Book One Chapter One

Book One
Chapter I

Rygel's eyes burned in the blowing sand that had dominated his world for far too long and he tipped the crumpled remains of a tan Stetson against the erosive wind. Strider, the name he had given the proud steed he had purchased for a pair of grease caked pistons and a useless automatic pistol from an old Scavvie who's eyes were inked in cataract blue, shuffled and grunted under the strain of a third night's forced march across the Wasteland. Rygel reached down and hefted the leather pouch of water he had filled two days ago at a small oasis marked by a sickly pool of mold infected water and a stunted stand of scrawny Joshua plants. He heard a little slosh echo from its depths and thought back to the four other skins he had left to crack under the daytime sun. Shaking his head, he smoothed the sweat-soaked neck that jutted from beneath his worn saddle, reveling in the heat, whispering words of comfort that did the beast less good than it did him. Poor Strider would have to wait for at least another hour before his next installment of Life.

A deep throb in the back of his mouth reminded Rygel of the need for another smoke. He reached between the black leather vest and the thin cotton shirt that did little to stave off the desert's nocturnal frigidity and pulled a battered pack of Reds from his breast pocket. He selected one that maintained a promise of smokability and placed it between his cracked lips. A little blood crept from between the cliffs of a particularly deep crack, but Rygel paid it no mind. His lips had been bleeding on and off for days, usually starting when he woke in the early evening feeling like a Christmas turkey pulled too late from the holiday oven. The stream usually sputtered out before he collapsed shivering behind whichever hunkering rock defied the inevitability of destruction feeling like that same turkey hours earlier, sitting in the freezer, waiting to be stuffed for a celebration. He sparked a match with the jagged nail of his thumb which protruded from a pair of gloves he should have abandoned miles ago. He carefully cupped the adolescent flame and brought it to adulthood behind the protective shield of his bony hands and the brim of his Stetson. He puffed three times and let the wind take his child to die among the dunes.

He coughed as the dry smoke competed with the sand in his throat for maximum abrasivity. He managed to consume the better half of his only defense against the ambient radiation that had created this Hell before giving up. He had plenty of Reds; he could always smoke another later if he felt the need. The pulsating pain in his wisdom teeth had subsided for now, but would reappear all too soon. He shuddered, muffling the sound of his teeth chattering with the meat of his sandpaper tongue and entered an internal argument as to the long-term effects of taking a drink. In the end, the argument which supported dying fast to dying slow conquered and he pulled his panting mount to a halt. Strider simply stopped moving his tired, shaking legs and hung his shaggy head down between his legs, letting a thin dribble of snot to clump the sand between his hooves.

"Come on, Strider. I can't give you a drink if you don't let me. There ya go, Amigo. Here, have one on me." Rygel took a generous mouthful of the bitingly cold water, swished it in his mouth, reveling in the pure healing ambiance of it. Strider stamped his right hoof, impatient. Rygel grabbed his companion's head and sprayed what he held in his mouth into Strider's open mouth. The horse's thick tongue lolled out, rounding up strays and probably getting more grains of silver-flecked sand in his mouth than water. Rygel shook his head and took a shallow swallow, letting the liquid tumble down to his gullet. Resisting an urge to empty the flask, he stuffed the leather cork back into its neck and hung it on the saddle horn before heaving himself atop Strider's back. Clicking with a newly lubricated tongue, Rygel pointed his mount toward the twinkle of light he had first seen last night, assuming it to be the thriving city the Scavvies had called Sandy Point. Such eloquent names for places here; Dust Hole, Sandy Point, Sun City. If I don't watch it, I may grow to like it here. A croaking laugh issued from his frayed lungs and clouded from his mouth in a mist.

