As mid-morning approached The Bounty Hunter had scaled most of the almost impassable rocky outcrop that overlooked the area known as The Wreck. He had taken a roundabout route so that he would not be spotted from afar, and come this most difficult of ways in order to avoid sentries, and be able to have a clear view of the task awaiting him. The Wreck was the almost mythical site of a crashed war machine, a type now in existence in very small numbers only in the deepest bunkers of the East, awaiting a time when they would be needed again. Few vehicles now roamed anywhere in the world, and evidence of these vast machines was as rare as the oil or the uranium that used to power them. The Wreck itself had been thoroughly looted, and now consisted of a large crater in the middle of a canyon and a few scattered shards of carbon fibre. It was still an outpost and a meeting point for outlaws and vagabonds, for anyone who needed somewhere neutral to conduct their business. A small range of jagged cliffs overlooked the site, most of which were only accessible through the canyon, that itself could only be reached by braving the narrow entrance which led back towards the town. The Bounty Hunter had always known this route, but had hoped he would never had to climb it. It was more dangerous to him than any of the men that he knew were lying in wait for him, scanning the desert for signs of his approach.
For Outsiders this amount of caution would be unnecessary – they were shabbily armed, poorly trained and frequently drunk – merely showing up at dawn would be enough to catch them unawares or still paralytic from the night before, and the sound of his voice enough to disperse them. The people he faced were no Outsiders though.
He looked sharply about the rim of the canyon as soon as it came into view. Snipers were spaced around the canyon edges, camouflaged against the yellow grey desert hues and scarcely visible to the naked eye. None had observed him. Looking down into the bowl of the canyon he could see the bait for the ambush that was intended for him - the girl bound and gagged and attended by 3 idly smoking, ragged looking sentries. He was not sure, had the call not come, how this would have ended. If he had come for the girl directly, would he have been so cautious? To approach the men from the entrance of the canyon he would never even have been aware of his mistake before he fell dead to the dusty canyon floor, pierced by a dozen sniper bullets. He doubted that he would ever have been so blaze. These Rebels would have died either way, as they would die now. He had counted 4 snipers, and he doubted the men on the ground were unarmed. With luck they wouldn’t even see him before they died. He pulled the shotgun from his back, armed it with explosive shells. The pistol shots to take out the snipers would be difficult but not impossible – in the confusion and confines of their positions at the rim of the canyon they wouldn’t be hard to hit. The men on the ground would doubtless scatter, but he wanted them out of the way for now. There was a pile of their gear ten yards behind them. He theorised that it would contain shells and ammunition as well as food and water. He aimed the shotgun there – even if it contained nothing more than rations the explosive shells would cover him.
The shotgun shell found its mark with a tremendous burst of sound and flame. The bundle at which he had aimed exploded and lit ammunition spiralled around the canyon, the pyrotechnics flashing off the walls and fizzing across the floor leaving trails of sparks. This was the best outcome he could have hoped for. He immediately took cover, pulled one pistol from his belt and aimed, using the crook of a rock in front of him to steady the grip. The nearest sniper didn’t even have time to look surprised at the commotion before the back of his head and most of his brains lay scattered across the canyon wall behind him. The next had time to turn and think about seeking an assailant before the Bounty Hunter shot him through the neck, sending spirals of blood leaping into the void above the canyon floor before the man’s flailing corpse followed it. The third tried to take cover behind a rock in front of him, but he had no idea where the gunfire was coming from such were the acoustics of the canyon. As he crouched, quite pathetically, he left The Bounty Hunter a full view of his profile. A single bullet entered the sniper’s temple, leaving a smoking circle of slowly oozing blood that flowed like a river delta down the side of the man’s head as he slid lifelessly to the floor. The fourth sniper decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and was hastily descending the cliff path to the canyon floor as the bounty hunter brought his sights around. As he aimed the man lost his footing and dangled briefly at the edge of the precipice, scrabbling desperately for a better grip, before losing the fight with gravity, pirouetting helplessly towards the jagged unforgiving rocks below. As he landed his limbs erupted at unlikely angles, and he was still.
The Bounty Hunter had already turned his attention to the canyon floor. Two of the men had vanished, whilst the other looked more or less directly towards the place where The Bounty Hunter was secreted, indicating that he had managed to trace the source of the carnage. He was roughly pulling the girl’s head back by her beautiful tousled hair, holding a mean and rusty looking serrated knife to her throat. The Bounty Hunter calculated that he had a little over ten minutes to end this stand-off before one of the missing two men could get a shot at him. He wouldn’t need that long.
“I’ve got two guns and a blade on this girl, Bounty Hunter. Give yourself up or she dies today.”The man talked in the sneering tone of somebody who believes he cannot be bested, that he holds the winning hand. The Bounty Hunter took aim with his pistol once again, and put a bullet right between the girl’s eyes.
Incomprehension just had time to colour the man’s features before the same fate befell him, and they both slumped, hair and knife and girl and her desperate rebel lover in a bloody lifeless pile on the canyon floor. Blood spilled and pooled and instantly drained into the thick cloying dirt below their bodies. The Bounty Hunter turned and followed the path to the canyon floor, swiftly and stealthily descending, shotgun slung over his back, pistol in one hand and a knife in the other.
His senses sharpened by the fight and the starkness of it all, he easily located the two men rushing up the path towards him. Finding a blind turn in the track he waited until the first one was almost upon him before dragging him hard up against his body and brutally slitting open his throat, showering the pathway with blood. He released the soundlessly screaming man to fall forward and die with his face in the dirt. Judging that the other was close behind, he stepped into straight into his path and emptied the pistol clip in to his torso, screaming wordless oaths as he did so, before the rebel could even register his presence.
By the time The Bounty Hunter reached the canyon floor 10 minutes later his senses had returned to normal. His bloodflow slowed, and time speeded up. Thoughts and feelings crowded him as life reasserted its authority over death. He did not look to the corpses that lay on the valley floor. He could not look into the lifeless eyes of the perfect young Joan of Arc who he now knew was the leader of the local rebellion, and the target of his latest assassination. He wanted to remember them as they were, hard and clear and deep and pure; defiant and full of life and purpose. He stopped and looked to the sky and guessed the time to be a little before midday. The sun beat down on him without mercy, the sun that continued to rise, day after day after thankless soulless day. As he turned and walked away a single tear struggled to forge a path down his cheek, through stubble and grime and sweat and blood.
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THE END
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