-Anarchy Drive-

The year is 202X. Thirty years have passed since the end of the Russo-American War. Twenty years have passed since the end of the AmeriCorporate Civil War, which divided the United States into the independent states of the West and the corporate states of the East, and ended the world as we know it. The world has changed, with dimensional distortions transforming everyday life. Borders have been redrawn, technology has advanced, and even the nature of the human genome has undergone significant changes. Amid the chaos of this new reality, mutantkind seeks a new way forward. This is the story of one such mutant, as recorded by the independent journalist Camilla Bailey.

-Chapter 1-

-Exodus-

DATE: August 1st, 202X, 22:35 Local Time

LOCATION: Broken Record Bar, Luz De Sol, Independent Republic of California

SUBJECT: Jack Logan Wallis Fetterman

-BEGIN VOICE LOG-

-TRANSCRIPTION ENCLOSED-

C: Right, okay, there we go.        

        J: Tequila Sunrise, please…Thank you.

        C: This is Camilla Bailey, independent journalist. Today’s date is August 1st, 202X.  I’m here interviewing my friend about his career as a bounty hunter. Can you state your name for the record?
        J: Cami, that’s something they do in court.

        C: Uh, right, sorry.

        J: No worries. My name is Jack Logan Wallis Fetterman. I’m 24 years old. So, you want to know how I got here? Well, it’s a long story.

        C: That’s why I took time off to help you tell it.

        J: Alright, well, get comfy. You might be here a while. It all starts when I graduate from college. Came all the way down from the Big Sky, the Treasure Country. So what’s a farm boy like me doin’ in the big city? Well, my folks are gettin’ older, ya see. Dad’s retired, but my mother? Still workin’ like a fiend. Sometimes she puts in a hundred or so hours a pay period workin’ for the government. And it’s not just because the Federation of Montana has its hands full trying to get on its feet and ditch its protectorate status, no. She’s working, and get this, because she wants to. Yeah, she’s a little crazy, but then again, so am I. She needs something to occupy her, otherwise she’ll go nuts. Of course, my dad ain’t that different. Pushin’ seventy and still findin’ ways to do projects around the house. But they ain’t gonna be able to do that much longer. So I decided to come down to the Independent Republic of California. I mean, I’ve always kinda wanted to live here. Heard it was a nice place. With a degree in Liberal Studies, I figured I could go anywhere and land a solid job. So I pooled all my savings, packed all my stuff, and made my way on down the road.

        C: Didn’t something happen on your travels to the I.R.C.?

J: Oh yeah, that part. That’s where it gets interesting. Well, despite my best efforts to check, double-check, and recheck the car I had, I broke down about 80 miles outside of Reno. No, not bandits. Think the heat may have caused the poor thing to die on me. Of course, can’t get the damn thing to work, so I try and call someone. No service. Up in the distance, I see something. I was thinkin’, “That can’t be it.” Must be a mirage or something. But curiosity overtakes me, and I get a little closer. Looks like a building. I figured if I had come this close and it hadn’t vanished, it must be real. It was off the main highway, but I figured I didn’t have a choice. So, I started walking. It took ages. Buzzards circlin’ overhead. Because I needed the world to remind me how bad my current situation was.

It was hot. Hot as hell. Not a cloud in the sky and the sun was beamin’ down on me like an angry eyeball. The walk seemed way longer than it was on account of the heat sapping my energy. But I knew I had to keep going. This was my only chance to get to where I wanted to go in a reasonable manner. I had heard rumors of bandit gangs. that roamed the old highways of the Mojave seeking fortune at the expense of others in their suped-up battle rigs, or dangerous mutants that stalked the wasteland looking for a quick meal,  but I couldn’t let that stop me. As I got closer, it came into view. It was, in fact, a building, and the best kind of building that I could find in my current situation. Ramone’s Motors: Gas Station, Full Service Repair, Parts & More. The faded sign outside displayed cars framing the text on either side. Older models, most likely the ones that still used gasoline instead of generators. My rust bucket was one of those. With any luck, they’d be able to get me back on the road. So I decided to go in and check it out. The sign on the front door said they were open, but something was off. The size of the establishment and the time of the day suggested that there would be people working on cars or manning the store. Three vehicles sat in the garage in various states of assembly. It was highly unusual that such valuable pieces of equipment would be left unattended and exposed to the open air. Curiosity got the better of me, so I opened the front door.

