Dusk Mountain Blues Read online

  Dusk Mountain Blues

  Dusk Orbit Blues | Book 1

  Deston J. Munden

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Deston J. Munden

  All rights reserved.

  www.djmunden.com

  Cover art by Matt Ward

  Edited by Nicole Ball

  To friends and family. To supporters and fans. To you, who has taken the time to read stories like mine.

  CONTENTS

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Drifter: Bluesky Swindling

  Chapter 2: Appetite: Catfish and Biscuits

  Chapter 3: Kindle: Red Fires to Keep Warm

  Chapter 4: Appetite: The Workings of a Patient Man

  Chapter 5: Drifter: A Somewhat Quiet Kinda Hoedown

  Chapter 6: Kindle: Crocodile Walk

  Chapter 7: Appetite: Shadows in the Well

  Chapter 8: Drifter: Sensible Brooding

  Chapter 9: Appetite: Simple Gathering

  Chapter 10: Drifter: Brimstone

  Chapter 11: Kindle: Moth Wings

  Chapter 12: Appetite: Humility//Hubris

  Chapter 13: Drifter: Red Touched Dreams

  Chapter 14: Kindle: Vanilla and Cloves

  Chapter 15: Appetite: Gluttony Incarnate

  Chapter 16: Drifter: Torchlight Trigger

  Chapter 17: Appetite: Shadows, Fire; Separation, Love

  Chapter 18: Kindle: Breaks and Cracks and All Things Bad

  Chapter 19: Appetite: Starlight Exodus

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Bluesky Swindling

  Drifter

  “In my dreams, the world is mine. Awake, only half of it is.” - Luke “Drifter” Caldwell

  Luke Caldwell - Drifter by his folks - thought himself a smart man for one without much schooling. He had to be. Not many fellas made it here to his ripe old age of seventy-four outta being stupid. His brothers had doubted him in the past, but they should’ve known by now not to doubt what old Drifter could do. Their little sting operations here and there had made them quite the successful “entrepreneurs”.

  Was it terribly legal? Nah, not in the slightest; but it got food on the table and, later, respect in their names. Who could ask for more?

  ​Drifter always asked for more.

  Drifter looked into the rearview mirror of his old, beat-up, white-and-blue truck, checking on the cargo of his recent pickup. Salvage for the most part for today; parts of old crashed ships, ancient technology from the Old Planets, and a few canisters of ship fuel that Drifter permanently borrowed from a few of those fancy Bluecoats - all stuff that was more Thunder’s or Doc’s type of thing. His brothers were good with their hands and head both - like the tech-savvy younguns these days, always tinkering with one new thing or another. Drifter weren’t that type of fella. Give him a good old-fashioned gun and brew him a nice strong drink, and he was set. But, eh; everyone had their hobbies.

  Drifter tugged his mesh red cap over his long white hair, checking the cargo and staring deeper into the smudged mirror. Blue and red lights swirled in the distance. He snorted and grabbed his flask from the cupholder, turning up his radio to better hear the sounds of bluegrass over the rushing wind. He downed a long draught and pressed the pedal.

  ​The Bluecoats knew better than to meet him on the road. Or on foot. Or anywhere, really. They might’ve assumed that he was Big Thunder this time around, not that that was any better - nobody touched his kin. There was something particularly silly about trying to catch him on these dirt roads cutting through his mountains. Drifter sped through the winding path, cutting through the trees, little truck sailing through the air. The sirens went on behind him, whistling against the howling wind. Drifter yanked the steering wheel and turned through a thick thatch of tall, black- barked trees and thick muddy soil. He grinned as he sped faster through the banks of the valley, the world becoming a green blur around him.

  ​He howled and slapped his knee as the thrill of the chase coursed through him. They wouldn’t chase him over some ship fuel alone, would they? Drifter shrugged. It didn’t matter. Whatever he had, it was his now.

