Spoiler! :
Part 1
I kneeled down at the remains of the campfire, a small charcoal affair resting in the middle of a tire. The campsite was located in a small tunnel of the old world, a drainage ditch for the waste. Rain and lack of use had washed it clean, and the overgrowth of weeds and small trees made it a perfect hiding spot for however long my quarry spent there. Except now I don’t know where he went. Sighing, I sank back and sat with my back against the wall of the tunnel, thinking about where he might have gone. So far the tracks had been easy to follow, the used campfire here, the dead wilder there. Most people wouldn’t have any luck, would have seen the signs as the randomness of the Remains. That’s what the world is called now, the Remains. Because that’s what it is, the remains of man’s foolishness and greed. The war, the plague, the fire -- they weren’t the causes of our world. No, it was man’s greed and desire for destruction that did it. Those, those were just the tools. Still, even when Man does his best to destroy himself, he struggles on. He picks himself out his shelters, his basements, his drainage ditches, and tries to rebuild. He tries to recapture the glory of what he tried to destroy. And sometimes he succeeds; he creates little havens of calm in the turbulent storms of the Remains. And then, sometimes, man’s nature destroys it.
That’s what happened, why I’m chasing this man. There was a little town, a community based in an old gambling boat that was held in a harbor. Then this man comes along, and by the time anyone got there to stop him, he was the only one left alive. They found him covered in blood, his bullets spent. I don’t know how they captured him; I heard they had to call on the Remnants of the Church. They captured him and they strung him up outside. Crucified him in the way of the faith he followed, not the Church, but the old faith. Strung him up as a warning to those who passed by. Say he hung there for two days and three nights. But when they checked on him, he was gone. Now there are all sorts of legends going around, about how he is the risen form of the one he follows, that he is possessed by a demon looking for revenge for those who strung him up, that’s he’s a ghost with unfinished business. People spread strange tales. Me, I don’t know how he survived, but I know I’m going to bring him back. I’m The Hunter, The Sniper, and the Bullet You Never See Coming. I’m tracking him because I’m the best tracker this side of The River.
I wake up from my thoughts and look over at the fire. I’m thinking that there has to be some clue. This is one of his stopping points, I can see the style. The way the wood is arranged, always burning in the shape of his faith. Leaving scorch marks of his passing in the earth. Yet, as I stare at the marking, I see something. Paper, but paper not burned. It’s hiding in the rim of the tire, tucked away, hidden to all but the careful observer. I reach a gloved hand towards it; pluck it from the remains of the fire. It’s folded, but I can tell he wrote on it, charcoal writing. I’m surprised he can write. It’s a rare talent in the Remains. But I’m sure he’ll be surprised I can read his note. I unfold it and find the passage saying,
“I leave this note for the hunter I’m sure has been sent after me. I’m sure that you can read this, only the intelligent could follow me this far. However, I must ask that you reexamine what you’re doing. You think you are following a dangerous criminal, but I didn’t kill the people on the Gambler. They killed themselves; they invited in sin and wickedness and paid the price for straying from the path. When they invited the killer in, I tried to save them. Now I must atone for my failure. That is where I’m heading, to pay penance for my sin. But I’m afraid I can’t die, not yet. There’s too much for me to do. So I ask that you either turn back, or be prepared to face me. If you choose to follow me, head north into Wilder Territory.”
The note ended there, but I read it again to make sure. Only the bravest or the stupidest willingly head into wilder territory. The people who had lost their way, lost the spark of civilization and the knowledge of hospitality, they weren’t people to tangle with. Still, I signed up, and if he’s going into hell, I’m following after him. I stuff the paper into my coat pocket and stand up, brushing the dust off my long leather duster. I shoulder my pack of supplies and pick up my rifle, an old scoped lever-action, and step out of the tunnel.
I make my way north, stopping to resupply at a building occupied by a Loner. Sometimes people don’t want to rebuild what they tried to destroy. Sometimes they just want to be left alone, to die in solitude. I respect kindred spirits. While I resupplied, trading some spare bullets for food, he told me that a man fitting my description had stopped there a few days ago, but had moved on. He also warned me that a Wilder party had set up camp a few miles ahead and were starting to raid the surrounding area. I thanked him for the warning and continued making my way down the road.
After a few miles, I came across the Wilders, or what was left of them. They had set up camp around a statue, some old world monument to some old world deed. The Wilders always set up around these, though nobody’s sure why. They say it’s because the Wilders think that by being near the monuments, some of that greatness will be passed on to them. They say a lot of things about Wilders. But what struck me was the fact that these Wilders had met someone, and it didn’t end well. I didn’t see them at first, the camp, with its barriers of old world transportation and new world ingenuity, was unpatrolled, abandoned. I had my rifle at the ready as I walked inside, but it wasn’t needed. The camp looked like everyone had just stopped and died in the middle of what they were doing. Meat still had knifes in it, the fires still smoldered lightly. It took me a minute to find them, but I did. The Wilders were all propped up against the statue in the middle of the camp, dead from bullets in the head. What struck me as odd was that all the dead Wilders were adult men. Normally when Wilders are killed, everyone dies including the women and children. Doesn’t matter who does it, the Remains or the Men who live it, everyone dies. It’s the only way to get rid of them. Yet women and children were spared here.
A simpler person would chalk this up to the randomness of the Remains and quit. But I didn’t. I could see his influence. I could tell he passed here. The signs were obvious. The Wilders, with their tattered clothes and stained bodies, had been killed by the man who followed the old faith. The statue the Wilders were laid against was a marble affair of some soldier looking off in the distance. Nobody knew who he was, the inscription long since faded into nothing. All that was left was the statue, the person. It reminded me of the man I followed. He’d led me here, told me how to follow him. He wanted something from me. I just had to figure out what. Man’s greatest flaw is pride, and he was no different. He wanted me to follow him so he could get recognition. I knew this wasn’t the end of his journey. There had to be something else. That’s when I saw it, his next letter. He had nailed it into the helmet of the Wilder chief, a crazy looking man with the skull of a bull tied on his head. I moved forward, trying to avoid stepping on the bodies. There were too many, and after the first couple missteps I just gritted my teeth and climbed over them. I managed to make my way to the top, and grabbed the letter he’d left me.
Life is full of hard times and good times. Lift your chin up, Ladies and Gentlemen.
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