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Kostya · 02-26-2005, 03:54 AM

Before you read this, I must say that I've done an extensive reimagining of the scenario and it's more alternate history than sci-fi post apoch now. Anyhow, for continuity's sake I'll put the modified Alfredo Garcia bit in again, though little has changed and also Part II.

The Stranger in Search of Alfredo Garcia

The stranger approached the tiny hamlet of Precipice on foot, tendrils of red dust tangled about his spurs as he strode like an omen through the open gates. The ramparts were untended, and the single, straight street dividing the town was empty, except for a gaunt dog eyed the drifter lazily.
The stranger was tall and lithe, and he moved with lethal, measured precision through the current of misty, red dust towards the large tavern in the centre of town. His head was crowned with a battered, wide brimmed hat which shaded his black eyes, and from which a mane of sleek, straight black hair flared around his neck. His eyes were set deeply into his skull, a sharp nose jutting out from between then, and amongst the short, abrasive black whiskers around his jaw a thin, grim set of lips clamped around the drooping toothpick. His wiry frame was clad in a long leather greatcoat, which reached his ankles and danced about his feet as he walked with along the thoroughfare, his flowing gait pierced through with tense vigilance. His strong legs were enclosed in loose black leather, and his black boots were stained with dust. He climbed the steps leading to the tavern with a melodic jingle of spurs and strode through the open doorway with ochre apparitions flowing from his dusty clothing. Inside, a solitary barman regarded him with a sardonic glance.
‘You speak English?’ The stranger spoke softly, the spectre of threat in his voice.
‘Si Senor,’ the barman replied with a droll sigh. ‘Whiskey?’ he held up a bottle bottle, sloshing the liquor inside about with a knowing grin. The drifter stalked across the abandoned tavern, sliding between the clutter of tables and chairs strewn chaotically in his path, and without a word plucked the bottle from the barman’s hand. He brought it to his lips, and with relish took a generous swig of the fiery liquid, he exhaled heavily as the kiss ended and then he spoke into the bottle casually, still holding it inches from his mouth.
‘I’m here for Alfredo Garcia. Know where I can find him?’ The barman swallowed a gasp and gawped at the stranger with incredulous fear.
‘Mister, you’ve come to the wrong town, Alfredo Garcia isn’t in Precipice, you should go look somewhere else,’ he babbled desperately. The other man took another swig from the whiskey bottle, and placed it on the bar, he caressed his rough bearded jaw as he turned to eye the bartender.
‘Listen,’ the stranger silently reached inside his greatcoat, and drew from it a long, narrow, curved scabbard, and placed it next to the whiskey bottle with infinite care, ‘I’m here for Garcia, now where can I find him?’ The bartender blinked with astonishment at the sword, then back at the stranger’s still, cold pupils, he swallowed nervously and backed into the corner.
‘He’s in the whorehouse at the south end of town, the last place on the right,’ he blurted with panic, his voice ragged with fear.
‘Well now,’ the stranger remarked with amusement, basking in the barman’s visible terror, ‘that wasn’t so difficult was it.’ He snatched the sword from the bar, imbibed a final mouthful of harsh desert whiskey and played his deathly jingle out to the street.
But the stranger needn’t have bothered with his enquiries, his arrival had been noticed, and as he emerged into the sunlight it was clear that Alfredo Garcia had found him. At the opposite end of the town, three dark figures were waiting, motionless. The stranger approached them nonchalantly. He drew to a halt seven paces from the obvious leader of the trio. He was a mountain of a man, his thick, brutish frame was draped in a woolen poncho, and at his side hung an obscenely thick blade. He remained inert, but was hunched in anticipation, his monolithic frame primed for movement. The drifter, with infinite care and vigilance, removed his greatcoat to reveal the long slender sword at his left side, tucked into his belt, his lean figure coiled as he reached across his body with his right hand, taking a firm grasp on the hilt. The mountain snorted in derision, raising a meaty arm and pointing with a thick, square finger at the thin man.
