#Fifty Tungsten Bullets

[aion-rsa]

The Walking Dead: Why The Military Failed To Stop The Zombie Apocalypse

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For the 2020 fiscal year, the Department of Defense has been given a budget of approximately $721.5 billion dollars. Were that budget converted to GDP, the U.S. military would fall between the Netherlands ($821.5 billion) and Saudi Arabia ($686.7 billion) in the world ranking, good for 19th place. That’s a lot of money, and it powers one of the most impressive war machines in the history of the world. So how did the most powerful military on Earth fail to stop a bunch of brainless, hungry, rotting corpses on The Walking Dead? It’s an issue of supply and demand.

Gimme fuel, gimme fire

According to military leader Frederick II of Prussia, “An army, like a serpent, goes on its belly.” According to Napoleon I of France, the two things a soldier needs are, “a full belly and a good pair of shoes.” As seen in the prison battle between Rick and the Governor in season four, one tank can topple even the most heavily defended fortress, and that was an M60 Patton tank taken out of active service in 1991. A modern main battle tank, like the M1A1, can do a number on a horde of zombies, but at a significant cost. 

The M1A1 Abrams tank carries 40 rounds of ammunition for its 120 millimeter Rheinmetall RH-120 main gun (ideally the M1028 anti-personnel round loaded with 1098 9.5mm tungsten balls), 900 rounds for the .50 caliber Browning M2HB machine gun, and 10,400 rounds for two 7.62 Barrett M240 machine guns. Seems like a lot, right? The M1 Abrams can safely fire its 17 ready rounds in under a minute, after which the crew will need to pull shells out of storage and reload the ready rack or directly reload the main gun; that piece will go silent after two minutes of firing time, not counting reload. The .50 caliber commander’s gun can fire up to 1300 rounds in a minute, giving it a minute or so of bark. The M240 fires anywhere between 650 and 950 a minute, meaning those will be the last guns to go silent on board the Abrams tank, long after all of the other munitions have been exhausted. Using the lower estimate, the two machine guns on the loader’s hatch and mounted coaxial to the main gun could fire for up to 8 minutes (or 5:30 at the higher rate), assuming no jams and the barrels didn’t melt down due to the heat. 

If there were no wasted rounds, and if every round scored a direct hit, one tank could stop 43,920 zombies with its main gun, 900 zombies with the Ma Deuce, and 10,400 zombies with its M240s. One tank, 55,220 dead. Impressive! But the population of New York City is 8.4 million, which means you’d need at least 153 tanks to hit every single shot, and have every shotgun round from the main gun kill with every single ball in its round to stop one city of zombies. That’s impossible accuracy on the training ground, let alone in a real-world scenario against moving targets who’ll only drop if hit directly in the head; no amount of center mass will effectively kill a walker. Even a severed head will still bite, and can still kill.

For all the killing power of the modern military, it’s resource intensive. Jet fuel doesn’t grow on trees. It doesn’t matter how many tanks a commander has at their disposal if a $8.5 million dollar nigh-indestructible war machine is grounded for want of a $20 circuit board or $5 military-grade washer. A fleet of Top Gun pilots and fighter jets is next to useless if a lack of $5,000 tires keeps them gathering dust on the runway. 

As the COVID-19 pandemic has revealed, the first thing to fall apart in any disaster is the supply chain. There’s no real reason to expect the military supply chain, which is rigidly specialized, is any more durable. Certainly, the military has a stockpile of supplies greater than the average person, but when one supplier in Florida, Saint Mark’s Powder, makes 95% of the propellant used by the military small arms rounds, that’s not a difficult thing to disrupt. One outbreak in the propellant-making factory, and bullets become scarce immediately.

Stand by your man

Greek philosopher Heraclitus said of war, “Out of every one hundred men, ten shouldn’t even be there, eighty are just targets, nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle. Ah, but the one, one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back.”

The actual numbers are classified, for obvious reasons, but the United States has about 2.2 million service members spread across the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard, plus the Space Force, Merchant Marines, and all sundry National Guard and Reserve units. That’s a lot of people, but not a lot considering most of those members of the military have never seen active combat, let alone fired weapons at anything other than targets. Thus, the tooth-to-tail ratio.

The tooth-to-tail ratio is military jargon for the amount of combat troops (teeth) versus the amount of support personnel (tail). The U.S. military’s current ratio is estimated at about 17 percent, meaning that for every combat troop deployed, there are at least 5 or 6 support personnel there to support that person’s mission. Of that percentage of active duty combat personnel, how many of them are infantry or experienced ground fighters? 

There’s a place in the modern military for fighter jets and battleships, but if you take an Air Force pilot out of the seat of an F-35 and give them a gun, their advantage over a normal person is minimal when compared to the difference between a Marine Corps rifleman with years of combat experience in Iraq and Joe Six Pack. You wouldn’t want an avid hunter trying to fly a helicopter, and you wouldn’t want a helicopter pilot to try to bring down a deer for dinner, except from 500 feet in the air. All members of the military go through basic training, and all are familiar enough with guns to be useful, but some MOSes (military occupation specialty codes) are more useful than others in the very specific type of high-pressure house-to-house combat that would be needed to pacify a city in the midst of a zombie outbreak. 

While the military is trained and in fairly large numbers, all militaries in the modern world are more tail than tooth. Sure, those file clerks, secretaries, dentists, and mechanics are trained soldiers, they’re more useful to Uncle Sam doing the job they were trained to do outside of basic training. When you consider that half of the Army’s fighting capability spends most of its time working a civilian job and training part-time, that lack of teeth becomes more concerning.

Should I stay or should I go?

When adding in the number of reservists currently available to the United States military, another issue arises. Those men and women, drawn from all corners of the country, are called into duty to serve their state or are nationalized into the active-duty military. That bolsters the number of available combatants significantly. However, no National Guard unit springs into action with the speed of turning on a light. The unit is called to muster at a specific, centralized location, that for some soldiers is several hours from their home. After the unit is mustered, they then either have to go to a secondary location to receive their equipment, or hope that the equipment needed has been brought from a secondary location—also typically hours away from the muster point—and is waiting for them to do whatever task they’ve been assigned.

The undead pandemic as seen in The Walking Dead is something far worse than a natural disaster. Even the worst hurricane, tornado outbreak, or earthquake is limited to a specific location where the damage is the worst. As such, materials and manpower can be prepped and waiting to restore order, or brought to order in a fairly short time where needed anywhere in the United States. While larger cities will be more affected, a walker outbreak scenario isn’t going to confine itself to Atlanta or Los Angeles; zombies will be everywhere, and will spread at roughly the same time throughout the country. In a city of a million people, ten thousand zombies is a problem. In a city of fifty people, ten zombies is no less of a problem. 

Read more

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By Ron Hogan

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The Walking Dead: What is the Origin of the Zombie Outbreak?

By Alec Bojalad

National Guard units, first and foremost, serve their state. They can and are routinely nationalized to serve the U.S., including during the coronavirus outbreak, but in a situation in which zombies are emerging from major cities to terrorize the countryside, how likely is it New York state will call up its National Guard and send them to Nebraska to keep order? New York will call up their National Guard because they need them to do New York things, particularly in a situation like this. California called up their National Guard in the first season of Fear The Walking Dead to fortify their own safe zones, not to assist the rest of the country.

That’s assuming that the National Guard can even respond to a threat coming from inside the country. Mustering for maneuvers one weekend a month and two weeks a year is all well and good when roads are clear and life is peaceful. Even being deployed overseas is something entirely different than deploying at home to try and stop a zombie menace. Soldiers deserting their posts is a common refrain for the few lucky survivors who managed to survive the fall of safe zones throughout The Walking Dead universe’s United States going all the way back to the first season. English philosopher and theologian GK Chesterton said, “The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” If the National Guard is ordered to leave their home state, their family and friends, and travel off to a different state to deal with the very same menace that’s terrorizing and killing at home, will they be willing to listen to orders, or will they decide that the Indiana National Guard needs to fight for Indiana and stay home, thwarting any effective organized national response in the process? 

