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punwolf · 2 years

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Night of the Mysterious Traveler (Chapter 1)

A young, modern werewolf finds herself lost in the Wild Wild West. She hates westerns, horses, tiny towns and men in tight pants who can’t keep their lips to themselves. Trapped in a personal hell, she copes with Jim West and Artemus Gordon’s shenanigans until she can escape. Recycle immediately decides the setting sucks. The fist fights are fun. The guns are great, and Artie is worth a second look. Too bad it can never work out. Can it?This is classic World of Darkness blended with the 1960’s TV series Wild Wild West. Knowledge of the language used in Werewolf: the Apocalypse is useful but not necessary to enjoy the story. Updates twice weekly on Monday and Thursdsay.

Complete work - it just needs to be posted as I have time.

Constructive criticism/concrit is not welcome.

I only write occasionally. It's strictly for fun and gone through a beta reader. This was a stray idea which wouldn't leave me alone so I decided to write it out.

Horses? Of course, there were horses. Just like the old stories, there were four to herald the apocalypse. Giant, smelly, clattering animals pulling a rolling death trap that desperately needed to marry a shock absorber. They were hitting every rut in the dirt track, jostling the interior and causing her to bounce off a man dressed in blue.

Never again would Recycle complain about paved American roads, including rural paths so full of holes they looked like they’d been blasted by the Blitz. Crammed inside a stagecoach made a midnight bus ride look like paradise.

Then again, she was a werewolf trapped inside a rolling wooden box with two unsuspecting humans and pulled by animals who thought there was a wolf behind them.

I lost my pack, I don’t know where I am. I have no clue where this thing is taking me. I’m supposed to find someone named Artemus Gordon and give him time-sensitive information. I have a destination but no idea where to find it on a map. I also don’t know what this person looks like. What else could possibly go wrong?She sighed, dropping her eyes to the toes of her boots.

I could be back in Wolf Home.

Wolf Home had been a nightmare. Her pack, harried by gunfire, tempted with poison bait, run to exhaustion by hunting dogs fought for survival from the moment their paws landed in the lush forest. Unlike many of her tribe, Recycle didn’t mind taking the true wolf form called Lupus, but they had been trapped in it. None of them were able to shift into their human or towering Crinos battle forms. Within the first thirty minutes of the hell Realm she developed a new appreciation for thumbs.

Their Gifts had almost been nullified to the point it had been a struggle to do the simplest things Skills they’d relied on for years, including her ability to heal injuries, were unexpectedly unreliable. Without their “magic,” they were little better off than a wild wolf unable to understand a simple concept like turning a key in a lock.

Ironically, the “lesson” that deposited her and her pack in Wolf Home had come from an ally. Ambushed and near death, she made a desperate plea for help to the Monkey King. Consummate trickster, the wily spirit saved their collective skins, but escape to the spiritual realm came at a price, one that tossed them from the proverbial frying pan into the fire.

One by one, they started to vanish like an app transition, beginning with their judge and peacekeeper until only she was left and she didn’t know why.

She was born under a crescent moon, a Theurge, one wise in the ways of the spirits and their world, one with more in depth understanding of the spiritual realm. The Umbra operated by unique rules but Wolf Home operated far differently than any other realm she’d visited before. The inability to change form or use Gifts left her confused, but the disappearance of her pack left her alone, and a lone werewolf wasn’t a good thing.

She’d heard stories of werewolves who outlived their packs. Left adrift, some sank into a supernatural depression, but the Garou were at war. People died. Friends were slaughtered in ways which would haunt the survivors into their next life. Like any soldier, all of them knew they’d eventually lose someone. Her kind didn’t die of old age. Most expired gruesomely in battle. It was the way, even for a city loving Glass Walker like herself.

Having lived just under thirty years, she buried people more closely bonded to her than brothers or sisters. Two still screamed in her nightmares. Survivors grieved, but life always went on. It had to, but she held onto the belief that the others weren’t necessarily dead. Her pack vanished, but she hadn’t seen them die. They could still be alive; Gaia help her, she wasn’t ready to give up on them or herself. Giving her life for her pack or doing good in the world was a fulfilling end. Fading away unknown and unmourned was worse than death.

