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Mason watched the tumbleweed blow down the dirt street, caught up in the afternoon breeze. He chewed on the piece of wheat he’d plucked from one of the nearby fields that had slowly become overgrown, and he wondered briefly where the tumbleweed would end up. Surely, it’d see a better end than him—he found himself stuck in this failing mining town, where the prospectors had vanished when the gold proved sparse. His fathers had been one of those prospectors, a drunk in search of fortune. And when his son proved to be a hindrance instead of helpful, the man had left him behind.
Mason had never been one for mining, or even panning for gold. He longed for less tedious work. No, he wanted an adventure like the one he’d heard about in stories some of the older, soberer men had described late at night in front of the fire at just about any inn he and his father had stopped at over the years. Mason had found his family in those stories, wondering at what it would be like to fall in with a group of friends on a quest for greatness, bonding over their shared experiences.
But now, he was stuck here, and with no way out. The jobs offered by the few remaining businesses were far from lucrative, and without any money, Mason would have no way to buy the supplies he needed to survive the wilds outside of the town, where zombies and skeleton armies wandered, and where creepers and giant spiders out of nightmares stalked lone travelers. At the very least, he needed a horse to outrun these horrors, and there was certainly no horse in his price range here, not when everyone needed theirs.
He threw the wheat to the ground, twisting his boot in the dirt until it was mashed into unrecognizable pieces. Sitting here on this fence wouldn’t improve his prospects either, but he wasn’t sure where else he could go. The store and the saloon were beyond the reach of his remaining funds, and the sheriff and bank both treated him like they’d caught him in the act of a crime.
“Howdy there, partner.”
Mason raised his head, tilting his hat back to see the two people in front of him. The breeze tugged on the man’s tan vest, but Mason’s attention was pulled to the strangely dressed man behind him, who was wearing a vivid blue outfit designed to look like some strange creature.
“Oh, don’t mind Flint. That thing fell outta the sky from some sorta vortex a while back and he hasn’t taken it off since.” The man grimaced. “I’d recommend stayin’ upwind, if you get my meanin’.”
Mason nodded. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
“So what’re you doin’ out here? It’s a hot day to be outside on.”
A small shrug lifted Mason’s shoulders before he let them drop, his gaze finally pulling away from the strange clothing to roam across the small array of buildings still left in town. “Don’t got nothin’ else to do.”
“Neither do we!” The man named Flint grinned, but he was again pushed back by his companion.
“Ignore him,” the man in front of Mason urged. “Once you get used to him, he calms down. But for now, what’s your name?”
“Mason.”
“Just Mason?”
“That’s all I need.”
“Well, all right then, just Mason, I’m Jack—Jack Kanoff. Me and Flint here was gonna go grab a drink at the saloon—you wanna come along?”
And so began the first real friendship Mason had ever been able to experience. Their trip to the saloon didn’t go the way Mason anticipated—the first few rounds of drinks were paid for until Flint and Jack’s worsening drunkenness propelled them to rob the bartender John at gunpoint. After that, they fled laughing into the hills surrounding the town, Mason breathless yet his whole body somehow filled with brightness. What they’d done was wrong—Mason knew that, and it was a small stain on his soul to acknowledge what he’d done. But to be included, to be wanted… it overshadowed that small darkness within him.
The next several years, when he properly grew up into a man, were spent by Mason with Jack and Flint, robbing citizens of various goods and causing all kinds of general mischief. From William Williamson at the general store, they stole new boots and fresh pants, perfect for riding the horses they’d ridden right out of the corrals of the banker Percy and the mailman Ron Ronson. They’d been watched intently by the sheriff Sherman Thompson, who was perpetually one week from retiring and always quite literally turned a blind eye to their activities in the end, not wanting to jeopardize his chance at retirement. They taunted Crops on the rare occasions they dared to venture near the jail, teasing him for his strange diet and promising he’d never take their heads for his meal.
The townspeople became the villains of Mason’s story, in his mind. They tried to keep him down, keep him and his friends from having their fun, and eventually becoming boring in their inevitable defeat. John no longer protested when they held up the saloon, and William let them tear through his store like a dust devil, upending shelves and trying on clothes with no intention of purchase, something they knew had once driven the man mad. But much like anything else in this town, things slowly wore down until it felt like they were stuck in place again, doomed to repeat things until something new happened.
