Been a long summer...

Here's something I just finished up. Hope you enjoy. More shorts are bound to come, some sooner, others later. Novels still in progress.

Welcome to Barrow

The only thing left of him was desert sand and perpetual motion. One foot in front of the next, he stalked in the wake of the afternoon sun as it fell towards the horizon. The hard clay underfoot reflected the heat back up at him, but the brim of his hat provided his eye a measure of shade and the desperate hope that the next time he tilted his head back, it would reveal the edge of town.

The shadow of a bird slid across the ground, crossing his path. His head leveled and he saw the heat shimmering off of the desert floor, blurring a dozen squat shapes in the distance. Had he the moisture left in his mouth, he might have used it to slide a low whistle off his lips.

Before he could confirm they were buildings, he heard the report of gunfire. He couldn't tell how many shots, not that he would have trusted himself at this distance, but it was a volley, specifically rifles if he had to lay money on it. His hands had drifted to the handles of his handguns, but he wouldn't have had the strength or speed to use them. A dry rattle from his throat imitated a chuckle as he realized that even half dead his reflexes were still working properly.

Just as he was able to make out the town properly, the shadow of the bird slid back across the ground, wings rustling as it came to light on a sign driven into the cracked dirt.

Welcome to Barrow, proclaimed the cracked and peeling painted white letters. The crow attached to the shadow squawked loudly, then shifted slightly from side to side before flying off once again. His feet carried him past the sign, just as they had across the torturous miles of the journey since his horse had died.



Each step made the buildings grow taller and the shadows longer. When he walked steadily past the first building, he saw the people. Wide eyes and closed mouths on the old men and women who scurried for cover behind doors told him part of the story. The gang of young men with rifles and cocksure expressions told him the rest.

Nearby, a tall, gaunt man in black was struggling under the shadow of a bloody whipping post, attempting to load the remains of a body into a wagon. He walked past, his one good eye set on the water barrel sitting next to the well not so far from the center of the buildings. It was fat and swollen from having been recently filled. His steps finally ended as he stood in front of it, letting himself exhale deeply in satisfaction as he removed his hat.

The town remained silent save for the rumbling whispers of the riflemen, who watched him intently and talked amongst themselves. His hand broke the cool surface of the water and he took a handful up to his face, letting the precious little he could hold in his hand brush across his lips and into his mouth. There wasn't enough left to slide down his throat, it was just enough to wet the inside.

It felt good. He was still very weak, but he felt better now, more like he should. He slowly took a few more handfuls, sipping the first few and then rubbing his face and neck with the rest. He heard rough chuckles from the riflemen. One of them broke from the pack and was walking towards him.

"Don't drink it all there, stranger. That water belongs to Mr. Haggard."

"I'm a bit thirsty," he said, his throat still raw.

"I don't reckon I give a bucket of rat piss about whether or not you are thirsty or not. Lot of people round here are thirsty. But it's up to us to make sure no thirsty people steal Mr. Haggard's property," the rifleman said.

"You the sheriff?" he asked.

"Deputy," remarked the rifleman, moving his jacket to the side in order to flash the bright silver badge pinned to his vest. "Mr. Haggard is the Sheriff."

"I suspect that makes it easy for your boss to enforce his property rights," he said, gently replacing the hat on the top of his head.

"Looks like you can see the truth well enough with that one good eye," the deputy remarked. He turned to study the deputy's smug expression. An angry red line ran down one cheek, a badly healed knife wound from some time back, he guessed.

"I'll let you off with a warning this time, and a small fine," the deputy said, holding out a calloused hand, while leaning his rifle in the crook of his arm. He sized the deputy up once with his good eye.

"I'm out of money," he said.

"Does it look like I care about your personal problems?" scar-cheek chided.

With a sigh and a slight shrug, he tugged at the gold chain in his waistcoat. A shiny watch came loose and he held it up to sparkle in the bright afternoon sun.

"Will this do?" he asked. The deputy smiled wide at the suggestion, and reached out his hand.

"Hang on, let me set it for you," he said, flipping open the case of the pocket watch. Looking up at the rooftops, he spotted the town's clock, in a stunted tower on top of a building so utilitarian, it had to be the general store. He pulled at the stem of the watch, twisting several times before pushing it back into place. He carefully unclipped the chain from his waistcoat and extended his hand, dropping the timepiece into scar-cheek's hand.

