Gunfight At the Greasy Griddle

By Ricky Fitzpatrick

Present day. Dry Pond, GA. November.

The off-road tires crunched on the shards of gray and silver gravel. A 1980-something F-150 rumbled into the parking lot and settled in place, like a rusty blue tank, looking for a resting spot where it could sigh and finally blow off a bit of its steam. Its dust seemed to be its constant companion, always stirring but never leaving, regardless of how many times the odometer might turn over and start a new 100K.

A bobble head Paul McCartney figurine perched on the dash...early Beatles attire, Rickenbacker bass and an exaggerated shock of mop top hair that shook and waggled every time Paul moved his head. The words of Love Me Do playing over the radio. 

Love, love me do. 
You know I love you.
I’ll always be true.
So please, love me do. 
Whoa, love me do.

The sickly glow of the headlights reflected back off the wall and plate glass window as the truck swung around and pulled to a stop, bringing a cloud with it.

The driver shifted up into park, reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed his hat. He settled it on his head, pressing his sandy hair down around his ears and the back of his neck. Then he turned the switch back, killed the radio, and the truck sputtered into a restful repose, but always ready for a good run, should the need arise.

Inside The Greasy Griddle, the truck headlights glared through the window, travelled across the walls, then disappeared. It was a little after seven PM and the Griddle was crowded. People eating Chicken Fried Steak and Apple Pie and gossiping. Silverware rattling and glasses clanging.

It was a busy night.

A normal night.

#

As conversation rose and fell in the grease-tinged air, the front door swung open, jingling the small bell hanging above it, and a large, rugged man walked in. He was rough, worn, wearing a cowboy hat, and leather western duster, looking like he just climbed down off a horse.

He walked in, dramatically, the dust billowing off of his coat and boots, like it was being released from captivity. He looked around and saw what appeared to be half the town of Dry Pond...which it very nearly was. It always was, to be honest. The Greasy Griddle was a small joint, but a hell of a business.

When the sight of the curious cowboy darkened the doorway, everyone stopped talking for a moment. The stares. The wonder. It was a heavy pause in an otherwise pleasant night.

The stranger was noticeably out of place. Odd. Novel. He appeared, at first glance, to be an old-school, no-bullshit kind of dude. They could clearly see he was wearing a twin handgun holster belt, like in an old episode of Gunsmoke or something. And he had an ammo bandolier, diagonal across his chest, filled with some kind of chrome-plated shells with blue bands.

And then there was that…I guess you could call it…a shotgun.

He cradled it in his left arm, like a cat that was sleeping. But it wasn't sleeping. It was some wild, crazy-ass thing, looking like a 12-gauge Browning crossed with a Star Wars Stormtrooper E-11 Blaster, ready to pounce and meow and absolutely ruin somebody's day. Figured, dark walnut and blue steel, married with a tungsten barrel guard and heat sink. The pulse of a BetaVolt’s blue glow emitting from underneath its waffled stock. It intimidated, and everyone assumed, for good reason.

He scanned the room, taking note of each face, every glance, every wondering twitch. But it was clean. He sighed to himself. As it usually was, he found the room to be a dead end. Again. Although, he knew it wouldn't always be.

He walked to a small empty two-chair table in the back of the room and dragged a seat out, it chattering on the floor. He laid the gun and bandolier down, more dust wafting up from them in a slow, smoke-like motion as they thudded on the table. He looked again, and there was a lingering pause, then, as if on cue…the room came back to life with everyone returning to their conversation, seemingly satisfied now with the strange, armed caricature of a man sitting among them.

Debra, one of the floor waitresses, walked over, pulling out her order pad. She spoke in a nasally drawl, smacking unconsciously on a piece of gum that had run out of flavor an hour ago.

"What'll you have, honey?"

The stranger took his time, looked out at the room, and in a dry rasp that sounded like 60-grit sandpaper on old wood, "Coffee", he said, almost in a whisper.

“Great,” she thought sardonically, blowing air out of her nose. “Mr. Personality.”

She asked him, with a snarky tone and a fake smile, "I guess that'll be black?"

He turned his face and looked up at her, and after a long, dramatic pause, he said, still in that ragged voice, "Three oat milk, hazelnut creamers, two Splendas, and a saucer."

Debra stopped chewing and just looked at him, a little stunned. She said, in almost a stutter, "A saucer?"

He looked at her again and repeated, matter of factly, "A saucer. For my coffee." Then he looked back at the crowd, retreating back underneath the brim of his hat.