All that you can’t leave behind

It won’t be just National Guard and reservists who have to make tough choices between protecting their own and answering the call of duty. The United States currently has a military presence in 150 countries, with over 233,000 active duty forces currently stationed overseas, in territories, or outside the contiguous 48 states. That’s before factoring in combat forces currently stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan. That is a significant amount of manpower, and an even more significant amount of matériel. The units deployed outside of the United States tend to be the more combat-capable units, as part of force projection against the Russians in Europe, China in Asia, and North Korea on the Korean peninsula. 

Read more

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The Walking Dead: Daryl and Carol to Receive Spinoff

By Alec Bojalad

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AMC Announces Tales of the Walking Dead Anthology Spinoff

By Alec Bojalad

Give or take a Baltic nation, the U.S. is currently involved in mutual defense treaties with 49 countries. For some countries, that just means if they get attacked, the other countries in the treaty jump in and help. For others, it means that the United States is their primary defense partner, and no one else is coming to the aid of, say, South Korea or Japan. Even assuming the United States could pull all of these people, plus their families and children, back into the country in an attempt to reinforce defenses, would they even want to?

The countries the United States has a significant presence in tend to be important partners. The United Kingdom, South Korea, Japan, Saudi Arabia… if the U.S. is hanging out there, there’s a reason for it, and all very compelling reasons. If nothing else, a lot of money has been spent on infrastructure and equipment that no general officer would be happy about blowing up as part of a return to isolationism. Leaving that sort of armament behind would be a non-starter, if only to protect national security and military secrets. 

One of the reasons why the Governor was such a formidable opponent for Rick Grimes was due to weapons and equipment looted from a National Guard unit abandoning a refugee camp; now imagine if he had access to every piece of equipment the United States currently has stationed in Germany. In the absence of a strong chain of command—meaning the President, Vice President, Joint Chiefs of Staff, and everyone else who carries weight is no longer capable of making decisions due to being eaten—generals will be faced with hard choices about either trying to return to the United States or holing up in a country where the situation might be better (or worse) than what’s going on back home. 

And then, there’s the nuclear question. The United States might not confirm this, but there are nuclear weapons stationed throughout Europe. The most recent number leaked in the media is 150 in Germany, Belgium, Italy, Turkey, and the Netherlands. However, if there’s a U.S. military presence, there’s a good chance at some point a nuclear weapon could have been stationed there, either as part of a launchable warhead or as part of a nuclear payload for a submarine or long-range bomber. Nukes are everywhere, and even the people responsible for launching them might not be in the know. 

If the military blows up crashed helicopters to protect a radio, what would they do to keep a nuclear bomb from falling into someone else’s hands? Nuclear weapons, no matter what form they take, will be protected as long as there exists people looking to take advantage of them. Either in Europe or stateside, those military personnel will be at their posts until the world ends, simply because of the threat one nuclear bomb poses. Even more than military bases and critical infrastructure, the U.S. nuclear arsenal will be protected until there is no more U.S. left to protect it, and everything else can crumble around it in the meantime.

This is the end, beautiful friend

There are a lot of potential reasons why the U.S. military could fail to respond to the walker threat adequately, mostly related to the size and scope of the country and difficulties getting supplies where they are needed quickly enough to ensure survival. However, there’s one insurmountable problem, and that’s stubbornness. To a large portion of the U.S. population, there’s no challenge that America can’t recover from, and if you think differently, then you’re not really an American. 

Francis Bacon said, “States are great engines moving slowly.” In stopping something like a walker outbreak, speed and clarity of response is of the utmost importance, and the United States has proven that responding quickly and responsibly to domestic issues is not a national strength. The walkers will be a problem before the government can respond to it, particularly in bigger cities. Walkers make more walkers faster than people make more people. 

With every delay, no matter the reason, the balance shifts away from humanity and towards the rotting horde. A week of debate in Congress over whether or not the undead were a valid reason to invoke the Insurrection Act and put active-duty military on America’s streets is a week of time for the threat to take root. By the time FEMA and local officials ceded control of the crisis to the military on The Walking Dead, it was already too late. One state taking swift, decisive action can find its good work ruined by another state believing that zombies are fake news and not a real threat. A general deciding that orders from the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development (13th in line of succession from the President) aren’t valid without proof that the chain of command has been broken that far can strand combat-hardened troops half the world away when their skills are needed at home. 

The walker threat won’t destroy the United States in one fell swoop. Like a vehicle powered by Francis Bacon’s great engine, the demise of America will happen in fits and starts. Two weeks of delay here, half-mustered National Guard units there. One state responds too selfishly and allows its neighbors to fall, another state responds too generously and weakens itself to collapse trying to maintain order. America will fight, just as the survivors of The Walking Dead continue to strive to build a new order, but that struggle to maintain could very easily be vain.

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The New Colossus, destroyed by a thousand pinpricks.

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[fishingrodsreelsandgear-blog]

YZD Tungsten Bullet Weights Fishing Sinker Bass Fishing Pitching Flipping Carolina Rig Texas Rig Punch Rigs 1~1/16 oz Worm Weight

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※Smaller Profile Allows for Fewer Hang-Up and Increased Penetration ※Super Tough Powder Coating is Ultra Smooth and Resists Chipping for Long Lasting Color ※Tungsten as a material has a greater density then lead making the weights approximately fifty percent smaller.

[hottytoddynews]

Communication Addiction Disorder or “Talk­aholism”, affects 300 million people. In a strange twist, 300 million the number of the most active Twitter accounts, and the population of Americans living outside Dixie.

Here then are the Southern expressions used to describe those afflicted with Communication Addiction Disorder:

1. Ask him the time and he’ll tell you how to build a watch.

Depending on the complexity of the movement, it can take 18 months to build a timepiece like the TOURBOGRAPH “Pour le Mérite”.

2. As full of wind as a corn-­eating horse.

The gastrointestinal system of a horse measures, on average, 100 feet and holds approximately 48 gallons of fecal matter.

3. Could lick a skillet in the kitchen from the front porch.

A shotgun shack had the kitchen in back of the house, so that to reach it would take a tongue of about 30 feet – that’s chatty.

4. Full of gas with nowhere to go.

The most popular basket balloons can carry up to 3­5 people and has 99,000 cubic ft. of gas.

5. Got tongue enough for ten rows of teeth.

Sharks typically have two or three rows of mature teeth.

6. He blew in on his own wind.

“It’s a mistake to think that the blow­hards who call in speak for the nation.” -Donella Meadows

7. He could talk the gate off its hinges.

”The trouble with her is that she lacks the power of conversation but not the power of speech.” -George Bernard Shaw

8. He could talk the hide off a cow.

”If talk is cheap, then being silent is expensive. And many people it seems, can’t afford to buy into it.” -Anthony Liccione

9. He could talk the legs off a chair.

”When an illiterate gets angry, you’ll get to understand that calmness is probably a sign of education.” -Michael Bassey Johnson

10. He shoots off his mouth so much he must eat bullets for breakfast.

Fact: Steven Woodmore holds the record for being able to articulate 637 words per minute, a speed four times faster than the average person.

11. He will talk your ear off.

”The trouble with her is that she lacks the power of conversation but not the power of speech.” -George Bernard Shaw

12. He’d drive a wooden Indian crazy.

Fact: As early as the 17th century, European tobacconists used figures of American Indians to advertise their shops.

13. He’s a manure salesman with a mouthful of samples.

”They think they can make fuel from horse manure ­ now, I don’t know if your car will be able to get 30 miles to the gallon, but it’s sure gonna put a stop to siphoning.” -Billie Holiday

14. He’ll tell you how the cow ate the cabbage.

”Not every person that speaks less than you do is more ignorant than you are.” -Mokokoma Mokhonoana

15. He’s a live dictionary.

“The chief drawback with men is that they are too talkative.” -Marilyn Monroe

16. He’s got a ten­gallon mouth.

”Those who say don’t know, those who know don’t say.” -Michael Lewis

17. Her mouth is going like a bell clapping out of a goose’s arse.

”Those that know ain’t telling me…or you.” -Tim Heaton

18. Her mouth runs like a boarding house toilet.

Note: A running toilet can waste 80,000 gallons of water a month.

