Star-Lord, page 10
part #1 of Marvel Wastelanders Series
“What you got, Cora?”
“My seismographic sensors indicate that there are several horses approaching. About a mile away – but heading in this direction.”
“Guess it’s time, then. Fight or die.”
It wasn’t hard to locate Quill and Rocket: the pair were engaged in digging a trench which Quill envisioned filling with sharpened spikes. He insisted that it would be a great booby trap and nobody addressed the fact that between their bickering and the need for Quill to stop every five minutes for a breather, they’d only dug about eight inches.
“We’ve done other stuff too,” said Rocket, whether to save face or not. Red relayed Cora’s warning and the two Guardians set down their shovels. The group trailed back to the farmhouse.
They were swiftly ensconced in the house, each of them – except for Cora – fully armed and barricaded behind whatever they could find to shove up against the doors and windows. Between a gap in the wood, Rocket made the first spot.
“Five of them,” he said in a low growl.
“Five?” Quill nodded, his expression determined. “We can handle five.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Rocket, his eyes glittering. “Get yourselves to where you can see, because this is gonna be great. Wait for it.”
Red peered out through a knot in the wood. “What are we waiting for?”
“Watch closely. Watch that patch of dark dirt and what happens when the horses get to it.” Rocket peered out. “C’mon. Closer. Closer!”
A hiatus. Then…
“Now!”
The horses suddenly came to a complete halt, whinnying loudly as their riders flew forward over their necks, crashing into the dirt. There were shouts of pain and confusion and panicked neighing from the now completely stationary horses. Rocket began to laugh, slapping his paws against his thighs.
“What did you do?” Red was impressed despite himself. “Those horses stopped on a dime.”
“Did you see the way those goons flew right out of their saddles?” Quill was more alive than Red had seen him so far. “Outstanding work, Rocket.”
“What did you do?” Red repeated the question.
Rocket glanced at him and smirked, baring his sharp little teeth. “I magnetized the ground,” he replied with a barking laugh. “Stopped their horses mid-stride.” His laughter gave way to coughing and he wiped his streaming eyes. “Worked like a dream, huh?”
Outside, they heard the men – five distinct voices – grumbling and groaning from their impact injuries and the unmistakable lisp of Rattlesnake Pete was among them. Rocket peered out again and continued. “We weren’t sure what was coming after us. Figured it’d either be a Doombot, or a posse of Wasteland cowboys. Either way… metal shoes. Win-win.”
“But how did you manage…”
“Just appreciate my brilliance, Red. Don’t question it. Bask in it.”
Outside the cabin, the five men picked themselves up off the ground. Rattlesnake Pete, who appeared to be the nominal leader, stepped forward and bellowed Red’s name.
Quill peered out and a flicker of recognition passed over his face. Red joined him and a sigh of resignation passed his lips. “Hey, I know that guy. From Outpost 13, right?”
“He ain’t one to pass up a fight. Everyone, just stay low at the windows, all right? The logs on this cabin are solid. Thick. Ain’t no bullets getting through those.”
“Red Crotter!” Another shout from outside.
Quill turned to their host. “You OK for ammo there, Red?”
The old farmer shucked his rifle and nodded. “I’m good. I got enough.”
“Music to my ears,” said Rocket as the men outside continued to holler Red’s name, demanding his exodus from the cabin. “I mean, not that bit.”
“Bright side,” said Red, more to himself than anything. “A crowd of bloodthirsty, drunken idiots is a better prospect than a Doombot.” He glanced briefly at Cora. “Dark side: they’ll probably cannibalize our remains.”
“Red Crotter! We know you’re up there, old man. You might as well give up and come out!”
When it came, the shout was so close that Red, Rocket and Quill actively jumped backwards. Then they turned to Cora, from whom the sound was emanating. She looked at the others. “I am picking up their conversation quite clearly,” she explained. “I thought it might be helpful to amplify it so you could hear them.”
In the ensuing silence, they heard the men muttering to each other. The sound Cora projected was crisp and perfect. Quill’s eyebrows rose.