She found a way to save her own hide, resorting to street smarts and cleverness. She didn’t know the rules of the Realm, so she created another escape route.

The Umbra existed beside the material world, but it wasn’t a simple mirror image. It was so vast it would never be fully mapped, and there were layers upon layers. Like trying to leave the cosmos, it baffled the mind, and most places had their own guidelines. What worked in one didn't in the next. In one place you fought your way free. In another you answered riddles, climbed a ladder, completed a noble quest, fulfilled a favor or walked out. It constantly changed and grew, expanding and shrinking. No one knew everything.

There were rumors of a realm accessible through any television screen in the Umbra that lead, appropriately, to the Television Realm. There, Garou could do everything from accompany Frodo to Mount Doom, ride with Batman, enjoy a sitcom, or visit Hogwarts. Getting out was usually as simple as getting to the end of the movie or episode.

Gaia was merciful enough to provide her a gateway out of Wolf Home within a week.

She found a camp and crept silently toward it, the old sweat and cheap beer of the hunters easy to avoid. They would have filled her full of bullets and mounted her head on the wall, but she didn’t give them the chance. With her life dependent on stealth, she crouched silently in shadow, barely breathing. They boasted loudly through liquid belches about the wolves they killed, skinned, and made into trophies. Recycle clenched her lupine teeth together and kept a growl in check. No sound. She could make no sound.

When they finally passed out, she eased her muzzle through the tent flap just enough to see the portable television they brought with them. The screen was nearly as small as an original Gameboy, but it was a TV. She fixed her eyes on it and reached with her inner spirit, letting the intangible part of her being flow toward it as if she was trying to step into the material world.

The midnight forest of Wolf Home exploded into blazing hot sun, dust, and she physically staggered backward. Immediately dropping her wolf shape, she wiped eyes damp from relief. She was human again. A faded and worn T-Rex stretched across her chest with the words Jurassic Park under it. Athletic runners' legs filled designer jeans. Her laughter had a hysterical edge to it as she clutched a handful of shoulder length brown hair with expensive highlights. Deflated, she sat on the side of a dirt road, too relieved to wonder about the setting. She was still alive. She was free of deadly iron traps, shotgun shells, poison and helicopters trying to gun her down.

Shading her eyes with her hand, she looked around. “I’m here, but where is ‘here?’” She assumed it wasn’t a sitcom and was grateful there weren’t any xenomorphs or space marines. No orcs, but she could be part of almost anything. CSI Las Vegas? The terrain didn’t feel like a match for the desert, but it might have been fun trying to solve a case with the staff on one of those series. Too bad.

The air smelled cleaner than she was used to, and it lacked the familiar, comforting thrum of a city. Contrary to what other tribes believed, Glass Walkers knew the cities were living, thriving, breathing entities. The machines, technology, and people were its life blood, and all of them were unique. Here, she felt no connection to a population, either foreign or familiar. “Whatever this is, I’m out in the middle of nowhere.” There wasn’t a sign of power lines, billboards or vehicles.

Four paws were the prudent way of travel, but she shuddered to consider going wolf so soon. With a shrug, she picked a direction and started walking. If it was the Television Realm, she suspected something would happen quickly. Movies and series kept the pace going. If a car came along she might get an idea of the time frame by the make and model.

“At least I’m not on the Titanic or the S.S. Minnow.”

She walked on two legs until sunset, then relented to the necessity of superior lupine senses. Miles ground away beneath her paws until she caught scents strong enough to follow. Casting around, her nose drew her toward the smell of cooked food, sweaty horse, sweatier people, leather, metal, gun oil and bad coffee.

Oh no. No no no. Am I in a western or something around the Civil War era? It would explain why there’s no technology and the air is so clean.

Wolf paws circled a small camp of men, clearly hearing their conversations over a half mile away. With only the stars and campfire to illuminate the night, scant cover was more than adequate for her to eavesdrop without anyone noticing.

