GuNNhead

He looks through the windows from the back alleys. From the first floor they’re all too dark, just appear to be houses, but he comes upon one house, and on the opposite wall, there is a large ammo supply shelf. Locked, but well labeled. He opens the window, and as he’s lowering himself in, a smell hits him; distracted, he slips on the wet floor. Water, nothing more. He gets up, and cracks open the doors to the ammo cabinet with the but of his gun. He refills his ammo, and starts back out the window.

“Don’t move… Alright, now remove that pistol you got there, and put your hands up. Turn around.” Responding to the voice’s commands with the cocking of a gun backing them up, he does so. With more light flooding in from the outside, he realizes that this isn’t the gunsmith’s, but the jail, and he’s facing the sheriff square in the eyes.
“It’s not what you think, somethin I can’t explain is goin on.”
“That’s too bad, because you really needed to be doin some explainin right now.” Sheriff Thron motions to the cell with his pistol. The stranger starts getting in the cell, knowing he’s beat.
“Hah, who knew it’d be this easy to make so much money, wanted men just linin up inside my jail.” He sifts through wanted posters. “There we go, ‘Red’ Reed Thomson, you’re quite the murderer.”
“That may look like me, but it ain’t me, I’m no murderer, in another life I used to be known as Kurtis Kelvin”
“Kurtis Kelvin, the famous lawdog? So, even though you’re a dead ringer for this here killer, comin to town after some psycho cannibal, you’re the youngest lawman there was, and damn near tamed the west before you were 20, before I was even born, before you were killed? You can understand your story don’t exactly match up to the facts.”
“Yeah, the lawman died, had to. Sometimes it’s all too much for one man.”
“What happened?”
“Settled far out, down in some nowhere town south of the border. I changed my name, and they stopped lookin, or so I thought. Guess they had more than one contingency, putting posters up in case I ever came back. Guess no place is far enough to escape the evil of man…”
“So what brings you here? Evil?”
“These damn dead, rose up outta the ground, outta the horizon, killed mosta everyone in the town while I’d gone for supplies. Someone knew I was there, had to. The buried came back, but not as they were. No, these things were decomposing, shambling wrecks. Even the ones those things ate up, or just the bit. The folks in my town ate each other, sheriff, all dead, mindless. Except for six of em. The Six Shooters, men I’d killed, all back again, a gang of outlaws. Now, unless dead men can bring themselves back to life, there’s no telling who’s in charge, commanding them, but they have the power to bring back the dead. No way the real Six Shooters would have just tossed me in a ravine, they’da shot me dead.”
“Well that’s just the loveliest story, what with knowing the laws, I hope you understand while I keep you locked up in here till we can get some facts sorted out.”

That evening, not many people are inside the bar yet. Maggie steps outside just as the sun is about to set, and lights a cigarette. Season handles the current customers drink orders as the only girl at the saloon to not service the other requests of the patrons. Outside, Maggie is the first to see another stranger is on the horizon from the gates to the city. Thinking about the Preacher’s personal lecture from today on ‘what she’s supposed to do’ she runs up to the stranger. Something about him catches her eye, she looks around to notice no others have spotted him. She secretively takes him in through the back door of the bar. She brings him some water and food. He drinks and eats a little, then passes out from exhaustion. After an hour or so has gone by, the sun has well set, and most people have drunk enough to head out into the center of town for the festivities, she walks into the backroom. Seeing him still asleep, she removes his gun, and admires the hilt. A loud explosion startles her and wakes him up, he quickly grabs his gun from her hand, spinning and holstering it.