That something new arrived on a day they’d decided to visit the saloon. John cowered behind the bar as he often did, claiming he didn’t want trouble. Mason was about to climb over the bar when a new voice broke the haze hanging over the town. “Hello?”
“What the hell? Who the hell is this?” The curses slipped from Mason’s lips, and the stranger quirked an eyebrow at him in response, but his words he addressed to Mason, Flint, and Jack.
“Is there a problem here?”
The new man’s words were a problem, of course. They were a challenge. Something finally, at long last, had arrived for them to defeat.
***
Mason watched from the ridge as this new person—Karl, he’d heard—went around the town from place to place, slowly gathering people to him. First it was John, and it was understandable to Mason why John might join Karl on whatever quest it was Karl had decided to start—Karl had stopped them from robbing John. John was a shy young man, but he wasn’t stupid—he’d know when to play his cards. But then it was on to Percy, and Mason watched in shock as Percy actually left behind his stacks of money in the bank for something other than to find a resident of the town to harass about not having made rent. And then, despite the number of times he’d let the bandits go, Sherman Thompson emerged from the jail with Karl, seemingly having agreed to Karl’s cause.
“I can’t believe this. All the crap we done, and now Thompson decides it’s time ta act?” It was Jack who muttered this, sitting down on a large rock next to Mason. “He hasn’t left his desk in weeks! And now this stranger shows up and convinces him? That sounds like some black magic.”
“I agree.” Flint leaned on the crumbling stone wall that bordered the ridgeline, ignoring when a piece of stone cracked under his weight. “There’s something off about that Karl fella. I mean, what kinda name is Karl, anyway? I ain’t never heard of no one called Karl. And he dresses funny.”
“You’re one to talk, Flint,” Mason observed as Jack muttered about what they might need to counter such strong magic. “You were going by Connor for the longest time, and when was the last time you took off that strange suit? I don’t think you’ve bathed in at least a year.”
Flint deliberately moved upwind, making Mason grimace. Despite having lived with the other man for several years, the stench never got any easier to bear. Mason knew better than to let Flint know that, though, and he simply shrugged, cutting off Flint to reply to Jack. “What are we gonna do, Jack?” There was no leader in their group, but Jack was usually their voice in matters like these. “He’s gatherin’ up a lotta people.” Even now they’d pulled Ron from his post office—which had to be a first—and they were heading toward the general store now.
“Is that Crops with them?”
Mason stood, peering down over the ridge into town. And sure enough, just behind the sheriff was the only criminal in town that Thompson actually bothered to lock up—Crops, the notorious cannibal. Even now, he had someone’s head in hand, occasionally tearing a piece off to chew on. Mason didn’t want to think about if he’d known the person Crops had made into dinner.
“It is Crops.” Jack’s breathed revelation made them all pause. “How the hell did he get Crops to agree to anything?”
“And why’d the sheriff let him out?” Mason reminded them. “Even if Karl convinced Crops to help him, Sheriff woulda had last call on that.”
They were left with few answers as the group made their way to the shooting range. The only thing that was obvious was that Karl was clearly planning on convincing the townsfolk to stand up to them, and all three of them weren’t pleased, to say the least.
“We need to get down there,” Jack finally said. “We need to put an end to this.”
Mason was hesitant to agree. “Maybe we should just cut our losses, skip town.”
“Why? This is our town, not his. What right’s he got, comin’ here and turnin’ everything upside down? We can’t let him get away with that!” Jack spat, glaring down at the town, which was slowly vanishing as the sun set for the night. “’Sides, where we supposed to go? All the other towns nearby were abandoned ages ago—this is the only place for miles.”
“There’s other places, beyond that,” Mason recalled, thinking of the times he’d travelled with his father. “I’m sure we could find something.”
“Naw, Mason. This is our town, and we’re gonna take it back. If Flint and I gotta do that on our own ‘cause you’re too yellow-bellied to fight for what you want, then that’s fine. But I thought we was friends.”