‘You gonna fight with that?!’ He roared with laughter, accompanied by his crusty companions. The stranger remained still, a wry smile snaking across his face. The giant moved closer with bold strides, halting only two paces from the drifter with a sadistic grin shining out of his skull. His hand twitched upon the pommel of his sword, and his eyes lay in a trance upon the perfectly motionless wrist of the stranger. He inhaled violently and reached to draw his blade. The stranger flitted like a shadow, moving with astonishing, lethal speed. There was a flash as his katana arced through the sunlight, and his lithe frame spun in a delicate, fatal dance. He halted facing the tavern, the naked, deadly steel raised above his head, tipped with slick black blood. Alfredo Garcia’s breath was abruptly cut short by a scarlet eruption of gore from his throat; his shocked yelp drowned in his lungs and bubbled from the gaping wound with a muted gurgle. As he clutched at the fountain of blood with futile, dying hands, his eyes burned with malice at the stranger, who crouched, poised, the elegant weapon raised above his head with both hands. Garcia’s curses gargled in his own blood as he fell to the earth, an impotent sack of meat, bleeding furiously and writhing in the hot dust with rage and terror.
Garcia’s companions backed away from the gaunt angel of death in fright, they leapt onto two horses tethered outside the brothel and departed in an undignified whorl of dusty cowardice. By now their leader was motionless, lying in the street, his limbs splayed in inglorious, violent death. His eyes remained open in rage, glazed over with the milky film of death, the pool of blood already coagulating in the dust. His killer produced a small woolen cloth and wiped the blood from the tip of his blade, he then sheathed the weapon silently and turned his head jauntily to the side, his neck emitted a loud, bony crackle. He knelt beside the body and reached inside the collar of Garcia’s blood-soaked poncho and drew from it the thin leather necklace around the bullish neck. Dangling from the end was a golden medallion, and as the drifter held it up to the harsh sunlight, the graven Aztec design glinted across the surface. The killer surveyed the peculiar relic with curiosity for a second and slipped it into his pocket, he then plucked the garish golden rings from Garcia’s fingers and a handful of golden pieces from his pocket. He sighed quietly over the carcass as he rose, then turned on his heel and ambled over to his greatcoat, which he picked up and violently dusted with a cruel slap before throwing it over his shoulders, enveloping his lean figure and the scabbard in his belt.
As he drifted back along the road in a cloud of dust, the desert wind toyed with the corner of Garcia’s poncho and played the whisper of a one-note eulogy over his dead body. The barman stood in awe as the phantom approached, fear and wonder swirling in his sweaty, tanned feature.
‘El Cazador,’ he whispered into the void of the wind.

Making Deals with McLain

The stranger kept walking, up the stairs and right past the bartender, who followed him obsequiously into the tavern, where he seated himself with the whiskey bottle. The bottle was almost empty, and the stranger drained the last of the liquor in a single swig, smacking his lips in appreciation as he swallowed.
The sounds of confusion drifted into the tavern from the street outside, growing slowly louder, until finally confusion burst through the doorway, a gangly mustachioed man and three plain looking women.
‘Who the hell are you Mister!’ The mustache demanded.
‘Who are hell are you?’ The stranger didn’t turn to face the man, and his voice brought silence to the tavern.
‘Why, why I’m Robert McLain, I own this place, and place down the end of town, right beside where Alfredo Garcia’s lying dead, and Mary tells me you killed him with a single blow!’
‘What’s it to you who I killed?’ The stranger interceded as one of the women wound up to speak, cutting her off with brutal efficiency.
‘Well, I, damn, I guess we should thank you, Garcia’s been nothing but bad for this town since he got here.’
‘So, what you’re upset about is that I did this town a service?’
‘Well, not upset, I…’
‘Well,’ the stranger smiled triumphantly as he swiveled around to view the group, ‘if I’ve done this town a service, my reckoning is you ought to pay me for it.’
‘Well…’ McLain began to make an excuse, but the stranger slapped it out of the air before it emerged.
‘My reckoning is about one horse.’
‘Mister, I, uh…’
‘Why are the gates open McLain?’ The stranger’s question took him by surprise, and his bluster deflated as he realised the payment had already been arranged.
‘The gate? Why would we close it?’
The stranger laughed quietly. He turned to the bartender inquisitively.
‘Say err…’
‘Aurelio.’
‘Say Aurelio, could you get me some water, I’m mighty thirsty seeing…’ he turned back to McLain grinning, ‘seeing as a pack of Daemons ate my goddamn horse at the last water hole.’ Aurelio didn’t get the water, Aurelio didn’t move an inch, he blinked once, silently, leaned forward and asked his question slowly as fresh sweat beaded on his forehead.
