“Looks
like we got us a Mexican standoff.” The man known only as Bamburerro Blade
grunted the words in a dry gravelly voice that brought to mind the scrape of an
undertaker’s shove digging a fresh grave.
The
tavern was abandoned; a trashed broken ruin of splintered wood. He stood in the
centre of the dilapidated space, cowelled in a long traveller’s poncho and wide
brimmed hat; surrounded on three sides by a groaning and shuffling throng of
the recently dear and departed. Somewhat less dear now that that had been reanimated
by the same foul alien brain cheggers that had infested the populous.
Bamburerro
Blade made a slow movement with his left hand; pulling the poncho back to
access his shirt pocket. He was reaching for something, and a few of the zombies
reacted; turning to regard the interloper with increased interest. After
fiddling around for a moment, his hand emerged from the pocket gripping a fresh
cigarillo. He flicked the cigarillo into his mouth and slowly started reaching
for a match in another pocket.
Enraged
by the blatant disregard he was showing them, a zombie leapt forwards towards
the lone wanderer; but it caught nothing but air in its grizzled fleshless
hands.
What
unfolded next was too fast for normal human eyes to catch. Bamburerro’s poncho
took flight as he threw it into the air above him. Freed from its constraints,
his right hand went into action; drawing an ornate 3 barrelled pistol from a
holster across his body. With a flash of light, the weapon discharged;
exploding his first opponent’s cranium in a hefty burst of stringy alien mucus.
In
that instant, the other undead beasts turned on him; and a wall of festering
corpse warriors closed around him. Bamburerro pulled a second pistol; instantly
squeezing off another round into the chest of a particularly large lifeless
monster. The mass reactive shell exploded outwards; leaving its torso an
eviscerated mess on the other side of the room from its legs. He spun his body,
moving low beneath the tide and taking out 3 more before they even realised he
wasn’t in the poncho anymore as his gun discharged again.
Outside
of the OK Saloon, a crowd of terrified farm-folk gathered together wielding
pitch-forks and improvised scatterguns. They trembled with fright; staring with
horrified rapture as the windows of the wrecked establishment flashed
rhythmically in time to the sound gunfire.
It
suddenly went quiet. One minute turned into two, and then into three. Still nothing but silence.
A
restless murmur passed through the crowd.
“Never
should’a hired that cloaked idiot” Mayor Burrows griped a little too audibly;
his overgrown moustache wabbled comically in time to the words. “I gave him
half the money upfront too! And now somebody is gonna have to go in there to
get the money back…”. He looked around for a volunteer, his beady eyes finally
settling on the least favourite of his seven daughters. Just as he was about to
try to coax her into the death-trap, the saloon door was flung open from the
inside.
“I
reckon I’ll be taking the rest o’ that money now Mayor” Bamburerro’s low rusty
voice was clearly audible as he strode through the threshold; accompanied by
the sound of spurs clattering on the hard wood floor. He dumped a handful of
zombified heads in front of the bumbling statesman; earning both cheers of
celebration and gasps of horror from the gathered crowd of citizens.
“About
that” started the mayor, shifting nervously from foot to foot. His jowly face
beaded with sweat; obviously gleaming on his rapidly paling visage in the dim
light of dusk.
“I
don’t really have the money, I didn’t…” he stopped, swallowing loudly “…actually
expect you to come back.” An idiotic grin crept across the mayor’s face.
Bamburerro’s
eyes narrowed; his dry lips split and his voice was icy cold “Hiring a bounty
hunter without the money to pay is against the law”. The statement hung in the
air like a dead-man’s curse. There was complete silence; the villagers not
daring to even breathe as the deadly tension built.
Mayor
Burrows went red in the face, at once threatened and affronted by the hunter.
“Whose
law? I am the Mayor!” He stomped his feet at the declaration.
Bamburerro’s
poncho flew into the air.
“My
law.”
The
mayor’s last sight was the shinning triple barrels mere inches from his face.
He never saw the finger that pulled the trigger, or his crumpled bloody remains
that were left where they fell in the street for the crows.