“Still got a good fifty miles to Willow Springs.”

“That means we got some time.”

“He ain’t going to talk.” “Give me the knife. There’s more than one way to loosen a man’s tongue.”

Ugly laughter cut the night. “Or lose it.”

Recycle lowered herself to her haunches, both ears trained on the humans. That doesn’t sound good. I should probably do something, but what? If I go charging in all big and hairy things could get dicey. The ability to shift into a nine foot tall monster built of rage, claws, fur and fangs was an advantage, but it dissolved when a mob screamed “werewolf.” The Garou hid, carefully keeping anonymity of their small numbers. A sighting could easily turn to torches, pitchforks, silver bullets, and no pack to help. Monsters had enemies. Smart monsters kept their heads down so they weren’t shot off.

The camp was large by the bodies she could hear and smell moving around. Wolf born Garou, the lupus, would have naturally been able to give an exact number, probably age, general health and specific location of each human. Her senses would never be that finely tuned, but she judged their number small enough that if she truly wanted to wipe it out, she could have. Horses would be driven into a state of fatal panic. Humans didn’t react much better, and the war form was meant for killing. Natural regeneration shrugged off bullets, and her unique abilities with technology gave her a special way with firearms. If she didn’t want them to fire, they wouldn’t.

The familiar metallic aroma of blood hit her muzzle, rolling along the roof of her mouth to her tongue. Her ears tipped, swiveling instinctively to catch torturous sounds of a gagged human, something heavy hitting flesh, and bones snapping deep inside muscle and tissue. Someone clumsily tried to muffle a scream of animal pain. Others guffawed at the misery.

“Just kill him and we won’t have to drag him along with us any more.”

“Boss might want us to find out who else found out about this.”

“Does it matter? We know who he was going to meet. He’s not in town, yet, but someone will take care of it. We already sent word and the boss will wait it out.”

Recycle wasn’t a stranger to killing. Death chased at the heels of all Garou, but torture teetered on a razor fine line; crossing it put more than morality at stake. Like maggots burrowing through a corpse, it invited alien spirits inside humans or Garou. Victims were oblivious at first, but if the sickness was left unattended they turned into something still alive but less than human. Staying upwind, Recycle skirted out of the firelight’s reach. Lupine night vision was many times superior to her human eyes. She lost the ability to see red and green, but she could clearly pick out the number of people moving around and what they were wearing. The over abundance of cowboy hats, horses and wagons gave it away.

I’m in a western. Wonderful. Just wonderful. I need clothes.

They put out a watch. He sat with his back to the fire, and the man provided her with a target. Charging in with maw foaming and bloody claws would get the job done, but Glass Walkers relied on finesse and subterfuge. Not getting shot was also high on her list, and she’d bet her own tail they were all well armed. The bullets wouldn’t be silver, but getting holes blown into her body always hurt. She needed a distraction, and no matter when her western was created, she knew a fast and easy one.

It would be almost too simple.

Pulling her t-shirt over her head, she stashed it with her personal belongings and bra beneath a low bush. Garou put less emphasis on nudity. Critical wounds, being slathered in gore from ear to ankle and having to change clothes to avoid arrest altered social expectations. Recycle saw pack mates naked many times. Lupus seldom understood the need for clothing and human born paid no attention. It wasn’t sexual for them, but for most of the human world?

Shaking her hair out around her shoulders, she put her best boob forward and slid into view. Using a soft whistle to draw attention, she poured all her slinky animal magnetism into a slow, sultry sway of her hips. She put one expensive running shoe in front of the other as she made her way toward the jerk on watch. Heels would have been better, but she doubted her feet would be on the menu.

Her quarry sat on a rock, rifle lazily cradled across his lap as he smoked a cigar. Recycle verged on drooling over the firearm almost as much as the unshaven lout ogled her. He practically slobbered when his brain registered what he saw.

You want me, come and get me.

