The Rifleman - Ch.23 (Patreon)

Chapter 23

Ready, Set…

Looking out over the expanse of white sand in front of him, Wesley had to admit it was damn near impossible to see the safe route, but he trusted the locals knew it well enough to tell the difference. 

His guide led him off to one side and rechecked his notes before confirming that this was the place and that the city did not claim the tile.

Wes walked into the middle of the hex and thought about activating his My Domain skill. 

Immediately, a set of chalky lines stretched out from beneath his feet, forming the plans for the safe room he had encountered in the Training Dungeon. He was about to accept it when he looked down and saw the chalk shift slightly, showing the same room but set into the ground this time. A domed roof on the top that would barely show over the sands around it and a single set of stairs going down and into it.

“Bunker mode,” Wesley muttered to himself.

“Is it suitable?” the guide called.

“My Domain,” Wesley intoned the word and felt a tug that pulled something from him; the Influence was his guess. The Hex began to ripple and change in a wave. When it passed, he was standing on the top of the domed roof of his very own safe room. A metal grate on one side let out the smoke from the fire that was apparently already burning within. “Want to have a look?” Wes asked the stunned guide.

The inside was an almost exact copy of the room where he first learned the skill, complete with tables, a fountain, and everything else. Even the furs were there. The only real change was that it was now made out of the same white stone as the cliffs, almost making it disappear within the landscape.

“Perfect,” the guide beamed. “It will take me four hours or so to get the supplies and people ready and lead them here. Do you wish to rest here or return with me?”

“I think I’ll take a rest,” Wesley said with a grin.

“Sir.” The guide actually saluted, slamming a fist against his chest before heading off.

The moment the guide was gone, Wesley cast My Shield at the entrance, hoping to at least block it off a bit while he slept. The spell worked, but instead of a shield, an armored door appeared. Wesley layered a couple more casts onto the door, making it grow in thickness substantially, and then crawled into the nearest alcove, dead to the world in seconds.

When he woke a few hours later, all was still quiet outside. Wes dropped one of the copper tubs under the fountain and got to work. He repaired his gear again, the final march up that road on the third floor of the dungeon having left it a little tattered, before washing himself and all his gear and setting it to dry in front of the roaring fire. It seemed self-sustaining as the fire never seemed to eat any of the wood from which it emerged.

The same seemed to be true for the torches burning on the walls.

He got to work on another of his simple stews, using a lot of his supplies in the process as he cooked for as many as he could. If nothing else, it could be kept cooking for the next few days, a constant supply of food for those who needed it. He could top it up as required, at least until his supplies ran out. 

Once he was dressed again, he dropped the shields on the door and climbed the steps to ground level.

Wes knew the moment he left the hex he had claimed, feeling a slight connection to it. At least if he ever got lost, this would always ensure he could find his way back. The lights of the town were visible from here, as was a small group of people working their way up to his spot, a cart following along behind.

Wes shot a single charge of Improved Flare into the sky, the area lighting up and guiding them to him.

“You Lancaster?” A man in the uniform of the town guards asked.

“That’s me,” Wesley replied. “I have food ready if you lot are hungry.”

“Now, see,” the woman behind the leader smiled. “That’s just exactly what I wanted to hear.” She was holding what appeared to be a pike over her shoulder. It was strange to see because pikes were typically something you saw in groups, at least as far as he remembered from history class.

“This way,” Wesley led them over to his domain, and they immediately set about eating. Nine of them were apparently staying here, and three more guards were just delivering supplies. And deliver they did.

Once they had gotten bowls and stuff from their packs, the nine dug in with gusto, leaving the grumbling guards to unload barrels, crates, and even a few bundles of cloth and leather. Everything found a place somehow, and Wesley made sure to give each of them a bowl of stew before they headed back again, which seemed to win him a few brownie points with the guards. 

The last bowl he saved for himself, promising everyone he would be making more soon. He noticed the husband and wife blacksmith team from his travels were in the group as he got everybody settled. 

“Ten people, eight bunks,” Sara, the pike wielder he had spoken to earlier, said as she sat back from her bowl. “We need to take turns.”

“I already slept,” Wesley told them. 

“We’ll share,” the female blacksmith said. “I’m Maggie, but everyone calls me Maggs. That’s my husband, Neil.”

“Nice,” Sara burped. “Can we get some rack time, Cap?”

“We need someone on watch,” the Captain said to Wesley. “Can you fight at all?”

“I’ll take watch,” Wesley said with a shrug. “If anything tries to eat me, you’ll know when I fire,” He gestured with his rifle, “This thing’s not quiet.”

“You heard the man; get some sleep,” the captain offered his hand to Wes as the others scrambled for beds. “Peterson, Captain, and Senior Guard to this little group.”

“Wes Lancaster, Rifleman,” Wes said. “You guys get some rest. I’ll shield the door before I leave.”

