Chapter 9: Foster, David, Corporal, 1256-8963-4531 Tech
David Foster made his living applying his genius at science and technology in all fields in the city of Silver City. He owns a shop dedicated to science ...and I don't mean with books alone.
I stepped into his shop. It was filed with various electronic devices, and books about science. He was behind the counter. He was also my second-in-command, and a very reliable one at that.
He was an African-American, but I personally made sure that racism would not be tolerated in the USM. He was the do-everything-for-yer-sir kind of man. He was noted with his skill with bombs as well, and routinely showed off his marksmanship with his weapons.
"Sir?"
"Good day, David. And call me Jake."
"Okay, Jake."
"Good. David, you free now?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. I need some assistance..." I told him of New Sacramento.
"I'm in. What do I need?"
"You'll need your special sensor-triggered mines, explosives, and so on. We'll also need five radios. I already have one. Watts Model-G, the same we used. For weapons, your Colt Gold Cup National Match Mark IV/Series 80 (called the National Match as well, but it all depends on year of production, features, etc.), AKMS-47, and plenty of ammunition. Figure about five hundred bullets each." He usually handled comms and electronic devices, so he had less weaponry. That did not mean that he was a slouch in combat. I saw him take on twenty raiders once with his Colt. When the dust settled, he was carrying his AKMS and surrounded by dead bodies. And there was nary a scratch on him. That feat did not change his call sign, however.
"Roger that. Where do I go?"
I told him.
"I'll leave right away."
"Got it. You have a family?"
"No."
"Good."
"Say...where'd you got your pistols from?"
"Well...when I was twelve, I went out with a couple of soldiers for survival training. Then, this raider with those two pistols showed up. There're pretty rare; I figure they'll cost about a couple hundred grand each. I was the closest, and disarmed him. He was then shot in the head by one of the soldiers. And, when I checked the pistols, they were filled with dust, dirt, and other what-have-you. After I cleaned them, the QM said that I could keep them, if I could use them properly. And I could."
"I see...well, I'd better get to work."
"See you around."
I left, and went to my car. I drove to the New California Republic.
Chapter 10: Steele, Ulysses, Sergeant, 3423-7846-7421 Gunman
The NCR was a decent city, with decent people and an effective police and army. Nobody would want to mess with the NCR. No weapons are allowed in the city unless they are kept in their holsters, which may be exposed.
I parked in the bazaar outside the actual city. I walked to the guard at the gate.
"Welcome to the NCR, sir. We'd appreciate it if those guns of yours are kept in their holsters."
"Don't worry, they will stay there."
"Okay." He lifted the gate by activating the controls next to it.
"Thank you."
I walked into the city. The streets were lined with blue-uniformed police officers standing at attention wielding Winchester 'Citykiller' shotguns. I walked past them, and headed to a particular house.
I knocked on the door, and it opened immediately.
"Major?" A tall barrel-chested Caucasian man greeted me. He weighed 275 pounds, all muscle. He was the UMS's big gun expert. He was the head instructor until he was sent to Unisol training...and when he was free, he would help train the recruits.
"Howdy, Ulysses. Call me Jake. Mind if I talked to you?"
"Go ahead, Jake."
"Okay..." I briefed him about New Sacramento.
"So you want to do something about it?"
"Yeah. I intend to eliminate the gangs."
"Sounds like you need a lot of firepower."
"True."
"I reckon that I am the sort of man you are looking for, right?"
"Correct."
"Count me in. What do I need?"
"First, your Browning Automatic Rifle. You can bring your PKM if you like. You'll also need your Galil ARM. Finally, you'll need your Smith & Wesson Model 29. You'll definitely need a lot of ammo." I gave him the directions to New Sacramento.
"Got it. Say...you're twenty-five, right? How come you're a major?"
"When I started basic training, I was promoted to corporal due to what I did. I had nine years of combat experience, went through OCS at Year Three, and became a Captain in Year Four. In Year Five, I was promoted to Major."
