For A Few Days More

By Z.B. Steele

The Hinterlands are a lawless place of broken dreams and broken people.

Roth is a bodyguard trying to leave his dark past behind, but history has a way of turning back up. Cynthia is a bandit who's trying to make a future by wading through blood. They travel separately, trying to live by their own codes. All while a man in a re

• Language: English
• Publisher: 0-0-8 Studios
• Release date: Dec 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781737381747

Book preview

Chapter 1

No fires tonight, boys, Mad Dog Shaun said to his gang. Darren, Remy, and Ewan grumbled the amount expected of them. Shaun kept an ear out for Braid’s complaints, remembered he died on the last job, and shrugged. One less share.

Darren, Remy, and Ewan set up camp while Shaun began to divvy out the take. Six iron shells, a silver owl, and a ruby ring. He ate the coin, gave each of his boys two shells, and said he’d keep the ring. Realistically, not a bad take for one night of common robbery, but the jobs seemed to be getting harder while the take kept getting smaller. Plus, he was getting too old to shit out silver.

Shaun reminisced on robbing entire towns in his youth, on murdering and rampaging across the countryside with Declan the Tall and Butch the Quick. Truth was that the takes were probably just as bad and the jobs just as dangerous, but getting old and not watching your friends do the same can jade a person. At least his boys were young. He shouldn’t need to see too many more of them die. Shaun stifled a chuckle as he imagined Declan and Butch looking down and giving him shit on him caring about the recruits.

The three younger lads took to quietly talking, laying on their backs to stare at the open sky and the stars twinkling above them. Shaun crept up closer to hear Darren telling a story.

Well, near the end of The Gravewalkers, Mad Dog, Declan, and Butch had just got finished up at Playground. . . The whole town, or what was left of them, was cowering in their homes. So, the three of them are leaving and a whole bunch of bounty hunters come riding up. The Blackhats.

Fuck them, one of the boys cut in. Remy, it sounded like.

Fuck them indeed, Darren agreed before continuing the story, The way I heard it, a whole bunch of Blackhats came riding up to the town of Playground that day. Fifteen of ‘em. They wanted Declan alive and the other two either way. So, before the fighting starts, the Blackhats yell out to the three of them saying, ‘Mad Dog or Declan, kill each other and bring Butch to us and we’ll give you a day’s head start on running!’ But the Blackhats already had their reputation. So.

And where were the three of them? Remy cut in.

Some shithole bar. Anyway—

Who else was in the bar with them? Remy interrupted again.

Just an old barkeep. Now if you don’t mind, Darren said, reaching out an arm to cuff Remy on the shoulder. So anyway, they’re in this shithole bar, and the three of them hear the Blackhats’s offer. But like I said, the Blackhats already had their reputation. Plus, the three of them were as tight as a noose, being the original Gravewalkers. So, they’re sitting there talking about exits when the bartender comes up to them. He says, ‘You three have been fair to me, here, cut my palm and pretend that Mad Dog has killed Declan and you’re surrendering, Darren said, his old man imitation making Ewan laugh an innocent laugh. They had just lost one of their friends a few days ago and committed some light armed robbery today, and here they were with innocent laughter.

So, they cut the old man’s palm and Mad Dog made sure to get his hand and his blade covered in blood. Then he and Declan walked up to the Blackhats. They took ‘em by surprise. Walked up to ‘em real slow. As soon as they got close, Mad Dog and Declan took four of ‘em out while Butch started shooting arrows from the bar. Bloody chaos followed, with Declan being the maelstrom, but in the end, the three left Playground alive.

No, lad, that’s not how it went down, Shaun said. The boys jumped a bit, not aware that Shaun was listening in. There were only six or seven of those Blackhats. We slit that old man’s throat, and he didn’t volunteer at all. Declan and I almost killed each other, as we were prone to do. The part you got right was the bloody chaos. Despite the fantasy retellings, it’s hard to win when you’re outnumbered. I’m still not sure how we walked out of there, but we did, Shaun said, looking up at the stars. The sky was black against the full moon, the stars glittering gems. Desert sands shifted on the night’s breeze.

And I’m glad for it, a voice yelled out from behind the group. Shaun and the three boys shot up and drew weapons. The three younger members held short swords with the gracelessness of beginners while Shaun donned a long-sword and a battered, oak shield. All four faced the threat, Shaun in the front with the boys slightly behind and to his sides.