19. His tongue wags at both ends.

”But always, it has been truly said, the savage is talkative about his mythology and taciturn about his religion.” -G.K. Chesterton

20. If bullshit were music, he’d have a brass band!

”Knowledge is talkative, refuses to shut up… Wisdom is so subtle, refuses to be invisible.” -Abha Maryada Banerjee,

21. She beats her own gums to death.

Rather than: She could talk the legs off an iron pot.

22. She could talk a coon right out of a tree.

Rather than: She talk the hind leg off a donkey.

23. She speaks ten words a second ­ with gusts to fifty.

”The trouble with her is that she lacks the power of conversation but not the power of speech.” -George Bernard Shaw

24. So windy he could blow up an onion sack.

In Blue Hill, Nebraska, it is illegal for a woman “wearing a hat that would scare a timid person” to eat onions in public.

25. They were vaccinated with a Victrola.

Tungsten was the common material for photograph needles, but for audiophiles of the period, soft wood­-like fiber needles were also available for the Victrola. Although gave great sound, they dulled very quickly and had to be replaced or re­sharpened.

26. Windy as a sack full of farts.

According to NASA, human flatus is about seven percent methane, but (pun intended) also includes nitrogen, CO2, oxygen, and a large amount of Hydrogen.

Have you seen this man? Tim Heaton is looking for a position back down South.

Tim’s colleagues describe him as “ridiculously motivated” renaissance man with superb communication, team-building and leadership skills. He is a recognized expert in leveraging technology for organizations from athletics to high finance, and has been awarded 17 US Patents in technology. Tim is a contributing writer to HottyToddy.com and actively volunteers his technical, database and social media expertise to several nonprofits in his current home in New Jersey and in his home state of Mississippi. He is also a published author, chef and physical fitness enthusiast.

Tim and his wife Linda live in Morristown with their two sons. Tim is also the parent of Dr. Allison Pace DVM of Franklin, TN. Tim Heaton is a graduate of Ole Miss, where he is an active alumnus and supports the university in a variety of public relations efforts. He can be reached at tim.h.heaton@gmail.com.

Follow HottyToddy.com on Instagram and Twitter @hottytoddynews. Like its Facebook page: If You Love Oxford and Ole Miss…

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[chronicles-of-the-fringe]

The Fringe, Episode 7, Part 3, A Chink In The Armor

Two Hours Since First Volley

Alpha Oranus III

   The citizens of Alpha Oranus III didn't stand a chance against the cultist aggressors. Their militia was made up of backwoods hunters, not trained killers of men. The town of Pikeman’s Ridge was decimated almost instantly. Sunset's Doorstep soldiers driving TAC Rhinos bombarded the walls surrounding the town. The ferric-tungsten slugs left almost perfect holes in the thick concrete and tore through the buildings behind it. It happened so quickly there was no time to rally the militia, no time to warn the other settlements.

   The warning call to the planet’s capital city of Corbain came from the ACGG fleets which had moved into orbit after scrapping the hostile flotilla. Charlie Company’s mission was a success, with Dokovich in custody and his flagship destroyed, the ground forces were cut off. From there the Colonial Council contacted all settlements across the planet. In the half hour between The Sunset’s Doorstep to setting up a base of operations and the ACGG’s warning call, seven settlements had been destroyed. Approximately ten thousand innocents were murdered. It didn’t take long for the colonial militia to respond to the Council’s calling, but it still was useless. They didn’t have the equipment to handle tanks. After the incident in the Theta Octanus system legislature was passed to provide heavy weaponry to colonies, but lobbyists had swept it under the rug. The Alpha Oranus colonies were unfortunate enough to apply for a defense grant and be met with rejection. The Army of The Centralized Galactic Government would have to step in and stop the cultist menace.

Three Hours Since First Volley

Balahn Peninsula, Alpha Oranus III

   The sound of tanks was almost thunderous. Their engines and tracks created a clattering rumble which roared over the thin peninsula as the Doorstep cultist tanks plodded towards their next target. The port of Carakahn was located on the edge of a small bay on the southern tip of the Balahn Peninsula. What separated Carakahn from Pikeman’s Ridge was a battalion of ACGG armor. As the cultist Rhino tanks came within range a massive salvo of gauss cannon fire tore through the forward line. With the fanatics caught off guard it was easy for the ACGG to thin their ranks significantly. Trebuchet Battalion Leader Francois ordered his tanks to move forward, their treads shredded the soft soil and crushed asphalt as they rushed towards their stunned foes.

   Chainguns and gauss cannons rang out over the peninsula while militiamen used government rocket launchers to provide support from afar. Tanks erupted in flames as fuel cells were shattered by gauss slugs and rockets. Men attempting to jump from their tanks were thrown through the air and shredded by a hellstorm of fifty caliber bullets. Fragments of armor, chunks of flesh and husks of flaming tanks littered the field in front of Carakahn’s gates. The battle lasted all of twenty minutes. The Battle of the Balahn Peninsula resulted in The Sunset’s Doorstep losing thirty tanks and seventy men while the Army of the Centralized Galactic Government lost five Trebuchet tanks and five men.

Four Hours Since First Volley

Ardovian Desert, Alpha Oranus III

     Plumes of dust and sand hung in the air as the warring factions fought over the fate of the Ardovian Spaceport, the largest port outside of the capital city of Corbain. The cloud was so thick that standard cameras provided little aid. Almost all of the combatants had switched to thermal and infrared sensors. With FIF tag overlay and orbital satellite imagery, the ACGG tankers were more accurate in the limited visibility than their cultist counterparts were. With each shot spiraling rings of dust made small openings in the dense atmosphere. Each shot began with a high pitched whine followed by a heavy thump as the magnetic coils charged and released the massive amount of energy needed to launch their slugs at speeds exceeding mach two. The extreme forces of friction experienced by each slug melted the ferric tungsten only for it to be cooled almost immediately by ambient air temperatures.

   The spaceport was a prime target for the cultists. The planet’s exports left from here while the tourism industry was settled in the Corbain Capital Spaceport. If the Ardovian Spaceport were to fall, the planet’s infrastructure would fall with it. The two factions fought feverishly over every square centimeter of real estate. As the battle raged on, ACGG forces made a sudden retreat and  backtracked towards the port. Regrouping gave them the advantage. Sunset’s Doorstep tanks continued firing blindly into the dust, hitting each other in the process. Once all remaining ACGG Trebuchets had regrouped they fired into the cloud of dust. Minutes passed without a sound. The sand and dust hanging in the air accompanied by the sound of silence was almost serene. As the dust settled a field of utter carnage was revealed; government and cultist tanks sat side by side, flaming ruins, a testament to the self destructive nature of mankind.

Five Hours Since First Volley

Excedian Plains, Alpha Oranus III

   This time the ACGG was on the offense. With the massive losses the Sunset’s Doorstep forces had suffered, a massive chink in their armor had been revealed. The fanatic cult had retreated to their base of operations. This would be the final battle, their Waterloo. As preparations were made the government’s army was closing in quickly. Cutlass Dropships filled Marines, Shock Troopers and Special Forces soldiers raced to their enemy’s location as the Vehicle Forces brought armored support from all sides.

   As the Cutlasses hovered above the plainsland it was as if angels of death had arrived to reap the souls of the damned. Their payload of men dropped swiftly and safely to the ground. Soft grass flattened as boots and stabilizer jets pounded upon the plains. The Trebuchets weren’t far behind either. Soon after the dropships left, gauss cannons fired over the heads of advancing soldiers. Special Forces troopers carrying rocket launchers hefted their weapons and unleashed a salvo of high explosive rockets towards the enemy base. Tanks and other armored vehicles erupted in flames as the gauss slugs and rockets found their marks. The Battle of the Excedian Plains had begun, and nothing could stop the ensuing onslaught.