Debra walked off with a shake of her head. Jerry Matheson sat a few seats over with his wife, Traci. They shared a plate of tater tots, and held hands. J.T. Beatty tapped his coffee cup on the counter, ready for a warm-up. The Hunts sat at a small table on the other end of the diner, Buddy cutting into a steak with a runny egg on the plate, while Dot nursed her tea as she read from her newest cozy mystery, “Batter Off Dead”.

It seemed like everyone in the room had almost breathed a collective sigh of relief for a moment, as if the anticipation of trouble had been sorely misplaced on the stranger.

Until...

The front door opened, dingling the bell again as it bounced on its spring. And in walked...

Wyatt Bartles…like the old wine cooler brand, but minus the Jaymes.

Wyatt was a very, you could say, “regular-looking guy”. Clean work clothes. Average boots. Faded jeans. A red, plaid Wrangler button-down with pearl snaps, untucked with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He wore a black trucker hat with "Hello Darlin'" embroidered in hot pink across the front.

He smiled as the door closed behind him, and he waved to Martin, back in the kitchen, who peered into the pass-through opening. He walked over to an empty stool at the counter, swung a leg up and over, and sat down, grandly, as if he’d just arrived from a year-long African safari.

Virginia, the counter waitress, brought an empty coffee mug and plopped it down with a flirty eyebrow waggle.

“Same as always?”

“Now,” he grinned and winked. “And later.”

Virginia couldn’t hide her smile, and Wyatt looked her up and down, and made sure she saw him do it. She held her coffee carafe in her free hand and poured him a cup, finishing it off with a high, lazy pour and a sexy flash of her eyes. Wyatt smiled as he grabbed a menu, looking forward to later that night when Virginia finished up and could take the ribbons from her hair, so to speak.

Meanwhile, after a long few minutes, Debra finally came strolling back out with the stranger's coffee...and his saucer. She sat it down and said, "Sorry, honey, but we ain't got no oat milk creamer. But this is hazelnut. And we did have Splenda."

She looked at him with a smirk on her lips, half expecting an argument. People who order oat milk seem to have a tendency to debate.

But he didn't.

As a matter of fact, he ignored her completely. And before she could comment, in one fluid, lightning-fast motion, he stood up, sending his chair screeching back across the floor, and picked up his shotgun, his dark eyes staring across the room.

She stumbled back out of the way as he pumped the slide and chambered a round, and the diner went silent again, all eyes on him and that big-ass gun. Then one by one, everyone began to notice, the stranger’s gaze was fixed on one thing and one thing only.

Wyatt.

#

Wyatt slowly swiveled his head around, coffee cup still at his lips, and saw the stranger staring and pointing the gun at him. He stopped, mid-slurp, and looked from side to side, then back at the cowboy. He tenderly sat the cup down and slowly raised his hands in surrender.

"Hey, now, hoss,” he said in a shaky voice. “You might want to watch where you're pointing that thing."

"Shut up." The stranger cut his words off and told him, "Get up...slowly. Turn around. And walk outside."

Virginia looked from behind the counter and spoke up, but quietly, "Wyatt, what the hell...?"

"Shut up, Virginia," he shot back at her, then turned ever so slowly on his stool. "Look, mister, I don't know who you think I am, but..."

"You damn sure ain't Wyatt or Jacob or whatever else you got these people callin' you," the stranger hissed at him. "I reckon it don't matter though."

"Well of course it matters," Wyatt said. "It matters a hell of a lot if you don't know who I am."

"I don't care what sort of name you use," the stranger said. "But I know exactly who you are." And he raised his gun a little higher.

By then, Wyatt had turned away from the counter, hands still raised. Somebody dropped a fork as he slowly started to stand.

"Easy, big guy,” he said cautiously. “Look, I ain't never seen you before in my life. I swear."

But the stranger replied, "And I ain't never seen you before either."

"Then what the hell you pointing that gun at me for!?"

"Cause I know what you are."

Wyatt narrowed his eyes and stared at the man, suspicious and…curious. He started to shuffle his feet. People in the Griddle were still staring, and trying to stay clear. Behind the counter, Virginia was getting testy, "Wyatt, what is he talking about? What does he mean 'what you are'?"

"Virginia," he yelled suddenly, but then spoke in an icy calm, while never breaking eye contact with the stranger, "If you speak again, I'm going to light the inside of your mouth on fire and burn you from the inside, out. And that's not a metaphor."

She had never heard Wyatt speak like that. But somehow, she knew, decidedly, that he meant exactly what he'd said. She swallowed what little spit she could work up in her mouth, and looked with terror at him, and then at the stranger pointing the fantastic shotgun at him. She didn't speak again.