"Mighty neighborly of you. Now get along and don't make no more trouble," scar-cheek said with a dismissive gesture. Turning, he held up the watch for all his fellow deputies to see. The loss of the watch was unfortunate, but he had survived the desert, which was a good way to keep things in perspective. As he walked to the saloon, he ignored the stares from the silent townsfolk, those who dared to stare out from behind the safety of their own windows.

On the side of the street he crossed to, a homely looking woman pulled a tiny child closer to her, attempting to tuck it behind her legs. The small child was the first person he'd seen that didn't stare with fear, but curiosity and wonderment instead. He held up a tiny fist, clutching it in an attempt to wave. He saw the boy's hand, a malformed thing that looked as if the last two digits had never grown apart. The skin, too, was oddly colored and looked to be peeling, much like that of a molting snake.

The sight of it tugged at the heart that should have been hardened against such things. He made a polite nod back, fighting against the gnawing hunger in his gut and the painful jolt in the space where his left eye should have been. The mother spun the boy around, in a rush to be anywhere other than here at that moment.

The hinged doors of the saloon creaked open, then slapped together behind him as he crossed the dirty floor to the counter. There wasn't anyone sitting there, but a bartender wiped at the wooden top as if he intended to polish right through to the other side. He walked up and signaled for a beer. The bartender huffed and pulled a glass from underneath, sloppily filling the glass before sliding in front of him.

"No tabs for strangers," the barkeep said, his bristly mustache twitching as the man tried to find a comfortable scowl to wear.

"Look at that, I found a coin, after all," he said, slipping a few silver coins beside the glass. The barkeep let go his grip on the glass and snatched them up before moving away. He cast a look back at the door, thinking of the watch he'd left in the deputy's hand.

Shrugging again, he picked up the glass of beer and took a sip. It was watered down, but that was what he was hoping for. He downed half the glass quickly. Behind him, he heard the whir and click of the music box coming to life. A warbling voice was accompanied by the plink of piano keys, sounding like it had been strained through a tin can.

"Seems like a waste of power, don't it," came a voice from behind. He didn't bother to turn around, but it didn't matter. The position at the counter next to him became occupied by a disheveled sack of a man, all of his clothes ill-fitting and in disrepair. "The trouble of making 'lectricity for the worst damn song on that whole songbox."

It was hard to tell the man's age, must of which must have been due to the sad state of his condition. His new bar companion smelled as if he'd just crawled out a gutter.

"Another two here," he said, putting down more silver for the barkeep. Grumbling to himself, the barkeep reluctantly drew out two more glasses and filled them, swapping them for the shining coins on the well-polished countertop.

"Why, mighty kind of you, stranger!" the drunk exclaimed, sweeping up a beer before even being offered. "And don't you mind old Thomas there. We don't get many strangers in town."

"You are a bit off the beaten path," he said, finishing his first beer with a long swig. He set that to the side and pulled the second one closer.

"Well, Mr. Haggard do enjoy his privacy. Wait, wait, my apologies... Not just Mr. Haggard, the Right Honorable Reverend Doctor Sheriff MISTER Ezekiel Haggard," the old drunk said, raising his glass in the air in a mock toast. "To the Savior of Barrow!"

He tilted his second drink towards the bold and seemingly only objector to the status quo before taking a sip of it. His drinking companion took a much longer draught.

"Jeremiah Tottleborne," was the introduction that followed the consumption of half the man's beer.

"Mark Webley," he replied, taking his hat off for the first time since he'd arrived in town.

"Well, Mr. Mark Webley, what are you here for? Aside from my personal diatribes on the EFFICIENT MACHINE THAT IS BARROW POLITICS!" Jeremiah yelled the last part, at everyone in the bar except him. "Was it our scenic water barrel or our blatant disregard for ETHICAL ACCOUNTABILITY?"

He noticed that no one bothered to try and meet Jeremiah's pointed stares.

"The barrel is nice, though I didn't come for it," he said. "Just happened to be the closest place to where my horse died."