She walked backward, making sure he had plenty to see as he sprang to his feet. Predictably, he made a grab for her. She ducked and eluded him, luring him away like any of a thousand cautionary folk tales about beautiful things which became monsters when you finally caught them.

Easy money.

He thought he got exactly what he thought he wanted and grabbed her arms. Fur sprouted under his fingers and the slender arms of a woman expanded into the size of small trees. The monster emerged.

He would have screamed as shrill and mindlessly a rabbit in a snare if she hadn’t slapped her paw-hand over his face, smothering the sound. In Crinos, her battle form, her head was that of a nightmarishly huge wolf. From the hips down she was also canine. Above the waist she had a broad chest, humanoid arms, and hands tipped with ripping talons. Her quarry writhed, scrabbling useless human nails over her thickly furred arms.

The lines between what was virtuous and what wasn’t blurred in Recycle’s world. A living monster, she had to straddle the broad “gray” between black and white. Not this time. Men who laughed while they tortured could expect no mercy. Eyes burning with inner rage stared down at a man who hung like a rag doll between her thick fingers. She yanked his neck around. His body jerked convulsively several times, then went still.

Returning to human form was difficult. She wanted to rage, going through the camp and gutting enemies. If she did that, she might snuff out what little life was left in the captive she heard being tortured. Her objective was rescue, not slaughter.

Breathing slowly and deliberately, she returned to her human form and finished stripping. Dispassionately, she took the clothes, a small utilitarian knife and some money from the corpse. The fact everything miraculously fit, including the boots, cleared her head.

Right. I’m in the Television Realm. Of course it fits. Unless it’s Die Hard the clothes usually do.

She took a few minutes to secure the new garments to her various forms with a basic magical rite. Any city Garou worth a dollar learned how to keep from ripping out of their clothes with every change. It was difficult enough to navigate through a city without being stark nude all the time.

Another transformation into battle form gave her the physical power to easily move the creep’s corpse. While she was deciding what to do with it, she tuned her ears to the conversations and drunken snores wafting through the camp. Her lupine muzzle stretched into a terrifying grin. Grabbing his body by the front of the old-fashioned buttoned “long johns'' underwear, she hurled it directly toward the fire. It worked in Lord of the Rings, didn’t it? There’s nothing like a little psychological warfare to distract people.

The body landed with a satisfying thud. Confusion reigned for several seconds with colorful profanity, but they rallied quickly, organizing themselves to look for who or what attacked them. As tempting as it was to let a few find her so they could be obliterated, she again quelled the impulse.

Maybe later.

Her limbs felt heavy and the notion of rest tempted her. It was exhausting to cycle through so many transformations in a short time. Although the change itself happened naturally, painlessly and without effort, forcing calm took its toll. Her golden eyes slid shut while she focused on deep breathing. Picturing an overstuffed couch, a giant HD TV, and a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, she coaxed herself back to a human body.

With the help of a Gift granted by a chameleon spirit, no one noticed the strange woman in familiar clothes crouched among the shadows. Men stomped past, spitting anger and promising retribution to something in the night. The victim was left alone in the panic. They’d realize their mistake soon, but she hoped to have him loose before then. Slipping around to the tree the man was tied to, she began to cut the bonds with her new knife. “Be still,” she hissed close to his ear. “I’m a friend. I’m going to cut you free and get you out of here.”

A barely audible wheeze got through swollen, broken lips. “Too late.”

“Don’t say that,” she urged, but her stomach sank. One of her jobs was pack healer, and she’d brought Garou or humans back from the brink of death many times. This man was vomiting blood. His face was a ruin which barely looked human, and there were more things broken in his body than most people knew existed. She could mend tissue, blood and bone, restoring him physically, but his spirit already accepted its fate. He’d crossed a threshold where no amount of healing could help unless he willed it. “Hold on,” she begged, but she didn’t know him. She couldn’t call on the names of people he loved or things he wouldn’t want left undone.

“Take the papers….” A leather folder lay open and forgotten near the fire. “This…” When his hands were free, he pried a wedding ring from his finger and thrust it into her hands. “I’m--” he gagged on blood and barely managed to get his name through. “Walter. Mason.”