“So.” Wyatt smiled a friendly smile, gathered his composure, and pulled his shirt straight and brushed it neatly.

"Gideon, isn't it?"

The stranger narrowed his eyes, seemingly unphased. "That's right."

"I wonder what's to become of us," Wyatt said now, suddenly in a proper, distinctly un-Southern accent, sounding very British. "Now that we no longer have to hide behind this...veneer."

"I'm not hiding," Gideon sneered. "But you should've done a better job at it."

Wyatt looked around the room. "I would grab a hostage or two from our trusted friends and neighbors here, but...," he shrugged, "I know they would be no more than an extra bullet for you."

"Whatever the game requires," Gideon replied.

"Ah yes, the game."

"Get outside, you piece of shit. I prefer not to do this indoors."

"And there's nothing I can say to...what do they say...deter you, Gideon?"

"No."

"Nothing?"

"No."

"Then you leave me no choice, my good man." Wyatt cocked his head slightly to one side and flared his nostrils. 

"I'll have to fight."

#

Gideon held his gun steady and focused his stare on Wyatt. He remained deathly calm.

“Have it your way, shit for brains. But in the end, it’ll all turn out the same.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Wyatt clicked. “Such language. Is that really necess..”

“Outside.” Gideon was losing patience.

But Wyatt held his cool. “Not yet, old boy. I mean to have a fight, and frankly,” he said, waving a hand around the room, “I think these good people deserve to see it for themselves.”

“See what?”

“What you are, my friend.”

Gideon took a breath. Wyatt continued.

“Shouldn’t they know the truth? About who their heroic Soter really is?”

“The only truth that matters is that this is over for you.”

“The only truth that matters is the truth you decide,” Wyatt mocked him, getting louder.

“You’re damn right,” Gideon roared, raising his gun again.

Around the diner, you could see the worry on the faces of the people. Plates still moved and glasses still clinked. There was a small murmuring. Wyatt saw the unrest and grinned.

“You see,” he said. “They don’t know who to believe.”

For the first time, Gideon glanced, only for a fraction of a second, at the people. And he hated to admit it, but Wyatt was right. They were afraid…not of what they knew, but of what they didn’t.

They need to know, he thought to himself. They need to see.

“We’ll do it outside,” he told Wyatt.

But Wyatt wasn’t giving up that easily. “Oh, but it’s such a chilly night. I think I should kill you right here.”

The words I should kill you caught Barbara Winkley by surprise, and she gasped, which caught everyone’s attention, including both men.

At the sound, Wyatt made a quick jolt that was not only fast, but inhumanly fast. He stuttered to one side and it looked like he was about to dart, maybe across the room. Maybe out the door. But just as blindingly quick, Gideon pulled his gun closer to his shoulder, the auto-sight turning on its red dot and illuminating a tiny destination on Wyatt’s forehead.

He laughed a sickly laugh, raising his hands again and standing straight. “My, my, but you are a quick one.” Then he frowned. “I wonder if you’re quick enough, fair Gideon.”

“You’re about to find out,” he said, kicking himself for his lapse in focus. That was a close one, Gideon thought. He knew he wouldn’t get a chance to make another mistake like that.

Wyatt rubbed his hands together and said, “Now, let’s see what the kill-em-all cowboy has in mind.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Gideon said, pointing across the room. “If you’re bound and determined, then you can stand over there.”

Wyatt moved slowly to the other side of the room, being careful not to get too close to the tables of people. As he walked by the Mathesons, he reached down and picked up a tater tot and popped it in his mouth. 

“Mmm. food of the gods,” he said, chewing the tater tot as he spoke. Still grinning widely.

When he reached the far side of the dining area, Wyatt stood and squared himself with Gideon, looked down at himself, then back up.

“There. How’s that?”

“Fine.”

“I assume the plan is, for you and I to have a duel?”

“That’s a much as I’m willing to do,” Gideon said, sharply.

“Yes,” Wyatt agreed, “a real-life shootout. Pistols, at twenty paces! Or…thereabouts.”

He held his hands out, palms up. 

“Would you be so kind as to toss me one of those six-shooters on your hip?”

Gideon did something he never does.

Laugh.

“You must be dumber than you look,” he chortled. 

Wyatt looked hurt. “Then how do you propose I defend myself?”

“I don’t really care, but you should’ve thought of that before.”

“I’d be down to fisticuffs without some sort of weapon, Gideon.”

“Then you better hope you can punch a bullet,” Gideon tensed.

Wyatt looked back at him, suddenly very serious.

“Oh. What a splendid idea,” he quipped. “I may do that.”