‘What’d you say Mister?’
McLain blanched, and the women retreated with a cacophony of squeals, fading down the street in panic. The stranger scratched his cheek as he rose,
‘You heard Aurelio, now fetch me some water, Mr. McLain,’ he nodded to him, ‘if you would be so kind as to get me that horse right away, I think it’s about time I left, they looked like mighty hungry beasts, and they’ll be along in a little while.’
‘Daemons?’ McLain squeaked, ‘This far out in the desert?’
‘Only about ten,’ the stranger replied, as he reached out to take a dirty wooden cup of water from Aurelio’s trembling hand, ‘big ones though, and skinny too, worst kind of Daemon.’
‘Cadáveres caminantes!’ Aurelio whispered in terror.
‘They’re not dead, they’re livin just like you and I,’ the stranger remarked, having downed the water greedily, ‘and they die just like you and I… if you kill them right.’
McLain sat down, fanning himself heavily with a pale hand, ‘Listen Mister, you must stay and help us, we can’t fight those things.’ The stranger scowled, and eyed McLain with disdain.
‘You mean to tell me there’s nobody in this town capable of fighting ten Greyskins?’
‘Well, there’s me, and Aurelio, but we are not soldiers, and there’s old Jim, but he’s no good no more, and well, Mister, Garcia chased about everyone out of town since he got here on Tuesday and killed Frank Wells stone dead! Only me and Aurelio and a couple of others are still here.’
The stranger laughed. ‘Garcia’s here for three days and about the only people still in town are the bartender, the whores and the pimp, makes sense I suppose.’ His mirth died down, and he eyed McLain dangerously. ‘Well, I’ll need a bow,’ he stated with a sigh, leaning back on his chair and casually putting feet onto the table.
‘Hell Mister! I got a bow! Real nice one too, it’s Apache! Only I don’t know how to use it well, a client gave it to me for payment.’
The stranger fumbled about in one of the many pockets dotted on his greatcoat, until he finally produced a mangled cigar, he held it up to Aurelio, his eyebrows raised. Aurelio took it and scurried behind out the door. ‘Well McLain, since you don’t know how to use it, and since I’ve got a need for it, you won’t mind givin that too me as well.’ There was a cruel mirth in his voice, but his eyes told McLain that it was not a joke. Aurelio returned with the cigar lit and thrust it into the stranger’s waiting hand, he placed it in his mouth and took a long, satisfying draw, his eyes wandered with the milky trails of smoke as McLain slumped in agreement to his demand without a word. He blew his smoke into McLain’s face as he rose, tilting his ear at another commotion going on outside.
As McLain joined him, he was chuckling softly to himself, the smoldering cigar drooping languidly from his lips as he surveyed the comic masquerade unfolding at the end of the street. Several of the girls from McLain’s brothel were struggling with a thick wooden crossbeam, trying to lift it into the brackets to bar the gate. McLain however, was not amused, and he stormed down the steps, ranting maniacally as he strode along the street, his gangly arms and legs jerking about with each syllable as if he was controlled by a clumsy puppeteer. The stranger followed a little way behind him, laughing harder as McLain twitched down the street like a rabid dog.
As the stranger drew level with McLain, the crossbeam slid into place with a heavy, wooden thump, and McLain jeered in mock congratulations.
‘Finally! About time you did something around here!’ One of the women her blonde hair tousled from the struggle flashed McLain two defiant blazing blue eyes from under her fringe..
‘Thanks for the help McLain, you lazy dog!’ She spat at his feet as she passed with acerbic contempt. McLain’s blustery anger fossilized into dark rage in a moment, and with a throaty growl he took a nimble step towards her, swinging the back of his hand with ferocity into her cheek. He was a thin man, but his frame belied the wiry strength in his arm, which toppled the woman over backward into the dust. She lay still for a moment, then she rolled over and hauled herself onto her knees, a viscous string of saliva and blood hanging from her mouth. McLain leaned forward, cocking his fist for another, more brutal blow to the prostrate woman, but the stranger’s hand clamped around his wrist.
‘That is not necessary McLain,’ he remarked coldly. The touch of the stranger seemed to drain all the fight out of McLain, and he metamorphosed back into the submissive man from the tavern.
‘Well, Mister, I run my business my way,’ he began to protest, and the stranger began to cut him short, but they were both cut off by the girl in the dust.
