The Ashen Death.
A rare, terminal disease that don't run in families — it haunts them. Passed down through blood like a curse, like the whisper of a noose tightening with each generation. My family's only real heirloom. Ain't no catchin' it from the air or water. You're born with it.
It burns slow. Real slow. Eats at the lungs like a slow-roasting wildfire, always hungry, always creeping. Doctors say it's like cancer, but they don't know shit. It don't feel like cancer. It feels like breathing smoke in reverse — as if the lungs themselves were smolderin', coughing up sparks like dying coals in a dying campfire.
Most days, I forget it's there. Other days? I cough so hard it feels like my ribs are tryin' to crack open and let the fire out. Not a regular cough either — a heavy, dark one. Black smoke curls from my mouth, sometimes even glows with embers. People see it and think I lit a match in my throat.
The train rattled beneath me like a dying beast trying to stay on track. I sat still, hat tipped low, elbows rested high, hands coverin' the bottom half of my face like I was spying through shadows. Lookin' mad mysterious, sure, but also tryin' not to cough blood all over the damn table.
My hat? Jet black with a silver rim that shines like moonlight on a grave. A red scarf's wrapped loose 'round my neck — not for style, but comfort. Somethin' about red calms me down. I wear a plain shirt, beige cargo pants dusted with sand, and four pipe bombs hang loose on my belt. My boots are brown, worn, but laced to stomp down on any turf that needs correctin'.
And then there's them. My revolvers. One forged in metallic black — mean as sin. The other? Pure, blinding silver. A yin and yang of destruction. My true angels of war.
But enough about me.
Let's talk about what the hell happened to the world.
It's 2043. Earth's still breathin', but only just. The last great war — World War Four — cracked it wide open. They say it ended when a swarm of missiles aimed for Russia accidentally cratered a nuclear power plant. Chain reaction. Boom. Flash of light, then silence. Three-quarters of the planet wiped clean like God slammed the reset button with his elbow.
Now? It's a wasteland. A dry, yawning mouth of sand and ash. The only roads left are invisible freeways that stretch across deserts, carved by tire tracks and blood, traveled by those who submitted to this new age — cowboys of the apocalypse.
Some towns tried to rebuild, sure. But most? Fell back into old habits. Saloon doors swingin'. Banks gettin' robbed. Sheriffs hangin' criminals from rusted scaffolds while horses piss on irradiated dirt. We don't call it "the future" no more. We call it The Second Wild West.
And the people? Twenty-five percent clingin' to the old world like barnacles on a sunken ship. The rest? Gave in. Turned into raiders, mercs, killers. The line between lawman and outlaw ain't a line anymore — it's a loop, twisted so tight you can't tell who's on which side until the bullets stop flyin'.
And me? I fit right in.
Just another cowboy, fresh out of a government-run military camp, sittin' on a rustbucket train headed nowhere, talkin' to myself like some half-broken man. Got a deadly disease waitin' in my chest like a jailer waitin' for my sentence to end. No cure. No clock. Just burn.
My name's Shaun Mercer.
And I am…
A Cursed Gunslinger.
A tall woman in a tailored red suit pulled up beside me with a cart of snacks and drinks. Real fancy. Her gait was slow, professional, almost theatrical, like she was performing hospitality with a knife in her boot.
I snapped out of my "quietly-watching-the-world-like-a-gunfighter" pose and pointed at a bottle of water sitting upright on the cart.
"Just the water'll do, ma'am."
She nodded, voice flat but precise. "Very well then."
She set the bottle in front of me, spun on her heel, and drifted away down the aisle, serving other passengers with the same cold elegance.
Now that I thought about it… I'd only made it as far as the train's dining car. When I boarded, I spotted a sign at the back marked VIP Scenic Cabin — off-limits. But really, what kind of outlaw would I be if I followed signs?
I got up, adjusted my belt, took a swig of water, and headed for the rear cars.
The moment I pushed through the connecting door, the world dimmed like someone pulled the sun from the sky. The hallway ahead was silent, cold, and far too dark for anything above ground. For a second, I wondered if I'd died. Maybe Ashen Death had finally swallowed me whole, and this was the waiting room to hell.
Then I heard it — the blunt thud of bodies colliding, glass rattling, low grunts of pain. Fighting. Behind the next door.
