Over Iron, Salt, and Sea
Jackson raced through the stalls of
thin cloth and dry fruit, the 4 bore clutched awkwardly in his hands, the
barrel sweeping past the passerby as it jerked with the swing of his arms. The stalls opened into a clean swept merchant
square. He panted to a halt then
stumbled to an elderly tin hawk.
“Seen a woman?” He struggled for the breath to speak,
dropping the stock of his double rifle to rest on the ground. “Blonde, thick sweater,” he tookHe H another breath, “Glasses.”
The woman nodded, “The men with her
didn’t like the edge of her tongue, I take it.”
“Like as not.” He tried to force a smile, “Never did figure
how to blunt it.”
She peered at him, “I have
something you might need if you want to find her.”
He straightened. “Oh?”
“I do,” she turned to her table,
bending over laboriously, and rifled through her haphazardly arranged tools,
containers, and trinkets. “Here!” A triumphant smile lit up her face as she
held up a rusted paper cutter. “Never
safe in a brawl without a blade, young man.”
“I’m in a terrible hurry, ma’am.”
She shrugged, “I’ll not have the
life of a handsome boy like you on my conscience.”
Jackson bit back a curse and
grabbed some coins from his pocket, “You’re right, of course. You’re kind to offer.”
She raised an eyebrow at the coins
but nodded, “They were headed to the bunker at the foot of the island. And be careful shooting that cannon of your’n. They were wearing rank.”
“Dammit. Sorry!
I mean thank you, ma’am.”
He hefted his weapon and hurried
off trying, unsuccessfully, to tuck the paper cutter into his pocket without
cutting himself. The island was a slow
mountain of sand, stone, and dead coral.
A few paths had been cleared to the top.
It was said that an outpost was kept at the top, the last real military
installation in the ocean waste.
She wanted to see it. Figured.
This was worse than the Hawaii.
He rushed through the last few
shanties and into the ordered square avenues of C-huts and barbed wire. Most were abandoned. Not much reason to be a soldier anymore.
No pay. Not enough food to go around.
Only a handful of bullets.
He heard gunshots, several in quick
succession, and forced himself a little faster.
The bunker swerved into sight from around a corner and his boots slipped
against the sand as he tried to stop.
His knee scraped against the ground, tearing the cloth before he managed
to catch himself and dive awkwardly back out of sight.
He stood and took a long look at
the thin metal of prefabricated aluminum his shoulder was resting on, then
sighed and sprinted for the door of the bunker.
The road was quiet, and as much as he cringed, no shot rang out from
behind the barred windows and narrow slots that broke the solid wall of concrete.
A kick to the door was about as
effective as a knock, so he leveled his 4 bore at it and fired. The butt of the rifle slammed again his
shoulder and threw him backwards. His head
hit the ground and he blacked out.
*
Blonde hair.
“Dean?”
She glanced at him, then pulled her
hair back into a messy bun, roughly pinning it with a sheathed knife before
putting her hat back on. “I’ve never
seen a bigger hole blown through a door.”
He sat up, winced, and put a hand
to the back of his head. It felt wet.
“Especially when the hole was two feet
away from the lock.”
He blinked. “Oh.”
“I’ve tried to think of a man more
useless with a gun than you.”
“Wonderful.”
“I had plenty of time. Since you had knocked yourself
unconscious. By shooting a comically
oversized gun incorrectly. And missing
your target at point blank range.”
“Please tell me you didn’t kill
anybody.” His eyes failed to focus on
anything beyond an arm’s reach away.
“’Course not. You told me it’d bring you trouble.”
“How many were here with you?”
“Oh, ‘bout ten.”
“Ten!” Jackson flushed, then squinted across the
room, “Where’d they go? We should get
out. Now.”
She sniffed, “They’re still here, Dr.
Door Breach. Don’t you worry none.”
He paled as
he made out the blurry forms of men scattered about the room. “You shot them.”
“Only a
little.” She raised an eyebrow. “They said I looked twelve.”
A sigh.
“Oh come
on.” Dean helped him to his feet, “It’s
not near as bad as the Hawaii.”
“It might
well be, Ms. Constance! You can NOT just
go into a town shootin’ people and telling them what they’ll do for you.”
“There’s
only ten this time, Jackson.” She looked a little put out, “And I didn’t kill
any of them.”
“And they’re
liable to be a mite upset when they wake up.”
She smiled,
“There comes a time in the life of every man –ˮ
“Don’t
even.”
“ – when
they have to start realizing which fights they’ll win, and which they’ll lose.”
He shook
his head, “You still going to that outpost?”
“I am.”
Jackson
looked at his feet, “And after?”
Her smile
softened, “West. As far as I can get.”
“You don’t
have to,” his hands found his pockets, “You’re already further west than most
of the world.”
She put a
hand on his shoulder. “You should get
back to the train, Jackson.”
He nodded,
and she walked to the door. “Dean!”
The blonde
gunslinger stopped and looked back.
“You could stay
with me. We could ride the Rail together
till we’re old.” He met her eyes, “It
wouldn’t be a bad life.”
A silence.
“It’s not
for me, Jackson,” she looked at him from over the edge of her glasses, “You
keep yourself safe. When I come back I’ll
want to see you again.”
She walked out and left Jackson
alone.