Slowly, I poked my head in. No one was inside either.
        “Hello?” I said cautiously.

No response…I entered slowly.
        “My car broke down a ways down the road…can anyone help me?”

I gradually panned my gaze around the interior. Aisles upon aisles of shelves. Snacks, drinks, charging cables, magazines, 20 different brands of engine oils and lubricants. Everything anyone could need for a good old-fashioned road trip.
        Suddenly, something came into view from behind the front counter. Or rather, someone. Two pointed ears poked upwards, framing a brown cowboy hat. Underneath the brim of this hat was a canine snout. The angle of this brim shifted upwards quickly, and I saw the beady brown eyes attached to the nose.
        “Who the hell are you!?” she hissed, half whispering and half yelling.
        Taken aback, I stammered.
        “Jack,” I blurted.
        “I’m trynna plan an ambush here, what’s yer problem?”
        “An ambush? For whom?”
        “Wanted criminals, you ignoramus! Y’ain’t never heard of no bounty hunter before?!”
        “Should I go? I mean, I can’t really, on account of the car…”
        “Damn it! Just get out of sight!”
        It was at this time that something echoed across the dusty desert wastes, the roar of engines bouncing off the sky. My ears twitched toward the source of the sound. The ears of the bounty hunter did the same.
        “Shit, they’re comin’! You better hide!”
        Panic overtook me. I froze, eyes darting around.
        “Don’t just stand there! Behind the counter, now!”
        I nodded, breathing heavily as I ran into the shop and jumped over the counter. I ducked down, my back facing the door. My breathing was still rapid. This was the last thing I was expecting. I was told to pay no mind to the stories of bandit gangs roaming the Mojave wastes. I was told that they were all exaggerated. I knew it was always possible, but I figured this close to a populated city, the roads would be patrolled and kept safe for travellers. I didn’t know how wrong I was until now.
        “Shh, shush up! Can’t let them know we’re here!
        In her hand was a massive weapon. It was less of a handgun and more of a hand cannon. The Strider Arms “Tombstone”. A single-action .50 calibre revolver. It gets its name from the massive barrel, a slab of steel that resembles a grave marker. The gargantuan pistol looked ungainly in her small hands, but she handled it with ease. She had a stash of other weapons that she had already loaded: lever-action rifles, shotguns, and grenades. She wore a duster and a bulletproof vest, covered with speed loaders, bandoliers, and pouches all over. On her hat were a few lucky charms attached to a cloth strap. Pins in the shapes of four-leaf clovers and horseshoes accompanied a singular playing card on one side: the ace of spades with a bullet hole straight through the middle. On the other side, she had tucked in two large feathers, pinions of a golden eagle. She wanted to shift the odds in her favor as much as possible. Other than that, there were small flourishes of beadwork, blues, whites, blacks, and reds framed with silver. On her face was the scowling countenance of a coyote, doing one last check on weapons. Just as she finished, the roar of the engines was growing louder as dust and gravel were tossed about the road. The brakes screeched to a halt. I wanted to peek up and look, but another part of me thought that was a bad idea. The engines shut off. Footsteps approached faintly outside.

Suddenly, the front door was kicked in. Glass shattered and scattered across the floor as I flinched. The footsteps became clear now. They started to get closer. Multiple sets of boots step into the shop, scuffling on the floor. I thought I heard at least two. Maybe three.
        “Ramirez! Time’s up, you piece of shit! Come out with the money, or we blow this place to the fucking ground!”
        It was a harsh and hissing voice, almost out of breath. It would be pathetic and wheezing if it weren’t so sinister. It repeated.
        “Ramirez! We know you’re in here! We’re going to find you, you bastard, and once we do, we’re gonna tear you apart!”
        This time, the voice was more frustrated. Five seconds of silence stretched out into what seemed like an agonizing eternity. I covered my mouth with my hands, praying inside my head, apologizing to God for whatever sins I had committed to land me in a mess like this.

