The footsteps on the stairs sounded, now that he thought about it, heavy.
He lifted himself upright as quickly and quietly as he could, still half asleep, and considered his options. None of them looked good.
After finding the cache of guns – pistols, rifles, Uzis, grenade launchers, shotguns, two dusty old mortars and a gargantuan shoulder-rocket hanging off the wall – he'd put two and two together and come up with a single word:
Collectors.
Out here, outside the major cities, in the great field-strewn swathes of American Nowhere bisected and fed by cracked freeways, the Collectors were everywhere. Rick knew only too well who the mercenary bastards worked for, gathering up supplies, weapons, drugs, and…
– he thought of the tribe, whittled-away little-by-little…and other things.
But Collectors were just collectors. That was the point. As long as you had nothing they wanted, as long as they weren't on some big-assed spree, they'd ignore you.
As long as you were over 18.
As long as you weren't red-skinned.
Shit.
Back in Fort Wayne, and across all the lands of the Haudenosaunee, every day was a spree. But out here things were quieter. Right? Out here, surely, the Collectors wouldn't know about the Blood Anomaly…
On the other hand, if some psychotic biker got home to his secret stash of hardware to trip over a sleeping Injun, it'd be fair to expect he's gonna be pissed.
Rick had therefore placed himself in the upstairs room at the front of the General Store, exactly where he'd climbed in, stolen shotgun in hand. Just a short rest, he'd promised himself. There'd been no food or drink anywhere inside, and whilst an armoury groaning with enough hardware to take out a war party could only be considered an exciting find, it didn't go far to re-enlivening the flesh. He'd sagged like a nosebag to the floor beside the window, eyes already heavy.
He'd see anyone coming a mile off, he'd told himself. He had an easy exit if some asshole tried sneaking up, and he'd always been a light sleeper. If something woke him, he'd have plenty of time to react.
Yeah, right. And in the meantime some vicious sounding colossus had pulled up outside, come in through the front door (which meant he came here frequently, which meant he knew about the guns, which meant he almost certainly had one), and come stamp-stamp-stamping up the stairs to find Goldilocks eating his porridge.
Metaphorically speaking.
'Ram! Fucksakes, man! You bin shootin' my shit again I'll kick your a…'
The door burst open. Something vaguely bear-like – but somehow smart at the same time – reared in the entrance, a silvery covering shimmering. Rick barely had time to see it, let alone react intelligently, but somehow the shotgun was levelled and his finger was on the trigger while sleep was still fogging his thoughts.
In the spilt second or two before the muzzle roared, he realised the behemoth was human. Facial hair like a dead orang-utan pasted to his head, narcotically unfocused beetle-eyes peering out beneath red-weed eyebrows; a ridiculous bowler-hat perched jauntily atop the thatch. The creature's frame was encased inside an enormous silver puffer-jacket, covered in bright strips of cloth and fluttering pendants; pinstriped office-pants that looked utterly out of place but glaringly showcased tiger striped shin guards and gym socks; goth-spec boots like they'd been dragged off an astronaut in mourning, and – ironically the last thing his eyes fell upon – an outrageously fucking massive machete.
The man looked like a Vietnam vet who'd got a job as a taxman, then gone cuckoo one day in a camping gear shop. It was a lot to take in. Rick didn't even bother.
'Hey!' the man grunted, eyes briefly finding focus.
The shotgun took his right hand off.
Rick was no stranger to firearms but he yelped quietly at the shotgun's kick and staggered backwards, fighting to line-up the second barrel. The grizzled creature barely slowed: fist reduced to a frothing stub of congealing paste and dangling tendons, machete shattered and bent out of shape, hurled away in an expanding cloud of meaty lumps and bony shards. From somewhere inside the crippled mess an artery squirted feebly.
'You're not Raaaaam!' was the freak's only concession to shock or pain. Even with half his knuckles popping greasily beneath his booted feet, he kept coming.
Totally and completely, Rick decided, out of his skull.
A paw wrapped around the barrel of the gun and yanked it, hard. A wad of sparks and smoke roared somewhere underneath the giant's armpit, knocking a head-sized hole in the plaster behind him and sending Rick jerking backwards again. The gun was wrenched out of his hand, swivelled expertly in the man's remaining fist like a baseball bat, and swatted him across his cheek. Despite the flashes of light and building pain – getting sharp quickly, now – Rick felt that this was somehow unfair.
'I… I shot your fucking hand off…' he muttered, as if trying to remind the roaring monolith above him. Somehow, at some point, his face had got itself stuck to the floor.
Above his head the shadow of the shotgun moved backwards and up; wooden stock brandished like the head of some arcane mace, ready to pulverise his skull. It almost seemed like too much bother to try and roll aside, but with a sort of half-hearted fatigue he flopped onto his back, curled his head downwards, and held his breath.
The stock bounced off the floor, above his scalp, with a thud.
Rick stared groggily upwards, peering through the misty haze of arterial ejecta, and kicked the bear as hard as he could right between the legs. This was all happening to someone else, of course: as disassociated from reality as the dream with the tomahawks and crows. Rick fought the urge to laugh.
Real or not, sheer overwhelming damage seemed to be slowly catching up with the giant. The groin trauma had done what no amount of shock or blood loss had managed: making him stagger, wretch, then topple to his knees with a sharp crack. The shotgun – empty – skittered away into the corner, and Rick felt himself, as if from a whole world away, pick himself up and dust himself down.
'Raaaamm…?' the stranger warbled, flopping onto his side like a greasy mudslide, squeezing at the pulsing abortion that had once been his fist, trying to stop the bleeding. Rick stared down at him – at his froth-flecked lips and buzzing eyeballs – and decided that whatever the guy was on, he wanted some.
In fact, an unpleasantly guilty sensation was stealing over Rick like a fart in reverse: he'd broken into someone's home, wrecked their window, stolen their gun…
…and then shot them when they caught him red handed. Not exactly the type of criminal ignobility you'd expect from someone carrying the name of the Mighty Hiawatha.
'A-are… are you okay?' He mumbled, feeling ridiculous, to the sobbing colossus.
The creature focused on him on the third attempt – spasmodic eyeball rotations calming for an instant or two – and scowled, sweat and grease dappling his scarlet forehead.
'You're not Ram.' He said, surprisingly softly.
'Uh. No. No, I'm not. Look, I'm really s…'
'Where's Raaaam?'
'I don't know. Who's Ram?'
'Raaaaaymond.'
'Oh. I see. I…' A vision bobbed into Rick's mind: the glittering plastic sign dangling just outside the window. 'S-so, uh… So you'd be Jake?'
The fat man's eyes became suddenly still, brows bunching together. 'Jake?' He said.
'Yeah.'
'Jake's dead. I'm Slip.'
Rick coughed, wondering if he should perhaps offer some sort of medical care but wishing he could be a million miles away. Instead, scrabbling about for something to say – anything! – he blurted:
'What, um. What happened to him?'
'Dead.'
'Yeah, you sa…'
'Screwed-uppa mission. Let the kiddies getta wayaway. Bosses inna Ay-pos-tol-ic-Church got pissy. Blamed him, see? So I fucked him inna eyes.'
'Um.' Rick cleared his throat. 'What?'
