It never ceases to amaze me how such a small thing as a bullet can wield such immense power. These tiny metal projectiles, no larger than a fingertip, have the capacity to end a life, topple a leader, or change the course of history.

I have seen bullets used as currency, traded for food and shelter. I have watched skilled craftsmen lovingly shape them from scavenged materials, each one a potential lifeline in our harsh reality. And of course, I have witnessed their devastating effects on flesh and bone, both human and Duster alike.

Yet a bullet is nothing without intent, without the hand that loads it and the finger that pulls the trigger. It is we who imbue these small objects with their terrible purpose. In this, perhaps, lies a lesson - that power, like a bullet, is neutral until we choose how to use it.

As always, dear reader, I urge you to consider carefully how you spend your bullets, both literally and metaphorically. For in our world, each one could be the difference between life and death.

- From the Writings of Brother Felix St George

“It’s time!” thundered Nathaniel. “Time for the main event! Make your way to the main tent! One clip for admission! The Big Show is about to begin!”

The four of them were subdued as they entered the huge tent, despite the excitement of the crowd around them. The Librarian had ordered himself and Josiah another beer to drown their respective sorrows, and November would not look directly at Scout as they took their seats.

The crowd grew hushed and still as a single spotlight picked out Nathaniel, his hat at a rakish angle and a cane in his hands. “We live in a world of fears, my friends,” he began, uncharacteristically soft and the audience craned to listen. “Tonight, you will laugh in the face of your fears, nay in the face of death itself! At great expense-and great personal risk-we have tamed these savage monsters and trained them for your entertainment. Witness the living and the dead, working as one!”

Several of his strongest workers dragged in a group of six Dusters, chained by their necks. The crowd gasped as the Dusters snapped and snarled, while the men bolted the chains to the tent’s central pole. At a gesture from Nathaniel, they retreated, picking up long poles with collars on the ends.

“Let us begin with something simple,” said Nathaniel. “A little trick for the kiddies. Little ones, who among you can count to three?”

A forest of small hands greeted his request, and he selected one. Proudly, a little boy recited, “One…two…three!” As punctuation, Nathaniel struck the floor with his cane to each word.

He spun to face the Dusters. “And you, my dear deceased darlings! Who feels up to the challenge!”

Two of his men ran around the pole, taunting the Dusters with fresh meat, and Nathaniel picked a particularly savage one. With great care, the men affixed a separate chain to its collar and detached it from the main pole. Immediately the Duster surged towards the crowd, and the duo pulled hard on the chain, jerking it to a halt.

The crowd shrieked in alarm as the Duster came to a halt a bare meter from the audience. November’s hand was on her rifle. This didn’t seem safe.

But Nathaniel was breezily unconcerned. “What was it we were doing, children?”

“Counting to three!” they chorused, delighted to be part of the show.

“That’s right!” he laughed, “One…two…three!” Again he punctuated each word with a blow from his cane, but this time, with each word the Duster stomped its front left foot. The crowd laughed in delight, until a jeering voice came from the crowd. “It’s just stomping when you bang your stick! I could train my horse to do that!”

Nathaniel put on an expression of exaggerated dismay. “Oh no! We have been found out! Well, I guess there’s nothing for it!” He tossed his cane to an attendant. “We will have to count to five! And I shall be completely silent, but I will need complete silence from you as well, my dear friends!”

The crowd stilled and Nathaniel drew uncomfortably close to the snarling Duster, waving a hunk of meat. “It’s for five, Gnasher, five, my boy!”

Then he stepped back and went dead silent, as the Duster hesitantly stomped its foot five times. The crowd exploded.

The four of them watched in awe, their respective woes forgotten, as he led the dead through dazzling routine and routine. He had one Duster pick up another and carry it around the ring while the audience laughed, he had them form an extremely ungainly human pyramid, he even had them lie down flat on the floor and walked across their backs, nimbly dodging their snapping jaws.

Scout grabbed November’s shoulder, their earlier disagreement forgotten. “He’s like Saint Gabriel! He has to be!”

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The Librarian nodded in agreement. “We simply have to talk to him afterwards. We need to find out how he gained these powers! Perhaps they share a common source!” He smiled at Josiah. “There may be hope for your quest yet, my friend.”

Josiah watched the Dusters, shaken, his hand resting automatically on his gun. “Gunpowder Gods, preserve us! I’ve never seen such thing.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” shouted Nathaniel, basking in the applause. “But I am sorry, my friends, even I lack the courage for what comes next!”

The crowd murmured in shock. He swung his cane out to one side. “I give you, the lovely Rose - and her Dance of Death!”

November blinked in surprise as the girl she had spoken to earlier entered the ring, wearing a clinging blood-red leotard which left little to the imagination. As Nathaniel drew back to the sidelines, a piper struck up a haunting melody. And Rose began to dance. Slowly she approached the central pole and began to weave between the chained Dusters. They snatched and snapped at her, and yet somehow she was always a step ahead or bending elegantly out of their reach. She was undeniably acrobatic, but there was also something of the gun-saint’s forms in her graceful movements and evasions, and Josiah watched with rapt attention, his eyes fixed on the girl.