"If this was the closest, you must have either been running from trouble..." Jeremiah leveled his gaze at him. "...or toward it."

"Can't a man just be taking a ride to clear his own head?"

"You must have had a lot to clear out!" Jeremiah exclaimed before erupting in a wheezing laugh. He smirked in response and took another sip of his beer.

"The real joke is that you'll have plenty of time here to clear the rest out," Jeremiah said, all trace of mirth eliminated from his voice.

"Oh?"

"You won't find a horse here you can buy. The town's magnanimous benefactor has the only ones for sale," Jeremiah said grimly. "And he won't sell any. Many others have asked."

"He turned them down?" He asked.

"He turned them into raving drunks that rant about unfair political treatment," Jeremiah replied, downing the rest of his own beer in a few gulps. "And I'm one of the lucky ones..."

The doors of the saloon swung open. He glanced up to the mirror hanging behind the bar, catching sight of the gang of deputies that had harassed him outside, including the one with the scar on his cheek. They had brought someone with them, someone that stood over the tallest of them by a good foot. His face looked slightly off, as if was too chiseled, too perfect, save for the fact that his ears were tiny and crudely shaped things. In the mirror, he saw scar-cheek point towards the bar.

"That is Ezekiel's son," Jeremiah said. "Thank you for the drink, son. If you got any luck on you, might want to keep it close at hand." The old drunk slipped away quietly, leaving him at the bar as the large man walked over.

Webley signaled the barkeep for another beer and then rubbed at the socket underneath where his left eye used to be. A thick hand slapped the counter of the bar, slowly withdrawing to reveal the watch he had given scar-cheek. Another hand gripped his shoulder. It felt as if his bones were fragile things under that grip, like they would give at any second should the large man give the slightest more pressure.

"Where'd you get this watch?" the large man growled with all the authenticity of a wild bear.

He winced under the pressure and looked up in the mirror again. Beneath the man's wild, angry eyes, almost hidden by the bandana around his neck was a patch of skin, bluish green in color, like an angry bruise.

"Answer the question," the brute said coldly, tightening the grip on his shoulder. His bones felt hot from the pressure, like they were ready to snap.

"It was given to me," he said.

"This is my Pappy's watch," the big man said, turning the watch over to show the embossed letters on the underside. "E and H. That's Ezekiel Haggard. That's the way he has it on all his things. It belongs to my Pappy! How'd you get it?"

"You heard me the first time," he said. He was turned abruptly as the anvil sized right fist of the large man found a place to land on his jaw. It was enough to send him flying from the counter, several feet back to crash into one of the bar tables. The bear of a man followed him while the deputies cheered him on.

"Let him have it, Junior!" one of them cried.

"Put out his other eye!" cried scar-cheek.

He staggered up, the side of his face feeling busted up like a bag of oats, only loosely contained by his skin. Junior was already upon him, a quick left setting up another strong right punch. He tried to get an arm up to block it, but Junior was too strong. He went sideways again, knocking over another table, spilling an abandoned mug of beer. The resident of the table had fled as soon as the first fist flew.

He considered going for his guns, but he was at a disadvantage on the ground, on his back and in plain sight of so many eager riflemen. Thankfully Junior was happy to help him back to his feet.

"Where'd you get it?" Junior asked again, one hand tightly clenching his shirt near the neck, the other fist poised for another hit.

"Truth don't change," he said. "It was given to me." The answer caused a growl to build up in Junior's throat, making his face turn red. The fist came in again, but this time he was ready for it. It staggered him, but he was able to keep his feet this time. Hands went to the handles of his revolvers as his head came up level. In rapid succession, the riflemen brought up their own weapons, levers actioned and hammers cocked. He didn't plan to get gunned down like this, but the action was enough to give Junior pause.

"You draw them guns and you'll be dead before you pull the trigger," Junior threatened.

"You willing to wager that fat head of yours on that fact?" he asked, checking his grip on the pistols. Junior tried to think it out, obviously at a disadvantage. The room fell still while the big man tried to do the math.

"Maybe we should take him to the Dr. Sheriff Mayor," scar-cheek offered up. Some of the other riflemen had lost a bit of resolve as well, a few of them casting nervous glances back and forth.