Gideon knew already that Wyatt was perfectly capable of literally punching a bullet, or just about anything else that came in his direction. Mostly, that is.

“Then on the other hand…” Then Wyatt reached around behind his belt in a blur, and in a flash of motion, “I could always use this.” And with that, in an instant, he was pointing a handgun of his own back across the room.

Gideon’s heart thudded as he gripped his gun tighter. He couldn’t aim it any more precisely or hold it more steady. But now his fingers were practically leaving permanent impressions in the stock.

Wyatt’s handgun was another “off-site modified” model. For all intents and purposes, it had the look of a Glock 19. Black and mean and deadly. But this one also sported a Tungsten caseless charge converter that swapped out traditional cartridges for micro-fusion energy cells. In other words, it not only would blow your head off, but it would set off a bio-chemical chain reaction that would rip apart every cell in your body.

Fun’s over.

Wyatt stood in a wide stance, holding the gun in one hand and the other up in the air like he was about to ride a bull. He glared at Gideon.

“You didn’t think I’d come to play and not have my toys, now did you?”

Gideon tried to process the moment. He felt like he was knee deep in a shit ditch and there was no way out. He should’ve just killed Wyatt the very first second he recognized him sitting at the counter, and damn these bystanders. But he was trying to exercise some empathy these days, and keep everyone from suffering the overspray from his blaster. Plus the sonic envelope alone was enough to knock everyone in the room, out cold, if not worse.

See, when a BetaVolt goes off, it emits a nasty mist, even if it doesn’t connect. (Although, not connecting isn’t something Gideon had a problem with.) It was rare that he ever missed, and when he did connect, the fallout of the isotopic charge was enough to burn through anyone and anything within three feet of his target. 

In this case, that would’ve been Wyatt. And Gideon had thought it would be best to take care of things outside. He didn’t care if anyone saw the hit…he just didn’t want to have any more collateral damage than he could explain away when he debriefed.

In short, he had let his soft side cloud his judgement. And this POS Crypto had picked up on it.

Now, here they were, with a cloud of pedestrians, in an enclosed area, in a stand-off that cannot possibly have a warm, fuzzy ending. This was not going to end well.

He spoke to Wyatt in a slightly less threatening tone.

“I thought we were having a shootout.”

Wyatt perked up. Surprised.

“Why yes. Yes we were.”

“Then let’s have it.”

“Yes. Let’s do, my boy. Forgive me.”

Wyatt stood up again. He lifted the front of his shirt, then touched a finger to a gawdy, knock-off rodeo belt buckle. As he did, a technical whirring sounded and a mechanical click came from his side. Virginia watched, along with the rest of The Greasy Griddle, as a metallic holder came out, then turned ninety degrees, before it settled into place on his hip.

He twirled his gun around his index finger with a flourish, then dropped it into the holster. He smiled, proud of himself.

“You’re not the only cowboy in town, it would appear.”

Gideon slowly lifted his gun toward the ceiling, careful to watch Wyatt for the slightest of indications that he might be using this false sense of calm. In his mind, he had thought, “I’ll go along with this. But the first sign of bullshit and we’re lighting this whole place up.”

With his gun pointing straight up now, he stood taller, moving his feet just about shoulder width apart. Wyatt wasn’t the only one in the room who took notice of just how big of a man, Gideon was. At six-four and an easy 275, he was hard to miss. 

He stood there for a moment, thinking carefully. Then as one hand lowered his shotgun onto the table, the other pulled the open edge of his duster back and tucked it behind one of his holstered handguns. He kept one hand just above its handle, then with the other, now free, he repeated the process on the other side and held that hand now, above the other gun.

Gideon stood in a traditional gun slinger’s pose, hands at the ready, arms slightly bent, eyes intently focused on the previous spot on Wyatt’s forehead where the AutoSight had once pointed. You shoot where you look, he thought.

Wyatt spoke with the bravado of a movie star. “Gideon, but aren’t you the picture of concentration. I dare say, at the very least, you look the part, if anyone ever did.”

Around the diner, the residents of Dry Pond were silent and wholly absorbed with what was unfolding in front of them. You would think they would be mortified with fear…and, if they were to be honest about it, they were. But a person who’s afraid can never compare to someone that’s genuinely curious.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it had the occupants of The Greasy Griddle on the edge of their seats.

#

The inside of The Greasy Griddle had seen a lot, over its twenty-six years of operation. Martin Bridges’ mother, Katherine, had started it as a simple biscuit place back when she still made every sandwich from scratch and fried every piece of country ham in one of her mother’s cast iron pans. She built that concept into a local empire that had fed thousands of hungry mouths and made her a legend in Jackson County.

