The Three Try to Steal All the Money, Ch. 3 Part 1

3: The Best Gunfighter in the World

On his fifty-sixth day of service in the Kingsholm Citizen’s Militia, Jastio Finnegan killed his first opponent. The suburb of Crown’s Reach had fallen to the rebels and his unit had been tasked with uprooting them as the regular forces dealt with the rebel’s main force to the east of the city. Twelve hours after occupying Finn Square a sniper’s bullet pierced the helmet of the corporal, and the rest of the squad found themselves crouching behind sandbags, statues, and signs for an interminably long amount of time as another squad tried to pinpoint the rifleman’s position. The only noise that pierced the tedium were distant bird-calls, the muted thunder of far off artillery strikes, and a periodic reverberating crack that signaled another potshot from the sniper.

After a small eternity the radio-man’s device crackled to life from his back, and the voice on the other end told them where to look for their opponent. Pfc. McCluskey took up position with his rifle as Jastio placed his helmet on a stick and moved it just above the stonework of the fountain they were using as cover. There was another crack, followed by a loud ping as the bullet ricocheted off the helmet and directly into McCluskey’s chest. Jastio scrambled and moved to put pressure on the wound, but McCluskey wasted no breath.

“Red house on the hill. Second floor, third window on the right.” Jastio grabbed the carbine where his comrade had dropped it and leveled the iron sight to his face. He found the house and squeezed off several shots. At first he was worried he’d waited too long, that the sniper had managed to change position. The yells put that question to rest.

“God damn it! God damn son of a bitch!” The thick lowlands accent pierced the distance and was met with a resounding cheer from the rest of Jastio’s team. They emerged from cover and cheered even louder when they weren’t greeted by another rifle’s report. Jastio turned to see blood dripping from McCluskey’s mouth. He laid the carbine to his side and fumbled in his pack for a bandage, but a red-stained hand stopped him.

“Did you get him?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I got him.”

McCluskey nodded his approval. Then he died.

That night at dinner in the tavern they’d requisitioned as a barracks Jastio received extra whiskey rations from some of his squad-mates out of gratitude. At one point the sergeant quieted the men down and delivered a rousing speech. It included plenty of words about brotherhood and sacrifice. The men toasted the memory of McCluskey and the bravery of Finnegan. They sang loud as they could, helped along by the whiskey and the tavern’s piano. As they retired to their cots in the milliner’s workshop next door, Jastio found himself lulled into a deep sleep.

At first he thought the screaming was just part of his dreams. Even though he hadn’t seen much action, the tension of the constant patrols in insurgent territory made him no stranger to a fitful sleep over his short time in the service. But as he stared at the wooden ceiling through the dim light of the early morning, the screams didn’t go away. It was just one man but he wouldn’t stop. From roughly the direction of the red house on the hill a string of curses flung at Jastio and his mates alternated with plaintive cries for help. At first the sniper tried to alert any friendlies nearby that he was wounded. But as the day dragged on and the men resumed their positions and patrols around the square, the cries for help became more desperate. They pleaded for anyone to come find him and stop the bleeding, to carry him out of this godforsaken house.

The sergeant noticed the concern on Jastio’s face as he stood watch over the western avenue out of the square. He approached the young soldier.

“I understand what you’re going through, son.”

“You do?” The sergeant nodded.

“My first tour on the Burning Coast was brutal. It took us days just to get off that godforsaken beach and the whole time we were under fire from machine guns. You were just as liable to get shot taking a leak as you were charging those positions. From my foxhole I could hear my own people screaming, begging for someone to come and get them water or put them out of their misery. But we couldn’t. No one could. It was more than just survival. Any man who abandoned his post was putting the entire invasion at risk. We needed them all to storm those cliffs and take them once the navy boys shelled the enemy. You think what you did yesterday makes you a monster but that’s not true. You are a killer. There’s no way around that. You are not a monster.”

The sergeant turned and walked off. Jastio watched him go, blinked, then resumed staring into space down the deserted street.