ANTHOLOGY: That Bears Thee Dead

[Saint Fawkes]

So one day a few weeks ago I was watching the Leonardo Dicaprio version of Romeo and Juliet (long story). Having finished that, I spent the rest of the night reading Stephen King's The Gunslinger. That night I had a dream that mixed the two together, and thus was born the piece that you are about to read. The title, for those of you less well read than me (), is a Shakespeare reference. Seriously, look it up.

Oh yeah, there's some shooting and such in there, and for those of you who are easily offended, they say fuck.

EDIT: Edits taken into account, the new story has been posted.
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So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
—from Shakespeare's Macbeth

The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law.
—from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet

If you pass the last of the ruins and reach the sun-baked deserts that surround The Meadows, you might stumble across a little slice of hell on earth. Once you feel the sun peeling off the skin on the back of your neck and you realize you haven’t seen water in days, you know you’re in Death Nation.

In the daytime, the sun hits the sand hard enough to kill a man in a matter of days; after nightfall, it’s cold enough to turn water to ice, if you’re lucky enough to find any water. A few old buildings scattered here and there provide the only shade for miles, making them ideal homes for pit vipers. Then there are the Savages.

Obviously, not many choose to spend time in Death Nation, so when someone enters it, they have a good reason.

Lysander had a very good reason.

He squinted as he raised his left hand and lowered the brim of his hat, shielding his eyes from the pounding sun. Before him, the massive panorama of narrow dunes stretched out to the low mountains in the distance. His hand drifted to the handle of the silver revolver at his thigh and his lower three fingers curled around the handle, his index finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. He held the gun for a moment and then released it, starting forward across the sand.

The wide soles of his boots left deep prints in the sand as he made his way slowly through the high dunes. The wind abruptly kicked up and a whirling spray of sand whipped into his face. Lysander dropped his gaze, letting the brim of his hat shield his face as he untied the red bandanna around his neck and tied it around his face, protecting his mouth and nose from the coarse sand. He squinted against the wind and pushed forward across the desert.

Across the sands, Autolycus perched on a high dune, his eyes slowly following the distant speck of a man crossing the desert. His long, thin fingers drummed lightly on the stock of his rifle. Yellowed teeth smiled through dry lips as he watched Lysander pass. “Thou art naught but a fly beneath my heel,” he said quietly.

Lysander paused, turning his back to the flying sand as he surveyed the desert behind him. The sand seemed to stretch forever, each dune identical to the last. Even his own footprints had been blown away by the vicious wind. He let out a long breath into the bandanna and then turned and continued toward the setting sun in the distance.

He heard the crunch of feet on sand behind him and whirled, his hand moving to his gun. There was nothing in sight. Lysander squinted across the desert for a long moment before he turned and continued west.

A small pebble thrown by the wind struck just below his right eye and was gone in an instant. Lysander cried out in surprise, slapping his right hand to his eye. He stumbled, gritting his teeth against the searing pain. Grunting in frustration, he drew his sunglasses from his right pocket and slid them on. He shook his head and trudged onward.

By twilight he was becoming deeply concerned. He had seen no signs of life so far, and worse still the brutal wind showed no signs of letting up. Sand pounded unceasingly against the lenses of his shades, and his hands had been rubbed nearly raw. Grunting in frustration, Lysander turned his back to the wind long enough to pull down the bandanna from his face. He unhooked the canteen from his gun belt and took a long drink.

Pulling the bandanna back up over his face, Lysander rose to his feet and turned. He inhaled sharply as he found himself face-to-face with a tall, muscle-bound stranger with dark, tanned skin. The stranger held an iron-headed tomahawk, and his face was painted with red ochre clay.
Savages.

Lysander instinctively reached for his gun, but as his fingers curled around the handle the Savage barked out something in a language Lysander did not understand. Three more Savages, armed with bows and arrows, seemed to emerge from the whirling sands around him. Lysander quickly released his gun, raising his open hands.

“I beg of you,” he said quickly, “be not afraid nor act on a spleen. I come not to fight but to speak.”

The three Savages with bows advanced slowly toward him. The one with the tomahawk raised a hand and they stopped in their tracks, their sights still trained on Lysander. The one with the tomahawk, apparently the leader, spoke again and they lowered their bows. The leader observed Lysander curiously for a moment and then spoke to him once again. Lysander shook his head helplessly, uncomprehending. The leader stared at him for a moment and then tapped his own chest. “Matwau,” he said.

Lysander nodded slowly and indicated himself. “Lysander,” he said.

