30 Days of Heroes: Day 3 The Time Hero

Somewhere Outside Bandera, Texas 1884

The four horsemen circled the body of a man laying on his back in the yellow desert dirt. A massive brown cloud of dust encompassed the horsemen that gawked at the odd site. They had no idea what to make of the symbols "GOT" in gothic writing that adorned the passed out man's black T-shirt. They were even more confused about the strange blue sweatpants the man wore which had a large white "Nike" typed along the leg. What they did recognize was the gun belt around the man's waist with the shiny ivory handle of a Colt Revolver sticking out of the holster. The man stirred as the horsemen reined in their horses and came to a halt.  

Three of the horsemen dismounted and surrounded the strangely dressed man. One of the men, the ugliest one, pulled his revolver out and pointed it but before he could shoot the one still sitting on his horse yelled, "Don't shoot him, you fucking imbecile!"

"He's got a gun!" the imbecile said. He was covered in dust from head to toe. His hat was tattered, his pants were tattered, and his mind was tattered. 

"I want to find out who he is. Maybe he's someone important," the man on his horse said as if he were very bored. He lit a cigarette. He looked different than the others as he was relatively devoid of dust and his clothes were not tattered at all. He looked dapper in his small black felt bolo hat and gray coat. "Take his gun before he shoots you with it," the dapper man demanded. 

The ugly imbecile quickly snatched the immaculate revolver from the holster and just as he pulled it out the man lying on his back opened his eyes. This frightened the ugly outlaw and he stumbled backward, tripped over a rock, and dropped both revolvers, two small dust clouds rose up around them in the dirt. The two other outlaws laughed but the man on the horse did not. He just kept smoking his cigarette and stared at the man they had found in the desert. 

"Let me see it, Jeremiah," the boss said calmly and reached out into the air, waiting to be handed the gun. 

Jeremiah, the imbecile, stood up and slowly pulled the two revolvers out of the dirt. He handed one of them to the boss. The boss brushed the dirt off of it and then threw it as hard as he could at Jeremiah, where it thudded against his chest. "I don't want to see your piece of shit pistol, I want to see the man's. Now hand it over before I shoot you and get it myself!" 

Jeremiah looked down at the gun in his hand and found that it was indeed the strange man's ivory-handled revolver. It was so much nicer than his and his first instinct was to keep it but he knew that the boss was faster than he was and he wouldn't have a chance if he tried to shoot or run. He wasn't sure if the gun was loaded anyway. With one hand rubbing his chest where a bruise was forming he walked over and reluctantly handed the gun over. He then picked up his revolver and lazily held it at his side and muttered curses under his breath. 

As the boss man, still mounted, cleaned the revolver off with a handkerchief, the man dressed in blue sweatpants and a black T-shirt now stood with a bewildered look on his face. The boss man looked down at him after a moment of examination and smiled. He said, "this is the finest piece I've ever seen. Never seen anything like it. Where'd you get it?"

"It's custom," was all the man in the blue pants could think to say. He had no idea what was happening or how he got there or where he was for that matter. His eyes squinted as the noonday sun bared down on him. The desert's rolling hills seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions with only a small tree here and there to break up the baron yellow landscape. He tried to remember the previous evening but it held no clues to his current situation. It was an evening like any other; a workout in the home gym while watching and an episode of Game of Thrones, followed by dinner, which consisted of a steak and salad, followed by more Game of Thrones while dry firing with a replica revolver equipped with a laser that he used to practice trigger control and hammer speed. He remembered reading a chapter out of the book Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix, his third time through, and then going to bed like normal. 

Now he was in the desert in his pajamas, surrounded by four mean-looking cowboys who could have come straight out of an episode of Westworld, except dirtier and meaner. He glanced around at their guns and they looked real enough. His heart started to beat faster and faster as he began to comprehend the situation he was in. Why was he wearing his gun belt? 

"Custom?" The boss man said, confused. "What's custom?"

"It means it was made special for me," he answered back, his eyes darting between the different threats. His mind was automatically calculating the distances between himself and the other men as well as the positions their pistols were in. Years of training started to kick in and he made himself breathe deeply to calm himself. The man to his right was big but staring off like something in the distance was beckoning him. He was the closest, at only a few feet away. He looked to his left. That outlaw was thin and tall and he shuffled back and forth excitedly with a wide grin on his face.  

"You someone special then," The bossman asked.

"Not at all, it was a gift. You can have it if you tell me something."

The man in the black hat laughed at this. "It's already mine mister. The question is whether or not you walk out of here with us because you got money or someone else's got money for ya. So are ya special or ain't ya?" He smiled and flicked his still-lit cigarette butt at the man. 

As the cigarette flew through the air the strange man lept to his right surprising the distracted desperado, who was not paying sufficient attention, and deftly snatched his revolver out of his hand. In the blink of an eye, the gun went off two times, both bullets ripping through the side of the fat outlaw who was stunned and just stood there dumbstruck. He turned toward the outlaw to his left, who was lifting his pistol, but before it could be aimed the man in blue sweatpants cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger twice, putting that man down quickly. The man in the black hat had pulled his pistol but was having a hard time holding the horse steady as it was trying to pull away from the danger and chaos. The ugly imbecile was able to get a shot off but just ended up shooting the fat desperado, who was still standing somehow, but was now holding his bullet wounds. Before the imbecile could take another shot the man in the blue sweatpants hammered another shot into his chest and he fell to the ground, his face kicking up dust as it hit the dirt. 

The man in the blue sweatpants lept to the ground toward the outlaw to his left just as the man in the black hat began to shoot, a narrow miss. He finally grasped the loaded revolver from the dirt but when he looked up he saw that the man in the black hat was riding away with his custom Colt no less. It wasn't a long enough shot that he couldn't have attempted it but he didn't want to shoot the man in the back. He didn't want to shoot anyone at all, really. He'd never shot anyone before but they had given him no choice. 

He stood up and walked over to the fat wounded outlaw who was still on his feet somehow, blood covered his clothes and dripped into the thirsty dirt. They looked into each other's eyes and the bloody outlaw asked, "What's yer name?"

"My name is Wyatt Stockton. What year is it?" 

"1884," the dying outlaw said with his last breath and then fell, face first, into the dust.   

Hollywood, California 2170

The rotted desk groaned and creaked when Balthis slammed his feet on the desktop. The myriad of cables, power converters, consoles, and switches shifted and wobbled. He looked up at the ceiling that, thanks to his implanted contacts, turned the ceiling into an endless set of screens of varying sizes. His hands waved in the air this way and that as he looked for the information he desired. For the past week, he had spent every waking hour sifting through thousands of ancient news clippings, fictional references, and anything else that might indicate that his experiment had worked. So far, nothing.

A huge pile of cans was taking up a corner of the room and a crack in the wall was turned into a place to piss. The room smelled of a mix of mold, piss, and the chemical smell of energy drinks. Protein bar wrappers littered the floor around his chair. It had been 12 hours since he had been in the real world and his eyes began to water so much that he had to take a break. The bright light that the implants projected onto his retinas dissipated revealing the dark reality of the room he resided. Small led lights blinked to an unknown rhythm in front of him, the only other light came from a triangle of missing black paint that covered all the windows to the outside world. An everchanging technicolor light show flashed at irregular intervals through the triangle. Balthis knew it was night by the types of light flashes but he couldn't quite remember what night it was or how soon day would come. 

The exposure preset preference setting kicked into place and the room slowly lit up to a reasonable level to walk around. An audible crack came from the base of his neck as he swiveled his head around. The tingling in his legs made it difficult to walk around the room but he knew he needed to get the blood flowing again or else he might not make it to the next room to take a shit. His bowel movements were unpredictable of late and would come on sudden and then they would be absent for a couple of days. The toilet in the next room was still functional if not hygienic but he knew he wouldn't have to be in this dungeonous hell hole much longer. Not if it worked. 

After dealing with his erratic bowels he made his way back to his desk. He picked up a box that lay on the floor and when he found it to be empty he threw the box angrily toward the pile of small cans in the corner. They clanged and skidded across the floor in all directions. He drank what remained in a can with a pink label that had a single black lightning bolt across it and was disappointed with the small amount that was left in the bottom. He finished it off and threw it into the corner to join its fallen comrades. That meant that he would have to take on the dangerous task of venturing out to get more. 

