The Desert and the Outpost
The trail of money pointed west and Geo followed it. He walked, broiling in his bulky chest armor that looked something like red plastic, in the midst of a sweltering desert, not sand, but hard rock and clay. In the distance, rock formations stood towering like great monoliths, and as the sun set, the sky was tinged a venomous crimson.
Geo’s waterskin was half empty and his provisions would not last another day. Geo weathered the heat, the thirst, and the hunger - had been forced to do so since he’d gotten lost as of three days ago - until he came upon the slanted outpost.
It was a rickety old building, an unidentifiable wood that looked on the verge of rot. A crooked saloon style door greeted him, and Geo pushed his way inside, fighting not to collapse to the boards. His sunburned skin was blistered and the same hue of his armor, and when his cracked lips parted, a tongue, dry as dirt, darted out.
“Water.” Geo croaked. “And rations, if you’ve got them.”
A scraggly old man with a haggard face and a long grey beard was the target of Geo’s borderline demands.
“Ain’t got no spare rations. Shipment won’t be here for another day. There’s a well out back. I’ll charge you a decent price for every gallon, if you’ve got coin to spare.”
Geo couldn’t wait another day for food, but he couldn’t turn back. Work had run dry where he’d come from. That was why he was out here in this lonely desert, seeking the next proverbial gold mine - a purported land of opportunity those east of here spoke of as Canyon City. Since the decades long heat wave though, none had dared to make the voyage.
Except for a one Geo Fall.
Geo’s rented horse had expired a hundred kilometers back, foaming at the mouth and neighing pitifully. That night, Geo had made camp and cooked the poor beast, and took with him what leftovers he could. Food was important, but carrying too much would slow him down. At high noon, the scorching temperatures could easily double in some areas. These unpredictable mini waves were deadly, and it was in any traveler’s best interest to find shade before they appeared.
Geo made the mistake of overburdening himself, even knowing this. He had gambled and lost, and the sun had come to collect. He saw it approaching, only because a stray tumbleweed ignited into flame as the shaft of magnified sunlight grew longer towards his direction.
Half of Geo had gotten caught in that blast, the rest having just managed to scramble away. His raw body was an inferno of red hot pain, pain further magnified by hot winds and exhaustion. He didn’t expect the lodge keep to have any aloe salve, but he would ask for it anyway, once he had drank his fill.
“You come up from the east? How far?” the lodge keep asked, leaning over his dusty counter and peering at Geo with eagle eyes.
“Far enough.” Geo answered through a cracked and bleeding throat. The strain made him cough, and he spat up blood on the floorboards.
“Son, I just cleaned that there floor.” the lodge keep sighed.
Bullshit. Geo thought, internally betting that the decrepit checkpoint had not seen a sweeping in six months, give or take.
The keep tossed a rag to Geo, who incredulously tossed it back. Impatient, Geo placed his hand on the grip of something secured to his back. The keep couldn’t quite tell what it was, but the look in this half-dead man’s eyes was fierce. He didn’t need to be told that he was being threatened.
Water. those eyes demanded.
At once pale, the keep only nodded, and pointed Geo around back to the well, tossing him a bucket as he passed. Geo fixed the bucket to the rope and began lowering it down. The shimmering water reflected on the stone walls of the well as the bucket broke the surface. Satisfied that he could replenish his supply, Geo greedily drained the rest of his waterskin, then hauled the bucket back up. He refilled his canteen three times before his thirst was quenched, and he was satisfied to leave it filled. The water was cool and crisp and clean, so much so that it felt it was splitting his mouth and throat in the best possible way on the way down. Geo shrugged off the temptation to empty a fifth bucket over his aching body, knowing that he’d only be the worse for it as the water magnified the unforgiving sun.
He counted out five platinum coins, the best the lodge keep would get for his services, in his palm, and turned to head back into the lodge.
Geo slapped the coins on the counter, and turned to leave without another word. He was thirty yards out from the lodge when he sensed the old man tailing him. He turned his head slightly.
Realizing he had been detected, the old man sprinted forward, cocking a shotgun.
“Now hold it right there, you dog shit, you whoremaster, you! I’ve got you covered, so don’t’chu move!”
Geo only watched him.
“No one cheats me, you hear? You gonna pay up what you owe!”
Geo turned around to face him, sneering.
“Drop your coin purse and get outta here, got it?” the old man growled.
Again, Geo’s hand fell on the grip of the something holstered to his back.
“Don’t you do it, boy. I shoot to kill. Ain’t got the money nor inclination to waste ammo on warning shots, read me?”
Geo’s calloused fingers closed over the handle, wrapped with white cloth.
The old man was true to his word. He fired, and a spray of metal flew towards Geo. In that time, Geo drew his two foot macuahuitl - a metallic flat club, the same red as his armor, and fitted with interchangeable industrial steel razor blades - and swung it in a heavy, two-handed strike. The bullets that had been traveling at supersonic speed to Geo’s head were intercepted and deflected, and those that flew at his midsection ricocheted off the thick armor. One of the rebounds grazed the old man’s hand.
The club fell across the man’s body, from top left shoulder to bottom right hip, tracing a jagged red line down his torso. The shotgun, broken by the force of the swing, tumbled to the ground as the old man sprayed blood from the gash.
“Ah! You tramp, you’ve killed me! You shit-scrub dingleberry!” the man bawled, falling to his knees.
The cracked rock ground was stained red with his blood.
Geo sighed. “I think I cut too shallow to hit your aorta. You might survive. Maybe. Next time think about who you’re aiming at before you pull the trigger.”
He dug into his brown leather purse and fished out another coin, tossing it over his shoulder at the man as he strolled away.
“For your trouble.” he grunted, then walked on.
He had memorized the map on the lodge wall to the last detail, and knew that he was now very close to Canyon City, the promised land. But he wasn’t going there to work on the new railroad, oh no. He was going there to take lives for fun and profit.
Canyon City was a boomtown in the midst of a revolution, and it was exactly in these situations that Geo thrived.
He had a contact with HAMMER in Canyon City, requesting the services of one such as himself. If the so-called “freedom fighters” were really picking a fight with Astral Products, they’d need all the help they could get.
It wouldn’t be the first time Geo ran afoul of the corporation. Until six years ago, he had been their personal attack dog, making sure trade secrets stayed in the inner circle, and that business rivals disappeared. Astral had grown since then, evolving from a simple weapons and tech manufacturing company to a huge conglomerate with a monopoly on military designs. Geo had been there to see the start of its rise to power, had seen the first designs on its new line of firearms and drones. More importantly, he had learned of their involvement in the genocide of thirty years ago.
That was when Geo Fall walked out on Astral. Since then, he’d been on the run. Now, here he was, running right back into their line of fire. Life had a strange sense of humor.
As it began to get dark, Geo breasted a rise and saw the outskirts of Canyon City come into view - a welcome sight, and a brilliant reprieve from the harshness and desolation of the desert wastes.
