Krix stopped running and took a breath. "I'm too old for this shit."
He turned around, eyeing his five black, splotchy-faced pursuers. Their limbs and bodies twitching violently as they ran through the canyon.
Krix brought his crossbow stock to his shoulder. The duel-tipped, obsidian arrowheads ready. He squeezed the trigger. Thump! The shot appeared perfect; the fletching swirled then the arrow popped, splitting, redirecting, each one finding their mark on the canyon wall; a line between them.
One by one, the shadow stalkers met the line. And one by one their heads rolled down their backs, bodies dropping to the ground.
Krix slung his bow on his back, twirling two knives between his fingers. "Disgusting maggot," he said, approaching the halved arthropods crawling from the opened orifices in the mouth and neck. He brought the knives down, till they were covered in yellow goop.
From behind him, four more spilled out from the eastern tunnel. Black froth bubbling and dripping down their lips. They stopped. Bodies twisted, frozen.
The knives twirled between his fingers, "Come!" He waved the obsidian blades.
The shadow stalker's jaws came unhinged. From the abyss, the psycrasites ticked, extending outward, half their segments protruding from their host's lips. Black, beady eyes glared. Their mandibles widened, producing an ear-piercing screech.
Krix's right eye squinted, "yeah, fuck you too!"
The creatures retracted back. Bodies jerking to life; bones popped and snapped. Neck's corked — they charged — arms and legs flailing.
Why wait to meet 'em?
Krix yelled, legs churning, dust kicking up from his boots. The wind yelled in both his good and his fucked ear. Fifteen paces away. Ten paces. Five paces. His elbows raised, hands flung forward. The daggers went airborne. No wind could stop their trajectory. Two stalkers tumbled, knives protruding from their throats. Krix withdrew two more from his belt, spinning them in his palms.
Oily, slime sprayed from the creatures. Krix ducked then spun, not a drop on him. He leaped, gliding through the air, knees pointed. They collided. Krix drove the blades through flesh and shell as the stalkers found their backs.
On top of the two bodies, Krix ripped the blades from their throats, spinning them, bringing his arms to his back. The psycrasites fought to escape. Krix's arms blurred to his front, snipping two heads.
A drop of yellow goop dripped from his blade, catching his pants.
"God, damn it …" He said, eyebrows furrowed. "Now they've gone to shit."
Krix used the corpses rags to clean his blades, then stuck them in their holsters. He then went and acquired the other blades from the pair of throats, making certain the psycrasites who resided inside were as good as dead.
Being short, it took an extra minute to snatch the arrows from the wall. He snapped them together and tossed it into the quiver on his hip. Then looked down at the stain, grimacing.
"Can never have nothin' nice …" He removed his bowler's hat, wiped his forehead, then looked to the many passageways. "There are pools somewhere around here. Be a good place to get these trousers clean."
Krix pulled a cigar from his coat and slid it between his teeth—
From the south, a blur came rushing out of the tunnel, tripping over the bodies. A boy hit the ground. His rounded hat upside down. Rifle buried in sand. Greens eyes gray from the shadows.
"Dagnabbit …"
Krix flicked a match, igniting his cigar with a few good puffs. "Well, hell. Look what shot through the shitter …"
Quincy glared, picking up his hat, dusting it off, then placing it on his head. "Good I found you," he said, picking up his rifle. He stood with effort, drawing the barrel on the man. "You bastard, didn't pay me what was owed …"
Krix pinched the cigar and blew a ring. "Had so."
Quincy took two steps towards him, eyes down the rifle. "You owe me three more Rimmys."
"I figured we were even after I rid them Yurks from your ranch."
"A kind gesture indeed," the boy nodded, "but the debt must be paid. I'm no charity."
"Never thought you was … I'll pay you from my winnings."
Quincy cocked the rifle, "you best do better than that."
Krix glared, "where's your better half? Lost? dead?" Quincy lowered the gun. "I figured this much — looks like we best find her — and after that, we're even."
The boy pouted, "fine."
"Where'd you come from?"
"The pools in the north, but I wouldn't head that way. Barely got out alive." He lifted his shirt, exposing a torn flesh on his hip.
"Well, I came from the town to the north, and all that's there is Mitch and his gang. Best we don't start there." Krix took a puff and headed south.
"Where are you going? I just said I came that way. Them pools are riddled with gunslingers. Each one trying to fill their thirst." Quincy threw a canteen at his feet, the man walked past. "If you're thirsty, drink that. Hey! Stop! I thought we had a deal?"
"I'm not doing nothin' till these trousers had a proper cleaning. I stole them intending to return them the way I found 'em. Either come along or find your sister alone."
Quincy ran over and picked up the canteen. "You don't make a lick of sense, you hear?" He then chased after the man, catching him entering the southern tunnel.
"Do you got a plan or something? No … What achellets did you make?"
"I use a bowgun, Kid. And I've got one alchtip left."
"What kind?"
"If you must know, it's an explosive arrow."
Krix stepped over a rock, Quincy tripped catching himself on the man. "Your hands best be clean."
Quincy pulled them from his shoulders, a dust print on each. "They are," he said, with a quick wipe on his trousers. "See?"
Krix glared at his palms then faced forward, moving right down the trail.
"And what about you? What kind of alchemy did you bring to the party?"
Quincy's lips sunk. "Well, I didn't know how to make achellets … but I did know how to make a remedy." He lifted a bottle from his hip and gave it a shake.
Krix took a quick peek. "Looks like urine to me."