"I see. Thanks."
"See ya."
I left town, and drove off. No time to waste. Next stop, Tombstone Town.
Chapter 11: Malloy, Tony, Corporal, 4356-2342-4532 Ghost
Tombstone Town was one of those out-of-the-way places in the USA that was no longer cared for by anyone. It was called Tombstone Town due to the high number of gunfire-related deaths per day until two law enforcers moved in. The Malloys were the new sheriffs in town. It was a quiet place, but when gunfights happen, they were spectacularly bloody and super-violent.
At this time, they should be in their shared sheriff's office. I walked in. I made a mental note to draw my revolver instead of pistols if some idiot barges in.
Only half of the sheriff's department was here. That half happened to be Tony Malloy. He was called 'Ghost' as no one could hear his footsteps.
"Howdy, Major," he called from his desk, which happened to be in front of the main doors. He was a roguish-looking person who was currently dressed in leather apparel.
"Howdy. It's 'Jake' now."
"Okay, Jake."
"Good. Listen..." I repeated the words that I said to the others.
"Well...I need to tell my wife that."
"Okay. When'll she be back?"
"Soon."
"Okay."
"Say, care to take a look at my guns?"
"Sure."
He drew both of his revolvers from his customized two-gun rig. And drew two more from the small of his back. In towns and small cities, revolvers were favored over pistols. Revolvers were reliable, easy to aim, and did not need much cleaning. Towns usually do not have any cleaning supplies for weaponry to speak of. Cities had cleaning supplies, so more pistols were found in cities.
The first two revolvers were Colt King Cobra Ultimates with 4 inch barrels of caliber .357 Magnum. The caliber produces a large muzzle blast and quite a bit of recoil, but Malloy's powerful arms could handle the .357 Mag with one hand. Because they were in front, they were Malloy's first choice. These revolvers were fairly new; Colt had decided to resume production.
The third revolver was a Ruger Super Redhawk with a 7.5 inch barrel. Due to its longer barrel and attached 3x scope, I guessed that the .44 Magnum revolver was used to shoot at far targets.
The last was a rarity. It was a Korth Combat revolver in .357 Magnum. Willi Korth's company's revolvers were called the 'Rolls-Royces' of revolvers due to their high quality. The steel the weapon was made of was cold hammered, producing a dense steel structure. A small wheel was also attached to the trigger bar instead of a cam. The whole weapon was machined out of massive steel. The weapon would cost at least $800000 on the legal market. Since it has the shortest barrel, I guessed that it was the back-up gun.
I looked up.
"Gee, Tony, you sure you're here to protect and serve? These are real man-killers."
"Well...the lawbreakers never said they wanted to lay down their guns, so I figured that I have to shoot them with real powerful bullets...look out!" He reached for his Colts.
I spun around, drawing my S & W revolver at the same time.
A criminal was at the doorway, with a Smith and Wesson Model 66 revolver in high carry. The revolver normally found in the hands of sport shooters here...but one never knows. I aimed my revolver at the miscreant's face, making sure that he could see the yawning hole that was the muzzle.
"Do I have five rounds, or do I have six rounds? Doesn't matter, what with this being a Smith and Wesson Model 29 revolver, one of the most powerful handguns in the world, it can blow your head clean off. I've got a question for ya. Do ya feel lucky punk? Well, do ya?"
"?!" He lowered his revolver at a lightning pace, almost making it. But, 'almost' was never enough.
Doesn't matter. I pulled the trigger.
"Guess he did. Too bad he wasn't."
"...It didn't blow his head clean off. Return it to the manufacturer," Tony said. One can always depend on him for a little black humor.
"Ha ha. C'mon. Back to our little chat." We were one of the few men who could kill a man without blinking.
"Who's the stiff?"
"I dunno. Some sort of idiot hitman."