“Your wife,” Recycle insisted frantically, half supporting his frame as he slumped into her. “You can see your wife again! Hang on, we can fix this – ”

“Artemus Gordon,” he croaked with the last of his reserves. “Take it to… Artemus Gordon. New Athens. Your word!”

Oh Gaia, she didn’t want to lose him. She knew the fear of dying lost, alone, and forgotten. “I--” Life was leaving him and she could watch helplessly. She tried healing him in spite of the futility, but her tears fell on his lifeless shoulder. “I promise,” she finally sniffled, and gently laid him on the ground.

Scooping up the papers, she put the ring in her pocket and gripped the leather case in her teeth. Her spine bowed and pushed her to all fours as her body reshaped itself into a wolf. She ran. Once again eluding men with guns, she ran until miles were between herself and the shadow of death.

#wild wild west #james west #artemus gordon #werewolf the apocalypse #wod #cwod #classic world of darkness #fan fiction #fan fic update #fanfic #Whuffie Writes

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punwolf · 2 years

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Horses, Recycle learned the hard way, could outrun a wolf. The obnoxiously wary beasts caught her scent almost immediately. She tried to remain downwind, but gently whipping air currents made it impossible. Both Artie and Sally Parnell’s animals fretted, making distressed noises until quieted by their riders.

Swearing silently, Recycle fell back, giving them room while the pair sprinted. Catching up, even at a ground eating wolf trot, took cutting across country and keeping judicious space between herself and Artie. What she wouldn’t have done for a dirt bike or a four wheeler. Neither of which she knew how to drive, but she was certain it would be better than dealing with nervous refugees from a glue factory.

Everything was so much easier in the city. There might be traffic, dead ends, pedestrians, cops and construction, but it was comfortably predictable.

Being inside the body of a wolf didn’t grant its instincts, experience and knowledge. Her nose gave her more than enough information, but the same pulsing wind which threw her scent to the horses confounded her limited tracking ability. When she trailed James, he was traveling on a road in one direction. It was easy to run behind him, but she was losing Artie. Every few minutes she was forced to charge into the brush, come out Gaia knew where, fumble for a scent, and get oriented too late.

Her coat was full of burs and she halted for precious seconds to pull a long thorn from between her pads. Gripping it with her front teeth she spat it out between bouts of panting to regulate her body temperature.

If not for the hearing of a wolf, she wouldn’t have picked up Sally Yarnell’s voice from the background of crickets, owls, rodents scratching in the dirt, shifting trees and the rest of the night’s cacophony. The conversation was more distant than the worst phone connection.

“Mr. Gordon? There's been a slight change of plan.”

From what she could hear, Yarnell pulled a gun on Artemus, but he’d been clever enough to unload it without her knowledge. Recycle wasn’t alone in not trusting the woman, but she also wasn’t the only one with a “pack.” Mike Trayne and several of his men ambushed Artie.

Rage rose in a red tide behind Recycle’s eyes and a snarl vibrated through her chest. Throwing back her head, she bellowed a howl which resonated through the trees, thundered through the earth, ripped apart the night and instantly silenced all the wildlife. Nostrils flared and ears slicked against her skull. Claws itched to sink into Trayne’s lungs as fingers flexed.

Fingers? Crap, I’m in war form. Calm down! You’re a Glass Walker. We think, not attack blindly. Charging in headlong is stupid. I don’t know who’s in there. They could kill Artie. Anything could go wrong. Reconnaissance first. It’s always first. A pack member is captured and he could be in trouble. Artie’s safety is the priority.

In the distance she had the satisfaction of catching a few words from Trayne. “There are no wolves in New Athens!”

Bite me.

Calming her inner ire, she shifted back to her sleeker, faster wolf form and loped toward the smell of Sally Parnell’s hair products. A growl tried to work out of her chest, but she kept her jaws around it.

Stealth and caution.

There were men on watch, but she had enough experience to easily keep out of sight. Trayne was talking to someone and she was careful about the placement of her paws, not stirring leaves or snapping twigs.

