Bisley

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.

Once greetings had been exchanged, and they had begun unloading the sacks of grain and skins of water from their cart, Mal’s father led him over to one of the traders’ trucks. There was an open crate sitting on the tailgate, filled with handguns nestled in clean straw.

“Go ahead kid, this box is ours and the Weathers’s, so you can pick any of these. I’d give you advice, but I bet you already know what you want.” His father said, his stern face just barely breaking into a grin.

Mal didn’t, really.  He knew he wanted a revolver. Well, he needed a revolver if he wanted to shoot it much. Automatic pistols and black powder didn’t exactly agree. But he didn’t know what he wanted exactly. Silent and pensive, he poured over the array of handguns intently. One caught his eye, and he picked it up gingerly. It was a soft, matte stainless steel revolver, large and chunky with dark grey grips and a short barrel. It felt good in his hand. Like it was made for it. He frowned in disappointment as he turned it and saw the ejector rod. Oh, a single action. He put it down, and picked up another. Then another. But he kept looking back at the single action. None of the others felt quite as good in his hand.

“Hurry up, Malcolm. We don’t have all day.” His father interrupted his trance, his voice amicable but firm.

Without thinking, Mal found the single action in his hand again.

“That one? You sure?” The old man asked.

Mal nodded.

He stared at the revolver the whole ride home, letting it rest on his saddle between his legs and feeling the smooth grain of the stocks. His saddlebags had a new weight to them, several boxes of old-world .44 Magnum ammunition. They’d come with the gun, along with a brown leather holster. One of the other men in their group had given him a handful of their own homemade black powder .44 cartridges to stick in the pistol for the ride back, in case he saw a rabbit or something.

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 figure 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 tourist traps.

“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, these days. Can’t make smokeless ammo ourselves. 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?”

**

Crack.

“Damnit!” Mal swore, lowering the pistol and scowling at the still standing log.

“Try not using my sights” the revolver instructed “just focus on the target and shoot instinctively.”

When she was in gun form, he could hear her voice in his head so long as she was in his holster or in his hand. It was all so weird. Maybe he was just going crazy.

“What? How’s that supposed to make me better?” He asked, aloud. “I should at least learn to shoot properly before I try point-shooting. There’s like, very few people who can even do that at all, let alone well.”

“And you’re one of them.” She answered simply.

“How do you know?”

“Because you picked me without even knowing what I was.”

“A gun spirit?”

“No, a single-action Bisley. You wouldn’t be drawn to me if you didn’t have the innate talent to use me properly. Trust me, I’m a gun: I know a little bit about shooting.”

Mal licked his lips and straightened up, then raised the gun to chest level, cocking the hammer, and fired. The small log exploded into splinters. His face broke into a grin.

“See? What did I tell you? Try again!” Bisley ordered.

The next piece of firewood exploded too. And the next. And the one after that.

“And I’m empty.” She announced. “Good job! I’ll turn you into the best gunslinger in the wasteland in no time.”

“It’s not really a wasteland… More just wilderness.”

“Whatever. It just feels good to be useful for once.”

Mal opened her loading gate and began ejecting the spent casings, making sure they fell into the dump pouch at his waist. Brass was worth more than gold these days.

“How’s a gun ever not useful?” He asked.

“I was made in 2012. But I’m based on a design that hasn’t been relevant since the 1800s. I was basically a glorified toy. Obsolete the day I was born, is what all the Glock girls used to say.” She sounded sad. “But thanks to you, now I get the last laugh.”

The sun was beginning to set when Mal arrived back at his family's ranch, the revolver resting in his holster. He returned his horse to the stable, grabbed a bowl of cold stew from the pot hanging over the hearth, and retreated to his room. He set Bisley on his dresser, shed his jacket and toolbelt, and sat on the edge of his bed to eat the stew. Squirrel again. Maybe a hint of pigeon.

"That looks nasty."

Mal blinked and looked up to find Bisley's human form perched on the dresser where he had set her down.

"Eh. It's not that bad." He shrugged. "Do you need to eat?"

"Nope. I can if I want to, but it would be pretty much the same as throwing it away. But even I can tell that looks like shit. The MREs and other preserved shit my old owner used to stockpile probably tasted better."

"You mentioned that earlier. Is there any chance any of that shit is still there?" Mal asked absently, scraping the last remains of the stew from the bottom of his bowl.

"Probably. Like I said, he kicked the bucket before he ever needed any of it, and he didn't tell anyone. Didn't really associate with anyone, I got the feeling he liked guns more than people. Mostly just sat in front of his computer, he only really left the house to go shopping or take us shooting."

"Us?"

"He had a knack for spotting gun spirits. Had quite the collection of us by the end. Used to go stand outside buybacks back in the day and snatch us up before we could be sent to be melted down or cut up. I once saw him pay 10 times what a gun was worth just to save her from the furnace. He was a little weird, but he had a good heart. I miss him sometimes..."

"Who would melt down a perfectly good gun?" Mal was shocked, the very idea of destroying something so valuable was completely alien to him.

"This land used to be the most powerful nation on earth. Its people lived in total peace for more than a hundred years. Even the poorest had luxuries that would be unimaginable to you. They never needed to hunt, never needed to worry about wild animals or hostile tribes. All but a few lost touch with guns. Those who lived in the cities came to hate us, saw us not as protectors and loyal companions, but as instruments of murder. Untold thousands were destroyed, many of them gun spirits like me. Once-treasured heirlooms handed over by ungrateful children to be obliterated by the government in exchange for a piddly gift card or a cooked ham." Bisley frowned, looking down.

"That sounds horrible..."

"They didn't know any better. They were fools, intoxicated by peace and plenty. I used to hate them, but now I just pity them. Their own foolishness destroyed them in the end."

"Is there anything special I need to know about taking care of you? Like, maintenance and stuff?" Mal decided to change the subject.

"Physically? Not really. I don't need to eat or drink. Just the normal stuff you'd do for a gun. Cleaning, oiling, replacing broken parts, all that stuff. The only real difference is that we have feelings. We get bored if you don't shoot us. Lonely if you leave us in the safe and never touch us or talk to us. Over time we become attached to our masters, so we feel bad if you sell us or give us away. Unless it's to someone special, like your kids if they're into shooting. Ideally we'd all like to passed down through many generations."

Bisley blushed slightly, crossing one arm and hiding her mouth behind the loose fist of the other.

"But the worst thing you can do to a gun is use her to commit suicide. I don't know about rifles, but us handguns live to protect our masters. Not only that, but we grow attached to them. Being forced to betray that most basic desire, and to kill someone so special to us is life shattering. It kills us too. Most just retreat into their true form and never come out, their minds slowly fading until they're just an inert hunk of metal."

"Well I promise I'll never to that to you." Mal said as he rubbed one of his eyes, frowning sympathetically.

She smiled happily, her hand shifting to her cheek.

"But hang on, if you said your old master had a bunch of gun spirits and nobody knew where they were, they must all be very lonely after all this time." He observed.

"As a tool, I can't put ideas in your head or motivate you to do something. I can help you once you make a choice of your own, but I can't affect your decisions." Bisley said, visibly trying to sound as neutral as possible.

"You don't need to. I guess I have to believe you're real at this point, and not just me going nuts. And if you're real, then there are other real thinking, feeling beings trapped in an old bunker somewhere too. Can you tell me where your old master lived?"

"Yes!" She beamed. "I can show you if you have a map. I don't think I've been moved *that* far, but I'm not entirely sure where "here" is either."

"It'll have to wait until morning, all the maps are in my father's office. I'll need to get permission from him as well before I do any traveling at all, but it's close to the end of planting season so I shouldn't be needed much longer. Plus I'm sure there's a lot of very useful stuff down there too, although it's gonna be hard to explain how I know that..."

"Yeeaaahh, you probably shouldn't tell people about me. They'll think you're insane. I've heard horror stories, someone once told me about a soldier who had an M14 spirit he talked to out loud in front of the other recruits. Ended up shooting himself in the bathroom I think." Bisley mused. "Show me the map tomorrow morning, and if it's close enough maybe you can say you want to go on a solitary hunting trip or something."

"That's a good idea. Speaking of tomorrow morning, what should I do with you tonight? Do you like to sleep in a drawer? I'm afraid I don't have a safe..." Mal asked, trailing off awkwardly.

Bisley grinned, hopping off the dresser and climbing up onto the bed next to him.

"Could you keep me under your pillow? I'm supposed to be a carry gun, I like to be able to feel the warmth of my master's body. It's comfy." She rested her head on his shoulder, her eyelids drooping.

Mal swallowed, turning slightly red with embarressment.