   The Sunset’s Doorstep had dug in. Kilometers of trench lines surrounded their base, smoke from flaming vehicles poured out across the battlefield and into the cultist entrenchments. Thunderous booms rang out as gauss slugs broke the sound barrier and machine guns thumped with each shot. Bodies flew into the air as they were jettisoned from vehicles. As the Trebuchet companies provided cover fire, the infantry divisions rushed into the fray. The popcorn crackle of assault rifle shots was drowned out by the tank cannons.

   Within the center of the cultist encampment several battalion commanders bickered over the best strategy to escape death. Their holotable displayed the battlefield. Their outer perimeter had fractured and the ACGG was swiftly breaking through the others. They could already hear the small arms fire growing louder and louder. They had already tried to contact the fleet, but to no avail. There would be no salvation, no transcendence in this life, only a swift death at the hands of more righteous men.

[some-guy-writes]

50 Tungsten Bullets summary

Spiv was one happy fellow. It wasn’t everyday his crew salvaged a particularly pristine piece of old world tech. He just didn’t expect to come face to face with the original owner on the same day. After a ruthless encounter with the Faceless Gang, Spiv swears vengeance against the gang and the immortal outlaw who killed his mentor. This is the tale of the man who would come to be known as Twice Dead Spiv: the man with the silver gun.

Chapter 1: Fifty

Chapter 2: Forty-Nine

Chapter 3: Forty-Six

[some-guy-writes]

FTB: CH 3.

Fifty Tungsten Bullets: Chapter 3. Forty-Six

Summary | Start | Prev

Sebrum might have been a hellish place day time, the only hell Spiv had ever known, but at night, it was downright gorgeous. More stars than the concept of numbers could fathom and the unmistakable figure of the Milky Way stretching as far as the eye could see. The same Milky Way every man, woman and child slept under. Immortal, cripple, rich folk or poor, each and every one squandered their days under ancient light from the same distant stars. If there was any fairness to be found in this life, it’d be that. The desert landscape itself looked a field of stars too, come nightfall. Luminescent foliage littered the sparse hills and valleys with blues, greens, reds and yellows. Soil on Sebrum was poorer than a bum on his last kollar, more so in the outback. Much of the bush had taken up luring whatever happened to wander by. More than a few species could snip a finger off if you weren’t careful. Always best to poke a shiny with a stick first, lest it be a clever snapping plant. 

The sun crept over the horizon like a golden spear thrust forth by some ancient god, touched by a deep sulfuric blue. Spiv thought for a minute the old pantheons of Earth might have been wise to a thing or two. Something as magnificent as the azure sunrise of Sebrum was far too great a feat for a single deity to conjure, no matter how all powerful. Mornings of the like made Spiv forget it was just natural gasses burning in the upper atmosphere. Some days, he hoped never to remember. 

The air was still cool by the time the crew rode onto the main street of Jepsum. Quaint little town about half the size of Bakersville. All six of them had paid their visits many times on scouting ventures. 

“If we’re gonna do this thing, we’re gonna do this right,” Spiv said, rising and falling with each wide step of his mount. “And to do that, we’re gonna need supplies and info. Jersey, Carolina, K.C, you’re on hound duty. Snuff out any deets you can gather about the Faceless Gang. Where they perused, what business they might have here and where they may be headed. Hudson, Kit, you’re with me. We’ll hit up the bounty boards to raise some funds and get some target practice.” 

“We ain’t never been bounty hunters,” K.C. spoke as if she had a pill bug rolling around in her mouth. 

Spiv and K.C. rode side by side, but neither took their eyes away from the road ahead. 

“True as that may be, we are in dire need of money and experience. If we can’t take out a few measly outlaws ourselves, what hope do we have against the Gang?” 

“Just don’t wanna make a habit of roundin’ up folks we know nothing about.”

“Even if them’s scoundrels?”

“The scoundrel I know can bake for all I care. But the one I don’t ain’t a scoundrel to me.”

“Suppose you’re right. As always,” spiv chuckled. “Can’t claim to be a righteous man who don’t give reasonable doubt when it’s due. Tell ya this, I won’t be offending no one until we deem the bounty on their head is warranted.”

“Quite reasonable by the sounds of it,” K.C. said before splitting towards the pubs. “A righteous man you may yet be. Just don’t be going the way o’ the martyr. Stay safe, Spiv.”

Martyr, huh? Had to admit, ‘Spiv the martyr’ had a nice ring to it. That being, if his name wasn’t Spiv. ‘Saint Spivenson the martyr,’ more like. Though, on account of martyr’s being dead and all, Spiv was well inclined not to become one any time soon. Not until the deed he set out to do was done. 

The Sheriff's office wasn’t much farther ahead. Smack dab in the center of main street. Now, Sheriff wasn’t a particularly conventional term in most independent townships. No such thing as cop or a governing body of any kind, except for the mayor and town council and often not even that. What Sheriffs did in these parts was collect funds for bounties from the townsfolk. A quick wit and an even quicker trigger could make a decent living going place to place, catching folks with ill intent and making them chew on lead. Many a tall tale sprung up from a lone gunslinger going toe to toe with a legendary outlaw. Word in Bakersville was that Spiv’s pa was one of the best. Took out the entire Green River Gang in the east single handed in his youth. Went on to fight for the independence of the entire region. Only one to survive in his platoon nine times over. Spiv’s ma was mighty fond of the old coot. He came around to Bakersville every chance he could just to see her. Did every bounty on the board, and when there was none left, he skipped town until tell of there being more. Then one day, while ma was expecting little Spiv, he never showed. Bounty boards piled up month after month, but still no sign of him. Not long after Spiv saw his first sunrise, his mum took a strider ride and went the way of his pop. Wasn’t a word on where either of them were in the better part of two decades. These days, even if there was word on where his parents went, Spiv didn’t much care to hear it. 

Spiv, Kit and Hudson locked their striders by the feeding trough. Hudson unclipped the feed bag from his and dumped it in the trough for the bipeds to gorge themselves. Mix of all sorts of crap. From beetles, to corn, to hay, to manure. Gourmet cuisine or shit in the literal sense, didn’t make a difference to striders. 

The office was a rickety old house scraped together from seeding ship hulls. From the second or third migration, Spiv reckoned. Likely one of the first shacks to be set up in Jepsum. Inside was lively. All sorts of unsavory types who didn’t look too unlike outlaws themselves. Wouldn’t be uncommon to find a bounty hunter in one town had a bounty on their head in the next. 

A large, flickering screen displayed three posters above the Sheriff’s booth. One big one, and two smaller to the side. The larger of the three had cracks running all over it to the point that reading the text was nigh impossible, and three bullet holes from which every crack on the screen sprang. Petty bounties were listed all over the room. A thousand kollars here, two thousand there. Disorderly conduct, larceny and the like. Most of the folks around perused those. The competition consisted of some plain looking fellows, a few that weren’t far off from drunkards on a good day and even one guy wrapped head to toe in bullet belts and hand guns. The belt boy looked a might ridiculous and, to some degree, intimidating. One of two ways about it: either he was a fool about to die a fool’s death, or a professional good enough to not give a damn what others thought. Coin toss as to which. While Spiv was known to be a gambling man, he preferred odds better than fifty. 

One lady had her sights on the prize. Stood right in front of the Sheriff’s booth without looking away from the board above. Dressed in lamb leather duds to boot. Plain enough aesthetic from a distance, but upon closer inspection, the remarkable craftsmanship was evident. 

“Wouldn’t expect nothing less than lambskin from someone peering at the dead or alive type bounties,” Spiv said to her. He was a good twenty years her junior. Though, if she were in the bounty hunting occupation long, might put that at fifteen. Days in the heat of Sebrum’s star would put years on a face like nothing else. 

