Rustkiller - A Science Fiction Western Adventure (The Coilhunter Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  RUSTKILLER

  A COILHUNTER CHRONICLES NOVEL

  DEAN F. WILSON

  Copyright © 2017 Dean F. Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Any person who makes any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The Moral Rights of the Author have been asserted.

  Cover illustration by Duy Phan

  First Edition 2017

  Published by Dioscuri Press

  Dublin, Ireland

  www.dioscuripress.com

  1 – NOT THAT WAY

  The way the Coilhunter put his boot down in the sand told you a lot. It told you he meant business. It told you that business meant only one of you was getting out alive. It told you he meant it to be him.

  “Stick 'em up or I'll shoot 'em down,” the Coilhunter said. He had the pistol ready, and almost a clean shot. The shooting might have been clean, but the killing wasn't.

  Strawman Sanders stood across the way, far enough that you couldn't see the twitching of his fingers or the sweat on his brow, but close enough that he could see the Coilhunter's grim eyes beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, and that metal mask beneath, covering his mouth, hiding the smile.

  “You've got the wrong man, Nox,” Sanders shouted back from the side of his mouth, keeping a piece of straw like a cigar in the other. You never saw him without it. He must've chewed through a whole wheat field by now. No one knew where he got it though. There wasn't any farmland for miles.

  “Let's talk it through then,” the Coilhunter replied.

  “I ain't talkin' to no gun o' yours, Nox.”

  “You talk to me,” the Coilhunter said, pointing to himself with the gun, “or you talk to the sand, and then the worms.”

  “I had nothin' to do with that robbery,” Sanders said. “It was a setup. Ask Lawless Lyle. He's been leadin' the crime lords 'round these parts. I wasn't a part o' it. I was just there lookin', keepin' my own business.”

  The Coilhunter coughed, letting a puff of black smoke filter out of his mask. “Just there lookin' and keepin' your own business,” he repeated. “Sounds like you might've been just there watchin' and robbin' at the same time too.”

  “I swear, Nox. I ain't no robber. I earned my way fair and square.”

  “Fair and square,” the Coilhunter mused. He'd heard a lot of that over the years. If fair was beating a shopkeeper black and blue, then sure. If square was shooting someone because they looked at you the wrong way, then double sure.

  “Made it in the mines,” Sanders said.

  “Funny, that,” the Coilhunter rasped. “Red-hide Zeke worked in the mines. And he ended up dead, with not a thing on 'im. Now, I know it's hot out here. Why, it's positively roastin'. But I ain't heard of no one takin' off everything they own, not least their prized weddin' ring.”

  If Strawman Sanders wasn't already sweating, he would be now, and it'd have nothing to do with the sun.

  “Now, tell me,” the Coilhunter continued, “what's that there I see on your fat finger?”

  Sanders' hand trembled. “This? Oh, it's … it's just my own weddin' band.”

  “Now, why do you have to go and lie, Sanders? Last I heard, you'd not been tamed yet.”

  “Well, since then—”

  “Let me finish. Ya see, last I heard was yesterday, and that was from good old Honest Pete. Now, you know Pete. Everyone in this God-damn desert knows Pete. No one's got a bad word to say about 'im, and that's sayin' a lot 'round these parts. You tellin' me Honest Pete's a liar?”

  Sanders struggled with his words, barely making an audible sound at all. When he'd finally choked himself up entirely, perhaps to save the Coilhunter from doing the job himself, he pressed his lips together firmly. If you were digging yourself into a hole by talking, then you'd better shut up quick.

  The Coilhunter's stare was terrifying. His hat cast a shadow over his dark eyes. “Now, I ain't no bettin' man, but if I were, I'd say your fat finger and Red-hide Zeke's rottin' one have a little somethin' in common.”

  Still Sanders clenched his mouth. The piece of straw shuddered there.

  “Now, is that just lookin' and keepin' your own business, or did ya keep a little somethin' of his as well?”

