The discovery of a hidden cache of dynamite had Bill's mind racing laps as a slew of new possibilities opened up before him. He had never handled live explosives before–which was more than a little nerve wracking upon first consideration–but aside from the drastically increased payload, blowing up a few sticks of dynamite couldn't really be all that different from setting off fireworks right? From a purely visual perspective, they basically looked like foot long M80s. The more he thought about it, the more Bill felt confident he could limit the risks of blowing his hands off as long as he followed proper firework protocol and obeyed common sense.
The how of it was easy enough–assuming that Bill could find some matches–but the why had him feeling increasingly uncomfortable. The thought of using sticks of dynamite to vaporize the approaching buffalo herd left him with a bad taste in his mouth. The concentrated power contained within those small red tubes held the potential to turn the tide of the town's dire situation. At the same time, this particularly messy method of gaining experience would also violate practically every animal rights law in existence. Shooting them was one thing, but this… seemed a little overboard.
Where's yer sense of adventure, Bill? No use makin' a fuss over it. Dynamite huntin' ain't nothin' special. Jus' two easy steps to success! Light up the fuse, and then run fer the hills!
That had to be a joke, right? "Uhh… yeah. No thanks. I'll go ahead and sit this one out." Bill snorted. Yeah right. Not happening. "Don't get me wrong, it's a great idea. Except for that whole part where it seems like you actually expect me to try to run away from an explosion on this busted ass hip."
Unless, of course, Wild Bill was going to come out of hiding and run this rodeo himself. If that was the case, Bill had no problem with handing over control of this wretched body. Being relegated to isolation in that strange space in his mind wasn't ideal, but at least it would provide him with a brief respite from the constant pain, and the horrific feeling of maggots wriggling their way in and out of his flesh only to tumble down his pants leg. If things kept going at this rate it wouldn't be long before he was leaving behind a trail of bugs.
***
While Bill pondered the morality of dynamiting a bunch of buffaloes back to the stone age, Nero was eyeing the crate of narrow red tubes with a healthy dose of apprehension. Now that he knew Massa Murdock's tall tales of a 'killer box' were nothing but a deterrent, he felt a growing sense of curiosity welling up. The stories he had heard about dynamite being used to blast holes through solid stone were enough to instill him with a healthy respect for its destructive capabilities.
With this, the entire town's chances of surviving had just increased by leaps and bounds. The buffaloes… not so much. Although Nero was eager to see dynamite in action, he immediately understood the need for a well-thought-out plan. If done right, he saw no reason why a few well-placed explosions wouldn't solve his most pressing concern. Toss in a few handfuls of that grapeshot and not only would the resulting blast thin out the herd, but the shrapnel might also send the survivors stampeding off in the opposite direction.
At the same time, a single mistake would very likely be the last thing he ever did.
***
After scouring the outside of the carriage for any hidden goodies and finding two oil lanterns hanging from hooks on opposite sides of the driver seat, as well as a burlap sack containing some kind of leathery jerky with a heavy crusting of raw salt and several full water skins, Bill's curiosity finally got the better of him. He gulped down as much water as his stomach could handle as he made his way back to the carriage door, determined to investigate its interior, only to have his progress halted by Nero. Thin arms spread wide, Nero stepped out of the shadows and blocked the door. Curiously, his expression was one of sheer terror. He implored Bill to reconsider, his voice a caustic amalgamation of fear and loathing.
"Mr. Bill, I… I don't mean to cause no trouble, but I reckon you don't wanna go in there," Nero cautioned, his eyes downcast, voice quivering. "Ain't nothin' good waitin' for you."
The cautionary advice only increased Bill's curiosity.
Bill placed a hand on Nero's shoulder and moved him aside, gripped the carriage door's horseshoe-shaped handle with both hands and pulled. It was hot to the touch. The hinges squealed in protest as Bill tugged on the carriage door, the metallic shriek adding an eerie undertone to the already tense atmosphere. The door resisted his efforts, as if reluctant to reveal the secrets concealed within. A gust of wind whistled between gaps in the wood paneling, carrying with it a chill that seemed to seep into Bill's bones, amplifying his sense of unease.
With a final surge of determination, the door gave way, revealing the pitch-black interior of the carriage. Bill stumbled backwards and would've fallen down if not for his firm grip on the door handle, and Nero placing a stabilizing hand in the middle of his back. The claustrophobia-inducing space emitted waves of heat that caused Bill to flinch away, the impenetrable darkness within broken only by the faint flickering of moonlight peeking through the doorway. As Bill's eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, the scene that unfolded before him was like stepping into a twisted nightmare.
Can you imagine ridin' to the gallows in one of these humid shit boxes?
Bill had no desire to imagine himself being stuck in such a horrid position. Rusted chains dangled ominously from the ceiling, their links tarnished with misuse and the passage of time. They swung gently, as if guided by an unseen presence, the faint motions filling the dark room with a ghostly rattling. A pungent odor assaulted his senses—a stomach twisting combination of mold, dampness, and something far more sinister. The thought of being trapped within these wretched confines for any amount of time sent a shiver down his spine.
The interior of the carriage bore all the hallmarks one would expect from an unkempt, primitive cop car. Suspicious stains of unknown origin marred the walls and floor, hinting at the untold number of doomed passengers that had found themselves chained up within these cramped confines. When Bill stuck his head through the threshold, the air grew impossibly thick with the scent of rotting meat. The familiar cloying stench was so powerful that he could taste it.
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When he turned his head to the left, his gaze fell upon a ghastly sight: the desiccated remains of what had likely once been a wanted criminal. "Jesus christ…" The former outlaw was little more than a mummified skeleton wearing ragged overalls. It was shackled by the wrists, dangling limply from a pair of manacles fastened to a metal bar running the full length of the ceiling.
