Excerpt: Boot Hill

“Are they coming?” the wounded man asked, his voice gritty and shaken, panic-stricken.

Another string of louder gunshots rang out and I winced as if expecting a blow to the head. Passengers in the coach closer to the conflict screamed, and those in our cabin who were conscious and able mirrored them in scared, reactive response. Having no desire to reaffirm the man's already answered suspicions, I took a alarmed step away from him as fear for my own life overshadowed the burden of my responsibilities as a doctor. Shameful, really; but there were men out there, men more than willing to take the lives of others without a second thought or regret.

The staccato drum of bullets showering the steam engine's metal skin stopped for a few seconds—long enough to allow panicked and agonized screams fill the thick void—before resuming in quickened earnest. Somewhere amidst it all, someone was laughing. I stumbled back against the far wall of the cabin, ducking as low to the ground as possible to avoid the likelihood of getting caught in any kind of crossfire.

My fingers failed to cease shaking, though I forced them to work as I picked open the latches of my suitcase with great difficulty. A row of surgical knives with various lengths, widths and uses stared back at me, and before I had time to consider the consequences of my actions, I had grabbed one of the sharpest, more precise knives from its peg and hid it in my inner coat pocket. Shutting the suitcase, I pushed it behind me and sat down, unable to do anything else but wait in fear.

An uneasy silence fell upon everyone in the cabin as the vestibule door creaked open. A young man hoisted himself up onto the floorboards of our coach with great force, twin pistols at the ready, cocked. He strode inside, small in stature for his demanding, intimidating gait. His swagger was smooth yet casual, confident and smug. Aviator goggles from the airships of old clung to his face, a faded black bandana covering his nose and mouth. In a single sweep, he pulled the goggles loose from over his eyes and against his forehead, curved reddened lines indenting just above his cheeks and under his eyebrows. He blinked, revealing bright eyes like copper coins. Pulling the bandana free from his face and against his neck, the ghost of a smile spread across his lips.

He was the Splinters personified.