‘I’m not your property McLain!’ she ground out, her voice stinging with the tears she was desperately holding back.
‘Like hell! I paid Garcia good money so shut you mouth!’ McLain ejaculated violently, bludgeoning her protest with his words.
‘McLain!’ the stranger wrenched his wrist, pulling him away from the woman, and forcing him to face him. ‘Am I to understand it McLain, that you purchased this lady here from Garcia?’
‘Well, yeah Mister,’ McLain exclaimed, a little confused.
‘Well, my reckoning is… I’ll have to take her with me too, anything that belonged to Garcia belongs to me now.’ McLain made a choking sound as his neck and cheeks turned crimson.
‘Listen Mister, she’s not Garcia’s no more, I bought her from Garcia for ten gold pieces.’ His teeth ground together as he spoke, the stranger didn’t seem to notice his anger or hear his protest.
‘That’s right, she's not Garcia’s no more, she’s comin with me, she can ride Garcia’s horse,’ he nodded at the stallion still tethered outside the brothel. McLain’s squinted with discomfort as his lips moved silently, calculating his loss mentally. The drifter moistened the tips of his fingers with his tongue and deftly extinguished the stub of his cigar. ‘You know,’ he stated as he absent mindedly scratched under the collar of his greatcoat, ‘I could always just take the girl, right now, and leave you here McLain.’ He said it without menace, he simply pointed it out as a categorical fact, and the colour faded in McLain’s face as he realised again the unsavoury reality of his situation. ‘Now, lend me a hand opening this gate,’ he said over his shoulder, already moving past McLain towards the crossbeam.
‘But we,’ McLain managed.
‘Aurelio,’ the stranger called, paying McLain no heed, Aurelio appeared at the entrance to the tavern.
‘Si Senor?’
‘Go take everything off value off Garcia’s body, and when you’ve done that McLain will help you drag his sorry carcass through the gate.’ The stranger had spoke as he walked, McLain submissively trotting behind him, he had already reached one end of the crossbar by the time Aurelio scurried off towards what was once Alfredo Garcia. McLain took the other end, and the two sinewy men lifted the bar from its brackets and dropped it unceremoniously into the dust. The stranger leaned against one of the heavy wooden gates, it creaked open reluctantly under his weight.
‘McLain, go get my bow, and then help Aurelio out with the body.’
‘Just what are you planning on Mister?’ McLain inquired hesitantly. The stranger brushed a fly away from his face with a lazy wave.
‘There’s not much in the world that’ll stop a hungry pack of Greys Mr. McLain, but one thing that’ll stop them cold is fresh food,’ he announced.
The stranger returned to the tavern where McLain delivered his superbly crafted bow to him, he then fetched himself another cup of water, which he downed lazily as he watched McLain and Aurelio heave the colossal corpse up the street and out the gate. ‘Put it out about twenty feet out from the gate,’ he called as he approached, the bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He had removed his greatcoat, and the loose, coarse black fabric of his shirt flapped about his torso in the wind.
‘Aurelio?’
‘Si?’
‘You got pikes around this town?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go get em.’
Aurelio galloped away in search of the pikes. The stranger climbed up to the small platform that jutted out from the wall on the right of the gateway, McLain was already standing there looking out to the western horizon.
‘You and Aurelio will handle the pikes, understand McLain? Nothing complicated about it McLain, if they try to get up the walls stick em with the pointy end.’ The stranger smiled, McLain grimaced and grunted acquiescently. Finally, Aurelio returned, his stout legs pumping as he trotted towards them, on his shoulder he carried four long poles with tapered iron blades set into the ends. The stranger reached climbed partially down the ladder and passed the pike up to McLain. He climbed back up, and rejoined McLain, who was reluctantly clutching his pike with a single, white knuckled hand. Aurelio yelped as he pointed with his pike to what McLain had missed and the stranger had already seen long before when he first climbed to the rampart. Directly under the mid afternoon sun, a red smudge rose off the horizon into the clear sky. They were coming...

Few things, I hate the current name for the creatures, Daemons, but can't think of any suitable replacements, any ideas?

I tried to cut down a little on superfluous description, restricting it mainly to actions which pertained to the story and character appearance and so on, so hopefully this will be a little more straightforward.
Anyhow, comments?