“We are.”
“Then help us.”
In the end, Mason agreed to go with Flint and Jack in an effort to reclaim the town they’d made theirs. As the path to their hideout faded into the night behind them, Mason wondered if it was really a good idea, but he couldn’t abandon his friends. Even if he went somewhere else, with the earnings he’d made as a bandit here, he’d have nothing without them.
They found the townspeople gathered near a fire on the edge of town, most of them laughing and seeming in higher spirits than they’d been in some time. The mood sobered immediately once the bandits had been spotted, of course, and Jack declared that they were here to deal with the problem Karl had created. The townspeople of course took offense to that, and demanded trial by fire—a duel, best of three. Whoever won took control of the town.
Jack, of course, was ecstatic. They’d had plenty of practice with guns—the wilderness around the town, especially around their hideout, had been plagued with zombies, wolves, and more. They’d all learned very quickly how to use a gun, whereas everyone in town had relied on the natural defenses of the town to keep them safe, other than the sheriff.
Sheriff Thompson was to duel Flint, and Jack was to face off against Crops. Mason was not chosen to fight, but Mason wasn’t entirely displeased with this. While he talked a lot about fighting and defending what was his to the townspeople, he wasn’t sure he could fully commit to a fatal duel.
The sun was high in the sky by the time they started the first duel by the bridge. The heat was oppressive, any sort of breeze nonexistent. Mason wiped the sweat from his brow with the mask he still had tied around his neck, pulling his hat down to shade his eyes. It was a day that should’ve been spent relaxing in the cool basement of the saloon, where the heat couldn’t touch them. The thought of a good beer made him lick his chapped lips, and he decided that after they handled these duels, they should go and get a drink to celebrate and to alleviate the dryness in his mouth.
The sheriff and Flint faced off in front of the bridge, Karl counting down the paces. Mason kept a close eye on Flint, knowing that the man could move quick—he’d probably get his shot off first. And while this was true, the shot flew to the right of Thompson, hitting the dirt with a puff of reddish dust. Mason’s gaze jumped to the sheriff, eyes widening as he watched him pull the trigger of his gun.
Flint died without a sound, simply collapsing where he stood as the bullet hit him squarely in the chest. Mason could only stare as Jack leapt off his horse to run to Flint’s side, shouting for him.
Flint was dead. One of Mason’s only friends was dead.
The words of the townspeople and Jack blurred into meaningless noise as Mason stared at his friend’s body, cradled in Jack’s arms, blood staining the pale front of the outfit Mason had never seen off him, and now never would. Mason was glad he was safely in the saddle of his horse—he doubted he could’ve remained standing. His eyes burned with tears as they evaporated in the dry heat, and he wished he could find a way to go back in time to warn Flint that this had been a poor idea. Maybe he could’ve convinced them to leave town.
While Mason was wishing about what could’ve been, though, Jack’s anger boiled over, moving Flint out of the way to demand that his opponent step forward so he could make them pay for killing Flint. Crops stepped forward, his hungry gaze reminding Mason of the zombies that lurked outside of town. Crops promised to eat Jack’s remains once the shootout was over, but Jack promised to make a corpse of Crops, and Mason hoarsely cheered his friend on from the sidelines.
Karl had only made it to a count of three when Crops took his shot, and for a brief moment, shock held Mason silent as he watched Jack perish. But rage drove him forward, and he leapt from his horse’s back, drawing his own gun. “You cheater!” He was caught by Thompson and William, who held him back as Crops stalked toward Jack’s fallen body. “You cheated! He didn’t even have time to turn around!”
“Kinda seems like a him problem,” Crops observed, his corpselike fingers digging into Jack’s neck as he knelt next to him. He twisted with what seemed like minimal effort, and while Mason shouted for him to stop, Jack’s head was torn loose. The cannibal lifted Jack’s head by his hair, confirming that Jack was very much dead. “And we agreed before the duel that I could take this, remember?”
The world narrowed to one thing for Mason—revenge for his fallen brothers. “I want a duel,” Mason snarled. “Someone fight me. Anybody. You killed Flint, and you killed Jack. I want to fight you.”
