Six Shooter
I clutched the paper tightly in my hand as I looked over the scorched earth that surrounded me. There was nothing here. Nothing but orange, sun-seared sand. I felt the heat around me start to thicken, causing me to wipe the sweat and grime off my brow. I pushed my unruly ringlets back under the protection of my wide-brimmed hat.
I was getting too damn old for this.
I looked at the paper in my hand. It contained a rough sketch of a man with a square face and a greyish/blonde beard. He had blonde hair (that looked like it could be down to his shoulders) tied up in a messy (is his hair charred?) pony tail. He had red and white paint (blood? Berry juice? Wine stains?) decorated minimally around his bright blue eyes. He looked my age, if not a couple years older.
The name: David Spencer.
The crime: Double murder and theft of a high political figure.
The preference: Specific orders to bring him alive for public execution.
The bounty: Two million.
That's why I'm here, standing in the middle of a wasteland. My radio crackled to life on my hip.
"W-crsh-William?" I picked it up and held it to my mouth.
"Yes, Chuck?" I said, rolling my eyes. Chuck has been my partner in this business for the last two years or so. He's only in his thirties, but the damn lad has helped me out a hell of a lot, whether it's finding jobs to finding a place to stay. He's got a good head on his shoulders. And, well, he's good company too.
"Oh, G-crsh-ood. I wanted to let you know that our new friend is comin' over to play real soon." I looked out onto the horizon the see a small cloud of dust approaching me. I responded,
"Did he bring any of his buddies with him?" I could hear Chuck snickering through the radio.
"The radar's picking up a couple more. It seems he's brought his gang with him." Concern laced the end of his sentence.
"I'm picking up about five others, Will. Do you have enough protection?" I smiled.
"Chuck, I've been in this business for thirty-six years. I think I can handle a few thugs." I brushed my hand over my gold revolver, one of the only guns left after the war. Though all six slots were filled, I knew that there was one bullet I wouldn't need. Chuck laughed.
"We'll get some ice cream when you come back, yeah?" I laughed. I could see the profiles of David and his gang, and hear the loud thunder of junkyard motorcycles.
"Yeah, I'll make sure of it." I put my radio back in my pocket as they started to circle me, hooting and hollering. Soon, they stopped. David parked his bike in front of me and hopped off, waiting. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just more of that red and white paint. His cargo shorts were horrendously tattered, and he was barefoot. One of his minions hopped off his bike too, swaggering towards me.
"Hey, buddy, aren't you a little warm in all those-"
He flicked my hat off my head and got a bullet to the neck. He was dead before he hit the ground. Everyone stood dead still. David looked shocked, and…excited? I shook it off and read my paper.
"David Spencer, charged with double murder and theft of a high political figure. Preference is alive, bounty is two million." I let out a low chuckle.
"Damn. Got yourself in quite a bit of trouble, haven't you mate?" David stood stock still, with that weird expression remaining on his face. While he was waiting, one of his goons tried to get the jump on me. One more bullet gone, one more body on the ground. The last three tried to attack all at the same time, but they met the same result. It was just me and David. He was staring at me through narrow eyes, skeptical, questioning. It was getting uncomfortable.
"What, do I have something on my face?" I chuckled, unnerved. Then his eyes cleared. Then, he…grinned at me.
"…Joseph?" He asked, his voice gruff with age. He looked hopeful. Like he had found a long-lost friend.
"Joseph." He said again, with more confidence this time. I didn't move. He thought I was a friend. He thought I cared about him. He saw that I didn't recognize him.
"You- you remember me, don't you? Tell me, mate," He was starting to look upset- desperate. He prattled on,
"Say somethin', Joe, I'm beggin' ya, please, tell me you remem-"
"I have no recollection of you."
He was starting to panic.
"Look, I know it's been thirty-seven years, but, please, mate, you-"
I stopped listening. I could see the fear, the hurt in his eyes. I've this kind of look once or twice, the look people get when they meet someone from…Before. I've seen how desperate they are to cling onto the life the once had, before the world went to hell. Maybe I did really know him, thirty-seven years ago. However, that wouldn't change anything. Right as the war started and people started dropping bombs on one another, I got a nice blow of blunt force trauma to the head. I don't remember a thing about, well, my life before murdering was a hobby I was paid to do. Whatever girlfriend I had back then I forgot about, whatever family, friends, livelihood, everything. Even my name. I was given my current name, William Harvey, by a man only known as the Old Bounty Hunter. He trained me for two years and gave me his gun before passing away. Then, I became the Bounty Hunter. Now, I'm sixty-two. Did I really know this man when I was twenty-five? Was he a criminal then? Was I?
I focused my attention back to David. Tears were in his eyes, slowly seeping down his paint smeared, grime covered face. He must have been quite handsome, once. I walked over to him, and put a metal shackle around his neck and hands. He looked up at me with a mix of surprise and disgust. I looked down at him, saying,
"My name is William Harvey. I have worked as a bounty hunter for the last thirty-six years. I can't remember anything before the age of twenty-six. If we were best mates at twenty-five, that's your problem. I refuse to let someone I can't remember come between me and my job."
He was silent the entire trip back to the city.