Red Creek

Cursed is the man who does nothing while evil spreads, for one day, they too will fall prey to the sinister forces that bleed the world, and they will suffer a hundredfold for the atrocities they let happen—the Book of Malice, The Sacral Compendium.

Hours later, when Maro glanced back at the small town of Tepress, he realized it settled in a shallow between rolling hills. He wouldn’t classify it as a valley, as the terrain didn’t rise enough, but it nestled inside the trough. It wasn’t beautiful by any means. Hard limestone surrounded the countryside, uncovered by a slight kick of dirt, and cedar trees flourished like a severe case of venereal disease—they cropped up everywhere.

Where once proud rivers flowed, humble trickles now bubbled in atrophied creek beds. Wild life turned scarce, and crop yields brought in a small fragment of their once-plentiful portions. The changing weather patterns played the town dirty. Dust storms didn’t help either. Far to the south, the wooded areas grew in abundance with vegetation and wildlife, but every year, the climate seemed to chip it away, making it further and further. Maro heard rumors of caves out there, but he couldn’t know for certain.

Tepress will be a distant memory in another twenty years.

Maro tallied up how old he’d be.

Damn, forty-three.

A distressing thought—his age, not the town.

Glancing back at Tepress had been a mistake. The little girl came to mind: Maribel.

Ain’t my business.

But the words of the temperamental bounty hunter kept rumbling in his head like distant prairie thunder, ‘a gang of outlaws on the road to Red Creek.’ If Maro had to speculate on what Avardi would do, he’d find someway to be rid of the girl, ditching her the first available chance. Her safety wouldn’t be his priority, just finding a sucker who’d take the pay.

Maro dismounted in a plume of dust, taking a moment to stretch his legs and give Bastard a reprieve. Guiding the horse by the reins, the ex-soldier turned away from the town and continued walking.

The place was too damn dry for his tastes. If he could stomach the dryness, Maro would build himself a shack in the middle of the desert. At least, he’d be warm. As he stumbled over small rocks, the girl kept coming back to him.

A coach would do.

Stage coaches provided a great way for the population to move around, especially those with no skill on the open road, those without the ability to take care of themselves.

Pay someone to sandwich you in between two other sweating, disgusting people, and all six people ride in an oven to your destination, all the while praying to the gods you don’t break a wheel.

Coaches were fast, affordable, but they weren’t the safest. Most didn’t have a second rider, someone with a long-barrel musket, to shoot at any who’d try to rob the stage. When traveling, whether alone or not, you always risked highway robbery at the very least, and, at worst, an early grave.

Maro grunted.

Ain’t no damn way to go for anyone, especially a kid.

But he wouldn’t be moved by possibilities, nor swayed by maybes. He wondered, had his old man been worth a damn at all, would he have come after Maro to save him? Probably not. And if Maro wasn’t willing to look after Maribel, how was he better than his old man?

I ain’t.

But surely there was something the army could do? Two detachments sat in Tepress, idle manpower able to sweep through the countryside, dispatching outlaws, seizing stolen goods, and making the way safer for all involved.

Why isn’t the damn army taking care of this? After the fire fiasco, they could use some positive public relations.

Maro knew they’d never do it, not without any profit in it. They’d fall back on the tired tripe of ‘no orders.’

Doesn’t the military have a mandate to keep citizens safe?

He could’ve sworn that’s what he promised to uphold when he donned the uniform, so why weren’t the soldiers taking care of the infestation?

Yeah, they do, just not my battalion.

Which was what sat in Tepress.

Maro’s unit stood apart from the regular fighting force. Over the last few years, they’d switched tactics to combat the insurgents with guerilla warfare, and Maro, always forward deployed, tracked and reconned the area before the primary force came through. His job consisted of hunting for signs of the adversary long before they ambushed.

He peered over his shoulder, the small town fading as he navigated patches of spry grass and rocky terrain. The weeds out here, though water-starved for a month, would still be strong enough to slow a galloping horse. The spots of dirt between were almost as hard as packed roads. If you fell, the ground would make a divot in you.

Maro turned away with a shake of his head and kicked a small stone with the toe of his boot. Ain’t my business.

Putting one step in front of the other, he put more distance between him and the town, their woes, the gang, and the child. His mind drifted back over events that helped solidify his decision to leave. He didn’t love the army, the fighting, but he wasn’t great at anything else. The textbook definition of his life going nowhere.

When he entered the town and heard about the torched building, something inside him broke, a dam holding back the compiling horrors. It was one thing to kill an enemy, quite another to burn townsfolk—an unjustifiable decision. What else could he do? Stand by and let the heathens of their battalion operate with impunity?

Ain’t that what I’m doing by quitting? Now that I’m out, can’t do anything, regardless.

Would writing to a local politician and complaining change things? Maybe they’d launch a full investigation into the allegations. He doubted it. Like everything else dirty and shameful, they’d sweep it out the door, making sure such rumors never saw the light.