“Solid sound system, Cora,” he complimented. “Remind me to get you play some tunes later.”
“They ain’t comin’, Pete,” they heard someone say. “Just tell ’em we’re here to collect what’s owed and then we’ll be gone.”
“If by ‘what’s owed’ you mean a pile of broken teeth, maybe a still-beating heart and a new money-purse sewn from his unmentionables…” Pete’s lisp sounded through Cora’s projection perfectly and the accompanying laughter was enough to chill them to the core.
Red stared coldly out through the window. “Oh, I got some buckshot that says otherwise.”
“Is that other old guy still with him?” The question came from one of Pete’s cronies. “Shatterstar or whatever his name was?”
“Star-Lord,” muttered Quill. “Why is it so hard to remember?”
“I hope so,” responded Pete. “I’d be more than happy to gut that old sack of trash.” He increased his volume, shouting again to the cabin. “Come on Red, enough of this. Come on out here and we’ll talk it over. You pay us your taxes and we leave. Simple as that!”
Nothing.
“He ain’t gonna take the bait, boys.” Pete’s tone was one of bored indifference. “How about we smoke ’em out instead?”
“Good plan. That old cabin looks like it’ll be perfect tinder. What do you reckon they got up there in terms of firepower, Pete?”
“Nothing much, I’ll wager. Neither of ’em did anything but run yesterday, like the cowards that they are. So here’s what we’re gonna do. We…”
His plan never got further. A shotgun blast sounded around the hollers of Red Crotter’s farm, sending a flock of birds panicking into the air and bringing a fresh round of terror from the trapped, magnetized horses. Rattlesnake Pete hit the ground, screaming and pawing at his thigh. “My leg! That son of a… shot my leg!”
Up in the cabin, Rocket clapped his paws together. “Outstanding shot! I like your style, old man.” He peered out the window and laughed again. “Oh, man, his thigh looks like a platter of raw meat.”
“Holy crap, Red.” Quill was aghast. “You could have at least warned him first.”
“That was meant to be a warning shot,” said Red, without taking his eyes from the sight. “Aim’s not so good as it was.”
Cora shut off her projection of the sounds of Pete’s whimpering and they were all grateful for that.
“They’re out there talking openly about skinning us alive, old man,” Red added.
Red’s incredulity fired Quill’s indignance.
“We should have warned them first,” he said. “It’s standard good guy practice…”
“Good guys. Huh.” Rocket snorted. He turned back to watch the scene outside. “They’re fussing around him now, looks like they’re trying to stop him bleeding out… What’s he saying, Cora? Play it for us.”
“Of course, Rocket.” She opened up her speakers again and the sounds of panicked voices flooded through the room.
“…no, Ned, forget me. Just light that place up. Burn the bastards to the ground.”
“Kill them?”
“Oh hell, yes.”
“Oh hell, no,” said Rocket. “Oh hell, yes. Duck!”
Gunfire immediately filled their air, bullets ricocheting from the protection of the heavy lumber of the cabin. One bullet zinged through the window, shattering the glass. Quill ducked down, letting out a shout of alarm. Rocket let out a short, barking laugh.
“What do you reckon, Red? Think I should open up and roast these goons? Or would that be decidedly unheroic of me?”
“Always been a fan of the anti-hero, myself,” replied Red.
“Good answer.” Rocket rose up. “Right answer.” With a bellow of delight, he unleashed a blast of fire from his rifle in the direction of the men shooting at them. “One down, four guys left. This is no problem. Go on, time me!”
“Cora,” shouted Quill. “Now’s the time to play that music!”
An orchestral swell filled the fighting zone as Cora played the opening bars of a classic Rigellian symphony. Quill stepped forward, looking disheartened, holding up a hand to stall proceedings and exchange a few quick words with the recorder. The beautiful tune faded away and the heady backdrop of a pounding bass beat rolled out to take its place.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” said Quill.
