Nowhere Men

Interlude one: Flint

WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of physical and emotional abuse

—

He hated the fucking water.

The only good water had in this world was rain during a drought. Brought things back to life when they were about to die. That's all water needed to do. Drinking water? Hell, the cleanest water he could ever hope to get came from the richest cities. Everywhere else, water was dirt. It looked like dirt, it tasted like dirt, and had that sickly smell to it. Even with the smallest sip, the muck would stick to his teeth and pester through the rest of the day. How fitting for someone of his status.

But the worst water was the one that could kill. One unexpected flash flood, or one slip into a strong current, and it'd take any unprepared soul with no remorse. Water could be a tease, it could relax its grip, and every time that poor soul would surface for air, it'd force them right back down with its next unforgiving wave. Sure, fighting against it was the best next step, but almost everyone sinks in the end. Pulled towards the bottom and with every sense going dark, water would taunt one last time. There, staring back, would be the surface, blurry and shimmering from the sunlight on the other side. Life was right there. All one would have to do was find the strength to swim up, pump arms and...legs to push away from the bottom...don't breathe in yet...just for a little longer...fingers outstretched...a bit more...until burning lungs give in and–

Flint lets out an explosive scream as he breaks through the surface, gasping and coughing out water while pulling himself to the riverbank. Nails digging into mud and yellowed teeth bared with a strained grunt, Flint heaves himself onto land with the help of roots cemented into the earth, and vomits the rest of the water that had been building in his lungs. Exhausted, he collapses onto his back with a groan and focuses on breathing.

The sky above is a bright baby blue with the sun overhead at its highest point. The heat's no real threat – September's come and gone – but the sudden brightness after his underwater entrapment blinds Flint for a moment. Thankfully, a long strip of clouds lazily passes over and shields him from the sun's beams. With the initial ache fading, his exhaustion is replaced with a venomous fury. Flint snarls, his eyes narrowed with every detail he remembers from the interesting turn of events his night had. He'd been so close to reaching his target...and Blondie fucked it up. He told him. Don't leave without saying so first. Follow the plan, and what happened? Blondie ran off to warn the town and stupidly thought he had the balls to fight him. There's no mistake, Flint remembers the look in his eyes before the three of them fell down the edge and into the river below.

Traitor.

Flint grits his teeth and with a wrathful slam of his fist against the dirt, he sits up and immediately searches his pockets. He finds his gun, but it's useless from the water and banging around. No matter. The dagger is still in good condition but where's the–

Where's...

Where's his fucking harmonica?

With a gasp, Flint scrambles onto his feet, but the unpleasant reminder of his exhausted muscles immediately sends him crashing down. Undeterred by the stumble and just as desperate, he continues his search on his hands and knees, praying that the harmonica hasn't been lost to the ravine. He loses it and the plan might as well go to hell. The panic begins to set in, but the sun's rays escape the clouds and hit a small spot at the edge of the water. The moment Flint notices the shine reflected off what he's sure is the harmonica, he dives into the mud before the current can take it away. When his calloused hands touch cold metal, Flint almost laughs from joy and looks over the harmonica, studying its condition with an expert eye and holding it as if it were fine china. The little instrument was everything, a precious and important part of him that, if lost, would spell disaster.

After all, he'd seen what carelessness had done to its last owner.

Flint lets out a relieved sigh when he finds no issues with the harmonica, other than some water and flecks of mud. It's safe. His hands finally stop shaking.

Standing, Flint slicks his hair back and rubs the back of his neck, sore from all the tumbling. He grabs one side of his head and pulls it until a crack relieves him of the stiff feeling. He does the same on the other side, and gives his head a small shake, before finally taking stock of his new surroundings.

The river, despite its ruthless current, looks far less intimidating from land. In fact, the river is so narrow that it'd be possible to cross from one side to the other on foot. Not that it'd be worth crossing, Flint admits with an unimpressed glance, he's landed on the right side. A forest lies only a few feet away, its trees engulfed in a multitude of different colored leaves. While many are still a bright green, some are impatient for autumn, sporting pale yellows and reds. A forest has shade and food, far better than what lies on the opposite side, which only offers a thin piece of land before immediately hitting the mountain edge. Craning his neck, Flint scoffs at its height...scaling was definitely not worth it, he'd have to stick with walking and using the forest to his advantage. It isn't the familiar darkness, but it would do if it came to it. Attention back on the ravine, Flint makes a note of the water's direction, watching as the rapids from the north slowly eased into a gentle lull moving south. So, to get back to Plain Hollow, he'd have to follow the river upstream. Perfect. No compass necessary.

There's no sign of Blondie or that sheriff. Either he's lucky and they've both been taken by the current, or they've landed farther north...or south. Flint sniffs, unamused, and his face twists into a sneer.

Blondie. Flint was sure he'd done enough to force submission. The signs of success were there; Blondie was loyal and followed nearly every order without complaint. And if he complained? He can't help it and, even in his frustration, Flint's lips curl into a smug smirk. Well, complaints were easy to handle with dagger marks and cigarette burns on skin, but success was only really found one way. With hands locked around Blondie's neck, he'd watch the other man choke out apologies with wide, tear-stained eyes, and just when he'd start going limp and quiet, Flint would finally let go.

Blondie belonged to him. Through tears and blood, Blondie was devoted to him.

Or so he thought.

Flint growls and presses the harmonica against his lips, giving it a strong blow and letting the shrill screech echo far across the horizon. Silence answers at first, and Flint waits, impatiently cracking his knuckles with a methodical tempo. Pinkie, pause. Ring finger, pause. Middle finger...but finally, a chorus of harmonica responds. Good. The rest of the gang is fine, just as he expected, it'd take more than gunshots to bring them down, and now they know he's still alive. Better yet, now Blondie'll know. Safely tucking the harmonica into a hidden pocket in the breast of his jacket, Flint begins to walk, reforming the plan in his mind.

Get to Plain Hollow as soon as possible, trap the town on all corners, make sure that any attempt to escape means death, and start digging. If he got everything down right, they'd need to start working right at the town's center. While that gets underway, he'll send someone after Blondie and kill him. He won't be needed at that point. Actually...strike that, he'll send someone to get Blondie, and he'll kill him himself. Turn him into a lesson for the rest to learn. The sheriff? The sheriff is a tricky piece of work, he isn't important. They can just kill him. But killing him in front of the town would be pretty nice to see. Flint can't help but think of the fun in that. Or maybe he could—

Oh? Wait a moment.

There's a pole a few feet away from him, and Flint's thoughts pause as he speeds up to read it. When he gets close enough, he reads the directions to three locations:

Plain Hollow - 36 miles north
Short Ridge City - 250 miles south
Riverfort - 5 miles west

36 miles...a far trek made easy with his shortcut, but Riverfort catches his eyes. A short five miles west, huh? Facing the direction, Flint raises an eyebrow curiously. That forest wasn't too dense then, a short five miles, and he'd be on the other side in no time. Riverfort was a familiar name, a town far smaller than Plain Hollow, but well known as an ammunition hub. The midpoint between big cities like Short Ridge and Freedom's Bluff, which lay far north of Plain Hollow.

Well now, it's always nice to have extra ammunition on hand. Flint grins and stalks towards the forest's edge, a new plan forming in his mind. Plain Hollow will be his, and if he has to burn anything and anyone on his way there, he'll be more than happy to do it.

Nothing ever stopped Flint "The Tornado" Rickshaw.