“Well, we did have a third participant chosen,” Karl ventured, pausing momentarily. “John, get down here.”
The young bartender descended from the peak of the bridge, and Mason noticed that the other man’s hands were shaking. A mean grin broke out on Mason’s face; here would be easy revenge. John would never manage a shot shaking like that. “I’ll make y’all pay for killing Jack and Flint.”
“You agreed to the terms of the duel,” the sheriff pointed out. “You knew what the consequences could be.”
“Shut up and start the count,” Mason spat, glancing over where Crops was still feasting on Jack’s remains. “I’ll get you next,” he promised.
Karl started the count after a quick word with John, and Mason started moving the ten paces, waiting for the count to reach one, when he’d be able to turn and make these people pay for taking his friends from him. The dirt under his boots was damp.
“… two, one!”
Mason drew his gun in a single smooth motion, and when he raised the gun—John hadn’t even fully turned around yet—he aimed for John’s head, and he pulled the trigger.
A soft cry escaped John before the gun fell from his hands, and he crumpled to the ground. The townsfolk started shouting for John, rushing forward to where he’d fallen. “What did you do?” Karl shouted as he approached Mason, staring at him. “He…”
“I killed him.” Mason found little satisfaction in staring at the fallen saloon owner though, and for a brief moment, he wondered if it’d been the right thing to do. John hadn’t done any wrong to him. But as he looked at the remaining townspeople, his resolved strengthened, his jaw clenched. “I killed him with this gun right here, and damn, it felt good! That one’s for Jack Kanoff. He was a great man, and y’all took his life too early, and so I took one of yers.”
But Karl’s eyes burned as much as Mason’s had earlier, and he punched Mason square in the jaw, leaving Mason to stumble back, clutching his cheek as Karl spoke to him. “You killed my first friend in this town, Mason! And ya know what…”
“And he’s long gone too,” Mason taunted. “Six feet under.”
Karl, however, ignored his jabs. “This one’s for John. I’m going against you next.” The remaining townsfolk pleaded with him to reconsider, but Karl promised he’d bring back Mason’s head for Crops to eat. Mason thought it might be funny to leave Karl’s head behind for the cannibal instead, and so Mason staggered to his feet, the metal of his gun burning in his hand.
“Let’s get it,” he growled.
“Sheriff, I’m gonna need you to count it down,” Karl said as the others retreated to the bridge.
“I can’t wait to see the life leave your pretty, pretty eyes, Karl,” Mason snarled, turning his back to Karl; he wouldn’t allow the other man a response.
The sheriff began the count. “Ten, nine…”
Mason took a step away from Karl, facing the lane where his friends had died. He would avenge his friends. He’d make these people pay for killing them. After all, what crime had they committed that warranted death? What was a little harmless robbery compared to murder? His hands trembled, wishing there was some way to bring his friends back.
“Five, four, three, two…”
“For John!” Karl shouted.
“One, shoot!” cried the sheriff.
“For Jack!” Mason screamed, pulling the trigger.
The bullet went soaring over Karl’s head, and Mason prepared to fire again, his fingers numb.
He never felt any pain when the bullet met his forehead. He never even had time to gasp.
The world was dark around him, a vast space of nothingness. He heard faint shouts from Karl of how they’d done it, and he wondered if it meant he was dead. But then Karl’s voice faded, leaving Mason alone.
He didn’t know how long he reflected on his life’s choices, left alone in the void. Should he have left town and tried to find his father? What would’ve happened if he’d tried taking one of the menial labor jobs in the mines? What if he’d properly convinced Flint and Jack to leave town?
He’d made mistakes, he understood that now. But Mason had left behind the scared child that had been afraid of being alone, who’d been afraid to act because of the unknown. True, the nothing he found himself in was unsettling, but Mason reminded himself that he’d been alone once—he could find his friends again.
And, Mason decided, once he found his friends, he’d find someone to bring them all back. After all, if some stranger that seemed out of place and out of time could appear and upend Mason’s life so completely, there had to be someone, somewhere, somewhen, that knew how to bring people back from the dead—and Mason intended to find them.