After five sets of seemingly endless stairs, he paused in front of the door and took a deep breath. With his hoodie up and its attached KN750 air filtration system in place he opened the door. A wave of musky air hit him in the face as he stepped out into the alleyway that led to the vending machines. The ancient and rusted padlock reminded him of the renaissance and the old cathedrals he had visited in a simulation once. The metal in those times was always in some state of rust and the large keys that opened them were similarly on the brink of destruction. It's a wonder how anyone secured anything back them but the building he occupied had been defunct for so long it never saw the magstripe locking mechanisms that were common now, with their proximity sensors and encrypted personal identification systems. No one had picked a tumbler tock in so long that the rusted padlock offered the most security Balthis could think of.  

With the lock in place and the rusted key in his pocket he made his way down the dirty street toward the bright pink lights in the distance that flashed the words "Pow Bevie". The streets were filled with people almost shoulder to shoulder walking in a mess of lines up and down the sidewalks. In his mind, he knew that any one of them could be looking for him. His eyes darted back and forth as the implants attempted to identify the faces that it encountered. They were set to pick up the smallest of identifying features that might differentiate those from the normal population and those in the government database that he had updated only a few hours ago. So far he felt confident that his disguised retinal projection would protect him from a similar device worn by someone looking for him but he couldn't be certain of anything. 

In his ears, he heard a combination of the chaotic noise around him and a feed coming from a program he wrote that tapped into any communications that might be coming from those that were searching for him. Keywords like his name or any of his hundreds of pseudonyms were flagged and anyone that mentioned them was picked up and fed into his ear. Anyone using known coded terms for surveillance in the area would also be picked up. So far he didn't hear anything but a few people talking to each other about him but only in the expected way. They speculated about his affiliations and purposes but none of them really knew what he was up to. 

The bright pink lights flashed above his head and he waved his hand over a platform. A loud bing sounded from the rectangular megalith that stood before him. The face of the machine was pink and as his money cleared the black lightning bolt flashed a few times and then stopped abruptly. A small sliding door opened near the base of the machine with a small box behind it. Balthis picked up the box and started his way toward another vending machine just a few hundred paces down the block. 

A few feet down the path his implants indicated a social anomaly ahead of him. The crowd was slowing and making way for a group of three people headed in his direction. As the crowd parted his implants locked onto the face of the one in front and the label started to flash red. The label floated above the masked individual that stated, "Captain Havel Garb, FBI Tech Crimes Task Force". Just as he read this a voice intruded into his ear.

"Positive on MMF. Twelve O'clock. 30 yards."

Balthis turned on his heels and started walking quickly in the direction he had come from. 

In his ear he heard, "Fleeing back NE, Intercept."

Balthis turned down the nearest alley, dropped the box of energy drinks, and started to full out run toward the parallel street. This street was exactly like the previous and he slowly made his way into a mass of pedestrians walking in the same direction as he would need to get back to the building he had been hiding. He walked slowly and scanned the area for anything indicating watchers or government agents. 

In his ear, "Alpha Two. Found the box he had in an alley heading SE. Pursuing." 

Balthis started to walk faster until he saw a large vending machine that he could hide beside. He knelt down and pulled a small device out of his pocket. Within a few seconds, a large access panel on the side of the vending machine clicked and opened. It was a maintenance access point big enough for a person to enter the vending machine to add boxes manually if needed. He stepped into the chamber and closed the panel behind him. A soft light hovered above his head. He stood there softly panting and waited. 

A few seconds went by without a word and then he heard, "Alpha two. Lost subject. Anyone?"

"Beta Three. No Visual."

"Beta One. Nothing."

"Beta Two. No Indicators."

"Alpha Three. Checking for backtrack."

"Alpha One. Two more minutes to search. If not then end pursuit. Two minutes."

Balthis waited in the small space and waited. His head pulsated with the unexpected physical exertion and the severe lack of actual water in his system. For some reason, he couldn't get the image of the water tank of the toilet back in the old building out of his head. It was there just a few minutes ago and not that far from where he was now. The old building still had some semblance of plumbing and it was probably as clean if not cleaner than the plumbing in the overdeveloped and undermaintained newer buildings that surrounded him. Bottled water was the main source of drinkable water for so long but the poor would put tablets into the water that came from the faucets of their homes to make it both safe to drink and somewhat palatable. He wished he had some of those tablets and some dingy toilet tank water now. 

A few minutes went by without a sound and he felt confident he had evaded his pursuers when a voice came over his earpiece. 

"Alpha one. End Pursuit. Meet back at rendezvous six for debrief."

Balthis waited another few minutes. His legs were tingling again, this time just from the prolonged stint of standing in place, which was not something he did very often. He was much more comfortable in a chair, looking at screens. When he felt he had waited long enough he decided to open the panel and step out. As the door opened he was immediately grabbed by a monster of a figure wearing all black with a matching all-black face covering. He felt like a child in the monster's arms as he was slammed against the hard metal of the vending machine. The last thing he saw before the fist smashed into his face were the blue eyes of the man with the red flashing label above his head that read "Captain Havel Garb, FBI Tech Crimes Task Force".

Bandera, Texas 1884

Bandera had grown to a respectable size over the last 50 years and its natural resources such as cypress trees and limestone were transported to nearby San Antonio and further. Its lumber mills produced most of the shingles for builders all over Texas and the military used them for their establishments on the frontier.  By 1884 the town was a noted spot for travelers headed out west with hopes of golden riches. With over ten saloons travelers had no trouble finding a drink and a whore in their price range. It even had a post office, a train station, a telegraph office, and there was talk of a courthouse to be built from tons of shimmering green limestone. Presently, Wyatt Stockton was enjoying the company of two of the finest whores the town had to offer. And offer them they did. 

"Tell us another story about the future," Samantha Preston said sweetly. She was 19 years old and had been working on her back for the last three years. Her teeth were straighter than most and her blond hair nearly touched the floor. She was that evening's gift from Mayor Gregson himself after Wyatt brought in the notorious Cort brothers that afternoon. 

Wyatt didn't stumble into the city wearing a dead man's clothes three weeks ago thinking that he would kill again but in time he found that he had a knack for it. He had no money and no friends in Bandera but after surviving the desert he asked around about how he could make a few dollars. One man told him that if he had the mettle he could make a pretty penny hunting down outlaws. His first bounty was worth 150 dollars dead or alive and after taking the flyer off the wall of the post office he went searching for the man. His name was Jack "The Jack Rabbit" Harkness and he was a horse thief. After only a few hours of waiting outside a stable near the outskirts of Bandera Wyatt saw The Jack Rabbit passed out around back. 

"Are you Jack "The Jack Rabbit" Harkness?" Wyatt asked the unconscious man. After a moment of silence, Wyatt kicked the man briskly in the shin. The Jack Rabbit opened his eyes slowly and looked into Wyatt's eyes with contempt. Without warning an empty glass bottle smashed into the side of Wyatt's head. 

Wyatt was filled with rage and instinctively started to punch The Jack Rabbit in the face until they were both covered in blood. Unconscious once more, Wyat dropped the man and stepped away to clean his face off with a nearby bucket of water. With water still dripping off his chin, the loud bang of a pistol being fired rang out behind him. He turned, drew his revolver, and shot The Jack Rabbit in the chest before The Jack Rabbit could get off another shot. He hadn't planned on killing the man, he was just going to try to arrest him, somehow, and take him in to the sheriff but his training had kicked in and before he knew it he had killed another person. What was more surprising than his instinctual actions was the unexpected thrill it caused. His heart throbbed in his chest and his hands trembled with the surge of relief and exhilaration of winning such a deadly contest. 

A young boy had seen the whole thing and was a witness for Wyatt when Sheriff Tanner asked his questions. Seeing as The Jack Rabbit was a known horse thief and was shot outside a stable the sheriff didn't ask a lot of questions. The young boy had gone all around town, telling anyone that would listen, that there was a stranger who shot faster than the eye could see. It was only a few days later that Wyatt found his second bounty and that time he didn't waste time asking for names. He shot the man and brought his dead body to the sheriff for over 1000 dollars. Life in this time was very different than Wyatt was used to but he was uniquely qualified and was starting to like it.

