“Lucifer's prickly nipples! What in the world is all that racket?"

Sadie Carson, heiress to the now-bankrupt Panhandle Mining Corporation—the corporation with deeded ownership of Fort Alamo—shoved aside the swinging saloon doors and froze in place. The night sky was lit up like sunrise. Oh, my lord! Standing on the deck of the Starlight Saloon with a half-finished triple shot of whiskey clenched in her trembling fist, she struggled to come to terms with what she was seeing. It took a moment for her sleep-deprived brain to process what her eyes were showing her.

Glowing fragments of charred wood drifted on the ash-laden breeze like fireflies. Their sporadic flashing revealed a layer of black soot clinging to the walls, invoking traumatizing memories of heavily tanned faces smeared with equal parts blood and warpaint. Sadie took a deep breath and weathered a wave of anxiety induced by the unexpected, and painful recollection. It took everything she had to resist a powerful desire to run home screaming and hide under her bed.

Overheated metal fragments were scattered everywhere Sadie looked, flickering like tiny stars descended from the heavens, driven by a single-minded desire to wallow in this particular stretch of occupied mud.

Sizzling like bacon in a frying pan, the metallic meteorites released thin streamers of gray smog that bloomed skyward, transforming the surroundings into a field of ashen saplings. Each and every one grasped at the moon, as if their fading spirits were desperate to return from whence they came. Ghostly branches began to creep up and outwards. Their foliage blossomed into a foggy veil that encapsulated the town, alternating between shades of yellow and orange as it refracted the light from the flames burning outside of the fort.

At a glance, of the buildings Sadie had a clear view of—mainly those closest to the gate—most were in need of one form of repair or another. A growl rumbled out of her throat. Panels of wooden siding were peppered with small holes. One out of every three windows were shattered. The replacements, she knew, would not come cheap. She took solace in the fact that no oil lamps had been broken.

Her financial losses aside, the populace of Fort Alamo, her final place of refuge in this uncaring world, was in better shape, at least physically. But not by much. They were alive, but an unprecedented state of madness had taken root within nearly all of them. Sadie half-expected them to start tearing into one another like savage animals. A whisper in the back of her mind insisted that perhaps it would be for the best if they hurried up and got it over with.

From what Sadie could tell, there were surprisingly few injuries. Ms. Wyatt was fussing at her husband Sawyer as she practically ripped the bloodstained shirt right off of his chest and wrapped it around his head. By the looks of it he had taken a pretty nasty whack to his bald noggin. Minor bumps and burns were a widespread occurrence. People that she'd seen stand firm in the face of Comanche raids and outlaw gangs were running around in an aimless frenzy, man and woman alike rushing about in haphazard circles while accomplishing very little of note. Much like a bunch of headless chickens.

As understanding set in, she elicited another string of unladylike curses, much to the amusement of the scantily clad, and remarkably homely brunette prostitute splayed out on a wooden bench to her left.

The soiled dove in question seemed unconcerned that her only source of income was currently on full display, her saggy purple clam visible to anyone who had the misfortune of glancing in her direction. Nor was she fazed by the mayhem taking place in the streets. To Sadie's immense displeasure, this crater-faced trollop was far more interested in the uncharacteristically colorful outbursts being uttered by the town's unofficial mayor.

Bloodshot eyes misty and unfocused, the unsightly woman gasped. Craning her neck at an awkward angle, she threw a mock-horrified look towards the sound of Sadie's voice, making a swift cross over her heart at the same time. “Why, Missus Sadie! Them vulgar words is beneath such a cultured and refined woman as yourself. You almost sound like…” She snorted like a pig and burped, “'scuse me. Ya' sounded like my daddy!” She grabbed the hem of her cheap dress and pulled it up to her chin as if it were a comforter. Noticing the judgmental glare on Sadie's angular face, she failed to stifle a giggle.

What was her name again? Mary? Marie? In the end, Sadie decided she didn't actually care. She had far more important concerns and no intention of paying any further attention to the worthless ramblings of some opium-addled floozy airing out her bruised and beaten twat in public.

A tempest of conflicting emotions whirled within her as she turned her back on that wretched woman, a seething maelstrom of pity and resentment chipping away at her willpower one revolution at a time. Heart galloping in her chest like a herd of wild stallions, Sadie resisted the growing urge to throttle some sense into that foul creature and stared out over the last of her late husband's holdings.

