04-25-2018, 12:12 AM
If they had finished the job, he would have died. Slickers never finish the job though, not when their boss isn't around. He could hear them talking, even as the weight on his chest got heavier and heavier with each fresh pile of dirt.
"Why would anyone live out here?" one asked.
"Jesus, Rick, I don't fucking know man, will you just..." the other replied.
Another clod was added to the growing mound crushing his lungs, snuffing out what little life was left in him.
"Yeah." A pause. "I mean but, why? Why live away from the Free States or the Eastern Sprawl or - fuck, man, anywhere but out here. There isn't anything around, these hicks lived like fucking mongoloids."
"I know. Fuck this is taking forever."
"Why are we even burying him?"
"Boss said bury him, so..."
"Yeah but he ain't here, and he left two of us to dig four graves. The kids wont take long, but this guy and the woman-"
"Well fuck, Rick, what do you wanna do just leave them for the animals?"
There was another long pause, and though the piling of dirt had ceased, the weight seemed to grow on his lungs.
"If boss finds out he's gonna be pissed."
"Man, fuck him. We come out here and straight body an entire family and then he wants to get a heart? Fuck right off. Let's just get back to Midnight City, its gonna take us hours to drive back without burying these assholes."
"Alright. Fine. Looks like its gonna rain anyway."
One of them tossed a shovel at man they were burying, and if the Slickers were paying any attention, they'd see a gush of fresh blood telling them the man was still alive. Barely, but alive all the same.
But Slickers never finish the job, not when their boss isn't around. They were already walking back to their car. They left William Stark half buried in a shallow grave, his face bloodied and pulped, body bruised and broken, leaking blood from a gutshot. Stark heard the car start and take off away from his ranch - not the loud and growling rumble of a stateless lands car, but the high pitched whine of a city slicker's ride. When it faded away, he was left with the sounds of nightfall broken by the rumble of thunder.
The rain was what finally woke him, summer evening rain like God's own sweet mercy. His real eye was so swollen that he could barely see out of it, but the old cybernetic one - outdated and crude - clicked and whirred and sent the images of the world to his brain. They had buried him up to his chest, leaving only his head and neck, and his left arm uncovered. He tried first to sit up, but was too weak to move. Panic gripped him, and he tried to thrash against the weight of the earth.
The shallow grave kept him in its embrace.
He closed his eyes again, and for a moment, was closer to death than he had been when the Slickers were throwing dirt on his broken body. He though of his wife lying dead on the kitchen floor, the pool of blood under her head growing by the second. The fire swallowing the house, the children screaming. Stark had lost everything in just twenty short minutes.
But he hadn't lost it. It had been taken from him.
His eyes opened again. His right arm had been badly damaged, the fine motor control in the cybernetic appendage gone, the skilled hand that had won countless gunfights smashed and useless. But he could still move the arm itself, and the mechanical power was enough to drive the fresh dirt away. Slowly, clumsily, Stark pushed his earthen shackles away, his lungs pumping and burning as the rain turned from a fresh evening whisper to a roar in the night.
He grunted and growled and pulled himself from the grave, his body wracked with pain. Stark hauled himself to his knees, and in front of him were their bodies. Libby and the kids, piled unceremoniously in a heap. Beyond them, the smoldering remains of their home. He put his hands in front of his face and screamed a wordless howl, then another, until all he could do was scream in the driving thunderstorm that had overtaken the land.
When his throat was lined with needles and he couldn't scream anymore, only breathe a soundless husking sigh, he found his way to his feet. Stark picked up the shovel that had been thrown at him as the Slickers had turned to leave, and in the rainstorm, started to dig.
It took him four hours and he collapsed at least a dozen times. Every time he thought he might just lay down and die next to his family, he saw Armitage smiling and lifting the peacemaker - Stark's peacemaker - and blowing a hole in Libby's head. Before his eyes were open, Stark was up and digging again.
When it was done, he stood over the three rock covered graves, leaning on the shovel. He wanted to say something, but his throat wouldn't allow it.
It was a five mile walk into town, and William Stark was half dead, wearing only his jeans and a tattered shirt - the bastards had even stripped him of his boots after shooting him. He started plodding forward, looking ahead as lightning flashed above, driven by the most pure and powerful fire that can burn in a man's belly: vengeance.