His reputation was cemented in the city one evening when a group of four mangy looking bandits came into town looking for trouble. Wyatt was at a table drinking a whiskey and eating something small, salty, and brown out of a small bowl. He thought of his mother and sister back home in Reno and wondered what they were doing right now. He couldn't even remember the last time he had seen them. As he thought about the insanity of his life at the current moment and debated to himself as to whether it might be some kind of parallel universe or something he heard the rebel cowboys loudly enter the saloon. 

One of them, a man with a bearskin coat that still had wet blood smattered on it, shot his pistol in the air as soon as he came into the room. Then the man said proudly to everyone, "I'm John Newsome and this is the John Newsome gang! We ain't lookin fer a fight but we ain't ain't looking for one neither." He and his gang went to the counter where the barkeeper smartly gave them their first drinks without being asked. John Newsome must not have liked the barkeep's choice as he spat the drink in the barkeep's face and smashed the small glass across the side of his face which caused the old barkeep to stumble backward into some bottles, knocking them to the floor where they shattered. Then John Newsome jumped over the counter and started to help himself. Just as he was pouring himself a drink a young waitress swiftly started for the exit but before she could get through the door John Newsome shot her in the back. 

"No one's leavin here to tell the law nothing until we get our fill, so all ya'll stay put. I'll be serving the drinks tonight and ya'll will be payin me tonight!" John Newsome said with a smile, smoke still emanated from the end of his barrel. 

Wyatt watched all this with nervous interest until the girl was shot which caused his heart to stop. He stared at her dead body, as the blood pooled and began to leak into the wooden floorboards a lump started to grow in his stomach. A mass of sadness turned into rage as his heart began to race until soon he began to take steps to calm down. It took quite a few deep breaths for him to slow his nerves enough to allow him to do what was next and when he felt his mind become clear again he stood up, turned around to face the men at the counter, and flung his long brown duster off his shoulders revealing his revolver. 

John Newsome and the gang all turned to see what the commotion was and saw Wyatt standing only a few paces away with a look that said that they were about to have some fun. The John Newsome gang had made a reputation robbing stagecoaches as well as going out of their way to rob other gangs when they had the chance and John Newsome himself was said to be an expert marksman. Wyatt noticed that one of the men had a rifle at the ready next to his seat and he decided that he would be the first to go. Before anyone could say anything Wyatt pulled his revolved out, fanned the hammer back, and let it loose on the man with the rifle. Then, all hell broke loose in the bar. 

Wyatt strafed to his right and fanned two bullets into the closest gang member, who didn't get a chance to pull his weapon out. Then shots started to come at him but they were from men trying to shoot and move, which was a difficult task for anyone. Bullets whizzed past Wyatt's body and shattered the wood behind him. The sensation of real danger crept into his mind for only the briefest moment before he shoved the fear aside and fanned another set of two bullets into the next nearest gang member who made a high pitched squeal sound and fell to the floor. John Newsome was nowhere to be seen but Wyatt knew he must be behind the counter. 

"You pussy as piece of shit!" Wyatt yelled toward the coward. "This isn't Westworld bitch! This shit's real!" He heard the words come out of his mouth but wasn't sure who they were really directed toward. 

Wyatt quietly paced around the bar, his pistol ready to take his last shot if the man decided to show himself but after a minute or so Sheriff Tanner and two of his deputies came through the swinging doors. Wyatt, having no idea what to do at this moment dropped his gun and put his hands up. 

"What the hell you doin Wyatt?" Sheriff Tanner asked with a baritone voice. 

"I don't want you to shoot me," Wyatt said. 

"Pick up your damn pistol and point it in the direction of the bastard behind the counter you fool," Sheriff Tanner retorted. Then, "John Newsome! You put your gun down, your hands up, and stand up now or godamnit I will unleash hell on that bar. I got two men with rifles ready to blow holes in that wood your using, you coward!"

Wyatt quickly reloaded his pistol and took cover behind a wooden pillar just in case the shooting started up again but within a few seconds, he heard a thud on the floor by the bar. 

"I done throwed my gun away sheriff and I'm putin my hands up like ya said too," John Newsome said with a voice that reflected his real, cowardly self. 

"That's fine, now stand up slowly with your face to me and if you do anything stupid, godamnit Wyatt here will shoot your head off before you know it. He's faster than you'll ever be!"

Wyat felt an immediate and intense sense of pride. He had dreamed of such an event since before he could remember. The cowboy gunslinger archetype was a deep part of his psyche and hearing the words from the grizzled old frontiersman Sheriff Tanner made him feel a sense of surreal glee. He almost wanted to cry but he repressed such things heartily and tried to bring his focus back to the current circumstances. 

"Aright sheriff, I'm standing up now," John Newsome said and then slowly stood up with his hands in the air. 

"Now, slowly make your way back around the counter to me and we'll take you to the jail nice and easy like," Sheriff Tanner said, his revolver pointed at the gangster cowboy. 

John Newsome did just that and one of the deputies put shackles on him. John smiled as if he had gotten away with something but as soon as the sheriff noticed this he walked over and pistol-whipped him in the head. He fell to the ground, no longer smiling. 

"You shot Darcy you goddamn animal! She was only 15," he yelled at John Newsome as he lay on the ground holding his bleeding head. "Take this piece of shit to the jail and wait for me there Geoffrey." Geoffrey, a large man in his late twenties, who looked like he had been in his share of scrapes nodded and shuffled off with his prisoner. 

"Come here Wyatt," the sheriff demanded and Wyatt obeyed. "You are one of the strangest fellows I've ever met, and that's true you hear? But goddamn you're a shooter! You ever want a job you let me know." The sheriff put his hand out and Wyatt shook it in silence. 

Since then there wasn't a soul in the city that didn't know about Wyatt Stockton and his reputation was making its way outward due to a news article about the man with no past and lightning-fast hands. The Mayor had offered to put him up in the finest hotel and had paid for his entertainment on a few nights. 

On one such night, after collecting the bounty for the notorious Cort Brothers Wyatt was in his room with two young women, one of which wanted him to tell another story about the future. The young whores laughed and smoked cigarettes while he told them stories of airplanes, shopping malls, and cell phones. Although most of these things meant nothing to the girls they still enjoyed the fanciful tales. Even while talking about the world he came from, with all its extravagances, Wyatt almost forgot what it was like back at home in the year 2019. 

 

Washington DC, 2170

Balthis slowly paced around the stark white prison cell that was lit by built-in lights that hadn't turned off in two days. When he had awoken he had only a jug of water sitting beside a metal cot, also built into the wall of the small room. There were no visible doors or windows and already he felt like he was going mad. He hadn't slept or eaten anything and had only been able to relieve himself using a small hole in the ground that opened up when he stood over the top of it. The room offered a combination of modern technologies mixed with barbaric torture methods. 

His trial was set for five days after he had arrived but with no access to the outside world or any clocks, he had no idea how long it had been. He guessed at least a few days but in time his mind would be awash with confusion and delirium. They had to feed him at some point, didn't they?

After pacing around until he tired he took a big swig off the water jug and sat down on the cot to continue to wait. His mind was an uncontrollable mess of anxious ponderings about what the punishment might be for someone that had done what he had done. He contemplated the differences between every type of death he could think of and hoped that maybe his would be swift. Then, suddenly a hidden door opened to his left, and standing in the doorway was a person wearing a black uniform with blue stripes along the neck that indicated that they were a participant in the United Security Teams or UST. The black mask reminded Balthis of the one that Captain Havel had worn the day he was taken, a KN750 air filtration system, top of the line. 

With a surprise, a woman's flat voice came out of the mask and said, "Dinner is served. Come with me."

Balthis stood up on jelly legs and walked toward the tall and thin guard. She put a set of springy metal handcuffs on him and turned to let him walk ahead of her. He cautiously led the way down the white hallway as the security agent followed him. Along the hallway, he could see no doors or any indication that the hallway ended. It just kept going at a slightly curved angle as to make it impossible to see its end. As they walked Balthis began speaking without much control over his words.