"Maybe so," said Junior, drawing out the words in a slow, uncertain rumble. The man's thick fists started to unclench. The barrels of the rifles started to dip.

He was about to loosen his grip on his revolvers when Junior's eyes twitched, looking at something in the background. Mark started to turn, but the chair was already in motion, slamming into his back and head. In the movies he'd seen, the furniture would always break apart into a hundred pieces. This one was solid and heavy. Those were his last thoughts as the impact threw him to the ground.

--

The shock of the cold water made him wake with a start. As he tried to orient himself, he immediately felt the strain against his wrists down to his shoulders. The weight of his body straining against gravity. He found his footing, but it was awkward. The way they had bound him kept him from standing flat footed, ropes lashed around his wrists and hung over a hook attached to a tall, thick post. The flecks of blood and tiny nicks and scores of the post confirmed his suspicions.

He could not look around well, but he could see well enough ahead of him. Twenty feet away, he estimated, was a wide porch built on front of a tall, broad home, one with a touch more opulence than the surrounding buildings. He could tell it was close to sundown by the way the porch was shrouded in shadows. Ahead of him, the herd of grinning deputies milled about the porch steps. In the thick of them, elevated on one of the steps, was scar-cheek, idly twirling the watch he'd been given in exchange for a drink of water.

Another drink of water felt like a distant dream now. His hat was gone, as was his jacket, boots and, most importantly, his guns. His shirt was mostly intact, but was spattered with his blood and ripped in several places. As he tried to focus his vision, something heavy and hard slammed into his gut, driving the air from his lungs. His muscles clenched, making it difficult and painful to draw the next breath.

"My son..." came the voice from somewhere up on the porch. "My son tells me you had something of mine."

The voice was smooth and deep, spreading slowly like honey, as if the words had already been spoken but had just now been able to slide out far enough to reach him.

"You came by a watch. A watch with my initials, in a style used only by me... a watch that I thought had been lost many years ago."

"Not lost," he replied. The words were hard to get out, as if his jaw had taken an extra hit or two without him remembering it. Given his predicament, that seemed entirely likely. He flexed his hands against the ropes, feeling the sharp prickling sensation that accompanied restricted circulation.

"Not lost, indeed," came the words. The speaker wasn't attached to the words. They floated in the hot, dry, dusty air of the afternoon. He heard boots shuffling in the dirt behind him, knowing Junior was back there, eagerly awaiting another shot or two at his unprotected back. He also assumed the townsfolk would be watching. It seemed all a bit of showmanship on the part of Haggard to keep the them in line and hiding behind the relative safety of their windows.

"I could whip the truth out of you," the voice said, to the amusement of the deputies, "But I suspect it wouldn't be the full truth, would it?"

"You seem to be just fine making up your own truth around here," he replied. From behind, a thick fist lashed out, smashing into his side. It made him slam into the pole, smacking his head and leaving his toes scratching at the ground beneath, attempting to restore a measure of equilibrium.

"I do apologize. Junior is a bit reactive when he feels people are rude to me." He wasn't surprised by the hits. He was more surprised that they hadn't moved straight to the whipping by now. That seemed like the kind of thing they wouldn't have held back.

"Now, if we may, return to the matter of my watch. I'd like to be clear about something... The watch, as an object, is not really important to me. I don't care that it was missing. I have many, many others just like it. If it had been lost or broken... I wouldn't have cared. What I care about," the voice said, now bearing an edge, "is that someone took it from me. It was stolen. Such things are not done to me. They just are not done.

"I would encourage you to tell me who gave it to you. It might go a long way in alleviating your suffering. Do you understand? Will you tell me the name of this thief?" Ezekiel Haggard asked.

He tried looking up, attempting to penetrate the shadows on the porch unsuccessfully. His jaw ached, his side felt tender and swollen and his shoulders felt like they would tear right out from the stress they were under. Everything under his eye patch itched and burned and the back of his skull had a tender spot where it and the chair had connected. He considered these injuries while avoiding responding to the question.

"So that's how it's going to be," Haggard replied after the long pause. Behind him, Junior's feet shuffled in the dirt again.

"We're going to make an example of this one," the voice finally said, as if that result hadn't been a foregone conclusion ever since they had strapped him to the post. "Let's remind everyone in town that there are repercussions to those that take things without permission. It is important that we demonstrate continually who is in charge here.

