Chapter One: Out of the frying pan, into the fire
Summer. Humid air. Sweltering sun. Red, itchy sunburnt skin.
Summer. Increased danger of brush and forest fires.
Summer. The worst season of the year.
Best season for range day though.
BANG! BANG! Two shots ring out. One hits the mark, but the other goes wide and hits a log downrange. "Fuck, not my finest moment." I check the cylinders of my Colt Single-Action and place it down on the table. "Hey, one outta two ain't bad." My friend, Kimball says. This asshole, I think. Known him since Grade 2 and he's still a sarcastic shit.
"Yeah, well I'm sure I'd have two of two if my hands weren't so sweaty." I grumble. "Ah, quit yer bitchin'. I offered you gloves, didn't I?" Kimball shrugs. "What? And fumble when I'm tryina' get my finger on the trigger?"
"Kimball, Thom! Th'fuck you guys up to?!" Wheatley shouts from his porch.
"Lettin off a few 'fore dinner! What, tryna bring a gun or two over?" Kimball asks. Wheatley just scoffs. "No way, man! Shit's like gold these days!" Oh right. I paid 30 for this single box of rounds.
"Suit yourself, mate! Check this though, I've been practicing!" I grin from ear-to-ear and reach into my range bag, pulling out another single-action. I load a round into it, and pick up my other Colt, loading a round into the cylinder and spinning the cylinder, cocking the hammer back, and assuming the position.
"Oh, fuck no. I'm getting behind something." Kimball, spits out. He scuttles over to cover, and peeks over the top. I just shake my head, and turn back to the targets downrange. "Is this safe?" Wheatley asks. "I don't think you should do that, Thom!"
"Ahh, don't be a pussy, Wheat! What's the chance a ricochet hits me? Or an ND? Like one in a hundred?" I breathe in deep and focus on the task at hand. Then I launch into action, spinning both revolvers, then slinging my right arm behind my back, throwing over my shoulder. I catch it, near perfect for once.
I cross my right arm over my left, and throw the left revolver over. I catch it this time, but fumble a little. Maybe I should stop this now. I aim both Colts and the steel target 50 feet ahead, and let off both shots. BANGBANG!
I turn to Kimball and Wheatley, a big smirk on my face. "Hggggh-" I gurgle out. What? Why can't I?- "Thom!" Kimball shrieks, holding a hand over my throat. He lifts a hand, and it's stained a dark red. What happened? I look down at myself, and see my favorite poncho, stained a red, almost black color. I let out a wet cough, hacking more blood onto Kimball's face.
"Hold on, man! Stay calm! Wheatley, call 911!" Kimball presses down hard on my neck, sticking a finger in the wound. It takes him a second to realize the wound has an exit, right through my Carotid Artery. Fuck. Fuck, it's an arterial bleed. I'm done for.
I'm cold now, and things are hazy. The sounds start to sounds muffled. Do I still have my earpro on? Or is that the tinnitus? Why is my chest so warm again? It feels wet. Did I spill something?
In a matter of what feels like eternities, I can't see. I can't feel. My thoughts shut down, as my brain finally dies along with my body. Here lies Thomas Frieden. I never got to delete my browser history.
It's even hotter out now. I can feel the slick sweat on my forehead making me itch. Wait, I thought I unalived myself. Why in the hot-and-crispy Kentucky Fried Hell can I feel? I wiggle my fingers and toes, my back twitches a little bit, and my head jerks back. Then my eyes shoot open, and air rushes into my lungs.
My body spasms, and I sit up, coughing out a wad of phlegm and dust. I throw my hands to my neck, expecting the warm sticky feeling of gore. I check around me, hoping to find Kimball or Wheatley. Hoping for an explanation. What greets me however, is an open field. Green grass, far as the eyes can see. Blazing, bright sun assailing my eyes from overhead. For a second, everything makes sense.
Wait, no it doesn't.
My face meets my palms, and I groan. I don't even know what to think at this point. My survival instincts kick in, and I start to get down to business. First things first, check what I got on me. I check my head, and find my cowboy hat. Good for shade. Handy.
I still have my poncho, with my tank underneath. Good for keeping the sun off me and the heat from being too much. Won't do much at night when it gets chilly, though. I still have my work pants and boots on. Wish I had sneakers but at least I know these'll stand up to the terrain.
Gunbelt is- wait. Huh? Gunbelt? I didn't bring my gunbelt with me today.
I've got my pops' old gunbelt. Leather, worn to hell, bandolier fully loaded with rounds. Both of my Colts in the holsters. 'Well, I'm not unarmed.'
I move to stand, but feel something in my boot. I lift my pant leg and see the handle of a dagger poking out. I unsheathe it, and inspect what looks like some kind of stiletto, with a shiny, polished blade. The handle is simple, wrapped in a pristine, black leather. I huff, and sheathe it back in my boot.
'No idea where that's from. Couldn't have been a bowie, huh?' Either way, I'm glad I'll have something to poke things with. These rounds won't last forever.
I can see a small town not far off. It looks more like a medieval hovel, really. I pick myself up, finally stretching out my limbs, and letting loose a huge yawn. 'Right then,' I muse. 'Better get a move on.'
