TRURO:
HANDING OVER THE PRIZE
The convoy of Black Orchestra vehicles rolled to a halt in the town of Truro, location of a landing of French troops during the Fall of the Empire so many decades before. It had not been an uneventful ride, with widespread violence, looting, and mayhem breaking out on every inch of Britannic soil that had not yet been abandoned silenced by the inevitable tendrils of the Massive Area Denial Device. The town of Truro was overwhelmed by refugees, which simultaneously annoyed, disturbed, and gratified Skelton, who sat in the driver's seat of the lead truck.
"Isn't it dangerous for us to be in the front of the convoy, sir?" young Arthur Aldridge asked from the passenger seat as he fidgeted with his oversized rifle and looked out the window at the herds of frightened masses.
"Indeedy, son. It is. But I don't trust my fate to no one, y'see? I trust the Good Lord to protect me, and when it's my time to die I will. But it is not this day, kid. We're almost to the meeting spot. Home stretch!" Skellie said with a cautious smile as he side-eyed a nearby beggar, pawing for a ride.
"So why do they call you Skeleton?" Arthur inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"I used to be quite thin, ya know. When Dollar Dan took me in, I was starvin', emaciated, and on death's door. He called me Skeleton. Plus, along with that, I'm a bit of a grim reaper, some folks say. So I just take it as it comes and go with the flow, so to speak, hear? It fits me, I think."
"Tell me about Dollar Dan," Arthur said, excitedly. "I heard you mention him a couple times, now."
Skelton grinned and took a sip from his canteen before handing it over and offering it to Arthur, who greedily drank it up. "Dollar Dan was the greatest gun-fighter and frontiersman since Daniel Boone, if you know who that was."
"The chap who wore the opossum on his head, right?" asked Arthur.
"Eh, you got the general idea, yeah. Dollar Dan was such a grand hired gun that his very nickname became a byword a-sorts for all hired guns everywhere. People called him Dollar Dan the Killin' Man, the Osage Gun-Goblin, even Destiny Dan, and lots more, but his name was Daniel Boone Davis--and yes, named for the man with the, uh, possum on his head. He started out as a paid explorer for the Bluebelly government, surveyin' land after the conquest of California and Canada. Now old Dan, he was a fast draw, and after the companies and corporations started a-claimin' soil after said conquest, they needed gunmen to patrol it and keep the filthy tide of peasants and regular folk from comin' in."
"So... the government let the companies have first call on the new land?" Arthur asked, trying to understand his bizarre American cousins.
Skelton made a turn down a suburban neighborhood. The houses were all shattered and looted, with several men still in the act of pulling someone from a cellar entry and delivering a beatdown for daring to hold out supplies. "Same as it ever was, and has been, in America, I'm afraid, son. The government promises the people the world, promises them gold, soil, and glory, but in the end, the companies, the Economic Clans, always get first dibs over normal folk. It's just how it goes. Anywho, back to my main tale, the main show, as it were, pardner. Y'see, old Dan found himself in the employ of the Holyfield Security Force. Holyfield is that creepy family of inbred oilmen you might have heard of. Their current head was given the entirety of Colombia as a personal playground. Anyway, the Holyfields were building this pipeline to bring water to Angel Grove, a city that by all rights should have never been more than a few houses, a church, and a brothel, and instead it's now a major city back there. Farmers in the Mono Valley didn't take kindly to getting, one: screwed out of the first dibs on the good land, and two: having these inbred apes take their water and kill their crops. They started blowin' up parts of the pipeline and even blew up a damn company aeroship. HSF goes in, Dollar Dan in tow, and they don't truck with company property bein' destroyed. They cleaned house. Every last farmer went down--some clapped in iron and others in six feet of soil. Dollar Dan was a hero, got himself a big raise. And there he is, gettin' all celebrated-like, but he's feelin' not so great about it. He quits and becomes a free agent, y'see? Over the years, he becomes the greatest free agent of all. Eventually, he got drafted by the Black Orchestra outfit out of Berlin. He rescued me from a human trafficking outfit that some cultists were runnin'. I was gonna be sacrificed to the serpent god. He took me under his shoulder and later, as he was dyin', he gifted me Moneymaker, his six-shooter. Old lady, this gun, but I wouldn't go anywhere without her."
