* * * * *
The noon sun was directly overhead. Looking across the plains towards the town of Squabash, the hot air made the view of the town wavering and indistinct, as if he looking at an illusion, or a mirage. If blackbirds circled overhead in the hot updrafts, Eli did not notice.
He reined the tall horse to a stop. With his eyes he followed the worn wagon ruts along the dirt road into Squabash. From here Squabash looked like a ghost town. There was no movement, no glint of gunmetal from window or rooftop. No tendrils of smoke rising from the black stove pipes that protruded from the flat wooden roofs. Eli took a hard draw against the black cigarillo and felt the rough tobacco smoke fill his lungs. The stub burned at his lips, so Eli flicked it to the ground.
Now he dug deep into his saddlebag with his left hand and returned with a box of lead bullets. Using his bandaged right hand to hold the gun, he carefully slipped the lead bullets into the open cylinder. He counted audibly as each bullet slid into its chamber with a satisfying click.
“One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six,” he said.
He snapped the cylinder closed and gave it a turn to ensure it was tight and to listen to the ratcheting noise from the action. Satisfied, he pushed the six-gun gingerly into the holster strapped to his left leg. With a clink of spurs the horse started on a fast walk towards the town. Eli looked straight ahead. There was no plan. He was going to go in, get Liang, and then get out. He expected an ambush. Tommy Chin must know that he would come. The only question left to consider is how much did Tommy bother to prepare for his arrival.
Once the tall horse stepped onto the main street at the far end of Squabash, Eli could see straight through to the other side of town. Each building looked familiar. He knew the line of fire from every window and roof-top. He recognized the bank because he had robbed it countless times; and the jail where he had spent many nights and escaped many mornings.
The Livery, the Hotel, the Barber Shop where he could get a bath. Each location stirred a memory of a gunfight or a brawl. Today it would be different.
There were no citizens or cowboys out on the streets. The few citizens that saw him approaching quickly cleared into the buildings as if he was prepared to shoot anyone he saw on sight.
“This is good,” Eli thought, “let them be scared.”
He felt himself being watched by a multitude of unseen eyes. He could hear the hooves of his tall horse, and the clink of his spurs rattling through the empty street. The town of Squabash held its breath as the Saloon came into view.
Three of Tommy Chin’s deputies were standing in front of the Saloon. As Eli approached he could see each of the deputies was wearing two six-guns, one strapped to each leg following Tommy’s example. The handle of each gun was painted with a stripe either red or blue. Eli figured that red was loaded with lead, blue was loaded with rubber. The three deputies each had loosened their red gun. They looked ready to draw.
The colored stripes on the six guns were more organization than would normally be expected from Tommy Chin. With this setup, Tommy and his gang could use the blue guns to play in the fantasy created by RSI gaming, while reserving the red gun to exert control in real world. They could move seamlessly in and out of their two realities, maintaining their high gaming status and incomes and at the same time seizing power over the village and the locals.
Eli carefully dismounted. No sudden moves. He approached the three purposefully and directly. They were standing directly in front of the entrance to the Saloon which consisted of a large door on hinges and a tall window on each side of the door. They were guarding the entrance. They looked confident. They looked cocky.
As Eli stepped towards them, the pain in his right arm dissipated. Cold sweat ran down his back and chilled him despite the heat.
“Let me pass,” Eli said.
“Can’t do it cowboy,” replied the deputy standing directly in front of the door.
Eli recognized all three men. He did not know them from the plastic factory or the village, so he suspected that they had traveled from other villages to find work with RSI Gaming. He recognized them, however, from many fake gunfights while working at Wild West Alive. Eli had fought with each of them, both one on one and also working in gangs. He had fought against or alongside each of them enough that he knew he could beat any one of them on the quick draw. But he had never tried before with his left hand, and this would slow him down. Even with this handicap, Eli knew he was fast at the quick draw. He was faster than one any of these three.
He did the calculus of the gunfight in his head. The first would drop before he could shoot back, the second would exchange shots with Eli at the same time and with luck Eli would kill the second and only take a minor wound. The third, however would shoot before Eli could shoot back. The third deputy would kill him.
He scanned their eyes looking for fear, looking for weakness, finding the order in which he would shoot.
“Don’t try it Eli,” said the deputy standing in the center, in front of the Saloon door. He sensed Eli’s intention. “We will kill you where you stand,” he threatened.
No weakness there, Eli thought, only stupid arrogant confidence. He will be first. He considered the deputy to the left. This deputy was standing directly in front of the tall Saloon window. The dark interior of the saloon and bright day light outside made the window into a mirror and Eli could clearly see the deputies back reflected in the glass. In the glass, Eli could see he was wearing a long Bowie knife. It hung from the middle of the back of his belt like a tail. Eli looked at his face, he looked cruel. He was rough shaved and he had a long thin scar along his cheek and neck.