Years later, when Katherine died from COVID complications, Martin had taken the reins of the business and expanded the Griddle into more of a Meat-n-Three establishment, still serving his mother’s handmade biscuits, but also a daily compliment of traditionally prepared Southern classics. Things like turkey and dressing (not stuffing, God help us), squash casserole, potato salad and a buttermilk cornbread that, thanks to a viral TikTok, had made them cool, far beyond the borders of Dry Pond, GA.

But even without the influence of social media, locals still showed up at The Greasy Griddle, every morning, standing in line and waiting faithfully to feed their empty souls and bellies. They knew the Bridges, they loved their food, but more importantly, The Griddle felt like home.

Dry Pond was a small town, but not exempt from its share of drama. And every so often, something new and exciting would add to the local lore that kept folks talking and hem-hawing and rehashing their stories over coffee and peach cobbler. Someone got arrested, got divorced, or got killed, and occasionally, they got it while at the Griddle.

Just last Spring, Bobby Wheaton, who had been on the lamb for a week after a case of Spousal Abuse (to put it mildly), decided that he just couldn’t go one more day without one of Martin’s sausage biscuits. So he walked right in, with Sheriff Mangum sitting right there at the counter. Bobby sat down beside her, said good morning, and ordered his breakfast, like he had never beat the hell out of Martha and then disappeared into the woods around the watershed lake. The Sheriff just returned the greeting and told Virginia she better make Bobby’s order to go, and they walked out almost arm in arm, like Laverne and Shirley.

Of course, not every story ends on a high note. Tabby Jenkins had shot a man there, back in ’98. Evan Rucker stumbled in, and was high as hell on some sort of dope he brought back from Atlanta. Words got heated, and Tabby, who always kept his Concealed Carry up to date, had no choice but to put him down. Evan’s wife had said it was the best thing for all of them, and she remarried the next year.

But regardless, nothing had ever happened at The Greasy Griddle that could compare to what was unfolding there, tonight. Folks sort of knew it, that they were seeing history in the making. But they didn’t really have a sense that this would be something they’d talk about for years to come…no embellishment needed.

Still, J.T., who had been getting more antsy by the minute there at the counter, had stood about all of this shit he could handle. He wasn’t interested in a new story. He wasn’t interested in sipping more cold coffee. And he damn sure wasn’t interested in watching these two boys spill off their testosterone and tear the Griddle up for decent folks.

So up, he got. And headed for the door.

Wyatt, stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Hang there on, Mr. Beatty.”

“Get out of my damn way, Wyatt,” he pointed, “This ain’t no place I want to be.”

“I agree with you,” Wyatt smiled. “None of us want to be here like this, but,” and he gestured toward Gideon, “our Western friend seems determined.”

“I said move, you little pecker.” J.T. started forward, but Wyatt reached out and grabbed him on the shoulder. It was not a normal touch. And J.T. fell to one knee with a cry of pain.

“Get back to your stool old man,” Wyatt glared into his face, now inches away. 

J.T. looked up at those black eyes, then over at Wyatt’s hand on his shoulder. It burned. Like a branding iron. His wiry fingers felt like they were singeing through his shirt and skin. He half expected to see smoke rising as his flesh sizzled, but it only burned with an invisible, but very present, heat.

Wyatt released him. Then, like he flipped a switch, smiled and offered a hand to help the gentleman up.

J.T. looked at the man he thought he knew as Wyatt Bartles, stunned. Afraid. Then he looked at the hand that had just been scorching his shoulder, and back at Wyatt’s maniacal grin. Then he got up on his own, rubbed his shoulder, and clumsily shuffled back to his stool at the counter, still staring in unbelief. Still wondering what the hell was happening.

Wyatt looked back at Gideon with a clever smile. “Ah Gideon,” he crowed. “Forgive me. I was…distracted.” And he bowed, melodramatically and low, arms out from his sides.

Gideon had not moved, but still remained in his half-cocked, ready-to-fire position.

An old metal Coca-Cola clock hung on the wall above the kitchen. It’s second hand was making a slow, regular journey around the dial.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Both Wyatt and Gideon seemed to instinctively become aware of it at he same instant. And the sound became a jack hammer in the silence of the room.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Wyatt cut his eyes towards it, then back at Gideon. Then widened his smile.

“Shall we?”

Gideon remained still and silent, except for his fingers that now twitched in anticipation.

“Come now, old boy. Surely you aren’t going to make me count.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Gideon whispered.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wyatt spoke, still keeping his gaze on Gideon. “I apologize for the interruption of your evening. I realize some of you have meals growing cold, but I understand Martin has a splendid peach cobbler in the kitchen.”