“Lysander,” Matwau repeated to himself. He said something in his own language, less tensely this time.

Lysander slowly reached toward his breast pocket. The three archers quickly targeted him again, but Matwau yelled something to them and they lowered their weapons. Lysander slipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out a small color Polaroid. He extended it toward Matwau slowly. Matwau took the picture and looked at it for a moment. Then he jerked his head to the west and started off across the sands. Lysander hesitated for a moment and then followed him.

Some distance away, Autolycus watched Lysander and the Savages down the barrel of his rifle. The distant shapes moved as one toward the west. Autolycus’ smile faded slightly.

Matwau and his men trudged tirelessly through the sand, leading Lysander onward through Death Nation. The Savages’ encampment was a small circle of tall, pointed tents. There were five or six of them in a wide ring with a circle of stones in the center. Several young men with the same red ochre face paint as Matwau were building a fire inside the circle of stones. A high dune protected the camp from the stinging wind. Lysander slowly removed his glasses as he surveyed the settlement. Matwau yelled something in his native language as they approached the fire. There was a pause, and then he yelled something that sounded like “Kimama!”

A beat passed and then a middle-aged, tan-skinned woman pushed open the flap of the tent closest to Lysander with a thick wooden walking stick. She stepped out, leaning on the walking stick as she limped toward Matwau. Her left leg was weak and shriveled. Matwau and the woman spoke in hushed tones for a moment. Matwau showed her the Polaroid and then the woman turned to Lysander.

“Welcome,” said the woman, “to Timbisha. I am Kimama. Tell me thy business in our lands.”

“I seek a man called Autolycus,” Lysander told her, pulling the bandanna down from his face. She indicated the picture in Matwau’s hand, and he nodded. “That is the rogue’s face.”

“Wherefore dost thou seek this man?” she asked slowly.

“He is possessed of something that is mine by right,” Lysander replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Where does the coward hide?”

Kimama whispered quickly to Matwau. Matwau seemed to think for a moment and then answered her quietly. Kimama looked back at Lysander. “Matwau has also been moved to battle by thine enemy’s intrusion into our homeland,” she said. “His son was slain in the fray. If he is your enemy as well, then we are allies in our desire for vengeance.”

“Then I pray that you will help me to find him before he flees once more,” said Lysander.

Kimama relayed his words to Matwau, who looked curiously at Lysander for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly and wordlessly started out across the sand. Lysander glanced at Kimama, who nodded encouragingly, and followed after Matwau.

The sun had nearly set over Death Nation, and the brutal heat had turned to bitter cold. It took all of Lysander’s strength to stop his teeth from chattering. Matwau, clothed in little more than an animal skin loincloth, seemed remarkably unaffected. Lysander’s left hand wrapped around his belt to stop from shaking, while his right gripped the rubber-coated handle of his revolver tightly.

Across the dunes, Autolycus glanced nervously over his shoulder as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and ducked under the wooden supports into the entrance of the mine shaft. His backpack sat a short ways down the tunnel, near the remains of the fire he had built the night before. He opened his pack and took out a few eight-inch pieces of Fatwood. Sitting down on the sand, he began carefully rebuilding his fire.

Matwau held out his arm, stopping Lysander in his tracks. He whispered something in his own language and pointed at the speck of light in the distance. Lysander glanced at him and nodded. He slowly drew his pistol as he and Matwau walked toward the distant fire.

In the mines, Autolycus carefully unlimbered his rifle, the rough nylon strap scraping against his neck. He crouched down in the sand, aiming his rifle out of the tunnel as he sighted along the barrel. He could see two figures approaching, silhouetted against the last sliver of the setting sun. He knew the Savage would not be armed for a gunfight, and so resolved to kill Lysander first. His sights drifted lazily between them as he struggled to discern their features, but he couldn’t make out who was who. Growling in frustration, he turned the rifle toward the figure on the right. The gun bucked in his hand as he squeezed the trigger.

Lysander let out a cry of surprise as a rifle shot rang across the desert and Matwau jerked backward, blood spurting from his throat. He swung his gun up in his hand and fired three shots in the direction of the fire, diving forward into the sand.

Autolycus cursed under his breath and cocked the rifle, aiming across the desert to find that he had lost track of Lysander in the whirling sandstorm. He let out a snarl of anger and fired again.