The third deputy stood over to his right side. This deputy was heavy set. He had a black beard covering a round face. Eli knew this one. He was one of the least popular hosts in the game because he was slow. To compensate for his lack of ability, this one had become increasingly cruel. He attracted players by pushing the fake punches into reality and causing real injuries whenever he could. Eli decided he would shoot this one last. He was slow. Maybe he will panic and not fire. Maybe he will miss.
“Don’t do it,” The deputy standing in the center reiterated.
But Eli knew he knew he would. How could he not. They had taken his village. They had taken his sister. His right arm hung heavy on this right side; broken and useless. His left arm felt weak. He heard a buzzing in his ears. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows and blurred his vision. He waited.
The heavy deputy on his right side grew nervous. He shifted his weight on his heels, rocking his bulk from side to side. Eli noted this. This confirmed his plan; the heavy one would be third. Eli waited.
On his left, the deputy with the scar broke the stand-off and started to make a move. But before his gun was out of the holster, the window behind him exploded outwards, casting glass and wood splinters in every direction; the thin deputy with the scar was carried forward by the blast and tumbled onto the street behind Eli.
Eli did not let the surprise of the explosion slow him or even register in his conscious mind; he simply reacted reflexively. The six-gun was in his left hand. He fired in rapid succession, first to the center, then to the right.
One shot for each and the space between them was filled with black smoke. The deputies crumpled together, twisted and then fell. Eli was still standing. The calculus of the gunfight had somehow changed. Through the shattered window of the Saloon; Eli could see a pretty Asian face framed by red hair and feathers. It was Sadie. She was holding a still smoking shotgun.
Eli grinned at her, and she managed to grin back.
“Thought you looked a might outnumbered,” she said.
“Thank you kindly,” Eli replied and he touched the brim of his hat with his still smoking six-gun.
As he spoke the dryness of his mouth was filled with wetness. He tasted blood. So the calculus of the gunfight had been right after all. The h
eavy bearded deputy who stood to his right had fired a shot and now Eli was wounded. The lack of pain and the taste of blood made him realize that he was hurt bad. He wished for pain. Even agony as when his arm was broken. A wound with no pain was more terrifying. He might not survive this. Time was short.
“Sadie, send Liang out now. We need to go.” He said.
“Eli!” she said called out as her eyes were growing wide, “your shot.”
“Send out Liang,” he replied, his voice was raspy now.
The pale Asian face framed by red hair and feathers disappeared from the shattered window leaving nothing but darkness. He peered into the dark and felt its pull.
“Not yet,” he said, and forced himself to look away.
He stepped, and then staggered out into the street. As he stepped he was surprised to feel a squishing sensation in his right boot. His foot was wet, but the street was dry. His vision blurred. The buzzing in his ears grew loud. From down the street he could see a small figure approaching. It was growing larger with each step.
From the Saloon, he heard calls from Liang and he heard Sadie calling, but he could not make out the words that they were saying.
In front of him, the figure slipped in and out of focus. White hat, red and blue gun handles protruding from a holster strapped to each leg. It was Tommy Chin. He could see that Tommy Chin was yelling, but the words were lost. All he could hear was the buzzing in his ears. Even without the words, he knew that the blurry image of Tommy Chin was calling on him to draw.
Tommy faded out of focus. Eli tried to force his eyes to focus, to judge the distance, but it was no use.
Above Tommy’s head, Eli saw a small flock of blackbirds startled by the gunshots. They had leapt from their tree branches and hidden perches and were swirling about upon the hot updrafts, moving together in a dance of wing and wind.
In a flash, Yang leaped from his broken body and joined with the blackbirds circling above. In his mind’s eye he could see his lean form standing stiffly on the street in front of the Saloon; still facing Marshal Dirk Redburn, who was calling him out. Either way this would be his final gunfight.
The loud buzzing in his ears cleared, replaced by the cool hush of wind on feathers. His vision cleared, he could see blackbirds darting and diving all about him. The taste of blood on this tongue was gone, instead he could taste the clean summer air spiced with smells of rice and grass and horse.
He tipped his black feathers to catch the updraft, and without a second thought to the drama on the street below, he joined with the blackbirds flying higher now. Rising up into the clean blue sky and not looking down.
“Blair vs. City of San Francisco: A landmark legal ruling in which it was settled that both the host and the remote user were culpable for crimes committed by the host body while the host was being controlled by the remote user via a Synaptic Interface device.”
-WetWiki