A Brief Word
First of all, I apologize for the delay. My brain has been adjusting to the medicine and I’ve had a few extra appointments. I’ve found that Adderall makes it harder for me to get started on creative tasks, but once I start I’m good. I’m still balancing out my schedule and really getting my life in order. I appreciate the patience.
Also, if you haven’t read them yet here is Chapter 1 and 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3 Part 1
The next day was the same as all of the previous days, on Mars every day was the same. The Orbisun hung in the air, angrily raining beams of light and heat upon those that would walk beneath it. The red-stained dust that carpeted every surface on Mars baked in the heat, and even the air smelled hot and dry. Every day was the same, sometimes the minor details changed. Some days you sat at a bar and sipped whiskey until you passed out. Others you simply sipped whiskey, and tried not to pass out.
Today was a rare day for Griff. It was a day in which there would be no whiskey sipping. The second consecutive, and already worse than the one before. He had woken up early and begun preparing to travel. His conversation with the alien gave him minimal information, but he did find out that they would have to make the hike from Utopia to Sanctuary. The trip would only take a few days, but the dangers of traveling the Martian wastes were very real, so, Griff had laid a few things out on his bed. The bed was a simple cloth laid over whatever items he could find that would pass as a mattress. The frame itself, if you could call it that, was just a large sheet of wood that he had laid on top of some cinder blocks and bricks that were pulled from the rubble and debris that was left after the war.
On his bed he had some canned foods, first aid equipment, and ammunition.
Beans, Bullets, and Bandages, he thought.
He stood in his little room, shirtless, packing his bag. He stared at the bed, then to the ruck. More relics. The ruck had a metal frame, tubing that bent to form a rectangle. Over it rested a large canvas sack that had a draw-string at one end to close it up. A flap could be pulled over and strapped down to further close and seal the sack. The sides of the sack had stripes of canvas stitched horizontally in a way that created little loops. Metal clips slid through those loops and attached to small pouches that hung from the side of the sack. Each pouch provided just enough space for extra ammo and other sundries one might find themselves needing.
“We’ve been through a lot together,” Griff said out loud, still staring at the ruck. It was old and stained. Remnants of a hard life and many battles clung to the fabric. Small blood stains decorated the sack. Little clusters of dark red that served to Griff as a reminder, as if he didn’t have enough of those already.
“Fuck. I need a drink.”
He stopped packing for a moment, and started pacing. Walking back and forth in his small room, kicking bits of clutter out of the way as he did. He was finding himself agitated and jittery, a byproduct of not drinking. He didn’t want the alcohol, in fact he hated it, but It calmed his mind and It steadied him. It masked so many things that Griff just didn’t want to deal with, and it took the antsiness and jitteriness out of him. He walked back and forth some more, pacing. He walked and talked, not really to anyone, just himself. It helped him to verbalize his thoughts, and right now he had a lot of them.
“Are we really going with that fucking monster?” he asked himself aloud.
“Yeah. I have to. I’m the arbiter. The sheriff. Hell, whatever I am, it’s my job”
The pacing grew furious as he spoke, though his tone stayed low and measured. Without much space, he was only able to make it a handful of steps before having to angrily whirl around and resume his pace. As he walked he kicked clutter even harder than before and small items flew into the air and were sent in various directions until there was a narrow and clean path through the middle of his room.
“He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me, then eat me. Nasty ass.” He kept walking, clenching his fists and releasing them methodically in an effort to stay calm.
“Even if he doesn’t kill me… If I die. He’ll still eat me. Jesus.”
Griff’s mind was racing as fast as his walking, thinking of all of the potential outcomes. The war was so long ago, but when he was sober it felt like just yesterday. He could remember so many of those that died, whether to the fight itself, or the war that continued to rage even after peace was made. It wasn’t peace, Griff thought, as much as it was just a stalemate. Humanity had fucked itself up so desperately hard in an attempt to make it impossible for the Death Eaters to come and win this war, but in doing so nobody really won.
“Well. I guess I have two options,” he stopped pacing, and grabbed his belt, a long and wide piece of fake leather made to look like the real thing, and slung it over his hips. He reached down to the bed and picked up the Western Arms revolver that lay on his bed, he opened the cylinder and checked it, 8 rounds. It was a bear of a handgun, and the only possession Griff had that he had maintained. Closing the cylinder he then placed it into the holster that was strapped to the belt. An old army issue, with straps that can secure the weapon to the bearer’s leg.