"Too bad for him. And his employers."
"Hey sheriff!" a voice called from the door just as its owner walked in. The voice belonged to a no-name criminal. He evidently didn't care about his colleague who had a massive hole in his head. He didn't care for his life either, since he was about to draw his Colt Python. I proved that theory by shooting a .44 Magnum bullet into his head.
"C'mon, boys! Let's go!" There were more gunmen outside.
Tony grabbed his guns. It was time to fight.
I reloaded. We ran out, guns ready. Tony covered my back while I covered his. I was holding my weapon in the Weaver stance while he chose the two-gun stance that I helped to develop. I needed both hands to control the kick of the .44 Magnum.
I turned right, and saw a pair of shotgun-wielding criminals waiting to shoot. I aimed and pulled the trigger once, twice, and they fell dead. I turned left, and spotted a rifleman. A shot to the face settled him. All this while, we were racing to my car parked across the street.
I heard more gunshots from behind as we ran. A bullet smashed into my armor. It pushed me back a little, but I carried on. I aimed right, and sent another .44 Magnum bullet into another outlaw's head.
We reached my car. It was directly opposite the sheriff's department. We could use it for cover, but first...
"Ghost! Stay down, but don't lean against my car!"
"Why?"
"Booby trap. Lean against it and-"
There was a loud flash, followed by a crackling sound and the smell of burnt flesh. A criminal had decided to run up to us.
"That happens!"
"Got it...get down!"
I went prone. A .357 Magnum bullet roared over my body towards an unknown target. A scream later, I got up. I deactivated the trap while Ghost provided covering fire from his twin King Cobras. He reloaded, hot smoke rising from his barrels. We all had calm, blank faces, like those of killers who could not care less about who was being killed, so long as the job was done. We were not afraid. Fear is the mind killer, and that leads to death. Dozens of bullets flew nearby, smacking into the bulletproof doors and sides. The area became a cacophony of gunshots, shouted orders, and confusion. The victor makes the least mistakes.
After deactivating the trap, I turned left. Six more Magnum rounds screamed towards new targets as less bullets pinged against the Hummer. A Tango appeared in front of me. I aimed and fired, and fired again. I reloaded when the bullets pushed the criminal down in a spray of scarlet. Smoke rose from my hot weapon. My ears were ringing slightly, and my eyes had to refocus to the lack of muzzle blasts.
And then, it was over.
"Sheriff!" The local citizenry had taken cover when the bullets started flying. A young man had popped out of the window closest to him. He almost earned a bullet for his trouble, if he did not tell the Sheriff that he was there.
"Yeah?" was his excited reply as he reloaded.
"It's Ocelot...he's back." Ocelot was a local bandit who got his kicks killing merchants and other innocents after robbing them. Just your garden- variety a bandit.
"S! Where's he?!"
"In the Eastern part of town. I heard that he's got his whole gang together."
"D! Nemesis?"
"Wait. Let's get more firepower first." We stood up.
We looked around. There were fifteen dead bodies around us. We inspected the bodies, and recovered 40 .357 Magnum bullets as well as 35 .44 Magnum bullets. We were not using the other calibers the bandits were carrying.
I opened the Hummer's cargo container.
"You want the M14 or the AKMS?"
"The M14." I tossed him the M14 and seven spare magazines. I picked up the AKMS and seven spare magazines.
"Let's go."
Chapter 12: The Cat And The Ghost
We made our way to the Eastern side of town. The area was composed of wooden huts and several tons of dust. A wide street in the middle was its main feature.
I checked the AK. It had a folding stock to allow Soviet paratroopers to carry it with ease. It was extremely reliable...but had crude sights, less- than-ideal safety switch, and not-so-great accuracy. Nonetheless, the AK earned the title of the best assault rifle in the world.
We arrived at the street. There was only one man there. It was not Ocelot, and his hand was on his revolver.
"Draw," he spoke.