“I have expensive taste,” she replied, giving him a quick side eye. “Might add I like a man with an insight for quality.”

“In the business of knowing a curiosity’s worth, miss. Or, used to be, I should say.”

“Only folks who get in the business of hunting bounties are folks with nothing to lose or something to prove. And if you still got something to lose, then I suggest you stick to your curiosities.”

Spiv chuckled. “Think myself the latter. But I got a mind to make sure no one else has to lose anything neither.”

“Aye, also been known to enjoy a garnt of reefer on occasion,” the woman laughed.

Spiv didn’t heed that comment. He knew right from wrong and that’s all there was to it. Right being whatever was best for his crew and wrong being whatever wasn’t. And if someone messed with him or his associates, well, that was mighty wrong of them. That perspective did give him a tid bit of sympathy for those who had been messed with, and a whole lot fewer for those who did the messings. 

“What say you about the fellas in the center there?” Spiv asked. “Worth a hundred K for all three of ‘em.”

The lady in leather grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Won’t have to worry about me competing for your bounty. That’s all I’ll say.” She proceeded to the Sherif’s booth to download specs to her deck. 

Front board bounties typically offered the highest reward. On account of being the most troublesome. And troublesome often meant the subject didn’t have to come back with the hunter. High pay didn’t necessarily mean most dangerous, just the largest investment for seeing them gone. If a veteran wasn’t willing to take a bounty, it simply wasn’t worth their time. Up to interpretation as to why. That being as it may, no matter which way Spiv spun it, a hundred thousand Kollars would go a long way to taking down the Faceless Gang. Might even be able to find a hired gun or two to tag along. And, well, if there weren’t going to be anyone else after these guys, he couldn’t contemplate a reason not to try. 

Spiv returned to his crewmates. “One in the center, front board. Don’t reckon it’ll be easy, but a hundred K is a hundred K.”

Hudson nodded. He went up to the Sheriff’s booth to get the specs. 

Kit’s eyes drifted around the room. Soon enough, her feet began to follow. 

Spiv plopped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

Kit frowned something nasty, but resigned herself. “You know what I smell?” she asked.

“Moonshine?”

“Yeah,” she retorted. “Half the pricks here can’t barely stand straight. E-a-s-y money.”

Spiv shook his head. “Not looking for pocket change. If we’re ever in a pinch, I’ll let you scam suckers until the fourth moon rises. But for now,” he said through his teeth, leaning, “stay out of trouble.”

“Fine,” Kit said, folding her arms. “But next sucker I find, you’re not getting a cut.”

“What’s the deets?” Spiv asked as Hudson returned with his deck. 

“Looks like a threesome of bandits hiding up in the hills along the road to Jepsum. Raid anyone who comes by. Estimated thirty or so dead, fifty injured. Whole town hasn’t gone a mile near the place in months.” He looked up from the text. “You sure about this Spiv? They’re mechanists from Third York. All accounts say they got armor.” 

Spiv patted the gun at his side. “Ain’t no armor on Sebrum enough to stop what we’re packing. Caution be warranted, but I do believe the odds are in our favor.” 

The day was still young as the three of them set out. The climate was temperate, but began to have a dry and dusty bite. The hills were a day's walk out from Jepsum and in traditional times, an essential route from the northern cities to the southern townships. And where money flowed, bandits gathered. Like strider herds at an oasis. 

Spiv dug his spurs into Jeffery’s sides. The strider’s meandering gait accelerated into a dead sprint. Kit and Hudson weren’t far behind. The crew laughed at him back in the day for buying the runt of the litter off K.C.’s pop. Spiv couldn't pass up half off a strider pup, runt or not. Six year later, he had the fastest biped mut in all of Bakersville. Many folks tried to get Spiv into racing thinking he had an intuition for striders. Those folks soon came to the realization Spiv just had keen sense for inexpensive breeds. A lot of people lost a lot of money after listening a little too closely to his thoughts. But one or two got steal of a deal on thoroughbred racing striders. 

It was only an hour or so into the expedition before the trio came to the hills outside of Jepsum. Striders were fine beasts when it came to traversal. In the wild, they’d run for days on end to get from one watering hole to the next. 

“Reckon this is the place,” Spiv said as Jeffery strutted to a stop. 

“Reckon so,” Hudson replied. 

Spiv squinted. Something not far up the road was reflecting the star’s light mighty sharp. “Think that a shiny or an ambush?” he asked, pointing to the object.

“Well,” Hudson said, “If I were bandit lookin’ to rob some folks, that is exactly where I’d be.”

“Only one way to know for sure.” Spiv handed Jeffery’s reins to Hudson and dismounted. His spurs jingled as his boots hit the ground.

As he approached, the sun’s glare lessened to reveal nothing but a periscope sticking out of the dirt. Before Spiv could take another step, the sand in front of him erupted forth to reveal two hulking suits of rusted armor. Both stood nearly twenty feet tall. The larger of the two, round and burly with thick sections of jagged plates covering its innerworkings, pointed a large, gun-laiden arm directly at Spiv.

Spiv clicked his tongue. He was right to leave Jeffery be. Sand scorpions were natural enemy to bipeds. So, naturally, bipeds got spooked by whatsits coming out of the ground. 

“Leave yer strides and belongings and ye can leave with yer lives,” an amplified voice echoed from the larger machine. 

“You’re them bandits from Third York, right?” Spiv said, taking off his hat. He cupped his hand over his brow to shield the sun. “How many folks you rob now? Kill?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“There be a hundred thousand kollar bounty. Wanna make sure I bring the right carrot cocked potato fuckers justice.”

The suit bellowed a heavy, unhealthy laugh. “Yer got ten seconds before I blow ya to shit.” the armor suit boomed. “ten, nine, eight-”

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” spiv said. “Got something mighty valuable on my person. Be in your best interest to keep it intact.”

“six, four-”

“Five comes after six.”

“Shut the fuck up cunt!” 

The hydraulics squealed as the mech took a step forward. Spiv looked at his wrist. There wasn’t anything on it, but he liked to imitate the fancy folks from old world movies sometimes. 

“five, three”

“Say, Hudson!” Spiv shouted behind him. “Where you thinkin’ them pilots are positioned?”

“Dead center beneath the chest piece,” Hudson called back in a manner atypically calm of him. 

Nervous or complete faith? Spiv couldn’t tell which. But he knew what he would put money on. He grinned like the devil.

Armor was slow by drawing standards. Most folks could react in about a quarter of a second. Processing through mechanized armor over doubled that. With the penetration of Jeeb’s weapon, Spiv couldn’t lose. 

“Two, one-”

In a flash, Spiv drew his gun. Before the cloth he kept it wrapped in even hit the ground, he took a shot directly at the thickest chestpiece of the suit of armor before him. He deftly let the recoil swing the revolver around his middle and index finger, hooked in the trigger guard. He caught it as the sights came over the smaller unit and fired again. This time the momentum carried his hand skyward. The spotless silver metal gleamed in the sun. Both suits of armor wobbled where they stood, with two large, bloody holes directly through the center. 

Hudson whistled in the distance. “Actually managed to pull off the double switch blade with that thing,” he hollered. 

“Reckon you owe me twenty kollars!” Spiv shouted back. 

“Reckon so.”

Spiv chuckled. He’d practiced his trick shots the entire way to Jepsum. Not much else to do. Hudson didn’t think he’d ever be able to use one in a real fight. 

Spiv holsted his gun and spat. “Now where was the third,” he muttered. He turned around, eyes darting every which way. But nothing stuck out. Hudson didn’t call any snipers either. Lord knew that man had vision like an eight winged hawk. Sometimes Spiv wondered if Hudson could see infrared. All experiments so far were inconclusive. 

“You killed them!” a child’s voice screamed from the larger mech. “You killed muh ma and pa!”