Without warning, three massive hulks erupted from the sand almost under Strider's hooves. Finding some unknown, untapped reservoir of energy, the spooked horse screamed and reared, sending Rygel tumbling. Almost instantly, the falling man concentrated, channeling precious Plasma toward slowing the course of reality. Immediately, his fall seemed to slow, but the three newcomers saw the movements of his arms blur as his actions sped beyond their perceptive abilities. He threw his legs back over his head as his hands plunged into his saddlebags, locating the twin onyx handled .55 caliber pistols from their protective oil-soaked wrappings. He brought them up, his speeded reflexes bringing them forward into a hasty aim. He touched off the first two cartridges simultaneously, the recoil jarring his already pain-wracked shoulders. The smooth soles of his boots sank into the loose sand, but they did not stay there long. He fueled a little more of the Plasma into his legs, which coiled and sprang.

The massive bullets slammed into their intended targets, both slugs colliding at the same time. One of the newcomers' heads exploded with a wet whump while the other target whirled, the heavy projectile plunging through the meat a few inches under his left collarbone and spraying the majority of his shoulder blade through his back. Rygel landed on his saddle and leapt again, flying headfirst toward the remaining perpetrator. Although his actions were hastened, gravity maintained the same effect. To Rygel, it seemed as though he were floating through a sea of mercury, his mind flashing with a realm of possibilities while the minute movements of his soaring body made his outline hazy to the remaining Outsider, who balked at the quick dispatch of his fellows and began a hasty retreat. This particular desert wanderer had proved himself more than worthy and whatever he carried on him was not worth dying over.

The Outsider had barely managed to turn and take a few shuffling steps before Rygel's serpentine arms wrapped around the man's tree-trunk neck, his hands still gripping his sidearms. Before the rest of his body was able to slam against the muscular back of the Outsider, Rygel opened his mouth wide and inwardly smiled as the fluttering of his lustful Leeches thrashed against his cheeks before plunging into the elephantine hide of the Outsider's neck. A wave of nearly tangible ecstasy flooded his system as the superheated blood of the man's jugular pulsed into the barbed spikes coated in an endorphin to speed his heartbeat. The man dropped to his knees, his ponderous arms reaching up to dislodge whatever Demon had affixed itself to him. Before he was able to get a grip on his attacker, however, his next heartbeat sucked more vitae from his limbs and his meaty hands dropped to the sand. One more heartbeat and he collapsed totally, his once ruddy, sun baked flesh sallow and wan.

Rygel recalled his Leeches and stood, a new warm vitality flooding his overtaxed body. He was about to turn to remount Strider when a fist the size of a cantaloupe smashed into the side of his face, dazing him and sending him soaring from the downed Outsider to land skidding in the sand. Stars danced across his vision as he looked over and saw a hulking form bent over the third Outsider, blood glistening in the starlight from a hubcap-sized hole in it's back. Rygel checked his jaw to make sure it wasn't broken, spat a dislodged molar from his blood-filled mouth, and raised the gun in his left hand.

"Survive this one." The sound of his voice caused the behemoth to turn in his direction, dark glistening ichor drizzling from the corner of his open mouth. Rygel capped off another round, bracing himself for the recoil. The bullet chipped off a circular chunk of the man's jaw on its way to the slight V that marked the top of the being's rib cage. A gristly spray of blood, organs, and bone fragments dissipated into the night air and the being slumped forward. "Damn, if these cursed Outsiders aren't hard to kill. Hearty blood, though. Gotta give 'em that. Now where the hell did Strider take off to?"

Rygel hauled himself to his feet, plucking his other pistol from the sand where he had dropped it upon being hit. He brushed a few grains of sand from its shiny surface, but he knew better than to try and fire it before he was able to give it a thorough cleaning. His Stetson tumbled across the desert surface and he had to chase it down, wasting precious water. He whistled shrilly, hoping the wind would carry it in the direction of his spooked horse. The smell of blood was not something that horses coped with well. Blessing and cursing his luck, Rygel searched the bodies of the fallen, coming up with three large gourds half-filled with water. He whistled again and moved further from the smell of blood which filled his own nostrils; a sweet, sticky, warm scent that flooded his satiated system with additional longing. His ears picked up the cautious plods of hooves and he called out with a soothing voice, sloshing his newly acquired Life in their gourds. The sound of water brought the horse quicker than his whistle had; the promise of nourishment overran even the most primal of fears. Rygel have him two large mouthfuls and mounted a spirited horse.

Book One Chapter Two