The only problem was that he had his head blown off by a rifle. It belonged to someone else.
"Need a hand?" it was Malloy, Sandra, Corporal, 1254-8932-4723 Raven. She was the team sniper. She was a twenty-five-year-old nondescript blonde. She had a smoking Remington M40A1 sniper rifle in her hands. Her custom- built gunbelt had a Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolver, the gun that the gunslinger Bill Jordan (dead on October 4, 1997) designed as his ideal police officer's handgun. Her gunbelt also held eighteen .357 Magnum bullets in addition to the six speedloaders in her pockets.
"Yes."
"Yessir!"
"Let's go." I heard a noise.
"Maximum efficiency!" we spoke, just before the gunfire started.
A scofflaw did a side flip from the roof of one of the houses, blazing away with his twin Peacemakers, also known as Colt Single Action Army revolvers. We dove as the .45 Long Colt bullets flew around us.
A bullet traversed the space next to my right ear as I dived. I heard the sound it made as it whizzed by. I landed on the ground in time to hear a loud roar from behind me. I saw the aforementioned criminal's head snap back, blood and brains pouring from a head wound.
Ghost was holding the smoking gun.
"Let's end this, Sheriff!" Ocelot.
The call came from the nearby saloon whose roof served as the former station of the dead gunman. I guessed wrong. The saloon was a run-down old place that deserved to be wrecked.
A burst of muted gunfire came from the saloon windows. The air became awash with bullets. I could make out the bullets' make. They were 7.62 Russian. We dove down again.
I pointed at Ghost, and pointed at the left window. I attracted Raven's attention, and pointed at the right.
The operatives complied. I crawled towards the left side of the saloon's double doorways. Within seconds, we were ready. The gunfire stopped.
"Check if they're dead."
"NOW!"
We stood up. Ghost started pouring 7.62 NATO bullets into the saloon while Raven fired off several rounds from her revolver at the occupants. From Ghost's behavior, I knew that there were no noncombatants.
I stepped into the room, and sidestepped to the right, sweeping the area. Raven moved in while Ghost covered us from the outside.
The room was wrecked. The tables had been overturned and/or shattered by the force of the bullets. There were six corpses in the room, all gripping some sort of weapon. Ghost moved into the room.
The entrance was in front of a staircase, with twenty feet of distance. Just as Ghost went in, a figure clad in a leather coat and Stetson hat appeared. He had green, cold eyes and a scar across his face. His hair was long and dark. His face was stretched into a grin. His right hand held his preferred weapon: a Colt Single Action Army revolver in .44- 40.
It was Ocelot.
"OCELOT!" Ghost yelled. The two of them had a blood feud against each other since the time when Ocelot killed his brother and Ghost eliminated his previous gang.
"About time you showed up. Let's finish it here!"
He raised his revolver with his right hand and went into a classic one-hand shooting stance.
Ghost raised his M14 while we aimed.
There were two abnormally loud, yet muted, gunshots, one from Ocelot and one from Ghost.
"D!" Ghost said. He saw the massive .44-40 bullet fly past his left ear. Ocelot had missed by a freak chance. Ocelot was reputed to have fired one thousand shots, and every bullet hit its mark, be it man or glass bottle.
Ocelot didn't say anything. It was hard to talk when one had a missing lower jaw.
I aimed and fired a burst of three shots into Ocelot's head. I heard the passage of the bullets and the movement of the bolt as clearly as the tinkling of the casings as they hit the ground.
Ocelot's head exploded, spraying blood, brains, and bone onto the wooden staircase. He fell forward and collapsed ever so slowly into a heap. Timothy 'Ocelot' Fouke was finally dead.
"Stand down."
And then, it was over.
There was a pregnant pause. The ringing in our ears became less apparent and our eyes refocused.
"...You sure it's him? He missed."
Everybody started laughing.
After some time, I repeated my proposition. Both husband and wife agreed. I left, and made my way back to the city of evil.
