Speaking up, the young man attempts to convey a relaxed tone through the dead bodies at his feet. Conjunction of social conflict, a poor attempt at easement. “Hello there… ”
She stares back in silence.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” The Gunslinger assures in his strange, foreign accent; trying to pull a calm smile on his face. “My name is Alto, what’s yours?”
The girl instinctively slinks back from the wall, Alto raising both hands slowly. “Did you know these two?”
She shakes her head, messy brown hair catching the wind in strands.
“Ok…” Alto nervously smiles as he glances behind himself. “Were they bad people?”
She nods quickly.
“Ok… that’s good.” Alto nods, taking a sigh of relief. “Actually no…. Uh, where are your parents?”
She pauses, glancing around the deserted streets with nervous eyes.
The Gunslinger quickly speaks up as he recognizes the look. “Forget I asked. Are you thirsty? Do you need water? Money? Well maybe not that, I don’t have any on me…”
She clasps her hands in a drinking motion, the universal signal understood as Alto carefully reaches for his own canteen. “Catch.”
The small, palm sized metal vessel absorbs the light from five suns above, a creation from the abyssal black alloy of arcane origins. Tossed casually, both parties watching as it clatters onto the dust without a sound. Movement beneath the rage of gods, the girl rushing from the shadows as she grabs the container, weather worn clothing and dirty face now illuminated clearly.
She’s only part southlandic, the Gunslinger realizes. The distinctive blue irises of the southlands mix with the brown hair of the midland tribes, a body betraying the reality of her heritage between a conqueror and the now conquered locality.
Uncapping the container, Alto’s warning is barely heard. “Careful that’s…”
A fountain of liquid pours forth from the neck of the arcane canteen, the girl completely soaked as she greedily drinks forth from an impossibly full container of clean, fresh water.
Alto turns back to the pair of corpses, squatting down as he begins to pilfer the bodies. “I’m sorry, but I just spent the last of my cash shooting you. So Five above, have at least something that I can buy a hot meal with. I’ve been eating nothing but dried meat and survival rations for the past week.”
An obvious arsenal limited to just a pair of scrapped out semi-automatic handguns and a total of four knives, with each of the guns loaded with only a handful of small-caliber cartridges in haphazard magazines. Half-full stainless steel canteens of water, somewhat precious amongst the Southland Wastes, are sung over shoulders; the true prize found as he rifles through vest pockets.
A total of seventeen rounds, created from a scattered fistful of loose bullets. From the lowest denomination .22 caliber handgun ammo to a singular 12.7mm armor piercing round; enough for perhaps a week’s stay in town if stretched and rationed.
Still, the ever elusive .357 magnum cartridge was missing.
Hands held in prayer, the Gunslinger begins the rites. A faith from the distant north, still universal even this far away from home. “Alina, guide these two to a land that flows with water and honey. Bring them above the suns and through the walls; give them the grace from this world and bring them to the promised Garden. Goodbye.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
It’s not much, but enough to guarantee an immortal soul’s continuation. An end, a new beginning, the cycle broken here by the liberation of gunfire.
Turning around, Alto is met with deserted streets, the girl vanishing into thin air along with his canteen. A trail of spilled liquid leads outward deeper into the township, the young man sighing as he stands back up. “Ok is everyone a thief now?”
The world doesn’t answer, a universe standing still as Alto eyes the darkened trail of wet earth.
“Alright, fine.”
Old Springs was a town of neatly designed pale white brick abodes. Connected by interspersed alleyways and roads, the signs of a tower pre-fabrication blueprint were ever so obvious; the eerily identical buildings, aged by wind and modifications of convenience, were lined together in mathematically optimized back alleys. Power lines hastily strung between homes, and commercial fronts face streets with promises of bread, barbers, and bullets.
All deserted.
“Really.” Alto asks in disbelief, holding his chest with an open palm in the casual prayer to gods. “A week out in the desert and this is it…? Gods I wanted… ”
A flicker of movement catches trained eyes, the young man spotting shapes held deep within homes. Catching glances from windows, Alto binks as forms slink away as soon as his gaze meets them. Residents hiding in the relative safety of cover and concealment of homesteads.
“... what is going on…”
Continuing forward along the spilled trail the Gunslinger spots the thief’s destination; a two story, L-shaped abode with a comically large neon sign blazing in the sunlight.
OL’ JOE’S
INN AND SALOON
A single steel door bears entry to the front, an old residential construction stretched out with added space on the first floor. Dimed windows allow in natural light, with several boarded up against the elements.
Intruding thoughts of food and drink arrive again, the demands of flesh guiding the Gunslinger towards the door and into darkness.
Light dims as eyes adjust, the inside of the saloon cool and refreshing compared to the scorching heat of midafternoon. A handful of ceiling fans above circulate musty air, and the scent of dried ale is barely noted on trained palates. Chairs and tables set out upon a dusty, clay floor, all flanked by a long bar that runs almost the entire length of the building.
All empty, with the exception of a single bartender at the far end of the establishment.
Light skinned with graying blonde hair and an uncut shave, the blue eyes placing him well within the southland bloodlines. The middle aged man nearly jumps at the sight of a new arrival, an unexpected intrusion now made bare.
Shocked eyes meet with his, and Alto tries to give a calm smile. “Hello.”
“Hello.” The tender replies carefully.
“You’re not going to try and rob me right?” Alto attempts to joke as he approaches the bar slowly. “Right?”
“Depends on who you are.” The middle-aged man answers as he slowly reaches for something under the bar. Trained vision catches the brown hair and green eyes alongside the foreign accent, an ethnic origin tracing into a geography north beyond the Salvation Line. “Never seen you around here before… northlander.”
“I’m a… traveler.” Alto nods. “I just got here.”
“When?”
“Three minutes ago. I almost got robbed.”
The bartender sighs with relief as his tense posture instantly relaxes. “Oh in that case, welcome to Old Springs. You must’ve met Greyson and Drew, surprised they didn’t just shoot you on sight like the last group of travelers we got.”
Alto pauses. “Oh uh… ”
“You need food? Lodging for the night?” The man motions to the Gunslinger with a warm smile. “You’ve probably been robbed dry so it’s on the house. Can’t offer much though.”
“Food… would be good. And something cold.” Alto fidgets nervously as he attempts to formulate a reply, glancing between the unstocked bar, his reflection on the wall mirror, and the tender.
“Alright then hope you don’t mind a fabrication meal from March; one nutro-meat stew with rationals and cold water.” The Bartender calmly informs as he turns to the stack of bottles behind him, pouring out clear liquid into a tall glass. “I’ll have that food out for you in just a second so please be patient.”
“Wait.” Alto speaks up, stopping the old man. “Did you happen to see a girl, probably half-southland? Brown hair and blue eyes around ten to twelve years old pass through here?”