Just as I stepped forward, the door burst open. A man came hurtling through like a human cannonball. I sidestepped, calm as a breeze, and he hit the floor face-first, groaning.
"Well," I muttered, stepping over him, "ain't that polite of him — openin' the door for me."
Inside, the air was thick with blood and gunpowder. A body lay crumpled near the wall, riddled with bullets. Another man had a knife sticking out of his shoulder, twitching like he hadn't decided whether to live or die. And at the center of it all stood her — another woman in red.
She was slicking back her hair like she'd just finished a business meeting, not a slaughter. Her tailored red suit didn't have a single wrinkle on it, though the sleeves were splashed with blood. The room itself was a warped blend of class and carnage — brown leather seats, blood-smeared walls, and a furnace in the center blazing orange. Light spilled through the open windows, mixing fire and sunlight across her face.
I leaned against the wall, took another sip.
A red suit's a hell of a thing to wear when killin' a man, I thought. But she wore it like armor. No fear. No second thoughts. Just style with teeth.
She clocked me with one glance, then turned and slung a bolt-action rifle over her shoulder. Calmly, she began dragging bodies toward the furnace.
"Well?" she asked, voice dry. "You gonna help or just keep starin'? Bring me that sack of bones I threw through the door, will ya?"
"I'm thinkin'. Mostly starin', though."
She huffed. "Useless."
She strode toward the exit, muttering to herself, but stopped short. Something changed in her eyes as she looked at me again. A squint. A pause. Then she reached out and grabbed my chin — not soft, but rough, firm. Tilted my head this way and that like she was inspectin' a tool someone said was broken.
"I got somethin' on my face?"
"You're not what I expected," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Taller. And more… dead."
"Dead?" I coughed, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. "I feel real alive. Besides the part where my lungs are turning to ash."
She let go, gave me a once-over, then dug into her jacket. Pulled out a crumpled paper — a bounty slip. My name, all right. My face too, though grainy and half-faded.
"Twenty-five grand?" I whistled. "Guess the government don't like unfinished business."
"You're worth a lot of money," she said, still staring.
"You here to collect?"
"Thought about it," she said, eyes drifting to the blood-soaked carpet. "But I could use someone who knows how to shoot better than they talk."
She rolled the bounty slip back up and stuffed it away. Walked to the corner and pulled a large curtain around her like a changing screen.
"You always confess with a rifle on your back?" I asked, stepping closer to the furnace. "Just sayin' — you shouldn't trust people so easy these days."
A gunshot cracked. The bullet sang past my ear and punched into the wall behind me.
She blew the smoke from her rifle.
"Trust? I said I could use you. Didn't say I do."
I chuckled. "Fair."
"Is askin' for a temporary alliance really so strange?" she asked behind the curtain. I heard the rustle of cloth, zippers, the click of metal buckles. "You're headed to Starbrook, right? Gonna challenge Eisen Burton?"
I paused. "You know that?"
"I know everything. Or close enough. Eisen's no joke — half that town's sold their souls to keep him on top. You kill him, and you'll be the new storm blowin' across this godforsaken land."
The curtain slid open.
Gone was the red suit. Now she looked like she belonged in the desert: a brown hat with spiked brims and a chain hanging under the lip, smooth brown hair to her back, red scars slicing through her cheek. A white shirt under a brown fur-collared jacket. A thick leather strap across her chest holding her rifle snug on her back. Brown jeans, worn, functional.
She looked like war given form.
"My intel's good," she said. "I've got maps, codes, names. Allies. Enemies. Everything you'll need. And if you're really tryin' to be infamous? If you want the world government to fear your name?"
She smiled, slow and sharp.
"You'll need me."
I stared at her for a long second. Then I tipped back the last of my water, capped the bottle, and set it gently on the floor. My boots echoed as I started for the door.
She followed.
"Alright," I said, voice low, steady. "Let's get this show on the road."
"Damn right."
As we stepped through the connecting door, the train rattled harder beneath our feet. Sunlight burned the desert outside. Sand swallowed the horizon. The new world loomed.
Maybe we trusted each other. Maybe we just hated everyone else more. But one thing was for certain—
We were gonna give this world one hell of a bad time.