David Foster made his living applying his genius at science and technology in all fields in the city of Silver City. He owns a shop dedicated to science ...and I don't mean with books alone.
I stepped into his shop. It was filed with various electronic devices, and books about science. He was behind the counter. He was also my second-in-command, and a very reliable one at that.
He was an African-American, but I personally made sure that racism would not be tolerated in the USM. He was the do-everything-for-yer-sir kind of man. He was noted with his skill with bombs as well, and routinely showed off his marksmanship with his weapons.
"Sir?"
"Good day, David. And call me Jake."
"Okay, Jake."
"Good. David, you free now?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. I need some assistance..." I told him of New Sacramento.
"I'm in. What do I need?"
"You'll need your special sensor-triggered mines, explosives, and so on. We'll also need five radios. I already have one. Watts Model-G, the same we used. For weapons, your Colt Gold Cup National Match Mark IV/Series 80 (called the National Match as well, but it all depends on year of production, features, etc.), AKMS-47, and plenty of ammunition. Figure about five hundred bullets each." He usually handled comms and electronic devices, so he had less weaponry. That did not mean that he was a slouch in combat. I saw him take on twenty raiders once with his Colt. When the dust settled, he was carrying his AKMS and surrounded by dead bodies. And there was nary a scratch on him. That feat did not change his call sign, however.
"Roger that. Where do I go?"
I told him.
"I'll leave right away."
"Got it. You have a family?"
"No."
"Good."
"Say...where'd you got your pistols from?"
"Well...when I was twelve, I went out with a couple of soldiers for survival training. Then, this raider with those two pistols showed up. There're pretty rare; I figure they'll cost about a couple hundred grand each. I was the closest, and disarmed him. He was then shot in the head by one of the soldiers. And, when I checked the pistols, they were filled with dust, dirt, and other what-have-you. After I cleaned them, the QM said that I could keep them, if I could use them properly. And I could."
"I see...well, I'd better get to work."
"See you around."
I left, and went to my car. I drove to the New California Republic.
Chapter 10: Steele, Ulysses, Sergeant, 3423-7846-7421 Gunman
The NCR was a decent city, with decent people and an effective police and army. Nobody would want to mess with the NCR. No weapons are allowed in the city unless they are kept in their holsters, which may be exposed.
I parked in the bazaar outside the actual city. I walked to the guard at the gate.
"Welcome to the NCR, sir. We'd appreciate it if those guns of yours are kept in their holsters."
"Don't worry, they will stay there."
"Okay." He lifted the gate by activating the controls next to it.
"Thank you."
I walked into the city. The streets were lined with blue-uniformed police officers standing at attention wielding Winchester 'Citykiller' shotguns. I walked past them, and headed to a particular house.
I knocked on the door, and it opened immediately.
"Major?" A tall barrel-chested Caucasian man greeted me. He weighed 275 pounds, all muscle. He was the UMS's big gun expert. He was the head instructor until he was sent to Unisol training...and when he was free, he would help train the recruits.
"Howdy, Ulysses. Call me Jake. Mind if I talked to you?"
"Go ahead, Jake."
"Okay..." I briefed him about New Sacramento.
"So you want to do something about it?"
"Yeah. I intend to eliminate the gangs."
"Sounds like you need a lot of firepower."
"True."
"I reckon that I am the sort of man you are looking for, right?"
"Correct."
"Count me in. What do I need?"
"First, your Browning Automatic Rifle. You can bring your PKM if you like. You'll also need your Galil ARM. Finally, you'll need your Smith & Wesson Model 29. You'll definitely need a lot of ammo." I gave him the directions to New Sacramento.
"Got it. Say...you're twenty-five, right? How come you're a major?"
"When I started basic training, I was promoted to corporal due to what I did. I had nine years of combat experience, went through OCS at Year Three, and became a Captain in Year Four. In Year Five, I was promoted to Major."
