The Last Gunslinger of Texarkana: Mech Troopers, #1

By Charles Eugene Anderson

 

In the ravaged wasteland of post-apocalyptic Texas, mech pilot Bandit crash-lands in the heart of the lawless Quarantine Zone. With his mech destroyed and allies few and far between, Bandit's only hope lies in an unlikely partnership with Flash, a mysterious man haunted by his own demons.
As Bandit fights tooth and nail for survival, he stumbles upon Grizzly RV Park, a hidden sanctuary led by the brilliant Dr. Virginie Mace. Together with the park's ragtag band of survivors, they wage a desperate war against the forces that left them to rot in a world consumed by disease and anarchy.
Armed with nothing but his wits, grit, and newfound loyalties, Bandit must confront the ghosts of his past and embrace an unimagined future. Can a lone pilot-turned-gunslinger become the champion of a broken land, or will the relentless tide of destruction sweep away the last remnants of humanity?
This story is a pulse-pounding, neo-western thrill ride through a savage wasteland where man and machine collide in a brutal struggle for survival. In this unforgiving world, unlikely heroes rise from the ashes, and the last embers of civilization steel themselves against the coming darkness.
Strap in for a white-knuckle adventure where every moment could be your last, and the only law is the law of the gun. As Bandit navigates the treacherous landscape of the Quarantine Zone, he'll forge unbreakable bonds, uncover shocking truths, and blaze a trail to redemption that will echo through the ages.
Texarkana Steel is a must-read for fans of Fallout, Mad Max, and The Dark Tower. Prepare to be thrown headfirst into a gritty, high-stakes world where the line between hero and villain is as thin as a razor's edge, and the only thing more dangerous than the enemies you face is the weight of your past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mad Cow Press
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223775041

Charles Eugene Anderson

Charles Eugene Anderson lives in Colorado. Chuck is a former teacher. He now spends his time writing, hanging out with his pup, Champ, and learning how to bake. More about Chuck at http://charleseugeneanderson.com

Book preview

ONE

BEAR TRAP

The radiation leak inside my cockpit was the least of my problems. As the pilot of this broken machine, I'd grown used to the constant ticker of the Geiger counter, the periodic hiss of anti-rad meds being pumped into my bloodstream. Mech pilots aren't known for their longevity, and I'd long ago made peace with the fact that I was more likely to die from the cure than the cancer.

But none of that mattered now. The flashing icon on my heads-up display warned of a more immediate threat: sniper. Somehow, the bastard had survived the artillery strikes, the infantry sweeps, and the air raids. And now it was me and him, playing the world's deadliest game of hide-and-seek amidst the rubble.

Bear trap. Saigon Sally. Reverse, I barked at my mech, hoping the voice commands were still functional. I'd been Bandit for so long now that I scarcely remembered the green recruit who had first earned the call sign for his uncanny ability to steal supplies right under the quartermaster's nose. That kid was long gone, replaced by a hardened vet who knew the only way out of this war was in a body bag.

My mech lurched into motion, gears grinding in protest. Warning lights flashed across the console as the onboard computer struggled to make sense of the damage. Low ammo. Radiation leak. Hydraulic pressure dropping. The old girl was on her last legs.

I scanned the displays frantically, searching for any sign of the sniper. The bastard was out somewhere, biding his time, waiting for the perfect shot. My heart pounded in my chest as I pictured him lining up his crosshairs on my cockpit, his finger tightening on the trigger. One well-placed round, and I'd be nothing more than a memory.

Just a little bit longer, baby, I muttered, running my hand across the console. We've been through worse, you and I. We'll get out of this.

It was a lie, of course. We'd pushed our luck too far this time, taken on one mission too many. The army had a way of using up mech pilots until nothing was left but shattered bones and broken promises.

But I'd be damned if I was going to let some Smokey bastard be the one to punch my ticket. If I were going down, I would take as many of them as I can.

I thumbed the trigger on the control stick, reveling in the visceral shudder as the Vulcan cannon awakened, spitting death into the night. The sniper had sought a duel, a battle of shadows and silence, but I was no mere shadow. I was the tempest.

Through the crackle of gunfire and the dance of tracer rounds, I caught a fleeting glimpse of him—the sniper, a silhouette against the backdrop of destruction, momentarily illuminated as my rounds found their mark. A figure jerked violently, then went still, a puppet severed from its strings.

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the hiss of cooling metal and the distant echoes of war. I had given him his war, brief and brutal, and emerged the victor.

Got you, you Smokey bastard, I muttered into the stillness, a grim satisfaction settling over me. It was a hollow victory in the grand scheme of things, but in this moment, it was enough. It had to be.

Tonight, I was not merely a survivor; I was the last gunslinger of Texarkana and had claimed another soul for the wasteland. The war raged on, but for now, I had carved out a brief respite, a fleeting moment of triumph in a world bent on erasing all traces of victory and valor.

TWO

AWAKE TOO EARLY

I wake up and ask, Time? 10-36?

My alarm clock says, It’s zero four-thirty.

I throw my pillow at the alarm clock. I say a few curse words.

My alarm clock says, Incoming bogie.

Fuck off. I’m going to get a few more minutes’ sleep. The lights come on. My alarm clock has decided to declare war on me. My alarm clock is going to die. I’m a mech driver. If I had a sidearm. I don’t have one. I have to improvise if I’m going to get more rack time. I have already spent the only pillow I have. My door opens. It’s my sergeant. It’s the alarm clock’s lucky morning.

On your feet, pilot, says Master Sergeant Hulka. He walks over to my bunk.

I get up and look over at Snowman. He’s still sleeping. Lucky. We had cleared The Big D. We still had a few days before we pushed south to ‘The Battle of the Alamo.’ That’s not what the brass are calling it. They call it: ‘Operation Texas Freedom.’ Okay, us truckers, we’re calling it ‘Operation Santa Anna.’ How did that one go for Davy Crockett?

Hulka isn’t so bad, but