"It's almost sunset. We'll hang this bastard by the light of the setting sun. Give the townsfolk something to think about," the voice of Ezekiel Haggard said with no lack of finality.

He chuckled slightly to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"Probably nothing you'd find amusing" he said. Junior stepped around the pole, in a position where his face could be seen, a mask etched of hate and menace.

"You don't think we'll kill you?" Junior asked. "We killed plenty of folk. Some of them just like you."

"It's not that," he said. "Just glad to know I didn't miss dinner."

"Son, you ain't gonna make it to dinner," gloated the voice.

"I disagree," he said. "Very shortly, I'm going to let myself out of here and kill every one of you. Then I'm going to walk over to that tavern and have a beer while I watch your house burn down."

"Simple as that?"

"Well, now that you mention it, my jaw hurts a bit. Might make drinking a touch difficult," he replied.

That must have been enough for Junior, who was red in the face at this point. He would have easily believed that the big man would have lifted him off the hook and snapped him in two right then and there...

...if the explosion hadn't gone off.

The bomb was in the watch, more correctly stated it was the watch, the same one he'd given scar-cheek when he'd arrived in town. He'd primed the detonator for a few hours, long enough for him to get the lay of the land. He was actually hoping to have been in a better position at this moment, but luck was with him right now. It was packed with micro-explosives, the kind the military used. The concussion alone was enough to flatten the group of deputies, killing many of them instantly.

The blast slammed Junior hard into the back of the post.

He slipped his left hand free from the ropes strung over the hook at the top of the same post. With one hand completely out, it was easy to shake the other one free. His body was sore all over and his senses were rattled from the blast, but he managed to turn and run away from the house, towards the tavern. His steps were irregular and his ears were still ringing as his vision cleared enough to catch sight of Jeremiah Tottleborne, waving him to the side of the tavern, away from the door.

The old man helped him around the corner, already on with another long string of loosely connected words. He couldn't make them out, but he was glad to be free. That was a feeling that wouldn't last long if he couldn't find...

Jeremiah interrupted his thoughts by shoving a gunbelt into his hands... his own belt, still encumbered by the pistols hanging heavy in their holsters. It was at this point that he started paying attention.

"...and I know it don't make up for it, but I felt terrible bad, so I made sure to grab these, even though I was supposed to turn them over and..."

"Calm down," he said. Jeremiah went from nonsensical rambling to a barely audible mutter, his eyes still darting around nervously. He paid the old man little mind as he buckled the belt back around his waist.

"I also found this..." Jeremiah said, his hand shaking as he held out the leather wallet. It fell open, exposing the shining metal badge for just a moment before it was taken from him.

"This isn't business," he said, giving the old man a cold stare with his good eye.

"Whatever you say, Marshal. This is way more politickin' than I ever cared to do," Jeremiah stuttered, taking a step back.

"Might want to find a place to hide," he said, turning to look back at the whipping post and the thinned herd of deputies on the blasted steps of the porch beyond. He began to walk back, making sure to detour just enough steps to stop by the water barrel. He reached out and touched the water with his left hand, feeling it against his dry, dusty skin.

He let his skin start to absorb the moisture, wicking it up like a sponge, letting it drink its fill. He could feel it cooling his body, filling him up, much faster than drinking it ever could, though far less satisfying. That would have to wait until later, after business was settled.

"Get up!" Junior was yelling. "Get up you bastards!" He was upright, though still staggered. Junior, it appeared, was made of sterner stuff than the rest of them. Webley cracked a grin as he cracked the knuckles on his right hand.

"I only came to kill the old man," he said. "I suspect you might have thought you'd have the upper hand against me, but I can assure you that is a misplaced opinion. Drop your weapons and leave now."

He confidently rested the palms of his hands on his pistol grips. Under his fingers, he felt the guns come to life, cycling quickly through their quick wake up routines. He felt them humming slightly against his palms.

A couple of the riflemen bolted almost immediately, leaving their rifles behind as they ran in abandon away from the steps. The rest tried to fumble up their weapons, some quickly, the others still slightly dazed by the concussion wave.