//////////////

The next few hours were pretty quiet, with the only sounds coming from a brief argument over someone snoring quietly from down in the place Wes was starting to think of as his ‘bunker.’

Sitting in the dark night, the bunker behind him so it didn’t ruin his night vision, Wesley had plenty of time to wonder what things would have been like right now if things had worked out with the Wyrd Watchmen, not to mention a hundred other small changes he wished it was possible to go back in time to make. 

Someone had once told him that a good life was one without regrets, but Wesley Lancaster had more than a few. He consoled himself with the thought that the only way to live without regrets was never to try anything at all, and even then, you probably ended up regretting not doing more.

His current train of thought was what would have happened if he had mentioned Gem’s name right at the start. He would have had a completely different time in the dungeon, and while it would still end with him stuck here during the invasion, it would be with a team around him that Wesley really trusted. 

Still, it made no difference now. What was done was done. 

“Mind some company?” A voice whispered as a figure climbed the bunker stairs.

“Not at all,” Wesley asked. “Sleep well?”

“Very, thank you.” The voice was female, but the figure was a little confusing. Generally speaking, she looked human but had no ears, reptilian eyes, clawed fingers, a tail, and scales that showed faintly against her skin. Her hips and back held a strange collection of mismatched swords. “How has it been?”

“Quiet,” Wesley said, then introduced himself, remembering his manners.

“Ben’Ta,” the woman bowed slightly. “Drafted to this world of horrors a few years ago.”

“I’ve been here less than a year,” Wesley said with a smile. “But long enough to hate it.”

She laughed softly. “As do we all who are drafted. As do we all.” Ben’Ta looked him over. “Your gear is not of the Brackta, so I suspect we are from different worlds.” Her head whipped around at the same time he heard the noise. 

It was a soft, whispery noise, like sand shifting, but in the quiet of the night, it seemed loud. 

They both scanned the area, seeing nothing in the darkness.

Well, he could fix that…

“Summoning light,” Wesley warned Ben’Ta, giving her time to shade her eyes before he cast Improved Flare.

Three large snakes were slithering over the sand toward the bunker. They were well away as yet, but they seemed unaffected by the quicksand. Bands of color ran down them, the colors a clear indication of venom, but each was larger than a python. 

All three heads rose to follow the Flare as it traveled overhead, their mouths opening and large fangs showing as they hissed. 

“Can your slug thrower reach them there?” Ben’Ta asked.

“Yes,” Wesley raised his rifle as he dropped to one knee. 

“Wait,” Ben’Ta cautioned. “Let them get a little closer.”

“Why?” Wes asked, nervously watching them approach.

“Because the enemy will use the bodies to estimate your range. It is nice for them to be wrong.” Ben’Ta smiled. “Do not worry; I can end them if they get too close.”

Wesley waited for a few more seconds, still wanting to get all three if he could. 

“Now,” Ben’Ta said quietly.

Wesley released another Improved Flare, waiting for the snakes to open their mouths in a hiss once more. He fired, the first shot sailing through the snake’s open mouth and shattering the skull. The brains flew onto the second snake, which dropped to the sand a second before he could fire again. Wes corrected his aim, catching it through the neck, severing the head completely. The third snake dodged his first shot, but the second was dead on target, the head disappearing in a spray of blood. 

Whatever they had been, they were not challenging. 

“Impressive for such a rudimentary weapon,” Ben’ta commented, “though I am hardly one to comment.” She gestured to her swords. “A Sword Thrower, of all things.”

“You, uh, throw them?” Wesley asked carefully.

“I threw the plasma knife I was holding at the first thing to attack me within seconds of being drafted.” She sighed. 

“Ah, I see,” Wesley gave her a sympathetic smile. 

“One second,” She went over and yelled down into the bunker, “Clear!”

“Took you long enough,” Peterson grumbled. “Play grab ass on your own time.”

“Tail, Captain,” Ben’Ta said with a smirk. “It would be grab-tail in my case.”

The shots woke up pretty much everyone, and Wesley got to work sorting through the supplies he had been given. One whole barrel was full of dried meats, while a crate held actual fresh vegetables. He held them almost reverentially, almost able to smell the vitamins.

His body had been craving something fresh for a while now. 

Another of the crates held what appeared to be some kind of biscuit. He tried one, finding it both salty and sweet, with a taste almost like a caramel mixed with a vanilla. What he was really hoping for was some eggs, but there was nothing like that.

He did find a massive piece of cured pork belly from one of the giant boars, he assumed. 

“Anyone got a really sharp knife?” Wesley asked the group. 

“You should really have one of those out here,” Peterson noted.

“His broke,” Maggs replied. “We are going to try and fix it today.”

“How’d you break a knife?” The man asking had simply been identified to him as ‘Mental,’ and he looked it. His armor was mismatched, but the weapon he constantly fiddled with was probably the source of his name. The Guard had a complicated creation that had perhaps once been a truncheon. Now, it sported so many nails, blades, and, in one case, an axe head on the shaft that it was basically a blender on a stick. 