A man in a crimson cloak slowly stepped into the moonlight. The cloak was wrapped around him, obscuring his size, and hiding his arms. As he approached the gang, the pale light showed his face. Long, black hair parted to show his clean-shaven, un-scarred, pale face. He was beautiful. He was reminiscent of tales about Marith, the Fallen Angel.

Mad Dog Shaun, Playground hasn’t forgiven you, the man in the crimson cloak said.

Nor I, it, Shaun responded.

Well then, how about a reunion?

I’d sooner reunite my cock with the Ricketts, Shaun said. While he had faced bounty hunters a few times, this would be his boys’s first time. He could feel the fear radiating off of them, paralyzing them. He learned a while ago that the best way to get followers over that fear is to make ‘em laugh. They remained paralyzed.

Charming. And the boys? Red Cloak asked.

They’ve never been to Playground.

No, they’re wanted in Dry Tree. Remy Hayes, Darren Grimes, Ewan Keating, and Braid Bares. They’re worth one hundred shells each.

Ewan was crying, the poor bastard. He’d been inspired by Darren to join in this lifestyle and bullied by Remy to stay in it. A nice word of advice might keep him inspired.

Ewan, if you don’t shut the fuck up I will decapitate you and throw your head at this wanna-be Blackhat, Shaun said.

Perfect.

His head’s all I need, they’re wanted dead or alive, Red Cloak responded. Ewan continued crying.

Shaun felt a hundred years older all of a sudden. He was tired of robbing and killing and sleeping outside and pissing in the dark woods and fighting bounty hunters, he was tired of his own reputation as a berserker, and he wanted out. Maybe this bounty hunter had enough money to retire on. Probably not. They never did.

These boys aren’t so bad. What if I surrender myself and you let the boys go? Shaun found himself asking. It wasn’t much, but it was some sort of. . . redemption. At least he could go to meet Vadur with some sort of good deed on his resume.

No, Red Cloak said.

No?

No. I want you to stand and fight.

Red Cloak’s right arm, hidden underneath the cloak, pushed the disguise out as he drew his weapon, a bladed whip. The whip was long and covered in smaller, curved blades that flickered in the moonlight. A hypnotic, striped pattern was imbued on the blades making them hard to keep track of, especially as the whip coiled and moved like a serpent.

Shaun and his boys didn’t have long to gaze at the beauty since the whip was already being launched at them. They were just far enough to react, if they were quick. Shaun was, as he threw himself to the ground. Darren was as he stepped to the side. Remy was, as he fell on his ass. Ewan was not.

The struck boy looked at Darren. He didn’t beg for help. He just began to mouth sorry when Red Cloak yanked the whip. Ewan’s head popped from his body. There was no great explosion, just a sickening squishing noise and then a torrent of hot, sticky blood that rained down in thick clumps. The smell of hot iron and voided bowels ranked the air as Shaun dumbfoundedly wiped the gore from his eyes.

Son of a bitch! Remy was yelling. He may have bullied Ewan the hardest but that was because he was like his younger brother. This bounty hunter had just killed his little brother, and he’d pay for it.

The whip snapped again, lashing around Remy’s side and completely entangling his torso. Before realizing what had happened, Remy was spinning like a top after Red Cloak had yanked again. Just like his younger brother, Remy was spraying Darren and the ground around him in blood. Shaun still lay on the ground from his dodge, shocked. He’d seen his own gang get hit with a lucky shot before, but he’d never seen this. . . this slaughter. It was as if they were being scientifically destroyed, almost like this bounty hunter was ripping through them with the same practiced precision that a furniture maker creates desks.

Darren turned one foot to run, as he was always the smartest of the three. The whip snapped one more time, catching his turned ankle. Darren was already in the running motion so when he brought his leg forward, he took his own foot off. He lay on the ground bleeding, screaming, and crying. The piercing shrieks sounded through the night like a woman giving birth.

Mad Dog Shaun, this is the group you run with now? Why, they didn’t even try, Red Cloak said. His amused smile and his pearly white teeth shone like a beacon in the darkness.

Shaun felt the rage boiling up inside of him as Darren cried. He remembered why he was Mad Dog, remembered all the friends he had seen killed. He remembered Declan, and what he could do when he was in a wrathful state. His fury took over his body, and Shaun fled existence. The Mad Dog shook the leash.

