My Colt 44 barks like a rabid dog, sending the first of these fang-faced freaks back to Hell. The impact throws him backwards, straight into a table stacked with cards, poker chips and beer glasses. The whole lot goes flying, tossed into a Wild West salad, and the dressing is this bastard’s steaming blood. 

The Blackheart Boys Quest

Kill the six members of the Blackheart Gang

Progress = 1 of 6

Pain sears across my side as a bullet catches me in the left love handle. The red ribbon that’s my health bar shortens by ten points, from one hundred down to ninety. It’ll grow back by tomorrow. A good night’s sleep in Grimstone equates to a week-long stay in a cyber-med hospital.

The bullet came from an upturned table where two more blackhearts have hunkered down. One of their toothy faces is peeking over the rim, probably to see what damage he’s done. I punctuate his look of disappointment with a spot of hot lead. My bullet makes a pretty impressionist painting on the wall behind him. All dribbling reds and oozing grey.

Progress = 2 of 6

The demon’s brother retaliates, and I’m hard-pressed to dive clear of his hail of lead. I land hard behind the bar, skidding a foot or two, coming face to face with the barkeep. His slack-faced stare’s on account of him taking a bullet to the neck in the opening moments of this gunfight. The stupid bastard went for his shotgun. But then, they always do, don’t they. Must be written into the barkeeper’s code somewhere. “Thou shalt die with a shotgun in thine stupid mitts.” The day I meet a barkeep with enough sense to duck and hide when the lead starts flying is the day I buy that smartass a drink. Hell, I’ll shout the whole damn place a round.

Speaking of smartasses, this latest demon ain’t one. His bullets are thunking into the bar like he’s trying to blast a hole through it. The thing’s been carpented out of solid mahogany. Ain’t no hope in hell of punching through that with a measly six-shooter. He’d need a cannon, and I ain’t giving him no time to fetch one.

I count his latest barrage up to six then leap over the bartop with a hiss and a roar. I bound over the bodies of several fallen patrons and then drop into a slide that takes me past the demon’s tabletop and into the piano. The instrument lets out a shocked cadence of jarred strings as I open up on the surprised demon with both my shooting irons. Three bullets from the right, five from the left, and that blackheart is well and truly broken.

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Progress = 3 of 6

I’m reloading when I hear a “Son of a bitch!” from up yonder on the landing. The piano clangs in melodic agony and bullets slam into its side. In his excitement, the demon’s pulling his aim to the left. Thing is, his life depends on this moment. Mine don’t.

“The Way of the warrior is resolute acceptance of death.” - Miyamoto Musashi

Yeah, it’s a nice line that, and easier to stomach when death ain’t a permanent condition. Not right now, at least. The next Cull ain’t for another thirteen days. Until then, I’ll just keep popping up like a proverbial whackamole.

That said, if I go and buy myself a lead lunch on this here occasion, it’ll cost one of them thirteen days to get up and running again. Exactly twenty-four hours it takes to resurrect. Meaning that this quest will be so much piss in the wind. I’m doing alright on the experience front. Ain’t too far off Level 3, the cut-off point for the next Cull. But that don’t mean I got the luxury of lounging round in a pine box. Got to get me a headstart on the next Cull if I want to stay in the game. Hell, if I want to stay alive in the very real sense of the world.

I click my right colt closed with the heel of my hand. Only had time to slot three bullets into the chambers, but should be enough for now. 

The first bullet don’t hit. Not that it matters. I didn’t bother aiming anyhow. Just fired off in his general direction, hoping to make the bastard flinch. It worked too. The monster’s yellow eyes go wide with fear as he looks this way and that for some cover. It’s all the hesitation I need.

I breath out, real deliberate and slow, and wait for him to make his move. He bolts to his right, going for the open doorway to one of the upstairs rooms. I use the door frame as my guide and plug the demon through the back of his skull as he crosses the threshold.

Progress = 4 of 6

Damned if he don’t leave a self portrait there on the wall. His own ugly mug blown over that blank white canvas. My gut twists a little at the sight and I gulp down a wave of nausea. This world ain’t what I’d call ‘realistic’. It’s like some comic book artist’s nightmare of a world. All sharp angles, high contrasts and palette of colors a five year old might get given for her birthday in her budget pack of felt-tipped pens.

Take my jaw for an instance. Ridiculously square. My real life jaw is more of a pointy affair that was just started to grow some ginger fluff when they plugged me in. But what Grimstone lacks in realism, it makes up for in ‘artistic license’. Like that bloody face now dribbling down the wall, elongating from a grimace to a scream. That’s something you just can’t unsee.

I give my head a shake then reload my shooting irons while listening out for the final two blackhearts. I hear the thump of boots against floorboards and the rumble of counter-weighted sash window. Seems like bandits five and six are hightailing into the back alley.

We’ll just see about that.