  Shouldn’t leave yer stuff lying around, then. The young fancy coats couldn’t seem to grasp the idea: if you left it, Drifter and his boys were gonna take it. That was the law of the world. The Caldwells were the driving force on this planet, even if the Bluecoats thought otherwise.

  Gonna have to teach these young ones some lessons. By the heavens, they were trying their hardest too. The very thought of it gave him a buzz better than the contents of his flask could.

  ​They chased him through Rippling Creek down another dirt road, bumpier than the last. Tall trees surrounded them on all sides, reaching out with their dark green leaves into blue above, and patches of redgrass with giant brown bulbs grew tall around them. A long freshwater creek snaked through the land, cutting through the field of red, brown, and green with clean rushing water. Rusted machines left over from the Old World - like Drifter’s truck was before he restored it - lay abandoned on the side of the road along with newer technological beasts from the Bluecoats, fresher than the abandoned hunks of metal, but all the more stripped to the bones.

  Drifter looked out the window this time. Still following, are ya? Drifter put down his flask momentarily, rummaging through the glove compartment with his free hand. He found his pistol, a simple revolver. It was always loaded. Always.

  ​Tossing his hat to the passengers seat to leave his white hair fluttering in the wind, Drifter leaned out of the window, one arm on the steering wheel, A good day. Smelled of fresh water, fragrant flora, and exhaust. He leveled his revolver, watching the small black and blue shuttle comedown a hill.

  He shot three shots.

  The bullets shattered through the windshield, each shot landing precisely where he wanted. The little shuttle spun, the driver splashing into the creek. Whether the driver was dead or not, Drifter found that he didn’t care that much.

  Another one came rolling around the corner; the first shuttle was never the only one when they tried to catch the Caldwells. They often brought out the big things for them - today was no different. The beast came out next, stomping over the horizon. The laughter in Drifter’s chest died. Had to bring out the 7-A’s.

  He drove in silence, turning down the radio, a man’s voice lowering to a whisper against a faint banjo. The 7-A’s were standard-issue mechanical behemoths controlled by a single pilot. This one wasn’t the biggest he had seen. They came in different sizes - from full battle models equipped with missiles and lasers, to standard capture models meant for detainment of enemies of the Viscount Corporations. This one was equipped with two machine cannons and a large dreamwater tank strapped to its back for the eventual subduing of the prisoner.

  Drifter eyed the small reactors on the sides of the 7-A. Can’t shoot through that. Don’t want to blow ’em up. Not because he cared about the person inside, but his boy and his granddaughter fished in that creek sometimes. I don’t want their space crap in my water.

  The biggest fear Drifter had when he saw the massive beast stomping through the red grass was for his truck, not his life. The Bluecoats had already ruined one truck he’d intended to give to one of his sons, daughter, or granddaughter. Drifter slipped back into the truck, placing the revolver beside him. Though he was having a good time, he wasn’t going to risk the idea of losing all his cargo for this nonsense. The smile fell off of his face as he pulled over to the side of the road near the shoulder of the creek’s bank, the smell of a fr
eshly-pulled trigger and whiskey in the air. Going from small amusement to anger within a second, he yanked the keys from the ignition and tossed them into the passenger’s seat. Drifter stepped out of the car, boots crushing the dust and red grass underfoot.

  Drifter rolled his shoulders and watched the 7-A with harsh grey-blue eyes. The beardless pilot looked in horror through the glass of the cockpit as he and his monster froze in place. Drifter licked his yellow teeth, a savage hunger rushing through him. They hadn’t expected it to be him, or they would’ve brought a bigger mech. He smiled as he kicked off his boots and took off his shirt. They were his nicer clothes; the wife wouldn’t like it much if he ruined them.

  He roared. Pain and power ripped through him as his body bent and twisted. His muscles grew, a black chitin tearing through his pale skin. His sight, a little faded from age, became clear, clearer than even when he was young. He hunched over; the rain of bullets came a bit too late. They ricocheted off his skull, off his chest, off his legs and arms; all the while he grew to the size, dwarfing even the mechanical beast. Detainment model 7-A’s didn’t have a strong enough stopping power to breach his skeleton. The world trembled with every step beneath his feet, green liquid dripping from his massive maw. That taste was something he could never get used to; like warm drink mixed with battery acid. Four-legged, he approached the Bluecoat, long tongue dragging against the grass.