Lysander winced as a bullet kicked up the sand a few feet to his left. He knew the only reason he was still alive was the flying sand that hid him. He tugged his bandanna up over the lower half of his face and took the sunglasses from his pocket, raising his gun as he pulled them on. He rested his arm on the sand and sighted carefully down the barrel. He could see Autolycus crouched in the cave, scanning the desert slowly. His eyes narrowing behind the shades, Lysander lined up the sight on Autolycus’s chest and squeezed the trigger.

Autolycus jerked backward, the rifle slipping from his hand as he cried out in pain. Gritting his teeth in agony, he clapped his left hand over the wound in his stomach. He cursed quietly as he felt the blood wetting his palm.

Lysander scrambled to his feet and broke into a run, sprinting toward the mine entrance. Opening the cylinder of his gun, he emptied the spent shells onto the sand as he pulled a moon clip from his vest and reloaded the pistol.

Autolycus rolled over onto his stomach and crawled desperately toward his rifle. Lysander fired and Autolycus cried out in pain as the bullet punched through his knee. Lysander slowly approached Autolycus, keeping the pistol trained on his back, and slid his foot under Autolycus’s stomach, rolling him over onto his back. Autolycus glowered at Lysander, still clutching his side. “So,” he growled, “thou shalt have thy vengeance after all. Finish it, then.”

“Where is she?” demanded Lysander furiously. “Where hast thou taken my daughter?”

For a moment Autolycus stared at him in confusion. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “Thou art a fool, Lysander,” he said. “I had believed you sought me for vengeance. But thou truly didst believe that you would find her with me.”

“At thine own peril dost thou mock so desperate a man as I,” growled Lysander. “What hast thou done with her?”

Autolycus grinned coldly. “I fucked her,” he said. “Then I slit her throat and buried her corpse in the desert.”

Lysander stared at him, unable to move. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…” Autolycus laughed maliciously. “No!” roared Lysander, pumping the trigger of his pistol. The muzzle of his gun flashed again and again. Autolycus died laughing.

Lysander stared at the corpse, disbelieving. “It is a lie,” he told himself quietly. “It is a lie.” He slowly holstered his gun, not bothering to reload it. “It is a lie.”

He turned away from Autolycus’ corpse and walked slowly out of the mine. The sun had vanished beneath the horizon, and only the light of the stars and the moon remained. The cold air washed over Lysander like a wave of freezing water. He barely felt it. He closed his eyes and walked straight ahead, stumbling slowly across his little slice of hell on earth.
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Oh, I almost forgot. The reason this ending is so vague is that I'm planning on following up on htis at some point with a sequel.

[Imelda]

Crit crit crit crit critique.

Originally Posted by Saint Fawkes

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth

The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law.
—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

If you pass the last of the ruins and reach the sun-baked deserts that surround The Meadows, you might stumble across a little slice of hell on earth. Nice opening.Once you feel the sun peeling off the skin on the back of your neck and you realize you haven’t seen water in days, you know you’re in Death Nation.

In the daytime, the sun hits the sand hard enough to kill a man in a matter of days; after nightfall, its cold enough to turn water to ice, if you’re lucky enough to find any water. A few old buildings scattered here and there provide the only shade for miles, making them ideal homes for pit vipers. Then there are the Savages.

ObviouslyI don't like that there, but I don't think it's right without it ... any other way you could phrase it?, not many choose to spend time in Death Nation, so when someone enters it, they have a good reason.

Lysander had a very good reason.

He squinted as he raised his left hand and lowered the brim of his hat, shielding his eyes from the pounding sun. Before him, the massive panorama of narrow dunes stretched out to the low mountains in the distance. His hand drifted to the handle of the silver revolver at his thigh and his lower three fingers curled around the handle, his index finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. He held the gun for a moment and then released it, starting forward across the sand. Nice detail there.

The wide soles of his boots left deep prints in the sand as he made his way slowly through the high dunes. The wind abruptly kicked up and a whirling spray of sand whipped into his face. Lysander dropped his gaze, letting the brim of his hat shield his face as he untied the red bandanna around his neck and tied it around his face, shieldingrepeitition his mouth and nose from the coarse sand. He squinted against the wind and pushed forward across the desert.

Across the sands, Autolycus perched on a high dune, his eyes slowly following the distant speck of a man crossing the desert. His long, thin fingers drummed lightly on the stock of his rifle. Yellowed teeth smiled through dry lips as he watched Lysander pass. “Thou art naught but a fly beneath my heel,” he said quietly.

Lysander paused, turning his back to the flying as he surveyed the desert behind him. The sand seemed to stretch forever, each dune identical to the last. Even his own footprints had been blown away by the vicious wind. He let out a long breath into the bandanna and then turned and continued toward the setting sun in the distance.

