- Books, Literature, and Writing»
- Commercial & Creative Writing»
- Creative Writing
Go Alone. (Chapter One- Part One)
Fact is some people need to die
Adam Glover used to love riding his horse. Long hours galloping under the blazing desert sun, man and horse, brothers, seamlessly and effortlessly gliding over the sand as one. Some days, after a long day at work, he and Haley, his wife would ride down to the river. They would swim and frolic like they were heartsick teenagers again. And when they got too tired, they would lie out in the field and count the stars, wondering what mystical force brought them together...
Those were the good days.
And the good days were gone.
The man who once answered to Adam trotted through the latest on a long list of nameless towns. Black hat tipped down to conceal his identity, his cold, dead glaze. Growing up he had been a fan of zombies and stories of the undead. He was certain the ghosts and ghouls underneath his bed felt much more alive than this.
The gunslinger didn't feel much anymore. Only the void, and a desperate thirst for revenge.
He did not feel love for his late wife, nor the memories of his three children. He didn't feel pain, or sorrow. He didn't even feel a need to protect himself... For he had forgotten who he was.
If he could have felt anything, it would be a sense of appreciation, of admiration for his loyal horse, a Friesian named George. George was all he had left of his previous life, and he had carried him from town to town.
So far, the gunslinger had only found dead ends, ghosts of leads, the shadows of the monsters who ruined his life.
But this town was different. This town had answers. He could feel it in the wind, he could feel it in the sand crunching underneath his boots.
His cold hazel eyes, bloodshot from another sleepless night, scoured the road ahead of him.
Emotionally vacant or not, he had tried to get some rest, setting up camp the night before. But the soft earth below him brought no comfort, and the roaring fire brought no warmth. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw....
He saw family die.
He saw his farm burned down.
He saw the men....
There had been six of them. Six strong, scruffy desperadoes. He could make out their features perfectly... Almost.
Each had a defining feature, a feature that shined brightly in his memories like a shooting star. The man with the scar across his face, the man with the ripped hat, the man with slanted eyes, the man with snakeskin boots, the man with the full red beard, and...
The last man, the man who killed his wife...
The gunslinger couldn't recall anything about the last man. He was mysterious, shrouded in darkness.
He shook his head. If he found the first five, one of them would lead him to his target.
Yes, emotionally vacant or not, he still had needs, and a long trip through the desert left him parched, so he trotted to the local saloon. And it was there, resting on the horse tied next to George, that he saw it.
The ripped hat.