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

  “Who do you think he is?” Luke asked, propping the painting up against a junk heap. He stood back and rubbed his chin philosophically.

  Nox glanced at the lush red silk the figure in the painting wore, with its fine gold trim. “Treasury, no doubt.”

  “You think?”

  “Well,” Nox said, “what the Treasury was before.”

  “What were they before?”

  “The old royalty. Old nobility.”

  “That must've been nice.”

  “Yeah. For them.”

  Luke sighed. “This shouldn't be here. It's not junk.”

  “Neither should we, boy. We ain't junk either.”

  “Maybe we could—”

  “No. We're gonna look for your sister. One last loop. One last look.”

  Luke hung his head.

  It dawned on Nox that the boy might've been looking for a small distraction, a little bit of light in the darkness. He likely knew just as well as Nox did that his sister was probably dead. Looking for hope was like looking for a needle in all those grains of sand. But despair? Well, that was the sand itself.

  Luke placed the painting delicately into the basket, then quickly scooped up the other items to add in too. Nox caught him slipping what looked like an ornate pen into his satchel, but he said nothing. In a land of crime, those little crimes didn't matter. Hell, the boy was right. It was a crime that culture was consigned to the scrap heap, and an even bigger one that it was safer there. Luke dragged the balloon fabric over the basket, protecting it from the weather.

  “Do you think it'll be all right?” he asked Nox as he trotted up beside him.

  “It ain't iron,” Nox said.

  “That's good, right?”

  “Here, yes.”

  “But it'll be all right?”

  Nox stopped suddenly.

  “Nox?”

  The owl's lights went dark.

  The Coilhunter didn't need to say anything. They both thought it. The art would be all right.

  But we won't.

  29 – THE IRON GUNSLINGER

  The Coilhunter felt it in his gut more than he saw it with his eyes. Something was hunting them. Something was on the prowl. He didn't know what it was, only that it might as well have posters with their faces on them, with that sweet seal of death: the word Reward.

  “Back away slowly, boy.”

  Luke looked up at him, but said nothing.

  “Slowly,” Nox repeated. “Make it damn slow.”

  Nox didn't move at all. He didn't reach for his guns. He didn't dive or dodge, didn't cast orbs from his belt, or command a duck to quack. He stood like a statue, like just another piece of scrap in the Rust Valley.

  Luke did as he was told, for once. He backed away, real slow—though Nox knew he was itching to make it quick. If he did, that'd be the death of him. Hunters liked their prey to run. Nox knew that all too well.

  Nox kept his hands hovering at his sides, ready to draw, yet knowing well that his new suit of armour made him slow. You couldn't afford to be slow in a gunfight. There was the guy who drew fast, and then there was the dead. The dead didn't draw at all.

  Then it appeared.

  The Coilhunter was taken aback, though he tried not to show it. He'd seen a lot of things in the Wild North, but he hadn't quite seen this. It was almost the mirror image of him, a gunslinger made out of scrap, with a sheet of metal forming the rim of his cowboy hat. Nox had met Iron Ike of the Deadmakers, a construct bounty hunter, dry as the desert, but damn good with a shotgun. But this was something different. This wasn't made for hunting criminals. This was made for him.

  Nox waited, studying his opponent. It was bulky, just like him, though its bulk was not just a shell. It was as mismatching as the rest of the Clockwork Commune, a product of whatever was around. From the many staring eyes across the construct's body, it was clear that several other constructs had given themselves up—or been forced to—in order to create this beast.

  He heard Luke's faint patters as he retreated, so Nox took a few slight steps of his own to mask the sounds. The clang of his boots reverberated through the scrapyard canyon. The Iron Gunslinger made a few answering movements of its own.

  “Stand down,” Nox said, “or I'll make ya sit.”

  He had no idea if his normal intimidation would work on this. It had a body of sorts, even if it was mangled, and appeared to have a mind, even if it seemed to be focused on only one thing. It wasn't clear if it had a soul, or a conscience. Then again, it wasn't clear if most men had those either.

