My Latest Story - Part Six
1164 words. I think this and my previous post are tied for my favorites thus far.
It stands to reason, that as my story continued to unfold, other stories were taking place as well. There was more happening that I did not personally witness but learned of later on. So, I present to you more of the story as I understand it. Mind you, as I did not see this first-hand, my retelling may not be entirely accurate.
* * *
Fort Beckett had been built atop a hill overlooking the local river. Mounted with canons atop its battlements, it was designed to stop Mexican invasion coming up the river. The red stone of the walls blended in neatly with the earth, and when the sun set behind it, the burning sky rendered the fort practically invisible. Use of the fort had ended years ago, and it was left wholly abandoned. It wasn't long before local outlaws took the fort as their own defendable base. Working under the leadership of one Jack Carrington, the notorious Carrington Gang wreaked havoc throughout the region. Robbers and murderers, every one of them, they quickly became Marshal Durgin's most troublesome threat. So it was that the Carrington Gang and Fort Beckett would become the perfect target for that terrible villain Cyran Thaddock.
I've heard numerous accounts of that night from numerous sources of dubious faith. In piecing them together I have this story for you.
The night was young, and as I joined the feast and celebration of the band of Comanche Indians, the Carrington Gang was preparing for the heist they had been planning on the Bautista bank. The group had gathered, about twenty men gathered that night, with Jack Carrington himself set to lead the robbery. Guns were being readied. Horses were being saddled. Plans were being discussed, and that was when the gates of the fort resounded with a heavy knock. Silence fell over the gang as one and all they moved their eyes to the heavy wooden doors. Carrington was the first to move as the second hard knock struck. He climbed to the fort wall and looked down at the lone figure below. The stranger was odd indeed, dressed in clothing unlike any the old outlaw had seen before. His skin seemed to shine blue in the rising moonlight and when the man looked upward one of his eyes gleamed red.
"What do you want, stranger?"
"I want in."
"Well you can't come in. Get lost, stranger."
A moment of silence from the stranger, and then: "You are Jack Carrington."
"And you're a dead man if you don't turn around and get moving."
"I am coming in."
"Like hell you are." Carrington was a famous quickdraw, and so it was that he had drawn his gun in the blink of an eye to fire at the stranger. But before the weapon could be fired the walls shook heavily as the gates of Fort Beckett exploded inward, splintered wooden shrapnel blasting toward the bandits who dove quickly for cover. The stranger passed the threshold and entered.
Carrington was running, making his way back down the steps that would take him back to his men and the firefight that had begun. Bullets were fired, and every one of them returned to the source, some men falling dead, some wounded, but most successfully able to avoid catching the returned shot. Carrington shouted over the noise of the battle, eyes glued to the killer who did nothing at all while his own men died. "Hold fire! Hold fire!" It took several more commanding shouts before they did. When all was quiet again, Carrington holstered his weapon and strode toward the stranger. Up close he found that the man was even stranger than he first though. It wasn't skin that shone, but some kind of body armor. The one glowing eye was a light, while the other was shattered and dead. Odd wiring poked out of joints, and entire portions of armor were missing, revealing not the body of a man beneath, but more wiring and bits of components unlike anything he had ever seen before. The metal man regarded him with its one eye.
"Jack Carrington. I am afraid I have some very bad news for you."
"I'm listening."
"I intend to take command of your little band of criminals."
Carrington shook his head and put his hand back on his gun. "Can't let you do that, stranger. These are my men, and I won't have them taking any orders from you. Now, you go on and leave our place and we'll forgot this ever happened."
The stranger stepped forward, closing the gap between itself and the bandit. "You missunderstand me, Mr. Carrington. I will be taking command of these men. You are no longer neccessary."
He didn't bother to form a verbal response. Jack Carrington drew and fired. As his finger squeezed the trigger his arm was knocked off course, the bullet going wide. Metal fingers had clamped down around his wrist with as much speed as the quickdraw artist took to perform his own speciality. The first scream was brought from the pain as the silver-blue fingers tightened the grip, snapping and crushing the bone they held. Carrington's hand dropped limp, the gun falling to the dirt. If he had lived, he would never be able to properly shoot again. The second scream, however, came next and did not stop until he was dead. It was piercing scream, rising higher in pitch and intensity as he died. His skin had begun to burn and charge, an enormous amount of heat spreading from the robotic hand and into his flesh. Like an invisible flame it spread across his body, his skin charring and flaking black ash, the heat igniting his clothes into an inferno. Carrington watched in panicked fear as his body went up like a bonfire as he struggled to escape the metal stranger's impossible grip. When at last the screaming ceased the body was dropped lifeless to the ground, still smoking as the embers died out. Carrington's men rose, eyes filled with pure terror. Their guns fell discarded, hands raised in surrender to the monster than had so horribly murdered their leader.
"I am Cyran Thaddock, and you are all now in my service. You cannot escape me, and I will remember each and every one of your faces. Do not resist me, or you will suffer as he did." They all nodded. What could they do? "Good. Plans have changed, gentlemen. There will be no bank robbery tonight. Instead, you shall be taking into custody the town blacksmith, and as much of his supplies and equipment as you can lay your filthy hands on. I am in need of urgent repairs." Cyran watched them all as they stood and stared back, unmoving. "Get to it, men. I will not accept any delay."
The Thaddock Gang set to preparations. Weapons, mounts, rope, and wagons. They moved out that night, the blackened corpse of Jack Carrington a haunting reminder of what failure would bring.