02-26-2005, 03:54 AM	#8 (permalink)
Kostya Little known... Location: Brisbane, Australia	Version 2.0 Before you read this, I must say that I've done an extensive reimagining of the scenario and it's more alternate history than sci-fi post apoch now. Anyhow, for continuity's sake I'll put the modified Alfredo Garcia bit in again, though little has changed and also Part II. The Stranger in Search of Alfredo Garcia The stranger approached the tiny hamlet of Precipice on foot, tendrils of red dust tangled about his spurs as he strode like an omen through the open gates. The ramparts were untended, and the single, straight street dividing the town was empty, except for a gaunt dog eyed the drifter lazily. The stranger was tall and lithe, and he moved with lethal, measured precision through the current of misty, red dust towards the large tavern in the centre of town. His head was crowned with a battered, wide brimmed hat which shaded his black eyes, and from which a mane of sleek, straight black hair flared around his neck. His eyes were set deeply into his skull, a sharp nose jutting out from between then, and amongst the short, abrasive black whiskers around his jaw a thin, grim set of lips clamped around the drooping toothpick. His wiry frame was clad in a long leather greatcoat, which reached his ankles and danced about his feet as he walked with along the thoroughfare, his flowing gait pierced through with tense vigilance. His strong legs were enclosed in loose black leather, and his black boots were stained with dust. He climbed the steps leading to the tavern with a melodic jingle of spurs and strode through the open doorway with ochre apparitions flowing from his dusty clothing. Inside, a solitary barman regarded him with a sardonic glance. ‘You speak English?’ The stranger spoke softly, the spectre of threat in his voice. ‘Si Senor,’ the barman replied with a droll sigh. ‘Whiskey?’ he held up a bottle bottle, sloshing the liquor inside about with a knowing grin. The drifter stalked across the abandoned tavern, sliding between the clutter of tables and chairs strewn chaotically in his path, and without a word plucked the bottle from the barman’s hand. He brought it to his lips, and with relish took a generous swig of the fiery liquid, he exhaled heavily as the kiss ended and then he spoke into the bottle casually, still holding it inches from his mouth. ‘I’m here for Alfredo Garcia. Know where I can find him?’ The barman swallowed a gasp and gawped at the stranger with incredulous fear. ‘Mister, you’ve come to the wrong town, Alfredo Garcia isn’t in Precipice, you should go look somewhere else,’ he babbled desperately. The other man took another swig from the whiskey bottle, and placed it on the bar, he caressed his rough bearded jaw as he turned to eye the bartender. ‘Listen,’ the stranger silently reached inside his greatcoat, and drew from it a long, narrow, curved scabbard, and placed it next to the whiskey bottle with infinite care, ‘I’m here for Garcia, now where can I find him?’ The bartender blinked with astonishment at the sword, then back at the stranger’s still, cold pupils, he swallowed nervously and backed into the corner. ‘He’s in the whorehouse at the south end of town, the last place on the right,’ he blurted with panic, his voice ragged with fear. ‘Well now,’ the stranger remarked with amusement, basking in the barman’s visible terror, ‘that wasn’t so difficult was it.’ He snatched the sword from the bar, imbibed a final mouthful of harsh desert whiskey and played his deathly jingle out to the street. But the stranger needn’t have bothered with his enquiries, his arrival had been noticed, and as he emerged into the sunlight it was clear that Alfredo Garcia had found him. At the opposite end of the town, three dark figures were waiting, motionless. The stranger approached them nonchalantly. He drew to a halt seven paces from the obvious leader of the trio. He was a mountain of a man, his thick, brutish frame was draped in a woolen poncho, and at his side hung an obscenely thick blade. He remained inert, but was hunched in anticipation, his monolithic frame primed for movement. The drifter, with infinite care and vigilance, removed his greatcoat to reveal the long slender sword at his left side, tucked into his belt, his lean figure coiled as he reached across his body with his right hand, taking a firm grasp on the hilt. The mountain snorted in derision, raising a meaty arm and pointing with a thick, square finger at the thin man. ‘You gonna fight with that?!’ He roared with laughter, accompanied by his crusty companions. The stranger remained still, a wry smile snaking across his face. The giant moved closer with bold strides, halting only two paces from the drifter with a sadistic grin shining out of his skull. His hand twitched upon the pommel of his sword, and his eyes lay in a trance upon the perfectly motionless wrist of the stranger. He inhaled violently and reached to draw his blade. The stranger flitted like a shadow, moving with astonishing, lethal speed. There was a flash as his katana arced through the sunlight, and his lithe frame spun in a delicate, fatal dance. He halted facing the tavern, the naked, deadly steel raised above his head, tipped with slick black blood. Alfredo Garcia’s breath was abruptly cut short by a scarlet eruption of gore from his throat; his shocked yelp drowned in his lungs and bubbled from the gaping wound with a muted gurgle. As he clutched at the fountain of blood with futile, dying hands, his eyes burned with malice at the stranger, who crouched, poised, the elegant weapon raised above his head with both hands. Garcia’s curses gargled in his own blood as he fell to the earth, an impotent sack of meat, bleeding furiously and writhing in the hot dust with rage and terror. Garcia’s companions backed away from the gaunt angel of death in fright, they leapt onto two horses tethered outside the brothel and departed in an undignified whorl of dusty cowardice. By now their leader was motionless, lying in the street, his limbs splayed in inglorious, violent death. His eyes remained open in rage, glazed over with the milky film of death, the pool of blood already coagulating in the dust. His killer produced a small woolen cloth and wiped the blood from the tip of his blade, he then sheathed the weapon silently and turned his head jauntily to the side, his neck emitted a loud, bony crackle. He knelt beside the body and reached inside the collar of Garcia’s blood-soaked poncho and drew from it the thin leather necklace around the bullish neck. Dangling from the end was a golden medallion, and as the drifter held it up to the harsh sunlight, the graven Aztec design glinted across the surface. The killer surveyed the peculiar relic with curiosity for a second and slipped it into his pocket, he then plucked the garish golden rings from Garcia’s fingers and a handful of golden pieces from his pocket. He sighed quietly over the carcass as he rose, then turned on his heel and ambled over to his greatcoat, which he picked up and violently dusted with a cruel slap before throwing it over his shoulders, enveloping his lean figure and the scabbard in his belt. As he drifted back along the road in a cloud of dust, the desert wind toyed with the corner of Garcia’s poncho and played the whisper of a one-note eulogy over his dead body. The barman stood in awe as the phantom approached, fear and wonder swirling in his sweaty, tanned feature. ‘El Cazador,’ he whispered into the void of the wind. Making Deals with McLain The stranger kept walking, up the stairs and right past the bartender, who followed him obsequiously into the tavern, where he seated himself with the whiskey bottle. The bottle was almost empty, and the stranger drained the last of the liquor in a single swig, smacking his lips in appreciation as he swallowed. The sounds of confusion drifted into the tavern from the street outside, growing slowly louder, until finally confusion burst through the doorway, a gangly mustachioed man and three plain looking women. ‘Who the hell are you Mister!’ The mustache demanded. ‘Who are hell are you?’ The stranger didn’t turn to face the man, and his voice brought silence to the tavern. ‘Why, why I’m Robert McLain, I own this place, and place down the end of town, right beside where Alfredo Garcia’s lying dead, and Mary tells me you killed him with a single blow!’ ‘What’s it to you who I killed?’ The stranger interceded as one of the women wound up to speak, cutting her off with brutal efficiency. ‘Well, I, damn, I guess we should thank you, Garcia’s been nothing but bad for this town since he got here.’ ‘So, what you’re upset about is that I did this town a service?’ ‘Well, not upset, I…’ ‘Well,’ the stranger smiled triumphantly as he swiveled around to view the group, ‘if I’ve done this town a service, my reckoning is you ought to pay me for it.’ ‘Well…’ McLain began to make an excuse, but the stranger slapped it out of the air before it emerged. ‘My reckoning is about one horse.’ ‘Mister, I, uh…’ ‘Why are the gates open McLain?’ The stranger’s question took him by surprise, and his bluster deflated as he realised the payment had already been arranged. ‘The gate? Why would we close it?’ The stranger laughed quietly. He turned to the bartender inquisitively. ‘Say err…’ ‘Aurelio.’ ‘Say Aurelio, could you get me some water, I’m mighty thirsty seeing…’ he turned back to McLain grinning, ‘seeing as a pack of Daemons ate my goddamn horse at the last water hole.’ Aurelio didn’t get the water, Aurelio didn’t move an inch, he blinked once, silently, leaned forward and asked his question slowly as fresh sweat beaded on his forehead. ‘What’d you say Mister?’ McLain blanched, and the women retreated with a cacophony of squeals, fading down the street in panic. The stranger scratched his cheek as he rose, ‘You heard Aurelio, now fetch me some water, Mr. McLain,’ he nodded to him, ‘if you would be so kind as to get me that horse right away, I think it’s about time I left, they looked like mighty hungry beasts, and they’ll be along in a little while.’ ‘Daemons?’ McLain squeaked, ‘This far out in the desert?’ ‘Only about ten,’ the stranger replied, as he reached out to take a dirty wooden cup of water from Aurelio’s trembling hand, ‘big ones though, and skinny too, worst kind of Daemon.’ ‘Cadáveres caminantes!’ Aurelio whispered in terror. ‘They’re not dead, they’re livin just like you and I,’ the stranger remarked, having downed the water greedily, ‘and they die just like you and I… if you kill them right.’ McLain sat down, fanning himself heavily with a pale hand, ‘Listen Mister, you must stay and help us, we can’t fight those things.’ The stranger scowled, and eyed McLain with disdain. ‘You mean to tell me there’s nobody in this town capable of fighting ten Greyskins?’ ‘Well, there’s me, and Aurelio, but we are not soldiers, and there’s old Jim, but he’s no good no more, and well, Mister, Garcia chased about everyone out of town since he got here on Tuesday and killed Frank Wells stone dead! Only me and Aurelio and a couple of others are still here.’ The stranger laughed. ‘Garcia’s here for three days and about the only people still in town are the bartender, the whores and the pimp, makes sense I suppose.’ His mirth died down, and he eyed McLain dangerously. ‘Well, I’ll need a bow,’ he stated with a sigh, leaning back on his chair and casually putting feet onto the table. ‘Hell Mister! I got a bow! Real nice one too, it’s Apache! Only I don’t know how to use it well, a client gave it to me for payment.’ The stranger fumbled about in one of the many pockets dotted on his greatcoat, until he finally produced a mangled cigar, he held it up to Aurelio, his eyebrows raised. Aurelio took it and scurried behind out the door. ‘Well McLain, since you don’t know how to use it, and since I’ve got a need for it, you won’t mind givin that too me as well.’ There was a cruel mirth in his voice, but his eyes told McLain that it was not a joke. Aurelio returned with the cigar lit and thrust it into the stranger’s waiting hand, he placed it in his mouth and took a long, satisfying draw, his eyes wandered with the milky trails of smoke as McLain slumped in agreement to his demand without a word. He blew his smoke into McLain’s face as he rose, tilting his ear at another commotion going on outside. As McLain joined him, he was chuckling softly to himself, the smoldering cigar drooping languidly from his lips as he surveyed the comic masquerade unfolding at the end of the street. Several of the girls from McLain’s brothel were struggling with a thick wooden crossbeam, trying to lift it into the brackets to bar the gate. McLain however, was not amused, and he stormed down the steps, ranting maniacally as he strode along the street, his gangly arms and legs jerking about with each syllable as if he was controlled by a clumsy puppeteer. The stranger followed a little way behind him, laughing harder as McLain twitched down the street like a rabid dog. As the stranger drew level with McLain, the crossbeam slid into place with a heavy, wooden thump, and McLain jeered in mock congratulations. ‘Finally! About time you did something around here!’ One of the women her blonde hair tousled from the struggle flashed McLain two defiant blazing blue eyes from under her fringe.. ‘Thanks for the help McLain, you lazy dog!’ She spat at his feet as she passed with acerbic contempt. McLain’s blustery anger fossilized into dark rage in a moment, and with a throaty growl he took a nimble step towards her, swinging the back of his hand with ferocity into her cheek. He was a thin man, but his frame belied the wiry strength in his arm, which toppled the woman over backward into the dust. She lay still for a moment, then she rolled over and hauled herself onto her knees, a viscous string of saliva and blood hanging from her mouth. McLain leaned forward, cocking his fist for another, more brutal blow to the prostrate woman, but the stranger’s hand clamped around his wrist. ‘That is not necessary McLain,’ he remarked coldly. The touch of the stranger seemed to drain all the fight out of McLain, and he metamorphosed back into the submissive man from the tavern. ‘Well, Mister, I run my business my way,’ he began to protest, and the stranger began to cut him short, but they were both cut off by the girl in the dust. ‘I’m not your property McLain!’ she ground out, her voice stinging with the tears she was desperately holding back. ‘Like hell! I paid Garcia good money so shut you mouth!’ McLain ejaculated violently, bludgeoning her protest with his words. ‘McLain!’ the stranger wrenched his wrist, pulling him away from the woman, and forcing him to face him. ‘Am I to understand it McLain, that you purchased this lady here from Garcia?’ ‘Well, yeah Mister,’ McLain exclaimed, a little confused. ‘Well, my reckoning is… I’ll have to take her with me too, anything that belonged to Garcia belongs to me now.’ McLain made a choking sound as his neck and cheeks turned crimson. ‘Listen Mister, she’s not Garcia’s no more, I bought her from Garcia for ten gold pieces.’ His teeth ground together as he spoke, the stranger didn’t seem to notice his anger or hear his protest. ‘That’s right, she's not Garcia’s no more, she’s comin with me, she can ride Garcia’s horse,’ he nodded at the stallion still tethered outside the brothel. McLain’s squinted with discomfort as his lips moved silently, calculating his loss mentally. The drifter moistened the tips of his fingers with his tongue and deftly extinguished the stub of his cigar. ‘You know,’ he stated as he absent mindedly scratched under the collar of his greatcoat, ‘I could always just take the girl, right now, and leave you here McLain.’ He said it without menace, he simply pointed it out as a categorical fact, and the colour faded in McLain’s face as he realised again the unsavoury reality of his situation. ‘Now, lend me a hand opening this gate,’ he said over his shoulder, already moving past McLain towards the crossbeam. ‘But we,’ McLain managed. ‘Aurelio,’ the stranger called, paying McLain no heed, Aurelio appeared at the entrance to the tavern. ‘Si Senor?’ ‘Go take everything off value off Garcia’s body, and when you’ve done that McLain will help you drag his sorry carcass through the gate.’ The stranger had spoke as he walked, McLain submissively trotting behind him, he had already reached one end of the crossbar by the time Aurelio scurried off towards what was once Alfredo Garcia. McLain took the other end, and the two sinewy men lifted the bar from its brackets and dropped it unceremoniously into the dust. The stranger leaned against one of the heavy wooden gates, it creaked open reluctantly under his weight. ‘McLain, go get my bow, and then help Aurelio out with the body.’ ‘Just what are you planning on Mister?’ McLain inquired hesitantly. The stranger brushed a fly away from his face with a lazy wave. ‘There’s not much in the world that’ll stop a hungry pack of Greys Mr. McLain, but one thing that’ll stop them cold is fresh food,’ he announced. The stranger returned to the tavern where McLain delivered his superbly crafted bow to him, he then fetched himself another cup of water, which he downed lazily as he watched McLain and Aurelio heave the colossal corpse up the street and out the gate. ‘Put it out about twenty feet out from the gate,’ he called as he approached, the bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He had removed his greatcoat, and the loose, coarse black fabric of his shirt flapped about his torso in the wind. ‘Aurelio?’ ‘Si?’ ‘You got pikes around this town?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Go get em.’ Aurelio galloped away in search of the pikes. The stranger climbed up to the small platform that jutted out from the wall on the right of the gateway, McLain was already standing there looking out to the western horizon. ‘You and Aurelio will handle the pikes, understand McLain? Nothing complicated about it McLain, if they try to get up the walls stick em with the pointy end.’ The stranger smiled, McLain grimaced and grunted acquiescently. Finally, Aurelio returned, his stout legs pumping as he trotted towards them, on his shoulder he carried four long poles with tapered iron blades set into the ends. The stranger reached climbed partially down the ladder and passed the pike up to McLain. He climbed back up, and rejoined McLain, who was reluctantly clutching his pike with a single, white knuckled hand. Aurelio yelped as he pointed with his pike to what McLain had missed and the stranger had already seen long before when he first climbed to the rampart. Directly under the mid afternoon sun, a red smudge rose off the horizon into the clear sky. They were coming... Few things, I hate the current name for the creatures, Daemons, but can't think of any suitable replacements, any ideas? I tried to cut down a little on superfluous description, restricting it mainly to actions which pertained to the story and character appearance and so on, so hopefully this will be a little more straightforward. Anyhow, comments?