•••
It was a brief battle, even more so than the one with the Brood. Then, it had been a case of thinning numbers enough to make good on their escape. Here, it was five men. It transpired that while Pete’s posse were reasonably seasoned and well-armed to boot, they were unprepared for the ferocity of Rocket Raccoon’s counterattack. After more glass was blasted out, Rocket burst out of a now empty window frame, moving with such speed and ferocity that the posse were startled into confusion. Rocket rained fire down on them and two fell before they could react. Their injuries weren’t fatal but didn’t leave a lot of options for survival later.
Then there were two. Emboldened by the change of odds in their favor, Quill left the cabin. A bullet zinged right by his ear, close enough to lift his hair. His heart leaped into his mouth, and he offered up silent thanks to whatever deity might have been watching him at that moment. He allowed himself to circumvent all the brain circuits telling him he was too old for this kind of thing and opened fire with the pistols Red had loaned him. He grazed one of the two men across the shoulder, enough for him to drop his gun. Then he and Rocket were standing together laughing uproariously as the men gathered their weapons and their wounded, fleeing into the Wastelands, leaving their horses behind.
“Well, at least we got ourselves a ride,” said Quill as he lowered his weapons. Beside him, Rocket still had his rifle raised.
“Yep,” he said, finally lowering the weapon once the two enemies were long gone, and Quill could hear the wheezing in his friend’s lungs. “We sure have. Let’s get them freed and rubbed down. Then we can get to Doomwood.”
Several minutes later, the panicked posse horses had been calmed and led to Red’s shabby stable area. They were grateful for the feed, and while Quill and Red headed back outside to check the area was clear, Rocket remained behind to water the animals. As he did so, he inspected them for injury. They had miraculously escaped unharmed and as he rubbed them down, they settled.
Rocket paused as a coughing fit assailed him and Cora spoke up. “Are you quite all right, Rocket?”
“Yeah,” choked Rocket, waving irritably. “It’s the straw in this stable, that’s all. I got… allergies. Stop fretting and help me with the saddle on this horse, would you?”
“Of course, Rocket.” Cora moved to help him lift the saddle and buckle it back onto the horse. At first, the straps were a puzzle, but she soon worked out how the saddle functioned as a mechanism and her fingers worked deftly. As she did her work, Rocket’s cough started again and he turned away from her, spitting into the straw.
“Rocket.”
“What?”
“That was blood you spat out onto the straw.” Rocket looked up at the recorder, unblinking and without speaking. “There are several other occasions where I have recorded the sound of you coughing so harshly.”
“Oh, great. Yeah, good for you, lady.”
“So I do not believe that you have allergies.” Rocket didn’t respond and Cora supplied a secondary comment. “Neither do I believe it is the straw.”
“OK. Listen, Cora. Just… don’t say anything about this to Quill, all right? Promise me.”
“I promise, Rocket.”
“I just… I just wanted to square all this away. Get the Black Vortex, take it back, collect the fee and satisfy myself that Quill’s gonna be OK, you know? Before I shuffle off this mortal coil.” He spat another gobbet of blood into the straw and passed a paw over his eyes, his little body showing far more than he was saying.
“Are you sad about this, Rocket?”
“Sad? Of course not. I’m not sad. I’m pissed off. Yeah, that’s a better phrase. Pissed off. I guess it happens though. You live long enough and death catches up with you, even though you’ve done a great job of avoiding its gaze.” He sighed and looked up as he heard approaching voices. “They’re back. Shut up.” He hoisted himself up – with great difficulty – onto the back of the horse as Quill and Red came into the stable.
“Woah, Rocket on a horse! That’s not a thing I ever thought I’d see,” said Quill, his face lighting up with sheer delight at the extraordinary vision of Rocket sitting astride a stallion as Cora patiently adjusted the stirrups for his reduced height. Just for a moment, Quill considered making jokes about Rocket’s height, but then he forced it down. It wasn’t the time.
“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Rocket, but it was good natured.
“Sure you know how to work the controls on that thing?”
“Oh, shut your yap and open up the doors, please.” Laughing at his own joke, Quill did as Rocket asked and nudged the horse forward. It trotted obediently and Red cast a critical eye over it.
