A Hunter's Road: Worlds Beside, #2

By J E Cammon

The outcast mage Nicholas Hughes has gone to ground, having fled Charm City with a target on his back and a knife at his throat. However, running away has also distanced him from his ultimate goal of restarting his beginning. Scarlet has lost sight of her quarry, her knives no longer close enough to kill. Her sleep is cursed by the memories of the fallen members of her cell, so her revenge is restless. However the European huntress is out of her depth in the new world. She turns to a group of Americans for direction and guidance, but Nicholas Hughes is the worst kind of moving target: he looks like an enemy one moment and an ally the next. So if he's the kind of trouble that trouble follows, what does that make Scarlet if she's so close behind? They both walk a hunter's road, where nothing is for certain, but everything has a price. And all debts come due.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J E Cammon
• Release date: Jan 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393190264

Book preview

A Hunter's Road

Worlds Beside, Volume 2

J E Cammon

Published by J E Cammon, 2020.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

A HUNTER'S ROAD

First edition. January 30, 2020.

Copyright © 2020 J E Cammon.

ISBN: 978-1393190264

Written by J E Cammon.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

A Hunter's Road (Worlds Beside, #2)

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Also By J E Cammon

Prologue

The higher the numbers on the fuel pump climbed, the lower the man’s spirits sank. Watching the analog digits roll up behind dirty glass, he had the urge to complain to someone. He smacked the pump in the side; maybe it was broken. He looked around, searching for the prices. An old, rusted, fold-out sign, half the size of a man, was propped up precariously close to the even older, two-lane highway, empty of anything but dust in both directions. The man squinted in disbelief.

The copper bell attached to the station door chimed; the husband turned to see his wife waving goodbye at someone inside and laughing happily.

Honey, the husband called.

She moved woodenly in her riding suit, arms full of snacks and souvenirs. The stiff leather and protective plating made moving around in the jacket and matching pants awkward.

Honey, this is blatant thievery.

What? she sat all of her findings down on the motorcycle seat and presented them with her outstretched arms like a showgirl. Look what I found.

This is robbery. We’re being robbed. Look at those prices, and he gestured at the little sign. On second look, it was pitted, not just rusted with age.

Her face drooped only momentarily; she was determined not to make it a thing.

Oh, stop. We’re saving gas, aren’t we? So, it all evens out. She patted her pockets, and when she found her camera, he squeezed on the gas pump to make the liquid come faster. Okay, now say Mound City. The numbers went up, faster and faster.

What?

That’s where we are, but the little Indian man inside calls it Mounds. Oops, I mean Native American. The camera beeped and then flashed. Finally, the tank was full. Looking at the total, he felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

How much did all this cost? he asked, finally looking at the smattering of glass baubles and wooden trinkets. There seemed to be some bone in there, too.

His wife walked back over, admiring her handiwork. Not all that much. You can’t put a price on memories,

I disagree. I’ll bet whoever owns this place does, too, unless these were free.

Look at this picture. I told you the matching suits were a good idea.

I think I disagreed then, too, and the man checked one zipped pocket and then another in search of his wallet.

Take a picture of me next to the bike.

No. I have to go inside and get a colonic.

Don’t be like that. Real quick. Oh, oh you there, his wife shouted. Her gesturing made the creases in her riding suit creak and groan.

Looking up from his billfold, the husband could see a stranger making his way across the dust-blasted road, a bag thrown over his shoulder. He was dressed like a gas station service man and had dark brown hair, practically black, that was a bit too long. His stride was impeded not at all by the busy swirling of desert ash on the wind. The stranger tilted his head.

Uh, he looks busy, Honey.

Oh nonsense, and at her insistent waving, the stranger diverted his path and came over.

Up close, the husband could see that the stranger wasn’t Indian. He had chapped, fair skin and an even stare. In the breeze, his eyes were the only thing on him that weren’t moving, and they were fixed on the couple. He had the hands and forearms of a mechanic, and under his left eye he had a livid scar biting into his cheek, reaching back almost to his ear.

Hi, hello, how are you... Jose? at which point Jose blinked, then looked down at the name stitched into his jump suit. Jose, could you take a picture of us? the wife’s voice increased in volume and she pantomimed the action of taking a photo.

He understands, the husband said to her and smiled, then snatched the camera from her. You understand, and proffered the device.

Jose accepted the camera and dropped his satchel. The bag sounded like it was filled with heavy, blocky objects, like cinderblocks.

I don’t think his name is Jose, the husband said quietly to his wife through smiling teeth.

Why? Because he doesn’t look Mexican? You can be so close-minded. First this trip, then the matching suits, she replied through the same, clutching at his wrapping arms surrounding her middle.

I’m just saying, he don’t look like any Jose I ever seen. They smiled and held each other tightly, waiting for the beep and flash. Afterwards, when Jose handed the camera back, the husband noticed the second of the stranger’s scars. This one was on his hand, splitting the gap between the ring and middle finger. It was the kind of scar that made a person think twice about reclaiming their property.

So, Jose, the wife began.

