A gentle zephyr stirred the golden sands of Gunsmoke, rustling through the reeds. Night had fallen an hour ago, but Meryl Stryfe could still make out the thunderheads piling in the west, black against the dark night sky. Although the storm was about a week away, the air already seemed heavy and electric.
Meryl sighed and leaned over the porch balustrade. According to the clock on the mantle, she should have left for work five minutes ago. At first, she'd thought her job at Bernadelli Insurance Company would be enough to make ends meet, but in the end she'd had to take up a second job, working as a waitress in the Diner across town. The hours were ungodly and the pay left something to be desired–but it would hold her over until she had enough money to blow this town once and for all.
Meryl pushed off the banister and stepped into the cobblestone street, her eyes lingering over the farmhouses she passed. The windows were lashed shut, the houses dark. Less than a month ago, this street had been cheerfully lit and bustling. Then the Desperados had decided to make October City their home, and things had changed. Littered beer cans and cigarette butts appeared on the once-clean streets. The bars were clogged with gang members, mobsters; things only got worse. The Desperados were a nasty gang of rummies and thugs, and October's residents had quickly holed themselves up at home, only leaving when necessary.
Meryl could hear and smell the diner before she saw it: it stank of stale beer, ammonia, and testosterone. She hated it, from the cheesy saloon doors to the cheap Formica tables. But she almost had enough to leave town for good. When the sand steamer came in two months, Meryl would be on it, shaking the dust from October off her feet.
She paused before the swinging half-doors and steeled herself. There was a full crowd tonight, and she judged that two-thirds were already drunk. Meryl pushed back a shock of dark hair, took a deep breath, and entered the saloon. The smell of unwashed bodies and vomit hit her like a brick wall, and she halted until a wave of nausea had passed. Doing her best to ignore the wolf whistles and drunken laughter, she walked behind the counter. She could feel the hungry gaze of the Desperados and let her hand rest on the holster sewn into her coat. She wouldn't take chances.
"Meryl!" A voice hissed at her. Meryl glanced up to see Jane, a scowl set on her haggard-looking face. "Meryl, where have you been? Your shift started twenty minutes ago!"
"Sorry," she replied, offering no explanation.
"Take the bar," Jane said. "I'll service tables tonight."
With an inward groan, Meryl stepped behind the counter, where a line of gangsters had gathered.
"Hey, Sugar!" A flabby, tattooed gangster was hunkered over the bar. He had a mullet haircut that probably hadn't been washed for weeks and a bull ring through his nose. The guy was a frequenter, called himself "Red Jenkins". Meryl had never bothered to ask how Jenkins got his name, but she secretly thought it fitting because the man's face was always a bright shade of red.
"Hey, Red," Meryl said with considerably less enthusiasm. Red flicked his tongue suggestively and Meryl fought hard to keep her temper. "What do you want tonight, Red? A screwdriver?"
"Make it sweet, Sugar." Meryl mixed the drink strong, hoping it would take some of the fight out of the gangster. She placed it on the counter before Jenkins and watched with mixed disgust and fascination as he tossed it back, spilling most down his chin.
"Hey, waitress! A shot of whiskey!"
"Make that two!"
"I'll take a scotch and soda."
Meryl began mixing the drinks as quickly as they were called out, setting the alcohol on the counter. The smoke inside the small diner was hanging like fog in the air, and Meryl tried to breathe through her mouth. She wiped away beads of perspiration with the back of her hand. The diner was too damn hot–all these people thronged together on a scorching summer night. It was like a furnace. She took a shuddering breath and paused for moment, leaning her small frame against the kitchen doorjamb.
"Are you deaf!" Thundered Red. "I said, I want another drink. Make it stiff!"
Meryl's temper was dangerously close to boiling over. "Here!" She cried, slamming the entire supply of vodka on the bar. "Knock yourself out." She was aware that the diner had gone deathly quiet, but she just didn't care. Her blood was thrumming in her ears, and she was ready for a good fight.
"I don't like that tone you're taking with me, Sugar," Red growled through clenched teeth. Meryl's heart beat faster. Red was known for violent outbursts. Her hands went cold, and she wondered how well her twin derringers would hold up against a mob of armed Desperados.
"Say you're sorry," he said in the same, low tone. Meryl opened her mouth, but couldn't bring the words up. Stubbornness won out over common sense. She stared at him levelly for a few moments, then turned to leave.
"I'm not finished!" Boomed Red. With surprising speed, he grabbed her wrist tightly in one meaty hand. Meryl felt a stab of panic as the bones ground together. Red's face had deepened to a dark purple and a vein was pulsing in his forehead.
"Say you're sorry," he repeated. The diner waited with bated breath, and Meryl could see several men's hands drift toward their guns. Without warning, Red's grip tightened on her wrist, sending shooting pains up her arm.