Mad Dog dropped his longsword on the ground and pulled out his tomahawk. Even laying down he was able to throw it, right at Darren’s face. The sheer force of the throw made the axe go through and out the back of his head. He’d had his fill of the sniveling, of the screaming, of the leading. It felt good to kill again, to feel alive again, just like Declan had taught him.

Pity, I think you ruined the collection on that one! Red Cloak yelled out mockingly. He spun his chain whip around himself in a lazy, wide pattern, waiting for Mad Dog. He didn’t have to wait long before Mad Dog was in an insane, headlong charge. The chain whip lashed out once more, aimed low at Shaun’s legs. Shaun put his longsword in front of the whip and let it coil around the blade like a bee floats around flowers. Red Cloak yanked, and Mad Dog let him. The blade and the whip soared backward, and Mad Dog cleared the rest of the distance.

Mad Dog lifted his hands and brought them back down, the way a poker player does after a bad beat. Shield still strapped to his arm, Mad Dog would crush him, smear him like a bug.

He met a metallic clang as the iron rim of his shield collided with Red Cloak’s left hand. Even in a berserker state, Shaun realized three things: Red Cloak had moved his arm faster than Shaun had been able to see, Red Cloak’s arm didn’t buckle from the impact of an overhand blow, and that screech of metal on metal was his shield hitting a black, spiked gauntlet. Every outlaw had heard stories about the bounty hunter with the spiked glove. The mad dog cowered into a corner, leaving Shaun to his fate. Red Cloak’s smile faded.

Damn shame, he said.

Chapter 2

The town of New Wood was a budding town filled with the bustle of common citizenry. Good people, trying their best, being polite, watching out for one another, and raising their kids to do the same. Overall, an entirely average town in the Hinterlands. The kids were brats, the men thieves, the women whores, and yet, they were better people than Roth.

The family that had hired him to escort them looked happy to be rid of him and in better company. He couldn’t blame them. His scars were what inspired them to hire him and to disdain him after the job was done. The oversized blade that matched his oversized body didn’t help any. However, Roth wasn’t mad at them. He respected their instincts and hoped they continued to distrust men like him, just like he hoped that one day there’d be a world where men like him weren’t needed or tolerated, but that day seemed far off.

The father of the family he had guarded handed him five silver owls.

You’re a bit short, Roth grumbled out, his voice gruff and menacing. The family’s little boy cowered behind his mother’s skirts. Roth hated scaring kids, but the agreed rate was ten owls. He probably didn’t even need the money, but the one thing in the world he couldn’t take was disrespect. It’d been the start of most of his fights, and it’d be the start of his last fight, but a man needs a code.

The father looked around the street. People were milling about, watching the confrontation while trying to pretend they weren’t. The father sighed and pulled out five more owls and handed them over with his shoulders hunched.

A pleasure, Roth said to the family that was quickly walking away. The mother was giving the father a quiet, yet explicit, verbal beatdown. The kid turned around to wave at Roth, who waved back. The mother turned the worded assault to the kid. The kid’s posture matched his father’s. Roth decided it was time for a drink.

He resisted the urge to roll up the sleeves of his gray shirt as he walked. His scars usually marked him as some sort of outlaw and folks with a few drinks in them wouldn’t hesitate to say so. There was no legal way to cover his face, however, so the long, ragged scars stayed on full display, a beacon of marked villainy. Ideally, people would leave him on that front, but he sighed, knowing they wouldn’t.

He kept his walk brisk, and the gentle people milling about decided to walk on the other side of the street. They treated him like he was a coyote, and they were chickens. Roth had left the life of an outlaw long ago, but they smelled the blood on him. He was forsaken and unforgiven, and they avoided him out of sheer instinct. Roth avoided them out of experience. He’d never had a random encounter go well.

He walked into a bar called Cragg’s and sat down in the least populated corner of the bar. The two men that were there previously grabbed a table. Suited Roth just fine. A clean bar top while he drank by himself was all he needed. The rest of the bar had four groups of men, two drinking quietly, one drinking urgently, and one raucously.

Brandy, please, Roth said to the barkeep. The bartender, a middle-aged man with more stomach than hair, brought a bottle and a rocks glass. The white label had bruised maroon text inside it, reading as Hendrix’s, a favorite among poor people pretending to be fancy since brandy was regarded as a gentleman’s drink.

Leave the bottle, Roth said, overpaying the barkeep with an owl. The coin, and the barkeep, disappeared quickly. Roth began to settle into the self-soothing comfort of internal lies and alcohol. A fine