A small pebble thrown by the wind struck just below his right eye and was gone in an instant. Lysander cried out in surprise, slapping his right hand to his eye. He stumbled, gritting his teeth against the searing pain. Grunting in frustration, he drew his sunglasses from his right pocket and slid them on. He shook his head and trudged onward.

He heard the crunch of feet on sand behind him and whirled, his hand moving to his gun. There was nothing in sight. Lysander squinted across the desert for a long moment before he turned and continued west. I'd put this para before hte other. Build up the tension a little more.

By twilight he was becoming concerned concerned seems too mild here .... He had seen no signs of life so far, and worse still the brutal wind showed no signs of letting up. Sand pounded unceasingly against the lenses of his shades, and his hands had been rubbed nearly raw. Grunting in frustration, Lysander turned his back to the wind long enough to pull down the bandanna from his face. He unhooked the canteen from his gun belt and took a long drink.

Pulling the bandanna back up over his face, Lysander rose to his feet and turned. He inhaled sharply as he found himself facehyphentohyphemface with a tall, muscle-bound stranger with darkcomma tanned skin. The stranger held an iron-headed tomahawk, and his face was painted with red ochre clay.

Savages.

Lysander instinctively reached for his gun, but as his fingers curled around the handle the Savage barked out something in a language Lysander did not understand. Three more Savages, armed with bows and arrows, seemed to emerge from the whirling sands around him. Lysander quickly released his gun, raising his open hands.

“I beg of you,” he said quickly, “be not afraid nor act on a spleen. I come not to? fight but to speak.”

The three Savages with bows advanced slowly toward him. The one with the tomahawk raised a hand and they stopped in their tracks, their sights still trained on Lysander. The one with the tomahawk, apparently the leader, spoke again and they lowered their bows. The leader observed Lysander curiously for a moment and then spoke to him once again. Lysander shook his head helplessly, uncomprehending. The leader stared at him for a moment and then tapped his own chest. “Matwau,” he said.

Lysander nodded slowly and indicated himself. “Lysander,” he said.

“Lysander,” Matwau repeated to himself. He said something in his own language, less tensely this time.

Lysander slowly reached toward his breast pocket. The three archers quickly targeted him again, but Matwau yelled something to them and they lowered their weapons. Lysander slipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out a small color Polaroid. He extended it toward Matwau slowly. Matwau took the picture and looked at it for a moment. Then he jerked his head to the north and started off across the sands. Lysander hesitated for a moment and then followed him.

Some distance away, Autolycus watched Lysander and the Savages down the barrel of his rifle. The distant shapes moved as one toward the west. Autolycus’ smile faded slightly.

Matwau and his men trudged tirelessly through the sand, leading Lysander onward through Death Nation. The Savages’ encampment was a small circle of tall, pointed tents. There were five or six of them in a wide ring with a circle of stones in the center. Several young men with the same red ochre face paint as Matwau were building a fire inside the circle of stones. A high dune protected the camp from the stinging wind. Lysander slowly removed his glasses as he surveyed the settlement. Matwau yelled something in his native language as they approached the fire. There was a pause, and then he yelled something that sounded like, “Kimama!”

A beat passed and then a middle-aged, tan-skinned woman pushed open the flap of the tent closest to Lysander with a thick wooden walking stick. She stepped out, leaning on the walking stick as she limped toward Matwau. Her left leg was weak and shriveled. Matwau and the woman spoke in hushed tones for a moment. Matwau showed her the Polaroid and then the woman turned to Lysander.

“Welcome,” said the woman, “to Timbisha. I am Kimama. Tell me thy business in our lands.”

“I seek a man called Autolycus,” Lysander told her, pulling the bandanna down from his face. She indicated the picture in Matwau’s hand, and he nodded. “That is the rogue’s face.”

“Wherefore dost thou seek this man?” she asked slowly.

“He is possessed of something that is mine by right,” Lysander replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Where does the coward hide?”

Kimama whispered quickly to Matwau. Matwau seemed to think for a moment and then answered her quietly. Kimama looked back at Lysander. “Our people have also been moved to battle by thine enemy’s intrusion into our homeland,” she said. “Matwau's son was slain in the fray. If he is your enemy as well, then we are allies in our desire for vengeance.”

“Then I pray that you will help me to find him before he flees once more,” said Lysander.