“Those horses have been poorly treated,” he observed and it was impossible not to hear the anger in his tone. “They’re slat-ribbed, they’ve got sores in their mouths and they’re skittish. It’s gonna take some doing, getting them used to you.”
“I can pilot anything,” said Rocket, repeating a phrase he’d used countless times across the years. “And that includes a dumb horse.”
“Whatever you say, Rocket.” All thoughts of teasing him fled as Quill became acutely aware that there was now something oddly poignant, perhaps even dignified about the small raccoon Rocket holding his aging body up so very straight on the horse’s back. “Whatever you say. Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait,” said Red. “Before you leave…” He fumbled at his gun belt, unbuckling it, and the weapons that he wore there. He held up the holsters, studied them for a moment, then laughed lightly. “These were my grandaddy’s. Then they were my daddy’s. Then mine. Now, I guess…” He chewed his lower lip, taking in a mouth full of beard as he did so. “I guess they’re yours.”
Quill took the gun holster, his expression one of incredulity. “Seriously?” He swapped for the pistols he’d been using and Red nodded.
“Seriously. You aren’t gonna last long out there without some sort of decent peashooter. Go on. Try one on for size.”
His face quizzical, Quill drew one of the weapons from its holster. It was a thing of beauty, fitting into his grip as though it belonged there. He looked at its design carefully: sandalwood grips, a blue steel finish and a six-inch barrel. He slid it back into the holster and drew the other, its perfect twin. They were perfectly balanced, and he was rendered speechless at the gift. He opened up the cylinder and rotated the barrel. Fully loaded. As he snapped it back in and slid it into a fully stocked gunbelt, he nodded at Red, awkwardly.
“This is the point in the story where I say ‘Man, I couldn’t’ and you say…”
“I say, ‘I insist’.”
The two old men exchanged sudden, warm smiles. Red put a hand on Quill’s arm. “Where you’re going – Doomwood – it’s about as dangerous as it gets. I’d be a poor man if I didn’t give you a fighting chance.”
“No offense, Red, but we’ve been in some pretty hairy situations over the years,” said Rocket from atop his horse. “Shot our way out of them all.”
“Sure, sure. Big talk all right, Rocket. Talk it up all you want – but this is Doom’s home you’re planning on strolling into. His headquarters. Out there, he’s got folks digging into the Black Hills, mining for precious metals. He’s got refineries there, purifying raw ore and churning out steel. And that steel goes straight to the assembly lines where he’s cranking out weapons and materials.” He looked up at Rocket, then to Quill. “Believe me, you’ll smell Doomwood a while before you see it. Furnaces everywhere. A factory that got out of control.”
“You’re a walking advertisement for the Wastelands tourism bureau, aren’t you?”
Red ignored Rocket’s scathing remark and continued. “Second thing. Sebastian Warn. That’s the guy you’re looking for. Tell him I sent you. Ask after him at the Heaven and Hellfire.”
“The Heaven and…”
“Hellfire. It’s the drinking hole he favors. He knows the Black Hills better than most. And this is the important bit. He’s not just someone who can help you, Quill. He’s someone you can trust.” He clapped Quill’s shoulder and stepped back. His gaze took them all in. “But the key thing you need to look out for? Kraven.”
“Kraven?”
“The Wastelands have a million ways to kill you and Kraven is at the top of the list. He is the number one danger out there. He’s Doom’s right-hand man. An enforcer.”
Rocket made a dismissive kind of noise. “We took care of that posse right enough. We can take one guy.”
“No. You can’t. This is important. Killing is more than just a pleasure for this guy. It’s a way of life. It’s his…” Red sought for the words.
“Raisin deeter?” Quill attempted to provide what he thought was the right phrase and his terrible pronunciation brought a brief quirk to Red’s lips.
“Close enough, yeah. It’s his whole way of life. The Wastelands are his prime hunting grounds. So you listen up and you listen good. You keep a low profile. You get in, you get out. Because once Kraven’s got your scent, you’ll be two more carcasses hanging up in his butcher’s window at Totem Hill.”