He didn't even wait for them to fire first. They'd had their warning. His reflexes had been rejuvenated by absorbing the water and as they cleared the holsters, the guns painted bright blue dots on two targets. The guns barked sharply before moving on to two more targets, the ones previously painted with blue dots falling backwards from the large red holes in their chests.

The guns continued to bark. Not every shot was as effective as the first two, but he had started to move, walking slowly towards the porch, the motorized cylinders of his pistols spinning madly as he pulled the trigger, sending white hot shots into the panicking remainders of the remaining deputies.

Those that had any sort of resolve left fired blindly, trying to duck or move at the same time. Most of the shots went wide, but one punched through the meat of his right leg, cleanly though, and not exceptionally bloody. It hurt like hell, but not enough to stop him, or sway his purpose.

Another hit him in the left side of his chest, where the arm met the shoulder. If that part of him was still human, it might have been a devastating hit. Instead, the archaic lead projectile, common ammunition on backwater worlds like this, didn't even penetrate. It flattened on the skin, turning it rough and red, like the beginning of a bad bruise. But that's all it would be, he thought, and it won't even be that way for long.

The cylinders of his pistols whined again as he pulled the triggers and the pneumatic hammer pistoned back before slamming home, driving two shining shots into the deputy that hit his leg. That only left a couple more, shots that he was already lining up. Unfortunately he hadn't calculated how long it would take Junior to recover fully. It happened much quicker than he expected, announced by a heavy fist smashing into his blind side, his patched left eye.

The shot would have driven him to the ground if Junior didn't reach out quickly with his other fist to grab him by the left wrist. The second shot would have splintered his elbow into a thousand little bone fragments if there were any bone left in that limb.

The doctors that studied him had some fancy term for it, but he never bothered to remember it. The short of it was that despite its look, it was mostly just muscle and hydraulics, like a tentacle or an elephant's trunk. So even though his "elbow" just inverted ninety degrees the wrong way, the most he'd get out of it was a bruise.

"What the..." Junior said, his eyes wide.

He let the pistol in his right hand provide the snappy retort, putting a large red hole in Junior's stomach. He screamed and doubled over, letting his wrist go as he dropped.

The pistol pinged at him. He thumbed the cylinder release and watched them spin out to either side where they landed in the dirt, still steaming from use. He slid them back into his holsters, listening to the whir and click of the guns being serviced. He shook out his left arm, back into a more predictable angle while his right hand clicked the trigger on the belt signaling the extended ammo supply to be loaded.

He only had two, but with the initial exchange done, he could only imagine the worst was yet to come. When he pulled them free again, the thick tubes under the barrels of the gun verified the extra helical magazines were in place.

He looked up the steps at the mansion, noticing that even though dusk had started to cycle on the automated street lights, this building remained forebodingly dark. Before he could take a step forward, a thick hand grabbed at his pants leg.

"Ye... You a... dead man," Junior grunted, his other hand trying desperately to staunch a tide of blood from his gut. Any other man would have been killed by that kind of shot.

"You are your father's son aren't you?" he asked calmly.

"A dead man!" Junior's eyes were wild and wide. If he was Haggard's son, he might not only survive, but... he looked down at his own left arm for a moment, just a moment, before putting a shot into Junior's head. The hand on his leg relaxed and he stepped away, looking for a moment at the overlarge man at his feet.

He let the cylinders of his pistols spin up before making sure Junior wouldn't get up. With the ammo extensions, the pistols could now unload a stream of fully automatic fire. He turned that on the freakishly large man, the pneumatic hammers pistoning madly as the guns poured out hot rounds.

It only took a few seconds, but those seconds were gruesome to anyone looking on, which was most certainly the case. Letting his cylinders spin down, he watched for a few long moments afterwards, wondering if he should burn the bloodied remains.

"Seems like I should have set a plate aside for you," came the voice from the house, pulling his attention away from the disfigured body.

"Can't say I was likely to have a peaceful sit down with you regardless," he said, attempting to spot where in the darkness the speaker was. Perhaps just beyond one of the open windows, threatening to spill the darkness onto the street below.