Kimama relayed his words to Matwau, who looked interestedlyConsidering his son was just killed, I'd expect him to be more than just interested at Lysander for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly and wordlessly started out across the sand. Lysander glanced at Kimama, who nodded encouragingly, and he followed after Matwau.

The sun had nearly set over Death Nation, and the brutal heat had turned to bitter cold. It took all of Lysander’s strength to stop his teeth from chattering. Matwau, clothed in little more than an animal skin loincloth, seemed remarkably unaffected. Lysander’s left hand wrapped around his belt to stop fromwhat from shaking? shaking, while his right gripped the rubber-coated handle of his revolver tightly.

Across the dunes, Autolycus glanced nervously over his shoulder as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and ducked under the wooden supports into the entrance of the mine shaft. His backpack sat a short ways down the tunnel, near the remains of the fire he had built the night before. He opened his pack and took out a few eight-inch pieces of Fatwood which is?. Sitting down on the sand, he began carefully building his fire.

Matwau held out his arm, stopping Lysander in his tracks. He whispered something in his own language and pointed at the speck of light in the distance. Lysander glanced at him and nodded. He slowly drew his pistol as he and Matwau walked toward the distant fire.

In the mines, Autolycus carefully unlimbered his rifle, the rough nylon strap scraping against his neck. He crouched down in the sand, aiming his rifle out of the tunnel as he sighted along the barrel. He could see two figures approaching, silhouetted against the last sliver of the setting sun. He knew the Savage would not be armed for a gunfight, and so? resolved to kill Lysander first. His sights[color="red]sight?[/color] drifted lazily between them as he struggled to make out their features, but he couldn’t make outrepetition which was whichwho was who. Growling in frustration, he turned the rifle toward the figure on the right. The gun bucked in his hand as he squeezed the trigger.

Lysander let out a cry of surprise as a rifle shot rang across the desert and Matwau jerked backward, blood spurting from his throat. awww! He swung his gun up in his hand and fired three shots in the direction of the fire, diving forward into the sand.
Autolycus pov switch here. cursed under his breath and cocked the rifle, aiming across the desert to find that he had lost track of Lysander in the whirling sandstorm. He let out a roar of rage dramatic, yes, but would he really be making noises that give his location away? and fired again.

Lysander winced as a bullet kicked up the sand a few feet to his left. He knew the only reason he was still alive was the flying sand that hid him from sightcut 'from sight' He tugged his bandanna up over the lower half of his face and pulled the sunglasses from his pocket, raising his gun as he pulledrepetition them on. He rested his arm on the sand and sighted carefully down the barrel. He could see Autolycus crouched in the cave, scanning the desert slowly. His eyes narrowing behind the shades, Lysander lined up the sight on Autolycus’s chest and squeezed the trigger.

Autolycus jerked backward, the rifle slipping from his hand as he cried out in pain. Gritting his teeth in agony, he clapped his left hand over the wound in his stomach. He cursed quietly as he felt the blood wetting his palm.

Lysander scrambled to his feet and broke into a run, sprinting toward the mine entrance. Opening the cylinder of his gun, he emptied the spent shells onto the sand as he pulled a moon clipwhat on earth is a moon clip?! Remember that unless you're writing military genre stuff, a lot of your readers won't know stuff like this from his vest and reloaded the pistol.

Autolycus rolled over onto his stomach and crawled desperately toward his rifle. Lysander fired and Autolycus cried out in pain as the bullet punched through his knee. Lysander slowly approached Autolycus, keeping the pistol trained on his back, and slid his foot under Autolycus’s stomach, rolling hishim over onto his back. Autolycus glowered at Lysander, still clutching his side. “So,” he growled, “thou shalt have thy vengeance after all. Finish it, then.”

“Where is she?” demanded Lysander furiously. “Where hast thou taken my daughter?”

For a moment Autolycus stared at him in confusion. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “Thou art a fool, Lysander,” he said. “I had believed you sought me for vengeance. But thou truly didst believe that you would find her with me.”

“At thine own peril dost thou mock so desperate a man as I,” growled Lysander. “What hast thou done with her?”

Autolycus grinned coldly. “I fucked her,” he said. “Then I sold her to the slavers in The Meadows. You will never see her again.”

Lysander stared at him, unable to move. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…” Autolycus laughed maliciously. “No!” roared Lysander, pumping the trigger of his pistol. The muzzle of his gun flashed again and again. Autolycus died laughing.

Lysander stared at the corpse, disbelieving. “It is a lie,” he told himself quietly. “It is a lie.” He slowly holstered his gun, not bothering to reload it. “It is a lie.”