  The Iron Gunslinger said nothing. There was a form of intimidation in its silence, in its unmoving form, in its unending glare.

  Nox paid special attention to the construct's guns. By the looks of them, they were real. They had little stamps on the handles, suggesting they were made by human hands. No doubt the Clockwork Commune had pried them from those hands, and maybe used them as trophies. They were smaller guns than Nox's, and by the make of them, he could guess that they only carried normal flesh-piercing rounds. You didn't want to get that guess wrong.

  Nox waited until he couldn't hear the boy's footsteps any longer. Then he struck. He drew his right pistol and fired, but, like a mirror, the Iron Gunslinger did the same. The bullets crossed over each other, and knocked away the pistols from each other's hands. Nox's spun off into the air and landed by one of the scrapyard walls. No bother. He had another.

  He wondered if it was copying him, and yet it matched his movements almost at the same time. He was studying it, but he knew it was studying him. He could see the two glaring eyes under the brim of its hat, but he hadn't considered the many other eyes across the construct's body, watching for all those other little movements. The Clockwork Commune hadn't just made a version of him—it'd made a better one.

  “I ain't here for war,” the Coilhunter croaked. “I'm just here for my kind.”

  He wondered if the construct questioned just what kind that was. He was human hiding beneath a shell of metal. Or maybe it wasn't thinking that at all. Maybe it was just wondering how to flay the iron skin so it could wear it for its own.

  Nox hadn't paid much heed to the stories of the Clockwork Commune. He'd heard all sorts of ghost stories from the barflies, and overheard others from the dirtalley kids of the Burg. How the constructs had no faces, so they took the ones from people. How they stole away naughty children and made them part of the scrapyard walls. He even saw a kid once stick out his tongue as proof that he wasn't a construct, because constructs apparently didn't have any tongues. Somewhere among all the stories, there was probably a hint of truth, and maybe even something helpful in defeating them. But, just like him and Luke, it was lost among the junk.

  Then the Iron Gunslinger drew on him. It caught him off guard, and if he wasn't wearing armour, that would've been the end of him. Two bullets pinged off the plating. The construct watched this with great interest. Then Nox fired a single round at the creature's head. It left a hole there, right in one eye, but the creature kept on standing, and kept on staring with the others.

  It's learnin', Nox thought. That wasn't good. It seemed to know too much already.

  The Iron Gunslinger dropped its second gun. It knew that was where Nox shined. Then it ran, straight towards him. Nox fired again, blowing a hole in its chest. Then again, clipping its side. Then again, piercing its leg. Then the construct crashed into him and bowled him over. They fell to the ground and rolled about, grabbing and shoving and thrashing.

  It was stronger than him. He had a metal shell, but that was all it was. It didn't give him more strength. He didn't have the added power of pistons or the added pressure of tightly-wound springs. He was going on muscle and sinew, and sheer determination. And it wasn't enough.

  The construct hauled him up and tossed him away. He crashed into one of the scrapyard walls, which sent a pile of iron rubble down on top of him, as if it was aiding its kin. Nox slumped to the ground, feeling defeated.

  Then he saw Luk
e standing across the way, out in the open, under the glare of the Iron Gunslinger's many eyes.

  “Run!” Nox cried. Not slow, not careful. “Run!”

  Luke ran, then ducked inside a gap in one of the walls. Nox didn't mean hide, but it'd do. Maybe there wasn't really anywhere to run.

  So Nox got back to his feet. If this was a walled-off arena, then he would fight. He couldn't let himself be defeated. He couldn't let another child die under his watch. Not again.

  30 – INSIDE THE IRON WALLS

  Luke scrambled through the passage inside the scrapyard wall, trying not to make too much noise, and cringing at the thought of all that weight above him, supported by a beam here or a bar there. If he tipped off something, it could all come tumbling down on top of him.

