The Rifleman - Bk1 - Ch.6

Chapter Six

Loaded

Wesley stared down the sights, trying vainly to see anything in the gloom. Sundown in this world was no joke. First, the sky changed to a vibrant red and orange color, and five minutes later… pitch black. He had wondered the last couple of nights if people would have been so upset about light pollution if they had ever actually seen what it was like outside without it.

A noise from his left made him flinch, activating Flare in a desperate prayer for light. The thing was, he was still holding his rifle. 

Wesley felt the spell travel from his hand and into the rifle before settling briefly into the chamber. The idea of a ball of light and heat settling into the cartridge was not exactly a pleasant one when your face was mere inches away. 

Wesley reflexively pulled the trigger; the rifle still pointed toward where the noise had come from.

Something like the tracer rounds they showed on movies and TV shows shot from the end of the rifle and slammed into the chest of one of those strange, pale, clawed creatures. It immediately screamed, the sound waves slamming into Wesley and knocking him back against the wood of the gate.

He saw it scrabble at its own chest, claws tearing into the flesh as smoke began to come from the wound. Mere moments later, the whole creature was aflame.

“Fuck me,” Wesley gagged on the stench, “That ain’t right.”

The fire burned bright as the creature screamed and flailed briefly before falling to the floor. The flames lit the area around it, showing two more of the creatures at the edge of the light, milky white eyes shining like a cat’s.

Shark-like teeth showed as one of them began to draw in air for a scream, and Wesley put two rounds through the chest.

Nothing happened, the creature not even slowing as the throat swelled.

Wesley tried the Flare trick again and winced as the fire engulfed it. The flailing monster fell into the other, clawing at its skin, and the fire spread to it as well. In an effort at mercy and trying to stop the screaming, Wes put a round through each of their heads. 

It didn’t work. 

“Another on the left,” Keller called calmly as a flaming arrow struck the charging monster.

Wesley turned to see one of the creatures creeping around the flames of its kin on all fours. He turned and aimed but wasn’t sure what to do. Flare was on cooldown, and shooting them in the chest or head hadn’t done anything so far. 

The thing let out a low hiss and started to draw in air for a scream. He put a bullet through the skull, right between the eyes, and it barely seemed to notice. 

The throat bulged and grew like an obscene parody of a bullfrog, and Wes, fresh out of ideas, shot it right in the center. 

He was hoping to prevent the scream. Those sound waves or whatever it was they created had already burst his eardrums twice, and he only had a single charge of Minor Heal left. 

The bullet hit, there was a sound like a deflating balloon, and then the head and shoulders simply exploded.

“Fucking Hell!” Wesley ducked as bits of flesh and bone spattered the wall and gate behind him. 

“What did you do?” Keller yelled down. “I’ve never seen one go like that!”

“I shot it in the neck when it was ready to scream,” Wesley called back.

“Good shot, Lancaster,” Keller said. “I’ll make a note of that method of dispatching them.”

Wesley was too busy scanning for more of the things to enjoy the compliment too much. It had been a good shot, but it had to be, right? He was just lucky to have been holding the rifle when he was taken. If he hadn’t been, then… well, he would probably have died when that Hyena charged him.

It was ironic, really. Wesley Lancaster had been a bit of a hit at target shooting as a teen. He even placed in a few competitions and won a college scholarship. His whole family was proud, with lots of jokes about the family's genes and so forth.

The problem was that they suggested a hunting trip once he got to college and met his teammates. It was weird, but until then, he had never thought of guns as weapons. It was just a thing to him. That trip had changed everything. 

This led to him quitting the team and swearing never to pick up a rifle again. It was all very dramatic and cringe-worthy in a way that only made sense when you were really young. The decision caused a falling out with his family when he lost the scholarship and returned to England in disgrace.

His family had insisted he get a job and return to school, this time in England, where they could keep an eye on him. 

When he dropped out again to pursue acting, it did not go down well. A couple of years later, he was holding a rifle again and telling himself it was different now. He was just acting this time.

No killing.

Yet, here he was, rifle in hand. 

Killing.

The irony was, if he hadn’t picked up a rifle again, he would be dead now. He would live as long as he used it to kill, the very reason he had sworn off shooting in the first place.

“Here,” Keller flicked down a single copper coin. “Your pay.”

“Thanks,” Wesley chuckled and put it in his pocket. “Do I get to ask questions now?”

“Sure,” Keller said with a smile. “As long as you ask someone else. I’m off to bed.”

“What about those things?” Wesley asked, a cold sweat running down his spine. What he actually meant was, ‘What about me?’ but he’d be buggered if he would say that.