“Stone Golem,” Wesley replied.

“Sure, stab a Golem,” he muttered. “And they call me Mental.”

“Here,” A knife was tossed his way. Thanks to his high stats, the knife ended up in his hand instead of his chest, but it was a close thing. “Whoops.”

The almost accidental murderer was the Marksman of the group. The night before, all he had seen of her was black hair, a hooded cloak with arrows, and a bow on the back. Now, the hood was pushed back, and her hair was… everywhere. The woman seemed to shed hair for a full-time job, but that might be because it was so long. She barely needed to bother with the cloak; it was that long. She kind of reminded him of ‘Cousin It,’ but with an apparent tendency to throw knives.

“Split, stop trying to kill our host,” Peterson groaned.

“What? I thought he would have, like, knife skills. Ya know?”

Wesley looked at her warily and went back to his plan, shaving off very thin strips of the pork belly. It wasn’t bacon, but it was the next best thing. He got his frying pan out, started cooking the ‘bacon’ in some fat he cut from the belly, and toasted some bread in front of the fire. 

All of a sudden, people were all hungry… go figure. 

After breakfast, they organized everything properly. One of the tables was given over to an Alchemist named Sling Hand Ben for no reason he could see. His hands looked completely normal if a little stained from all the chemicals. They gave him the table nearest the vent. 

Neil and Maggie moved one of the tables aside, summoning a small forge and anvil from their skills. 

He took the table and pushed it together with the others, creating one long repair bench against one wall. He piled the repair leathers, scraps, and metals on one end, leaving the rest of it clear, just in case anyone needed anything repaired.

Wesley then joined the six-man squad on a patrol of the area, meeting their healer, a monk named Boone, at the same time. 

They walked the safe route through the sands, going clear of the quicksand and scouting for any sign of enemy forces in the area between the huge cliff walls that bracketed the zone. After three hours, all they had seen was a few of those snakes, but none of them posed a threat, being easily dispatched.

It was not even necessary for him to use his rifle the entire time due to a little competition between Split and Ben’Ta to see who could kill the most.

The Captain decided to take the long way back, getting a good look at the edges of the sands at the same time. 

It was into the sixth hour when Split cocked her head to one side and held up a hand. She had been walking point, scouting the land ahead while the others followed, but she gestured for everyone to get down and began to crawl forward. 

The squad followed, with Wesley bringing up the rear. 

A small gorge showed itself a few meters ahead and inside the wide gouge into the land were almost fifty men and wolves. The men themselves were all partially transformed into the very wolves that accompanied them, but they were clearly human or something like it before that began. Nevertheless, they were impressively well organized. Not beast-like at all. A row of tents were erected along the base of the far wall, with the armored wolf-men training in a courtyard in front that had been cleared for that purpose. An awning was set up beside it, with two figures leaning over a map. Three more were building what appeared to be some kind of watchtower at one end of the gorge. 

The squad pulled back, getting some distance before they decided what to do.

“That is a hunting squad,” Sara said the moment they could talk.

“What is that?” Wesley asked. “Besides the obvious.”

“They hunt down any NPCs not already in the town or other cover, run them down, then feed on them,” Boone said with an expression of disgust. 

“Definitely a Player Faction then,” Wesley sighed. 

Well, here it was—the moment he had been dreading. This was no dungeon, with creatures summoned from nothing to be killed. Those were people down there. Some of them might have been drafted, just like him. What they were doing now was a different matter, but he had to at least acknowledge that to himself before he went on. Real. Living. People. 

His answer was, obviously, do not kill. That was his default choice, always.

Of course, that would mean they were able to kill other people, hunt them down, and then kill and possibly eat them.

Wesley might not know those people, might never meet them, or even hear about them, but if he walked away now, he was helping those wolf-men kill them, just the same. A hundred thoughts swirled in his mind as he listened to the squad talk, but in the end, it came down to one thing. 

He would kill to protect people if he had to, and somehow, he doubted this lot would just go away if he asked nicely. 

“Any way this goes,” Peterson was saying, “This is not going to end well. The moment we hit that gorge, they will be on us.”

“Can we use that?” Wesley asked. “I mean, it should slow down their numbers, right?”

“Sure, but they will overwhelm us eventually,” Sara countered. “Plus, they can flank us easily.”

“What about if we block one side? Knock that tower down somehow.” Wesley thought out loud. “Then we have two ranged here on the edge, firing down into the place; Ben’Ta can cover the melee fighters, boxing everyone in, while me and Split thin the numbers.” 

“I can take down the tower,” Sara said with a grin. “But I might need someone to cover my retreat.”

“My gun’s loud,” Wesley said honestly, “They should be distracted, especially if my other plan works.”

“If it works, they are trapped in there,” Peterson said. “And if it doesn’t, well, we won’t be any deader than if we tried it another way.” He nodded to Wesley. “Rifleman Lancaster, we will attack on your first shot.”