"Please?" Bisley nuzzled closer and made puppy-dog eyes at him.

"I-I guess? I mean, yes, sure!" He gave an awkward grin.

She smiled back at him, and suddenly she vanished, leaving only the weight of her true form in his hand. Mal slid her under his pillow, making sure she was unloaded first, then snuffed out the oil lamp on his nightstand and kicked off his pants. Normally he would have stripped, but felt uncomfortable doing so around Bisley. Climbing into bed in his shirt and boxers, he found his hand inadvertently resting on her grip under the pillow. He was going to pull away, but as he shifted his hand, she only seemed to slide deeper into it.

Mal drifted to sleep with his hand still resting on the revolver, his mind busy with thoughts of their planned expedition and what he was going to say to his old man.

**

Gunfire split the quiet air of the ghost town like thunder.

"10 o'clock, behind the dumpster."

POP POP

"3 o'clock, on the roof of the Casey's."

POP POP POP

"5 rounds left. 11 o'clock, by the minivan."

POP POP

"Two at 4 o'clock, in the alley. Take cover."

The old man dropped behind the engine block of an abandoned sedan and ejected the magazine, returning it to his belt and slapping in a fresh one as rounds pinged and ricocheted off the vehicle. He raised the pistol over the hood, keeping his own head down.

"Left one is reloading. Go now."

He rose up, bracing his arms over the hood, found the target and fired.

POP POP POP POP

"He's down."

The other man, upon seeing his comrade fall, fired a few shots blindly in the direction of the sedan and bolted, disappearing down the alley.

"All clear."

The old man stood upright, and returned the pistol to his holster. As he did so, the air next to him seemed to shimmer, and a figure appeared. She was short and stocky, still obviously feminine but with a tough, no-nonsense frame and bearing about her. Her hair and the whites of her eyes were both jet black, with white irises and pupils that seemed to have a faint red glow to them. Even more than her eyes, her most striking feature was the prosthetic arm attached to her right shoulder. The hand was painted a dull powder coat red, with a single word, "Apex" printed in white letters along the plastic and titanium of the forearm.

"You're getting slow, "Gremuchaya"." She observed, crossing her arms and surveying the battlefield. "10 years ago you never would have needed four shots for the last one."

"I'm getting old, Roly." He grumbled, cracking his knuckles and walking over to a fallen thug to scavenge for ammunition.

"You shouldn't be out in the field anymore. You'll get yourself killed. You know if you ran for senate the people would elect you in an instant." There was concern in her voice.

"Bah. I'm a warrior, not a politician. I'd rather die under an open sky than sit in a room with those mental midgets all day. If they want my advice, they know how to ask for it." He snorted, stuffing a pair of scavenged Glock magazines into his jacket.

"Those are ProMags. You're not putting those things in me, no way." Roly scowled.

"Relax. I just want the rounds." He moved to another body and started searching.

"What are we even doing here?" The Glock asked, putting her hands on her hips.

"Something I've been meaning to do for a long time. You remember Dan?"

"Of course! He installed my trigger and did my texturing." She rubbed her prosthetic instinctively.

"He didn't trust his kids to take proper care of his guns and gear, so he made me promise I'd come and take them away when the time came. We were on the run when he died, back when there was still a Law to run from. Then the world ended and we got caught up in all this Midwest Federation business and I haven't had a chance to keep that promise until now. The politicians may be idiots, but with the Chicago Democratic Republic on the defensive, they can get by without me for a while. Long enough to go save my old friend's guns." His weathered fingers found a battered pack of cigarettes in the man's jacket, and his eyes lit up as he cracked it open to reveal several still remaining.

The final bodies scavenged, he tossed the last of their rifles into the back of his battered, dust-caked pickup and climbed in, Roly snuggling next to him in the passenger's seat as the diesel engine rumbled to life and they left the old ghost town far behind.

**

When Mal awoke, the first thing he noticed was that his face was freezing. The second thing he noticed was that the rest of his body wasn't. There was something soft and warm pressed tightly against him. Blinking owlishly in the early morning light, Mal realized that while his hand was still under the pillow, it was holding not the grip of a gun, but another hand.

It was Bisley, in her human form. His right arm was draped over her, holding her left hand under the pillow. She had nestled her head into his left arm, and yanked a sizeable percentage of the blanket over her with her right. She was snoring softly, her chest rising and falling against his arm.

Frozen, Mal tried desperately to figure out what to do. Before he had the chance, Bisley yawned, stretched and rolled over, wrapping her arms around his abdomen and pressing her body tightly against his. She licked her lips and nuzzled her face into his neck, producing a sound almost like the purr of a cat as she snuggled closer.

Mal swallowed, and tentatively shifted his weight in an attempt to escape her embrace, but she only hugged him tighter.

"Mmmmmm... Good morning master..." The revolver girl purred sleepily.

Once again, he tried to escape, but she wrapped her legs around his and held him firmly in place with her thick thighs.

"Uhm, Bisley? Can you let me go?" He asked with a nervous grin.

"Why?" She asked, still sounding half asleep. "You're so warm and cuddly..."

"Well, uhm... You're a girl and all..." He stumbled over his words.

"What's wrong?" She cooed. "Don't you like girls?"

She opened her eyes and beamed at him, lifting one hand to stroke his cheek.

"Oooh, your poor cheeks are so chilly!" She gasped. "Here, let me warm you up..."

She slid herself up his body, making sure to keep a tight grasp with her thighs so he couldn't get away, and cradled his head in her arms, pressing it gently into her chest and cooing softly. Mal's face was as red as a beet, his mouth and chin resting against her bare skin through the unbuttoned neck of her flannel. Her chest was sooo soft, with just the right amount of firmness. Where Mal's face had felt frostbitten before, it now felt hotter than a blast furnace. Partially from Bisley, but mostly from embarrassment.

Just as Mal was about to start struggling in earnest, there was a knock on the door and Bisley vanished, her revolver form landing on the bed with a muffled thud. He quickly swept her under the pillow and sat up just in time as his father cracked open the door.

"On your feet, son. We've got wild hogs in the southeast cornfield. Grab your shotgun and come help us, or the bastards'll ruin half the crop!"

Mal nodded profusely and slid out of bed, grabbing for his pants as his father disappeared, leaving the door ajar behind him. Before Bisley had a chance to return to her human form, he snatched her from under the pillow and stuffed her into her holster.

"Spoilsport." He could hear the pout in her voice through their telepathic link.

"Nevermind that now." Mal thought to her, grabbing his shotgun and a box of shells from the closet.

Emerging from the house, his eyes still adjusting to the light as he clumsily stuffed a pair of shells into the double barrel, Mal took stock of the situation. He could see a commotion to the southeast, with several farmhands and his two brothers running in that direction with shotguns and lever rifles. He joined them, pausing only to make sure the leather thong was secured over Bisley to stop her from bouncing out of his holster as he ran.

The southeast cornfield was, indeed, overrun with feral hogs. They bumbled through the rows, crushing plants and munching on the green ears of corn. While their ancestors might have been wary of humans, these overgrown pigs had been living in the wild for years, and didn't react until several shots had been fired. Startled by the loud noise, the pigs started squealing and bolting in all directions.

Within a matter of seconds Mal was half-deafened from the gunfire. He fired both barrels into one hog, sending it careening over into a fence, and was prying the spent shells out of the barrel when he heard a yell.

One of his brothers, Jim, was in the midst of reloading his Winchester when he had come face to face with the biggest, meanest-looking boar of the bunch. The enormous pig snorted and charged at Jim, causing him to toss away the rifle and run. Without thinking, Mal dropped the empty shotgun and drew Bisley, slipping off the thong and aiming, cocking and firing with one fluid motion, just as she had taught him. The hog grunted and veered off to the side, tumbling over and coming to a stop with Mal's bullet lodged squarely in its heart.

"Damnit Jimmy!" Mal's father yelled. "What did I tell you about not shooting it dry before you reload?"

Jim grimaced sheepishly, walking over to pick up his rifle and brush the mud and bits of cornstalk off the stock.

"Good shot, Mal." His old man observed as he sauntered over, shotgun hanging in the crook of his arm. "But try and hang onto your long gun with the other hand, eh? You can only drop it so many times before it breaks."

Mal nodded, bending down to retrieve his shotgun. The commotion had effectively died down, most of the hogs having been shot and the remainder disappearing into the woods from whence they came. The farmhands were busy dragging the bodies out of the cornfield and lashing them to poles to be carried over behind the barn where they would be skinned and butchered. They weren't going to be eating any more squirrel or pigeon for a while, that was certain.

"A third of a small cornfield, in exchange for 12 fat hogs. Seems a decent enough trade to me." Mal heard his old man chuckle, wiping his brow and surveying the destruction before him.

