The Sheriff 3

  Sheriff Duke, Book Three

  M.R. Forbes

  Published by Quirky Algorithms

  Seattle, Washington

  This novel is a work of fiction and a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Quirky Algorithms

  All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration by Geronimo Ribaya

  Edited by Merrylee Lanehart

  1

  Marcus

  Marcus felt certain he was going to die.

  The unbearable pain from his shoulder made it difficult to see straight, as bursts of white hot fire flashed across his field of vision, obscuring the garbage and rubble-strewn road ahead. The hovertrike he had stolen managed the uneven terrain with ease, smoothly passing over the chunks of rock, broken pavement, vegetation and other debris in his path. But there were other larger objects arranged around the roadway. Rusted frames of ancient cars, larger chunks of concrete barriers, dumpsters, and other obstacles. With only one hand to steer he barely managed to guide the trike away from collisions on multiple occasions.

  He couldn’t afford to stop or slow. His left arm hung from his body by muscle and sinew. The entire area where the alien bullet had exploded was shredded and bloody. Sheriff Hayden grepping Duke. Son of a bitch. Jade had warned him about the Sheriff. Told him how fast, precise, and dangerous he was. Marcus believed it, but he also believed he was faster and more precise.

  And he had hit him, damn it. Center mass. A perfect shot. He hadn’t lost the duel. In fact, he had probably won. There was no way the Sheriff had recovered from the wound. No. Grepping. Way.

  He smiled despite his agony. He had done it, hadn’t he? He had killed the Sheriff. Him. Straight up, in a fair fight. Another sharp pain from his arm and a wave of dizziness stole his elation. Or maybe they had killed each other. Maybe in the end, the duel had turned out a draw.

  Marcus was almost okay with that. What more could he ask for at the close of his life than killing the legendary Sheriff? The trouble with that; he wasn’t ready to die. Not after he had only recently escaped six years in a cell. When he had just gotten free of the damn Custodians and their plot to bring a new war to Earth. He had gotten one night of freedom between Harvest and Jade. He wanted more.

  He didn’t know if he would get it. He was becoming more lightheaded, and he cursed as he nearly steered the hovertrike into the side of an old bus, turning it away at the last second. It bounced roughly over a larger chunk of rock and he nearly lost control of it.

  He couldn’t afford to lose much more blood.

  But what the hell was he supposed to do? He didn’t even know which direction he was going, blindly following any road that headed west, away from Houston, Sheriff Duke and Ruger’s army. Getting caught by the soldiers would mean his certain death.

  That’s why he had fled before making sure the Sheriff was dead. He knew instinctively how bad the wound to his arm was, compounded by the second round that had left a deep score in his cheek, nearly slicing through his jaw. He knew he was in bad shape, critically injured and he needed to go somewhere, anywhere if he would have even the slightest odds of survival. Houston wasn’t a sanctuary. Neither was anywhere to the east where the Sheriff had already left his mark. The downside to killing a legend. Sheriff Duke’s admirers would brand him enemy number one. If they knew who he was, they would never leave him in peace.

  Considering his condition, he wasn’t sure it had been worth it. If any of it had been worth the outcome, from the moment he jumped Jade’s squad near the beach. He could have run from that conflict, escaped deeper into the city under the cover of darkness. He had chosen to confront them instead. He wouldn’t be here—now—in dire need of help if he hadn’t.

  Maybe he had merely delayed the inevitable by running. Too much blood loss. Too much pain. Too much to endure. He was getting weaker, the trike veering out of control and off the roadway as his head slumped forward. He caught sight of a wall ahead just in time to cut the throttle back and bring the trike to a stop only a few inches before hitting it. He sat there staring at the barrier, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. Where was he again?

  Looking around, everything was unfamiliar. Surreal. The world slowed around him, head spinning. He had to keep going. He reversed the trike, backing away and pointing himself to the road again. This wouldn’t do. He glanced over at his damaged arm. He was a survivor. He needed to survive.

  Climbing off the trike, Marcus stumbled over to the nearest building, moving along its side until he came to a metal door, open and crooked on its hinges. He stumbled inside, into a back stairwell, climbing it up to the first floor. It was an apartment building, he realized as he moved into the hallway. Empty and silent, save for a few rats who scurried away at his approach. He made it to the first door. Locked. Second. Locked. Third. Open. He practically fell through the doorway, stopping himself by planting his good hand on the arm of an old sofa, the impact throwing up a cloud of dust.

  “Shit,” he cursed, trying to turn his wound away from the dust even as it bit into his open cheek, the dirt stinging the damage. “Damn it.”

  Marcus stood and made his way to a kitchen through the door behind the sofa. He tried the water. None. No surprise there, though he had been hopeful. He shuffled out and across to the unit’s bedroom. A corpse was laid out across the bed, legs dangling from the edge, reduced to only a skeleton. Its ribs had scores in them, marking the person as a trife victim.

  Marcus opened the closet, grabbing the first clothing he found. He could hardly believe his luck that this building hadn’t been scavenged. He had to be close to where a trife nest had once rested. It was the only explanation that made sense.