"I see. Thanks."
"See ya."
I left town, and drove off. No time to waste. Next stop, Tombstone Town.
Chapter 11: Malloy, Tony, Corporal, 4356-2342-4532 Ghost
Tombstone Town was one of those out-of-the-way places in the USA that was no longer cared for by anyone. It was called Tombstone Town due to the high number of gunfire-related deaths per day until two law enforcers moved in. The Malloys were the new sheriffs in town. It was a quiet place, but when gunfights happen, they were spectacularly bloody and super-violent.
At this time, they should be in their shared sheriff's office. I walked in. I made a mental note to draw my revolver instead of pistols if some idiot barges in.
Only half of the sheriff's department was here. That half happened to be Tony Malloy. He was called 'Ghost' as no one could hear his footsteps.
"Howdy, Major," he called from his desk, which happened to be in front of the main doors. He was a roguish-looking person who was currently dressed in leather apparel.
"Howdy. It's 'Jake' now."
"Okay, Jake."
"Good. Listen..." I repeated the words that I said to the others.
"Well...I need to tell my wife that."
"Okay. When'll she be back?"
"Soon."
"Okay."
"Say, care to take a look at my guns?"
"Sure."
He drew both of his revolvers from his customized two-gun rig. And drew two more from the small of his back. In towns and small cities, revolvers were favored over pistols. Revolvers were reliable, easy to aim, and did not need much cleaning. Towns usually do not have any cleaning supplies for weaponry to speak of. Cities had cleaning supplies, so more pistols were found in cities.
The first two revolvers were Colt King Cobra Ultimates with 4 inch barrels of caliber .357 Magnum. The caliber produces a large muzzle blast and quite a bit of recoil, but Malloy's powerful arms could handle the .357 Mag with one hand. Because they were in front, they were Malloy's first choice. These revolvers were fairly new; Colt had decided to resume production.
The third revolver was a Ruger Super Redhawk with a 7.5 inch barrel. Due to its longer barrel and attached 3x scope, I guessed that the .44 Magnum revolver was used to shoot at far targets.
The last was a rarity. It was a Korth Combat revolver in .357 Magnum. Willi Korth's company's revolvers were called the 'Rolls-Royces' of revolvers due to their high quality. The steel the weapon was made of was cold hammered, producing a dense steel structure. A small wheel was also attached to the trigger bar instead of a cam. The whole weapon was machined out of massive steel. The weapon would cost at least $800000 on the legal market. Since it has the shortest barrel, I guessed that it was the back-up gun.
I looked up.
"Gee, Tony, you sure you're here to protect and serve? These are real man-killers."
"Well...the lawbreakers never said they wanted to lay down their guns, so I figured that I have to shoot them with real powerful bullets...look out!" He reached for his Colts.
I spun around, drawing my S & W revolver at the same time.
A criminal was at the doorway, with a Smith and Wesson Model 66 revolver in high carry. The revolver normally found in the hands of sport shooters here...but one never knows. I aimed my revolver at the miscreant's face, making sure that he could see the yawning hole that was the muzzle.
"Do I have five rounds, or do I have six rounds? Doesn't matter, what with this being a Smith and Wesson Model 29 revolver, one of the most powerful handguns in the world, it can blow your head clean off. I've got a question for ya. Do ya feel lucky punk? Well, do ya?"
"?!" He lowered his revolver at a lightning pace, almost making it. But, 'almost' was never enough.
Doesn't matter. I pulled the trigger.
"Guess he did. Too bad he wasn't."
"...It didn't blow his head clean off. Return it to the manufacturer," Tony said. One can always depend on him for a little black humor.
"Ha ha. C'mon. Back to our little chat." We were one of the few men who could kill a man without blinking.
"Who's the stiff?"
"I dunno. Some sort of idiot hitman."
"Too bad for him. And his employers."