“Who are you, what was that, and don’t touch my gun. These are not questions.” She casually backs away and rolls her eyes, as if exasperated and insulted by his in-hospitality towards her attempt at stealing his gun.
“Oh, please, it was just the fireworks, town started the second night of its anniversary celebrations early. I was just coming back here to check on you, you dropped passed out in front of my bar.”
“Your bar? What town is this?”
“That’s a nice gun you have, mind if I ask where you got it?”
“Yes, I mind.” He gets up to leave.
“The town’s called Harked Node.” The stranger turns around.
“That it?”
“Well, you can’t go out, I was the only one to see you, but this town ain’t in much favor of strangers today. One came in what was crazy and-”
“Look, I don’t rightly reckon that I care, I need to talk to someone who can help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“Where’s the gunsmith?”
“Few buildings down, but he’s not in, he’s tending to his sister with the Preacher. His apprentice is probably watching the fireworks.”
“Any place with ammo or a horse, maybe a map?”
“It’s all closed, I suggest you stay here with me tonight, in the morning things can be sorted easier, without all the commotion and excitement.”
“You got ammo here?”
“No.”
“Hmm, then it seems that you’re all worthless to me. Thanks for the food and water, but I have vengeance to tend to.” He walks out of the back door, leaving her standing there. As long as he’s still in town, she doesn’t much care anymore.

They stare at the eviscerated remains of Old Gus next to the headless corpse. The Sheriff holsters his gun.
“See, told ya. Lets just go grab two coffins.” They walk outside to a small group of townsfolk gathered to see what the commotion was. The Sheriff removes his hat, holds it over his heart, and addresses the crowd.
“That stranger what come here was a loon, a cannibal. He faked dead, and got old Gus. I took care of it. I suggest you all disperse unless you’ve a strong stomach and are willing to help.” The Doc simply motions for the gunsmith’s apprentice to run and get the Preacher. As he runs off to the church, two local men step up to help with the coffins and the dead. Soon the two bodies are in coffins just outside the sheriff’s office, but the preacher still has not arrived. Another crowd has gathered and dispersed at the sight and smell.

Inside the Preacher’s house, he is tending to his wife. Water with a facecloth for the fever. He prays for her. She’s boiling hot. The errand boy tentatively watches over them from the doorway. The priest knows he must attend to his duties outside. The Lord’s work. Before long, his poor wife falls asleep, and he leaves the trustworthy townsboy to look after her while he leaves to attend to the decisions of the dead.

“Sorry I’m late, Sheriff, that bite must have given my sweet Gloria such a fright, her nerves are shot. She was practically in hysterics.”
“Well, we all know how fragile lady folk can be. You left the boy to watch over her?”
“Yup, the boy and the good Lord. Now, what’s the problem here, that stranger die?”
“More than that, he killed Gus.”
“Ah, god dammit. I’ve been telling you Sheriff, we need more defences against strangers. Only need the righteous and the virtuous, that’s how a town prospers. It’s these godless heathens ruining the expansion of the west.”
“I don’t need more of this bullshit, Preacher, you know most everyone here believes in their own thoughts. It’s actions, not beliefs that shape the west. Most of the men I’ve killed for this town have come claiming religiosity or some sort of inspired divinity. Shoulda been lockin em up for insanity spoutin that nonsense, but the blood on their hands and the cruelty in their hearts show through their words eventually. Good men don’t need a higher power. It’s these people who look to you, not me.”
“Well, then let’s just calm some people and offer what reassurances I can. It’s already been quite a day.”
“The people are at least askin you do some sort of blessin on the stranger before we seal em both up.”
“I say we burn the sick bastard, no way he’s gettin buried in this town.”
“…Preacher?”
“After I see what he did to my wife, I can’t rightly nor righteously recommend any alternative. Gus’ll get a good, honest Gozerian burial, as was his wishes, but no man harms my wife.” The Preacher stays with the men as they bring the coffins to the cemetery.

They start the fire right away, just on the outside of the graveyard. A few men work quickly and soon old Gus’ grave is dug a few feet deep. He had made his own coffin already. The preacher performs the ritual for Gus, and he is buried. But there was another recent death with a funeral planned for today, a young child. This one’s parents stand and cry, they cannot believe that their only child has died. It’s a sad day for the town that just turned a year old.