"How did he die, if you don't mind me asking?" Arthur asked. He was greatly enjoying the story and it distracted him from the chaos around them.
"Black Orchestra answers to no flag but our own. We were founded by an old-time Nipponese samurai who came to Europe after the Americans took over. He was a great musician and conductor, best since Beethoven, some said, but he was even better at killin'. Finally, one day, Dollar Dan became more popular than this old Nip, and the Nip was gettin' up there in years. So he challenges him to a duel. If Dan defeats him in singular combat, he has the right to lead the company, y'see? All of us are trained in Nip-style swordsmanship, includin' Dan. But... well, the luck ran out, and the Nip ran him through. Still never lost a gunfight. I was there. I watched him die."
Arthur looked down, saddened. "I watched my father die, as well. I'm sorry, sir. I know... I know what that feels like."
Skelton slid a hand across and clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Yeppers, I reckon you do. Hang in there, son."
"What about the old Nipponese man? What happened to him?"
A look of focus and anger came over Skelton's face as he replied, "Old bastard died of a 'heart attack' a few months later. Command went to his son. I'm gonna--one day, y'see, and one day soon--challenge that little daddy's boy for command and have my justice. This job is gonna be my last big one, y'see? I'm gonna use the profits to buy me some loyalty and mount me a little rebellion, and put my sword through that little entitled paper-pusher's throat. Hey, I think we're about here."
Up ahead, at the end of a long empty street, a cluster of official-looking vehicles was parked like a circle of covered wagons from the Indian days. Mercenaries in suits, ties, and combat gear strode about, watching the convoy of Black Orchestra vehicles roll in. In a moment, a man with a thick head of brown hair and a pristine gray business suit waved them down and motioned for them to lay on the brakes. Arthur did so, and within a moment, he, Arthur, and the rest of the mercenaries began to bail out and stretch their legs.
"You must be Mr. Skelton!" said the businessman, pointing to the spindly merc. His other hand carried a gas mask.
"Indeed. Whom do I owe the pleasure?" Skellie asked, shaking hands.
"Ebeneezer Bush the Younger. Folks call me Eb. I'm the general accounting manager for Bank of the Union. My cousin, Pinnacleus, the CEO, sent me to oversee our little transaction." All about the convoy, the armed men in suits began to examine the content of the trucks and were busy noting things down on papers and bustling about with boxes of the most valuable items. After a few speedy moments, two adjutants brought a iron box before Bush and opened it up, revealing the antique crown jewels of the old British Empire of the Hannoverians.
Skelton crossed his arms. "Alright, Mr. Eb, we followed through with our end of the bargain. Do you have our reward?"
"Indeed. My cousin thanks you for the retrieval of these incredible assets, and for your speed. This might have been a hasty operation, but you excelled. Tremendous work! Not only does my CEO thank you, Mr. Takahashi does, as well."
"Takahashi? What do you mean?" Skelton asked, his heart skipping a beat. Takahashi was the name of the leader of Black Orchestra, the cowardly little desk-dweller who he had so long planned to challenge.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Skelton. I'm afraid this operation is highly sensitive, and cannot have even a man like yourself walking around, opening your big, fat, country-fried mouth about the whereabouts of the Crown Jewels and all this beautiful gold. And Mr. Takahashi has reason to believe that you are plotting against him. That, you might call, a bit of a convergence of needs. We, Mr. Skelton, need you dead," Eb said dramatically, almost theatrically, as he slunk behind a meat-shield of goons.
Just the smell of the Bostonian's rancid cologne made Skelton ill. His fingers twitched as his hand went toward the pearly grip of Moneymaker, and his other hand drifted toward the Nipponese dagger under his trenchcoat. He surveyed his options as he heard his men begin to form up behind him. Those same men were starting to realize that they were about to be attacked by their allies after risking their necks to complete an incredibly dangerous and exhausting mission. Their fingers began to twitch as well as the suited goons began to pour out of every nearby doorway an alleyway, raising their guns in the direction of the mercenaries. "Mr. Bush, you're a curr, a liar, and furthermore, a proper rapscallion. I spit on you, sir. If I'm to die today, and my men, as well, at least we will die honorable deaths in combat."
