Author's Note:
How appropriate to be on Day 4 of daily posting. Well, I guess you don't exactly know why yet. It's not a spoiler. If you just came off the last chapter, you know that shit. is. about. to. go. down... for. Julian...
And...
No I'm done with that bit. Thank you. enjoy the chapter.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘₊ ⊹ Soul 𓉸 Rejected ⊹ ₊⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
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The lanky man stood almost as off guard as Julian was. Almost. He was the fourth man. Number 4.
There shouldn't have been anyone else out in this forest at this time of night. At least that's what both of them thought. Yet there they were, standing with only a span of dirt and leaves between them, staring at each other and only one of them was wielding a weapon.
Number 4 dropped his arms, letting the tinder he just gathered fall. They didn't reach the ground before he was reaching for the revolver latched to his hip.
The threat was imminent.
But it wasn't.
For some reason, Julian felt he had all the time in the world. It was slow, like a movie, he thought, as the man clumsily collapsed the grip of the gun. It was like he was underwater only slower. Like Number 4 was a gun-slinging snail or some other creature cursed to move at such a pace.
Julian could simply watch if he wanted to. He almost felt like he would, but his heart rapped on his rib cage, screaming for freedom. It woke his brain, flooding it with lucidity. It was like rolling over in bed to let blood flow back into an arm that fell asleep.
His arms moved with the rush, riding the top of a wave made from pure adrenaline. He raised the barrel of his weapon with smooth deliberateness, unaffected by whatever made Number 4 so slow. He moved between heartbeats and the iron sights were already on target.
He was detached from the target. Not just by distance but by existence itself. Julian wasn't sure whether he should or even had a right to exist. But this "man" was with the hunting party. Slavers. Menaces. Vile inhuman creatures who bear no conscience, unweighted by morality, unburdened with empathy or sympathy.
Julian could spare none for him either.
He wouldn't shed a tear for the loss. He would mourn more for the ammo used in the exchange. It dawned on him how easily he could set things right. It would be over in an instant. One less monster in the world.
With one smooth, measured squeeze, the right barrel blasted hot beads into the air. They seemed to float in the air too. Much faster than Number 4, but slow enough for Julian to watch. The fireball lit the forest around him like someone switched on the sun. But the gas parted and he could see buckshot follow through like soldiers on his orders. The lead balls splash into the monster's face, tear skin, shatter bone and split the top left third of the skull off like cutting a watermelon.
Julian didn't look away. He was surprised at how easy it was. He watched the effect of his aim, studied the path and watched the fell beast hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Too high, he thought and almost stopped to wonder how he had so much time to think before he remembered the old man, Banjo. He would certainly be alerted by now.
The shotgun smoothly swayed to the old man who was struggling to pull suspenders from over his knees. He was slowed but not nearly the glacial speed that Number 4 was.
He's further, Julian thought. Center mass.
He lowered the barrel an inch to aim at the man's chest and pulled down on the left trigger. He must have over compensated a little. He watched the fireball from the tip of the gun spray hot metal all over the man's middle section and unmentionables.
Banjo wailed at the tree tops, his voice deeper and lower than a human voice should sound. He was writhing, his voice rising in pitch until it finally sounded normal again. As normal as such a creature screaming its lungs out could sound.
The world caught up to Julian
The whole camp noticed him. The whines and barks of the dogs found Julian's ears, joining the pleas from the broken banjo. Julian's head snapped toward camp, first seeing the snarling and slobbering jaws of the chained hounds. But there was someone approaching. Clint was the first to his feet. The other man was still locked in a state of stunned confusion. Clint left him behind, marching toward Julian with a knife wielded in one hand.
"You fuckin' summa mutha fuck'n shit ass!" Clint shouted in all his eloquence now in a full sprint toward Julian. "Outta shells! I'm finna gut you!"
Clint was right. Not only was Julian a mother fucking shit ass. He was also out of shells. If he was going to take out this target, it wouldn't be settled with shooting. The distance was closing too fast to pick up Number 4's revolver and Clint fortuitously left his shotgun at his sleeping tree.