Once the bodies are fully buried, and they are patting down the dirt upon them, the preacher turns his attention to the last coffin outside the gates.
“It’s time to cast this heathen cannibal into the fires beyond this world. I told you, Sheriff, outsiders are dangerous, we’ve only been here a year.”
“Preacher, I know it’s best to stay apprehensive, there’s a lot of folks out there, but if a town is to grow, it needs citizens. In the end that’s the Mayor’s call, setting up blockades and turning away folks is the prime way to make this into an outlaw town.”
“Sheriff’s right, preacher, everyone’s a stranger till they’re your neighbor. Still, after the events of today, I think it’d be best as to have some way of keeping our people safe for the festivities tonight. Not lettin anyone in isn’t a welcome way to celebrate, but to keep an eye out and keep us safe is required. Sheriff, I’ll be lookin to you to take care of this. We don’t want a repeat of this morning.”
“I’ll go around now tellin people to make sure to have the Sheriff be the first to talk to strangers. By divine right, they’ll listen to me. Anything to keep people safe from another attack like my Gloria”
“That’s a good idea Preacher, I’ll help with that while the Sheriff prepares, so you can get back to your wife faster.”
“Well, I ain’t got much to prepare in mind, so I’ll try to think up some things, clear my schedule for the evening so I can get a solid open patrol going around the town.”

[3 Days Earlier]

Seven men stand on a tall ridge. One of them doesn’t belong. His legs are just about finished being tied together. He can hear the rushing rapids a great distance below him.

“You stupid fucking pieces of shit. Don’t you see that you’re already dead? In the west, a man’s only good as his word, his word’s only as good as his gun; I’m the best, good will prevail.”
“You damn fool, in the west, ain’t nobody good.” They secure the burlap sac over the man’s head, and kick him off the cliff edge into the ravine.

His body thrashes around in the rapids, shocked by the cold after being marched through the desert tied to a horse. Taken downstream, he hits a few rocks, but manages to stay above the water. With his hands and legs tied together, his exhausted energy doesn’t last long with his gear weighing him down. The rope trailing behind his legs gets caught on some branches under the water, and stops his flow further down river. He manages to get his hands towards his boots, and uses his spurs to cut the rope. He is almost through when the branch snaps, and the current overpowers him, sending him head-first into a rock.

He awakes some time later with a facefull of thorns and coughing up water, but he’s still breathing. The ropes on his hands have become free from the cutting. He removes the burlap bag over his face that saved his skin from the sun while laying on the small shore. As he removes it, the barbs come with it. He makes his way out of the mud and onto some sand, untying his feet. He hops down to the mud again, and picks up his other boot, pouring water out of his. Back on the sand, he puts it on and takes further inventory. Holsters, guns, and ammo belt, all empty, but all still there. He stands up, and keeps following the river, it is much calmer now.

Following the flow of water over the next nights it eventually calms even more, turning into a stream. He sees a bridge that crosses the gap between the raised land carved by water of years gone by. Under the bridge he sees a figure in its shade. He approaches cautiously, trying to make out what it is, but cannot quite make it out. Apprehensive and out of bullets, he still removes his pistol. The sun shines off his empty gun. As he gets closer, he finds that it’s a fallen horse. He slowly approaches it, and taps it with his boot to see whether it’s is alive or not. Moving its head with his gun reveals only decay, partially eaten by mudcrabs, must have been here a day or so. He opens the saddlebag, and begins searching for ammo, food, anything. Nothing. With a sigh of disappointment, he heads up a small path and onto the bridge.

He sees smoke rising off in the distance. The sun doesn’t look too bad. Whatever that fire is, lost and tired, he knows it’s his only hope of a chance. He unties the wet burlap sack from his holster, protects himself from the sun, and starts walking out into desert on the new, barely visible path.