He turned away from Autolycus’sno second s needed corpse and walked slowly out of the mine. The sun had vanished beneath the horizon, and only the light of the stars and the moon remained. The cold air washed over Lysander like a wave of freezing water. He barely felt it. He closed his eyes and walked straight ahead, stumbling slowly across his little slice of hell on earth.
_________________________________________

Oh, I almost forgot. The reason this ending is so vague is that I'm planning on following up on htis at some point with a sequel.

The vague ending isn't a problem at all, I quite like it. It's certainly the best part of the story. The mystery of why Lysander is searching for Autolycus is just enough to keep it going. However (there's always one, isn't there?) the relevance of the 'savages' is lost on me. They seem to serve no purpose other than to lead Lysander to his quarry, which isn't good. Everything in a short needs to pay off at some point. I have no idea how you could do that in this case, but I'm sure you can come up with something.

I'm not sure about the Shakespearean language ... it sort of fits in an odd way, but it also sounds forced. You did manage to pull off the correct grammar, though (I think) so kudos on that.

Good luck.

[Saint Fawkes]

Do you think "Clearly" or "For obvious reasons" might work better?

[ADH093]

Reviewing:

Originally Posted by Saint Fawkes

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth

The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law.
—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet Ooh, deep.

If you pass the last of the ruins and reach the sun-baked deserts that surround The Meadows, you might stumble across a little slice of hell on earth. Once you feel the sun peeling off the skin on the back of your neck and you realize you haven’t seen water in days, you know you’re in Death Nation. Good opening, establishes the setting well. Death Nation sounds like something out of Road Warrior though.

In the daytime, the sun hits the sand hard enough to kill a man in a matter of days; after nightfall, its cold enough turn water to ice, if you’re lucky enough to find any water. A few old buildings scattered here and there provide the only shade for miles, making them ideal homes for pit vipers. Then there are the Savages.

Obviously, not many choose to spend time in Death Nation, so when someone enters it, they have a good reason.

Lysander had a very good reason. Once again, good opening.

He squinted as he raised his left hand and lowered the brim of his hat, shielding his eyes from the pounding sun. Before him, the massive panorama of narrow dunes stretched out to the low mountains in the distance. His hand drifted to the handle of the silver revolver at his thigh and his lower three fingers curled around the handle, his index finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. He held the gun for a moment and then released it, starting forward across the sand. This last sentence seems kinda awkward, but I'm not sure why.

The wide soles of his boots left deep prints in the sand as he made his way slowly through the high dunes. The wind abruptly kicked up and a whirling spray of sand whipped into his face. Lysander dropped his gaze, letting the brim of his hat shield his face as he untied the red bandanna around his neck and tied it around his face, shielding his mouth and nose from the coarse sand. He squinted against the wind and pushed forward across the desert.

Across the sands, Autolycus perched on a high dune, his eyes slowly following the distant speck of a man crossing the desert. His long, thin fingers drummed lightly on the stock of his rifle. Yellowed teeth smiled through dry lips as he watched Lysander pass. “Thou art naught but a fly beneath my heel,” he said quietly. I don't think they talked like that in the Old West.

Lysander paused, turning his back to the flying what? sand, maybe? as he surveyed the desert behind him. The sand seemed to stretch forever, each dune identical to the last. Even his own footprints had been blown away by the vicious wind. He let out a long breath into the bandanna and then turned and continued toward the setting sun in the distance.

A small pebble thrown by the wind struck just below his right eye and was gone in an instant. Lysander cried out in surprise, slapping his right hand to his eye. He stumbled, gritting his teeth against the searing pain. Grunting in frustration, he drew his sunglasses from his right pocket and slid them on. He shook his head and trudged onward. I don't think they had sunglasses in the old west either.

He heard the crunch of feet on sand behind him and whirled, his hand moving to his gun. There was nothing in sight. Lysander squinted across the desert for a long moment before he turned and continued west.

By twilight he was becoming concerned. He had seen no signs of life so far, and worse still the brutal wind showed no signs of letting up. Sand pounded unceasingly against the lenses of his shades, and his hands had been rubbed nearly raw. Why isn't he wearing gloves? Grunting in frustration, Lysander turned his back to the wind long enough to pull down the bandanna from his face. He unhooked the canteen from his gun belt and took a long drink.

Pulling the bandanna back up over his face, Lysander rose to his feet and turned. He inhaled sharply as he found himself face to face with a tall, muscle-bound stranger with dark tanned skin. The stranger held an iron-headed tomahawk, and his face was painted with red ochre clay.