Spiv couldn’t quite discern whether it was a girl or a boy. Right then, it didn’t much cross his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the armor jitter back to life. It didn’t shoot, but it did stampede directly for him. He hadn’t considered that. Having a copilot wasn’t unheard of. One to handle movement, the other to handle gunnery. But what made this case unique was the lack of indication of such from the outside. 

“Run Spiv!” Kit screamed at the top of her little lungs. “Run!”

Her voice was soon over powered by the rumble of mech armor and the wails of the child piloting it. 

Hudson fired a couple rifle rounds at the armor, but those plinked off like feathers in the wind.

Spiv sprinted for the hills as fast as he could. He was making good ground. The armor began to slip away. He glanced behind and did a double take. The armor had ignited a rocket and was now rising beneath a column of black smoke. It arched over the road, stalled, then came crashing down. Directly on top of Spiv. He didn’t even try to shoot back. The second chair in a custom built, dual pilot mech could have been anywhere inside. Miss, and Spiv was good as dead. Not to mention a bullet wouldn’t do much good against several tons of metal in freefall. But a few of the tungsten variety might do some later down the line, even if he wasn’t there to fire them. Spiv undid this bullet belt and holster. He leapt, tossing them as close as he could to Hudson as the mech came careening down. 

The mech sent a wave of sand washing over Spiv as it made impact. The gun landed at the feet of Hudson’s strider. Spiv let out a sigh of relief. Odds were good the suit’s legs collapsed when it hit the ground. And a mech that couldn’t move or shoot was about as useful as biped without feet. Spiv tried to picture that. What he had in mind was something like a very tubby worm. 

All of a sudden, the rocket ignited again. Spiv could hardly breathe from all the smoke. The child inside screamed bloody murder as the armor slid forward through the sand. 

Spiv clawed at the dirt as quick as mortal body would allow. “Oh f-” he began as the armored hull slammed into his chest. He clung to the gaps in the plate for dear life as the mech took him along for a ride. Large, sharp rocks deep in the sediment bashed his legs. Spiv heard bones shattering. He did not let go. 

The armor slid to a stop, pinning Spiv by the knees beneath it. The child’s tantrum didn’t wane a minute. The suit raised the one good arm it had left, ready to squish little Spiv beneath it. Spiv watched, eyes wide open. If he was gonna die, he wanted to see it coming. 

Hudson picked up Jeeb’s gun. He stepped behind the mech, pulled back the hammer and fired. The child fell silent. Hudson angled the shot so the over penetration missed where Spiv lay. The impact still half buried him in dirt. The mech teetered to a halt, arm still raised above Spiv.

Hudson rubbed his wrists. “Gonna be sore in the morning, I’ll tell you that,” he said.

“Kicks harder than Kit on a particular day of the month,” Spiv groaned. 

At those words, Kit proceeded to kick him in the stomach. 

Spiv coughed. “See.”

He didn’t feel it though. Spiv didn’t feel much of anything to be perfectly honest. High as a kite on endorphins without a thought going through his head. Because if he thought for a moment what happened to his legs, he’d lose his mind in an instant. 

 Hudson looked down at Spiv. “You okay?” 

“Just peachy,” Spiv winced. 

“Lemme grab a shovel. We can dig you out,” Kit said.

“Don’t bother.” Spiv hissed. “Legs are caught between a boulder and I’m pretty sure my foot got lost a hundred feet back.” He could see a bit of the wake the armored suit left and a trail of red sand in the middle of it. Spiv only hoped it wasn’t his. 

“Shit...”

“Kit,” Hudson said, “grab your medical knife.”

“Bout the only option I can think of,” Spiv said with shaky breaths. Those words sent a chill down his spine. Half because of the excruciating pain beginning to come to his senses. The other half because it was about to hurt a whole lot more. 

Medical knife made the thing in Kit’s possession sound a whole lot more clinical than it was. The correct terminology was heat blade. A knife that ran a current of superheated plasma as its edge. The one Kit salvaged could chop down a forest, six inches at a time. While heat blades were mighty useful pieces of tech to have, just about all anyone in these parts used them for was amature surgery. 

“Want me or Hudson to do the cutting?” Kit asked, blade in hand.

“I trust Hudson’s steady hands with my life, make no mistake,” Spiv said. “But someone who can win every game of find the marble under the cup has the hands of a surgeon.” 

“Glad you think highly of me for something,” she replied in a morbid tone. 

“Don’t pretend I don’t,” Spiv said through clenched teeth. “Just don’t much value the words out of your mouth or the thoughts in your head. Rest of you ain’t so bad.” He was expecting a swift kick in the shins, but it never came. Not that spiv could feel his shins at the moment.

Hudson fastened some twine around Spiv’s legs, just above the knee. He undid his belt, looped the thing in on itself a couple times, then stuck it in Spiv’s mouth. 

Spiv clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. The whole ordeal was less than ten seconds. The searing sting and smell of his own roasted flesh made it feel like eternal damnation. If there were ever a description of Hell to make him step foot in a church, this’d be it. 

Kit and Hudson hoisted a whimpering Spiv onto Jeffery. Spiv couldn’t even laugh at the fact that Hudson’s pants were falling down and his knickers were showing. Hudson tore the shirt on his back in two, doused both pieces in ethanol and wrapped them around Spiv’s new stubs. Spiv screamed in agony as the alcohol made contact with his cauterized flesh. It took the crew a whole month to brew that much. They were saving it for a good haul. Spiv would have shed a tear in another circumstance. Currently, he was shedding plenty. 

Since Hudson’s shirt was now in use as Spiv’s makeshift boots, Hudson had taken to wearing his poncho. It only rained for a week a year in this part of the world, but for that week, you’d be cursing yourself for not affording a poncho when you had the chance.

“For the record,” Spiv said in a shaky voice as they rode back to Jepsum, “I have some qualms about shooting an orphan.”

In another life, Spiv wouldn’t have been in a position much different from that kid. Though, the knowledge that said kid may have been complicit in the deaths of thirty others lessened the guilt a little. 

“Well I got some qualms about you being the one who orphaned him,” said Hudson. 

“Hey, better an orphan than dribble from shit stain parents,” Spiv said. 

“Better dead than an outlaw,” Hudson replied. 

Spiv frowned. “Don’t know if I agree with that, but I ain’t gonna argue it.” 

“Sides, it was either you or him. I chose you.”

“Grateful for that I am.”

Spiv looked to Hudson. “Don’t tell K.C.?”

Hudson nodded. “Don’t tell K.C.”

“What’s that you chewing?” Kit asked Spiv.

“Nothing much,” Spiv grumbled. 

Kit squinted at him. “That ain’t opiate gum, is it? ‘Cause if it is, I’ma be mad.” She rode up to Spiv and began snatching air in his direction. 

Hudson squeezed his strider between the two of them.

“I haven’t found a scrap of opiate gum in all of Baskerville in months,” Kit whined. “Gimme some!” 

“That’s ‘cause we let everyone know you’re addicted and told them not to sell you any,” Hudson spoke. “It’s for your own good. We need to save it for situations like this,” nodding at spiv. 

Kit wasn’t listening. Her face got redder and her eyes narrower by the second. “You bastards,” she growled. “You goddamn bastards. Where are you hiding it?”

Hudson grinned. He didn’t say a word. 

“Just give her some,” Spiv said. “Don’t think I wanna be molested in my sleep when Kit gets curious.” 

It took a minute, but when the implication finally dawned on Hudson, he shuttered. He reached deep into the seat of his under pants and took out two packs of opiate gum. “Fine,” he said, tossing one pack to Kit and the other to Spiv. “But Spiv gets half. He’s the one who needs it.”

Kit’s pack didn’t even last the rest of the road back to Jepsum. She was half asleep as they entered town. If they were lucky, she’d forget all about Spiv’s supply by tomorrow. Hudson tied up her strider. As well as her to it so she didn’t fall off. He then hoisted Spiv upon his back and waltzed into the Sheriff’s office and up to the booth. The sheriff himself was a scruffy looking old man whomst reeked of too much booze and looked of too many pastries. 

