Death Comes for You: Fulcrum: Season One, #4

By J.J. Vega

Death has come to Bule. Jack and Corva do their best to defend themselves (and each other), but Jack's history could threaten the fragile trust that they've started to make between each other. At the same time, Corva learns more of her own story and it's a lot more than she's bargained for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Giant Coffee Blunderbuss
• Release date: Jul 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781943474080

Book preview

Death Comes for You

Fulcrum: Season One, Episode Four

J.J. Vega

The Giant Coffee Blunderbuss

© 2022 Jason van Gumster, All rights reserved

1

Meet Death

Jack’s shoulders drop. Not only is the jig up, but Corva doesn’t look to be in fighting shape at all. Has she been drinking? I mean, why not? Seems like everyone else in the room is drunk. Speaking of everyone else—

He cranes his neck to look around Corva, but fails to find his four-handed compatriot. Where in the world is Zeke?

You? Y—You! Though her movements are unsteady, Corva’s head loses its wobble. Her attention is focused in Jack’s direction. Why would she be saying that to him? Today’s not a day for guessing. Best to ask.

Who? Me? You know me. Why are you even here? I thought I was clear when I said—

Corva’s head turns ever so slightly. Now it’s absolutely clear that she’s talking to Jack now. That means it’s equally clear that she wasn’t talking to him before. "No, not you. Him! Why’s he here? Do you even know who this is? And I had to come back. Zeke said—"

Corva doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. In an instant, she’s lifted from her feet and pinned against the wall by her neck. Gnarled, spindly fingers wrap her throat as the ancient bearded bounty hunter touches noses with her. She chokes. For a moment Jack can’t tell if it’s from the pressure on her windpipe or the heated rot wafting from Wrinkles’s open mouth.

It’s rude to talk about a person like he’s not even here. Wrinkles’s voice seems darker, deeper than it was before. There’s still a bit of a slur there, but his tone is a lot more serious than it had been.

He’s also not paying any attention to Jack at all.

Jack takes this opportunity to dive behind the bar. Plan B. With all their after-hours time dedicated to training, there hadn’t been time to give the beat-up old shotgun a proper repair. He did at least get the barrels cleaned out and the firing mechanism mostly functional. He’s also got the less damaged barrel preloaded with his last fixin bead. The gun isn’t fit for loading with real shot, but since going for it is a desperation move anyway, may as well have it ready with something. Should be enough. Hopefully.

As Jack gets Plan B off its mount under the bar, he hears Wrinkles’s voice, still turned away from him, still close to Corva. Hello, Durga.

What the fuck is a Durga?

Still frowning, Jack spins to take aim at Wrinkles. If the last time he shot this was any indicator, the blast from the bead is pretty wide. He’s going to need to get Corva clear. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to be closer.

He takes the handful of steps needed to close the distance, trying to keep his feet light as possible. Taking a step to the side, he can see Corva’s face around Wrinkles’s shoulder. Her eyes are closed as weak gasping sounds squeak out of her mouth. She’s clawing at the wiry, bony hand wrapped around her throat, but her struggles are fruitless. She may as well be attacking a statue of the wrinkled jerk. A putrid statue with an eye-watering stench pulsing from his, well, everything. It’s like a rancid mix of hard liquor, garlic, and horse shit.

Corva keeps grappling with the old man’s arm, but Jack can tell her strength is draining; a few more seconds and she’ll probably black out.

Jack raises Plan B and levels it at the old man’s head. Hey Wrinkles! Ya mind taking your hand off my waitstaff?

His shout goes unanswered. The aged hunter keeps his attention on Corva. This isn’t going to work if he can’t get Wrinkles’s attention.

Hey! Who’s bein’ rude now?

Wrinkles lets out an annoyed sigh and turns to face his young distraction. He’s still got Corva pinned against the wall, though. He stares at Jack over the twin barrels of Plan B as if daring him to shoot.

Keep him distracted. Jack purposefully avoids glancing at Corva to check on her. He keeps his full attention focused on Wrinkles. "Yeah, this woulda been a lot easier if I had a pump-action. More dramatic, too. You’da heard that sweet chunk-chuck sound and turned around immediately … and I could still be behind the bar. Sadly, Old Man V had a preference for the break-action sort. Upside, though, is he taught me how to use this thing. I’m damn good. And I’m pretty sure I can’t miss from here."

The grizzled old hunter’s eyebrows push up, deepening the creases in his brow. There’s the faintest hint of a smirk growing from the corner of his mouth.

Got his attention. Now what? Amusement isn’t exactly the reaction that Jack was hoping to get, but at least it’s something. Best to keep talking. I got no want for messin’ my bar again. How ’bout we cut this dance right here?

Ha! It doesn’t even qualify as a full laugh. More like a cough pitifully disguised as a laugh. Frank, Frank. You don’t seem to understand the situa—

The lower half of Corva’s body cuts off Jack’s view of Wrinkles. Her feet scissor around his face. There’s not a lot of strength in her movement, but it grants her enough leverage to twist against his thumb and torque her way out from his grasp. She drops to the ground, awkwardly landing on her shoulder as she coughs and wheezes, gulping