"There will be no combat, Skelton," said Bush as he boarded one of the black armored vehicles and readied to close the door. "This is an execution, not a battle."
Arthur looked up at Skelton, panic setting over him again. "All this, just for us to die here?"
Skelton grinned and shrugged. "I'm sorry, pardner. No one has ever dared double-cross me before. But I suppose there's always a first time, eh?"
A hail of gunfire erupted all about, men dropping like flies. The only issue for the Bank of the Union security men was that it was not their guns, nor the Black Orchestra men. Instead, they were being dropped from behind by an oncoming tide of government troops in uniforms covered in bizarre sigils and occult symbols. It was the retrieval force sent out by Marshal Ephraim Becket, the acting leader of Britannia, the head of the Army, and the new leader of the late Dr. Clubb's Wormist sect.
After realizing what was going on, Skelton didn't hesitate to turn around, throw Arthur to the ground, whirl back around, draw Moneymaker, and blast three of the stunned and panicking Banking men. As the cultists poured into the area from every possible direction, the hired gun knew he had to act quickly if he and his young squire were going to get out of here alive. As a Wormist trooper charged him with a bayonet, he pulled out the short Nipponese sword from under his coat, deflected the attack, and then shoved the blade directly under the man's chin and out the back of the skull. He pulled the blade out like the victim's head was made of butter. He then reached into his combat belt, drew a small black orb, and threw it to the ground, sending a noxious cloud of smoke in all directions. Without a second to lose, he grabbed his young ward, plunged the sword into the ground, and in one swift movement sent a sturdy metal sewer lid flying. As the sounds of battle overwhelmed the senses, he and Arthur hopped into the sewers of Truro.
As our protagonists desperately waded through filth and muck as they made their escape, they could hear the buzzing noise of approaching whirlygigs. Bush had ordered in backup, and now the Wormist troops were getting a taste of heavy metal as full-auto side-cannons ripped into their ranks. The oily Banker watched from inside his armored car as five nearby cultists were slammed by the death from above. One man was sent careening backward and into a dumpster, which was a fitting resting place for such filth, Bush smiled. The battle would rage on for thirty minutes. All of the Black Orchestra men were cut down, and the cultists were sent reeling back in retreat. But the fight wasn't truly over. More Wormists were arriving by the minute and advancing on their position.
"Sir!" shouted a terrified driver to Eb Bush. "What are your orders? We're surrounded."
"You are the only one surrounded, Roy," the Banker said with a wry, wicked smile.
"Sir?" the clueless driver asked as he loaded a sidearm and waited for further explanation. Bush simply grabbed a helmet from the seat next to him, stepped out of the car, and shot a flare into the sky from a small orange device he had kept under his suit jacket. Within seconds, one of the Bank of the Union choppers had landed and was waving to him to hop on. Bush grabbed the chest containing the crown jewels and hopped aboard. He could hear the driver's door of the armored car open up and Roy come hurtling his way, exclaiming, "Wait! Please, sir! Don't leave me with these heathen!"
But the chopper was already lifting off, Roy's fingers barely gripping the side of the craft. Eb Bush smiled and looked down at the pathetic chauffeur. "Sorry, pal. My mission is to bring these shiny babies back to my cousin. And you're dead weight that will only slow us down."
"Sir! Please! I have children!" begged Roy as Bush's oxford dress shoe moved over his fingers and the chopper rose higher and higher. "Please! Don't leave me! I have served you for eight years! Is that not worth anything to you, you rich bastard?!"
"The only thing worth anything is money, Roy!" The shoe bore down on the pale, white fingers. As Roy hurtled toward the pavement below, Bush merely slapped the chest of jewels with one hand and mockingly saluted the splattered remains of his driver down below. "Mission accomplished! Now let's get back to the States!"