"Hey sheriff!" a voice called from the door just as its owner walked in. The voice belonged to a no-name criminal. He evidently didn't care about his colleague who had a massive hole in his head. He didn't care for his life either, since he was about to draw his Colt Python. I proved that theory by shooting a .44 Magnum bullet into his head.
"C'mon, boys! Let's go!" There were more gunmen outside.
Tony grabbed his guns. It was time to fight.
I reloaded. We ran out, guns ready. Tony covered my back while I covered his. I was holding my weapon in the Weaver stance while he chose the two-gun stance that I helped to develop. I needed both hands to control the kick of the .44 Magnum.
I turned right, and saw a pair of shotgun-wielding criminals waiting to shoot. I aimed and pulled the trigger once, twice, and they fell dead. I turned left, and spotted a rifleman. A shot to the face settled him. All this while, we were racing to my car parked across the street.
I heard more gunshots from behind as we ran. A bullet smashed into my armor. It pushed me back a little, but I carried on. I aimed right, and sent another .44 Magnum bullet into another outlaw's head.
We reached my car. It was directly opposite the sheriff's department. We could use it for cover, but first...
"Ghost! Stay down, but don't lean against my car!"
"Why?"
"Booby trap. Lean against it and-"
There was a loud flash, followed by a crackling sound and the smell of burnt flesh. A criminal had decided to run up to us.
"That happens!"
"Got it...get down!"
I went prone. A .357 Magnum bullet roared over my body towards an unknown target. A scream later, I got up. I deactivated the trap while Ghost provided covering fire from his twin King Cobras. He reloaded, hot smoke rising from his barrels. We all had calm, blank faces, like those of killers who could not care less about who was being killed, so long as the job was done. We were not afraid. Fear is the mind killer, and that leads to death. Dozens of bullets flew nearby, smacking into the bulletproof doors and sides. The area became a cacophony of gunshots, shouted orders, and confusion. The victor makes the least mistakes.
After deactivating the trap, I turned left. Six more Magnum rounds screamed towards new targets as less bullets pinged against the Hummer. A Tango appeared in front of me. I aimed and fired, and fired again. I reloaded when the bullets pushed the criminal down in a spray of scarlet. Smoke rose from my hot weapon. My ears were ringing slightly, and my eyes had to refocus to the lack of muzzle blasts.
And then, it was over.
"Sheriff!" The local citizenry had taken cover when the bullets started flying. A young man had popped out of the window closest to him. He almost earned a bullet for his trouble, if he did not tell the Sheriff that he was there.
"Yeah?" was his excited reply as he reloaded.
"It's Ocelot...he's back." Ocelot was a local bandit who got his kicks killing merchants and other innocents after robbing them. Just your garden- variety a bandit.
"S! Where's he?!"
"In the Eastern part of town. I heard that he's got his whole gang together."
"D! Nemesis?"
"Wait. Let's get more firepower first." We stood up.
We looked around. There were fifteen dead bodies around us. We inspected the bodies, and recovered 40 .357 Magnum bullets as well as 35 .44 Magnum bullets. We were not using the other calibers the bandits were carrying.
I opened the Hummer's cargo container.
"You want the M14 or the AKMS?"
"The M14." I tossed him the M14 and seven spare magazines. I picked up the AKMS and seven spare magazines.
"Let's go."
Chapter 12: The Cat And The Ghost
We made our way to the Eastern side of town. The area was composed of wooden huts and several tons of dust. A wide street in the middle was its main feature.
I checked the AK. It had a folding stock to allow Soviet paratroopers to carry it with ease. It was extremely reliable...but had crude sights, less- than-ideal safety switch, and not-so-great accuracy. Nonetheless, the AK earned the title of the best assault rifle in the world.
We arrived at the street. There was only one man there. It was not Ocelot, and his hand was on his revolver.
"Draw," he spoke.
The only problem was that he had his head blown off by a rifle. It belonged to someone else.