  The panic was rising in Sanders, but he tried not to show it. They all tried not to show it, but the Coilhunter saw it all the same.

  “Is this what ya mean by 'fair and square'?” Nox asked.

  He wanted Sanders to break, to fall to his knees, to own up, and rat out whoever else was in on it. Lawless Lyle was in hiding, and he needed a way to get to him. Sanders was that way. Nox didn't really want him dead. He wanted him squealing.

  But Sanders ran. Maybe in his mind, he thought that was the wise thing to do, but the Coilhunter made a living out of gunning down people who ran. You couldn't outrun justice, not if it was him.

  Nox had a clear shot, and had no quarrels with shooting bad men in the back, but he wasn't so sure Strawman Sanders was altogether bad. Mixed up with the wrong people, sure, but not bad. If Nox killed everyone who was in with the wrong crowd, there'd be no one left in the Wild North.

  So the Coilhunter chased him instead.

  It was your lucky day if there was a bounty on your head and the Coilhunter chased you with his boots instead of his bullets. A few of the Wanted even escaped that way. Sanders must've realised it, because he gave it hell when he ran, for fear he'd be going there soon himself.

  Sanders kicked up a fury of dust in his wake, and the Coilhunter darted through the haze, shielding his eyes with the brim of his hat, while the filter on his mask took care of the rest. If his prey didn't dive down a dune and race up the next one, he might have fired a grappling hook his way, and so reel him in slow and steady, like a desert fish. Instead, he had to hound him fast and frenzied.

  They were nearing the wastelands, that empty stretch of land where the sun was blotted out by the tremendous scrapyard walls of the Rust Valley. It was flat and featureless there, with nowhere to hide, but everywhere to run. You could keep on running, right until your legs buckled or your heart gave out, or your body went into shock from the sudden shift from boiling heat to freezing cold. Nox smiled inside his mask. He knew he'd got him.

  Or so he thought.

  They say everyone's got a surprise hidden in them, that we've all got one card we've never shown before. Sometimes we never play it. And sometimes, like when you're being chased by the Coilhunter, you rip that card out of your sleeve real quick.

  Strawman Sanders turned sharply, abandoning the route towards the wastelands and heading towards the winding passages of the Rust Valley itself. The idea of it was crazy. If you got a hand with that in it, you'd go and fold like lightning. You wouldn't keep on playing. You wouldn't keep on betting.

  But Strawman Sanders felt he had nothing to lose. Funny, that. He had his life.

  The scrapyard jungle opened up before them. The walls towered high with bashed-up vehicles, some for civilians, many more for the war, that endless war that touched every part of Altadas but the lawless north. It's where old cars went to die. And you let them. You didn't go in after them.

  “Not in there!” Nox shouted over as Sanders vanished into the metal maze.

  Sanders didn't listen. You coul
d risk your life in the Rust Valley or guarantee death outside with the Coilhunter. It wasn't like Nox was known for mercy. But Nox knew that the clockwork constructs in the Rust Valley weren't known for it either.

  Nox ran to the unmarked gate leading into that vehicle graveyard. He halted fast, skidding in the sand. Part of him felt like running in, not just to catch Strawman Sanders, but to pull him out, to save him from that horrid fate that awaited him. There was only one person who was said to have come out of the Valley alive, and not all of him came out. For the Coilhunter, there were few places in the Wild North he considered off limits, and this was one of them. Hell, it was bang smack at the top of the list.

  He heard a cry, a shriek of pain, followed by the sound of grinding steel. Instinct pushed him on, right between those endless walls of junk. He ran in, guns ready, not entirely sure what good they'd do. He peered around a corner, spotting Strawman Sanders' body on the ground, and something leaning over it, something not quite right, something that wasn't human. It was a clockwork construct. They were all different, made up of mismatching parts. This one had five legs, and something like a head, and something like a blade for an arm. It was shredding Sanders one strip at a time.