“Center board is clear.” Hudson said. “Head up to the hills anytime if you wanna look for yourself.” 

“Evidence?” the sheriff rumbled. 

Spiv slid to Hudson’s side, with one arm wrapped around his shoulder and the other supporting himself against the booth’s counter. Hudson slipped the sheriff his deck. 

“Fine work,” the sheriff said, flipping through the photos. “Color me impressed. Your reward is in order.” he disappeared into a backroom.

“That’s some quality snuff,” the belt covered boy from earlier hissed from an uncomfortably close distance. 

Hudson looked him in the eye. “Fifty kollars and the photos are yours.” 

The two of them exchanged goods and currency, then belt boy went on his merry way. Spiv couldn’t do nothing but frown at the whole series of events. He had qualms about what just transpired. A number of qualms indeed.

“Don’t you look a wreck,” the lady in lamb leather chuckled.

Spiv turned over his shoulder with a scowl. He was not in a jolly mood and had no tolerance for anyone who was. The woman had two men bound at her waist by rope and two pistols pointed in their backs. Spiv almost felt sorry for them. Though, he felt considerably more sorry for himself. As well as anyone else who happened to lose a fine pair of calves this morning.

“Wait your turn, hag,” Spiv grumbled. “Once we get our money then you can have yours.” 

The sheriff returned with a strider hide case. Spiv and Hudson opened it immediately, without a care as to who pavlov-ing saw.

“This is only twenty K!” Spiv shouted. “Where’s the other eighty!”

The sheriff cocked his greasy head to the side and leaned back in his seat. “Sheriff’s tax. Been on the board for four months. Sheriff takes 20% per month.” 

Spiv slammed his hand on the booth counter and leaned in close to the gross little man, dragging Hudson with him. “I got my fuckin’ legs chopped off and now you’re saying I only get twenty of my hundred grand? What say you about me putting this as bounty on your head and see how fast it gets separated from your body? You corrupt three chromosomed spawn of your sister’s diseased cunt!” 

“Aye, ye could do that I suppose,” said the sheriff. “But unless the township appoints a new sheriff, be no one to pay it out.” 

The old woman put a hand on Spiv's shoulder. “Told ya I wouldn’t be trying to take your bounty,” she said. “Rough day rookie. Remind me of myself once upon a time.” She lifted up the leg of her pants. Beneath the leather was a finely proportioned prosthetic. “Lost this leg three times over, and the other two and half. Hit up Third York. Look for a mechanist by the name of Jose and tell him Debbie sent ya. That said, if you do take this sheriff out of commission, I’ll be short of ninety grand and it’ll be comin’ out of your pocket.”

“Well heeded,” Spiv said. “Apologies for the inconvenience.”

Hudson loaded the cash into a sack. The two of them hobbled out the way. 

“Before you go,” Debbie said. “Heard your crew was after the Faceless Gang.” 

The sheriff glared at her. “Speak your mind woman, but know Jepsum had no part in it. We don’t want no trouble.”

The lady smiled. Spiv would have killed to see that face two decades prior. Jersey would have killed to trade places so he could see it himself just as it was.

“Won’t get a word out of these chaps,” Debbie said. “Gang keeps them all tongue tied. But thems being borg twats, they all gots to come around Third York sometime. Keep an ear out ‘round those parts and I’m sure you’ll hear something.”

“Mighty considerate of you,” Hudson said. “Till we meet again.”

“With your friend’s luck, I wouldn’t bet on it. But you never know.”

There was some commotion as Spiv and Hudson were about to step out the door, followed by a gunshot. Spiv glanced to see one of Debbie’s captures free from his rope, falling to the ground with a hole in his back.

“Aw, shit.” Debbie turned to the Sheriff. “He’s still kinda breathing, so I expect the full bounty!” She turned around to look at the profusely bleeding man. He most definitely wasn’t. “Blood’s still warm. Seventy five percent and I won’t be any trouble.”

Hudson readjusted Spiv’s position and continued on his way.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Spiv whispered to Hudson. “Would prolly be dead right now if I’d set out on my own.”

“Ain’t no thing.” Hudson said. “Cause I know you woulda done the same for me in a heartbeat.” 

“After this, damn right I would. Owe you a real one. But I can’t help feeling guilty for dragging you all into this.”

“No shame in walking away,” Hudson spoke. “None of us would blame you.”

“But I would,” Spiv sighed. “Wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing there’s an immortal faceless bastard out there doing the devil knows what, and I didn’t do anything to stop him. This is something I gotta do.” Spiv already walked away once. He had a mind never to again.

[some-guy-writes]

FTB Ch 1.

50 Tungsten Bullets Chapter 1: Fifty

Summary | Next

“Who did you get this from?” Jeebs asked.

Spiv leaned on the pawner’s counter. “Who?” he smirked. ”Ain’t no ‘who.’ Found it ourselves, old man. Though, I might be willing to part with the where for something extra.” 

“I ain’t that old.”

“Twenty years my senior at least,” Spiv snickered. “Makes you old in my book.”

Truth be told, Spiv wasn’t sure as to the exact age of Mr. Jeebs. Looked just as wrinkled and grumpy as he did the day Spiv tried to steal the shoes off his feet as a kid. Spiv got caught and beat till he was seeing stars. But by the fourth attempt, Jeebs sat him down with some lukewarm soup and taught him how to make an honest living. Well, a more honest living.

Jeebs stared at the immaculate metal cylinder with a solemn glare. He didn’t even bother responding with one of his famous ten K curses. The device was silver in color, with a gold tint and despite the dim sunlight peeking through the cracks in Jeeb’s shack, it lit up the room as if being struck by mid day. Fifty thousand kollars, easy. Spiv hadn’t the foggiest what the thing he found was, but old world tech like that would fetch a pretty penny from collectors. He brought it to Jeebs because, fuck, even he got a little sentimental at times. Spiv figured it’d only be right for Jeebs to make the first offer. 

“Put it back,” Jeebs spoke without looking up. 

“Sun bake your brain while I’ve been gone?” Spiv pushed off the ancient dead wood table and paced in a circle. “Shit, Jeebs. My crew almost died a dozen times over to get that thing to town and now you’re saying put it back? This could really change things for us if we find the right buyer.” 

“Ain’t gonna be no buyers, put it back,” Jeebs growled. 

“Old man, I got nothing but respect for you. You’ve done a lot for us over the years, but now you’re talkin’ about taking money out of our pocket.” 

Spiv reached for the device. Jeebs slammed his hand down on its casing with such force that it knocked a crystal on the shelf behind him to the floor, shattering in a myriad of iridescent colors. 

“Take it past Yonder’s Mountain, to the bunker where you found it, and put it back.”

“How’d you-”

Jeebs eyes burned beneath droopy lids and a thick brow. “Because I’m the one who put it there.”

“You couldn’t have,” Spiv stammered. “The hull was sealed for centuries. We checked the logs.”

“User authenticated,” a synthesized voice spoke from the device. There was a hiss as white fog seeped out. A panel popped open to reveal a hollow interior. 

Spiv’s eyes bulged like a rock rabbit that’s been left dead two days on a dirt road. “Shit… You’re an old worlder. One the immortals.” 

“Ain’t all that. Can still die, same as any of you. Just don’t get any older is all.”

Spiv’s gaze drifted back to the capsule. Jeebs turned it around so he could see. Inside was a massive revolver and a single shell with a name on it. Gun like that put everything in the crew’s arsenal to shame. Probably put everything in the whole town of Bakersville to shame.

“It’s my gun,” Jeebs said. “Hideo model 12 hybrid, fifty cal. Made to fire tungsten rounds with ionized neon core. Could punch a hole the size of my fist in a tank from a quarter mile off. And that casing is from when I shot the man who killed my wife.”

