Anon-PAC

You know, they always used to think the apocalypse would be sudden. Nukes, maybe. Or some other doomsday weapon. They didn’t think it would be slow. They didn’t think everything would just… run out. Slowly, the areas around the equator got too hot to grow food anymore. When the seas dried up, so did the cheap goods that had once been carried across the world on ships. When the oil ran out, the transportation systems collapsed, and with them, supplies that could not be gotten locally. The population plummeted. Of all the things the world ran out of, nobody realized that the most devastating shortage would be of people. And without people to make the things and run the machines, large swathes of the world were left abandoned, fell dark, and descended into anarchy. There were a few holdouts of civilization. City-states built on the ruins of the old world metropolises. But they could only support limited populations, and guarded their borders jealously.

Mal had known a few old-timers who remembered the old world. They didn’t talk about it much. No need to distract people with fairytales of a paradise lost when there was work to be done. Mal’s tribe were mostly farmers. There was still some land that was suitable for farming, and with so few people left, it was enough to sustain them. Most of the other things they used, they got by scavenging, or trading with other tribes.

It was such an occasion today. They had made contact with a group of nomadic traders via the ham radio, who had offered to trade guns for food and water. A couple of scouts had rode out to meet them, and confirmed that it wasn’t a trap. Mal was now riding with the main party to help with the actual trade, brimming with anticipation. His father had promised him he could pick out a pistol of his own from their share of the proceeds.
He had had a shotgun since he was 12; an old doubled-barreled 20 gauge with a chipped stock and worn finish. His family had nicer guns, but they couldn’t fire the homemade black powder shells that were used for hunting and shooting for fun. Smokeless ammunition was extremely valuable, and was horded in case of attack by bandits, or raiders from one of the city states. It was resting in its scabbard as they rode, hanging off the right side of his saddle. He liked the shotgun, it had served him well over the years, but compared to what lay in store for him today it might as well have been a rotten stick.

Mal had good reason to be excited. Getting your first pistol, after getting your first horse, was one of the great rites of passage for young men living on the corpse of Old America. He had earned it, breaking his back for days on end in his father’s cornfields, and waking up at the crack of dawn to scour the wilderness for game. As the group crested a rise, Mal’s face broke into a grin at the sight of the caravan on the highway below.

Their vehicles were old pickup trucks, modified to be drawn by horses. They carried gasoline in case of an emergency, but the fuel was only getting rarer. Horses only required feed and water. The truckbeds were stacked with worn plastic crates and bins, filled with all manner of things. There were three trucks, with six men on horses with black rifles riding alongside to deter bandits. Mal’s father and two of their men had black rifles as well, just in case, their belts heavy with precious magazines full of 5.56mm cartridges from the old world.
By the time they arrived at the settlement the sun was mostly set and they were making their way by the light of his father’s ancient floodlight, one of the few electronic devices still in common use, its batteries charged with solar panels bolted to the top of the house.
Mal helped unload the rest of the guns, put the horses back in the barn, and retreated to his room to stare at the pistol by candlelight. He fell asleep with the old pistol sitting on the pillow next to him, still half dressed.

He rushed through his chores the next day, spurred on by the exciting weight of the pistol on his belt. As soon as the last stall was mucked out, Mal grabbed a bag of black powder .44s and a canteen and took off for the woods.

He found the clearing where he normally went to shoot at logs and draw songbirds, and laid his jacket and canteen on a large boulder. Finding some splintered hunks of wood, he set them up on a log and loaded the pistol.

Even shooting black powder, the recoil was more than he had anticipated. The first few rounds were frustrating misses. His father had known better than to offer to teach him, he expected Mal would either figure it out on his own or come ask for help himself. And slowly but surely, he began to fire it out. By the third reload, he was able to knock down all six chunks of wood.

Rubbing his smarting palm, Mal set the gun down ontop of his jacket, took a swig from his canteen, and then walked over to the treeline to take a piss. When he returned, he was flabbergasted by what he saw.

There was a girl sitting perched on his jacket, her legs crossed, looking at him intently. Mal cursed himself for not putting the gun in his holster. His hand found the hilt of his bowie, but didn’t draw it.

“Hey! Who are you?” He asked, nervously.
“Ruger Super Blackhawk, 3 ¾” Bisley. But you can call me Bisley, hun.” She grinned at the surprised look on his face.

“That’s a weird name for a girl. How did you get here? What tribe are you from?” Mal asked.

“You brought me here, silly.” She grinned wider.

“What?” Mal blinked, his brain short-circuiting.

“I’m your revolver. I was sleeping in that crate until the warmth of your hand woke me up. I didn’t want to show myself until you were away from your ranch, in case you yelled or something.”

“You’re my… what?” He was still laboring to grasp the meaning of her words.

“Your revolver. I’m a gun spirit. Have you ever heard of us?” She hopped off the boulder and walked over to him.

She was short, he noticed, now that she was standing upright. Short but thick, with broad hips and a full chest. Her hair was blackish-silver, like the grips of the pistol, and her eyes shone as grey as stainless steel. She had a soft, honest face; not stunningly beautiful, but very cute, especially with her bright smile. She wore a light grey shirt of plaid flannel, just slightly too big for her, with deeply faded jeans and dark brown leather cowboy boots. Real, good boots too, not the novelty trash you sometimes saw left behind in the ruins of old world shops.

“No, I… I can’t say I have.” Mal was still slightly dumbstruck.
“Every now and then, there’s a gun that’s made special, somehow. The worker who makes it happens to be in just the right mental state at the right time to give it a spark of life, or maybe it’s the first owner, or someone else down the line. Either way, we’re made conscious and can give ourselves human form. This is mine.” She gestured down at her body. “I’ve been asleep for a long, long time. You’re the first human to shoot me in many years. I’m surprised that you’re so young. Most boys your age like to shoot those newfangled plastic automatics everyone’s so obsessed with. I thought it was just old men who still cared about single actions like me.”

“Not anymore.” Mal found himself answering without hesitation. “There ain’t much ammo left for them, anymore. Can’t make smokeless ammo ourselves anymore. Not much point having a gun if you can’t shoot it, ya know?”

“I wondered why I tasted black powder.” She smacked her lips thoughtfully, then giggled. “So it finally happened, then?”

“What?” Mal asked.

“The apocalypse! My last real owner was all obsessed with it. Built a great big old bunker under his ranch and packed it full of supplies in case end times came. Kinda ironic that he died before it even happened, ain’t it? If he hadn’t had me in the house when he went, I’d probably still be down there. He never did tell anyone about it. As it was, his kids sold me to a pawn shop and I’ve been napping ever since. Anyway, I’m yours now. Wanna shoot some more?”