Chapter 12: THE GUNSLINGER [PART ELEVEN]

At the early dredges of dawn the bar was completely deserted, say for the sole Gunslinger sitting at one of the far tables. A disassembled weapon at his fingertips, the individual pieces of the divine instrument laid out upon a patch of white cloth.

Completely stripped, the revolver itself seemed utterly harmless in its component parts. A framed outline of the weapon remaining in its grip and assembly, removed from it any portions possibly lethal. The six round capacity cylinder emptied as the five looted .357 magnum cartridges are left standing, springs placed uncompressed on the polymer table, and the entire barrel of silver alloy is slowly cleaned by the application of a soft, oiled cloth.

Descending down the staircase Old Joe speaks up with a yawn. “Good morning Alto.”

In the midst of ritual the young man is dragged back to reality, his eyes wide in a slight surprise at the incoming voice. “Oh, good morning Old Joe.” 

“Sleep well?”

“Yes.” The Gunslinger answers as he returns to cleaning his weapon. “It's a lot better than sleeping on a rock.”

“Well if that’s the case I assure you that a breakfast here is miles better than anything out in the wasteland. I’ll get some food out in just a second.”

“Thank you.”

With the primary mechanism cleaned, the Gunslinger begins the reassembly process. Each piece carefully placed back into its fated place, a trained motion done over years of similar eventualities. Screws wrought tight, trigger mechanism reassembled against loosened springs, and the barrel slipped back into the main body of the revolver.

Behind the bar the slow sizzle of food preparation emanates along with the scent of cooking fat, the Gunslinger remaining completely focused on his task as he ignores the curiosity of subsistence.

Cylinder held in hand, he whispers the prayer. A blessing from the soul, placed upon the device of conflict and war.

The piece is latched into the receiver with a metallic snap, and eyes stare at its form.

The completed weapon glows slightly in the sunlight streaming through the windows, the grip itself seemingly distorting the visual spectrum around it. A fragment of divinity in his hands, the Gunslinger loads each of his remaining five rounds back into the cylinder with grave care.

“So that revolver’s really a magic item huh?” Old Joe asks as he approaches the young man with a plate of food. “Is it true, what they say about that actually being a god gun fragment?”

“I don’t know.” The Gunslinger replies honestly as he reholsters the weapon, folding the cleaning cloth back into a square.

“Listen I saw you draw that thing on those bandits. I’ve seen copies thrown around and such but that…” Old Joe pauses as he places the meal on the table, taking a deep breath. “If that ain’t real then it’s gotta be one of the best copies I’ve witnessed.”

A bowl of boiled grain, topped with a thick strand of fried protein. A meal of easily digestible matter, one starter to a day unknown.

“Thank you.” Alto states as he fishes out a pair of handgun rounds from a carrying purse.

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“Oh that’s fine.” The Old Man waves away. “This is for taking care of Clee. I’ve never seen her this happy since… well before her her parents died.”

Alto blinks at a recognized look, softening the inquisition. “You knew them well?”

“Well you do this bartending business long enough you basically know everyone. Though, it's harder when you’ve watched them grow up, have kids themselves. It’s like losing your children all over again.” Old Joe takes a moment to reorient, a deep breath as he wraps a cleaning cloth around his hands. “Most of the younger folk moved out to March after the plateau's cordite mines dried up. After that, all that’s left here is the old stubborn people who wouldn’t move and the kids like Daniel that get sent down here from the big city by their parents.”

“Not many adults?” Alto asks.

“Only a handful at this point. The Greysons and the Markos are probably the only two ‘families’ left here. The rest is mostly just grandparents and grandchildren.” The old man reminisces. “Well actually, Clee’s parents used to run the school here until… well until that Gang came around.”

Silence for a while, the young man giving a slow nod. “I’m sorry.”

Old Joe clenches a fist around his shirt. “You know the first thing that Bandit did was round up the Sheriff’s and Mayor’s family, just shot them dead right in the town’s square. Clee’s parents just happened to be caught up in the whole thing, ended up in the crossfire.”

There’s a pause as both parties process information, the Old Man taking a deep breath as he attempts to ease the tension in the room. “Anyway, enjoy the food. If you need anything just call me.”

Although extraordinarily inefficient compared to standardized survival rations, the food instead nourishes the battered soul. A night's rest and a hot meal reverts an attitude of disparity and dredged pain, the past week’s trials dissolving slowly with each spoonful of the viscous porridge.

A final note to the end of a meal, the Gunslinger taking a deep sigh of relief.

“You want another bowl?” Old Joe asks as he swings by.

“No… I think I’m fine.”

“You sure?” The old man eases. “The Ley Lines here aren’t as burned out like in the big cities so we have some food to spare.”

“I’m really fine.” Alto insists with a hint of concern. “Really it’s…”

The far door carves open, an unfamiliar form stepping through as light floods into the bar. Lit from the back, the being’s identity is barely comprehended by human eyes. Thin, almost angular in frame, long hair falling beyond shoulder length as brown eyes ignite in a subtle blue hue.

Movement incomprehensible, the Gunslinger draws his revolver as he shoots up from his seat. Sent flying the sound of the fallen chair echoes throughout the bar, a single twitch away from death as a finger is held on a trigger.

The thing remains still as she gazes into pale green eyes.

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