He called back to the pass through. “Don’t you, Martin?”

Martin didn’t answer. 

Wyatt continued his speech to the crowd.

“But I assure you, what you’re about to witness will be considerably more memorable than anything on tonight’s menu.”

“Shut your mouth,” Gideon growled.

“Very well,” Wyatt said quietly. Then he lowered his chin.

His right hand hovered over the butt of his gun that rested in the strange holster on his belt. Gideon’s hands remained motionless above his revolvers. There was twenty feet between them. Scuffed linoleum. Grease-stained air. And the ticking of the clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

And then…Gideon’s jaw tightened.

“Draw.”

#

Wyatt’s eye twitched and Gideon responded in a blur of leather and blued steel as his right-hand revolver cleared its holster. The muzzle flashed a brilliant white as Wyatt reappeared in an instant.

He stood beside the counter, then faster than human sight could register it, he was three feet to the left, his body crossing the distance faster than the plasma-enhanced bullet could match.

Gideon’s shot struck the wall behind him and the plaster exploded in a blast of flecks of white and dust. A framed photo of the ’87 Jefferson Dragons football team disintegrated into splinters and shards of glass. The bullet passed through the wall and continued into the parking lot, where it punched a whole the size of a fist through the passenger door of Buddy Hunt’s truck.

Wyatt drew, and his handgun made a peculiar sound. It wasn’t a bang or a crack, but a high-pitched electrical whine, followed by the sharp snap of a power line breaking during a thunderstorm. A blue-white bolt flew across the dining room, and Gideon threw himself sideways.

The charge passed within an inch of his head and struck a mounted largemouth bass, hanging on the wall above the cash register. For one extraordinary second, the fish glowed. Every scale. Every fin. And then the entire thing collapsed into a cloud of grayish powder.

The wall behind it followed. Wood, plaster, insulation, electrical wiring…all simply ceased to be, within a perfect circular opening nearly three feet across. Beyond that, the night was visible, along with the dark outline of a large pecan tree that stood on the edge of the parking lot. The tree caught fire.

Gideon fired again. Twice.

The first shot caught Wyatt high in the shoulder. The second struck him in the chest. Both impacts threw him back against the counter.

A normal man would’ve been dead before he hit the floor. Wyatt merely looked down as two dark holes had appeared in his plaid shirt. Something black and oozing began seeping through the fabric. He touched one of the wounds with a finger, then looked at Gideon.

“Damn. And that was my favorite shirt.”

Then his left shoulder twitched and something moved beneath the skin. Virginia saw it and screamed.

Wyatt Bartles was no longer making much effort to resemble the man that had been Wyatt Bartles. His face had begun to change. His jaw widening. His nose flattening. And the corners of his mouth stretched beyond the normal boundaries of human skin, exposing several rows of translucent teeth.

He laughed, a wet, rattling laugh that came from deep inside his chest. Like someone shaking a bucket of rusty nails.

“Oh, Gideon,” he said, now in a voice that was changing too. Differing tones overlapping, but a fraction of a second apart.

“You really should have let me finish my supper.”

Then, he lunged.

As he did, Gideon fired both revolvers and the room lit up with a flash. But Wyatt struck him like a freight train, and they gathered up in a crumpled pile, crashing through a table and plates and silverware and half-eaten chicken. Gideon hit the floor on his back and Wyatt landed on top of him, practically nose to nose.

Up close, the thing wearing Wyatt’s face smelled terrible. Rotten. Like copper and burning hair. Like the smell of a hospital where everyone had died.

Wyatt opened his mouth and a thin, black appendage emerged from beneath his tongue It moved toward Gideon’s face. But before he could do more, Gideon heaved up with a shout and drove his forehead into the place where Wyatt’s nose would’ve been.

Something like cartilage cracked and Wyatt shrieked. Gideon rolled, throwing him sideways into an overturned chair. Then he kicked. Hard.

The tip of his Tony Lama boot connected with the creature’s chest, and it flew backward, striking the counter and plowing right through it. Wood shattering. Coffee mugs exploding. A glass pie display shattered into a thousand fragments.

Virginia, who had been crouched behind the counter, felt something hot and sticky splash across her face. She wiped at it, then looked at her fingers, seeing something black and thick. 

And moving.

The substance curled around her finger and Virginia screamed and scraped her hand against her apron. The black goo dropped to the floor where it writhed in spasms for several seconds before dissolving into a dark stain.