  Nox didn't know what to do. Then Sanders' head lolled to one side, his eyes almost popping. He gave that awful look the Coilhunter'd seen many times before. That look of begging to be put out of his misery. The clockwork construct would do it, sure enough, but it was taking its damn time. Some said they hated humans like the Coilhunter hated the sun. That was why you didn't go in there, why you left them to themselves. That was why you prayed that's all they'd do, that they'd never come out.

  Sanders' eyes made that eternal plea. By rights, the Coilhunter should've made this his final lesson. He owed that man nothing. That man owed Red-hide Zeke a lot. But something gnawed at Nox, like that clockwork construct gnawed at Sanders' skin. He pointed his pistol around the corner, aiming at Sanders' head, and fired.

  Sanders went out cold. That was the good part.

  The bad part was when the clockwork construct turned to look at Nox, spotting not just flesh on him, but metal to scavenge as well. It didn't see the Coilhunter's jaw drop behind his mask, but it did see the flash of fear in his eyes.

  He ran, back out through the entrance. The clockwork construct followed, chasing him out into the desert like he'd just chased Strawman Sanders. The Coilhunter hoped to God, and maybe even the Devil as well, that he wouldn't end up just as dead.

  2 – SAND AND STEEL

  Nox bolted over the dunes, while the clockwork construct clambered after him. It didn't so much as run as throw itself forward, landing on its unsteady legs, before dragging itself on a little more in preparation for the next leap. The Coilhunter heard the metal clang and the sand spray high. He also heard the leather of his own gear squeak as he scarpered through the sands, like a little muted cry for help.

  He thought by now the creature should have slowed and turned. It wasn't supposed to come out this far. This wasn't its territory. Yet the lust for blood and rivets was on its iron tongue. Nox thought that maybe it'd chase him to the ends of the earth, and maybe even beyond.

  In the flurry of footfalls, the Coilhunter didn't notice a rock barely covered by the dust. He tripped over it, bracing himself as he fell. He tried to scramble up, but the clockwork construct was already upon him, stabbing and slashing. He saw two pronged legs to the right of his head, and one to the left. There was a clang as the creature's bladed arm stabbed at his back, striking the reinforced steel plating of the guitar that was strapped there. That was a good thing and a bad thing. It helped keep the Coilhunter alive, but if there was one thing these constructs lusted for more than anything, it was metal.

  It paused for a moment. It must've been wondering what it would do with the metal. Maybe it'd make itself another stabbing arm, or perhaps another leg to give it better stability.

  Nox couldn't turn around, or it'd slice through his flesh, casting away his carcass as it dug for metal. The clockwork constructs didn't so much want to tear you apart as consider you in the way of their goal. Maybe there was a bit of metal in your belly. You'd think they would have learned by now that they wouldn't find it there, but they kept on searching.

  Nox tried to crawl away on his elbows, but the stabbing blade came down on his back, dinting the steel plating, pinning him in place. It seemed to have spotted the metal tank there too, filled with everything the Coilhunter needed to breathe. He wondered what he'd have to do to get away. Maybe he'd have to gnaw off an arm or leg. Maybe it'd do it for him.

  He reached for his right pistol. It'd do no good. These bullets wouldn't pierce metal. He couldn't fight this thing. He had to run.

  They say necessity is the mother of all inventions, and Nox was a bit of an inventor himself. It dawned on him that maybe the creature, which was still inspecting the metal on his back, would like the metal of his gun. He tapped the barrel off one of its metal legs, letting the clang echo out. It halted, moving its odd head down towards the sound. Nox flicked open the barrel, letting it spin and click multiple times. The construct flinched, raising its bladed arm in defence. Nox gave it another flick, casting the bullets out into the sand farther away. Then he threw the gun itself as far as he could.

  The clockwork construct got up off him and scurried over to the bullets first, collecting them together in a neat little pile. Then it moved about, looking for the gun. Nox hated the blowing sands most times, but now they helped. The gun was half-buried. Nox couldn't help but think that he might be as well soon enough.