"Need a hand?" it was Malloy, Sandra, Corporal, 1254-8932-4723 Raven. She was the team sniper. She was a twenty-five-year-old nondescript blonde. She had a smoking Remington M40A1 sniper rifle in her hands. Her custom- built gunbelt had a Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolver, the gun that the gunslinger Bill Jordan (dead on October 4, 1997) designed as his ideal police officer's handgun. Her gunbelt also held eighteen .357 Magnum bullets in addition to the six speedloaders in her pockets.
"Yes."
"Yessir!"
"Let's go." I heard a noise.
"Maximum efficiency!" we spoke, just before the gunfire started.
A scofflaw did a side flip from the roof of one of the houses, blazing away with his twin Peacemakers, also known as Colt Single Action Army revolvers. We dove as the .45 Long Colt bullets flew around us.
A bullet traversed the space next to my right ear as I dived. I heard the sound it made as it whizzed by. I landed on the ground in time to hear a loud roar from behind me. I saw the aforementioned criminal's head snap back, blood and brains pouring from a head wound.
Ghost was holding the smoking gun.
"Let's end this, Sheriff!" Ocelot.
The call came from the nearby saloon whose roof served as the former station of the dead gunman. I guessed wrong. The saloon was a run-down old place that deserved to be wrecked.
A burst of muted gunfire came from the saloon windows. The air became awash with bullets. I could make out the bullets' make. They were 7.62 Russian. We dove down again.
I pointed at Ghost, and pointed at the left window. I attracted Raven's attention, and pointed at the right.
The operatives complied. I crawled towards the left side of the saloon's double doorways. Within seconds, we were ready. The gunfire stopped.
"Check if they're dead."
"NOW!"
We stood up. Ghost started pouring 7.62 NATO bullets into the saloon while Raven fired off several rounds from her revolver at the occupants. From Ghost's behavior, I knew that there were no noncombatants.
I stepped into the room, and sidestepped to the right, sweeping the area. Raven moved in while Ghost covered us from the outside.
The room was wrecked. The tables had been overturned and/or shattered by the force of the bullets. There were six corpses in the room, all gripping some sort of weapon. Ghost moved into the room.
The entrance was in front of a staircase, with twenty feet of distance. Just as Ghost went in, a figure clad in a leather coat and Stetson hat appeared. He had green, cold eyes and a scar across his face. His hair was long and dark. His face was stretched into a grin. His right hand held his preferred weapon: a Colt Single Action Army revolver in .44- 40.
It was Ocelot.
"OCELOT!" Ghost yelled. The two of them had a blood feud against each other since the time when Ocelot killed his brother and Ghost eliminated his previous gang.
"About time you showed up. Let's finish it here!"
He raised his revolver with his right hand and went into a classic one-hand shooting stance.
Ghost raised his M14 while we aimed.
There were two abnormally loud, yet muted, gunshots, one from Ocelot and one from Ghost.
"D!" Ghost said. He saw the massive .44-40 bullet fly past his left ear. Ocelot had missed by a freak chance. Ocelot was reputed to have fired one thousand shots, and every bullet hit its mark, be it man or glass bottle.
Ocelot didn't say anything. It was hard to talk when one had a missing lower jaw.
I aimed and fired a burst of three shots into Ocelot's head. I heard the passage of the bullets and the movement of the bolt as clearly as the tinkling of the casings as they hit the ground.
Ocelot's head exploded, spraying blood, brains, and bone onto the wooden staircase. He fell forward and collapsed ever so slowly into a heap. Timothy 'Ocelot' Fouke was finally dead.
"Stand down."
And then, it was over.
There was a pregnant pause. The ringing in our ears became less apparent and our eyes refocused.
"...You sure it's him? He missed."
Everybody started laughing.
After some time, I repeated my proposition. Both husband and wife agreed. I left, and made my way back to the city of evil.