Crossroads

[WP] They aimed at each other in silence. Neither of them wanted to pull the trigger, but they both knew that one of them had to.

*****

The blood-tinted sky above was a fitting companion to the rust-wastes below. Howling winds blew with a melancholic sound through the ruined cityscape, where the sea from the east and the forest from the west were in middle of the centuries-long process of removing any sign that man had been there. But for now, in autumn, the red-rust and leaves of fall created a crimson scene for the two gunslingers. Deer absentmindedly observed the two thin figures that were staring at each other. The two gunslingers, humans, were aiming at each other. Completely and utterly silent, they stood, their ragged cloaks blowing in the wind, their eyes locked together in an unbreakable stare. Centuries ago, this event would have been a spectacle witnessed by hundreds, if not thousands of human. Today, the only witness who would walk away, would be the one to shoot last. Their guns might have started out as different types back in the day, when they were first made, but now after years of repairs, jury-rigging, replacements, and lack of perfect parts; they were both the same kind of gun. When the world dies, so too does its ability to create advanced weaponry.

They had no real desire to be killers. No real desire to end their counterpart. A year ago they had been the best of friends. Travellers, who moved together through the ruined lands, through tiny settlement after tiny settlement, working together to catch bounties, deliver messages, protect trade caravans, and generally being a part of the effort to keep the remnants of society from disintegrating. Two decades ago, they had been taught by the rangers out west, who had taken both of them in as orphans. They had learned to live of off the land, to act with justice first, and to react with emotions second. To never betray each other, or the Rangers, and to keep the old ways alive. A decade ago, their training was complete. They were fully trained rangers. Warriors of the wastes, heirs to a tradition harkening back to the legendary World Wars, where gods and men struggled against demons and corrupted men.

They had been a part of the wars to contain the snakehandling cults, and the campaigns against the flesh-salvation. They'd fought cattle-rustlers, oil-lords, and had taken down a bear together using only their knives after they had been attacked while they were out of ammunition. They had ridden together as soldiers in the coalition to hold back the Machine Nation from rebuilding a world of computers and unholy technology. In all but blood, they were as brothers. Sleeping in the same tent, telling each other tales under the stars, and training horses. All this they had done together. All this was what their lives had been. Adventures, friendship, and glory.

And today, each of them had to kill their best friend. They didn't beg for mercy, they didn't ask for surrender. They knew that one of them had to pull the trigger. No matter what. No matter how much they didn't really want to. But they both knew that they were right, and the other was wrong. That if they died here, the world-that-ended, would burn again. And this time for good.

One knew it would be a slow burn, if he couldn't walk away from this alive. A slow burn where more and more of mankind's knowledge would be lost. Until mankind settled back into the mud and the darkness, giving up the option for a future. An eternity of decay, which would only end when mankind finally lost the ability to think as the ancients had done. If they died here, mankind would never rise again. The shot that they had had as a people, as a species, would have missed. To walk away here today, meant that mankind would rebuild what the ancients had. The power to control machines, the power to rebuild the ruined cities. The power to harness and ride the lightning as mankind once did. If they died, then inevitably the various forces desperately trying to rebuild the dying world, would fail. And though the fall might last a thousand winters, it would be inevitable.

The other knew that it would be a quick burn. That if they died here, in this ruined city that served as a grave warning about the folly of the ancients, then the mistakes of the past would be made again. The follies of old that burned the world and nearly ended all of mankind, made the world-that-was into the world-that-ended. They remembered the horrors of old, told in hushed tones around the fires. Of invisible flames that corrupted the flesh. Of technology used by soulless and amoral humans to turn mankind into slaves. Of the poisons in the waters. Much of the ocean was still dead, and no fish caught there was even edible any longer. He knew that if mankind gained the power that they once had, they'd unleash an inferno upon the already ruined world, and this time there would be no embers of mankind left that could rebuild. No rangers. No world-fleets. No distant merchants from exotic Europa, no storm-warriors coming out of the warm deserts of Afrik. Nothing would remain. Only cold and dead ash. Even the beasts would be scoured from the Earth.

And so, the two gunbrothers, who had shared meals and water, waited for the other to make the first move. The two, who had sworn themselves to a sacred brotherhood, who had been the best of their years in the rangers, stood against each other in a cataclysmic battle. An event that should have been witnessed by the great and small, was only to be seen by beasts. A battle that would decide the fate of the world, and only the two of them would ever know about it. There were no words left. They had both tried to convince the other of the righteousness of their case. They had both spoken fairly and with honour. But they could not reach a consensus.

They could not compromise. For when the future itself is at stake, there can be no compromise, no half-measures. Only the moment, stretching into infinity, as the two gunslingers, the young rangers, aimed at each other with frightening precision. Each aimed for, and with, the heart. And yet they did not want to. For they loved each other, as closely as one could. Brothers in arms, each of the two owing the other one their lives countless times over. The memories of the times that they'd saved the other, that they'd been there for the other, raced through their heads. But love is nothing compared to duty. Compared to doing what is right. Such are the teachings that they'd learned. That duty matters above all else. That love must be cast aside, if doing so is in the service of the world. Such had been the teachings drilled into their heads as they were children.

One carried a machine. A small but perfect machine, that contained knowledge. All the knowledge of the old ones. All the knowledge that had been lost after the world burned. The other knew that it could never be allowed to be used, as the power and knowledge was too much. The other knew that they could tame the Machine Nation, they could rebuild the lost world. Both knew that they had to do it.

The flash of the guns were quickly followed by twin blasts. The gulls in the sky screeched. The deer ran. In the distance, wolves howled. One lived. The other did not. The one who lived, found that he wished he didn't. But he had a task to do. In the moment, it could have been either one of them. The one who wanted to rebuild the old world, and the one who wanted to let the old darkness die. It didn't matter. Both had done their duty to the best of their ability. And now one of them was dead. The survivor put back his gun into his holster, and then approached his dead brother. Though duty had driven him, his heart was heavy. He kneeled besides his lost brother, and holding the dead man's head in his hands, he wept. Wept over the necessity. Wept for the loss of a friend. The closest and most dearly beloved man in his life. Dead at his hands.

But weeping solves nothing. Instead, he opted to bury his beloved. He did not care that it was growing dark. He did not care for anything. Except for the digging. At that moment, it was all that mattered. When he was done, he picked up his dead friend, his closest companion, and placed him gently in that tomb. He wanted to say something. To say he was sorry. Because in truth, he was of course sorry. He had hoped his words could have swayed the dead man. That it wouldn't have come to this. Yet it had. And now only the duty remained.

The surviving gunslinger filled the grave with dirt, and made an intermediary marker over the grave, so that he might have a chaplain come out here later to sanctify the earth. It was the least he could do, as an apology to the man he had never wanted to kill. He left that place, his heart hardened, knowing what he had to do now. The world changes. And a gunslinger must go west.

For what else could he do, to ensure that the death of his closest friend meant something, than to fulfil his duty. And rebuild the world.

*****

THE END