"You know it's cruel and unusual. What you're doing here. To me. I mean. I have rights, don't I? I am a United Nations citizen. A Californian really. I was born in the US of A. So what's your excuse?"

They kept walking, the security agent silent. 

Balthis kept ranting, "I mean what did I do anyway? You can't prove it! I made sure of that! No trace. I made sure there was no trace. I mean I didn't do anything and you can't prove I did anything. What are my crimes? Don't you have to tell me? Are you just a robot? You are, aren't you? That figures. They would use a woman's voice in a UST uniform!"

Still, no words came from behind him and his anxious curiosity welled up. He turned to see if she was still there but when he turned around he found that he was alone in a brightly lit starkly white hallway. Feeling an odd sense of freedom he started to run in the opposite direction he had been heading, assuming that he should do the contrary thing to what the guard had wanted him to do. After only a few seconds of a full out sprint, he was completely winded and the hallway gave no indication that he had accomplished anything. He panted and caught his breath and then started to slowly walk again down the hall. 

After some time he could feel his stomach gurgling with a lack of content and his legs felt like they were made of mush when finally he saw a dark spot in the wall ahead that turned into an opening to another room. In the room he saw was a cafeteria where about a dozen other inmates, all in white gowns, were sitting quietly eating off of trays given to them by a vending machine in the corner. He walked up to the machine and before he could find a button to press, of which there were none to find, a screen illuminated with a mugshot of his face on it. Next to his face was a short identification tab that read, "Balthis Walter Pelter. Aged 24 years. Number B8675309A. Wanted WW (World Wide) for crimes against 5 Multiverse Statutes and destruction of UN priceless artifact. Trial in 72 hours, 5 minutes." The trial time was a ticker that updated in real-time. 

Balthis barely had time enough to read the words on the screen when a bell came from the machine and a robotic female voice said, "Dinner is served. Enjoy!" A panel opened at waist height where a tray was waiting with a variety of earth-toned foods on it. The smell of hot food overrode any revulsion Balthis might have had at the sight of the food and he quickly took the tray and started to eat from it while he stood there. 

As he ate a loud non-robotic female voice came out of speakers in the room, "Balthis Walter Pelter! Sit down you filthy animal!" 

The voice startled him and he made his way to the first empty chair at a nearby table. He sat across from a man with a white beard and dark eyes who had been watching him since he had entered. The man watched Balthis gnawing away at the wrapped foods that required no utensils with emotionless interest. Balthis ate so fast that he started to choke and had to cough violently which dispelled a chunk of food onto his plate. He panted and tried to catch his breath. When he looked up in hopes of finding something to drink he saw the man with the white beard staring at him and holding a paper cup out for him. He took the cup gladly and emptied to cup with a few gulps. 

"You should slow down before you choke to death," the man said with an even tone that suggested he wouldn't care if Balthis did choke to death. 

"Good advice," Balthis said with skepticism. "Thanks for the water." 

"That wasn't water. Balthis," the man said. 

"What? It tasted like water."

"What does water taste like, Balthis?"

Balthis looked at the older man with growing fear and the rumblings of hatred. He didn't like how he kept saying his name like he knew who he was. Who was this man? A prisoner like him? Balthis looked around to find that the room, that minutes ago had other people eating and standing around was now empty and it was just him and the man at the table. He also noticed that where the opening to the room should have been was now just more wall. His mind started to rebel against his senses and the room began to spin slightly. He gripped the side of the table to steady himself. 

"What's going on," Balthis asked with genuine terror. 

"I am here to help you, Balthis. You can call me Jessup. Take a deep breath and let's begin." 

The vision before Balthis started to swirl and the man's face blurred for a moment. Bright greens, reds, and purples ungulated across the man's face and then he felt an overwhelming feeling of peace and safety. All his worries went away and he could feel his lips lift into an impossibly huge smile. He started to laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed so unabashedly. Then he did remember. It was when he had been with his father when he was 14. They had been on a camping trip to the deserts of Nevada. Just the two of them around a fire and his dad had told him about the first time he had met his mother and the story was so funny they both just laughed and laughed. 

The flash of memory faded and Jessup's face came back into view but now it was not the face of a stranger but rather someone he must've known his whole life. Someone he could trust. Someone familiar and loving. He felt happy and safe.

"I'm so happy you decided to join me today Balthis," the old man's voice was now soothing and friendly. 

"I am too Jessup. I'm so happy to see you. Again. Right?" Balthis was still hazy on how he knew this man but he knew how he felt and that was what mattered. 

"Yes. Balthis. Now tell me what happened back in Paris a few months ago. Do you remember?"

"Of course I do. But I'm not supposed to tell anyone. It's MY experiment. And I did it, Jessup, I really did it." He whispered and looked around to make sure no one else was there. 

"I'm so proud of you." 

"Thank you!. You're the only one I can talk to now." 

"Yes, yes Balthis. Tell me again what you accomplished."

Balthis once again lowered his head and looked around the room, said, "I sent a man back in time in our universe. Well, within a point zero five percent margin I did. I've been searching the records to find proof but I just haven't seen it yet. But I will. I'm certain."

"You would've needed a Multiverse Wormhole to do that, right?"

"Yes, that's why I broke into the Paris MES (Multiverse Entangled Sim) facility after hours, plugged in my coordinates, and shoved the dude in. He was passed out so he didn't even know. When I pulled my drive out of the machine the whole thing started to freak the fuck out!" 

"Yes. I remember hearing about it on the news. It collapsed over three days and brought the entire building down around it. Fourteen floors of liquid-cooled quantum cells destroyed. Trillions of dollars worth of research and development, man-hours, and materials. Half of an entire industry all gone to shit and 14 guards' lives are gone because of you." The old man's voice began to take on a snarl quality as it rose in volume.

Balthis began to recoil at the change in tone of his friend and started to feel sad that he had disappointed this man. 

Jessup regained his calm composure and said, "I'm sorry Balthis. I'm sure it was worth it. For your experiment. Right?" Balthis settled back into his unguarded explanation. 

"Oh, it was worth it!" Balthis said with a smile. 

"Who did you send back and how did you do that?"

"First I found someone suited for the time I had in mind. So, I found the number one Cowboy Action Shooting competitor of all time. A man named Wyatt Stockton. He was in his prime in 2019. Single action is the type of guns that they had in the old west, if you didn't know. Anyway, so I wormholed my way to a sufficiently similar entangled baby universe that had a version of this man and I took him back through the wormhole. I knocked him out while he slept. Then before the guard in Paris knew what was happening, I set the coordinates to 1884, but in our universe. Not a daughter universe. The mother universe! And it worked! Or, it should have worked. I'm just not sure exactly where in the old west he landed. The math was kind of fuzzy on the exact geographical location. Probably in Texas but it could have been as far north as Nebraska."

Balthis was so excited to tell his story that he barely noticed that the contented and safe feeling was starting to fade. Jessup's face was starting to feel like his father's face but not when they were laughing but instead when his father was very angry with him. Balthis looked around to see that behind him a group of people was watching him from a large window above the room. They looked down at him with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction on their faces and Balthis started to feel a terrible pit in his stomach growing. 

"You're starting to get the idea. I can see that in your face Balthis," Jessup said with a slight grin on his face. 

"What's going on?" Balthis asked, starting to regain his skepticism. "Who are you?" The old man looked foreign to him even though just a few minutes earlier he seemed so comforting. None of it made sense. Did he say all those things or did someone else? It did seem like he did but he had worked so hard to keep all of it hidden. He had trained for weeks at anti-confession strategies and lie detector hacks and pain tolerance but he hadn't seen this coming. This euphoria of companionship. The word oxytocin came to Balthis' mind. He remembered the term Stockholm Syndrome as well. Then he remembered the words "Wanted WW for crimes against 5 Multiverse Statutes and destruction of UN priceless artifact". 

Balthis stood up from the chair in a panic. His legs were once again jelly and his head swooned. He started to frantically walk around the room feeling for a door that he couldn't see. 