It stands to reason, that as my story continued to unfold, other stories were taking place as well. There was more happening that I did not personally witness but learned of later on. So, I present to you more of the story as I understand it. Mind you, as I did not see this first-hand, my retelling may not be entirely accurate.
* * *
Fort Beckett had been built atop a hill overlooking the local river. Mounted with canons atop its battlements, it was designed to stop Mexican invasion coming up the river. The red stone of the walls blended in neatly with the earth, and when the sun set behind it, the burning sky rendered the fort practically invisible. Use of the fort had ended years ago, and it was left wholly abandoned. It wasn't long before local outlaws took the fort as their own defendable base. Working under the leadership of one Jack Carrington, the notorious Carrington Gang wreaked havoc throughout the region. Robbers and murderers, every one of them, they quickly became Marshal Durgin's most troublesome threat. So it was that the Carrington Gang and Fort Beckett would become the perfect target for that terrible villain Cyran Thaddock.
I've heard numerous accounts of that night from numerous sources of dubious faith. In piecing them together I have this story for you.
The night was young, and as I joined the feast and celebration of the band of Comanche Indians, the Carrington Gang was preparing for the heist they had been planning on the Bautista bank. The group had gathered, about twenty men gathered that night, with Jack Carrington himself set to lead the robbery. Guns were being readied. Horses were being saddled. Plans were being discussed, and that was when the gates of the fort resounded with a heavy knock. Silence fell over the gang as one and all they moved their eyes to the heavy wooden doors. Carrington was the first to move as the second hard knock struck. He climbed to the fort wall and looked down at the lone figure below. The stranger was odd indeed, dressed in clothing unlike any the old outlaw had seen before. His skin seemed to shine blue in the rising moonlight and when the man looked upward one of his eyes gleamed red.
"What do you want, stranger?"
"I want in."
"Well you can't come in. Get lost, stranger."
A moment of silence from the stranger, and then: "You are Jack Carrington."
"And you're a dead man if you don't turn around and get moving."
"I am coming in."
"Like hell you are." Carrington was a famous quickdraw, and so it was that he had drawn his gun in the blink of an eye to fire at the stranger. But before the weapon could be fired the walls shook heavily as the gates of Fort Beckett exploded inward, splintered wooden shrapnel blasting toward the bandits who dove quickly for cover. The stranger passed the threshold and entered.
Carrington was running, making his way back down the steps that would take him back to his men and the firefight that had begun. Bullets were fired, and every one of them returned to the source, some men falling dead, some wounded, but most successfully able to avoid catching the returned shot. Carrington shouted over the noise of the battle, eyes glued to the killer who did nothing at all while his own men died. "Hold fire! Hold fire!" It took several more commanding shouts before they did. When all was quiet again, Carrington holstered his weapon and strode toward the stranger. Up close he found that the man was even stranger than he first though. It wasn't skin that shone, but some kind of body armor. The one glowing eye was a light, while the other was shattered and dead. Odd wiring poked out of joints, and entire portions of armor were missing, revealing not the body of a man beneath, but more wiring and bits of components unlike anything he had ever seen before. The metal man regarded him with its one eye.
"Jack Carrington. I am afraid I have some very bad news for you."
"I'm listening."
"I intend to take command of your little band of criminals."
Carrington shook his head and put his hand back on his gun. "Can't let you do that, stranger. These are my men, and I won't have them taking any orders from you. Now, you go on and leave our place and we'll forgot this ever happened."
The stranger stepped forward, closing the gap between itself and the bandit. "You missunderstand me, Mr. Carrington. I will be taking command of these men. You are no longer neccessary."
He didn't bother to form a verbal response. Jack Carrington drew and fired. As his finger squeezed the trigger his arm was knocked off course, the bullet going wide. Metal fingers had clamped down around his wrist with as much speed as the quickdraw artist took to perform his own speciality. The first scream was brought from the pain as the silver-blue fingers tightened the grip, snapping and crushing the bone they held. Carrington's hand dropped limp, the gun falling to the dirt. If he had lived, he would never be able to properly shoot again. The second scream, however, came next and did not stop until he was dead. It was piercing scream, rising higher in pitch and intensity as he died. His skin had begun to burn and charge, an enormous amount of heat spreading from the robotic hand and into his flesh. Like an invisible flame it spread across his body, his skin charring and flaking black ash, the heat igniting his clothes into an inferno. Carrington watched in panicked fear as his body went up like a bonfire as he struggled to escape the metal stranger's impossible grip. When at last the screaming ceased the body was dropped lifeless to the ground, still smoking as the embers died out. Carrington's men rose, eyes filled with pure terror. Their guns fell discarded, hands raised in surrender to the monster than had so horribly murdered their leader.
"I am Cyran Thaddock, and you are all now in my service. You cannot escape me, and I will remember each and every one of your faces. Do not resist me, or you will suffer as he did." They all nodded. What could they do? "Good. Plans have changed, gentlemen. There will be no bank robbery tonight. Instead, you shall be taking into custody the town blacksmith, and as much of his supplies and equipment as you can lay your filthy hands on. I am in need of urgent repairs." Cyran watched them all as they stood and stared back, unmoving. "Get to it, men. I will not accept any delay."
The Thaddock Gang set to preparations. Weapons, mounts, rope, and wagons. They moved out that night, the blackened corpse of Jack Carrington a haunting reminder of what failure would bring.