“You could buy all of Bakersville with that thing. Fuckn’ shit.”

Jeebs looked away. “And all it cost me was two tickets to Fluorescent.”

“Bull crap,” Spiv laughed. “Old man Jeebs living it up with the rich folks on Fluorescent? I can’t even picture it.”

“It’s the truth. Would have been. If, well...”

“Sorry about your wife.”

“No need to trouble yourself,” Jeebs said, rubbing his nose. “Happened before your great great grandaddy could piss himself.”

“Why leave the gun in the ground?”

“Killed two dozen men with that thing. Didn’t want to be reminded of the kind of man it made me. Stuck it in a casimir vacuum chamber and left it at my wife’s grave.”

A minute of silence passed between them. Jeebs refused to look at the capsule. Spiv couldn’t look away. 

“What does it take? To become immortal, that is,” Spiv asked. 

Jeebs let out a sigh. “Wouldn't tell a soul even if I knew. Wars were fought over that question. Wouldn’t want to be the cause of the next.” 

“Does that mean you’re the last one left? Thought all the immortals were rounded up and killed off in the last conflict.”

“No, not all. They just keep a low profile, like me. Can’t be having any more joining the club neither. Just pray that you never meet one. Seen what happens when people live long enough to lose their humanity.”

Spiv took a deep breath, resting his hands behind his head. “Could just as easily turn you in and buy a ticket to Fluorescent myself.” 

“Do what you will,” Jeebs spoke. “You’re a good kid. Wouldn’t want my head to pay for nobody else’s trip to Flour. But I won’t be goin’ easy. Last thing my wife said to me before she died was to live a long and beautiful life. And I don’t intend to let her know how cruel that was to say.”

Spiv cracked a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of throwing my father off a cliff to save my own skin. Might never met him, but you’re sure as hell the closest thing I’ve got.”

Jeebs wiped his eyes. “Don’t say shit like that. Might even make this ol’ life worth living.”

“But what about the gun? Even if I put it back, someone else is just gonna come along and find it.”

“I know.” Jeebs said. “Just get it out of my sight. It’s yours. Spent too much time remembering things I’d hoped to forget.”

“Ey, Spiv,” a wary voice spoke from behind. 

“Well if it ain’t lil’ Kit,” Jeebs chuckled. “Still think you’re better off runin’ with Spiv than workin’ the brothel with your mum.”

“Fuck off, Jeebs. But seriously,“ she said, tugging at Spiv’s arm. “We gotta go. Like right now.”

Spiv glared at her. “What’d you do?”

“I got kinda bored waiting and I mighta scammed a few shady pricks. Now let’s go!”

“Weren’t wearing black masks, were they?” Spiv asked. 

“Yeah. Why?”

“Fuck, Kit! That’s the Faceless Gang from the down south. I warned you about them. Those fuckers will straight up kill you. Like chopped up into little bits and fed to livestock kinda dead.” 

Kit chewed on her cheek. “...Well that’s even more reason why we need to go.”

“Take the door out back,” Jeebs said. Right as the one in the front was knocked clean off its hinges by a large, black boot. 

Spiv scooped up the capsule and bolted. “Find the crew and skip,” he said to Kit as they crept out of the shack. “Not the usual place. Second cave past the landfill. Got it?”

“Yeah. What about you?”

“I’m staying for a bit. Gotta see if old man Jeebs needs my help.”

Kit nodded. She pulled her scarf around her face and dashed off. Like lightning on a sunny day the kids used to call her, and for good reason. Spiv breathed a little easier. Ice cube’s chance in winter on Sebrum anyone’d catch Kit when she got going. 

Spiv peaked between shelves filled with Jeeb’s junk. Just enough to see a cloaked figure in all black strutting towards the old man, an intimidating gun at his hip. 

“Lookin’ for a little roach that ran away with my money,” the stranger said. “Wouldn’t happened to seen where it went, would you pawn man?”

The man in black spoke through some sort of filter. His voice sounded distorted, robotic, like that of the AI in Jeeb’s capsule. 

“Don’t do business with roaches.” Jeebs eyed the man from where he sat. “If you’re here to buy or sell, then we can talk.” 

The man in black stepped closer and put both hands on the counter. “Well I’ll be. You are the spittin’ image of the man that killed the ol’ boss Joey Iron Rod. Grandaddy o’ yours? Grandaddy’s granddaddy?”

“Wouldn’t know nothin’ ‘bout it.”

“Nah. ‘Cause I know for fact the fuck never made spawn. You are the man that killed Joey Iron Rod. Woulda thought time’d do my work for me. Guess the only way to make sure a job is done is to do it yourself, right?” the stranger laughed.

“Might have a point there. Figured the rest of you immortal cunts got blown up in the wars with the rest.” Jeebs reached for a shotgun under his desk.

“Nah see, the old old gang made it through the wars alright. Hid out in the desert, got by. ‘Course, really should be thanking you. Made picking them off myself a whole lot easier.” The stranger leaned in closer. “Let you in on a secret. Reason my gang wear’s masks is so I’ll always be on top. Just gotta purge a couple cunts and call myself something new. ‘Course, now that you know, I’ma have to kill you.”

“Best move your failed fetal acohol abortion ass along,” Jeebs said. “This is my town. Been here forty years. Anything happens to me, posse of thirty to three hundred be after you.”

The man in black stepped away, turning his back, arms raised in a V. “Town might be yours, but the whole world of Sebrum is mine. I am its god. Its immortal ruler. Anyone who stands against my rule will be-”

Before the stranger could finish his sentence, Jeebs landed two rounds of buckshot in his back. The man stumbled from the impact, but he just laughed. 

“Gonna need more than that to kill me,” the man in black spoke. 

That voice made Spiv the coldest he’d ever felt. Tasting ice once when he was seven was now in second place. He swallowed, hard and dry.

The stranger rolled up a dark sleeve. Underneath was a metal arm. It gleamed like the capsule Spiv clutched in his hands. 

“While you been playing shop keep, I’ve been quite productive with my time,” the stranger said, admiring his body. “Took a few generations of scavengers to collect all this. Enough old world tech to make that ol’ cyborg Joey Iron Rod green with envy. Count yourself honoured. You’re the first to see this hand in the better part of a century.” 

He raised his palm to Jeebs.

Jeebs shoved another two rounds in his gun and took aim.

“Your wife screamed bloody murder as Joey split ‘er in two with his iron rod,” the man in black chuckled. “Thought I’d let you know, for when you meet ‘er again.”

There was a soft wine as capacitors discharged. A red light shined from the stranger’s hand, bathing the shop in blood red. Jeebs fired two shots.

Spiv blinked. The next thing he knew, the shack was in flames and Jeebs was on the ground in two pieces. Spiv shook. He’d feared for his life many a time before, but nothing quite compared to this. He wasn’t one to heed monsters. That was, until seeing one in metal flesh. 

The man in black strutted out the way he came, whistling to himself. Spiv wanted to go after him. Wanted to take him from behind and smash his deranged face in. But Spiv was scared. So scared. Too scared to move. He crawled out of the rubble, capsule in hand, tears in his eyes and a tremble in his step. 

It was night when Spiv returned to Jeeb’s shack. The poor thing was looted to completion in hours and the rest burned to the ground. A few people stood around a mound out front with a stone on top. Under normal circumstances, if someone fucked with this town, there’d be a posse after them in no time flat, for better or for worse. How places kept their peace and independence. Nothing like that tonight. By now, everyone had heard the rumors of what the Faceless Gang did to Westbrook Oasis a few miles south. Rumors Spiv was certain to be true. 

Spiv adjusted his belt. He wasn’t used to the weight of fifty tungsten rounds quite yet. Cost him one thousand kollars each. His hand went to the cloth wrapped revolver resting in a holster at his side. The barrel alone nearly reached his knee. He pulled his hat a little lower, spat and walked off into the night. Word was the Faceless Gang was headed up to Jepsum. As luck would have it, so was he.