  Drifter walked up, bullets still ricocheting from his insect-like armor. With a big meaty claw, Drifter tapped against the glass of the cockpit. The young man inside gulped and pulled a lever. The cockpit opened, slowly sliding back to reveal the stench of a man who’d just relieved himself on his own leg like a dog. Don’t mess up that fancy uniform on my account.

  “’Noon, officer,” Drifter began, grinning with thousands of teeth, his voice deep and guttural. “Whachya pulled me over for?”

  ​The Bluecoat gulped. He didn’t have a detainment field big enough for this, Drifter reckoned.

  ​“C’mon, speak up, boy. Don’t have all day.”

  ​“T-that…that’s not yours,” the beardless boy said weakly. He reminded Drifter of a few of his nephews, down to the trembling jowl and lost wide-eyed looks that only young men can pull off.

  ​“Oh?” Drifter eyed the cargo safe at his truck. “That? Consider it tax.”

  ​“Tax.”

  ​“You’re on my land, buddy. Caldwell land.”

  “You weren’t when you--”

  Drifter blinked an eye the size of the boy’s entire body. “Don’t matter. It’s on it now.”

  ​The Bluecoat shook in his plush leather seat, throat closing with every second. Drifter plucked the long grey seat belt with a claw, snapping it within a second. He picked the young boy up by his waist with his long tongue; it took some carefulness not to melt the boy into a puddle of meat or break his spine. He placed him on the ground.

  “Come to think of it, this is mine too. Got something to say about that, little Blue? Speak up now, boy; or do I need to crunch some bones to make my point?”

  The boy found his cowardice once again, judging by the smell.

  “I’m gonna need you to leave your weapons, leave this here beauty, and drive off in your partner’s shuttle. I hope he ain’t dead. Gonna have a hard time explaining that to your people.”

  ​Drifter looked at the boy for a while, still thinking about biting him in half. Not tasty, though. He had tried it before when he was young man; he didn’t quite have the taste for it like his son did. He would if he had to, though. A man would do anything if he gotta.

  Luckily, this time he didn’t. The little Bluecoat scrambled away, crawling on his hands and knees, trying to get away from the giant mutant. Never once did he look back.

  Good man. Drifter laughed at the desperation, huffing and puffing with amusement. The Bluecoat got to the car, tore his partner from the driver seat, and drove off without a second thought.

  ​Mutants frightened kids. There were a-plenty in the Dusk Orbits, both humans and animals, after years and years of evolution and genetic tinkering from people higher than them. They came in all shapes and sizes, as unassuming as a young woman on the streets, or a bearded old man in the the mountains. He hadn’t known the power he had for a very long time, the immense strength he possessed. It took time. He was a slow learner, but he learned.

  The young were often short-sighted, and with age came ambition. His grandkids wouldn’t have to know hunger or pain or struggle. That was his dream here; a dream that he was gonna give to every member of his kin. This was his planet now. His and his’s. No one else’s.

  ​Drifter let himself relax, his body returning to the thin, old man with much-too-long white hair. He grabbed his boots, shirt, and cap from the outside of the truck and entered the car in his birthday suit, reclining in his seat. After a moment of rest, Drifter leaned over the seat and found his spare pair of jeans and undergarments.

  “Ruining my darn clothes. Bluecoats and their dang kids. Greener than a dang bell pepper.” He wanted to curse, but the wife had gotten on him for that; not a good example for the grandkids, so he had to curb the habit.

  He couldn’t quite take himself seriously naked as a baby bird. He dressed and grabbed his keys and tossed them back into his pocket.