Think yer stat points'll save him too? Wild Bill chuckled, his nonchalant attitude grating on Bill's nerves.
Bill's retort got stuck in his throat, revulsion and pity threatening to overwhelm him. It felt as though the sightless gaze of the carriage's lone occupant was a physical weight pressing down on his shoulders, threatening to crush him under its jealousy of all who retained the gift of life. Yet, despite the tendrils of fear spreading throughout his innards, he couldn't get himself to tear his eyes away from the macabre spectacle.
Lingering at the threshold of the carriage, Nero observed as the disbelief etched on Bill's face rapidly decayed into disgust, and finally a pained look of torment."I tried to warn you, Mr. Bill. Ain't nothin' good waitin' for you in there. Best thing we can do for that poor soul is to burn this cursed box to the ground." His voice trembled with a mixture of concern and loathing.
Nero's voice having broken his trance, Bill pulled his head back and slammed the rickety door shut, sealing away the horrors hidden within. The sound reverberated through the surroundings, a resounding clap that echoed back at him like a round of phantom applause. As Bill's gaze fell upon the closed door of the carriage, he felt an intense desire to distance himself from the suffocating darkness that seemed to seep from within. He could almost hear anguished cries echoing through the crevices, carried on a spectral breeze that only he could feel.
Taking a deep breath to steady his racing heart, Bill stepped away from the room of death and turned to face Nero, his eyes shining with determination. And a touch of madness. He spoke in a low, feverish tone, his face glistening with sweat as he rapidly outlined an audacious plan.
Now that's what I call a plan! Who're you and whut have you done with that do-gooder Bill?
***
Although initially skeptical, Nero understood that the desperate nature of their situation required a bold move to turn the tide. The odds were already stacked against them, all options had to be considered. Even those as risky as what was being proposed by Mr. Bill. They needed any advantage they could find and while risky, this seemed like a good place to start. He nodded slowly, a glimmer of excitement shining in his eyes.
"I reckon that just might work," Nero conceded, his voice tinged with a combination of fear and determination. "But… Mr. Bill, we need to be careful. One wrong move and we could be blown to smithereens."
***
A smile tugged at the corners of Bill's lips as he clapped Nero on the back. "That's the spirit, partner. We'll show the System, and those damn buffalo just what we're made of." He realized how much he had just sounded like Wild Bill and fell silent, his nervous excitement replaced with red-faced embarrassment.
With the plan laid out, they quickly made the necessary preparations. Nero piled their rifles, cases of bullets, and the rest of their loot outside the gate while Bill lugged the wooden box of dynamite back to the carriage, opening the door just long enough to set the crate on the floor. At the last minute, he got another bright idea and set the box of grapeshot on top of the exposed dynamite. After determining which of the two oil lanterns contained more fuel, he unscrewed its glass top and poured a thin trail of oil that led from the fuses, out the door and along the wall, all the way to the rear of the carriage. As a final 'fuck you' he grabbed a powder horn out of the grass and used it to pepper the pungent oil with a layer of black powder.
Well paint my nails and call me Susan! Whut's gotten into you, Bill? You just made the world's biggest grenade! I'm gettin' all goosebumpy!
The first phase of his plan completed, Bill rolled his eyes at Wild Bill's nonsensical rambling and took the top off his remaining lamp, pouring half of its meager oil reserves into the one he'd just emptied. Lids secured; a few clicks of a metal ring created the necessary sparks needed to ignite the wicks. Meanwhile, Nero took hold of the reins and guided the horses forward, his lanky frame illuminated by the harsh light the unhooded lanterns emitted. The wheels of the carriage creaked and groaned as they trundled across the uneven terrain. Each jolt carried the risk of a premature detonation, the anxiety threatening to send the contents of Bill’s stomach spewing out. Heedless of Bill’s increasing levels of distress, Nero pressed on, fueled by fear and a powerful desire to make himself useful.
As the carriage neared the leading edge of the buffalo herd, the massive beasts began to grow agitated. Bill lifted his lanterns, his confidence wavering as the light fell on what had to be hundreds of buffaloes. The herd stretched across the horizon; their fluffy bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. The intrusive light did little to improve their attitude. As one, the entire herd turned to face the source of the disturbance, their nostrils flaring out, thunderous hoofbeats shaking the ground he stood upon. Standing opposite of all those aggressive piles of uncooked steak, Bill felt a surge of adrenaline course through his veins. His stomach growled.
The air crackled with anticipation, each passing second heightening the tension that was already thick enough to spread on toast.
His horsemanship on full display, Nero leapt from one harness to the next, seemingly uninhibited by the darkness as he unhitched the horses from their harnesses and slapped their hindquarters, inviting them to flee from the impending explosion. Once he unhooked the last of Slavin’ Dave Murdock's overworked horses–a bony old black and white mare that stood nearly as tall as he was–and gave it a good whack on the rump to send it chasing off after the others, he turned and sprinted back towards Bill, waving his arms like a windmill while the pursuing buffaloes overtook the carriage.
Bill knew that it was now or never.
With a nod of silent agreement, Bill placed a lantern in Nero’s hand. Their eyes met, the flickering flames casting wavering shadows that danced across their faces. They shared a moment of quiet suspense, countless unspoken worries evident in their wide-eyed gazes.
"Let's get this over with on the count of three," Bill said, his voice projecting a sense of confidence that belied the internal panic threatening to shake his resolve. Nero exhaled a deep breath and grimaced.
"One... two... three!"
In perfect unison, Bill and Nero hurled their oil lamps at, as Wild Bill dubbed it, the world’s biggest grenade.