Frontier - Street confrontation draft
- The whisky burns my throat so I pour some more; two fingers of harsh liquid in a dirty cracked glass. Knocking it back I close my eyes and relish the warmth spreading through me...soon there won't be time for whisky, or good thoughts.
- The front door swings open and Dean stands there, silhouetted against the noonday sun, the dust drifitng lazily, he nods curtly. I nod back, slower, pausing only for a brief moment before slamming the upturned glass on the table, Dean walks behind me and begins adjusting the fastenings of my armour, thick layers of leather with trauma plates sewn in overlapping chitinous sections; plates for the shins and thighs, the chest and back, forearms and shoulders. Now the great helm, as Dean lowers it over my head the world falls away, just the amplified sound of my own harsh breathing, labouring under the heavy load, my vision reduced to a thin slit just barely enough to aim down sights, the sensory deprivation unbalancing me at first before it became a reasurring cocoon of protection.
- A few hard yanks at my nape and the helm is secured, the reverberation of a heavy impact signalling all clear. Weapons now; semi automatic pistol with seven rounds into the shoulder rig, six gun with five rounds on the other side, short barreled shotgun on the back, only got three shells though...better make them count...one stick of dynamite, short fuse.
- I turn to Dean and he presents me with the cross, a heavy piece of iron capped wood crossed with another nearer to one end, fashioned into a double headed long hafted hammer, spiked longways, symbol of my station and charge, this always I carry on my back.
- An upturned box on the counter top spills copper into the sunlight, "nine for the Winchester", a slow nod...closing eyes I recite the steps, "Front door, left, twenty paces, count nine, drop Winchester, wagon, light stick...count four, throw, count four again, forward twenty paces, count seven, drop...corner...open ground fifteen paces, six gun, count five, drop, ten paces to target, shotgun, count three, drop...five paces to target, present cross...make arrest. Dean's haunted face stays etched in my mind grabbing him by the duster and pull him closer, his face inches from mine through the helm..."I'm going out for a walk, I might be some time", turning swiftly I grab the winchester off the counter top and hesitating then no longer I stride out into the sun. The street deserted, everyone knows men will die here today, they watch fearfully behind drawn shutters and barricaded doors...turning left I see them...eight men who would harm me and my kin, Sloan and his cronies. Hate burns within in, blazes like a wild fire, this ends now, levering the winchester I roar...start counting and like an avalanche of metal storm down the street.
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