“Miss Yarnell tells me that you and Mr. West are government men sent here to look for Walter Mason.”

It was Artemus. Recycle could make out the yellow sleeves of his shirt before he spoke. “Whom you have no doubt already had killed.”

Trayne didn’t deny it and tapped the head of his cane against his chin thoughtfully as he lorded over his captive. “I’m curious. Where does the girl come into all of this?”

“She has nothing to do with it, Trayne.” Artie’s voice was full of vindication but Recycle smelled worry clinging to him. He yanked ineffectively at the bonds which tied him to a wagon wheel. “Leave her out of it.”

Girl? What girl?

“Even so, I think she knows too much.” The hint of murder made Trayne’s light, conversational tone chilling. “She’ll have to be dealt with.”

He’s talking about you, Idiot.

So you’re going to deal with me Trayne? Bring it on you slimy little weasel. I’ll take you apart faster than last week's memos through the paper shredder.

“Of course your telegraph message to the army didn't get through. It’s such a pity the lines were down.” Trayne spoke like an educated man, even when gloating. “There will be no resistance when my men move in on the town.”

“And all for revenge?” Artemus countered.

“The citizens of New Athens took everything I had.” Trayne explained pleasantly as Yarnell put a hand through his arm. Recycle wanted to rip her lips off to get rid of the smug smile.

“What can you do in return?” Artie countered. “You can't steal a whole town.”

“No, but you can erase it, take away from it all that endures in memory. You see, I'm going to burn New Athens to the ground. And with it, all the public and private records: papers, deeds, transactions, certificates of birth and death. In short, all the paper symbols of permanence. There'll be nothing left to show that New Athens ever existed.”

Just wait until the computer age, you jerk. Unfortunately, his plan will probably work in this era.

Artemus played one last card. “You may find the citizens giving you more of a fight than you bargained for, Trayne.”

“Well, my partner back in town assures me that the citizens have left. There'll be no resistance.”

So there is someone helping him from the inside. The sheriff? Maybe Cassidy was right about him. I’ve got to get Artie out of there before someone is ordered to kill him. I’m surprised he’s still alive as it is. Good thing Trayne likes his power plays.

I need my knife and thumbs.

She found a place deep enough in the shadows to lie down. The sentries would be listening for horses and watching for men. A wolf wouldn’t go unnoticed in plain sight, but was ironically less likely to be seen than a hiding human.

Patience was everything. If anyone threatened Artie she would intercede with Gifts or worse. Damn the consequences if he was in trouble, even if it meant showing the world her less cuddly werewolf side.

The wait was torture but Trayne and Sally retired to separate bedrolls near the fire.

Thank Gaia for small favors. If they started getting frisky I’d have to kill them on principle. Monsters don’t like it when you make out in the woods. Anyone who ever watched a horror movie knows that.

She got as close as she could on paws before returning to her human form and losing the litter from her fur. She shook her hair out and crept around a covered wagon. “Artie,” she whispered low enough for her voice to merge with the crackling campfire. “It’s me. I’ll get you loose.”

Startled, he twisted his neck as far as he could and mouthed her name.

She gave several exaggerated nods and quickly sawed through the ropes binding his wrists. He’d already worn a shallow weak spot in them from persistent friction against one of the rough wagon wheels, but it would have taken him a while to get free.

“How did you get here?” he breathed.

She leaned over to press her lips against his cheek. “On a horse I borrowed from town then on foot.” She gave him her knife so he could cut the rope around his ankles. “Do we go back to New Athens or keep going to Fort Savage?”

“Back. The soldiers would never get here in time.”

She nodded as he carefully eased upright, both of them strained and waiting to see if they’d been noticed. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head and pulled a barrel marked “gunpowder” from the rear of the wagon. Using her knife, he pried open the stopper and lay down a thick trail to the horses.

Artemus Gordon, you certainly know how to turn a woman on. Oh yeah. Let’s blow this place. Less fuel for razing New Athens and more cover for us.

