most definitely alive, and this is no more Hell than a piece of Oklexas dirt can be, which I will acknowledge might be closer to Hell than I care to admit. Are you a Traveller? Which I doubt given that I found you with no tech and practically no clothes, much less anything to indicate you are from anywhere other than Earth. Or are you purely a creature of philosophy, and my correct answer would be ‘here?’”
The girl stared at him for a moment, then took another small drink of water. “Could we start with the first one, please?”
The man laughed an almost silent laugh, then said “We are currently four days’ ride west of Amarillo on the edge of northern Oklexas. I was planning on crossing into Nueva España tomorrow morning and heading to Albuquerque from there, but you might be throwing a little wrench into that plan.”
“I’m sorry,” the girl said, and he realized for the first time that she was very young, or at least very innocent. He struck a few options off his mental list of things that may have brought the young woman out into the wilderness on her own, and this raised even more questions.
He stared at her across the fire, his one spare shirt swallowing her gaunt form. The rag she wore as a shift fell almost to dust when he picked her up and tossed her across Mazy’s back to carry her to camp, so when he found a spot he thought looked defensible enough to make camp for the night, he dressed the scratches on her back and stomach, put aloe cream all over her face and arms, and wrapped her in his spare shirt. Now he could see how small she was, how slim her figure, stirring emotions in him he thought were long dead. Not lust, no, she was too young for him that way. Just…feelings.
“Where are you going?” She asked.
“I might ask you the same thing,” he replied. “But let’s start with the less important things. What’s your name, child? I’m Brother Wayland.”
“Are you some kind of priest?”
“Some kind,” he chuckled. “I’m a Brother of the Gun.”
She looked blank. “I don’t know what that means, I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t really seem to know anything.” Her brow knit and she closed her eyes. “I don’t know where I am, I don’t know what a Brother of the Gun is, I don’t even know my name. I don’t know anything!” Her voice climbed in pitch and volume as she spoke, so Wayland moved to her side.
He put an arm around her, and she clutched at him, trembling. Way felt her ribs through the shirt, reached inside his pocket for a handkerchief, and passed it to the girl. She took it, dabbed at her eyes, then wiped her nose and held it out to him.
“Keep it,” he said, hiding his smile in the darkness. “If you really can’t remember who you are, it might not be the last time you find yourself in need.”
“What is a Brother of the Gun?” she asked again when she had herself more composed.
Wayland fixed her in place with his steady gaze. His eyes were cold, light grey like sun-bleached steel, and spoke of long days in the saddle. “We help people. We deliver justice in places where there often is none, and we offer protection to those who would otherwise be defenseless.” The words sounded old, like something memorized long ago, but also heartfelt. Brother Wayland meant what he said.
The girl sat, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She looked across the fire at Wayland. “So who am I?” Her voice trembled a little, but she didn’t cry. The bulging muscles along her jaw told of the effort that required, but she held her emotions more tightly than she clutched her knees against the cool desert air.
“I have no idea.”
“Why am I here?”
“This is as far as I could carry you from where I found you.”
“Carry me?”
“You were laying out there in the desert, half-covered up in sand and scorched from being out there for at least a couple days. I found you, and brought you here. I thought to put you on Mazy and take you on to Nueva España with me, but you ain’t got the strength to ride yet. So here we are.”
She looked at him, fire kissing his jawline and painting him orange and yellow. He had a strong jaw, a narrow face, and a short beard. Mostly brown, but with a few touches of grey popping through to catch the firelight different. “I…thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me yet, little one. It won’t take much time in the sun for you to realize I didn’t do you any favors keeping you alive, and if some of the predators in the night get ahold of you, well…then I reckon I’ll have done us both a disservice.” He scooted away from her, creating space between her bare leg and his denim-clad one.
The girl picked up her canteen and looked across the top of it at Wayland. “You said I…threw a wrench in your plan. What does that mean?”
Way looked at the girl, her wide eyes, dirt-crusted hair and sunburned face. There was no hint of irony or guile in her. She honestly didn’t have any idea what he meant by the common expression. “Well, I reckon I meant that since you can’t ride yet, or couldn’t at least, that I probably won’t get to Albuquerque in three days like I expected to. That, coupled with the fact that I only carried water for one, means that I’m going to have to some refiguring of my plans to keep us both alive long enough to get anywhere that’s anywhere. As opposed to here,” he said, gesturing to the wide expanse of empty desert. “Which is about as close to nowhere as anything I can imagine.”
“I’m sorry,” the girl said. Her voice was thready, weak, as if she could barely move enough air to cause a sound. Way couldn’t tell if she was trying to keep quiet, or was just that broken down by whatever left her lying under the sand.
“Don’t be. I couldn’t just leave you there to die. Nobody would do that.” He didn’t bother to tell the child that a fair number of somebodies had obviously done just that. The road between Amarillo and Albuquerque wasn’t heavily traveled, but Way had met at least a half dozen riders or wagons since he’d left the last outpost in Oklexas. At least some of them had to have ridden right by the child lying by the roadside, slowly being bleached to bone in the scorching sun.
“Then thank you,” she said, stronger this time. “I…I think I need to pee.”
Wayland waved his hand off to the right. “It’s pretty safe as long as you stay within sight of the fire. I have no interest in watching you relieve yourself, so you don’t have to fear me peeking.”
She stood, legs wobbly, and Wayland scrambled to his feet to help her stay upright. After a minute, she took a tenuous step forward, holding her arms out to the side for balance. Way held her elbow to steady her, and after a few more shaky steps, she shook him off. “I think I’m fine now.”