At a complete loss as to what was going on, she gripped the rough-cut wooden railing with her free hand and squeezed until she thought her knuckles would burst through the skin. Although Sadie knew physical violence wasn't always the answer, the overwhelming desire to choke a bitch had to be vented somehow or she might very well succumb to the urges. It wouldn't be the first time.

Focus! What can we do to help?

The sheer pandemonium surging through the streets was a glaring testament to just how widespread and horrific the rumors of this evil 'System' and its mandatory quests were.

Like everyone else, Sadie hadn't ever heard of a beast wave before that very morning. After reading it first-hand the context was more than enough to terrify her. If her town was going to have even the slightest chance to survive, every able-bodied resident was going to have to take up arms and fight for their lives.

Which was easier said than done.

The arrival of whatever this 'System' was supposed to be had swiftly created an undercurrent of unease and distrust that spread amongst the population like a swarm of webworms overtaking an apple orchard. Ever since those strange screens had appeared earlier that morning, it had required more than a fair amount of effort on Sadie's part to keep the mostly illiterate townsfolk from fleeing for the hills with whatever they could carry strapped to their backs.

Against her wishes, those few who could read took to dealing out information like some kind of second-hand rumor brokers, leading to poorly translated details being whispered to anyone willing to listen.

Fiction became fact. Hushed conversations once rooted in truth became obscured, further blown out of proportion as word traveled from one gossip to the next. Each retelling added further embellishments, until finally the whole fort was a powder keg of distrust one more exaggerated detail away from self-destructing.

Sadie did not care who the culprit was. All she knew was that someone was going to pay dearly for this. Be it the Comanches, Tejanos, or whatever in the world a System was. Anyone, or anything brave enough to try to take anything else away from her was free to pry the spoils from her cold, dead fingers.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

She wasn't sure who was responsible just yet but had every intention to figure it out. Right now, her gut feeling was telling her this System and its demons were almost certainly at fault for her current misfortunes. It was the only option that made a lick of sense.

For one, the Comanche were a bunch of half-naked savages who lived like wild animals. From her understanding, those godless heathens lived in huts cobbled together out of animal hides. They made fire by rubbing two sticks together! It was impossible to imagine that whatever caused the hellscape outside her gates was done by Indians. No, this was far beyond anything they were capable of.

The Tejanos, on the other hand, were always a possibility. With close ties to the Mexican government, they definitely had access to explosives. Not to mention their decade-long desire to retake the fort. A desire they had failed to realize more than a dozen times already. However, the lack of gunfire and cannonballs falling from above made Sadie seriously doubt they were involved this time.

Destruction was widespread, but nowhere near the scale of what she would expect from a proper military bombardment. The majority of the damage seemed to be focused on the general store, as well as the newly built town hall. Both had been hit the hardest and were likewise closest to the gate.

Luckily, business was abysmal at this hour, and the town hall had yet to be opened to the public. Both unoccupied structures were heavily damaged, walls and roofs alike emitting clouds of steam as embedded pieces of orange shrapnel brought the water particles trapped in the porous wood surfaces to a rapid boil.

Had it not rained the night before, she knew things would've been far worse. Rather than appreciating the small gift from above, that realization was a chilling reminder of her own ineptitude as a leader. If not for a coincidental act of nature, everything and everyone she had promised to protect would have already been reduced to cinders.

Unable to resist, Sadie doubled down her efforts and gripped the wooden post so hard her fingernails dug shallow furrows into the solid oak. An amber wave of whiskey sloshed over the rim of her glass, staining her favorite dress. A jagged grin split her face like a crescent-shaped knife wound. She began to giggle, which enticed the unappealing woman sprawled out behind her to join in.

A part of Sadie that she feared and distrusted relished the idea of her hand succumbing to the pressure and breaking into a thousand pieces. Her attraction to pain, an oddity that nobody seemed willing to understand, let alone accept, was something she had learned at a young age was something better kept hidden from her parents, as well as her peers. Especially her peers.

Fueled by a geyser of inner turmoil, those incessant whispers were gaining intensity.

Paranoia and anger seethed in the pit of her stomach, a burbling quagmire of lingering doubts and well-founded fears that she wished to rid herself of, yet couldn't seem to escape. A hundred different scenarios danced through her mind, each envisioned threat another dried log tossed onto the flames licking away at her self-control, increasing the sense that she was cornered. Trapped.

The walls that had for so long brought her such a rare feeling of security now loomed above her, towering like the oppressive fences of a prison. This couldn't go unanswered. Although many of them wouldn't admit to it, these people depended on her for their continued survival.