"Hey Pa, maybe this is a bad time, but I was wondering if..." Mal asked tentatively.

"Whatever it is, it's gonna have to wait. I've got something I need you to do." His father interjected, gesturing for Mal to follow him over to the barn. "The control boards on two of our solar panels shorted last night. Looks like the rubber seals cracked and some water got in. I need all hands on deck to get these pigs butchered and preserved before they start to rot, not to mention the damage to the fences and the cornfield, but I need those solar panels too. If I give you the fried boards, can you take the bike up to the old city to the North? There were a bunch of houses with old residential solar panels like ours last time I was there, you might be able find replacements for them?"

"You trust me with that?" Mal asked, blinking.

"Of course. You're a man now, kid. Gotta take responsibility like one." His father grinned warmly and patted him on the shoulder.

"OK, I can do that." Mal nodded.

"Good man. Grab one of the bikes from the vehicle shed and a couple jerry cans of biodiesel from the fuel dump. Should be enough to do the job as long as you don't linger too long." His father instructed.

"Should I take a rifle too?" Mal asked.

"No. If you get into trouble, I don't want you to fight, I want you to run. Solar panels are important, but they're not more important than your life."

"Okidoki." Mal nodded, and started jogging back to the house.

"Make sure you stop by the kitchen, I told your mother to leave out some pack food for you." His father called after him.

Arriving in the house, Mal grabbed his rucksack out of his closet and tossed a change of clothes into it, plus a couple bags of homemade .44s and shotshells, a box of proper smokeless .44 Magnums, various tools and a bedroll strapped to the bottom of the bag.

"Well it looks like we're going on an adventure one way or another." Bisley thought to Mal as he walked into his father's office and started going through the pile of map tubes.

"Here" he said, shutting the door firmly and popping open a tube "take a look at this map and tell me if your old master's home is on it somewhere. If it's close to the old city, we can kill two birds with one stone."

Bisley appeared in her human form, her shirt still mostly unbuttoned and her hair fluffy and disheveled, and leaned in to pour over the map while Mal stuffed a compass into his pocket and started going through the meager stack of survival guides on the bookshelf.

"Have a look!" She announced, straightening up and pointing to a spot on the map. "If this is what you call the old city, then my old master used to live right on the outskirts of it."

Mal finished shoving a pamphlet on identifying poisonous plants into his ruck and strode over.

"Yup, that's it." He nodded, glancing at the spot she was pointing to.

"Excellent!" Bisley grinned broadly. "Let's go!"

After grabbing the greasy paper parcels from the kitchen table and stuffing them in a saddlebag, Mal made for the vehicle barn. They mostly used horses for day to day travel, but if time or hauling capacity was of the essence, they had a couple of trucks and motorcycles which could run on biodiesel made from corn and waste fat. Among them were a pair of KLR650 dual purpose bikes, military surplus from the Old United States. He wheeled one out and strapped the saddlebag onto it, setting down his rucksack to go collect a pair of jerry cans from the makeshift fuel dump behind the barn. The bikes were kept fueled at all times in case of an emergency, so he just lashed both cans to the sides of the bike. Finally he pulled on his rucksack, slid his shotgun into a scabbard on the side of the fork, and mounted the machine, kicking it to life with a staccato rumble.

"This is going to be so much fun!" Bisley chirped in his ear as he guided the bike out of the settlement and towards the ruins of the old interstate to the north west.

You had to be careful on the interstates. It had been quieter the last couple years, but the road wars could flare up again any day now. Still, for someone with minimal navigation skills like Mal, it was better to keep to the highway and risk running into bandits or citystate militiamen than get lost in the wilderness. He just had to keep his head on a swivel.

Cruising along on the shoulder, Mal slowed at the sight of something blocking the road ahead. It was the bombed out husk of what had once been a bus. Shorter than most ruined buses he had seen, it had been yellow at some point but was now blackened with soot and showed signs of significant modification. A turret ring had been welded over the emergency exit on the roof, the windows blocked off or reinforced with sheet steel. On a section which had been left mostly untouched by the fire, Mal could make out part of a crudely painted scowling face, with a few letters still legible under it.

AD D DES

"Ooooh, cool!" He heard Bisley's voice in his head. "Just like Mad Max."

"What?" Mal asked, bringing the bike to a stop.

"Nothing. Just an old movie."

"Someone told me about movies once." Mal observed, stepping off the machine to take a closer look, maybe see if anything had been left untouched by looters. "They're like moving pictures that tell a story, right?"

"Pretty much." Bisley materialized next to him in human form, yawning and stretching. "It was about an apocalypse. The main character was an ex cop with a super cool jacket and a sawn-off shotgun."

"Sounds pretty neat." Mal said, setting his rucksack down and kneeling to peer in one of the blown out windows.

"He didn't have a cute revolver though." She purred wickedly, sneaking up and draping her arms around his neck from behind, resting her chin on the top of his head.

Mal gulped, his face flushing slightly at the sensation of her chest pressing against his back.

"Could you not do that right now?" He asked, shying away.

"Why not?" She cooed. "Don't you like me?"

"I..." Mal opened his mouth but found himself tongue-tied.

"Do you wanna be a legendary gunslinger or not?" She asked, reluctantly releasing him and stepping back.

"I dunno about legendary, but I wanna be a good shot, of course!"

"Well then how do you expect to do that if you're afraid of me?" Bisley chirped. "Together, a human and a gun spirit are unstoppable in battle, but if you won't bond with me, then I'm no better than a normal gun."

"I'm not afraid of you... I just... I'm not exactly good at this stuff."

"You know you don't have to be perfect, right? I'm not perfect either you know. I'm a new production of an old model. I'm weird and pointless and functionally obsolete. I'm not a $5,000 racegun, or a beautifully engraved safe queen, or high speed military pistol. I'm a novelty that most shooters would ignore or laugh at. The fact that you choose me out of all the pistols in that crate, that you've been kind to me... That's more than enough." She said, looking at him with concern. "I don't care if you're a little awkward, because so am I."

Mal smiled a little, straightening up.

"We should probably get going. It's dangerous to stay in once place on the interstate for too long." He pronounced, heaving his rucksack over his shoulders.

"Alright..." Bisley said, sounding a little dejected.

They rode on for several more hours without event, until the sky began to turn orange and the wind grew colder with the approach of evening. Mal pulled the bike off the shoulder of the highway and followed what remained of a dirt road deeper into the woods, away from view. Stepping off and walking it through a dense patch of trees, he found a small clearing with relatively level and dry ground.

He set the bike upright on its kickstand and leaned his rucksack against it, digging around inside to extract the pup tent. Once that was set up and his bedroll laid out inside, he set to work clearing a fire pit and gathering some wood and kindling. Bisley had been silent the whole time, and was stubbornly staying in her revolver form.

It was not until he had gotten a fire going and was softening some chunks of dried meat from his food pack in the lid of his mess kit over it that he caught sight of her again. Sitting sullenly across the fire from him with her legs pulled up to her chest and her arms around them, she peered at him over the tops of her knees with bright silvery eyes.

Mal wanted to break the silence, but didn't know what to say. Turns out he hadn't needed to, as Bisley spoke up first.

"What happened to the world?"

"What do you mean?" He replied, looking up from his cooking.

"What caused the apocalypse?"

"I dunno really... It was a whole bunch of stuff. My old man said we just ran out of everything. There wasn't enough to go around, and there were so many people back then. Most people didn't know how to fend for themselves, and they just kinda died out. A few people survived, by being resourceful and living off the land, like us, or by banding together under warlords to raid and pillage for survival."

"That's a little disappointing." Bisley said, loosening her grip on her knees and relaxing a bit. "We always used to think it would be a lot more dramatic. Nuclear war, or some giant natural disaster. Or zombies."

"What the fuck is a zombie?"

"They're living corpses that get brought back by a virus, or dark magic or something. They rise from the grave to feast on the flesh of the living and anyone they bite turns into one." Bisley bared her teeth and made a hissing sound, raising her hands with fingers bent into the shape of claws.

Mal's eyes widened.

"They're not real silly! Just another thing from movies." Bisley smiled at him.

"Sounds like you liked movies a lot." Mal observed, prodding the fire with a stick.

"My old master used to watch them with me. He'd sit on the couch and clean me while he watched, or dry fire me at bad guys to practice, or maybe hold my grip during the scary parts. Or sometimes I'd take this form and we'd just cuddle and watch together. That might be what I miss the most... That and having the other gun girls for company when master wasn't around." Bisley explained, blushing a little with a whimsical gleam in her eyes.

