Bounty Hunter

Chapter 1

The world went down the crapper a long time ago. It all happened before Joe Ballast's time, and he only cared about things that impacted him now, like who was going to try to shoot him next...

Joe crossed the crusty dirt road, and a couple passing nearby hastened to put distance between them. He paid this no heed—he was used to drawing such attention when he was working. After all, a bounty hunter in a helmet and full body armor stood out when most could barely afford a pair of shoes. However, common folk tended to overestimate their sins; they feared Joe was there for them, when the truth was that they had nothing to worry about unless they found themselves on the wrong side of someone rich enough to buy the services of a hunter.

Today's target, though, had managed to do just that.

Narrow Pass looked identical to every other one-tavern town he'd been through. The saloon was the place to go for information, and Joe was always in need of information. Fortunately, in the wastelands, there was no such thing as a no-tavern town.

He stopped in front of the dome-shaped tavern. Old pictures of Earth showed vibrant greens and blues; they must've been altered because Earth was now just three shades: rusty, dirty, and filthy.

He stepped inside and headed straight for the bar. Three men playing poker watched him, though he was careful not to look at them directly. He'd learned it was always better to ignore locals.

The bartender didn't look up from pulling a draught. "What'll ya have, buddy?"

"A beer," Joe replied.

The bartender grabbed another glass and slid it under the tap as soon as the first was full. The hunter waited, casually keeping his eye on the poker table in the mirror behind the bar. The cards were laid flat on the table—the three players' expressions said they most definitely weren't going to ask him to join in for a hand.

He was used to being on the receiving end of acidic glares. For most, the bounty hunter guilds were the closest thing to law enforcement in the wastelands, but the hunters were often barely a step above—and just as often a step below—the criminals they captured. He'd met more than a few hunters who used their licenses as an excuse to kill. But he'd met plenty of semi-decent bounty hunters as well. He placed himself somewhere in the middle, though he had to admit to himself that was being generous.

The bartender set the beer down and gave Joe a once over. He scowled and pulled the beer away. "Sorry, we're all out of beer."

"Oh really?" Joe eyed the one he'd just set behind him.

The bartender nodded toward the poker table. "That's for one of them."

"Then I'll take a whiskey," Joe said.

"We're out of that, too."

"Then I'll take whatever you've got."

"We're all out of everything. You might want to check the next town over..." The bartender crossed his arms over his chest. He squinted his gaze on the nameplate emblazoned on the front of Joe's armor. "Havoc."

Joe heard the chairs slide away from the poker table. He dropped one hand to his holster. With the other, he pulled out a picture of his target and slid it across the bar with a coin. "I'm looking for someone."

"You guys always are," the bartender said with ice hanging from each word.

"This particular someone goes by the name of Edward Sikes. He's been seen at this establishment more than once in the past week."

The bartender glanced down at the picture. Recognition flickered in his eyes, but he shut it down fast. "Sorry, I can't help ya. I've never seen that fella before in my life."

Joe set another coin on top of the first and tapped them. "You sure about that? Sometimes folks don't recognize someone until they recognize someone."

The man's eyes returned to the picture.

A hand grabbed the hunter's shoulder.

Joe didn't turn around. "I just polished that, and sure dislike getting fingerprints on it, so I'd remove that hand if you want to keep it, friend."

The hand stayed. "A hunter with a red cape who went by the name of Havoc took my brother four months back. You remember Nate Gillett?"

"Nope. Can't say I do. Should I?"

Joe did remember: Gillett was an alcoholic and a wife-beater. It was one of those tickets the hunter would've preferred to bring in dead, except that the dead only brought half-price.

"Nate's innocent, yet he's still stuck in that stink hole called a prison camp down in Cavil."

Joe chuckled. "Every person I have a ticket for has said they're innocent. Most are liars. Like your brother."

He heard the sounds of blasters being pulled from their holsters. Being a bounty hunter was like being a rabbit caught in a den of wolves, only this rabbit had armor and a blaster.

The grip on his shoulder tightened and swung him around. As Joe spun, he brought up his own blaster and fired the instant he faced the Gillett brother. The energy beam shot right through the center of the man's chest; he was dead before his brain even registered that he'd been shot. The other two men seemed surprised, and Joe burned holes through their chests before either man could reclaim his senses and fire.

Some folks would call Joe a murderer for killing men who hadn't fired and maybe never would've. As his war buddies used to say, a shot in time saves nine...or at least one in this case, with that one being Joe. He'd much rather have people think poorly of him than be dead.

He turned and set his blaster on the bar, barrel pointing at the bartender, whose eyes had gone wide with fear.

"Let's try this again. Where is he?" Joe tapped the picture.

The bartender's arm seemed like it weighed a hundred pounds considering how he struggled to raise it. He pointed a shaky finger to the back hallway. "K-kitchen."

"There. Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Joe pocketed the picture. He could've taken the coins back, the bartender wouldn't have stopped him, but Joe left the credits, considering the business he'd just lost. People didn't like to socialize around dead bodies unless they were at a funeral, though Joe never understood the rationale behind that. Dead was dead in his book.

He took cautious, deliberate steps down the hallway. Chances were, his target had heard the commotion—it hadn't been much of a "fight"—and taken off running. But, approaching the kitchen brought music, a folksy dance tune with heavy drums to help keep the beat. A man was singing along to the words, though it was more like he was punishing the air with his vocal cords.

Joe grimaced. What was it about the worst singers being the loudest? His target deserved to be arrested if for no other reason than assault to public ears.

Joe slowed to a stop before the open doorway. He listened but could only make out the sounds of one person working. Holding his blaster at the ready, he rushed through the doorway and into the kitchen. The lone man had his back to him and continued to sing/yodel/rap as he peeled potatoes.

Joe took several steps closer before he spoke, keeping his blaster leveled on his target. "Edward Sikes, I have a ticket for your arrest."

The man turned, saw Joe, and let out an "Eep!"

He launched a potato at Joe. Joe ducked. "Stop that!"

Sikes didn't.