  He tossed the clothes onto the bed next to the skeleton, bringing part of the pile back into the kitchen, fighting waves of dizziness. Using his good arm and his teeth, he fashioned a tourniquet around his damaged arm, trying to slow the bleeding. Then he reached down and removed a combat knife from around his calf, placing it on the counter. The next part would be the hardest, and Marcus wasn’t sure he could remain conscious long enough to complete the task. Gritting his teeth, he used his good hand to lift his barely-attached arm onto the counter, lowering himself to keep it level, balancing it there while he picked up another bit of clothing and shoved it in his mouth.

  Then he lifted the knife.

  Biting down hard on the clothing, he pressed the blade to his arm, slicing through the small bit of muscle and flesh still holding it to the rest of his body, severing it completely.

  His vision faded and returned, the pain nearly unbearable. Marcus quickly worked to slip out of his combat armor. He wouldn’t be able to put enough pressure on the wound past the thick plates of the uniform. Thankfully, he found it easier than expected to shrug out of the top half of the armor, and he used his good arm and legs to pull it off the rest of the way, leaving him in his underwear. From there, he put pressure on the remaining stump, using the clothing he had brought in from the bedroom to create a dressing. His eyes watered from the pain. His heart pounded. He didn’t know how long he would last in this condition, but it had to be better than bleeding out completely.

  He lowered himself to the floor, keeping his hand pressed hard against the wound, putting pressure on it. Eyes closed, teeth still clenched down on the wad in his mouth, he considered what to do next, assuming he survived. He had already killed Sheriff Duke. In fact, it had been a lot easier to do than he had ever expected. He needed a new challenge. Another accomplishment to cement his place in legend. If Sheriff Duke could become famous, so could he. Famous or infamous, it didn’t matter which to him.

  He didn’t want to die like this.

  Not before he made sure that when he did pass on from this life, everyone would remember his name.

  2

  Marcus

  A part of Marcus was surprised when he woke up again. Still alive.

  He had a constant, throbbing pain in the small stump that had once been his arm. The blood had seeped through the cloth dressings, drying there and leaving him nervous about removing them to swap them out. He didn’t have a choice. Without water, there was little chance he could keep the wound from becoming infected.

  He had survived the initial damage. Now it was a race against time. He had to get to someone who could help him before the wound festered. Before it finished the job Sheriff Duke had already started.

  Marcus used the counter to pull himself to his feet, purposely avoiding looking at his limb still resting nearby, already decaying, the smell nearly causing him to vomit. He left the knife there too, picking up his combat armor and returning to the bedroom. He untied the tourniquet and carefully pulled the dressing away from his stump, wincing as the dry blood adhering it to his body tore away. If he could have, he would have cleaned the wound, but failing that he replaced the dressing, noticing only a small volume of blood trickling out where the scabbing had broken. A good sign. He re-tied the tourniquet with fresh scraps of cloth before attempting to tackle the combat armor. He wanted to put it back on, more challenging with one hand than taking it off.

  He laid it out on the bed in front of the old corpse, positioning it with the front part hanging open. Then he relieved himself in a waterless toilet before making the attempt to g
et it on. At its simplest, the armor was like a rubber suit with bulletproof, plasma-resistant ceramic-like plates attached in a pattern that balanced mobility and protection. Marcus had initially expected the suit to be cumbersome, but once he’d had it on, he discovered it fit more like a second skin.

  He backed into it now, sitting on the open part that rested on the bed and starting with his feet, placing them into the hardened, attached boots. As Jade had explained, Centurion combat armor came in four basic sizes optimized to fit the most common styles of clones. Any smaller differences in body size or shape were adjusted internally by the synthetic skeleton that lined the suit. It could be inflated to make a snug fit against the body within a given range. While Jade and Alice fit the smallest size, he was at the extreme end of a medium, almost a large. He laughed at the thought of the fourth size, which wasn’t labeled extra-large, but Stacker.

  As it was, the interior of the armor was less inflated for him, offering a better fit and finish once he had it on. On the downside, it also made it harder to get it pulled around his legs and remaining arm, especially one-handed. Even so, he managed to struggle into the armor, the right arm hanging empty and limp, an ugly hole through the spidersteel underlayer and big chunks out of the ceramic plates surrounding the area. Looking at the damage with a less panicked and delirious mind, he was amazed to be alive.

  Pulling the armor over his body was one thing. Locking the front closed was something else. The process would be simple with two hands or a helper. As it was, he spent nearly an hour trying to wedge himself against the bed, the wall, the bathroom sink and finally across an open window to hold the right side in place while he pulled the left side across, hooking the catches on the sides and pressing down the locks to secure them.

  He took a minute to rest after that, head pounding, arm still throbbing. The pain was the worst he had ever felt, though it had numbed enough to make the cut on his face more noticeable. Looking at it in the bathroom mirror, he could see the hit had nearly opened up his cheek, leaving a deep gash in the flesh. Another inch and he would have lost half his jaw.