The same disembodied female voice came over the speakers in the room and said, "Stay calm Balthis. Trials can be disorienting but I assure you, you are safe. Just finish your dinner. It's all over now."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better," Balthis said softly to himself. He turned around to find that Jessup was gone but that the people behind the glass room above him were still looking at him. A woman stood in front of the rest. Her stark white double-breasted suit stood out against the drab brown suits that the others in the room wore. 

"Do you really want to feel better? We can give you some more of that "water" if you'd like." Balthis finally had a face to go along with the voice as the woman spoke. Her mouth moved and she became the room as her voice echoed from all around him. 

With that, Balthis felt all his will to fight leave him. He simply sat down and ate the food that required no utensils. 

Reno, Nevada 2019

A fresh coat of snow lightly frosted patches of green and brown creating white moats around tiny hills. It had snowed the night before but that morning it was dry and bitter cold. Wyatt's truck had more than 25 sponsor stickers taking up large amounts of real estate on both sides. The biggest stickers came from the top companies. Coca Cola, Toyota, Carhart, and Colt all had long banners spanning the majority of the truck bed. His was the first truck to arrive at the range that morning and as the sun came up over the horizon behind him Wyatt looked out at the gun range. He watched as the new sun illuminated the targets and the shooting stations. He breathed in deeply and breathed out a long white cloud of fog. He would have at least an hour of practice before anyone else showed up. That was plenty of time. 

He methodically went through his practice routines and maneuvered them with ease. The fundamentals of efficient shooting were mastered long ago and now he concentrated his efforts on controlling the little things. If he could keep the angle of his wrist just slightly off-center he could absorb the recoil while speed shooting slightly better. This would decrease barrel movement and allow him to keep on target more accurately when fanning shots at the 3-inch plates of the dueling tree. It was four steps and a shuffle to get from the shotgun station to the rifle station and if he could stop his foot on the outermost edge of the wood plank as he shuffled he could stabilize much faster. A dozen tiny adjustments were scrutinized and attended to and with a few hundred rounds spent he felt confident that he could earn his sponsorships that day. 

He was cleaning his revolver on the tailgate of his truck when he saw the lights coming around the bend toward the range field. It was about five am when the competitors and media groups started to show up. There were only six competitors that day and they would all get a chance to practice with the range's setup, and get ready for the day's event. This day's semifinals would determine the top three to go to the final competition in Las Vegas next month. These were the fastest, most accurate shooters in the US, at least with single-action weapons.

John Creary was not a tall man and jumped down from his jacked up truck. His chest was puffed out as he walked straight over to Wyatt, a menacing smile on his face. Wyatt saw him coming from the corner of his vision and prepared himself for the oncoming annoyance. They had known each other since the Junior Marksman finals 9 years earlier when John and Wyatt went head to head at the age of 14. Wyatt never forgot his loss that day and John never missed a chance to keep it that way. 

"When did you get here," John asked. 

"Before you John," Wyatt said without looking up. 

"Well, I hope you got enough practice. You'll need it." 

"Good morning to you too John. Life's good?" Wyatt asked and then stood up and the two men shook hands and half smiled at each other. 

"I'm great. Got married last week. Winchester sponsored the wedding. It was fucking huge."

Wyatt went back to cleaning his weapons and said, "That's nice John." 

"Yeah. It was nice Wyatt. You got a girl yet?"

"I'd rather be single. No one telling me what I can and can't do."

"Julie's not like that. She's awesome. We're like a team. She'll be here soon to watch.  Anybody coming to watch you."

"Nope John. Just me today. Sometimes people have other shit to do than watch me kick your ass. Kind of boring for them really." Wyatt smiled, proud of his retort. 

"Oh yeah? Well... At least someone supports me." John couldn't know how deep that actually cut but Wyatt just kept smiling and kept on cleaning. With that john walked back to his truck. 

A few minutes later Wyatt was startled when a camera crew of three came up from behind him and started to record him as he wiped down his guns. "You know how stupid it is to sneak up on a man cleaning his guns?" Wyatt asked the host, a young man with a backward baseball cap, who held out a microphone to his face. 

"Sorry about that Wyatt Stockton. Do you think the cold weather will affect your performance today?"

Wyatt looked at the small crew and wondered how such an unprofessional-looking group could represent the media interest of such a big company as ESPN but in the world of fast-paced streaming and social media, it made sense. The young men in front of him looked like they were still in high school but they controlled some sophisticated equipment capable of streaming live to multiple sites at once. Wyatt knew that the sport relied on this coverage to keep the interest of viewers which in turn kept sponsors shelling out the cash. As the highest-paid Cowboy Action Shooter for the past two years, Wyatt had learned to play along. 

In his best news voice, Wyatt looked into the camera and said, "I was born in December Bob. I'm used to it." He winked and smiled for the camera 

"My name isn't Bob Wyatt and you know it," the young man, who wasn't Bob, said. He continued slightly deflated and said, "Anyways, you're undefeated coming into today's competition. Everyone is gunning for you, especially John Creary, who placed second in the prelims last month. Does he pose a serious threat this year?"

"Wyatt looked into the camera and dryly said, "I'm not going against the man. I'm going against the time. My biggest threat is myself. No one can beat me but myself. I need to beat myself and I beat myself a lot Bob." He smiled and put his thumb up without looking at the reporter. 

The camera turned away from Wyatt and went back to Not Bob who said, "Well there you have it, folks! Wyatt Stockton just needs to beat himself once again to get into the finals. Stay tuned to find out if he pulls it off once... again. I'm Tony Slatton with ESPN 2 and we'll be here all day with live coverage of the 2019 National Cowboy Action Shooting semifinals!" 

The competition took around six hours to finish as each competitor went against each in a series of 25 different challenges. Each challenge only took a few minutes at most and some only took seconds. Wyatt and John were fairly close in points by the last challenge and John's only chance to win was to get a full sweep in the dueling tree. Each shooter had two guns and twelve bullets to get the majority of five metal plates to stay on their opponent's side and if all the plates get to one side the one who got them there automatically won. The bell rang and immediately Wyatt fanned his single-action custom Colt revolver five times while John's one shot missed, and it was over. All five plates were on John's side. It was a show of sheer speed and skill and Wyatt gave his pistol a quick spin for the crowd before holstering it. He looked over at the slack-jawed John and winked. John held his revolver tightly to his side and looked as if he wanted to shoot Wyatt right there. Wyatt stared into his squint eyes until John's expression changed from hate to acceptance and he holstered his pistol. With the tension released the crowd cheered. 

Somewhere Outside Bandera, Texas 1884

Sharp waves of heat-addled air molecules emanated from the surface of the barren landscape which obscured the vision of Sheriff Tanner and his deputy Geoffrey as they slowly trotted toward the farm owned by the Grant family. It was trouble trying to follow the mountain ridgeline some 75 miles off to the west as they dipped and rose in and out of rolling hills that were deceptively deep when one simply looked into the distance. From any vantage point, it seemed as though the horizon never moved and that the earth was flat but with the heat barring down on them and their landmark disappearing and reappearing they were making slow work of it. 

The Grant's farm was about a half days ride but neither man had ever been there so they took a few stops along the way to get their bearings and drink some water. By about one o'clock the two saw the fence line just over a hill a few hundred yards away. 

"I hope they got something to eat that's better than these dry biscuits my Susie packed me this mornin'," Geoffrey complained as they increased speed. 

"We ain't out here for no social call, Geoffrey. Keep it professional and if it all gets done right. I'll buy you and Susie dinner tonight," Sheriff Tanner said. 

The two slowed down as they approached the main house. Sheriff Tanner had learned the value of being cautious from his time during the Civil War. He had lead men onto properties, similar to this one, where the homes might have been empty or they might have been full of enemy infantry waiting for a closer shot. Sheriff Tanner didn't like the lack of activity around the farm. He hadn't seen a soul on the way in and there were no horses or people to be seen. 

"Circle around the back and check out the barn. Any sign of trouble and you haul ass back to me," Sheriff Tanner directed the young deputy, who nodded and cantered off to the left of the main house around back. 