Wyatt’s gruesome laugh came through the clatter. By now, everyone in the room was screaming or crying. Plates fell. Glasses shattered on the floor. Chaos reigned in the air. But above it all…Wyatt laughed his sickening laugh.

Gideon got to his feet. His shoulder hurt. Something in his ribcage had cracked. His right revolver was empty now, and he only had two rounds in his left.

Across the room, Wyatt pulled himself from the wreckage. His shirt hung in tattered ribbons now and beneath it, the skin on his chest had split open in several places, revealing dark, segmented structures within him that shifted and contracted as he moved.

His right arm was longer now, and his fingers, or whatever they were, had acquired additional joints. And the skin around his throat was pulsing erratically. 

He looked down at himself and said with shame, “Oh dear.”

Gideon spat blood on the floor. And when he looked back up, within that instant, Wyatt had raised his gun again and discharged it.

Gideon dove behind an overturned table, as if that could provide any protection. But a blue-white streak passed just over his head and struck the ceiling. The walls of The Greasy Griddle shook and a huge crack shot across the plaster. Several of the fluorescent fixtures exploded in a brilliant shower of sparks and glass.

A section of ceiling nearly eight feet wide collapsed onto the dining room floor. People screamed and crawled beneath the tables. A few ran toward the kitchen.

Wyatt turned as he saw them, and as he did, Gideon saw his opening.

He reached beneath his duster and grabbed a small metal stud concealed inside his belt. A faint blue light flickered and he roared.

“Everybody down!”

He came up, revolver in hand and fired off the last two rounds at Gideon who was already raising his own weapon again. Gideon fired and his shots struck Wyatt’s right arm, the first shattering his wrist and the next tearing through the strange weapon’s housing.

A burst of white sparks exploded and Wyatt cried out, his gun falling from his grip.

Before it struck the floor, Gideon noticed that he had hit the charge converter and it would never survive the fall. He knew what was coming.

He ducked and covered, the gun hit, and it detonated. Not with a conventional explosion, but with a brilliant flash, followed by a sudden, unnatural silence. A perfect sphere of pale, blue light expanded from it, then swallowed the stool beside it, then the floor and the lower half of the counter.

Everything inside the sphere broke apart into fine particles, which hung for a moment before collapsing into a drifting cloud. Then, the sphere vanished and the floor gave away.

Gideon fell with it, landing hard, the air driving from his lungs, and for a second, he couldn’t move. His ears rang. Dust filled his mouth. And something warm ran down his face. 

He opened his eyes to find the dining room in ruin. Tables everywhere. Windows shattered. Smoke curling from exposed wires. People, covered in pieces of The Griddle, looked up, amazed to even be alive.

Gideon rolled to one side and saw his shotgun, lying on the floor near the wall. He thought it was unusual that he hadn’t even fired it once, tonight.

Then…something moved.

Across the room, Beneath the wreckage. Something long and black. A hand that gripped the broken edge of the floor. Then another. 

As the rubble moved and fell away…

Wyatt pulled himself up.

What remained of his human face hung loosely now from the front of his skull. One eye had slipped from its socket and beneath the damaged flesh, a smooth black structure glistened. Something moved inside his throat. He was no longer smiling.

“Gideon.” The voice came out as a harsh, mechanical rasp.

“You miserable creature.”

Gideon struggled to his fight, and Wyatt straightened, his body continuing to change. His shoulders broadened and the skin along his spine split, revealing a series of dark, overlapping plates. His legs bent backward at the knees and his boots tore apart.

From underneath emerged feet that were narrow and black and tipped with hooked claws. He stood nearly eight feet tall. The thing that had been Wyatt Bartles looked toward the open doorway, then at the people, cowering.

“Look at them,” he scowled. “And you would die for them?”

“If I have to.”

Wyatt tilted his head.

And at that instant, Gideon bolted, faster than Wyatt had expected, in bounds toward his shotgun, still lying near the small table. But Wyatt came after him, crossing the room in three enormous strides, his claws tearing through the linoleum.

Gideon reached the table and his fingers closed around the shotgun. But Wyatt struck.

A black tentacle whipped across the room and caught Gideon beneath the ribs. He felt something tear and his feet left the floor. Wyatt slammed him against the wall and the shotgun flew from his hands. It struck what was left of the floor and Gideon slid down the wall.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Wyatt approached him slowly. The creature’s ruined human face hung from its skull like a discarded mask. He spoke.

“Do you know what I find most amusing about you, Soter?”

Gideon coughed and spit more blood.

“You’ve spend so many years protecting them that you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re one of them.” Then he stopped. “But you’re not.”