My name is not Jose, the man said, in perfect English.

Oh, she said. So, you don’t live here? it sounded like a ridiculous question. The town wasn’t on any map; it wasn’t big enough for a horse much less a stoplight.

Just passing through, like you, the stranger said.

Well, you know, it is a nice place, the wife said, nervously.

Harley Davidson, the stranger changed the subject to their bike and matching suits.

For touring, the husband volunteered, then cleared his throat. You... like bikes? he asked, beginning to clear the seat, hastily. A brief wind tugged at the stranger’s forgotten bundle. The cover of what looked like a book was briefly visible. It was thick and old; the binding was a rich leather. The stranger pointed, fully exposing that awful scar on his right hand. It looked like the kind of wound a person got messing with the wrong people, or from being the wrong people.

Oh, that’s, the wife had followed the finger and caught sight of a timeworn, ramshackle motorcycle. It was propped against the side of the store; unless looking directly at it, it could be mistaken for a pile rusty scrap metal. Rustic, was the best she could come up with.

Just passing through. The husband looked into the other man’s eyes.

The stranger didn’t repeat himself. He walked back over to his things. He slung the bag over a shoulder and walked around the couple, back behind the store.

What a nice young man,

Get on the damn bike, woman.

Chapter 1

Mound City was a terrible place to try and find peace for a man who could hear spirits. Fortunately, although it was on his list of things to achieve, peace was nearer the bottom. Nick opened the shed by picking up on the rotting door and swinging it outward. It didn’t have a lock; it didn’t even have a knob, just a little metal flap that might once have paired with a hoop and catch. Inside, near the back, was a small workspace he had made for himself, comprised of two different end tables he’d leveled even with bricks and wooden shims. Generally, he had freedom to make the space his own, but the odd relationship he had with the owner required him to ask permission, then do it himself. Onto the flat surface he emptied the satchel of its contents: journals and books bound in leather, some of which were over a century old. Nick had to bend down to get at the rickety old stool from beneath the bench and pull it out. Tiredly, he plopped himself down and slid the first book in front of him, inspecting the front cover.

Someone approaches, my sir, which made Nick reached out with both hands. With one he pulled the sack over the books, and with the other he grabbed a random piece of machinery from mismatched shelves off to his left. The old Indian didn’t knock; it was his shed after all.

From what Tom says you spend more time over at his place than over here, Red said from the door. Nick spun halfway around on the stool. Red was short for his people, and more than that he tended to stoop. His features were hard, yet he retained a timeless look. Only his eyes revealed a glimpse of how many years he had seen.

He tell you what I was over there doing? Nick retorted, gesturing with a screwdriver. Tom owned the general store in Mounds. The two things a traveler needed on their way through were gas and general supplies. Tom-Tom owned one, and Red Feather owned the other. Tom’s store was up on a strange hill of sorts, but then again Mounds was a geographical oddity in and of itself, hillier than any other place for miles; it also didn’t strictly have a zip code. It was on the dividing line between reservation and stolen land. Lines of jurisdiction mixed and crossed like spilled paint. The place was a nexus.

He told me what he wanted to tell me, Red replied without moving.

Nick had thought to ask at one point if the two were brothers; they seemed very similar. However, it sounded like an insensitive question, so he hadn’t bothered. Both of them were secretive, and suspicious of Nick, but at a distance. It was an odd pair of compartmentalizing relationships.

You know that sign out near the road? Red refocused the conversation.

What sign? Nick frowned.

The one that says full service gas station,

Oh, that sign. Oh, this talk.

We don’t get customers around here that often. Would be nice if you were up for doing your job when they are. Very simply, he said his peace, then he shambled off.

He is a strange man, the voice in Nick’s head opined. Usually, Nick ignored it, like this time. However, like a lot of times, he somewhat agreed.

It had been the third day on that horror of a machine when Nick had discovered Mounds. On the first day, he had the adrenaline, the rush of being chased down and shot, to keep the pain in his back and legs at bay. The seat was unforgiving and his arms hurt from holding onto the handlebars, which had also lost all but the barest remnants of padding. His skin was burned and chapped, and the wind was conspiring to grind him to nothing, as well. Nick’s only real saving grace was that the machine was both easy to drive and didn’t seem to require gas or maintenance. More than once, though, he had parked it and gone for a walk to stretch his legs and thought about using the cash he had taken to buy a bus ticket or a used car. He really, really hated the thing. The night of the first day he’d slept in a park, on the ground. When he awoke the next morning he had been surprised, when his wits had returned, that he hadn’t been attacked by a wild animal. His eyes seemed to naturally fall upon the terrible machine, and in turn it seemed to almost be regarding him as well.