  He tried to crawl away slowly. He spotted the creature turning, so he froze. No matter how brave you were, sometimes you had to play dead. It sure beat the real thing. It turned back to its search, and Nox scrambled away again. He was debating how far he should crawl before he got up to run. He needed distance. He needed the construct not to notice.

  But it noticed.

  It glanced at him and gave out a sharp, mechanical cry, like metal grinding against metal.

  Nox got up and ran. The creature raced after him. This time, Nox used his other pistol, firing back towards it. The bullets pinged off the surface, bouncing away. The creature looked at them as it passed, slowing a little. It'd be back to scavenge those, no doubt.

  Nox pressed several buttons on a tracking device on his left wrist. They didn't seem to do anything. If he wasn't running for his life, he might have been able to check why. This was a bad time not to be able to call for backup.

  The creature was almost upon him. Nox couldn't run any more. He knew he had to fight. With what, he had no idea. He halted and turned fast. The creature halted too, surprised. Maybe it wasn't used to its prey fighting back. As a bounty hunter, Nox was well used to that.

  Nox reached his hand up slowly to his back, unstrapping the guitar. His finger grazed a string, sounding out a note. The clockwork construct cocked its head, curious. Pity it was so curious about his insides too. Nox held the guitar up, showing the metal plating on the back, letting the sun beam off it. That damn sun was like a spotlight when it came to metal. It conspired with everything to kill you, even something as unnatural as a clockwork construct.

  Nox held the guitar up by the fingerboard, resting his thumb against a button on the side. Just as the creature was about to pounce, he pressed it and lobbed the guitar towards it. It reached out for it, but it couldn't quite see it, because the guitar sprayed out a thick plume of smoke.

  The Coilhunter vanished into the haze. He could've tried to run again, but he would have been running out into the open, out to where it'd find him. And besides—he liked that guitar. He didn't quite feel like leaving it behind.

  He circled around the creature in the smoke. He was used to this, stalking his own prey through the smog of a city, or the self-induced smog of his gadgets. The construct wasn't used to it, however, and didn't seem to know what to do. That was just how Nox liked it.

  Nox aimed his right arm towards its head, priming
the grappling hook launcher. He fired, letting the hook grab on to the creature's neck. The coiling wire tugged him up onto the construct's back. It roared and reared, bucking like a mechanical horse. Nox held on tight to the reins.

  He felt around with his left hand, looking for wires, or springs, or whatever it was that made these creatures work. Some said they needed a mate to power them up, that they worked like clockwork, so they had to keep on winding. Nox was curious about that, but he was a lot more interested in how to tear them apart.

  He pulled a dagger from his belt and stabbed wildly at the creature's neck. He couldn't quite see or feel wires, but there were all sorts of parts in there, chugging away. There were a lot of little ticking noises. He dug in deep, shovelling out some of the parts. The construct screamed and turned about, trying to shake him off. It couldn't quite reach towards its back. Funny that, it didn't like someone stabbing him from behind either.

  Nox kept going, even though he didn't quite know what he was doing. He knew it was working though, as the construct became sluggish, slumping to the ground. It twitched and moaned, but the movements became slighter, and the sounds lower. Eventually, as the smoke faded, the creature was dead—if machines could die.

  Nox clambered off it and took grabbed his guitar. It looked a lot more battered than usual. He was used to people firing at him, and using that metal plating like a shield, but boy was he not used to this.

  He was about to walk away when he noticed something like a mechanical heart in the construct's chest. He wondered if that was its power source, keeping it ticking. He took some tools from his belt and unscrewed the device. It was a lot of cogs and pieces. That was right up his alley as a toymaker and a mechanic. Some kids said they wanted a construct as a pet, but that was one hell of a dangerous toy. It'd be right at home in the Coilhunter's collection.