Sheriff Tanner dismounted from his tall dappled gray gelding and put the reins over the horse's neck. He didn't want it tied down just in case he needed to get on and ride quickly. He didn't expect trouble but the message he had gotten the day before said that Tommy Grant, the eldest son, had some disturbing news that he wanted to give the Sheriff specifically. Something about some run-ins with Indians to the south. He walked up to the front of the house and tried to peer inside but all the curtains were drawn over the windows and or they were boarded up which, being so hot outside, made the hair on his neck stiffen. He put his hand on his pistol, walked up the door, stood to the side of it, and knocked. 

"It's Sheriff Tanner, come about the message I got about some..." Before he could finish a shot rang out from behind the house. Then a few more shots. He rushed to his horse, whose ears were pricked up but waited for him patiently. As he tried to mount the front door swung open and three men poured out, guns drawn. A slurry of gunshots went off and before he knew it his horse was stumbling to the ground. He jumped off and tried to hide behind the horse, gun pointed toward the men but it was no use. Another shot went off and he felt a sharp thud in his right shoulder. His gun dropped to the dirt and when he turned to face the shooter he saw a man with a black bolo hat and shining revolver running toward him.

Sheriff Tanner went to grab his pistol out of the dirt but before he could a different man ran up and snatched it out of the dirt. 

"Aint no use sheriff!" The outlaw in the black felt bolo hat said with a laugh. "I got plans fer you, mister sheriff." 

 

Bandera, Texas, 1884 Later That Day

The river that ran near the western edge of Bandera was a popular destination during such a hot summer's day and Wyatt was glad to be washing off the sweat accumulated over the past few days. He sat under a tree in a pair of cut off jeans he made for himself. They were the closest things to swimming shorts he could fashion and while most of the townspeople went in their white undergarments, some went partially nude, Wyatt liked feeling like a kid again in his ruff cut jean shorts. The air barely moved and while he sat under the shade of a tree he tried to imagine the air conditioner back home. With his eyes closed, he could almost feel the breeze. 

The windy illusion was promptly interrupted by two things. First, he took a deep breath of hot stale air that made his mouth pucker and revolt, demanded that he return to the river for hydration. Second, just as he was about to do what his once again sweaty body wanted the young boy who had told so many stories about him came running over.

Panting, the boy said, "You gotta come! Sheriff Tanner is shot!" The boy grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the cities northern entrance. 

A crowd was gathered around the sheriff's body, which was now laying in the dirt, half-dead, not moving. A horse that was not his own was next to him looked uninterested in the commotion. Wyatt ran up and knelt beside the sheriff's body and put his head on his chest. 

"He's alive! Where's the doctor, godamnit!" Wyatt yelled. 

Sheriff Tanner suddenly coughed and spat up blood on himself. "Wyatt? Is that you?" His voice came out hoarse and was barely audible. 

Wyatt leaned in closer and said, "I'm here sheriff. What happened?"

Sheriff Tanner opened his eyes and said, "Grant's farm. They got Geoffrey. Go get'em!" With that, Sheriff Tanner's head slumped over, and his eyes closed. 

The doctor was old by spry and rushed to his side and started to direct people to help him get Sheriff Tanner back to his office for emergency surgery. It was unlikely he would make it another hour.

Wyatt's head was a blur of adrenaline-induced excitement and rage. He ran to his room at the hotel to get his clothes and guns but wouldn't have been able to recall any of it. Before he knew it he was riding north on his horse, a brown thoroughbred he named Clint, alone into the desolate frontier. 

He had had to slow his pace after only a few miles as he realized that if his horse went down he would not make it out in the heat in the desert on foot. After only two water breaks and as the hazy orange sun started its descent over the western horizon he saw the beggings of the fence the marked the outer edge of Grant's farm. A pillar of gray smoke could be seen coming from the other side of the hill and Wyatt's heart began to create a double-time rhythm with the steady clomps of Clint's gate. His mind started to race with the realization of what he was marching into. He was alone, headed into an unknown arena, with an unknown number of enemies. He started east off the main trail toward the smoke in an effort to circle the property and get into a position to see what he was going up against. 

A long stretch of fence that kept in only the unwavering vastness of dead grass led him to a patch of trees that stood at the top of the hill about two hundred yards away and that looked down at the main house and large barn behind the house. The house must have been burning for a while as the roof had already caved in and the entire building was engulfed. There was no sign of Geoffrey or any of the Grant Family members.

Wyatt could see a half dozen rough-looking men roaming the property. Two men were loading large trunks into the back of a wagon. Two more were pulling horses out of the barn and tieing them up to a nearby hitching post. Another two men were posted up at the main gate with rifles in hand waiting to greet anyone that came up. The last man was a tall skinny man who was lazily sitting in a plush green chair that conspicuously sat in the middle of the dirt just outside the front door of the main house. He was wearing a black bolo hat that looked exactly like the one on the man that had taken his custom revolver when he had first woken up in this wild time. It wasn't the same man though, Wyatt knew by the way the man dressed. The black hat was clean when the other man wore it but this man didn't have a clean thread on his body. This man seemed carefree while he sat in the chair with a cigarette in his mouth. His feet propped up on the back of a lifeless body. Geoffrey's body!

Wyatt tied his horse loosely to a tree limb and decided to move around the right flank on foot. He brought two revolvers and a Winchester lever-action model 1873 and when he was within about 50 yards of the two men loading the wagon he began his assault. Using a small outbuilding as cover he shot one round into each man. They both wailed with agony and fell to the ground writhing in pain. Wyatt crossed behind the building before anyone could see what had happened and quickly loaded two more cartridges into his rifle. As the gang members sprung into action to find out what happened Wyatt made his way around the backside of the barn. 

He quietly opened a door and made his way inside the barn. His nose flared and his body recoiled at the horrible stench that emanated from somewhere in the barn. Cautiously he crept around toward the front of the barn but when he passed one of the horse stalls he saw the bodies. The five bodies of the five Grant family members were laid haphazardly on top of and next to each other. After only a couple of days in the rending heat, they were already showing signs of decay with skin sluffing off and maggots consuming them. Wyatt felt his stomach reel at the sight and had to look away. He tried to take a few deep breaths like he had always done in times of stress to calm himself but with each breath he took in the rancid smell of the rotting corpses. 

The main doors of the barn were open and Wyatt could see two men gathered around the now quiet bodies of their fallen gang members. With two more well-placed shots the two men went down but almost immediately shots started to come back at him. A bullet whizzed by so close he could hear the high pitched whizz. He quickly took cover back inside the barn as a flurry of shots riddled the barn with new splinters. As the bullets continued at an alarming rate he went for the back door. He rushed out the door but to his surprise, the man in the black bolo hat was there waiting for him. Before he could respond he felt the cold hard steel of a custom revolver hitting the side of his head. His last thought before he blacked out was "That looks familiar".

Stars could now be seen as Wyatt opened his eyes. When he sat up he found that the night had come and in front of him the green plush chair with the man in the black bolo sat upon it smiling. The man caressed the shiny revolver like a loving parent trying to soothe a crying baby. The house was no more than a smolder now but the barn took its place with its high flames creating a sinister flicker of crimson light lapping at the man in the chair. Wyatt felt for his gun and was surprised to find the one on his right was still there. 

"My name is Levi Wolfe," The man in the chair said proudly and then stood up on the back of the man lying in front of the chair. A soft groan could be heard. Geoffrey was alive!

Before the man could continue Wyatt stood up and Levi stopped. "How'd you get my pistol?" Wyatt tried to act confident as his head throbbed. 

"Your pistol? Ha! This is mine." Levi gave the revolver a flourish of twists and spins that showed he was familiar with the weapon. "That dandy was showin' off like he was someone so I shot him and took this beauty. And this hat." He hit the barrel of the revolver against his head twice. 

"Well, that's my gun and I'll be taking it back in just a moment," Wyatt said, his right hand closing in on the gun in his holster. 

"Oh, I doubt that very much," Levi said. 

Wyatt went for his gun and in a flash, he cocked the hammer back and pulled the trigger but the only sound he heard was a click. 