"Let go of me!" Meryl tried not to let the pain seep into her voice, tried to sound strong. She was surprised when her demand came out more like a plea. Red's lips curved up into a malicious smile, and sweat quivered at his pallet. Suddenly, Meryl wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk of his face. The pressure inside was building, building, until she couldn't take it anymore. She unsnapped the holster in her coat.
"I'm warning you." Her voice was steadier now, in control.
"What you gonna do, Sugar?" Leered Red.
Before she could stop herself, Meryl whisked the gun from its pocket, placing the steel muzzle against his forehead. "This," she said coldly. Then she fired.
The gunshot echoed doubly loud in the stunned diner. For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. Meryl's finger slackened on the trigger, her breathing ragged and uneven. She tried to steady herself, slow her breathing. She was going to hyperventilate.
The adrenaline that had surged through her veins was quickly fading and reality was beginning to set in. She had killed a man. Not just any man–Red Jenkins. A Desperado. With this new thought, Meryl's eyes darted to the Desperados. Their eyes were dull, uncomprehending. Hell, she couldn't believe it herself. A lean, sinewy man finally stirred. His nostrils flared, eyes narrowed.
"You," he breathed, voice husky from years of unfiltered smoke. The room was coming alive again. Gangsters were standing, a mix of shock and pure animalistic rage on their faces. Meryl felt a flutter of despair as the gang blocked the door. With a roar, one man raised his sawn-off shotgun and took careful aim.
"No!" Cried the sinewy man. He raised a hand to stop them. Meryl's brain was going 100 mph as she tried to remember the lean man's name. John something. John Rot. Why can't these people have normal names? Meryl wondered briefly. Rot reached into his pocket a withdrew a long, evil-looking knife. "Let's have some fun first."
Meryl's stomach lurched. She dropped the one-shot derringer and drew out its twin. She knew she couldn't stop them all with one bullet. She needed something else.
"She's got a gun," someone murmured.
"It's a derringer," spat Rot. "It only has one shot."
"Yes," Meryl shouted, aware of the desperation in her voice. "But who's willing to take the risk? This bullet could be for any one of you. Who wants to try first?"
The Desperados faltered, and Meryl felt a moment of relief, until one man yelled: "SHE KILLED RED JENKINS!"
"Get her!"
The men were all advancing at once. Meryl aimed the gun at one man, then another. Her hand was shaking badly. She couldn't seem to get it to cooperate. She realized she couldn't bring herself to kill another man, anyway. With sudden resolve, Meryl raised the gun and fired her last shot. The plaster ceiling was cheap, she knew, and she hoped the small bullet would be enough to take it down. The ceiling groaned, chunks of plaster and clouds of white dust spewing over the Desperados. It wasn't much, but it was the diversion she needed. Meryl darted into the kitchen, using the dust from the ceiling, the smoke, and the gunpowder as a smokescreen.
The kitchen was little more than a glorified closet, and at 6' by 6', it only had room to accommodate one person at a time. Set into the far wall was a window that hadn't been opened since sometime in the last decade. She could tell she didn't have much time. Already, the buzz of the crowd had faded into restrained silence.
"Where did she go?"
"Where do you think, fool! Through that door."
A bullet tore through the wall, nicking her cheekbone slightly. Shit. They're firing through the wall. Meryl took a deep breath, then launched herself at the window. Despite the low-quality doors, walls, and ceilings, the window was surprisingly strong. It was a double-pane and Meryl hit the glass painfully. Her head throbbed from where she'd hit it against the window, and she shook her head to clear the thoughts. She backed up, and ran at the window again, bracing herself for the impact this time. A fracture appeared in the perfect glass. She tested, pushed it, but it wasn't large enough. From the angry hum of the Desperados, Meryl guessed they had regrouped and were coming after her. With a cry, she flung herself at the window, astonished when it gave way and she found herself lying among shards of glass in the alley outside. She tried to stand up, then swayed dangerously, her stomach pitching. For a moment, her vision blackened, then returned. There was a whiz overhead and a shower of brick fell on her. Fighting back the nausea, Meryl staggered unevenly to her feet and looked around wildly. The Desperados poured from the swinging saloon doors like an angered cloud of wasps. Down the street was her house. If she could make it there...then what? They would leave her alone? The triumph of her escape from the diner quickly bled away. She would be an obvious target on the open street.
Meryl's eyes fell on Mr. Harris' thomas, tethered to the post outside his house. "Sorry, Mr. Harris," Meryl murmured as she fumbled with the knot. Her heart was beating so painfully, she was afraid she might have a heart attack right there in the road. The reins slipped loose from the post and Meryl mounted the Thomas urging it onward, away from the Desperados, toward the desert. The lifeless desert.