"Why would anyone live out here?" one asked.
"Jesus, Rick, I don't fucking know man, will you just..." the other replied.
Another clod was added to the growing mound crushing his lungs, snuffing out what little life was left in him.
"Yeah." A pause. "I mean but, why? Why live away from the Free States or the Eastern Sprawl or - fuck, man, anywhere but out here. There isn't anything around, these hicks lived like fucking mongoloids."
"I know. Fuck this is taking forever."
"Why are we even burying him?"
"Boss said bury him, so..."
"Yeah but he ain't here, and he left two of us to dig four graves. The kids wont take long, but this guy and the woman-"
"Well fuck, Rick, what do you wanna do just leave them for the animals?"
There was another long pause, and though the piling of dirt had ceased, the weight seemed to grow on his lungs.
"If boss finds out he's gonna be pissed."
"Man, fuck him. We come out here and straight body an entire family and then he wants to get a heart? Fuck right off. Let's just get back to Midnight City, its gonna take us hours to drive back without burying these assholes."
"Alright. Fine. Looks like its gonna rain anyway."
One of them tossed a shovel at man they were burying, and if the Slickers were paying any attention, they'd see a gush of fresh blood telling them the man was still alive. Barely, but alive all the same.
But Slickers never finish the job, not when their boss isn't around. They were already walking back to their car. They left William Stark half buried in a shallow grave, his face bloodied and pulped, body bruised and broken, leaking blood from a gutshot. Stark heard the car start and take off away from his ranch - not the loud and growling rumble of a stateless lands car, but the high pitched whine of a city slicker's ride. When it faded away, he was left with the sounds of nightfall broken by the rumble of thunder.
The rain was what finally woke him, summer evening rain like God's own sweet mercy. His real eye was so swollen that he could barely see out of it, but the old cybernetic one - outdated and crude - clicked and whirred and sent the images of the world to his brain. They had buried him up to his chest, leaving only his head and neck, and his left arm uncovered. He tried first to sit up, but was too weak to move. Panic gripped him, and he tried to thrash against the weight of the earth.
The shallow grave kept him in its embrace.
He closed his eyes again, and for a moment, was closer to death than he had been when the Slickers were throwing dirt on his broken body. He though of his wife lying dead on the kitchen floor, the pool of blood under her head growing by the second. The fire swallowing the house, the children screaming. Stark had lost everything in just twenty short minutes.
But he hadn't lost it. It had been taken from him.
His eyes opened again. His right arm had been badly damaged, the fine motor control in the cybernetic appendage gone, the skilled hand that had won countless gunfights smashed and useless. But he could still move the arm itself, and the mechanical power was enough to drive the fresh dirt away. Slowly, clumsily, Stark pushed his earthen shackles away, his lungs pumping and burning as the rain turned from a fresh evening whisper to a roar in the night.
He grunted and growled and pulled himself from the grave, his body wracked with pain. Stark hauled himself to his knees, and in front of him were their bodies. Libby and the kids, piled unceremoniously in a heap. Beyond them, the smoldering remains of their home. He put his hands in front of his face and screamed a wordless howl, then another, until all he could do was scream in the driving thunderstorm that had overtaken the land.
When his throat was lined with needles and he couldn't scream anymore, only breathe a soundless husking sigh, he found his way to his feet. Stark picked up the shovel that had been thrown at him as the Slickers had turned to leave, and in the rainstorm, started to dig.
It took him four hours and he collapsed at least a dozen times. Every time he thought he might just lay down and die next to his family, he saw Armitage smiling and lifting the peacemaker - Stark's peacemaker - and blowing a hole in Libby's head. Before his eyes were open, Stark was up and digging again.
When it was done, he stood over the three rock covered graves, leaning on the shovel. He wanted to say something, but his throat wouldn't allow it.
It was a five mile walk into town, and William Stark was half dead, wearing only his jeans and a tattered shirt - the bastards had even stripped him of his boots after shooting him. He started plodding forward, looking ahead as lightning flashed above, driven by the most pure and powerful fire that can burn in a man's belly: vengeance.