Perhaps he should’ve stayed, been more vocal about the atrocities? Surely not everyone approved of their conduct? Their commanding officer didn’t care, Captain Hovath. Maro never met the man, but he’d seen him from a distance.

Must be nice to be so far removed from the plebs, a bird soaring high above and shitting on everything below.

What would an officer do with a sergeant who brought up uncomfortable questions? It’s not like he could ignore it. No, once voiced aloud, Captain Hovath would ascertain the validity. But that’d be the last time Maro got that close to him, not when said commisioned rank commanded a sea of lieutenants and higher enlisted men to act as a buffer.

But the captain wouldn’t do anything. He’d say the right words, pantomime the proper motions, and business would continue. The captain’s reputation of barbarism, and the tactics his unit employed, came from his demented mind. And again, Maro stood far removed from the main body of fighters.

The former soldier adjusted the hat on his head. Nothing decent came from Tepress, except being the catalyst for Maro extricating himself from the life he’d known. It was a damn sorry day when it took burning citizens to make him see it.

Nah, my hat came from Tepress.

Maro grunted, acknowledging one other aspect.

Running into Peredur implanted a seed of an idea. Bounty hunters made abundant money, though the life would be hard.

It’d be the same shit I’ve been doing for years, roughing it on the trail, killing folk who needed killing. But the job suits my skills, not that I have much.

And he’d be paid an acceptable rate, too, given the freedom to hunt like the old times.

That gives me a warm fuzzy.

There’d be no uncertainty when the enemy was an actual foe to society. The men he’d chase would be criminals, vile creatures ruled by their baser instincts. He’d be doing the world of Atar a service. A touch of hope flickered in his chest. After all the awful shit he’d done, he might turn into a decent man.

Yeah, right?

The idea intrigued him, and perhaps he’d look into it once he got to … wherever the hell he ended up. That was the problem with not having a path. Atar lay before him, but not all trails were open. He had to figure shit out and quick. Prospects came slim, and money ran out fast.

I’d whore myself out, but I’d end up paying clients to sleep with me.

He thought of going home, the town he grew up in, but there wasn’t anything for his return. His mom died before he joined the military; his father drank himself to death when Maro had been but a boy, and the only thing the bastard ever did for Maro was teach him how to duck when someone punched.

Maro’s uncle still lived, his mother’s brother, but he hadn’t seen him in years, and didn’t know where to look for him.

Maybe I’ll wander the road for a bit?

That thought wasn’t intriguing in the slightest, and it didn’t provide profit either. He wanted a bed with a roof overhead, or a job that paid for all the time he’d spend away from it. The bounty hunting gig sounded more appealing by the moment.

Until you get shot.

He’d been shot before, but luck, like time, would end. If he went fast, a bullet between the eyes, well, at least he wouldn’t suffer. It’d be over before he realized what happened, but sadistic little shits filled Atar, like the fighters they battled, and some men were turned into a slow-roasted pig on a spit, or skinned alive until their body gave out.

What kind of world do we live in?

Part of the problem manifested in people like Captain Hovath and his tactics. Hostiles would enact an atrocious deed, Hovath would order a retaliation, something much worse, then a revenge would happen, further escalating the barbarity and tensions.

The officer, the nemesis they fought, and the criminals, spread like a pestilence upon the world, and most didn’t have the means to fight off the infection.

A weight settled over his chest.

But I do.

His lips tightened in a thin line as bile filled his mouth. Without a doubt, something in the holy Sacral Compendium talked about men like him, and if not, then, in the sacred texts from The House of Lust and Candor, the temple Maro belonged to. There were nine Houses of the gods, and his was but one.

“Damn it,” he uttered aloud.

Bastard gave a small nicker in response. Maro glanced at the horizon, noting how low the sun hung.

Too early to camp.

If he turned back now, he wouldn’t make it back to Tepress until deep in the night.

This is why I’ve stayed alive for so long. Good men do stupid shit, get themselves killed. Damn, what does that say about me?

He turned to his mount. “What do you say, old timer? Still got one more fight in you?”

Bastard knickered again, this time a touch louder as if he understood and confirmed.

Maribel’s face floated in front of Maro’s eyes for a moment. After all the horrible deeds he let happen, he could do one right.

Still won’t make me a good man, even if I do bad things for a just cause.

He peered skyward.

“Alright, Autarch. If you’re listening, you know I don’t ask for much.” Maro shifted to the side of Bastard, put his foot in the stirrup, and hauled himself into the saddle. “If you let the girl be alive by the time I find her, I’ll get her home.” He turned the horse around and faced Tepress. “But if something bad happened to her, or if she’s dead, I’ll slaughter everyone who had a hand in it, even Avardi, and I’ll denounce your ass as no god of mine. Deal?”

He hadn’t expected an answer, but it felt damn fine to vent.

“Alright Bastard, we’ve got to make up for lost time.”

Kicking his flanks, Bastard shot forward like a ball from a musket barrel.