Gideon looked up and Wyatt bent toward him, closer, and continued.

“You’re no more human than I am.”

Outside, the sound of a wailing siren approached, off in the distance. Far away, but growing closer.

Wyatt’s remaining eye narrowed.

“They’ll never love you, Gideon.”

Gideon said nothing.

“They’ll never know you.”

He leaned closer.

“And when you die, not a single one of them will remember your name.”

Gideon looked at the thing standing above him. Then he smiled. Just a small one.

“I reckon that’s the idea.”

And Wyatt frowned.

Then he saw the flash of movement. But it was too late. Gideon’s hand grabbed a broken piece of the saucer lying on the floor, and in one swift burst, he swung around and drove its edge into the soft tissue beneath Wyatt’s one eye. 

Wyatt screamed in pain and Gideon rolled.

Wyatt staggered back, clawing at his face.

Gideon’s hand reached out and found his gun again. He grabbed it and brought it to bear, its BetaVolt’s blue indicator glowing beneath the stock.

Wyatt froze.

For the first time that evening, something resembling a genuine fear crossed his distorted face.

“Gideon.”

He spoke slowly and rose. His boots crunched on the broken glass.

“Let’s discuss this.”

In response, Gideon worked the pump.

Cha-chunk

And chambered a fresh round in the chamber.

Wyatt took a step backward.

“Listen to me, Gideon.”

Gideon raised the big gun and leveled it. Wyatt’s harsh rasp disappeared and his voice changed again. And for a second, it sounded just like Wyatt Bartles again. Warm. Southern.

“Come on, hoss.”

Gideon’s finger tightened against the trigger.

“Don’t do somethin’ you’re gonna regret, now.”

Gideon looked at him as the creature opened its mouth to speak again. 

Then, he did what he should’ve done the minute Wyatt walked in the door of The Greasy Griddle.

He fired.

The sound was unlike anything the people of Dry Pond had ever heard. Some said it sounded like thunder. Others said it sounded like a jet engine exploding. The BetaVolt discharged a brilliant column of blue-white energy in a single enormous clap, followed by a low hum that you could feel in your teeth. 

The blast struck Wyatt squarely in the chest and for one impossible instant, he became transparent and all his internal structures flashed into view. A latticework of black organs, pulsing chambers, and a central mass that glowed a sickly green.

Then the isotopic charge started to spread.

Wyatt’s body began coming apart. Unravelling. The outer layers peeling away in shimmering ribbons. Beneath them, the dark skeletal structure fractured, and when he opened his mouth a sound emerged. It vibrated through the remains of the floor and the walls and the bones of everyone in what was left of the building.

Wyatt screamed in agony as he began collapsing in on himself. His body folding over, shrinking down, down, down as the blue-white energy consumed it. His eight feet became six. Then six became three. Then three, one. And then…

Nothing.

Only a small black stain remained on the linoleum, the air smelling like ozone and gunpowder.

Gideon lowered the gun. The room silent.

He looked around as people’s heads came up from the dust and debris…apparently, the only thing that had somehow helped to shield them from the effects of the blast.

But thank god, at last…

Wyatt Bartles was finally gone.

#

By the time the Sheriff arrived, Gideon was gone. Disappeared into the darkness. Duster torn. Shirt soaked with blood. His left arm hanging stiff at his side. He leaned against his truck and waited for the pain to settle.

As per usual, folks would talk. They always do.

But there was no need for clean up or damage control. It wasn’t the stories that anyone had to worry about. Hell, most people would never believe half of it anyway.

Time would take care of things in its own way.

And Gideon would move on to his next target. The next town.

He reached inside the truck and pressed a small button on the glovebox. The door popped open and a small, black device slid smoothly out. He took it and pressed a button on its face and it flashed to life with a series of red lights.

It beeped and Gideon closed his eyes. 

“Target eliminated.”

Then a pause and a voice came back from it.

“Collateral?”

“Minimal,” Gideon said, then reconsidered. “Structural. Civilian exposure.”

“Good work.”

“Yeah,” he said, staring at the device.

He turned it off and returned it to the glovebox. He closed the door, with a soft click.

For a moment, he stood there in the cold air, listening to the distant sounds of  sirens and frightened voices in the distance. Then he opened the driver’s door and with a groan, climbed inside.

He turned the key and the engine sputtered to life. Paul resumed his nodding, and as he drove off into the night, the radio played one of Gideon’s favorite songs.

When you were young and your heart was an open book
You used to say, "Live and let live"
(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did)
But if this ever-changing world in which we're livin'
Makes you give in and cry

Live and let die.

# # #