“I think you’re a long way from fine, child, but I reckon as how you can manage to go to the bathroom by yourself. Call out if you fall or need help.”
“I thought you said things out there would hear me?”
“They might, but that’s a sight better than something finding you out there helpless. And I don’t have a light, so I won’t be able to find you without some kind of help.” He watched as she walked out of the circle of firelight, wobbly at first, but gaining confidence with each step. Way went over to his pack and pulled out a few strips of jerky, tearing a hunk off one and chewing it as he stared out into the night.
Who was this child?
What was this child?
What did it mean, finding her out here like this? It all means something, it always did,
What kind of Hell was he calling down upon his head, helping her?
by john | Sep 27, 2017 | Business of publishing, How to Sell Books, Writing
That’s the trick, isn’t it? If we write more, we can publish more, and then we can sell more. I publish roughly 2-3 novels per year, plus a couple of short stories, plus anywhere from 9-14 novellas. This year, I will finish up with eight novellas, a couple of short stories, and two novels. Somewhere between 375,000 and 400,000 words of published fiction, plus around 100,000 words of blogging. I don’t count FB posts, but I do count the stuff I write here, because it’s written with intent and forethought, and usually some level of narrative thread. So close to half a million words, or a little more if we take into account the 60K of Black Knight #7 that I trashed, and the 25K of TECH Ops that I’m still working on.
That’s a lot of words. That’s what it takes for me to make a living. I don’t make any kind of extravagant living, but I am the wage-earner for my wife and I. That word count allows me to do that. It also allows me the time to work on Falstaff Books projects, and we will probably end the year producing 20 titles, every one of which I had some level of direct hand in producing.
So the question I get from a lot of writers is “How do you write that much?” Well, here’s how, and I have to give credit where due to Dean Wesley Smith, who wrote some very good blog posts in 2010-11 on a workmanlike approach to writing, and how much you could produce in a year if you just write 1,000 words per day. I shoot for a little more than that, but I also don’t write every single day.
But here’s my basic approach.
- Divide and Conquer – I typically work on two projects at once, one main project and one side project. This lets me have a palette cleanser project that I can fiddle with when I need to let my lizard brain work out a plot problem.
- Break Down the Project – My chapters are almost always 2,000 words long, so I shoot for one chapter per day on my main project. When I’m working a novella, that means that working Monday-Friday for three weeks gets me to 30,000 words. That’s the average length of my novellas, with a couple thousand words for an epilogue. Since I usually get to the last chapter and binge right through to “THE END,” I write a novella in three weeks. That’s a pretty relaxed pace. Then I use the 1K/day on my side projects to do things outside the Bubba or Harker universes, my novels, or work-for-hire stuff. I’m currently working on some work-for-hire serialized stuff for a client, and they want 5K per part. So that’s one week per serialized chunk.
- Don’t Kill Myself – I mentioned that I write 3K per day, and I consider that a pretty relaxed pace. I can do 5K/day, but it’s tiring. I could train myself to write more, and faster, but I’m in this for the long haul, and I have yet to meet more than a couple of people who can do 5K/day for more than a year or two and make it consistently good. That’s pretty important to me – being able to do this for the long term. I’m seven years into my fiction writing career, and 11 years into my professional writing career, so I know what I can do consistently to make the words come out tight and requiring as little polish as possible. I want to turn in clean copy, and about 3-4K/day is my maximum sustainable pace for that. Much faster, and I spend so much time scrapping shit and rewriting that I am better off just writing slower in the first place.
- Let Life Happen – I mentioned above that my output this year wasn’t quite what I wanted it to be. I had some months where I didn’t write much, and it was a struggle to get 2K per day. That happens, especially for those of us with depression, anxiety, bipolar (that’s me!) or other mental health issues. Or physical health issues, if you have those. Or family issues. Shit happens, and sometimes you have to deal with that. Hopefully if it shits all over your writing productivity, you either still have a day job, or you have enough of a backlist selling through to carry you. But you can’t freak out about that shit, or you’ll just create a whirlwind of doom and never write anything.
- Hop Around a Little – I write four series currently, or more like 3.5, since the Harker books and the Shadow Council books are so intertwined. But that keeps my ADD appeased, with the occasional bone thrown to my distractions by doing something like Amazing Grace (which is out for preorder now). I would likely make more money if I just hammered out Harker novels as fast as I could. But I’m not in this just for the cash. Yes, this is how I make my living. Yes, I need this income to pay my bills. But as I keep saying, I am in this for the long haul. Amazing Grace could turn into a Hallmark movie series, for all I know. What I know about that book is that while writing it may mean that it takes me two years to finish the Harker plot Quest for Glory, I wrote a book I absolutely love and think is the best thing I’ve ever produced. That will pay me more dividends in the long run than jamming out another Harker novella or novel.
That’s what I do. That’s how I work, and how I make a living in this business. Am I killing it like some of the newer self-published Urban Fantasy authors? No. Am I still going to be here in five years? Yeah. I’ve seen a lot of people flame out in the past seven years, and I’ve found the method that lets me continue to produce at a reasonable pace and not burn myself out. You’ve got to find what works for you, but for me, writing for 3-4 hours each day gets the bills paid, as long as I’m doing all the other stuff that goes into being a full-time writer, more than half of which has nothing to do with actually writing.
Remember, if you find these posts helpful, feel free to buy one of my books as a “Thank You,” or you can join my Patreon and pledge your undying support!