  Sheriff Duke was amazing. He had to admit it. The only reason the bullet missed his forehead was because the first round’s detonation knocked him off-balance. Thinking about it now, the Sheriff had moved so fast, Marcus had no idea how he had managed to get a single shot off against the man, nevermind a perfect shot.

  He tried to smile, drawing a sharp pain from his cheek. He was a better shot than he had thought. The best gunslinger on the planet. He would kill anyone who said otherwise.

  He huffed at the thought. Who was he kidding? He had lost his shooting arm. Unless or until he could get a reasonable replacement, he was at a huge disadvantage. He had practiced with his off-hand before, and he was decent enough to manage, but he wouldn’t be defending his self-given title for some time.

  Which brought him back to his next step.

  Most importantly, he needed a new arm. Unfortunately, there was only one place he could think of to go to get one, and he wasn’t even totally sure how to get there. Considering he had to race the odds of infection, he didn’t have any other viable options.

  Marcus left the apartment then, cautious at first in case any nomads or scavengers had also taken up residence during the night. He made his way down the stairs and outside, thankful the hovertrike was still there. He had taken the trike without thinking, and had barely noticed it before looking at it now. His father had a few hoverbikes in his motor pool, but nothing like this machine. It was bigger and more robust, and the third anti-gravity coil was sure to keep it more stable. The presence of a miniaturized reactor instead of a battery impressed him the most. The trike probably had endless range.

  Range that would go to waste. He didn’t know exactly how to get where he needed to go, but he knew he didn’t need to travel far.

  As much as he wanted freedom, as much as he wanted to leave the Custodians and their bullshit behind, he needed them to survive.

  Marcus climbed onto the trike. Starting it up, he used his legs to push it back from the wall. Jade had told him the Custodians had a small installation at Fort Hood to the northwest of the city. They had come upon a Space Force R&D lab at the site, stocked with prototype bots, weapons and other tools for war.

  More importantly, he could find other Custodians there. Once he told them what had happened, he was certain they would provide the medical care he needed.

  And if they didn’t?

  He wanted to think he would kill them, but more likely he would suffer a painful, horrible death himself.

  Turning the throttle on the hovertrike, Marcus moved back into the street, the position of the rising sun helping him get his bearings. He turned west, thankful to his father for teaching him how to navigate the old civilization’s roadways. These smaller streets wouldn’t take him where he needed to go, but they would lead to larger, interconnected highways that could. As long as he kept a sharp eye out for cleared crossings, he felt confident he could at least get close to his desired destination. If he were lucky he could find a scavvy or better yet a Custodian at that point to guide him the rest of the way.

  If he were lucky.

  He had already used up so much of his luck he wasn’t sure how much he had left.

  He opened the throttle, shooting across the road and hoping for the best.

  3

  Marcus

  It took Marcus twelve hours of riding in an expanding spiral around Houston to finally locate one of the cleared highways the Custodians used as a supply line to and from the Southern Reach. Like most other roadways, especially in former population centers like Houston, the stretch was littered with cars. Most had been abandoned in place, the cracked windshields, dents, scratches and corpses still seated inside suggestive of a mass of trife overwhelming the vehicles while they sat in cramped quarters. The sheer volume clogged the roadways.

  It was easy for him to imagine the scene all of those years ago. The dark slick of aliens thundering across the roadway, hissing and snapping their teeth, claws raking through the glass of the vehicles to reach the occupants inside. Growing up on a planet ruled by trife, he’d always struggled to connect with the fear of the people going nowhere when they were so desperate to escape. Now though, his own predicament made it a little easier to empathize with those long ago people.

  A single, three-meter wide path wound through the old wrecks, the vehicles alongside it pushed aside by something bigger and heavier. King had also cleared some roadways during his time as the west coast’s ruler. He had used big diesel-engined cabs with welded metal plows on the front to shove debris out of the way, a more dangerous task when the possibility of attack was always imminent. And it did happen. Marcus recalled when his eight year-old self had gone with the Scrappers on one of their clearing runs, during which a slick of a thousand trife spotted and attacked their convoy. One hundred Scrappers armed with rifles and a pair of old Humvees with mounted machine guns had cut the creatures down, but not before they killed about a dozen from the group. Marcus had come face-to-face with one of the trife from his position in the passenger seat of the cab. He had shot the demon point-blank in the face, laughing as it tumbled away.

  It was one of the too few times he had laughed back then.

  The number of cars along the roadway thinned out as Marcus continued northwest, following the highway for another two hours. He passed a handful of old towns, all of which appeared abandoned, before the outskirts of the roadway began showing signs of a larger settlement ahead. Larger buildings began to dot the landscape while intersecting roads began to peel away from the major artery. It was nothing like Houston. Not by any stretch. A loosely connected town rather than a major hub of humankind.

  A good place to rest for the night.

  He hadn’t planned on needing to stop when he had left the apartment building. He had counted on locating the road out of the city much sooner than he actually had. He cursed himself now for that failure, more so because the pain in his wound had increased, biting and spasming with more regularity. He couldn’t see it beneath the combat armor, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to anyway. But he needed to change the dressing, to replace it with fresh, clean cloth before infection and a debilitating fever set in.