This can't be happening. Please God! I can't do this again…

Enraged by the bedlam unfolding within her final place of refuge, it took everything Sadie had to remain levelheaded. She bit the inside of her cheek. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth, eliciting a wave of confusing emotions that, while just as unsettling as ever, helped to sooth her growing ire.

The general populace was in a state of shock, but she felt a flush of pride color her cheeks pink when she saw her current fling, Sam, lugging wooden pails filled with water through the street, dousing the worst of the shrapnel before it had a chance to reignite.

As her eyes scanned the crowd, they finally settled on a pair of human-shaped shadows standing in the mouth of the gate, completely exposing themselves to whatever was out there. They were just… standing there, showing no signs of doing the sensible thing and closing the gates. “I'm surrounded by idiots!" Although Sadie couldn't tell who they were, she did recognize the drunken old cheapskate ambling towards them. His beard was unmistakable.

She took in the ruins of Schaffner's General Store and groaned. Hopefully, whoever those idiots were had the patience to deal with an intoxicated old man who'd just suffered a massive financial setback. Upon further consideration, she decided the best thing for everyone involved would be to ask Sam to escort Mr. Schaffner home before he got out of control.

Despite the chaos, a casual wave was all it took to gain Sam's attention. He wasn't the greatest conversationalist, but his dedication was unflappable. She eyed his sweaty, ash-streaked features, fighting back a sudden urge to tear his clothes off him right then and there. If the end was upon them all, what was the use in remaining modest?

Sadie's heart quivered like a lovesick teen as her eyes met Sam's. She pointed towards the retreating form of Mr. Schaffner. “Take that old fool home before he does something stupid."

Sam looked towards the gate and gave her a knowing smile. “Don't you worry that pretty little head of your's, Missus Sadie. I'll get this all under control and we'll be back to bed in no time."

Unable to resist, Sadie downed the remainder of her whiskey in a single gulp, slammed the empty glass down on the handrail with a resounding clink and threw herself into Sam's arms.

***

After wandering aimlessly for more than half of his life, Sam Clemins had finally stumbled onto something he'd thought to be forever beyond his grasp. True happiness. While he didn't personally give a frog's wet fart about the town of Fort Alamo, this was where he had met Missus Sadie. It was her home, and she cared enough about it for them both. That was all the reason he needed to do anything he could to help.

Fueled by an especially passionate kiss that tasted of whiskey and cinnamon, not to forget the promise that more was soon to come, Sam tossed his wooden pails back into the town's only horse trough and retrieved his rifle from where he'd hid it in the shadows between the Starlight Saloon and the post office. No longer worried the town was in immediate danger of burning down, Sam focused all of his attention on the task he'd been given and plodded towards the gate with ankle-deep mud sucking at his boots.

When Sam saw Mr. Schaffner beginning to get aggressive, he reached the end of his short fuse and began to shout. Only to have his indelicately delivered, but quite rational demands fall upon uncaring ears. “We're under attack! Quit pissin' an' moanin' an' close them gah-damn gates!" Sam bellowed, his scratchy voice that of a middle-aged man who'd spent the best years of his life drinking whiskey like water and smoking way too many cigarettes.

The words had barely cleared Sam's lips when he witnessed Mr. Schaffner eat a mean right hook and collapse into a motionless heap. Dammit! I don't have time for this mess!

***

Bill winced as he pulled three of Mr. Schaffner's discolored teeth out of his knuckles. “I'd trade my left nut for some peroxide and Neosporin right about now…” he complained, lamenting his inability to access even the most basic of modern conveniences.

Like Hell you will! Better get to findin' yer own damn body 'fore you go making any crazy promises. I'm only gonna warn ya' the one time. My chin warmers ain't up for trade, Bill.

“Here, you can have these back,” Bill said, opening his fist and dropping Mr. Schaffner's dislodged teeth in the mud by his snoring face.

Bill lifted his eyes just in time to see a familiar figure armed with a rifle marching towards him.

“Alright now, I'm sure he deserved it, but don't you hit him again!" the red-bearded figure suddenly demanded, his reedy voice cracking under the strain, abused vocal cords emitting a warbling shriek that grated on Bill's senses.

It sounded uncannily familiar to a dying crow using the last of its strength to squawk out its ire while dragging hardened claws against a chalkboard. Unpleasant to say the least.

You jus' keep yer gob shut and let me do the talkin'. Understood? Bill took one look at the barrel pointed at his face and nodded his agreement.