“There are attacks in the wake of a change of state. That is done, and so am I. Good night, Lancaster.” Keller said with a wave before he vanished.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Wesley muttered to himself. His old campsite would have vanished along with the rest of the area. Still, he had no other options, really. As carefully and quietly as he could, Wes snuck along the base of the now stone walls, the light from the torches burning along the top his only armor against the darkness.

Despite the surety of it vanishing, Wesley was going to check anyway. Just in case his camping spot was still there. He blinked twice and almost laughed when he got close to the old spot. The boulders and stuff were gone, but what looked like the ruins of some stone tower or other was in its place. There was even a set of dead trees lying around the outside to offer firewood.

Game world. Right.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, or anywhere else for that matter, Wesley quickly checked it was clear inside. There was a floor, which was a plus, and even the remains of a fireplace. The floors above were gone, but half a floor remained as a partial roof, and a quick scouting showed nothing living up there, which was a relief.

Some smaller pieces of fallen stone did a great job of holding the tarp in place, and he had a functional roof in no time. Next came a fire, and then Wesley spent a good few minutes dragging fallen trees and branches toward the doorway and tying them together before wedging them in place. 

Then he undid all of that and redid it with him ending up on the inside.

“Glad no one saw that,” Wesley said, blushing slightly.

For the first time since he had arrived here, Wes had a roof -of sorts-, a door -sort of- and a fire all at the same time. It was almost cozy. 

Very cozy if you ignore the swampy and bog-ridden nightmare outside the door and the visible, if faded, bloodstains on the floor. 

Leaning back against the wall, as far from the door as he could get, and with his rifle across his knees, Wesley J. Lancaster pulled his thin, army-issue, probably vintage blanket over himself and went to sleep.

//////////////

Wes was enjoying this leftover sandwich in the damp air the following day when someone cleared their throat and coughed just outside his makeshift door. 

His startled shriek was somewhat embarrassing, but he felt it was justified nonetheless. 

“Sorry,” Gem said guiltily. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No one ever leaves the village, right?” Wes said in tones of wounded pride. “I naturally was a little jumpy.”

“This is different,” Gem noted. “At least for me.” Her eyes traced the swamps and bogs almost fondly and with definite traces of excitement. There was a faint blush to her cheeks, not of embarrassment but joy.

It was giving him the creeps.

Nothing out there should spark joy in a passably sane being. Damp, stink, rot, dead things, and the monsters that killed them were all that waited out there. He tried to hide his thoughts, but given he was supposed to have been an actor, Wesley was a surprisingly terrible liar. Or actor, if he was honest.

“All this,” Gem gestured. “It’s where I’m at my strongest.” She looked nervous for a moment and then straightened. “I’m a necromancer.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Wesley relaxed. It didn’t seem like the reaction she was expecting.

“Gotcha?” She said drily. “That’s it?”

“Should there be more?” He asked with a frown.

“You don’t think I am evil, or, or something?” She asked defensively.

“Uh, I don’t think so,” Wesley said. “To be honest, it was a bit of a relief.”

“How could me being a necromancer be a relief?” She demanded angrily.

“Well, if you weren’t, and this was just what you liked,” Wes gestured at the decayed landscape, “You’d probably be a bit nuts.” Wesley grinned weakly. He really did not want to offend her, but it was true.

Gem goggled at him for a few seconds and then let out a short burst of laughter as all the tension in her body seemed to leave at once. Up until now, she had always seemed rigid and a little formal. All that changed with one bark of laughter. Her posture was suddenly relaxed and casual, her shoulders loose as she grinned widely in the most genuine smile he had seen since coming here.

“You have no idea how nice that is to hear,” Gem said with a content sigh. “I’ve been stuck in this village for ages, and they tolerate me, but they are all afraid I’m going to do something terrible any second now.”

“That must be tough,” Wesley said. “Do necromancers have a bad rep, or is it just the ick factor?” 

“Ick factor?” She asked.

“You know, the whole undead thing. The ick factor.” Wesley tried again.

“I don’t get it?” Gem looked lost.

“Well, rotting bodies kind of smell. Also, they probably drip stuff.” Wes guessed. “Not to mention, no one wants to see their dead grandma ripping people's heads off and stuff. You know, ick factor.”

“Their dead grandma ripping people's heads off?” Gem repeated with a smile. “I can’t believe you actually said that.”

“Wrong thing to say?” Wesley asked with a sinking feeling.

“No!” Gem laughed. “People think stuff like that, I know they do. You’re just the first one actually to say it out loud.” She swiped at a runaway strand of hair as she smiled. “You really don’t mind, do you?”