Levi started to cackle and then spit out, "You fuckin idiot! You think I'm stupid enough to give you bullets? I just wanted to see how fast you were. And damnit! You're fast." Levi walked slowly closer to Wyatt as he spoke. "But fast ain't everything." Levi Wolfe lifted Wyatt's custom revolver slowly until it was level with Wyatt's face. Then, aiming methodically, he lowered it until it was at Wyatt's chest, then to his stomach, then to his leg. A shot rang out and Wyatt's kneecap burst into pieces. Wyatt screamed in pain and fell to the ground. As he held his knee and blood rushed into the thirsty dirt Levi walked up to him and said, "Sometimes slower is better." He cackled insanely as his metal-tipped cowboy boots slammed into Wyatt's ribs. Then into his back. One swift kick to his face and all went black. 

United Nations Maximum Security Prison, Hamburg, Germany 2170

The main power had gone out earlier that morning and the entire prison was on backup for the past six hours. While the inmates were only afforded limited movement on a normal day they were stuck in whatever area they were in when the power went out. Most were still in their cells, which would not open until the main power was brought back online but some were stuck in the small segregated cafeteria areas, outdoor walking paths, and one was stuck in a compromising position with arms and legs spread out as far as they would go. 

Balthis was in the midst of another "interview" in a small bright room where, once again, he had been grilled about the details of his formulas and coordinates that led him to send a man back in time in the mother universe that they occupied. The interrogators needed his mind sharp so drugs were out of the question this time. Instead, they resorted to old fashioned techniques. They had been slowly stretching his limbs apart from his body when the lights flickered and the machine loosened enough to relieve the tension. Without full power, the wrist wraps wouldn't fully let him go so he was stuck like some living version of Da Vinci's Vitruvian man, fully naked and offering a shattered example of a man. 

Only once in the past six hours had anyone come into the room to check on Balthis which was when a guard had given him a small amount of food and water, then left him alone again. His arms and legs had gone from slight discomfort to horrible cramps to intense tingling but now, as his head lay slumped over, he couldn't feel a thing. Everything had gone numb which offered him an opportunity to rest but as his eyes closed and his head began to slip into the world on the unconscious the door slammed open. With a start, Balthis lifted his head and opened his eyes. 

A tall thin guard wearing an all-black uniform with a blue stripe down the neck and an all-black mask rushed up to him. The guard stared at him for a moment and then pulled their mask off revealing the face of a beautiful young blond woman. Balthis noticed her green eyes as they penetrated into his. 

"I'm Gwenn, with the MVEL. I'm here to get you out." She smiled and started to work on the machine to undo his bindings. Balthis remembered the acronym MVEL as the group known as the Multiverse Emancipation League but he couldn't shake the thought that he recognized the voice. As his limbs were freed the feeling in them was not. He fell to the floor like a rag doll. Pain shot down his nerves as his body started to regain its electrical impulses. 

"We took too long and now your legs don't work! We need to go now, Balthis!" The woman was not angry but sounded more like she was playing a game with an old friend. 

"Unfortunately, my limbs have been in stasis for a long time today. No doubt because of this power outage, that is no doubt your work." Balthis said as Gwenn lifted him and threw him over her back. She was incredibly strong and Balthis felt even more vulnerable than he had been, attached to the torture machine. 

"You really should eat more. You weigh almost nothing." Gwenn marched out the door and they made their way down the hallway where, for the first time, Balthis could hear the commotion occurring throughout the prison. He could hear yelling and the pop of incapacitation rounds coming from the far corners of the prison. 

"What the hell have you done?" Balthis asked. 

"We let a few prisoners out here and there, started a riot in the courtyard on the south end of the prison. That way we can make our way out through the basement." She was almost running now. Down a few flights of stairs and then to a service elevator. She hit a few buttons on the panel and the doors opened with a slow creak. Inside the elevator, she set him down on the floor. As he sat there he realized where he heard that voice before and he stared up at her and smiled. 

"What's so funny?" Gwenn asked as she caught her breath. 

"You were the guard that disappeared. In Washington. During my bullshit trial." 

Gwenn smiled back and said, "You have a good ear, Balthis Walter Pelter." The elevator groaned as it made its way down to unknown depths. 

"I'm guessing you want me for your own multiverse manipulation reasons then," Balthis said flatly. He struggled to lift himself up onto his knees and found that he was able to stand, leaned up against the wall of the elevator. 

"Your legs are back. That will make this easier. For me at least." 

"You know Gwenn, I don't have any proof that my calculations worked. I don't know if Wyatt is in our universe or one right next to it. And if it did work, I don't know if he made any changes or if he was always there somehow. Or if it created an entirely new universe that split off." 

"Oh yeah?" Gwenn asked wryly and then pulled a card out of her breast pocket. She handed him the halocard. 

The halocard contained a series of images that Balthis scrolled through. One after another he saw newspaper clippings and grainy black and white photos with the name and face of Wyatt Stockton. "The fastest gunslinger in Texas", one headline read and another, "Cort Brothers Thwarted by Mystery Man". 

"From the Motherverse?" Balthis asked.

"Yup!" Gwenn said with glee. 

As they ran through the dark corridors deep below the prison that lead far outside the walls, Balthis cackled like a maniac, all the more maniacal as he did it naked. 

Bandera, Texas 1884

The heat had only slightly died down since the day Wyatt was shot. His mind was elsewhere while he slept. Visions of his mother and father yelling in the kitchen when he was about five years old. Then, he was nine and shot the head off of a chicken with his first .22 lever action. A barn on fire. The desert and bandits cackling in his face. His first girlfriend Sarah smiled at him like a light in the darkness as they danced during prom. Then she was gone, driving off toward a city he would never visit. A barn on fire. A man in a green chair. A shot in the dark!

Sweat dripped down his face as he awoke suddenly to find himself in a sun-bathed room. The hotel room he had been staying in. What year is it? Where am I? A deep groan escaped his lips as he struggled to sit up. His entire body ached and his mouth was dry. He reached for a glass of water on the nightstand and guzzled it down. Outside he could see the river flowing with its cool waters and he remembered bathing in it. He longed for the cool wet relief that would wash away the stench. It smelled horrible in the room, so much that he started to doubt it came from himself. In his mind, he recalled the fight at the Grant farm and saw the man in the black bolo hat. He reached for his knee and felt something missing under the covers. His mind reeled and rejected this information. With the blanket removed he saw the stump. A white and red mass of cloth covered his right knee and below it, there was nothing but bedsheets. 

The stench was worse with the blanket uncovered and when he poked at the wound it stung horribly. Shock was creeping up on him and a chill went down his spine. A winding pain embroiled his head and his vision began to blur. Wyatt closed his eyes and did what he always did when he felt his control slipping away, he breathed. With a few deep breaths, he was calm again and began to accept his situation. Salt entered his mouth and he realized he was crying. He wept until he had no more energy and fell back to sleep. 

Sometime later Wyatt was awakened by a man prodding at his wound. He looked up to find the doctor sitting on the bed next to him. Doctor Ben Carlton was a kindly old man of at least 60 and wore large spectacles. 

"Infected," the doctor said matter of factly. "Gunna need to cut more off. Sorry, son." He looked over at Wyatt with a frown. 

"What do you mean cut more off! You already cut the whole leg off."

"Well, not the whole leg, just up to the knee. Tried to keep as much as possible but seems that ain't gunna work." The doctor said and stood up. "Gotta get my tools." He walked out of the room. 

Wyatt's pulse started to quicken once again. A few minutes later Doctor Ben along with two young men that Wyatt recognized from around town. Two cowboys that worked out at the Stenson's farm mostly and did some odd jobs around town when they weren't at the saloons. 

"You know Bart and Jack. They're gunna hold you down, while I do the sawing," Doctor Ben said. 

"Wait, what the fuck! Right now!"

"Gotta do it before the rot continues on up your leg son. Gotta do it now." The doctor handed Wyatt a small tincture and said, "drink this up, it'll help with the pain. When it kicks in of course." 

Wyatt looked at the small bottle with its dark liquid skeptically. 

"Or don't but this is goin' to hurt either way," the doctor said. 

Wyatt downed the tincture, the bitter taste stuck to his tongue. 

Then the doctor handed him a small stick of leather. Wyatt instinctively put this in his mouth and bit down. 

"Sorry about this Wyatt," Bart said as the two cowboys took their positions to hold him down. One at his shoulders and the other on his intact left leg. 