He climbed aboard his horse and held a hand toward her, but she balked. “I’ll slow you down.”

“I can’t very well leave you here.” He impatiently gestured with his fingers.

Opening her mouth to argue, she furtively glanced around the camp. She was wasting precious time and risking not only her neck, but Artie’s. “Fine,” she hissed between her teeth and scrambled behind him.

Digging into a pocket, she handed him a match. Striking it, Artemus dropped it onto the line of black powder and kicked the horse in the ribs.

Oh Gaia, this thing needs seat belts!

She grabbed Artie around the ribs and tried not to cut off his air. Behind them, a fantastic orange explosion boomed. The tarp on the wagon blew straight up and debris splintered in every direction of the compass.

“That stirred things up nicely!” It would have been easier to appreciate if she felt less like a sack of bones being tossed around inside an aggressive washing machine.

Gritting her teeth, she focused all her energy on holding on as Artemus pushed the horse to its limit. It was sweat lathered and blowing with fatigue when first light hit New Athens.

Recycle barely had time to register a barricade down the center of the only road in town. While she was away, James and the others piled up furniture, hay bales, burlap sacks filled with dry goods and anything solid. Unable to help herself, she yelped as the horse sailed over a low point.

One minute she was clinging to Artie, the next, air exploded out of her lungs. Darkness clouded the edge of her vision then it blurred briefly. “Ow,” she complained in an understatement from the ground.

Artie’s horse couldn’t immediately stop and he pulled the reins to the side, turning it. “Patricia!” Sliding from the saddle, his boots hit the earth in motion.

James knelt next to her, a beautiful Winchester with a custom inlaid stock propped beside him. “There you are.” He was less annoyed than expected. “Are you alright?” He put an arm under her shoulders and gingerly helped peel her into a sitting position.

“I’m fine.” She spit out dirt and a strand of hay, briefly considering retracting the statement. It was a bad fall, but nothing broke. “I’m okay. The only thing injured was my pride.” If they had any idea the real damage she sustained over the years they would have blanched.

Artie apologized as they drew a crowd consisting of what was left of the town. Mayor Cassidy, the sheriff, and a tough as nails old frontiersman with a trademark long barreled Sharpe’s rifle were all that remained. “Sorry, I lost my grip. I’m alright but,” Recycle took Artie’s offered hand with both of hers. “I think you owe me dinner. What do you say?”

He laughed easily as he carefully aided her to a standing position. “I say ‘how could I possibly refuse?’”

She relished the minimal space between them and butterflies pleasantly warmed her stomach. It would be easy to get lost for days in his brown eyes and snuggle properly in his arms. “Let’s go save this town, so we can go on a date.” A girl needed priorities.

Jim shook his head and brought them back on task, asking his partner, “Artie, how did you get back here so fast?”

“I'm back here because I never got there.” Artemus broke away, sourly filling James in. “Sally's in league with Trayne. They were waiting for me.”

The sheriff manifested beside them, fueled by anxiety and a night's worth of bad coffee. “You mean, the army ain't coming at all?”

“I'm afraid that's the general idea, Sheriff.” Artemus began hiking up his sleeves.

“Well, that tears it.” The worry lines around the sheriff’s eyes turned into canyons and Recycle wondered if he was the traitor. “We'll never be able to stop Trayne now.”

“Not if we stand around here crying.” James gestured to the town of three. “Why don't you men strengthen this barricade?”

Trayne has an army, we have a werewolf. Good odds in our favor.

Artie lowered his voice when the others, including the sheriff, went back to the fortifications. “How's the armament situation, Jim?”

“Well, we’ve got plenty of rifles and bullets.” He fed ammunition into the side of a Winchester until it was fully loaded and set it with several others within easy reach. “What we need is a psychological advantage: heavy weapons.”

“You mean, like howitzers and mortars?” Artemus looked at the General store, pulling James’ and Recycle’s attention to it.

The pair clicked into perfect pack tandem and James immediately began thinking aloud. “We'll need some black powder.”