Pistols in hand, he walked slowly up the steps, hearing the wood creak beneath his bare feet. At the front door, barely cracked open, he reached up with one hand and pulled the eye patch from his face. It was refreshing to be able to unfurl the three eye stalks underneath. They were only a few inches each in length, but they were used to be being in constant motion. Keeping them still gave him a cramp, like a constant headache on that side of his skull. Once freed, they constantly swayed about, gathering sensory information his human eye could not.

It took him a moment to adjust, for his brain to make sense of streams of information that most people didn't even have names for. It allowed him to "see" past the doorway, into the hall beyond. Guns at the ready, he stepped through, feeling the unearthly cold of the building in the soles of his feet. The changes in air pressure and temperature, the curl of static electricity, the tingle of radiation and his more easily understood sense of hearing indicated the direction he should travel, slowly pacing forward. There would be a stairwell at the back of the house, one leading both up and down. The thin blue beams of his targeting light climbed the stairs ahead of him, up to the second floor.

"Remembering details is not always easy," the voice came, still smooth and calm. Inside the house, it seemed to resonate from all directions at once, but his extra-human senses told him that was but an illusion. "It's been a long time since I was here. I barely remember arriving. But I do remember there was a place before, and a woman."

"That woman was your mother?"

"She was," he said, looking down the second floor hallway at the thick double doors at the far end.

"I didn't know she was pregnant, but I do remember she took the watch. I assumed she as going to pawn in to pay for an abortion." Was that humor he detected in that statement.

"I can't say as I would have blamed her," he said.

"That was before I came to understand the full range of gifts that had been afforded me. Seems like you're not unfamiliar with those."

"Gifts is a generous description," he said, standing just outside the doors. They weren't open, but it looked as if a solid kick would solve that problem.

"Oh but they are!" the voice replied, in a manner that was surprisingly enthusiastic. "Gifts from an ancient race, one that was traveling between the stars we were still rubbing sticks together to make fire under a single moon."

The doors crashed open under his blow and he stormed into the room immediately, guns leveled in front of him.

The air was different in here. Colder, yes, but something more. The dust billowed, as if it had only been disturbed this once in a long time by his abrupt entry. The air itself had the sharp medicinal sting of iodine. It was no less alien than what he expected, though the extent of it left him somewhat shocked.

His human eye could see thanks to the strange bioluminesce being cast by the hundreds of tiny mushroom like protrusions, gently swaying as if touched by a gentle wind that could not be felt. The protrusions themselves were growing off of the mass that had begun in the center of the room, but had crept to the back and side walls, climbing up them and through the rotting wood in the walls. The mass had the look of leather, save for the watermelon sized boils irregularly growing throughout. The liquid inside these boils had a similar glow to the mushrooms, but it was disturbed regularly, stirred from within by an writhing black mass of some sort.

At the root of it all was a small desk, behind which was a large man. Not large the way Junior had been, but tall and thin, save for a bloated belly barely contained by a stained shirt. At some point in time, the clothing would have been considered fine and fashionable, but wear and age had robbed it of appeal.

Likewise, the thin man behind the desk might have once been considered attractive, but now he looked little more than a skeleton wrapped in aged leather, anchored by some means to the living cancer that was infecting this house. If it hadn't moved when he walked in the room, he would have assumed it was but a corpse.

Well, living was a condition he had a remedy for, he thought, checking the grip on his pistols.

"How long has it been?" The deep, honeyed voice came from him, but not from his lips. It seemed to come from everything else. "I mean, I've been here long enough to see Junior grow up. Who knows how long it was before that when I came to this planet. She was a long time before that."

"Yeah. I stopped counting," he replied. "The years didn't seem to matter as much, just the infection."

"Infection? Heh." There was something resembling a raspy, rattling chuckle that came from the body. "It's no infection, boy. It's a transformation. It's turning us into something stronger, something that has outlasted civilizations older than our own.

"Feel the touch of the cosmic Aether on your skin! See the electrons dance! Taste the fear of the townsfolk outside!" Haggard said. "There is no part of what you were that is better than what you are becoming."

"Reckon we'll just have to disagree on that," he said. He noticed the shift in the room almost immediately after that, the increased motion in the fluid sacs on the walls and the spike in beta wave activity. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the triggers of his guns.