“I can either help him. Or I can kill him. Maybe see if there’s a reward. Someone in one of the nearby towns was buying their scalps at one point. Whatever I decide, I need to commit. I can’t half-ass it. Fucker will know my intent right away. Goddamn mind-readers.”
He continued this line of thought, but in silence, and after a few minutes of rage-induced pacing he finished his dressing and packing, and he slung the ruck and made a decision.
He pulled the door to his room open, and silhouetted in the Orbisun was the large frame of the death eater, wearing the same hat and poncho it wore before. Its tall body created long shadows through the doorway, and its eyes shone in the darkness of its hat. The light of the orbisun was almost completely blocked out be the creature’s large and bulky frame.
“I appreciate your choice,” the creature whispered into Griff’s head.
“Son of a bitch.” Griff remarked. He stared into those soulless white eyes glowing from under the hat and thought about how much he’d love to put a bullet into each of them.
Griff stepped from the room, shouldering the Death Eater as he did. He turned, closed the door, and stepped fully into the heat. It was so hot. And Griff felt incredibly thirsty.
“So, tell me about this outlaw.” Griff said as he locked his door.
There was a brief silence as the two started walking out into the street. Old run down buildings and shacks lined it, and it looked more like an old rail town than the shining pinnacle of human technology it once was. This street alone was home to Mickey’s, the bar Griff frequented, as well as a general store, The Rec Center,which was an old run down gym that Griff frequented when he wasn’t too hungover, a couple of eateries and a handful of other merchants simply trying to make the best of their bad situation. Griff looked up and down the street before he turned towards the general store. The building was made from the remnants of the old department store that stood here before, patched and cobbled with shipping containers and some poor welding. The whole thing was powered by a solar generator that had managed to survive the war.
“I’m being hunted. Not just me. My kind.” The hoarse whisper scratched through Griff’s mind.
Silence again as they moved a few more paces, then it spoke again.
“I started noticing it when the second one died.” It continued.
“Second What?” Griff asked. He was trying to sound amicable, but was having trouble with it, and just sounded like the angry jaded asshole he was.
“We had a loose network in the area. Generally your younger generation is more accepting of us, but the older ones. They hate us, and it can make it tough to settle in your towns. There aren’t many older ones left, so our plan was to just wait you out.” The voice echoed.
The General Store grew nearer as they spoke, and Griff thought about how much his arm hurt right now, and began rubbing the spot where his real biceps used to be.
“Sounds like a hell of a problem.” Griff remarked sarcastically.
“One of us died,” It continued. “I didn’t think much of it, just a random act of violence. Didn’t go check it out, or anything. It isn’t uncommon for one of us to get jumped by a few of your people. Whiskey and numbers make them much more brave. Few are as brave as you, willing to outright threaten me alone and in person.”
It fixed its eyes on Griff when it spoke, and though they were hard to read, Griff could feel the anger it spoke with.
“I’ll do it again. In broad daylight. In front of God and all of these people,” Griff responded, his fingers resting against the handle of his revolver.
The alien stared back at him, and Griff knew he was trying to get a read on him. He had spent some time fortifying his mind, he knew the creature would be trying to probe him incessantly, and the benefits of the training he received years ago had occasionally outweighed the pain and suffering he had seen and endured because of it.
He continued rubbing his arm, and the two stood outside the general store staring at each other awkwardly for another moment.
“My arm hurts. We going to get supplies, or eye-fuck each other all day?”
“It cannot hurt, it’s not real,” the Death Eater responded.
“Yeah,” Griff said softly, turning to open the door, “Explain that to my arm.”
“You old bastard!” a voice yelled as soon as Griff stepped through the door, “You’re not dead yet?”
“Old Tom!” Griff replied, “Hell. You’re at least 10 years my senior.” It was true, He was the oldest of the old timers in Utopia, which is how he got stuck being called Old Tom. He was lean, long in the tooth, and his old wrinkled face showed the weathering of someone that worked hard labor most of his life. His white hair was thinning and receding, but Tom kept it neat and combed back.
“True. But I don’t wallow in whiskey all day. Too much work to be done for us normal folk. Working the law seems to be keeping you drunk and happy.” The remarks sounded rude, but were said in that fond way old friends use when teasing each other.
“Hell, all I do is clean up after the other drunks. Someone has to, might as well make the head drunk be in charge of it.” Griff smiled as he replied, by now he was all the way into the ramshackle store, and the alien was stepping in behind him, looming over the shelves.
