"Like those bodies I saw at the farm."
"Exactly. They tried to incite a little rebellion, more talk than anything else. But the Judge ended that right quickly. Had Bane take a whip and beat them until their backs split into raw meat, then left them out in the sun to rot. Needless to say, the rebellion talk died with them."
Gunner's spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. He stuffed the rest of the bread in his mouth and crunched, wiping his hands on a cotton napkin. "Well, I'll be careful."
"I doubt it. Where are you going now?"
"To bed. It's been a long day."
"What if someone else comes in for another shot at you?"
Gunner patted him on the shoulder as he headed toward his room. "Then you shoot 'em, Roscoe. Or give 'em some of those awful beans you cooked. Should be even more painful of a way to die. Just don't wake me up. I got a feeling tomorrow's gonna be a big day."
Chapter 6: Innocent Blood
The coffin was too small.
Gunner started his morning with a mug of coffee and plate of burnt bacon and toast, standing on the hotel deck watching the funeral procession pass by. The group of grievers was small and pitiable, just a few stragglers: weeping old women with gray and white hair tied in neat buns, following a woman in mourning black with the tortured face of a martyred saint. One of her eyes was scarred and paled with blindness; her face etched with runes of sorrow. It took Gunner a minute to realize she was younger than she appeared. Hard life and anguish had sapped her youth, and she tottered like a person three times her age.
On old man steered the motorbike that towed the coffin cart. He puffed on a pipe and nodded to the onlookers as if he imagined himself part of a parade procession. They made their way through the streets, going slowly because no one bothered to make room for them. People paused to stare, some shaking their heads, others sneering or even laughing. Gunner recognized the last person in the procession. Myrtle, the young girl he'd seen trying to give Pablo water. She walked with her head down, dropping white flower blossoms on the ground that the townspeople immediately trampled underfoot.
Gunner stepped from the deck of the hotel, following from a distance. The small group made their way to a barren field on the outskirts of Town, where hundreds of makeshift markers stood in testament to the dead. A squat, multi-limbed gravedigger scuttled over, whirring its mechanical head into the ground like a burrowing beetle, digging until it created a mathematically precise grave for the coffin, which it then lifted and slowly lowered into the ground before creeping away, legs clicking and clacking.
Myrtle stood a few paces back as the women gave way to wailing and weeping, clutching one another in a feeble attempt at comfort. Gunner strode forward, making sure Myrtle noticed him as he approached. Her eyes widened as she looked up, recognition dawning on her face.
"Why are you here?"
He glanced at the mourning women. "What happened?"
Her expression darkened. "Boy died. Name was Benjamin. A sniper killed him."
"A sniper?"
"One of the watchmen in the towers."
"Why would he kill a boy?"
"They said Ben snuck into the mines. The Marshal went in to fetch him. When he dragged him out, the sniper shot him."
"With Marshal Wiley standing right there?"
She scrunched up her nose as if from a foul smell. "Wiley is the one that put the notice out. Says no one can go into the mines or they'll be shot. They don't want nobody to see what goes on down there. This ain’t the first time a kid's been shot for straying in. He's done worse to others. Ben didn't know any better. Snuck off before his Ma knew what happened."
"And now he's dead." Gunner squinted at the women, fingers unconsciously tapping his holsters.
Myrtle looked at the weapons, then back up at him. "Why do you care, anyway?"
"Who says I do?"
"You helped Pablo. And you're here asking questions. Why?"
"Maybe I'm just bored."
"Bored?"
"Yeah. You know what they say: the devil finds work for idle hands."
"I know what the Holy Word says. God hates hands that shed innocent blood."
"Don't worry, girl. The blood I've shed ain't never been innocent." Glancing up, he saw the women had stopped crying. They stood in a group, the wind blowing against their tattered blacks, watching with expressionless faces. The mother took a step toward him; hands clasped tightly together.
"Can you help us?"
He took a deep breath. “If you think I’ll go to war singlehandedly against the Baron…"
She shook her head. "What can one man do, even if he wanted? No, I would not ask you to die. We have no headstone for my son. We need to gather stones for his marker. My mother and her friends are old. Can you help?"
He nodded, removing his duster.
He helped her find and carry the rocks, uprooting and brushing off the dirt before stacking them into a small cairn. Afterward, he stood among the women, gazing at the small memorial. The grieving mother turned to him, her one good eye searching his face.
"Pablo usually speaks at the funeral services. He speaks of the time when those dead will hear the voice of the Lord and be resurrected to a new life. And I must believe because without hope, I may as well be a dead woman. But I don't have the words to speak this day. Not when I lost so much. Will you say a few words over the grave of my only son?"
He felt as though a hand had seized him by the neck, hearing the voice inside his head chant the mantra as if time had never passed.
Remember, O Lord, the God of Spirits and all Flesh, those whom we have remembered and those whom we have not remembered, from righteous Abel onto this day…
Clearing his throat roughly, he shook his head. "Been a long time since I spoke any words of faith, miss. Don't think I could do 'em any justice."
May you yourself give them rest there in the land of the living, in your kingdom, in the delight of Paradise…
She dropped her gaze, attention drifting back to the cairn of stones. "I understand. Thank you for showing kindness to a stranger, then. I pray the Lord bless you."
In the bosom of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, our holy fathers, from where pain and sorrow and sighing have fled away, where the light of your face visits them and always shine upon them.
He tipped his hat. "If He will, ma'am."
Turning away, he headed back toward the Town, feeling the women's eyes on his back. The blistering wind blew against his face, moaning as if sharing the women's grief, burning his skin, blurring his eyes so that a single tear slid down his cheek.
The train gleamed in the glaring sunlight, flying down the desert tracks like a silver bullet, kicking up plumes of dust high into the air as it passed. Silent on maglev rails, it whirred along its way using electromagnetic suspension and propulsion for a frictionless transport, propelling at upwards of four hundred fifty miles per hour.
Waingrow watched it approach in the distance from his vantage point atop a small hilltop where he sat in his monowheel, encircled by a ring-shaped metal frame with thick, massive tread wrapped around it. He lifted his wrist and spoke into his holoband.
"Blow the track."
The response was immediate. An explosion erupted further down, tearing the monorail tracks apart and casting debris high into the air. The train automatically shut down its acceleration system, retrorockets firing to further aid in safely coming to a stop approximately half a mile from the damaged rails.