Author’s Note: Hopefully the first chapter of many. Cross your fingers. Feedback is appreciated as always. :) Oh yeah and for the record, this is social science fiction, not hard science fiction. No rocket ships, space aliens, or time travel. (Although my love for them will spawn a story of their soon enough, I'm sure.)

Chapter One

There was nothing quite like the sight of steam rising from the asphalt on a hot summer day; nothing quite like the sound of cicadas buzzing invisibly from their perches in the branches of overhanging foliage. He walked onward, noting absentmindedly the way the horizon seemed to waver drunkenly in the soggy heat. Flies droned happily across the fresh corpse of a hapless deer which had apparently wandered too close to the freshly paved lane. Even these insect scavengers appeared sluggish, the black layer coating the deer’s flanks writhing only faintly.

A mile down the road the lane twisted, curving right and disappearing behind the woods bordering it on both sides. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples but he ignored them, hoisting his slipping backpack further up onto his back, without disrupting his steady stride. He didn’t know where the road led, or where he wanted it to for that matter. In fact, he didn’t even know where he was. After glancing at his pedometer, he patted the prominent bulge in his coat pocket and decided it wasn’t really important.

The sweat streaming down his back aggravated him in a wondrously uncomfortable way. His knit cap caused his head to feel like an oven; his face was horribly flushed and for the past ten minutes he had been in a constant state of drowsy vertigo. He wondered vaguely if he would collapse from heat stroke before whatever was supposed to happen, happened, and if that would prove to be problematic. Deciding that it would obstruct his as of yet unknown mission, he took off the cap, gloves and scarf, tossing them carelessly by the roadside.

The hot muggy air felt icy cold against his overheated skin and his body screamed in relief, while his mind silently disproved the loss of unbearable discomfort. A car put putted calmly down the lane, the passengers commenting to each other on the bizarrely clad pedestrian before forgetting about him completely. He was not displeased.

Suddenly, the line of trees broke and gave way to a sea of tall grass as far as the eye could see. In his previously lightheaded state, he had apparently traveled much farther than he had anticipated. Up ahead was a small town; fifteen minutes later he was entering its borders. There was a sign on his right:

Welcome to Calton
Pop. 937
We’re glad you’re here!

Peeling paint, bird droppings, rust, and blue spray paint reading “Bill Lancaster likes it up the ass” detracted somewhat from the sincerity of the overall message. The main street was decaying, pot holes and cracks running rampant across its surface. Just before the main stretch of the minute town were two possibilities for his stay that night.

Betty’s Bounteous Bed and Breakfast was one option, looking cheerfully out of place with its fresh coat of white paint and blue trim. On the other side of the road was its competition, if it could be called that. Its front porch was missing the railing in several places, one of the front steps was rotted through, and the sign in front was merely a piece of plywood with the words “INN, Big Beds” scrawled on it with red spray paint. Rusty cans and cigarette butts poked arrogantly out from the crab grass and weeds, and he could do nothing to prevent the broad smile that spread across his face.

It would do.

The white disc in the sky burning down on him was cut off as he walked into the shadow of the building. He cautiously put his boot onto the first step and .22 cartridge shells rolled onto the ground as the entire board tilted toward him, the brown stain of long dried blood reaching his vision. Crouching down, he absently fingered them, rolling them around in the palm of his hand.

Someone had died here. Someone had killed here. Maybe.

He put the shells in his pocket for later and entered the building.

A mouse squeaked in terror and scuttled away to an unknown sanctuary. There was an empty desk across the room and he slowly approached it, unsure of what to do.

“Hello?”

There was a quiet rustling sound from an open door in the back, but nothing else.

“Anyone back there?” he tried again. “I’d like a room. Hey!”

A sniffle and a grunt. He pushed himself over the desk and peered into the doorway. Lying on a cot turned nearly black with dirt and age was a gnarled old man, a bottle of whiskey snuggled securely in 

the crook of his arm. His breath came out in sour puffs as he slept, broken by the occasional sniffle or grunt. The traveler cocked his head, observing. Probably nothing else for it. He went back out to the desk and opened the right drawer. Room keys—twenty, none labeled—were thrown haphazardly inside.

They were all identical. Every key opened every room.

He smiled at the thought.

Behind the keys were a gun and a matchbox, presumably filled with bullets. He took out the gun and examined it. It was a .22, no surprise there. Sliding open the box, he peered inside and was intrigued to find +P cartridges. Same length shell but shorter bullet, meaning more gunpowder and more damage. These bullets were meant to penetrate. And looking closer…these were hollow points. And not just hollow points, but black talons. When the portion of the bullet projecting from the cartridge is concave, it tends to flatten and mushroom when hitting, say, a person. This utilizes kinetic energy, meaning none is wasted by exiting the body. When the cup shaped bullet tip is cut into four quadrants, it’s called a black talon. In the body, instead of simply mushrooming, the four sections peel back into sharp metallic strips. Some say it’s more painful, some say it’s not, but it definitely makes a statement. They had actually been banned from production about ten years previously, which left Winchester and many wannabe school shooters more than a little disgruntled.

Frowning, he jerked open the left drawer.

Carelessly tossing papers out, he stared for a moment at the tube laying inside, his head cocked slightly to the side. A homemade suppressor, well made. He picked it up in his hand and tossed it slightly, catching it easily, gauging it. Vented double-lumen tube, packed with steel wool, readymade to screw onto the end of the greasy .22 held in his other hand. He turned to the old man appraisingly, staring at him in a new light. He seemed far too stupid to know how to make such tools. The traveler wondered how many people he had hurt, killed. There were shells outside. There was blood outside.

His forehead creased a tiny bit as he screwed the suppressor onto the .22 semiautomatic. The old man snuffled grumpily as his sleeping form indignantly noted the cool metal against his temple. A muted gunshot blast. The traveler noted with interest the steel wool filaments embedded in curvilinear stippling around the contact wound. The wound itself wasn’t all that impressive, the small caliber and lack of distance destroying the potential for any real festive looking damage. He casually tossed the gun onto the no longer snoring figure and picked up a room key. Striding down the hallway, dragging his backpack behind him on the floor, he picked a room at random. A grimy window the size of a food tray had been cut out haphazardly in the opposite wall, with a cheap piece of glass pushed into it. There was a cot, there was a toilet, there was a sink, but there wasn't a bible to be found.

He took this as a good sign.