Tom looked past Griff and stared at the alien, smiled and nodded. “Who might you be, friend?” Old Tom asked.
Griff followed Tom’s gaze, “Oh. Don’t mind him. He’s with me. Get to play at being arbiter again.” Griff’s voice was heavy with disappointment as he spoke, not from having to work, but from having to work with the Death Eater.
Griff started walking the old shelves, looking for any supplies they may need on the trip. The Death Eater paced the floor nervously, anxiously looking about. Old Tom stood behind the counter, rested his palms on it and leaned forward a bit.
“Ain’t that just the day.” He exclaimed.
“Stop,” Griff said abruptly, grabbing some dried foodstuff from the shelf and taking it to the counter.
“Son. I’m not telling you how to live your life. But you got to let the past be the past. He’s got just as much right to be here as you. And his trade and money are just as good. Hell.. It’s. It’s probably better than yours is, anyway.” Old Tom chuckled as he spoke the last sentence.
“Probably. This is going onto my account.” Griff said. He set the items down on the counter and Tom picked through them to get a tally.
“Holy shit,” Tom said. He looked at Griff suspiciously as he added numbers.
“What?” Griff asked, genuinely confused.
“You’re actually sober. Can’t smell a drop on you. Good for you!”
“Gotta hump to Sanctuary. Can’t have that shit holding me back. Gonna need a clear head on this one.” Griff said
“Just stay that way, Griff. You’ll thank yourself later.”
As if bored with standing there Griff started to shift his weight to either foot, and jostled around a bit.
“Yeah. It just helps with so many things.” Griff said quietly.
The two men stood there as Tom finished adding up the supplies. Griff then unshouldered his ruck and started putting items in specific pockets and pouches. Each one carefully being placed in its home so that the limited space was being maximized. As much as Griff hated packing, it was a necessary part of the trip, and he forced himself to do it, and to do it right.
“We’re being followed.” the alien’s raspy whisper pierced his head.
“You sure?” Griff asked out loud, giving Old Tom a look of caution as he continued to place the cans and supplies inside of his ruck.
Slowly he slid his hand down to the heavy revolver hanging from his hip, and repeated, “You sure we are being followed?”
Old Tom looked around the store, glancing to his makeshift windows to see if he could see anything. He gave Griff a nod and a wink as he crouched behind the counter, when he reappeared an old streetsweeper was in his hands.
The whisper pierced Griff’s mind again.
“Three men. Jackets. Boots. Vests.” There was a brief pause, “funny little hats that don’t really seem to serve any kind of function. And badges… They all have badges.”
Well fuck, thought griff. He looked to Tom and spoke, “Can you finish packing that ruck, Tom?” Then turned toward the door, pulling his hand away from his revolver without waiting for the response.
Tom watched Griff walk towards the exit, gently rested his makeshift shotgun on the counter then smiled as he packed Griff’s bag with the rest of the items on the counter.
“You know these men?” The death eater asked.
“Well, there’s no federal Marshal service on Mars, as far as I know, which means they are either law from Sanctuary or they’re Bloodhounds. Either way, they won’t want a shootout, at least not at first.”
“They’ll bargain?”
“They’ve already killed two of your friends, I’m guessing. So the only bargain they’ll make is for your sorry ass. But there’s only one way to know for sure.” Griff responded as he walked past the shelf the death eater was crouched behind.
Griff pushed the door open and stepped back into the blazing heat of the Orbisun. He squinted his eyes and adjusted his hat as he took account of what was around him. Utopia was a small settlement, small enough that the only law they had ever really needed was Griff, and small enough that three strangers in uniforms and short-brimmed hats were easy to spot on the street.
As Griff had expected, the three men had him tripointed. Each one spread out to prevent his egress, the only escape route Griff had was back into Tom’s store.
Fuck it was hot. You could see the heat radiating from the ground, the rocks, the metal of the ramshackle buildings, and off in the distance the horizon just looked like a hazy blur.
“So. Thirsty.” Griff thought as he scanned the area from under his hat. He raised his hands chest height, showing the men that he was not here to be aggressive. He eyed them as they slowly walked toward him. The dusty streets had already started to empty at the sight of the three Bloodhounds, and by the time Griff had stepped from the store it was just the four of them, though onlookers and busybodies could be seen peering through their windows and cracked doors.
