The bullet slammed into Tommy’s side. He jerked slightly, but the pain was distant. His large saddle-pistol came up, his hand moving of its own volition, and reduced the outlaw’s left shoulder to a ragged raw mass. 

Can’t even feel it any more, can you, Toms? 

We’re the same person, dumbass.

The pistol’s kick would have been horrendous, perhaps even damaging, in any other hand, but it barely jerked in his grip as he kept walking through the small den, firing at anything that had the temerity to move. 

Did you ever think that we were meant for more than this?

God wouldn’t have made me so good at something he didn’t want me to do. 

It seemed to take several seconds before the remaining five bullets in the cylinder were expended, but that was likely his perception. He pondered that for a second as he stowed the pistol, grabbing instead for the sawed off lever action shotgun that was his preference in confined spaces like this.

He almost didn’t feel the knife that skidded off of the flesh of his back. He turned nothing more than his head, and even then, only barely. He saw a boy, younger than him by a year or two. Couldn’t be seventeen. The boy whipped the blade against his chest, sweating from exertion. The cut it left was thin, and shallow, but blood seeped arterially from it regardless. 

Come on, he’s not even a man yet. Please.

He’s a murderer. 

So are we.

He made it quick, not bothering to disarm the outlaw, just putting both hands around his skull and slamming it with full force into the cave wall. The boy slid down, gray matter trailing down with him, eyes rolling and tongue babbling for a few seconds before going still. 

Good Jesus in Heaven, Tommy, do you ever think about what happens if we do get home?

He finished pulling his shotgun.

Why bother?

-----------

He’d put all the heads on a thin rope, after he’d cut them off. It dangled from his belt, but if it were awkward or heavy, he was too far from himself to tell. Everything was on autopilot, had been for a long time. 

He still saw the desert sun as it began to set, but couldn’t feel the heat. Could still see the places where the Great Profanity had begun creeping in, even this far into the west, but couldn’t muster the fear that was so marked of his existence before all of this.

We really are pretty pathetic, aren’t we.

The small stable outside the cave had only three horses, but every one began to buck and scream as he walked past. No horse could stand his presence in a room, let alone on its back, so he began to walk, clad all in black but coated in red. 

All of this for five-hundred dollars? You haven’t spent a cent on anything but clothes and guns in years. Why?

What else is there to do?

Live a life? Make some friends? Hell, talk to someone, besides yourself, that is.

The sun had almost entirely set, so he pulled the leather piece that acted like a facial handkerchief down. He smoothed his hands over his coat, feeling as caked blood peeled away, and a few flattened bullets were pulled from their moorings.

Even the small sunlight that remained caused his face to burn. A thin strip along his nose began to blister and bleed, but the blood shriveled to dust in the light. It was one of the few things that pierced the numbness, so it was a vice he tried to take in moderation. 

His undershirt was just as stained as his coat, but it was entirely his own blood that recolored the cloth. His veins were prominent, even through several layers of denim and the smallest cuts would spray as if mortal wounds.

Do you ever think about whether we’re even human anymore?

No. It’s pretty fucking obvious we aren’t. 

The sun finally finished setting, and the blood began to run down his face, pooling in the deep frown-lines and catching in the ragged patchwork of facial hair before dripping down onto his coat.

Up ahead, the untrod path crossed ways with a desolate railroad. He could tell the Profanity hadn’t put down any real roots this far out, because the rail was still wood and ties, rather than iron and steel embedded in rock, surrounded on both sides by a spike-clad palisade.

The heads clattered around his waist as he began to walk along the rail.

He’d always walked them, even when he was a kid. There was something about knowing that this path had been walked by a million men before him. Maybe not this particular rail, but the same five timbers that every one of those men had seen, when their heads were too tired to stare ahead and they watched their feet.

The same five timbers repeated endlessly, the same railway continuing on forever. Not to say that every rail was the same, but that every rail became different in the same ways. From the city-man’s mad conjunctions, to the places where the foliage and rolling hills made the railway separate. Not a simple path, but a place unto itself, a transitory dimension, removed from all other things. Then, there were the rails that were so ragged that even those five timbers didn’t repeat, too shattered to be recognizable, but just because a friend is wounded doesn’t mean he’s no longer a friend.

At least we have one friend, even if it can’t talk, or move, or anything really.

It’ll never say the wrong thing. It’s always here when we need it, and it never judges. Unlike you.

Us. Unlike us.

----------------------

It was noon the next day when Columbarium came into view. It was a long name for a small town. The largest building was the courthouse, which had been built by federal decree by federal workers, because being the only town in a county made it the largest town in the county.

Really, however, the large stone structure was used as everything but a courthouse. Hospital, sheriff's office, town hall, and fort, surely enough, but never a courthouse. The federal judge contracted to work there had died a few months into his tenure and a replacement had never arrived, so people took justice into their own hands and even such a large building had ceilings too low for a noose.