Doctor Ben unwrapped the cloth quickly. As the wrap unwound the smell increased and all the noses in the room wrinkled. The wound was red and black and a small amount of yellow could be seen in the center. The saw was placed about two inches above the wound and without notice, he began to cut. 

For the first few minutes of sawing, Wyatt was in incredible pain but soon the opium started to creep over his body like an unyielding vine. It covered him in a haze of numbness and whether it was the opium or the shock he passed out once again. 

Boerne, Texas 1884

The town was bathed in soft blue light as the disappearing sun gave way to a bright full moon. Sheriff Tanner was already two scotches deep when he heard the rhythmic thump followed by a spur chime coming from outside the small saloon. The sheriff had come into town a few days earlier to find that the town was engaged in a festival of sorts. Mostly the townspeople were engaged in doing nothing but getting drunk from sundown to sunup. During the day they drank and played games and sang songs. During the night they drank and sang songs that were even more incomprehensible than during the day, at least to the sheriff they were incoherent. The festivities had left more than a few passed out in their chairs, on the floor and the bartender was face down on the counter. Sheriff Tanner was the only one conscious in the room. 

The thump and spur chime got louder and Sheriff Tanner looked to the door, expectantly. 

"Wyatt!" The sheriff yelled out in an uncharacteristically jovial voice. "Step over the bodies and sit!"

Wyatt looked around to find the saloon full of over inebriated men and women. He waddled around a few bodies but when he swung his left leg over someone's arm he misjudged the landing and stumbled onto his back and onto the passed-out man. 

"Stop fucking around godamnit and sit!" Sheriff Tanner said and swigged down another shot. He had a bottle ready and poured two shots and waited. 

"I'm working on it, you old fart!" Wyatt said as he struggled to get up. "Trying to get used to this new leg."

When he said down his right leg stayed straight until he hit his shin hard and the leg folded at the knee and he put it down. 

"What's all this about?" Wyatt asked, looking around at all the passed out townsfolk. 

"Some kind of festival. These German's like to drink godamnit! Been at it for days. Singing songs I don't understand fer shit." 

"Octoberfest?" Wyatt asked rhetorically. 

"October...What?"

"Octoberfest. It's a German tradition where they drink and shit. You know in the future the German's try to take over the world?" Another rhetorical question. 

"Sure they do. You and your prognosticating." The sheriff took another shot. 

"That's a pretty big word there, Sheriff. How drunk are you anyway?"

"When in Rome, godamnit!" He went to pour another shot but Wyatt pulled the bottle out of his hand. "What do you think you're doin' boy!" Sheriff Tanner looked like he was going to smack the youngster but settled down when he saw the serious look on Wyatt's face. 

"We've got business here, or did you not find out where they are?" 

"About ten miles east of here, should be. They were in town right before I got here and the barkeep over there..." He pointed to the passed out barkeeper. "Said that a man in a black bolo hat came through here saying they was headin' toward Fair Oaks Ranch."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" 

"I was waiting for your crippled ass," Sheriff Tanner said and went to grab the shot in front of Wyatt. 

Wyatt quickly snatched the shot and downed it in one gulp. "Not fast enough old man." Wyatt said with a smile. "I'll get you some coffee. Let's go. I want this over tonight!"

The one-legged bounty hunter and the old sheriff rode east into the cooling night. With a bright moon and a cloudless sky, their way was clear. By midnight the two slowed down as they started to find the markers that indicated the edge of the Fair Oaks Ranch. There was no fence yet but the wooden stakes marked out where one would be one day. They passed a small herd of sleeping cattle that stood oblivious to the two horsemen that went by. They continued to travel in the dark, haphazardly looking for exactly where the ranch house was until they finally saw a small fire in the distance.  

"Think that's them?" Wyatt asked Sheriff Tanner as they both dismounted. 

"Most likely. Barkeep said he had three with him. Might have more out here though." 

"We have the element of surprise. Should we go in guns blazing or all stealthy like?"

"Sometimes you say shit that makes me wanna shoot you," Sheriff Tanner said with a frown. 

"I'm the son you never had." 

"Never wanted, more like." 

"So ninjas it is." 

"What?"

"Just stay here and I'll get a better look. If you hear shooting then come and rescue me."

"Sure. With that leg, you will be quiet as a mouse." 

Wyatt left his horse behind and did his best to sneak around the party's right side. Sheriff Tanner watched as he slowly disappeared into the sagebrush, anything but silent. Even after Wyatt had disappeared into the blue darknessSheriff Tanner could hear the soft squeak of the metal when Wyatt's leg bent. The sheriff left the horses and made his way toward the camp, he hoped that Wyatt would draw a few off and he could get the rest as they were distracted. 

Sheriff Tanner was within a few dozen feet of the camp and could see two bandits sitting around the fire but that meant that two others were unaccounted for. Then, he heard the load snap of a branch and then, in the near distance he saw a flurry of firey flashes that quickly lit up the area for just a moment. Five gunshots burst into the night and echoed off a nearby invisible cliff wall and then the land was dark again. One of the men at the camp ran off toward the commotion, leaving the last man peering into the darkness trying to figure out what was going on. 

Sheriff Tanner slowly made his way closer until he was well within firing distance and said, "Don't even think about goin fer that piece! Hands in the air!"

The man he pointed his gun at heard the seriousness in his voice and put his hands up straight away.

"Now turn around slow and don't even think about going for that pistol." 

Levi Wolfe complied and turned around. When he saw who was there he just smiled with crooked teeth. It was that mister sheriff!

"I know you!" Levi said. "Thought you'd be dead by now."

"Not quite, you godamn bastard." Wyatt'll be along shortly and we'll finish the game you started. 

A branch snapped in the darkness and Sheriff Tanner looked away from Levi for just a moment but in that moment Levi quickly pulled his revolver and shot the sheriff in the chest. Before he knew it he was falling backward and stumbled into a bush, where he twisted and fell face-first into the dust. Levi crouched and hid behind a small sage brush. 

"That you Wyatt?" He called out into the darkness. No answer. 

A small metal creak could be heard not far away. Levi shot in that general direction but there was no sound of a hit. 

"Come out of the dark and fight me like a man!" Levi yelled. 

Before he could say more Wyatt appeared behind him and softly said. "I'm right here."

"You wouldn't shoot me in the back, would you? You're not a coward." 

"I would but I won't. Holster that fine ass revolver in your hand, turn around and we'll see who's faster."

Levi laughed and put the gun in its holster. He turned around to see Wyatt also had his gun holstered. 

The two men stared at each other, each waited for the other to flinch. Wyatt's right leg started to shift and he could feel his balance about to force him to move. Levi saw Wyatt's eyes widen and at once the two went for their guns. One orange flash bellowed from Wyatt's pistol. Before Levi could even pull his weapon a stream of red liquid started to seep out of a small black hole in the center of Levi's forehead. Levi's body fell back into the sage that gently held him as his last breaths exited his chest.

Wyatt ran over to Sheriff Tanner and turned him over but there was no life in his chest either. Wyatt started to cry and he wept. While he cried he failed to notice the flash of light that had occurred behind him like lightning but not from the heavens, and it made no sound. Wyatt stood up and walked over to Levi's dead body and took the revolver from the holster. He had almost forgotten how beautiful it was with its swirls of scroll engravings inlaid with silver. The handle was made of bright ivory engraved with flourishes of scrolls and flowers. It had been bestowed on him by the Colt company after he had won the 2018 National Cowboy Action Shooting finals. He had put the thing on a shelf and had forgotten about it until it showed up on his hip months back when he had found himself in the desert and out of time. He had never even shot the gun before and as it sat in his hand, he admired its art for the first time. 

Behind him, a man stepped out of the darkness and watched him for a moment. The man wore a black hoodie with a built-in black filtration mask. 

"What have you been up to out here," the man asked. 

Wyatt whipped around and pointed the pistol at the man. "Where the fuck did you come from? And what are you wearing?" 

"More like when the fuck did I come from Wyatt," the man said and then pushed a button on the side of his hoodie and the mask disappeared into the fabric of the sweater. "My name is Balthis Walter Pelter and I'm from the future."

Wyatt stood up slowly and continued to point the gun at Balthis, who had no visible weapons. With unease Wyatt holstered his revolver. 

THE END