“You the law here?” One man asked. He was lean, sinewy, and had a thick accent. He must have been 20 years younger than Griff, and he spoke like he had never read a book in his life. His face was covered in the ritualistic ink that only senior Bloodhounds get. The mark that sets them apart and lets everyone know that this man is a true Bloodhound. In for life at this point.
Griff looked at the other two. Even younger, probably around eighteen. No ink. One of them a little heavy, the other sporting a fuzzy mustache.
Griff stared at the three in silence, assessing his situation and calculating everything that could go wrong.
“Hey, Pops,” Tattoos snapped his fingers as he spoke, “I said…”
“Yeah. I heard what you said,” Griff cut him off, “You snap those fingers at me again, and it will be the last time they snap.”
All of the men grew silent, then Tattoos let out a low quiet laugh. “Sure, Pops. So, are you?”
The other two laughed, but only after Tattoos did.
“Yeah. I serve as Utopia’s Sheriff and Arbiter. You need help with something?”
The three men slowly crept toward Griff. Inch by inch they were closing the distance.
“We are looking for someone.” Tattoos responded, “Tall. Blue. White eyes. Maybe you’ve seen him?” He raised his hand to indicate height as he spoke, then used his fingers to make circles and held them over his eyes.
His accent was so thick it was hard to understand him. He moved slowly forward. They all inched ever closer. Always pushing.
Griff felt a bead of sweat run down his cheek. “I think you’re close enough, friend.” Why was it so goddamn hot on Mars?
The three men stopped at this, they were about fifteen feet from Griff at this point, which was a safe enough distance for Griff. Any closer and they’d have been able to rush him.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him. What do you need him for?”
“It’s contract. Can’t discuss the details. Send him out and no one needs to be hurt. We all go our own separate ways.” Tattoos spoke again, and pointed to his little Bloodhounds badge on his chest as he spoke.
Silence fell again. Griff shifted listlessly in place. The silence was peaceful, the only respite from the heat and the tension of the situation. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled deeply. He slowly let the air out as he opened his eyes, but didn’t speak.
After a few more seconds of quiet Tattoos spoke again, “Look, Griff, Don’t want to hurt you. Hand him over and you can go back to your bar.”
Interesting, Griff thought to himself, they know me. They know my name.
He wasn’t surprised, but it did let him know that whomever the contract was with was extremely thorough.
“Kid. Silence is golden, and I can’t think when you talk. So just shut the fuck up for a minute, okay?” Griff’s response was not well received. Mustache and Chubs giggled a little under their breath, but a sideways glare from Tattoos caused them to stifle the giggling. He was not used to having people speak to him that way, and it showed. He reacted accordingly. Fire lit his eyes and a menacing grin flashed across his wide mouth. His teeth were all capped with golden outlines and his body took on a more offensive posture. He was a snake ready to strike. Ready to sink his venomous fangs into anything that moved.
“You don’t speak to me that way.” The other two noticed his posture and reacted appropriately, also adopting a more aggressive posture. They appeared to simply try to mimic their boss and the sight was almost comical.
This was the reaction Griff had hoped for, and he twisted his body, placing his phantom arm between himself and Tattoos. He then reached for his revolver for the other. He did it with an intentional slowness. He watched Tattoos react with an almost supernatural speed. Watched the snake-like man produce a pistol from nowhere, and bark two shots out of it in rapid succession.
The shots rang out as Griff drew his old revolver. The bullets buzzed through the air and slammed into his implanted arm, ricocheting harmlessly away from Griff. And the surprise this had produced gave him the time he needed. As the bullets impacted into the arm, Griff’s revolver thundered and Mustache’s head nearly exploded sending brain and bone fragments out in multiple directions.
Twisting much faster now Griff reached under his shield arm and another shot struck like lightning, punching a hole into Chub’s chest and knocking the man back and down. Bloodspray decorated every surface behind him. Griff then stood straight and square to Tattoos, revolver aimed at his head.
He stood in disbelief, staring at Griff. “How..?” Seeing his friends bloodied and dying took the fight out of him, but the answer to his own question came to him while he shook the disbelief from his eyes.
Tattoos went from predator to prey and then simply to a regular person almost instantaneously. He holstered his pistol, “Don’t worry, pops. You won’t surprise me next time. You want to play nanny to that Death Eater, that’s on you. I’ll be coming back. And that trick won’t save you.” After he spoke he turned and started to walk away.
Griff kept his revolver pointed at the man.