He saw the rare sight of a train at the tiny town station, so he walked the small distance to the dirt path which led to Main Street.

As always, the few guards posted in the towers built beside the road gave him cursory nods, but didn’t stop watching him. 

You’d think they’d stop staring after the fifth or sixth time.

Can you blame them?

He kept to the sidemost part of the road but was still given a wide berth on his path to the sheriff. By the time he’d reached the courthouse, Sheriff Altera was standing outside, flanked by two deputies. 

“Howdy.”

“Howdy.”

“See you’ve got something for me. Barret’s Boys?”

“Mhmm.”

He took the rope of heads, the last couple coated largely in the seeping brains of the boy and held it out. The sheriff’s face was carefully neutral.

“You want the cash upfront or just deposited in your account.”

“You ask every time.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The sheriff barked a short, mirthless laugh.

“Figure one day you’ll spot the bankers for the cons they are. Besides, if anyone could survive carrying five hundred in cash, reckon it’d be you.”

“Living is a bad habit of mine.” 

The sheriff coughed slightly.

“Unless you’ve other designs for the full sum of that money, I’d ask you spend a portion on a bath and some new clothes. It’s my job to ask. Keeping the peace, and all that.”

Tommy’s response was toneless as usual, but bordered on dry.

“I’ll put it on my itinerary.”

“Well, you’ll have my thanks if you put it close to the top.”

-----------------------

He did. Went directly to the tailor, who was used to how horrifically he treated his clothing. He was handed a clean white shirt and brown denim pants to use whilst whatever could  be salvaged was. He snagged a quilted poncho and a ten-gallon straw hat to not burn in the sun, then heard several thunks as his implements began falling haphazardly out of the clothes he’d handed the tailor.

It took several minutes to empty his coat of weapons, and even then he had to use both arms to carry them to the Saloon and Hotel combination.

We look ridiculous. Why do we need so many guns?

Faster to switch to your secondary than reload.

Shut the fuck up.

The Sober’s Cenotaph was typically quiet and quite used to him, so it was almost a shock when he walked into a crowded but quiet room. People of all stripes, liquor flowing freely. Several people stopped what they were doing to look at the grizzled figure carrying an armload of weapons. The bar somehow became even more silent.

It was a passenger train. Of fucking course.

Are you embarrassed?

No, we’re embarrassed. Remember?

I’m just a voice in your head, you’re talking to yourself.

I’m just a voice in my head, which is our head. We’re both talking to ourselves.

Well I don’t feel embarrassed, so clearly we differ.

Same head don’t mean same voice.

Darn fucking skippy, this voice would never argue with himself, carrying an armload of guns, in front of a bar’s worth of people who’re all staring at him. This part of the head has a few too many neurons for that.

Well… refuge in audacity.

He walked over to the only unoccupied booth and dropped his many weapons in a heap on the other seat before sitting down. The stares didn’t relent. The waitress was a Mexican woman approaching fifty, but she still retained a kind, strong bearing. She walked over.

“Your usual?”

He peaked at her from under his hat. 

“Do I get anything else?”

“Used to.”

“Well, it’s been a while since ‘used to.’”

She smiled, but it was wan. “Damn shame about that. You used to be pleasant.”

That struck something poisonous and hurting inside him. “You used to have more children, the U.S used to have thirty four states. Shit happens.”

Her smile died painfully. Like her son, you fucking dick. 

She looked at him for several more seconds. Something like sadness washed over her face. She looked like she was going to say something, but instead walked back to the bar.

The glares had turned from idle curiosity to open hostility, so he made a show of grabbing the largest of his pistols, and removing his hat and handkerchief.

There was a table full of haggard looking farmhands, and one of them stood.

“You’re a Hunter! Where the hell were you, you cowardly piece of shit?”

Tommy tilted his head, and several people went green around the gills, seeing just how scarred his face was. His veins bulged as his heart rate picked up, some part of him raged like a dog against a rope.

“What are you on about?” The words were pressed from between his teeth in a hiss, the blood rushing to his brain causing a headache that would only go away when the threat did.

“Where the hell were you when Fort Holden fell? They hired anyone who’d even call themselves a Hunter!”

“The Mississippi line’s been broken through?”

“Where the hell you been?”

“Wild country, hunting outlaws. Last I knew, the army was sending people like me away. Didn’t feel like paying for professionals when there was no real Hunting.”

The steam seemed to leave the farmhand. “Well now they’re halfway across Louisiana, and Arkansas won’t be much longer.”

The Profanity was strong, but the only thing that could break through the line was an apocalyptically strong Apostate.

“What monster did the deed?”

The man looked at him strangely. “The hell am I supposed to know?”

Another voice came from the far end of the bar.

“Michael Raguel Abaddon.”

The pulse that had been fading from his temples came back a dozen fold. His vision sharpened and took on a red tinge.