Savages. Intense.

Lysander instinctively reached for his gun, but as his fingers curled around the handle the Savage barked out something in a language Lysander did not understand. Three more Savages, armed with bows and arrows, seemed to emerge from the whirling sands around him. Lysander quickly released his gun, raising his open hands.

“I beg of you,” he said quickly, “be not afraid nor act on a spleen. I come not fight but to speak.” What does "act on a spleen" mean? And why are they talking like that?

The three Savages with bows advanced slowly toward him. The one with the tomahawk raised a hand and they stopped in their tracks, their sights still trained on Lysander. The one with the tomahawk, apparently the leader, spoke again and they lowered their bows. The leader observed Lysander curiously for a moment and then spoke to him once again. Lysander shook his head helplessly, uncomprehending. The leader stared at him for a moment and then tapped his own chest. “Matwau,” he said.

Lysander nodded slowly and indicated himself. “Lysander,” he said.

“Lysander,” Matwau repeated to himself. He said something in his own language, less tensely this time.

Lysander slowly reached toward his breast pocket. The three archers quickly targeted him again, but Matwau yelled something to them and they lowered their weapons. Lysander slipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out a small color Polaroid. He extended it toward Matwau slowly. Matwau took the picture and looked at it for a moment. Then he jerked his head to the north and started off across the sands. Lysander hesitated for a moment and then followed him. Okay, they definitely didn't have Polaroids in the Old West. When is this?

Some distance away, Autolycus watched Lysander and the Savages down the barrel of his rifle. The distant shapes moved as one toward the west. Autolycus’ smile faded slightly. I thought they were going north?

Matwau and his men trudged tirelessly through the sand, leading Lysander onward through Death Nation. The Savages’ encampment was a small circle of tall, pointed tents. There were five or six of them in a wide ring with a circle of stones in the center. Several young men with the same red ochre face paint as Matwau were building a fire inside the circle of stones. A high dune protected the camp from the stinging wind. Lysander slowly removed his glasses as he surveyed the settlement. Matwau yelled something in his native language as they approached the fire. There was a pause, and then he yelled something that sounded like, you can probably lose this comma “Kimama!”

A beat passed and then a middle-aged, tan-skinned woman pushed open the flap of the tent closest to Lysander with a thick wooden walking stick. She stepped out, leaning on the walking stick as she limped toward Matwau. Her left leg was weak and shriveled. Matwau and the woman spoke in hushed tones for a moment. Matwau showed her the Polaroid and then the woman turned to Lysander.

“Welcome,” said the woman, “to Timbisha. I am Kimama. Tell me thy business in our lands.”

“I seek a man called Autolycus,” Lysander told her, pulling the bandanna down from his face. She indicated the picture in Matwau’s hand, and he nodded. “That is the rogue’s face.”

“Wherefore dost thou seek this man?” she asked slowly.

“He is possessed of something that is mine by right,” Lysander replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Where does the coward hide?”

Kimama whispered quickly to Matwau. Matwau seemed to think for a moment and then answered her quietly. Kimama looked back at Lysander. “Our people have also been moved to battle by thine enemy’s intrusion into our homeland,” she said. “Matwau's son was slain in the fray. If he is your enemy as well, then we are allies in our desire for vengeance.”

“Then I pray that you will help me to find him before he flees once more,” said Lysander.

Kimama relayed his words to Matwau, who looked interestedly at Lysander for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly and wordlessly started out across the sand. Lysander glanced at Kimama, who nodded encouragingly, and he followed after Matwau.

The sun had nearly set over Death Nation, and the brutal heat had turned to bitter cold. It took all of Lysander’s strength to stop his teeth from chattering. Matwau, clothed in little more than an animal skin loincloth, seemed remarkably unaffected. Lysander’s left hand wrapped around his belt to stop from shaking, while his right gripped the rubber-coated handle of his revolver tightly. Why is he trying so hard to stop his teeth from chattering?

Across the dunes, Autolycus glanced nervously over his shoulder as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and ducked under the wooden supports into the entrance of the mine shaft. His backpack sat a short ways down the tunnel, near the remains of the fire he had built the night before. He opened his pack and took out a few eight-inch pieces of Fatwood. Sitting down on the sand, he began carefully rebuilding his fire.

Matwau held out his arm, stopping Lysander in his tracks. He whispered something in his own language and pointed at the speck of light in the distance. Lysander glanced at him and nodded. He slowly drew his pistol as he and Matwau walked toward the distant fire.