"That sounds nice..." Mal said, setting his mess tin down on a rock and stabbing at a hunk of squirrel with his bowie knife.

"When we find his old house, maybe the TV in the bunker will still work." Bisley leaned forward, her eyes lighting up. "I can show you all my favorite movies and shows!"

"What kind do you like?" He asked, grinning at her enthusiasm.

"I like all kinds! But especially horror movies and Westerns, like the Magnificent Seven, or Red Sun. Charles Bronson uses a Bisley in Red Sun, but it's a real Colt one, not a Ruger like me."

They talked until the sun had gone down and the fire was beginning to die. Mal told Bisley about his childhood, and how the world worked nowadays. She told him about the old world, and movies, and about the other gun spirits in her old master's collection. They talked until Mal was hoarse in the throat, then they sat quietly for a while, prodding the fire and staring up at the stars.

"The sky is a lot clearer than I remember... You can see all of the stars..." Bisley murmured. "The pollution must have cleared up since the world ended."

"It's beautiful..." Mal replied quietly, rubbing his neck pensively as the final embers faded and they were left with only the light of the moon and stars above them.

He leaned back forward and was about to start collecting his mess kit when suddenly he felt something cold and steel pressing against the back of his neck.

"Don't move a muscle, boy." A deep voice rumbled behind him. "You've got something that doesn't belong to you."

Bisley started to stand up.

"Not you either, revolver." The voice growled, its owner extending a single weathered hand past Mal's head and pointing directly at Bisley.

"Y-you can see her?" It was the only thing Mal could think to say.

"Of course I can see her. Once you bond with one gun spirit you can see them all."

"Who are you?"

"I'm asking the questions here, boy. Where did you get her?"

"From a trader! I bought her fair and square, I'm serious!"

"You're a liar." The rough voice rumbled with scorn, the muzzle pressing harder against the back of Mal's head. "That's my old friend Dan's Super Blackhawk. I'd know one of his gun spirits anywhere. What else did you take?"

"Nothing! I got her from a trader two days ago, a good distance south of here, no bullshit, I swear!"

"He's not lying!" Bisley insisted. "It's just like he said, he got me from a trader to the south. He was taking me to go get the rest of Master Dan's guns!"

"Well, we can't be having that." The mysterious assailant growled. "Hand her over, and go back where you came from in the morning. I'll be watching you, so don't get any funny ideas."

"What?" Mal gasped.

"You heard me. Hand over the revolver."

"Why? She's mine! I didn't steal her!"

"It doesn't matter if you stole her. You don't deserve her. That girl isn't just some imaginary friend to keep you company. She's a powerful spirit that can turn an ordinary man into a legend, not a plaything for a mere child too scared to even bond with her."

"How do you know that?!" Mal's surprise and fear were quickly turning to indignance and anger.

"Because if you had bonded with her, I never would have been able to sneak up on you. She would have seen me coming and warned you."

Bisley hung her head.

"He's right..." She said quietly.

"You're out of your league, boy. I won't say it again. Give me the gun."

The barrel left the back of Mal's skull, but before he could react the back of a large, calloused hand slammed into the side of his head, bowling him over. A boot landed on his chest, pinning him to the ground as the man reached down and yanked Bisley out of Mal's holster, causing her human form to vanish in the middle of crying out.

He was a massive figure, his face old and grizzled, framed by a grey beard and long silver hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore an enormous dull green duster draped over his hardened frame, as rough and weather-beaten as his skin. Sticking Bisley into his pocket, he turned and started to walk away silently.

Crawling to his feet and wiping a dribble of blood from his mouth, Mal was fumbling for his shotgun when suddenly the old man stopped dead in his tracks. Squinting, Mal could just barely make out a ghostly figure standing in front of the man, blocking his path with arms crossed. He couldn't see the details of the figure, but he heard the voice loud and clear.

"Stop."

"Roly?" The old man rumbled, cocking his head to the side.

"Don't do this. It's not right."

"You must have a pretty good reason to go against me like this." His tone softened slightly.

"You're not being fair. You knew all about gun spirits when you built me. You knew how to act, what you had to do. You think this random kid does? They only met a couple days ago. You can't expect them to be joined at the hip overnight. And I heard them talking! They *were* bonding. They just needed time."

With the old man distracted, Mal was able to grab the shotgun and level it at his back.

"Give her back." Mal said, his voice trembling.

The old man's head turned and he snorted.

"You don't know what you're dealing with, child. I'll put a bullet between your eyes before your finger even touches that trigger."

"Then DO IT, YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Mal yelled, baring his teeth and raising the shotgun more authoritatively. "SHOOT ME! You're going to have to, because Bisley is MINE. I'LL NEVER LET ANYONE TAKE HER AWAY, NOT EVER!"

The old man opened his mouth, then stopped. His face softened, and broke into a smile. Then a chuckle. Then a full, hearty laugh. He stepped closer, reaching out and gently pushing the barrels of the 20ga to the side.

"Heh heh heh, now that's the spirit! Looks like you do have balls after all." He withdrew Bisley from his pocket. "One condition though. You're going to let me teach you how to use her. Something so rare and precious as a gun spirit should not be wasted."

Mal narrowed his eyes suspiciously and considered for a second, then dropped the shotgun to the side.

"Fine. Just give her back to me."

The old man stepped back and gently tossed Bisley to him. She shifted to her human form midair and landed in his arms. For the first time, there was no hesitation. He caught her and pulled her close, holding her tight against his chest and letting her nuzzle her face into his neck. Her eyes were wet as she shuddered and clung tightly to him.

The old man's were too, causing him to blink as he rested his hands on his belt.

"What's your name?" He asked, once Mal and Bisley had finished hugging.

"Malcolm. Malcolm Durren. Most people call me Mal though." He said, rubbing his own eyes and squeezing Bisley against his side.

"My name is Alexander Orensen. Dan Ashby, the man who owned your girl there, was my oldest friend and mentor. He taught me everything I know about gun spirits when we were in SAD before the world ended. My apologies, but you'll understand that I'm a bit protective of his guns. Tracking down these girls and giving them a safe, loving home was his life's work."

"I suppose I understand." Mal said, nodding slowly.

Bisley still had her hackles up, narrowing her eyes and glaring at Orensen.

"Oh come now, Bisley, don't glower at me like that. The decades certainly haven't been kind, but surely you recognize me a little? It's not like Dan had many friends he spoke to in the flesh." He smiled at the scowling revolver, reaching out to pat her head and tousle her hair.

She seemed to soften as he petted her, and stopped glaring.

"You look very different... But... You were the one who gave Master Dan my old holster, weren't you?" Bisley said, tentatively.

Orensen grinned.

"Yes, yes indeed I was. Bought it from an old Indian leatherworker Nevada when I was stationed at Edwards. Beautiful piece of hide. Not like that ratty thing your new master's got you in. What happened to it?"

"It's probably still underneath his place with the other girls and all his gear." Bisley shifted her feet absently. "Master Dan left me in his house when he passed on, which is how I ended up here. But the bunker was untouched, everything in it should still be safe."

"Then we'll get it when we liberate them. Now, I need to get my truck hidden before it attracts undue attention. You should get some sleep, Mal. No need to worry about any ne'er-do-wells in these woods, I'll keep watch."

Mal nodded in assent, and Orensen disappeared into the woods as silently as he had arrived.

Tossing some dirt on the fire and stuffing his mess kit in one of his saddlebags, Mal crawled into his pup tent, shedding his jacket and belt. He set Bisley’s true form down on the bedroll next to him, and pulled the blanket over them. The covers shifted, and she poked her head out from under them, grinning. He smiled back, and pulled her close, letting her nestle her head into his shoulder and hug him back. It felt good. She was warm, despite the chilly night air, and she felt as natural in his arms as her grip did in his hand.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered.

“For what?” Bisley asked, tilting her head up to look at him.

“For being standoffish with you before. There was no reason for it, I was just… adjusting to the whole thing. I’m probably not explaining it very well…” He grimaced.

“Awwww…” Bisley smiled at him. “You don’t need to apologize, some of that was on me. I shouldn’t have expected you to get over an inanimate object coming to life and talking to you so quickly. I was just excited, since I’d been all alone for so long and because of how you picked me and all…”

“It was kinda love at first sight, in a way.” Mal chuckled.

Bisley giggled and hugged him tighter.

“Also carry guns are clingy, we can’t help it, it’s what we’re designed for.” She explained. “You’re lucky I’m not a deep concealment gun like a Seacamp or something. They’ll never let go of you.”

“I wish I knew more about gun spirits.” Mal said, stroking Bisley’s hair. “I still feel like I know almost nothing about you.”