He remembered walking away from the shooting competition. Attending was community service, and that counted for extra credit. He fell into a shadow, and saw a star glaring at him. That was the name it had said. James Joel Harrington. Four years later, and he’d heard someone else say it for the second time in his life.

His voice was low, inhuman. The muscles in his body were stronger than they should be, and the force with which they pushed the air through his vocal chords gave his voice a low reverb.

“What did you say?”

Most of the bar tensed at the change in his demeanor. The man at the far end, who wore the garments of a priest and Hunter both, didn’t flinch. He walked over to Tommy’s booth, before looking pointedly at the pile of weapons. With a quick kick, Tommy sent the weapons scattering across the floor, without moving his eyes from the man.

“I’m Brother Cassidy.”

The man had crucifixes tattooed across every piece of exposed flesh. His wrists wore them like bracelets, his hair had a dozen sharpened crosses tied into it. Two large crosses were inked across his face, an eye at the center of each, like some bizarre clown’s makeup.

“I don’t care. What. Did. You. Say?”

“I said, the name of the Apostate who broke the Mississippi line was named Michael Raguel Abaddon. You know, I actually came to look for you? Providence itself that we met at the first stop.”

“Why?”

“Because, between us, you’re looking at the last real Hunters south of Kansas.”

He’d never heard of a Brother Cassidy, let alone a ‘Real Hunter’ by the name. You sure about that? You don’t remember-

“Cassius the Cad. That you?”

The man’s face shifted from neutral, to anger, to shame, to a more positive look.

“Been so long since I heard that name, almost forgot it. You’ve been out of the loop.”

“Apparently. You’re saying we’re all that’s left?”

Brother Cassidy took out a cigarillo and put it in the corner of his mouth.

“Trying to gauge how long you’ve been out. Hear a whisper about the Louisiana Offensive?”

“Not a word.”

He lit the cigarillo, inhaled, and then sighed. He swiped a hand over his face.

“Generals got it into their heads that holding the line had become so easy that they could push a little. So they did. Nothing happened. They figured they could push a lot. So, they hired every Hunter who’d take four hundred a week, which was everyone who heard the offer. Went into the bog, and never came back. Well, not until recently.”

Cassidy offered his cigarillo. Tommy waved him off. The headache was still throbbing at the center of his brain.

The waitress stepped over the scattered weapons and delivered a decently sized bottle, then left without a word. Instantly, Tommy grabbed it and swigged two gulps of it, swallowing several times. It went down like dehydrated spit.

Cassidy raised an eyebrow “Whiskey?”

“Laudanum.”

Cassidy looked taken aback for a moment. Then he chuckled.

Tommy almost smirked. “It’s the only thing that does the trick any more. More places hurt than don’t, these days.”

“Yeah, I feel that. Always heard that you were the toughest of us, but I always figured that it was people talking you up.”

“Hear anything else about me?”

“Yeah. You’re a shit shot with a rifle, only show up if there’s a paycheck, and prefer your lonesome.”

The laudanum finally hit his nervous system. The ball of molten lead in his head lost its heat. His demeanor loosened.

“Seems you’ve been talking to people who know me.”

“Well, if that’s right, I’ve got a proposal for you.”

Cassidy drew close. His cigarillo burned down to his lips.

“The United States has put a bounty of two-hundred-thousand dollars on the head of the Apostate Michael Raguel Abaddon, along with enough land to cede from the Union, if that’s where your inclinations lie.”

There was a pregnant moment while he digested that. Cassidy looked into his eyes, then leaned back, satisfied.

“You ever lay eyes on him?”

Apostates were the strongest servants of the Profanity. Something about people joining willingly let it make them all the more powerful. Some were massive beasts, others were humming swarms of locusts, others still remained human, but their minds were filled with things that weren’t of the world.

“Talked with a man that did. Called him the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, a vision of heaven itself. He had to be dragged away, and bit his own tongue off after he was told that he’d never see him again.”

“That’s new.”

“I think Michael is something new, entirely. I think the Profanity called on one of its greatest servants.”

Cassidy’s eyes took on a strange light.

“I think Michael Raguel Abaddon is a demon.”

Tommy took that in for a second. Well, the Light wanted him dead well enough. Maybe he’s right. 

“S’at why you’re hunting him?”

“Does it matter?”

“Probably, but it don’t matter to me. You got your tools with you?”

Cassidy looked at him strangely. “Yeah, but I don’t have a horse.”

“Horses hate me anyway, come along.”

He grabbed the bottle, and walked over to the man wearing a train conductor uniform.

“Name your price for taking two people to the border of Louisiana.”

The man looked tremulous. “Nothing. Nothing and never.”

“Name your price for turning the train around and showing someone else how to drive it to the border of Louisiana.”

The man looked aghast. “I’d be shot for treason! This train’s been requisitioned!”

Tommy sighed and walked over to the nearest pistol that lay on the ground. He walked back over, and pressed it to the man’s head, before cocking the hammer back.

“Name your price, subtracting how much you value your life.”