In the mines, Autolycus carefully unlimbered his rifle, the rough nylon strap scraping against his neck. He crouched down in the sand, aiming his rifle out of the tunnel as he sighted along the barrel. He could see two figures approaching, silhouetted against the last sliver of the setting sun. He knew the Savage would not be armed for a gunfight, and resolved to kill Lysander first. His sights drifted lazily between them as he struggled to make out their features, but he couldn’t make out find another phrase besides "make out," you use it twice in the same sentence here which was which. Growling in frustration, he turned the rifle toward the figure on the right. The gun bucked in his hand as he squeezed the trigger.

Lysander let out a cry of surprise as a rifle shot rang across the desert and Matwau jerked backward, blood spurting from his throat. He swung his gun up in his hand and fired three shots in the direction of the fire, diving forward into the sand. I think you meant to put a new paragraph here

Autolycus cursed under his breath and cocked the rifle, aiming across the desert to find that he had lost track of Lysander in the whirling sandstorm. He let out a roar of rage and fired again.

Lysander winced as a bullet kicked up the sand a few feet to his left. He knew the only reason he was still alive was the flying sand that hid him from sight. He tugged his bandanna up over the lower half of his face and pulled the sunglasses from his pocket, raising his gun as he pulled them on. He rested his arm on the sand and sighted carefully down the barrel. He could see Autolycus crouched in the cave, scanning the desert slowly. His eyes narrowing behind the shades, Lysander lined up the sight on Autolycus’s chest and squeezed the trigger.

Autolycus jerked backward, the rifle slipping from his hand as he cried out in pain. Gritting his teeth in agony, he clapped his left hand over the wound in his stomach. He cursed quietly as he felt the blood wetting his palm. Wow, that's a really good shot.

Lysander scrambled to his feet and broke into a run, sprinting toward the mine entrance. Opening the cylinder of his gun, he emptied the spent shells onto the sand as he pulled a moon clip from his vest and reloaded the pistol. I'm not sure what a moon clip is, but maybe that's just me.

Autolycus rolled over onto his stomach and crawled desperately toward his rifle. Lysander fired and Autolycus cried out in pain as the bullet punched through his knee. Lysander slowly approached Autolycus, keeping the pistol trained on his back, and slid his foot under Autolycus’s stomach, rolling his over onto his back. Autolycus glowered at Lysander, still clutching his side. “So,” he growled, “thou shalt have thy vengeance after all. Finish it, then.”

“Where is she?” demanded Lysander furiously. “Where hast thou taken my daughter?” Ooh, plot twist. Sorta.

For a moment Autolycus stared at him in confusion. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “Thou art a fool, Lysander,” he said. “I had believed you sought me for vengeance. But thou truly didst I really don't think that's a word believe that you would find her with me.”

“At thine own peril dost thou mock so desperate a man as I,” growled Lysander. “What hast thou done with her?”

Autolycus grinned coldly. “I fucked her,” he said. “Then I sold her to the slavers in The Meadows. You will never see her again.” Damn, harsh.

Lysander stared at him, unable to move. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…” Autolycus laughed maliciously. “No!” roared Lysander, pumping the trigger of his pistol. The muzzle of his gun flashed again and again. Autolycus died laughing.

Lysander stared at the corpse, disbelieving. “It is a lie,” he told himself quietly. “It is a lie.” He slowly holstered his gun, not bothering to reload it. “It is a lie.”

He turned away from Autolycus’s corpse and walked slowly out of the mine. The sun had vanished beneath the horizon, and only the light of the stars and the moon remained. The cold air washed over Lysander like a wave of freezing water. He barely felt it. He closed his eyes and walked straight ahead, stumbling slowly across his little slice of hell on earth. Nice ending.

The dialogue is very unique in this story; using the Elizabethan english is interesting, but I'm not sure if I like it or not. The description is pretty well done, although you could have discussed the characters a little bit more.

[Saint Fawkes]

Hello? Anthology? Is there no one out there who will take pity on this poor, abandoned story?

[Imelda]

I'm working on it. Slowly.

[Saint Fawkes]

Um... when?

[Imelda]

Crit done, Fawkesy.

[Saint Fawkes]

Thanks for your help, guys, I'll post the new version as soon as I'm odne updating.

I'm working on it. Slowly.

EDIT: Melda, the Savages are actually there more for geographic accuracy than anything else. That would probably make more sense if you knew where and when teh story took place, but then it wouldn't be any fun, would it?

Timbisha is a real place, by the way.

[Saint Fawkes]

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