“Honestly?” Wesley replied. “I couldn’t give less of a shit if I tried. You use dead things, but it’s just recycling. You aren’t, like, stealing souls or anything.”

“Thank you,” Gem smiled. “It’s nice to know I made the right choice.”

“Choice?” Wesley asked.

In return, Gem handed him a request. It was an escort mission. More specifically, it was a mission to escort Gem from the village, apparently called ‘Safeholme,’ to the nearest city. The city itself was called something unpronounceable. Even the letters seemed to make his eyes hurt. After a little prompting, Gem told him to think of it as the Unnamed City. 

“So why does it hurt to look at?” He asked skeptically.

“The story goes that a long time ago, the founder of the city was forced to give it a name by the system that runs this world. Refusing led to punishments being leveled against the city and its people.” Gem said with clear awe, “The founder gave in but named the city ‘unnamed,’ and it kind of broke something in the system.” She shook her head, “Can you imagine?”

Wesley grinned hugely. He could very much imagine. In fact, it was just the kind of thing he would do himself. Fuck the system over in revenge for all the petty shit it did to people every day.

“Oh, Gods!” Gem laughed. “You actually can, can’t you?”

“Makes perfect sense to me,” Wesley admitted.

“About the request…” She prompted.

“Can we make it?” Wesley asked. “I mean, you lost a whole caravan last time.”

“If it was this environment,” Gem said with a wicked grin, “I would have never ended up here in the first place.”

Packing up was quick. It wasn’t like he had much in the way of stuff. Still, he was nervous. The area may have looked like a playground to Gem, but to Wes, it looked like a particularly stinky form of hell. 

He had agreed to go along because he had no intention of sleeping outside the village walls for the rest of his life. They might eventually allow him in, but what then? Could he follow their laws? If one night he was on guard duty and someone was begging to come in, Wesley knew for a fact he would open the gates. Even if it got him thrown out of the village. There was just no chance he would follow that rule. Who knew if the woman he killed might have been spared if she wasn’t so desperate, so scared, so alone? It could have been him screaming and shouting if he had arrived without the M1 Garand slung over his shoulder. No, there was no avoiding it. This village was nice enough, in its own way, but he could not stay here. He had to move on. If he waited long enough, there might be another chance. A safer one, but there might not be. 

It was a chance either way, and he was choosing to go with the necromancer. Maybe he was becoming a betting man, after all.

He said a quick goodbye to Macy, who surprised him by dragging him half over the counter and giving him a long and surprisingly tongue-heavy kiss before yelling next as if it had never happened. From there, he met up with Gem, who was wearing her usual attire, plus the small black chest that was clamped to her back with short, chitinous legs he had never seen before. It was creepy as hell, but he just did his best to ignore it. She noticed, of course, and teased him a little as they made their way to the gate. There was a small gathering there to say goodbye in their own stiff, overly formal, and slightly insulting way. To his surprise, a couple came to say goodbye to him. 

Stephany’s parents were old in the way country people get old. Leathery, tanned skin, and muscles twice as strong as they should be over bones like iron girders. The father handed him a pack of sandwiches and gave him one awkward clap on the back that Wes was sure nearly turned his spine to dust. Then the mother came up and handed him, of all things, a cast iron frying pan. 

“A man should be able to cook,” She said sternly. “Remember that.”

“I will, thank you,” Wesley said as politely as possible.

“No thank yous. Not from you,” The woman scowled, and the two stalked away.

“A fine gift,” Keller said as he wandered up. “Especially for a man on the move.”

“It will be nice not to have to cook on sticks and stones,” Wesley agreed.

“I wasn’t sure about you, Lancaster,” Keller admitted. “But you turned out to be a good man, at least for an outsider.”

“Thanks?” Wesley offered.

“If you are ever back this way,” Keller offered his hand. “Remember to stop by.”

“While the sun is up. The law is the law, after all.” Wesley smiled and shook the man’s hand.

“The law is the law,” Keller agreed.

The village gates closed behind them with a strange finality. It was probably just that he knew they were leaving this time, but it still felt like a goodbye. He took one last look before he unslung his rifle and followed Gem into the unknown landscape.

Safeholme was not a friendly place. They were not welcoming people, but they were the first he had met in this new world, and it felt strange to be moving on so quickly. Necessary for sure, but still strange. It had only been a few days when he thought about it, barely seventy hours, but it felt like longer. Weeks even.

Trauma bonding was apparently a thing and one he would have to be aware of in the future. 

At the end of the day, they could have been a lot worse, and Wesley hoped he could drop by one day in the future to see them again.

Somewhere deep inside, an instinct he didn’t know he had was telling him that would never happen.