And slowly, a pattern began to emerge. She retreated and they advanced. She advanced and flowed around them, and they spun after her. It truly had become a dance, the living and the dead moving as one.

But grit is fickle, and cruel. One of the chain locks must have been old, and grit-weakened, and abruptly it gave with a snap. The crowd shrieked in horror, and Rose and the Dusters froze as one as if equally shocked. For a heartbeat, no one moved, except Josiah.

The gun-saint’s coat flared behind him as he drew his gun and fired in a single smooth motion. The Duster collapsed, a neat hole drilled in his forehead. Josiah’s gun was back in its holster before he hit the ground.

And then Rose screamed and rushed to the body. “Johnny!” The other Dusters stood uncertainly, looking to Nathaniel. One of them rubbed a sleeve across his forehead absently and the blood and dust smeared away, revealing pink living flesh beneath it.

The crowd began to growl angrily. “It’s all a trick!” someone yelled. “They’re not even real Dusters!”

“Now, now, my friends,” Nathaniel began uncertainly. “We do use real Dusters in some of the acts, but you have to understand we need to be aware of our performers’ safety…and your safety as well. Would you really want your children in a tent with live Dusters, after all?”

The crowd grew louder.

****

Old instinct turned November to the nearest exit, but Josiah was standing stock-still, his face white to the lips. The Librarian pulled at him. “We need to go, Brother!”

To her surprise, Scout was already half-way to the exit. At last the girl was learning sense. She turned back to the Librarian and Josiah.

“You couldn’t have known it was friendly fire,” she shouted over the angry crowd. “You were trying to protect the girl. No one can fault that.” Josiah didn’t move. “So help me, gun-saint, if you don’t start walking I’ll put you in a suppression hold and make you!” She twisted his wrist to the edge of pain and started to drag him after her.

As they emerged from the tent, people streaming around them, they heard the welcome rev of a familiar engine. "Get in!" yelled Scout. They piled on-board, the angry shouts of the crowd growing louder behind them.

November slammed the door shut just as someone grabbed for her jacket. "Go, go, go!" she yelled at Scout.

Scout gunned the engine, but Win's wheels spun in the loose grit, kicking up a red cloud. The vehicle rocked back and forth as Scout alternated between forward and reverse, trying to gain traction.

"They're coming!" the Librarian shouted, peering out the back window. A group of enraged townspeople was closing in fast, some brandishing makeshift weapons. “I think they think we’re with the show!”

Josiah sat frozen, his face ashen, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around him.

"November, we need Rattler!" Scout yelled over the roar of the engine.

November nodded grimly and climbed up to the roof hatch. As she emerged, she felt the sting of grit pelting her face – some thrown by the angry mob, some kicked up by Win's spinning tires.

"Warning shots only!" the Librarian called up to her.

November gritted her teeth and activated Rattler. The auto-turret swiveled towards the approaching crowd and let out a deafening burst of fire over their heads. The mob faltered, some diving for cover, others retreating.

At that moment, Win's tires finally found purchase. The vehicle lurched forward, nearly throwing November off the roof. She grabbed onto Rattler's mount to steady herself.

"Hold on!" Scout shouted as she aimed for a gap in the town's makeshift walls. Win smashed through with a sickening crunch of metal and wood. November ducked back inside just as they broke free, grit and splinters raining down on the roof.

Scout didn't slow down, pushing Win to its limits as they tore across the wasteland. In the rearview mirror, they could see a few determined pursuers on horseback, but they were quickly falling behind.

"I think we're clear," the Librarian said after a few tense minutes, his voice shaky.

November nodded, her heart still racing. "Keep going. We need to put as much distance between us and God's Boot as possible."

Scout drove at full speed until the town was just a dot on the horizon, then brought Win to a skidding halt, the vehicle's frame groaning in protest.

They all sat in stunned silence for a moment, catching their breath and processing what had just happened. The only sound was the tick of Win's cooling engine and the faint whisper of grit settling around them.

"I hope the circus performers will be all right," the Librarian said, breaking the silence. "Yes, they were duping us, but it was a victimless crime."

November shook her head. "It could be worse than that. You heard Nathaniel, some of those Dusters were still real. All it could take is a few reckless idiots mistaking real Dusters for fake ones, and God's Boot could have a full-blown outbreak on their hands."

"All because of me," whispered Josiah, speaking for the first time since they'd fled. "I shot a man with no weapon in his hand. There is no greater sin against the Code."

"You didn't know," the Librarian said earnestly. "We were all convinced-"

Scout coughed, interrupting. "I hate to interrupt but there's one more thing. Please don't be mad…"

She pulled the Infinite Book out from under her coat, its smooth surface glinting in the dim light of Win's interior, and a long crack splitting its surface, running down to the indentation in the base.