“You should probably ask Orensen. It was a long, long time ago, but now that I think about it, I do remember him. He was one of the few people my old master would have visit. They were both in some government outfit before Master Dan retired. I don’t know much about what they did, since it was before he bought me, but I know it involved researching gun spirits in some way. It’s part of why I’m not really used to dealing with someone who’s never seen a gun spirit before. I’ve always been surrounded by people who knew more about me than I did.”

“Are you sure we can trust him?” Mal asked.

“Dan trusted him enough to be his mentor. I’m not sure if that’s enough for you, but it’s enough for me. And besides, especially after the end of the world, I would rather have him on our side than against us.  Those guys were serious business back in the day. The kind of people who had a license to kill and didn’t officially exist.”

“Operators…”

“You know that word?”

“My grandfather used to tell us stories about the warriors of this nation from before the world ended. Navy Seals, Marsock, Delta, FOXHOUND…”

“CIA SAD.”

“I don’t know that one.” Mal admitted.

They snuggled and whispered together for a while longer, before falling asleep in eachothers’ arms.

**

They emerged from the tent to the smell of coffee, instant and frying meat. Orensen was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the clearing, eschewing the long-cold fire for some sort of portable stove made of dull grey metal. He was smoking a crumpled, forlorn-looking cigarette and chewing on a drumstick of some sort, with an open bottle of vodka sitting on the ground next to him. Most striking, however, were the two figures seated next to him.

One was obviously the shimmering figure from the previous night, although he could see her much more clearly now. She was short, like Bisley, with short matte black hair, strange eyes and what looked like a metal arm with a red hand. She wore a grey baseball cap, and an outfit that looked like outdoor gear desperately trying to pass for street clothes.

The other was taller, but equally strange. She also had a mechanical arm, but with grey and gold accents instead of red, and reading “KE Arms” instead of “Apex”. She wore glasses over shimmery grey eyes the color of carbon fiber, with a similarly colored t-shirt reading “Faxon” and olive drab combat pants tucked into tall military boots. Her hair was long, dull blonde in color and held up in a no-nonsense bun. There was a small rubber bracelet on her right wrist inscribed with four letters: WWSD.

They had to be gun spirits. The short one was most likely the pistol Orensen had threatened him with the night before. Which meant the one with the glasses was probably a rifle of some kind. As Mal was staring, Orensen looked up and nodded at him.

“Rabbit?” He asked, gesturing towards the pan with his head. “There’s coffee too, I took the liberty of pouring some into the mess tin from your bike.”

Sure enough, Mal’s mess tin was sitting on the rock he had sat next to the night before, steaming in the cool morning air. Orensen noticed him glancing at the vodka bottle as he and Bisley sat down next to eachother.

“It’s for the stove. It’s an alcohol burner. I don’t drink that commie swill anyway, especially this early in the morning.” He chuckled, using some sort of tool to latch onto the side of the pan like a handle, and pass it over to Mal.

Mal had only rarely had coffee before, on special occasions. His father would buy some from migratory traders who scavenged it from abandoned cities and towns, but there was never enough for it to be a daily commodity. He eagerly dug in, the warmth of the mess tin a blessing in his cold hands.

“Can you see them?” Orensen asked, tossing a rabbit bone into the fire pit.

“Your gun spirits?” Mal returned. “Yes. There’s two of them sitting next to you. I have to concentrate to see them clearly, but I can.”

“Good. You’re becoming more attuned with your own spirit. Eventually you won’t need to concentrate at all, you’ll see them as clearly as you see Bisley.”

“Why is bonding so important?” Mal asked, taking another sip of his coffee.

“A gun spirit has immense power, but ultimately they are still tools. Thinking, feeling, self-aware tools, but tools nonetheless. They cannot manifest that power on their own, they require a human will to do so. The stronger your bond, the better your will can manifest her power. Doesn’t matter what kind of bond you form, only that it’s a strong one. Some people see their gun spirts as close friends. Some see them as romantic partners. But it’s not limited to that. Take Roly here, for example;” Orensen gestured at the short-haired girl to his right. “I didn’t just find her in a shop, I made her. She’s not a real Glock, she’s built on an 80% frame that I finished and assembled. Our bond is more like that of a parent and child.”

“What… are they exactly?” Mal asked, setting the mess tin down.

“Gun spirits? That’s a question that men have spent entire lifetimes trying to answer. As far as we can tell, they’ve existed as long as guns have. There may even have been sword spirits before that, which would explain all the legends of magic swords.” Orensen explained. “Ultimately, we don’t know for sure where they came from. They don’t function within the laws of physics as we currently understand them. I can’t tell you the how or the why of gun spirits, only the what. I dedicated a large portion of my adult life to studying and observing them, and I still feel as though I’m only scratching the surface.”

“Why don’t we know more?”

“For a long time anyone who talked about gun spirits was just dismissed as crazy. But the old world agency I worked for, the CIA, was notorious for dabbling in the crazy. They had known about gun spirits since before the agency existed under that name, back when they were part of another group called OSS.  Initially they merely saw them as a means to the end of creating superior field operators, but over time the higher-ups became more interested in understanding them on a deeper level.”

Orensen took a swig of his coffee and continued.

"We learned that they are created by human emotion and will. If you're in the right mental state, you can manifest a gun spirit from almost any firearm. The mental state of the creator influences their personality, in addition to the quirks inherent in their make and model. We tried many different ways of manifesting them deliberately. Meditation, electric stimulation of the brain, various drugs. The most effective was LSD, which was good because we had a lot of it on hand. Unfortunately the only way we were able to produce a spirit with any degree of reliability was to dose a guy up on acid without his knowledge, give him the gun we wanted a spirit out of, and put him through severe mental and physical stress. Use your imagination as to how."

The old man frowned.

"This produced a gun spirit all right, but they were twisted and fucked up. Some were barely functional. Some just screamed non-stop until they were destroyed. Some were downright psychotic and would try to hurt their masters. Ultimately we had to destroy them all and abandon the idea entirely."

"Jesus..." Mal whispered, instinctively putting a protective arm around Bisley's shoulders.

"There's a lot of shit we did that I'm not proud of. And it only got worse after Dan retired and there was nobody left to speak up for the gun spirits. I've seen things that would drive most men insane, both in the lab and in the field. Not just with gun spirits either, the CIA always had its fingers in many pies. We didn't think too hard about the morality of what we did back then. We just followed orders, trusting that it was all in the name of protecting the American people. Of course it was all lies. In the end I was glad to see the government collapse, though by that time I had already betrayed them."

"Both you and Bisley have mentioned some kind of power you can get from having a gun spirit. What do you mean by that?" Mal decided to change the subject.

"Depends. Every person and every spirit is a little different. But most people report gaining a number of common abilities after being exposed to and bonded with a gun spirit. The main thing is superhuman awareness; it's a bit hard to explain if you haven't experienced it, but you'll be able to see faster, keep track of dozens of objects or enemies at a time, and know if someone's watching you or trying to sneak up on you. Otherwise, vastly increased speed, hand-eye coordination and reaction time are the most common. You will probably be particularly strong in those areas, given Bisley's nature as a single-action gunfighter's pistol. I imagine you already have an innate knack for point-shooting and quick drawing as is, or you wouldn't have been drawn to her."

"She mentioned that..."

"There are other abilities too. Men who bond with machineguns become incredibly strong. Men who bond with precision rifles gain excellent long-distance eyesight and ability to rapidly calculate ranges and trajectories with remarkable precision. Weapons with a reputation for durability will make you tougher and those with a reputation for reliability will keep you going even with serious injuries. The stronger your bond and the better you work with your spirit, the more effective these abilities will be. She also serves as a copilot of sorts, feeding you information from your shared senses while you focus on other things."

Orensen set his mug down and leaned forward, drawing a small dagger from a sheath across the small of his back. It was double-edged and wickedly sharp, with dark grey grip that looked like it was made from coiled steel wire and a similarly colored, sharply tapered blade.

“I know you might find all of this hard to believe. It would be entirely reasonable. So, I’ll show you a little bit of what Bisley can help you do. Watch.”

He tossed the dagger lightly into the air and began to juggle it with a single hand, twirling it in an elaborate pattern faster than Mal’s eyes could follow. Faster than anyone could possibly move their fingers with such accuracy. Roly’s eyes were darting about in her sockets, constantly fixated on the knife.  Orensen’s hand eventually came to a stop, holding the tip of the blade between thumb and index finger with not a scratch on him.

“This is a stupid parlor trick.” Orensen pronounced, returning the dagger to its sheath. “But it’s not an illusion. This is the gift they give us in return for giving them life. Speed and precision significantly beyond that of a baseline human, at the very least. I used to tell people that a gun spirit was essentially a magic weapon that turned you into an action hero, but I don’t suppose you know what that is.”