  ​Exiting the truck again, he went to check the rest of his cargo. Everything was there. He frowned, turning towards the now-empty mech. My, she’s a beauty. Not a combat type, but the pieces...well, Doc was working on something nice for the kids. Nobody was gonna come this far into his lands to retrieve it. Drifter stuffed his hands into the pockets of his spare jeans, finding a small figurine once belonging to his granddaughter with a smile.

  “Now, how am I gonna get you home, big boy?” Last time, he had torn the arms off, and Doc and the kids lost their dang minds. “Guess that’s gonna be his problem figuring out.”

  ​He shrugged. The least he could do was to take some of the batteries with him. Drifter walked around the 7-A and found some small climbing studs on its back. Machines weren’t too difficult to figure out after a while; though not as technologically savvy as some of kin, he knew the workings well enough. With a heave, a turn, and hiss of steam, Drifter pulled out the small blue glowing battery on the back, shouldered it hot against his neck, and climbed back down. Once firmly on the ground, he grabbed the battery by the handle and walked to the bed of his truck, frowning. He didn’t have enough space for everything to fit and be safe too. Ain’t a young man anymore, can’t be doing like I used to. He shook off the thought.

  “Guess you’re riding shotgun today.” He tapped the battery core for good measure, feeling the residual heat against his skin.

  ​Drifter entered his truck again, put the battery in the passenger seat, and locked the battery and himself in with the seatbelts. It didn’t matter if you could become a fourteen-foot monster that could crunch a man’s bones and spew highly acidic liquid - a man gotta put his seatbelt on. He hadn’t before, forgotten in his brief span of youthful thrill. Drifter touched the figurine in his pocket once again, a silly little soldier in Old World camouflage they had found, cleaned, and repainted. Kindle was fond of it, gave it to him as a lucky charm when she realized she didn’t play with it anymore. A feeling of pride filled his chest. Excitement was well and good; he hungered for it from time to time. But there was nothing like home. Nothing. He started the car and went on his way, the familiar sounds of his favorite songs blaring through open windows.

  ***

  Drifter returned to the Dusk Mountains with all his spoils intact—most of it, anyway. One piece of salvage, part of a wing, was determined to free itself from its bungie and sail back into the sky. Ain’t much Drifter could do about that. He considered it good sign more than anything. If part of a wing wanted to head to the sky once again, who was he stop it? So he drove on without it, up the winding stony roads of the snow-topped mountain ranges where the Caldwells settled.

  At first it was just him, this mountain,
and his brothers when they escaped the mines of another world. Now their kin reached from the mountains, to the valleys, to the creeks, to the grasslands, and the plains besides. They were a force of nature on the planet C’dar. The Bluecoats forgot that before they got here, the Caldwells thrived. Only a few others predated his kin on this planet and they had reached an agreement to leave each other’s lawns alone. No way no galaxy corporation was gonna step up to him, not after all the time it took for them to get away from those money men. Drifter lowered his shoulders, trying not to get tense thinking about it. They had picked a beautiful place to have their family. It wasn’t paradise all the time, but he supposed nowhere was - this was the closest that he was gonna get.

  ​As he drove up and up, he began seeing more and more of their own influences on the land. He came upon Doc’s Scrapyard first. Mounds and mounds of metal from ships, cars, shuttles, and mechs lined the small cave. Donald “Doc” Caldwell was out in his yard, short, barrel-chested, with a strong, muscled gut. He pulled off his red goggles, revealing thin white lines on his dark skin where they once settled on his meaty face. He grinned like an absolute idiot when Drifter rolled up with a truck full of things for him.

  Drifter cranked down the window. “‘Ey! Got some things for you!”

  ​“Oh thank heaven,” he heard his shorter brother shout. “Thought you brought something for Pit, Thunder, or Moses. Like you’ve done for the last umpteenth times.”

  “‘Thank'ya, Luke, for the ship fuel you found me. I appreciate you. You’re a good older brother,’” Drifter said, mocking his brother’s husky voice, sounding of smoke and metal.

  “I don’t, though.” Doc grinned. “Pull around, can’t have you hitting my fence like that one time.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “It was my fence; I get to forget it on my time.”