But Julian was surprisingly calm. He flipped the empty shotgun in the air only to catch it by the barrel to swing it like a baseball bat. What he didn't expect was that the barrel was still hot. It singed his fingers before he dropped the whole weapon.
It was too late, Clint was already upon him and he led with a wild thrust of the blade.
For Julian, he saw the swing as if it was through water, side stepping it with ease. It wasn't as slow as with Number 4, but he could tell by the low notes the banjo was playing, time was on his side again. The strike nearly touched the ground as Julian dodged.
Is this guy for real? Who's he cutting with movement like this?
Clint responded by turning the edge and slashing wildly to his side, praying to catch Julian in the throat or chest or anything. Julian ducked effortlessly as the movements started to slow further. He waited for the swing to pass over him before rising again and loading a heavy left over hand punch.
He held his fist, waiting as the dummy finished the swing, watching its body move like he was pushing through a thick, invisible jello.
When the knife and arm were clear of his path, he swung the haymaker. He threw his whole body into it. He has never hit anyone before. He thought about it many times before, but before "flight" was an option. One that he always took. No matter who told the rumor about him. No matter who hit him first. No matter who was watching. He always picked "run." Now, there was no choice. The others couldn't run. They tried that.
No.
Now is the time for "fight."
Shooting was easy. Impersonal. It didn't mean anything to Julian. He didn't know it until it connected that this punch was for all the punches he didn't take before. This unfortunate sack of meat and bones was the instrument for making up for lost punches. Lost but not forgotten.
The moment his fist made contact, the man's head flew backward like he was hit with a Mack truck. The head flew, but left its body behind. Banjo's screams pitched upward again and the head bounced off the bark of a tree in the distance behind Clint with a sickening crack, fell to the ground, and rolled across some leaves in front of the last man standing. If he was going to make a move, he made no sign of it. He could only stare down at the
What's the past tense for Clint? Clinted? Claint?
Clunt fell to its knees in front of Julian as its last few hateful thoughts spurted out the neck in the form of blood in a weakening rhythm.
Julian stopped to stare down at the wilted corpse at his feet and his sore knuckles. He was sure he didn't punch that hard. No one could punch that hard.
Like a damn Lego head or something.
Julian couldn't stop himself from making a popping sound with his lips.
From the moment Number 4 said his last word, "Hey," to the moment Clunt's head rolled on the floor was roughly ten or fifteen seconds.
During that time, Reggie only paused from cutting his binds twice to marvel at the carnage happening across the camp. He cut himself free of his binds and sprinted between the snapping dogs and Miss Laudendale.
For her part, Miss Laudendale was moving toward Julian until he popped the head off of Clint like a wine cork. The sound of Reggie rushing behind her snapped her out of her stasis. If she was scared of what Julian just did, her hate was stronger than her fear.
"Oh, no you don't!" She wheeled, revolver first, trying to follow the moving target. She squeezed and fired with the practiced ease of an expert marksman. Three rounds left her gun, each chasing Reggie through the air, hoping to meet their target.
It wasn't enough. Each round found only living wood. Reggie ducked and recoiled at the sound of each gunshot but never stopped. He himself at the base of the tree the others were bound from. He hacked quickly. The rope rejected the blade and simply bounced it away. It almost knocked the handle free from his shaky grip.
He paused to look back at Miss Laudendale. She'd lowered her gun, slack and at her side.
"Kill Reggie. Jim and Harold are coming back as examples." She wasn't talking to Reggie. Apparently the last remaining man had shaken free from his stupor and she gave him her marching orders. Miss Laudendale decided they weren't worth her time or bullets, turning her back to Reggie.
She reset the stage. The background music was barking and snarling dogs, and a man screaming and crying on the ground.
In one corner, it was Lastman, armed with a shotgun, against Reggie, Jim and Harold, armed with a single knife.
That left her and Julian.
Miss Laudendale, armed with a six-shooter, versus Julian.
Armed with nothing.
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and then Add to home screen.