Mounds was a few legs beyond that lapse in judgment, where the land began to level out and dry up. From the dirty little window in his store, Red had watched Nick push the old bike off the cracked road, tired of riding, and park it on the side of the building. Nick had sat down beside it to watch the shadows stretch over him. He had a fatigue that persisted and a soreness that thumped, radiated through his elbows and hind quarters. Red had sauntered outside and looked down at him, his dusty features and expensive-looking shirt, his chapped skin and dirty hair, and had laughed. That was how introductions went in Mounds, apparently. Tom’s reaction had been similar, after Red had finished recounting the story, in front of Nick, to his own satisfaction. Nick had let them laugh, just happy not to be under gunpoint, and not to be on that gods-forsaken bike. He had slapped U.S. government notes on the table and purchased a variety of things, chief among them food and clothing. That had shut them up, or at least silenced the joking.

But the pain in his backside wasn’t why he had stayed in Mounds, contrived the ruse about his bike no longer running. In the days preceding his leaving Charm City, he had become better acclimated to listening to things most people would call intuition or hunches. And whatever it was bid him stay in Mounds. Red said if he agreed to be his full service man, he’d fix his bike. Tom openly welcomed having someone else to talk to besides Red. The only other regular seemed to be a sheriff that came through once every couple weeks because of Mound City’s strange border situation. Everyone else came to Mounds by accidents that bordered on the mystical, and it was likely that after they left they forgot about the place just the same. Like the dusty wind hid its existence and the level horizon bleached its memory from the mind. Poking around in what turned out to be vast spans of time between the occasional sheriff and directionless traveler, Nick had uncovered the secret of Mound City.

As the legend went, mountains of massacred bodies were buried in mass graves, and the earth revolted at the evil it was being asked to take in. The strange hills in an otherwise flat plain were the result. Reading various newspaper clippings and scraps of paper pressed under glass, all hung throughout Tom’s store, Nick pieced together the story. It was remarkably simple, and the more he read, the easier it became to commit such things to memory, analyze them completely, and recall them perfectly. That was when the reading started, and shortly thereafter, the dreams.

Tom had a few books in his store, things he imagined people would want to read, colorful items about travel and geography. Nick went through them all with a frightening curiosity and a feverish rapidity, and every night he would fixate on the information like it was more real than just concepts. Maps would become living memory and take substance far beyond their contexts and colored inks. Tom was observant, and the following week had produced a thick tome on mechanical instrumentation and repair.

Red doesn’t know anything about fixing motorcycles, which meant that if Nick wanted to leave, he would have to find a way out by himself. That he was confiding at all meant that Tom had taken a curious liking to Nick, in the same way a person feeds a stray dog. Nick had consumed the comprehensive understanding of a mechanic’s library, so by the time Red had gotten around to being curious about who Nick was, he was given suitable evidence that he had a promising engineer right under his nose. So naturally, Red put him to work. The shed was a place for Nick to sleep and work: Red’s version of a gift. But he never commented on the obvious fact that Nick could fix his own motorcycle and drive away whenever he liked. Even Mounds itself had a grudging inclusiveness to it.

The first dreams seemed to detail swarms of boundary lines crawling across maps of the continent like insects on a half-eaten fruit. The lines danced and writhed, never satisfied, never still. Then later, cities pumped out of the surface with buildings like pistons and highways like chain mechanisms, everything snapping together efficiently, sparked by people, exhaust stacks shooting into the sky. The places with the most people ran hot and screamed, like mechanisms without lubrication.

When Nick had revealed to Tom his troubled dreaming, making conversation while mulling over yet another proffered manual, the old Indian had showed him the trap door beneath the quilts and baskets in the general store back room. The legend of Mounds purported to there being a thousand bodies packed tightly beneath the old hills, but under Tom’s general store, it wasn’t restless dead at all. It was books.

The collection wasn’t organized; as Tom outlined the cache’s origin, it was any book Tom’s father, grandfather, and great grandfather could get their hands on and buy, or steal without attracting notice. The logic seemed to be that if such a thing was to be kept from their people, then that made it worth having on principle. The library had more stacks than shelves, and more piles than stacks. The voice in the back of Nick’s head had been intrigued, and it had reminded Nick of his original quest, to understand what had

happened to him, and if possible, undo it. Maybe this was the place to start. He didn’t have access to the stores of knowledge back at the Academy, but the treasure trove beneath Tom’s general store looked like the next best thing.

I haven’t read but a few of them, one chosen from each of the larger piles, Tom had said.

Doesn’t this constitute some sort of betrayal on the part of your ancestors?

All this shouldn’t die with me. I know what someone in desperate need looks like. You like reading, maybe you’ll find something here to help you, the old Indian had simply replied. Nick didn’t need to be given permission twice.

That was how it had started.

Nick spun back around into the present to his small area and opened the first of the day’s bounty. For a while, he had been combing through one specific pile, nearer the back of the cramped storage space. Some linguist turned explorer had endeavored to make a living history of various tribes’ languages. To do this, she had first differentiated between what would have passed for everyday vernacular and the language used by the priests. Ultimately, because of academic disbelief, the latter had been written down and generally dismissed. There wasn’t a lot of it, but over time, she had found differing reactions to her scholarly efforts. Most of the practitioners were especially withdrawn, so her private journaling was used to write down what she heard and translated later. Some, though, were particularly insistent that she take down what they told her in the right way,