“Fan out, boys. He’s in here somewhere. See if you can find any of his family, too. If you capture them, we can threaten ‘em to lure them out.
        Someone over the counter chambered a round in a rifle. Another person chambered a shotgun shell, the sound of the pump clacking back and forth. The footsteps came closer to the counter, accompanied by the sound of mechanical whirring. Every so often, the whirring was followed by a metallic chunky sound, as a mechanical boot dragged along the floor. I smelled them. Three of them, just like I suspected. They carried in the dust with them, but along with that, I smelled hydraulic fluid from the cybernetics one of them had. It mixed in with the scent of cigarettes, alcohol, and gunpowder.

The bounty hunter looked at me. She pulled up her bandanna, then pressed a single pointer finger against her mouth. She then gestured with a flat hand, forcing her palm down. Stay quiet and stay low. I nodded. Swiftly and silently, she walked by me, crouched down. Her big leather boots and numerous guns hardly made any sound. She once again poked her head over. I was scared. I thought that somehow, she was going to get her head instantly removed by a 12-gauge round, then I would be next. But no. She vaulted over the counter without so much as a peep. Despite what she told me, I looked over to see what she was doing. She was gone, but I caught a brief glimpse of the three bandits who walked in. One of them was a badger, the one with the metal leg. In addition to that, both of his hands seemed to be inside large plated gauntlets. Power fists, designed to break bones and shatter concrete. On the other side, a chuckwalla with a pump action. The third was a rattlesnake. He held a rifle in both hands, finger off the trigger, but poised to strike at any moment. I recognized that as good discipline. He knew how to use it. His gaze shifted towards me, which I managed to avoid at the last second, ducking back down. My heart was pounding as if it was going to jump out of my chest. His footsteps came closer to me. He started to peer over the counter, his tongue flicking out of his mouth. He was going to sniff me out. I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight. I had no idea what I wanted to do. At this juncture, my instincts weren’t trained to respond well to stress.

Thankfully, the badger punched the hinges off a door, breaking it down to my right. I heard the wood splinter in an instant. I just had to keep breathing. The snake man looked toward the source of the noise. He swivelled the rifle around in concert with his noodle-like neck. Shortly after, I heard a sharp gasp and the shuffle of boots. Someone was being choked out behind the snake man, a struggle he failed to notice. That was until a stray blow from the bandit knocked something over on one of the shelves in the aisles that lined the shop. The snake man paused. He gestured to the left towards the products in the aisles. The heavy metal leg of the badger moved rapidly, thumping closer and closer.

“This is it,” I thought. “We’re both dead.”

Thankfully, his gargantuan footsteps soon came to an abrupt stop as he grunted and thumped on the floor. In an instant, she was on him. I heard his grunting grow louder.
        “What the…? HEY!” he bellowed.
        I dared not look. One of the shelves was knocked over as the ambush devolved into a brawl. The snake man moved rapidly away from the counter. He fired his rifle, swiftly chambering another round. The loud sound bounced off the walls of the shop and rang in my ears, but I had to suppress my instinct to yell out in surprise. I clenched my teeth.

Two more shots. A window shattered. One of the shelves suddenly flew through the air and hit the wall behind the counter a few yards away from me, shattering completely. More shots. A rifle clattered to the ground. Rapid footsteps in opposite directions.  One shot from the other side of the room rang out. Shortly after, the sounds of cursing erupted from both sides.
        “Dechenne, you little bitch! How many times do the Steel Horses have to tell you to get the fuck off our turf?!”

“As many times as you want, you varmint! I ain’t listenin’!”

He yelled out, racking the slide on a pistol. Gunfire was exchanged until both were out of ammo. The woman known as Dechenne growled as she charged, then struck the outlaw in close combat. I heard the snapping of jaws between grunts and insults. The bandit was disarmed, flinging his pistol over the counter right next to me. I took a look at it. He had managed to reload before he was grappled. .45, automatic. Just then, he managed to wrap around Dechenne, pressing her against the counter. The bandit punched her in the face as she attempted to draw a backup weapon. Before she could recover, he produced a switchblade from his jacket. He plunged it downwards, but the bounty hunter craned her neck to the side, avoiding the lethal strike. He tried again, hitting the counter on the other side of her head. Finally, he struck downwards in the center. At the very last second, the bounty hunter grabbed his wrists as the outlaw attempted to force the blade into her jugular vein. She was straining with all of her effort, but it was inching closer and closer. I knew what I had to do.
        In a flash, I grabbed the pistol from the ground. I didn’t even check the safety. I just stood up, aimed, and fired.