Mal shook his head.

“You’ll learn.” Orensen snubbed out the cigarette and tossed the butt into the dead ashes of the fire. “We should break camp and get moving. I can tell you more once we’re on the move.”

They lashed Mal’s bike into the back of Orensen’s truck. It was an old vehicle, faded black and rusty with the word “TOYOTA” written across the tailgate in worn white block letters. It had been fitted with enlarged fuel tanks, heavy duty suspension, offroad tires, and large bullbars complete with winch and floodlights. The roof of the cab and the original windshield had been removed entirely, leaving just the doors, the rear wall of the cab and a jerry-rigged replacement windshield which could be folded forward to allow weapons to be braced and fired over the dashboard without destroying the glass. The engine was fitted with a turbocharger and a snorkel to allow the vehicle to ford rivers. Saddlebags were hung off the sides of the truck bed, and a pick and shovel were attached to the hood using makeshift hooks and straps. The bed itself played host to a large tank which could contain either water or fuel, a pile of guns tied together with paracord, three or four jerry cans and several duffel bags.

“Get in the back.” Orensen gestured at the rear of the crew cab, stuffing the camp stove in a saddlebag with the other hand. “There’s someone back there you should meet.”

Mal climbed into the rear seat of the truck, but there didn’t seem to be anyone there. His feet brushed against something covered in a burlap sack, and he heard something metal shifting. Reaching down, he pulled the sack aside, revealing a large machinegun.

“Orensen? Is this a…” Mal called out.

“Gun spirit? Yes. That’s Sixty. SIXTY! Say hello to the man!” Orensen interjected.

Turning back to the gun, he found himself face to face with another girl. She was strong and fit looking, wearing tiger-stripe shorts, partially unlaced jungle boots (one of which played host to a large K-Bar) and a tan-colored tank top with two ammo belts crisscrossed over it. Her eyes were hidden behind aviator-style sunglasses, and her scruffy brown hair poked out from under a floppy old boonie hat. She had a big grin on her face, a little dirty and smeared with oil, but clearly pretty underneath.

“Hi! I’m M60!” She piped. “Nice to meet you!”

She was loud and brazen, as though nobody had ever taught her what an indoor voice was, but sounded earnest nonetheless, holding out a hand for him to shake.

“I’m Mal. Nice to meet you too!” He grinned back, shaking her hand.

Her grip was strong as hell. While he was trying not to grimace, Bisley appeared in-between them, not looking entirely pleased with this turn of events.

“Who are you?” The machinegun asked cheerfully.

“I’m Bisley. I’m a Super Blackhawk.” Bisley replied, scooting closer to Mal.

“Sixty is our main line of defense. There’s a pintle for her on the top of the back wall, so you can fire her to the rear from where you are, and to the front if you climb over into the bed and spin her around.” Orensen explained, climbing into the driver’s seat and propping up a rifle on the passenger seat next to him.

It was a black rifle of some sort, but different from any black rifle Mal had ever seen. For one thing, it was dull green in color, with a long carbon-fiber handguard and a polymer lower receiver with integrated pistol grip and fixed stock. There was a large optic mounted on top of the upper and a flashlight bolted to the front end of her handguard. This must be the true form of the girl with the glasses he’d seen earlier.

This suspicion was confirmed when the air shimmered and her human form appeared in the seat. Roly popped into existence as well, sitting curled up between Orensen and the rifle girl as the former put the truck in gear and stepped on the gas.

“I’m Jenny.” The rifle said, leaning back to look at Mal.

“She’s an AR-15. I built her based on a pair of rifles I saw in Arizona once, back before the world ended.” Orensen explained, guiding the truck out of the woods and back onto the old interstate.

“Pleased to meet you.” Mal said, nodding his head towards Jenny.

“Now that we’re all introduced, might as well get comfortable. We’re gonna be driving for a while. We get less and less daylight by the day this time of year, and I don’t intend to waste it.”

Orensen revved the accelerator, and the old Frankenstein of a truck took off down the ancient highway in a cloud of dust.

**

The sun was high in the sky, blazing down upon the shimmering tarmac of the crumbling superhighway. Orsensen's Toyota soared across the dull grey expanse, the mirrored lenses of his aviators gleaming over an expressionless face. One hand rested lazily atop the steering wheel, the other perched on the stickshift as the last remains of a cigarette smouldered between his teeth. His guns were asleep, cuddled up in the passenger seat beside him. In the rear of the cab, Mal was leaned back with his dusty cowboy hat slumped down to shade his eyes, taking a pull from a water bag. The M60 was leaning out the side like a dog, letting the rushing air blast her hair back, the boonie hat fastened tightly by its chin strap. Bisley was propped up against Mal's side, staring at the horizon with a bored expression on her face. The radio was on, crackling softly without any signal to pick up.

So far, the highway had been deserted. Not a soul in sight for miles, just drifting garbage and the occasional abandoned vehicle, rusty and long ago picked clean by scavengers.

"Are we there yet?" Sixty piped, rapping on the side of the truck door with her knuckles.

"No." Orensen growled. "And you know that perfectl... Hang on..."

He tilted his head towards the rear view mirror, and his brow furrowed slightly. Reaching into a bag strapped to the inside of his door, he fished out a pair of binoculars and tossed them into Mal's lap.

"Have a look behind us, will you?"

Scrambling into an upright position to the surprise of the zoned-out Bisley, Mal pivoted at the waist and peered out through the rear window, raising the binoculars to his eyes. He scanned the horizon intently, and caught sight of a heat shimmer that looked out of place. As he watched, the shimmer became a speck, and then a cluster of specks.

"I think there's someone behind us." Mal said, lowering the binoculars and blinking.

"How many?"

"I can't tell. Four or five, maybe?" He looked through them again, trying to discern the number of distinct specks. "Should I get Sixty set up?"

The machinegun looked at them with a maniacal grin, which quickly turned into a sullen scowl as Orensen replied.

"Not yet. Let 'em get closer. Could just be a caravan."

"I don't see any horses, and they're moving way to fast anyway. Caravans usually don't run on gas."

"It's different on the interstates. Speed is the best defense against street pirates, citystate commerce raiders and Communists. Besides, the Midwest Federation has been going to some lengths to clear out the rabble along these routes. Are they flying any flag?"

"Hang on, they're still too far away to tell..."

"If they're friendlies, it should be yellow."

"They're getting closer... Looks like there's five of them. No flag and they don't look like they're hauling cargo."

Orensen held his hand back and snapped his fingers, beckoning for the binoculars. Mal handed them over, and the old man leaned out his window, gazing backwards at the approaching vehicles. Tossing them back to Mal, he shifted gears and stepped on the gas, steadily increasing their speed.

"Let's see if they try to match us."

"They're still gaining."

The other guns were awake, watching Orensen intently.

"Hrmmmm..." The old man growled, reaching over to flip a series of toggle switches on the dashboard. "Time to increase the stakes. Hold onto something."

Orensen grasped the shifter again, letting the ball settle into the palm of his hand, and flipped a large switch hose-clamped to the side of the stick with his index finger. The engine blower roared like an angry bear, and the truck rocketed forward. The other vehicles were close enough to see with the naked eye now, and as Orensen accelerated, so did they. It was a motley collection of vehicles, three pickup trucks of various makes, a van and a sports car. Looking through the binoculars, Mal saw poles shoot up in the beds of the pickups, bearing black flags.

"Pirates!" Mal yelled, lowering the binoculars. "Definitely pirates!"

"No way we're out-running them." Orensen growled, easing back on the accelerator. "They'll be running light, while we're loaded down. Can you drive a truck?"

Mal nodded.

Standing up on his seat, Orensen stuck something through the steering wheel to hold it in place and swung himself out the driver's side window, climbing into the bed of the truck. Scrambling over the seats, Mal got himself into the driver's position and steadied the vehicle.

Behind them, the sports car drew level with the van, the van's door sliding open and disgorging a pair of men in motocross suits who climbed onto the hood of the sports car. Its engine screaming, the sports car took off ahead of the pack. Crouched in the truck bed, Orensen unzipped a duffle bag and pulled out a single-shot shotgun. Cracking it open, he pulled a shell from one of the loops on its stock and slipped it into the chamber. Snapping the shotgun closed, he reached back into the duffle and withdrew something else. It had once been a tiki torch, but the shaft had been cut down and the container of lamp oil had been replaced with a molotov cocktail.

As the sports car drew ever closer, Orensen slid the shaft of the torch down the muzzle of the shotgun, and lit the rag on the cocktail. He braced the butt of the shotgun against the back of the truck's cab and fired.