  He heard the clatter of steel outside as the Coilhunter struggled with the Iron Gunslinger. He didn't have to see the fight to know how it was going. Nox was losing. He could hear it in the grunts and cries, in the scrape of metal, in the crash of his suit against the ground. It made Luke wonder if he should go back out there, try and find a way to help.

  But Nox had told him to run.

  Luke continued to crawl through the passage, thankful for this little hideaway from the prying eyes of the Clockwork Commune. The walls had already been stripped of the most useful metals, so perhaps the constructs never thought to look there again, to cast their iron eyes inside the walls. Luke was counting on it. His life depended on it.

  He halted for a moment and sat cross-legged in his fortress. He peeped out of a gap in the wall at the fight outside. The Coilhunter had lost part of his left shoulder pad, but now he had the Iron Gunslinger by the throat. He pushed the construct back, until it kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling. They were both made for guns, but both of them were disarmed.

  Luke's eye caught the glimmer of one of Nox's pistols just feet away from his position, almost within reach. The boy was safe, for now, but he knew he had to help the Coilhunter or that wouldn't last. Nox didn't look like he could last much longer either.

  The gap was barely big enough to see, let alone reach through. He tried to remember if there were any bigger gaps in the passage he came through, and looked to the passage ahead, where the wall was more tightly packed. There might have been larger holes farther on, but that meant climbing out into the open.

  Luke studied the packed junk around the opening. He fiddled with an old copper pipe, dislodging it. The faint light came in a little stronger. He tried to remove a small girder, but it was stuck. He plucked a few small springs out of the way, and then a piece of an engine. The wall shook slightly. He gulped, pausing for a moment until the shudder passed.

  Please hold, he prayed. He'd heard about the machine spirits. One kid he knew said they only answered to the tribes, but his friend Max said everyone was their own a kind of tribe. Max was gone now. He'd joined his tribe in heaven.

  The metal didn't answer. That was good. So long as it was silent, it was stable. It was like what the tribes said about thunder. If the sky was quiet, the spirits there were content. Luke wished he knew more about them, how to appease them.

  He tried to reach through the opening now, but it was still too small. If he could've got the girder free, that would give him the space he needed, but it looked like it was holding up too much. There was a badly rusted grille propping up some of the other pieces below, but it seemed to be holding less. It could still unsettle everything, but he thought maybe he could bend it, or just move it slightly.

  He tried.

  The whole wall creaked in answer.

  Please hold, he begged.

  He yanked one side of it free.

  The wall wailed.

  He heard pieces shifting, and then the clatter of some parts falling.

  Oh, please hold.

  He stopped and closed his eyes tightly. He could still hear the struggle outside, but eventually the closer noises ceased. The wall held.

  He didn't realise he was also holding his breath until he was forced to let it out with an all too audible sigh. He covered his mouth with his hand, then peered outside. No one had noticed him. He saw the gun still there, so close.

  He pulled the grille back gently and squeezed his arm through. It was a tight fit. He pushed through as far as he could go, right up to his shoulder. The grille pinned him in place, taunting him to pull it free, to topple the mountain. He blocked up the gap now with his body, so he couldn't see anything. He felt around outside for the gun, tapping against bits of metal, grasping at piles of sand.

  Then he thought he felt the handle of the gun.

  Then something grabbed him by his other shoulder.

  He yelled and turned to it.

  It was his sister.

  31 – WITHIN REACH

  If Luke's arm wasn't still stuck in the hole, he would've hugged his sister. He didn't have to. She hugged him.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—”

  “I'm sorry too,” she replied. “I didn't mean it either. I just got … carried away.”

  “I know. I do too.”

  She smiled. It was good to see her smile again, and even better for her to smile at him.

  Then the clash of the fight outside brought them back to the moment, and her smile faded.

  “He's out there, huh?” Laura asked.

  “Yeah.”

  They looked at each other for a moment.

  “He's losin',” Luke said. “We need to help 'im.”

  “Why's your arm stuck?”