Recoil. I was so tense from anxiety that I barely felt it. It hit him right in the shoulder. He cried out in pain as the table of fate turned away from him and towards me. Flinching from the wound, the switch blade clattered to the floor. Dechenne seized the initiative, kneeing him in the groin, knocking him back. A left hook put him on the floor, and soon after, she had her boot on his chest. She drew her sidearm, levelling it at his head. He raised his hands, chuckling.
        “Couldn’t take me and the boy on by myself, huh? Had to use your little friend there?”
        Dechenne turned around, looking at me briefly, then back to her target.
        “Says the yellow-bellied shithead who needed two other ruffians to shake down a small family business,” she retorted.

“So what comes now, eh? You gonna shoot me? I got rights, y’know. You gotta read ‘em to me,” he said, sneering.

“I ain’t gotta read you shit. You’ll get the speech when you’re turned over to the sheriff. Now shut yer damn mouth!”

She stepped off of him before kicking him in the head, knocking him unconscious. She holstered her weapon, then started to cuff two of the outlaws. The big badger had been shot in the chest by the boss during the brawl, so he didn’t need to be restrained. After the two living outlaws were restrained, Dechenne turned to me.

“Nice shootin’, stranger.”
        “Thank you, ma’am,” I nodded. I extended a hand in fellowship. She promptly spat on her hand and gave mine a firm shake. A little gross, considering the blood that dripped down her nose and into her mouth, mixing with the saliva, and not what I was expecting, but I kept a straight face since I appreciated the gesture. Her voice was low in energy, calm and still like the vast desert outside. Her expression wasn’t quite a smile, but her eyes showed that she was calming down from the conflict remarkably fast. She was experienced, that much I could tell. I could tell she was thankful for what I had done, despite her steely demeanor.

“Jack, was it? Mighty fine to meet you, Mr. Jack. Name’s Mauve. Mauve Dechenne. Bounty huntin’ callsign is ‘Mavin’, but you ain’t gotta worry about that. Member of the Iron Rangers. These buzzards here are members of a local raider gang. Steel Horses.”

It was at this point that she produced her phone. She showed me the profiles of the bandits. Lars “Malibu” Saunders, the chuckwalla, Sam “The Sinner” Davis, the badger, and Cleveland “Slick” Malone, the rattlesnake, were all wanted for charges such as murder, assault, theft, extortion, weapons trafficking, and the possession of illegal cybernetics. Each one was listed as wanted dead or alive. I might add that there was a pretty price on each of the men. More if they were brought in alive for sentencing.

“Two out of three ain’t bad,” I said to her.

“Reckon so. Just part of doin’ business.”

C: So, what happened after that?
J: We went on to give the owner and his family the all clear. They had been hiding in the basement further back in the shop. Afterwards, a posse of Iron Rangers came in to clean up the mess. Ramone was compensated using their funds, as is customary. And in the end, I got my car fixed AND I got to keep the pistol. I asked if it should have been turned in as evidence, but Mauve said that it was now a “lucky” gun. I told her I didn’t believe in luck. But she rebuffed me, saying that it does exist. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have shown up. I figured she had made up her mind, so I didn’t argue it further. It was a hell of a bump in the road on my journey south, but I must say if that didn’t happen, I doubt I would have gotten wrapped up in this bounty business at all.
C: Oh, uh, sorry, Jack. Mr. Kim is asking if we can wrap this up. I guess I uh, didn’t ask you many questions. Damn. Still new to this journalism thing, y’know?  It was a nice story, though! Thank you for talking to me! We’ll have to continue this some other time.

J: Absolutely, Cami. It was a pleasure. Let me know when you want to talk again. I’ll be more than happy to pop in, especially if you’re buyin’!

C: Haha! Sure thing! Oh, uh! This is Camilla Bailey, independent journalist, signing off! Good night!

-END RECORDING-