THUMP

The flaming projectile was launched violently from the shotgun, catching one of the men on the hood directly in the chest. He erupted into a ball of flames and toppled off the side of his vehicle, eliciting cries of rage from the other men in the sports car who revved the engine and closed in further. The remaining rider launched himself from the hood, latching onto the back of the pickup before Orensen had the chance to reload the molotov launcher.

"YOU'RE GONNA PAY FOR THAT YOU SONNUVABITCH!" The pirate bellowed, drawing a machete.

Orensen's face curled with scorn, as he dropped the shotgun and strode towards the boarder.

"Why don't you make like a Canadian, and leaf me the fuck alone!"

Orensen reached forward, looped his finger through one of the pins of the grenades tied to the pirate's gear and kicked the man in the chest, yanking the pin free and sending the would-be hijacker tumbling under the wheels of the sports car. The grenade exploded, sending the car tumbling off the road and into a ditch. Tossing the pin aside, Orensen picked up the shotgun and reloaded it as the other vehicles began to close in. Shouldering the weapon, he lit the rag and fired, sending the cocktail arching directly through the still-open door of the van.

Billowing with flames, the van swerved and slammed into one of the pickups, taking them both off the road. Seeing three of their vehicles destroyed, the remaining pirates slowed down and began to fall behind.

Sliding the shotgun back into its dufflebag, Orensen sat down and leaned back against the cab, chuckling quietly as he withdrew a cigarette pack from his breast pocket and tucked a half-smoked butt between his teeth.

"Keep moving. They probably won't keep following us, but there's no need to take chances." The old man lit his cigarette and rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly. "I forgot how much that thing kicks."

**

The Toyota slowed as they entered the outskirts of a suburb.

"What's going on? You see something?" Orensen's voice came from the back.

"Something I've gotta do. Hope you don't mind." Mal answered, leaning out the window to scan the roofs of nearby houses with the binoculars.

"What are you looking for?"

"Solar panels. Gotta find new control boards or my dad's gonna kill me."

"Make it quick, I don't like hanging around suburbs for too long. They tend to be crawling with bandits, too easy to get ambushed."

"Sure thing. Think I see some over there." Mal pointed to a low ranch house set partway into a hill a few blocks to the west.

"Let's switch places then. I'll keep the truck running while you take a look."

They pulled up to the house, Mal climbing out of driver's seat and reloading Bisley with .44 Magnums while Orensen took his place, holding Jenny at the ready and scanning the area. Stuffing the revolver back into his holster, Mal approached the house, picking his way through the overgrown lawn. He almost tripped over a battered steel stake, the remains of a long dog chain dangling forlornly from it.

There were indeed a set of solar panels on the roof, he just needed to find a way to get up there. Maybe there was a ladder in the garage. Unfortunately the garage door wouldn't budge. Even if the opener had had power, it was long rusted shut. There was a side door, but that too was locked and proved resistant to kicking.

"Hey, you got an axe or something?" Mal called back to the truck.

Setting the rifle down, Orensen reached into his belt and withdrew a hatchet, which he hucked at the door. The blade embedded itself in the wood with a loud thunk. Mal pried it loose and went to work, hacking around the hinges and lock. A few minutes of this, and the door fell inward, kicking up a cloud of dust. Coughing and wiping his eyes, Mal pulled the old carbide lamp out of his satchel and brought its small flame to life with a flick of the flint wheel.

Illuminated by the warm light of of the acetylene flame, the old garage had clearly been left untouched for decades. A time capsule of life before the end. Bicycles dangled from the rafters, their tires long gone flat. A pile of plastic ducks sat in a corner, coated in dust and spider webs. There was indeed a ladder, leaned against the far wall, but something else caught Mal's attention. A stack of plastic bins on a rickety shelving unit, inside them the telltale shape and color of ammunition boxes. There was a faded label on a couple of them, reading "o...rove Police Departm..." with a strip of masking tape over it, numbers and letters scrawled on the tape in marker. Calibers.

Bisley had noticed it too, appearing in human form and bending over to peer through the sides of the bins.

"This looks interesting." She piped, prying open a bin slightly to get a clearer look inside.

"What is it?" Mal asked, picking his way over a pile of two-by-fours and extension cords on his way to the ladder.

"I don't know... I've never seen this brand before but it says they're for police training or something."

"Well, maybe Mr. Trenchcoat knows what they are. I wanna check those panels though before we start digging around for other stuff."

Hauling the ladder out of the ruined doorway, Mal climbed onto the roof of the house and made his way to the solar panels. Unscrewing the watertight control box lid with his leatherman, he compared the circuit boards inside with the broken ones in his satchel. They looked close enough to him. Rather than risk damaging them, he decided to just take the whole control box. Detaching it from the panels, he stuffed it into his satchel and descended the ladder.

"The hell are those?" Orensen asked as Mal approached the truck, two large plastic bins in his arms.

"Weird ammo I found in the garage. Figured you might know what it is." Mal replied, setting them down on the hood.

Reluctantly, Orensen extracted himself from the vehicle and walked around to take a look. He peeled the lid off one of the bins, extracted a box of cartridges and opened it up.

"Simunitions. Interesting..." The old spook mumbled, rolling a strange, blue rubber-tipped cartridge between his fingers. "Must have got them in a police auction or something."

"Simu-what now?" Bisley cocked her head, giving voice to what Mal was thinking.

"Non-lethal training rounds. They shoot out of a real gun, but instead of penetrating your body they just leave a mean bruise and a splatter of paint. We used to use them for force-on-force training back at The Company. Looks like we've got conversion kits here too. Couple of Glock slides and chamber spacers for a revolver. That gives me an idea... You find those solar panel dohickeys you were looking for?" Orensen had a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Yeah." Mal said, slapping his satchel.

"Let's get back on the road then. Find a smaller town. Do a little training, see how you handle yourself in a gunfi... What is your revolver doing?"

Mal turned to see Bisley with a long, tubular brown object sticking out of her mouth.

"Where the hell did that come from?" He asked, plucking it out of her mouth and examining it.

"I found it in a wooden box in the garage with a whole bunch of others. It's a big ole seegar, like in the gangster movies." Bisley pouted at the loss of her prize.

Before Mal could respond, the cigar had disappeared from his hand as though by magic.

"Your turn to watch the truck." Orensen brushed past him, headed for the garage with Bisley's cigar in his teeth, pausing only to strike a survival match on his bootheel.

They were back on the road in minutes, the truck now heavier by two bins of simunitions and a humidor.

**

A few hours later, they left the first city and pulled up to a smaller town to the north of it. The place appeared abandoned, windows shattered and yards overgrown as nature slowly reclaimed what had once been the domain of man.

"What are we doing here?" Mal asked as Orensen shut off the truck and unlocked the doors.

"Training." The older man grinned. "I'm going to drop you off here. Then I'll drive to the center of town. When you hear me fire a shot, head for the other side of town. There's a railroad that cuts across that half of town, cross it and you win."

"What, I just have to walk through a town? What's the catch?" Mal inquired, hopping out of the truck.

"The catch is that I'm going to try and stop you. Here, put these spacers in Bisley's cylinder and load up on simmunitions. If you take a hit in the arm or leg, you can't use that limb. If you take a hit in the torso, it's game over. But if you can take me out, you win too. So you have two potential victory conditions: either escape, or take the fight to me. Either way, your ability to work with Bisley will be tested." Orensen explained, handing him a couple of boxes and a pair of ballistic goggles from the plastic bin.

"This seems a little... dangerous. What happens if I shoot you in the neck or something?"

"If." Said Orensen, the truck squealing away down the abandoned street as he guffawed.

Mal pulled the revolver from his holster, unloading her and fitting the simmunition adapter kit before filling her cylinder and his belt with the blue plastic tipped training rounds. Bisley's human form appeared next to him. She was moving her mouth around as though there was something stuck in her teeth.

"This adapter feels weird." She observed, scanned their surroundings as they waited for Orensen's signal.

"What do you think our best chance is? Fight or run?" Mal asked, fingering her hammer idly before returning her to her holster.

"Depends. If we run, he knows where we're going and can set an ambush for us, but it might be easier to evade him than to win a stand-up gunfight. If we try to track him down, he'll evade us pretty easily and ambush us. If we wait for him to come to us, then we have the advantage of choosing the battlefield, but we'll be boxed in. It's up to you." Bisley shrugged.

"Hrm... He clearly has a lot of experience, and seems like the kind of guy who plans for things. If we try to do something clever like create a diversion or trick him, he'll probably predict it. Our best bet is to be unpredictable. Do what he doesn't expect."