  “I, uh, was tryin' to get his gun.”

  He felt around again, but it was hopeless. In the fright, he thought he might have flicked it away. All he felt now was scrap and sand. He pulled his arm back in, and both of them peered out.

  “I don't think we can reach that,” Laura said.

  Luke hung his head.

  “Unless maybe we try to use a stick.”

  “Or this!” Luke said, holding up the copper pipe he'd taken away earlier. Then he grabbed another long metal object with various prongs on it, which seemed like it might be better for hooking far-away objects. “Or this. Whatever it is.”

  “Let me try,” Laura said. She took the pole and fed it through the opening.

  “Careful.”

  “I am.”

  She fished around for the gun, tapping off the casing.

  “Almost!” Luke exclaimed, covering his mouth as he realised he was being too loud.

  Laura fished again. “Just … one … more ...”

  Then something rolled in front of the hole and banged into the rod. Laura and Luke gasped and put their backs to the wall. An eye pressed up against the opening and stared inside. The kids tried not to make a stir.

  Then the eye disappeared, and they heard the crank of old landship treads as the construct rolled off. They cautiously looked outside, spotting the small creature with its triangular hull, over which old, battered treads were attached. It had a flattened, box-shaped body, a small, square-shaped head, and short arms that ended in pincers. It also had the Coilhunter's gun.

  32 – FOLLOWIN' THE GUN

  When Luke saw that little construct race away with the Coilhunter's gun, he didn't think twice. He scrambled after it, crawling through the passage in the same direction it went.

  “Wait!” Laura cried. “Luke!”

  She hurried after her brother, and the two of them came out of an opening farther on, where they could witness in full the desperate fight between the Coilhunter and the Iron Gunslinger. Luke froze as he saw Nox pinned to the ground, but Laura grabbed him and pulled him down behind some rubble.

  “You'll get us killed,” she whispered.

  “We have to help him.”

  “I don't think we—”

  “The gun,” Luke said. He looked around, spotted the little rolling construct dragging the gun away, then leapt out to chase it.

  “Luke!” Laura shouted, charging out after them.

  The two r
an across an open stretch, and then Nox was thrown in their paths. They halted.

  “Get outta here!” he yelled, barely able to roll onto his side. His helmet was badly dinted, so much so that the wire mesh in front of his eyes was starting to come away. His dark eyes were more visible than ever.

  Laura grabbed Luke's hand and led him around the edge, close to the wall. The Iron Gunslinger spotted them and started to move towards them, but the Coilhunter forced himself up and grabbed the construct's leg, pulling it to the ground.

  The kids continued on, faster than ever, round one corner and then another, following the fleeting glimpses of the gun thief. It hadn't dawned on them that it might be leading them into a trap, or that it might turn the weapon on them. They both knew well that if the Coilhunter died, their chances of survival there died with him.

  Then they skidded to a halt as they found themselves in another dead end, this time leading into a small chamber inside one of the scrapyard walls, where the construct had assembled a variety of objects into a ring, like a kind of nest. Among them was the Coilhunter's guide owl.

  The construct saw them, its wide eyes seeming wider than ever. It drove towards them, bumping into Luke. It only reached up to about Luke's shoulder.

  “Ow!” the boy cried. He kicked at it in return.

  Then Laura darted into the nest and grabbed the gun.

  The construct saw her, raised both its stumpy arms, then spun around on the spot. It never made any noise, no howl or wail, but it was clearly agitated. It charged at her, but Luke grabbed some scrap and fired it at the creature. It raised its arms again, then sped off, but halted a few yards away.

  “We've got it,” Laura said. “Let's get outta here.”

  They were about to run, but Luke looked back. He saw the broken owl, and wondered if they might need that too. He also just didn't like the idea of leaving it there. He ran into the nest and grabbed one wing, just as the rolling construct charged back. It tried to stop him, tried to grab the other tattered wing, but Luke scarpered off, letting the owl drag along behind him.