Ringo’s Schofield clicked on an empty chamber, and just like that, he was dead. There was no time to reload, or even a last word; they gunned him down before he could even duck behind cover.
He been the best of them. Everyone had thought Ringo was invincible, sometimes even Ringo himself; now he was dead, and Joe was the last man standing. He wasn’t going to die here, not if he had anything to do with it, it would be pointless. The last wagon full of townsfolk had rolled out nearly fifteen minutes ago. Maybe if he could get to the horses and could catch up with them? It wasn’t more than a sliver of hope, but it was all he had.
He loaded his shotgun with the spares he kept in his pants pocket, the bandolier long since exhausted. If he could get to the horses there was plenty more in his saddlebag, but until then he’d have to make every squeeze of the trigger count. Steeling himself, he leapt from behind the water butt he’d been sheltering behind and ran across the street as fast as his legs would carry him. He slowed only to shoot the nearest of the bandit things, as it came a little too close for comfort.
The abominations weren’t human. Joe knew there were some strange things out there these days, but these were some of the most deadly and downright unsettling sons of bitches he’d ever seen. Deadly enough to take down some of the fastest, most dangerous guns he’d ever rode with.
It wasn’t just the fact that they were faster, tougher and seemingly tireless; or that they didn’t always stay down when shot, but the way they looked, the way they moved, it just wasn’t right. It was difficult for him to get straight in his head, but they sometimes seemed to move without covering the distance they’d just travelled, and their limbs jerked erratically, as if they struggled to control their own bodies.
The most unsettling thing of all though, were the eyes, or lack thereof. The eye sockets of every single one of these bandits were empty; empty and emitting an unwholesome grey, green smoke. How they could see was a mystery to Joe, but not only could they see, they could shoot and shoot well.
After dodging down an alleyway he was now sprinting parallel to main street, willing the stable to come into view, expecting to be shot in the back with every second that passed. He was gripping his shotgun so tightly that his knuckles throbbed; his life depended on the powerful weapon and he was convinced he would drop it.
Running past Doc Coffey’s place, Joe was almost stopped in his tracks by a hail of gunfire from one of the bandit things that had managed to get ahead of the main group. How it had missed him, he had no idea, but he wasn’t going to make the same mistake. He skidded to a halt, kicking up dust as he did so, pivoted on the spot and blew the things head off, even as it jerked and juddered towards him.
Joe planted the but of his shotgun on the ground and leaned hard on it for a moment and sucked down lungs-full of air and tried to catch his breath. Hearing a crash from the street, he got moving again, not daring to linger any longer, despite his near total exhaustion.
‘Almost there. Get moving you worn out old bastard.’ He growled to himself.
Working himself up to his new top speed, a slow, but steady trot, he reached the end of the row of buildings and the stables hove into view. Unbelievably they looked clear. Realistically he knew it didn’t matter how they looked, there could be a dozen of those things in there and he wouldn’t know until he came close enough for them to shoot him to death.
There was no choice, there was nowhere else to go, so keeping up his pace, Joe made for the stables, crossing into the open, exposed street. His skin crawled with apprehension. Every step he took towards the building and the hope of salvation, he expected to be his last, the shooting would start, and he’d go down in a hail of bullets.
Upon reaching the stables alive, he breathed a sigh of relief and muttered a quick prayer of thanks. He wasn’t an especially religious man, but he was happy to throw out a quick prayer if it’d keep him alive a while longer.
Leaving the big double doors shut for the moment, Joe crept in through the small, man size side door that was off to the side and was pleased to find that all appeared to be well. The horses were skittish, sure, but that was no great surprise really, given the things that were in town.
He went straight to his own mount, Welwyn, a massive, ill tempered brown stallion and was immediately glad to see that the horse was still saddled.
Opening the gate to the stall, Joe led Welwyn to the big doors and unbarred them as quietly as possible. He took a deep breath, threw them open, hurled himself into the saddle and urged Welwyn onwards. He took a last look at the stables behind him and felt a pang of guilt at leaving the rest of the horses penned in like that. There was no choice though, if he lingered long enough to free them, then he’d become a permanent resident.
Shots rang out, all at too great a distance to be unduly worried about. They’d almost caught up with him. He spurred Welwyn to a gallop and found the brute only to happy to oblige; it seemed his horse wanted to get out of town as badly as he did.
He was almost clear of the town when one of things appeared almost from thin air, to stand right in his path, firing fast, and without hesitation, emptying its gun in his direction. A bullet scored a red-hot line of pain across his ribs and another holed his hat, but the rest missed. Before it could reload, or move out of the way, Welwyn barrelled into it and trampled it underfoot.
“Good boy,” he told the horse.
Stealing a quick look at the town receding into the darkness behind him, Joe let out a breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He was away. He had no clue how he’d survived and he didn’t care; he had survived, and that was all that mattered to him at this moment in time.
It was dark, but the road was easy to follow. It was well travelled, so he reckoned he’d have to try damn hard to lose it. The townsfolk didn’t have an insurmountable head-start and If he rode hard, he could probably catch up with them in an hour or two. They’d no doubt be glad of an extra gun and he’d certainly be glad of the company.
A World of Words 