"I think he expects us to run. It's definitely the easiest option with the most chance of victory."

"So he'll set up an ambush and wait for us. But where?" Mal mused, rubbing his chin pensively. "He must know a little about the layout of this town, since he knew about the railroad."

"As soon as we hear the signal, we should find the nearest high ground and get the lay of the land." Bisley said authoritatively. "That's what my instincts tell me."

"Well, a gun would know a thing or two about gunfights. I'll make for that church down the street and get up into the tower. Should be able to see most of the town from up there."

"Sounds like a plan. Why do you think he's taking so long?"

"I don't know but I don't like it." Mal frowned. "He's gotta be up to something."

A few minutes later, they heard the crack of a gunshot through the still air. Mal ran for the church before the echo had faded, easily kicking in a rotten wooden door, and picking his way through the dim interior until he found the tower stairs. The bell tower was dusty and filled with cobwebs, but provided a good view of the town. It wasn't a very big town, but it was no hamlet either. They had been dropped off on what appeared to be mainstreet, which ran all the way to the railroad tracks. The east side of the town was more densely built up with houses and apartment buildings, while the west side was more open and consisted mostly of warehouses and vacant lots.

"So, which way do you think he expects us to go?" Mal asked, digging in his pockets for a notebook to sketch a very rough map of the area.

"Hrm. Mainstreet is the fastest, but also the most obvious. The west side has very little cover, nobody in their right mind would go that way. But the east side has lots of cover and would be easier to sneak through. So if I was him, I'd expect us to take the east side."

"Which means we should take the west side." Mal tucked the notebook away and straightened up, drawing Bisley and causing her human form to vanish.

"Yes. But we'll have to be quick."

Mal ran down the stairs, and exited the church. He took a side street and started jogging to the west, keeping an eye out for any signs of movement. Everything appeared deserted as he crossed a vacant lot into the loading dock of what looked to be an ancient strip mall. All of the doors were made of steel, but one at the other end of the mall was open. Mal made for it, but just as he was about to step through the door, he heard Bisley's voice in his head.

"Wait!"

His foot crossed the threshold, and he felt something tug on his shin. A wire. There was a loud bang like a shotgun blast that momentarily deafened Mal, but to his surprise he was unharmed. Looked around the edge of the door frame, he spotted the culprit: a small gadget attached to a water pipe with the tripwire trailing from one end, and the smouldering remains of a blank shotgun shell attached to the other. It wasn't a lethal trap, just a noisemaker, but it had done its job.

"Oh crap." Bisley murmured. "Better run."

Mal took her advice this time, cursing himself for not taking it a moment before, and ran into the store. He kept low as he slipped out of the back and crept between the shelves. It had apparently been a hardware store at one point. As he was about to reach the front end of the store, a series of gunshots rang out and jars of dried paint exploded on the shelf a few feet from Mal's shoulder. He dove down to the ground, heart pounding. His mind was clouded by adrenaline, but as his grip tightened on the revolver in his hand, he felt a ray of clarity as she spoke to him.

"Don't panic. We can do this." She whispered into his mind. "Breathe, believe in yourself."

It was a strange sensation. One which he would never be able to describe. As though his consciousness had expanded beyond his head. He was acutely aware of every muscle in his body, everything that was happening around him. He was also aware of Bisley. The more his breathing slowed and became regular, the blurrier the line between his consciousness and her consciousness became. They moved without thinking, rolling over to the front wall below the shattered storefront windows, and rising with revolver at the ready. They thumbed back the hammer and leveled the revolver in one smooth motion, spotting Orensen instantly almost without seeing him. They fired immediately, but by the time firing pin struck primer Orensen was no longer there. Their opponent returned fire, and they managed to get back behind cover just in time. Mal's heart-rate started to go up again, and he felt their minds separating. Swallowing, he forced himself to breathe slowly, and the clarity returned.

They had seen an abandoned garbage truck on the other side of the street. They had five rounds left in their cylinder. Enough to keep Orensen occupied while they ran for the truck. They popped up and quickly slip-fired two shots to either side of Orensen, forcing him to dive to avoid them, then vaulted through the shattered window and ran towards the dump truck. About halfway there, they sensed Orensen rising, and pivoted to fire a shot at him. But they had judged wrong, and Orensen rolled back rather than lunging forward. He came up shooting, and they had to dive for the truck. Paint rounds struck the tarmac around them, and they just barely managed to roll behind the truck before Mal felt the connection retreating again. His left arm hurt.

He looked down, and saw a large blue splotch on the left sleeve of his jacket. Crap. He couldn't use that arm now, and reloading a single-action revolver was a two-handed task. Which meant he had two more shots. He tried to get his breathing under control, but before he could manage to achieve synchronization again, he saw Orensen round the corner. He leveled Bisley and fired both shots from the hip, aiming with hand-eye coordination alone as Bisley had taught him.

Orensen stopped abruptly, and casually looked down at the splatter of paint on his own left sleeve. He nodded approvingly, then shot Mal in the chest.

"Fuck! That hurt!" Mal gasped, doubling over.

"You're not dead." Orensen shrugged, returning the Glock to her holster, then rubbed his shoulder with a mildly pained expression. "You're lucky I'm old."

"We got you fair and square!" Bisley's human form pouted, crossing her arms in mock indignation.

"Yes. I see you've managed to synchronize a couple times as well. That's good. Now that you know how to do it, you can learn how to control it." The old man observed, pulling a flask from the inside of his coat and offering it to Mal.

Mal accepted. It was a familiar flavor: bootlegged bourbon. Strong, but flavorful. He exhaled slowly, then nodded appreciatively and handed the flask back.

"I think that's enough for today. We've made enough noise to attract unwanted attention."

They collected the rest of Orensen's tripwires, removing the blank cartridges and tossing the firing mechanisms in a sack, then continued north.

"So that's what you meant by bonding." Mal said as they settled into the truck for the long ride.

"Yes. Difficult to explain, eh?" Orensen replied.

"That's one way to put it." Mal said, scratching his head.

"It takes getting used to. You'll struggle to maintain it for a while, but eventually it'll become second nature. We'll do static targets next, with a timer."

"I wasn't supposed to win that, was I?" Mal asked.

"Well, it wasn't impossible to escape. But I didn't expect you to beat me in a gunfight, no. In fact you exceeded my expectations. I'm surprised you haven't complained about the noisemakers yet." Orensen chuckled.

"I would have, but the fact I tripped one was my fault. Bisley warned me and I didn't react in time."

"That's surprisingly frank. I appreciate that."

"I want to learn how to use this... ability." Mal said, with determination. "If that means swallowing my pride I'll do it."

"You did a pretty good job kiddo." Mal turned to see Sixty leaning in through the rear window with a grin on her face. "For someone who's never been in a gunfight before."

"Thanks." He grinned.

Bisley's expression hardened slightly.

"But holy crap, that was intense. I had no idea you could do that." He turned to Bisley.

She brightened up, and grinned at him.

"I didn't either, really. I've never actually been fired in combat before." She confessed. "I like it though!"

They drove until they reached the outskirts of the big city that was their destination. Orensen took them off the highway and up through the woods onto a bluff overlooking the abandoned metropolis. They set up their tents and Orensen disappeared into the forest with Jenny the AR-15, presumably in search of edible wildlife.

Mal was kneeling over to get the fire started when Bisley appeared in her human form and sat down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. This time, he offered no resistance and sensing this she leaned further into him. The tinder crackled to life, and he slowly coaxed the flame into a healthy blaze.

Orensen returned about half an hour later, arms empty of game and looking concerned.

"No fire tonight, I'm afraid. No fresh meat either." He shrugged apologetically, kicking dirt over the fire. "Lot of movement in the city. Can't tell who they're with, but there's fighters and technicals all over the place."

"What?" Mal sat up abruptly.

"That's all I've got unfortunately. I don't know if they have IR capability, so we're gonna wait until daylight to scout closer."

Mal nodded, recognizing the need for stealth but mourning the loss of his fire.

They ate a cold dinner of jerky and salt pork, drinking water from the tank on the Toyota. You could see lights in the city below, the headlights of patrolling vehicles and the gleam of campfires or electric lanterns. Orensen didn't even smoke a cigar. Since there was little to do, Mal decided to turn in early while the old man kept watch.

He didn't need prodding this time, he tucked the revolver under his pillow before climbing into the sleeping bag. Bisley appeared next to him as he settled in, and nestled close. She had appeared without boots, thankfully. Her long flannel shirt served as a makeshift nightgown.

"I'm glad." She said contentedly, her eyes half-closed.

"Huh?"

"I'm glad you want to get better at bonding with me." The revolver girl murmured, shifting slightly.

****