"Pardon me if I don't get all sentimental as I kill you," the old man said, his voice dry and detached, "you aren't the first whelp I've silenced, nor will you be the last."

The sacs burst open, dropping wet, writhing bodies to the floor. They certainly weren't human bodies, probably never were, he assumed, based on the way they unfurled slime coated tentacles to full length. No two of them looked alike, nor did they sport any sort of symmetrical features, just holes with sharp teeth, stubby limbs with sharp talons, or flailing tentacles of different length and purpose.

They didn't afford him the courtesy of waiting for the cylinders of his gun to spin up before they charged.

He smiled, pulling the triggers down and lining up the first blue dot on the fastest creature. The guns spun up fast. He spread his legs apart slightly, bracing himself for the recoil or the impact, whichever happened first.

The first creature had closed enough of the gap. A push from its tentacles sent it up in the air, directly towards him. But even if that one didn't hit him, there were enough directly behind it that would get the opportunity.

Like the second before a lightning strike, moment before the creature would land on him became deathly quiet.

But it was only a moment..

Then his guns sounded like thunder.

--

Dusk had fallen hours ago.

The townsfolk had stayed indoors, regardless of the sounds they heard. Mothers consoled children terrified by the inhuman screams that emanated from the darkened house. Fathers checked the locks on doors and windows, nervous with each new burst of gunfire.

When the house fell silent, a few brave souls dared peek out from behind their curtains, hoping to gain an insight on what had transpired during that time.

But the house remained dark and quiet.

An hour after that, perhaps closer to two, one figure shuffled clear of the front doorway. It hovered near the top of the steps for a moment, before taking a shaky step down, followed by another.

A glow could be seen behind him, somewhere in the bowels of the house, out of direct sight of the front door. Like the rising sun of a new dawn, the light flickered and spread, growing brighter and larger.

Flames could be seen in the windows now, just as the survivor stepped clear of the porch.

He was clearly missing an arm, the left one, though it did not appear to be bleeding openly. His clothes were cut in several places and matted to his skin in others by wet stains and drying fluids of different colors.

He stopped by the water barrel again, steadying himself with one hand before plunging his head fully into it. He came back up with a start, flinging water over his head in an arc. With a bit more certainty in his steps, he began to walk towards the saloon.

Behind him, the house of Ezekiel Haggard continued to burn.

Jeremiah Tottleborne was at the bar, nursing a mug of beer as he walked in through the swinging doors. The old man didn't say anything, in fact, he didn't even drink anything as Marshal Mark Webley pulled up a barstool next to him.

"Pardon, barkeep. I seem to be a bit short right now," he said.  With a nervous look, the barkeep set down a mug in front of him.

"O... On the house," the barkeep said weakly.

"Much obliged." He lifted the glass with his one good hand and drank deeply. In the mirror behind the bar, he could just see the corner of the burning house. He watched it as he slowly finished his beer.

"What're you planning to do now?" Jeremiah asked, failing to completely hide the fear in his own voice.

"Vacations never do feel as restful as you expect them to," he said. "I guess I'll just go back to work. Maybe after a shower, though... and a nap."

"Sounds like a full day," Jeremiah said, finishing up his beer a bit quicker than expected. "I guess I better leave you to it." Pushing himself away from the bar, the old man moved towards the front of the saloon.

"Before you head off..." The words made Jeremiah stop in his tracks.

"Maybe either one of you could tell me if you've heard of a man named Jerry Torbach?" he asked. In the mirror behind the bar, he saw Thomas the barkeep and Jeremiah exchange a worried glance at each other.

"Can't say as I have," Jeremiah said nervously.

"He's wanted for fraud, smuggling and most recently," he paused, turning to look at the old man, "assaulting a Marshal with a wooden chair."

"Sounds like a desperate, cowardly sort of fool," Jeremiah replied.

"I didn't come to town looking for him, but something tells me he might be hiding out here. Thought I might ask around some more," he said. "After my nap, that is."

"Hopefully he'll be long gone by then," the old man choked out.

"Let's hope so," Webley replied, turning back to the bar to finish his own drink. Jeremiah Tottleborne vanished out the front door.

"You... You're a good man, Marshal," the barkeep said.

"I get it from my mother," he said. "Sure as hell didn't come from anywhere else."