“Yeah,” Artie agreed as they started at a quick pace to the store. “Wire, nails, stovepipe.”

“Uh-huh. Fireworks and maybe some baking powder.”

The image of a howitzer that popped into Recycle’s mind clearly wasn’t what they were talking about. The shopping list sounded more like a crude canon, but she fell into rhythm with them.

“And some ladies' garters,” Artie finished.

“Bottles of whiskey, kerosene, scraps of cloth.” Recycle ticked off her own home brewed armory. “Some of that cure all tonic. Does the general store have dried peppers, something really, really hot? If we can get that and the vodka from the saloon, all I need is a couple of pots and a pestle. Oh, and bottles. Perfume bottles work great.”

Artemus halted inside the general store and stared at her. “Not that it isn’t a fascinating list, but would you care to explain?”

The three began to wrangle supplies and Recycle emptied a small bag of beans onto the top of a barrel and stuffed it with garters. “Says the man who wants garters?” She grinned at him and tossed him the bag. “Where I come from, a bottle rot gut and a scrap of cloth soaked in kerosene shoved in the mouth makes an excellent thrown weapon once you light it up. If we can find the rest of it ---”

James slid a large glass jar of dried chili peppers down the counter to her.

“Perfect! Ever make a pepper spray bomb?”

They were both blank but Artie’s mind immediately started to work through the chemistry as he helped himself to a bale of wire. “It goes into the bottles so they break on contact, but how do you get it into a gaseous form?”

Recycle pried open the top of a barrel and pointed nails out to James. “It gets boiled down to an oil and mixed with the tonic.” Hopefully. She was banking on the idea that the cure all laxative was close enough to mineral oil to work. “It’s basically harmless, but the oils from the peppers turn concentrate. When mixed, it becomes a gas. The gas causes eyes to water violently and horrible coughing. Their horses aren’t going to like it, either.”

Artie marveled openly, lighting into a grin, “Amazing.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she teased. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine. What do you want garters for?”

Grabbing a pair of old fashioned rakes, he put together a crude frame on a handle and began to string the elastic garters like sling shots. “They’re going to be one of our delivery systems.”

“Amazing,” she echoed affectionately. He was a regular Macgyver. “I’ll stoke up that pot bellied stove and get to work.”

Recycle finished the makeshift chemistry project and hit the saloon. With Yarnell in league with Trayne, the employees abandoned the town along with the rest of the population. They took little more than what they could carry. “Sorry ladies,” Recycle apologized to the empty rooms as she rooted around for bottles. “With any luck you’ll at least have a home to come back to.”

Liquor was easy to harvest and she emptied the shelves by the armload, including Mike Trayne’s high quality whiskey. She almost regretted losing the bottle. It was a work of art, but the sweet irony was too perfect.

Kerosene was plentiful in a world which lacked electric lights so the fuses to her Molotov cocktails were primed, set and ready within a half hour. She stockpiled them and trusted James’ judgment about the sheriff. West included the man in all the plans, so she extended the same courtesy. “You light the fuse and throw. Fast. You don’t want to have this thing in your hand when the fuse burns down.”

The sheriff looked like a dubious deer caught in a flood light, but reluctantly nodded comprehension.

The frontiersman soaked up all the lawman’s enthusiasm like yin and yang. He was near bursting at the prospect of a fight. “I ain’t been this excited since I fought next to Colonel Cattidge Montgomery. Boy that was a fight! Since then, me and old Lizzy here,” the frontiersman slapped a Sharpe’s rifle. “We’ve been a polecat killin,’ rattlesnake drillin’ team for a long, long time.”

What’s a polecat?

“Well, Jeremiah,” Mayor Cassidy said, “we’re glad to have you and Lizzy with us.”

Recycle nudged James. She put on a mock prim and haughty air as she lifted her nose. “I told you guns are female.”

#wild wild west #world of darkness #james west #jim west #artemus gordon #wod #classic wod #classic world of darkness #fanfic #fan fiction #whuffie writes #werewolf #werewolf the apocalypse

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