Chapter 2: THE GUNSLINGER [PART ONE]

“A fragment shall be wielded by a hero that wanders the deserts

whose movements overshadow the divine

In his hand the grip of the gods,

Judgment brought forth by

THE GOD GUN

”

 

• Book of Aliana, Verse 544

---

 

The bullet lies half buried in the desert.

A construct from decades long gone, the lethal frame of ammunition discarded from a long forgotten battle barely rising above undisturbed dust. The seven stamped bars upon its brass now rusting away from time, the sigil of the Federated Cities tarnishing beneath five roaring suns above.

.357 magnum cartridge; lifeless in the taking of life. A sidearm’s caliber dead to the world.

Two hands grab the thing as a thin frame dives onto the dusty earth, green eyes scanning the munition with barely contained excitement. A smile alongside thanksgiving, the voice rough from coughed up sand. “Gods above, thank you!!!”

The wind howls in response, figure standing as he carefully wipes the thin coating of sand off the bullet. Power on the Frontier; bartered on killing potential alone.

From within a thick cowling the form’s revolver is produced, and with a practiced motion the young man swings open the cylinder. Only one of the six chambers currently occupied, the newly found bullet is loaded with grave care.

Two out of six.

Two lives.

“Today’s looking like a good day already.” The young man chuckles, an opened right hand covering his heart in prayer. “Thank you!”

The reply from the world comes with nothing, the smile turning into a small scowl as the lone figure reholsters his gun.

It was near scorching out on the Baitan Flats, the wind carrying upon its back a thin layer of hardened sand and brutal temperatures from the eastern desert. Five suns remain still in the sky, mid-afternoon now reached as the intensity of the dust storm begins to subside. Uncapping his canteen the young man carefully takes a long drink, watching as the completely flat horizon ahead begins clearing of particulate matter.

At such a subtle angle, one could barely make out the concavity of the world. Curving upward, a small town in the distance was rolling closer with each step. A journey’s rest within just an hours' travel, the pace increasing from a tired trudge to a quickened stride.

A metal sign posted onto the sun dried dirt, pole buried deep within the hardened salt and dust. Town named with a beautiful font, overlaid upon flat, bullet ridden steel.

WELCOME TO OLD SPRINGS, FEDERATED CITIES PRINCIPALITY 33

POPULATION: 240

Images of hot meals and cold drinks intrude upon the imagination, the young man taking a moment to gleefully smile as he rubs sand from his eyes. A hundred meters away, the bone white clay abodes of Old Springs stick out of the land like cliff sides, the town itself bisected by a main road that runs into the far distance.

In front of him two figures sit underneath the shade of tattered overhangs, the seemingly deserted township populated by them solely.

“Hello!” The Wanderer yells with mild excitement. “Hey!”

Confused glances are given, with the pair rising from their chairs as they approach the newcomer.

Continuing his speech, the young man stumbles slightly as he takes in the wasteland around him. “By the Five! I’ve been out in the desert for five days. I mean I thought I was going to die out there! Seriously I just had the craziest trip out here… so glad to be back in…”

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“Who the hell are you?!” One of the approaching figures growls, drawing a pistol from his waist holster.

Semi-automatic, magazine fed, the weapon’s barrel leveled at the interloper. Rusting steel catching the light of gods, lethality evident as the thing’s slide is racked with a vicious bark.

The Wanderer stops, raising both his hands.

“How much cash you got on ya?!” The gunman continues his stride as he raises a black bandana to cover his face. “Huh?!”

Smiling nervously, the Wanderer takes a defensive stance. “Brothers… take it easy.”

“Bro just shoot him we’re gonna kill him anyway.” The gunman’s partner offers.

“Don’t do it.” The Wanderer begs. “Please.”

The Gunman almost trips as he begins a half-run towards the form. “GIVE ME YOUR CASH!”

“JUST SHOOT HIM!” The Bandit’s Partner screams.

“CASH ON THE GROUND NOW!”

“Please don’t do it!” The young man pleads as they step within arm’s reach. “I don’t wan…”

Two shots combine into one, the roar of gunfire strung together as the Wanderer draws his weapon in a motion incomprehensible to human minds. The first bullet liquifies the gunman’s torso, dead form collapsing in a heap. His partner fairs worse; taking the defective round to the upper chest, ancient lead alloy severs bone and arterial veins; a mortal wound in minutes to come. He falls onto his back barely alive, a mind overloaded in pain.

Lungs filling with blood, the surviving bandit barely chokes out breath as his body seizes. Eyes bright with terror and blinded by the five suns above, the man reaches out in desperation to dead gods.

“Oh gods above… ” The Wanderer sighs with disappointment as he extracts the spent bullet casings from his revolver. 

Zero from six.

No more death in a dying world.

He continues with an even tone. “I try to warn people, and every time this happens.”

Attempting to inhale the dying man chokes on life blood, drowning in a bone dry desert.

A concerned look on his face, the Gunslinger takes a moment to stare at the form before coughing out remnant dust. “I’m sorry for missing. I guess the bullet I found wasn’t as good as I thought.”

Words barely form as a cough draws forth blood onto the paling face. “H…he.. hel… p”

“Gods above I can’t let you go through this.” Kneeling down, he pauses as he begins to pilfer the corpse of the dying man’s partner. “I know you were trying to convince your friend here to shoot me and everything, but I am really really sorry. Just be patient.”

His search of the dead bandit only turns up a single water canteen and handgun, the Wanderer shifting his attention to the still living individual. “I don’t suppose you have any .357 magnum rounds on you? I’m completely out. I swear to the Five, those were the last ones I had.”

Tears fall from dying, desperate eyes; life dissolving into dust.

“I guess not.”

Grabbing the unholstered pistol from the dead man the Wanderer casually stands back up, aiming the weapon down to the dying form. “May the light of Alina guide you.”

A single shot ends the life, the sound echoing through dead streets.

Taking a deep breath the young man stares at the pair of corpses, tired muscles aching as he stretches out a week’s worth of travel fatigue. A yawn completed, eyes suddenly meet as he spots the little girl within an alley not ten meters away. Bright brown irises in a mixture of shock and fear, she watches as the Wanderer drops the borrowed handgun onto the dusty earth.

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