A shambling horror was closest, a pinkish creature from some depraved woodcut with more sexual organs than limbs. It raised its taloned arms to strike but, before it could, Dust drove his other gun into the creature’s excuse for a skull. The bone shattered with a flare of magic and a horrible crack. Its life and taint spilled from the wound as it fell to the floor, covering Dust’s travel clothes in black viscera. Some got in his open mouth. It tasted like old strawberries.
Two monsters, things more taint than flesh that used the very earth to make up the difference, came at him from the right. Dust turned and swiped through them both, destroying them. Being so insubstantial, they had no chance and he wondered why they’d even attack him.
The answer came immediately as a Shrieker leapt down from the roof and clamped its hands onto his shoulders before he’d finish his swing. Hands was a kind word too; Shriekers had no fingers, just amorphous masses of gelatinous flesh with barbed bones haphazardly piercing them. Their grip was strong though, difficult to break once they’d gotten hold of a victim, even for Dust.
He looked back and saw a humanoid mess of flesh with no facial features barring the wide, shark-toothed mouth it used to paralyse its victims. He slammed it against the chapel, feeling the Father’s will fight against the Shrieker and hearing its flesh sizzle. It would not survive the vicious feedback.
But it managed to get a Shriek off before it died.
The Shriek was high-pitched pain, a madness vocalised. It felt like his ear drums and eyes would burst from the pressure. Dust fell flat, his body losing all strength, and the world darkened. For just that moment, he was completely defenceless.
The other creatures used this to their advantage, crowding over his fallen form. Scratches, kicks and bites rained in on him, cutting him all over. The Shrieker’s dying form wrapped its legs around him with its final act, just to make it a little harder to defend himself. And the harrier, having realised there was a pile-on, shot through the chapel, attempted to pierce it and get at him.
The fight had stopped being fun.
Dust tore the Shrieker’s dead hands and legs from his body, taking two more blows to the head in the meantime and a scratch across his back. The world went fuzzy, his eyes refused to focus. He blindly struck out with his other gun, knocking a few of them back with severe injuries.
A Fallen Angel – a kind of succubus with dark wings extending from where its arms should be – flew past the church and was shot by the harrier, mostly from reflex. The bullet took an unlucky ricochet off its solid skull and struck Dust in the hip, bruising the flesh rather than piercing it.
The creatures kept coming at him, dodging his wild flails, and he lost more flesh from his legs and his right arm. The Scamp that took from his arm, a small blur that he knew was shaped like the traditional Christian devil, chuckled as it swallowed. Dust’s indignation gave him a moment of clarity, which he used to crush the damned thing.
It also allowed him to realise he would die if he kept this up; their whole plan had relied on Naismith and Shadows Fade backing him up and they’d been found wanting.
First he needed to get to his feet. He summoned what little magic he had and used it to fuel a counter-attack; animal rage took over and swept the bright white gun wildly around him. The creatures, sensing the surge of power, backed off just enough for him to spring to his feet. Only the dead Shrieker was still near.
They watched him, wary, and saw a weakened, bleeding man trying to fight – he did a quick count – ten creatures on his own. A mote of fear passed through him but he suppressed it; he was Dust, ‘the Wanted Man’, and even though that reputation was mostly undeserved, he would survive. Of course he’d survive.
The creatures broke the peace then, attacked all at once. Dust tried to disrupt them by chatting the Fallen Angel which had bounced a bullet into him. With a roar, he hammered his other gun right through the thing’s black heart. His arm exploded with pain where it lacked muscle but he roared the feeling out. The Fallen Angel moaned seductively and tried to tip him a wink as it died but Dust had already moved onto its sister, who had her head taken clean off.
The things held back, tried to surround him again. That couldn’t happen. Having used his own magic up, Dust entreated his tattoo for power. Resistance was kind or worried because he received some very quickly. Not too much mind, just enough to issue knock the creatures away.
“Resistance is with me,” he roared as he clasped his hands together, all he needed to do to loose the magic. A great white sphere crashed against his attackers and scattered them like marbles.
Some landed in decrepit homes, dealing the ramshackle structures their final blow.
Dust said “Sorry,” before he he ran down Crucifix’s main street, put some distance between him and the horde.
The eldritch horrors got back to their feet or extracted themselves from destroyed buildings, roaring or chittering with frustration. Another bullet rang out but the harrier’s aim wasn’t good enough to hit him at this distance. Dust crouched, made himself a smaller target, and rattled off three shots at the gathering crowd, each tearing into his arm.
He’d thought the pain would be worth killing the remaining Fallen Angel and Shriekers but Dust almost dropped his gun when it hit; his arm was aflame, burning so strongly he had to turn and bite down on the material of his shirt to keep from screaming. Just a few Scamps and two less identifiable things remained and they were closing on him again but he couldn’t shoot back with his arm so messed up.
He tried to raise his other gun anyway, invite another torrent of searing pain, but the agony was too great. The Scamps were about to tear another chunk out of him when Naismith joined the fray; her rifle roared from his right and the Scamps were disintegrated mid-attack, one bullet passing through all three of them. She fired again and the remaining two, amorphous creatures were undone.
“Thank you,” Dust shouted through gritted teeth.
“I’m sorry,” Naismith said. Her voice was filled with genuine remorse. She nearly sobbed but caught the sound before it could fully escape.
Dust felt the Father’s magic sizzling from behind the chapel. It was still under attack. A few creatures were still attacking it. And then there was whoever shot him.
“Don’t be. Let’s go,” he said. “This won’t be over.”
Dust ran back down main street but his legs nearly gave way. He caught himself and his legs visited more merry Hell on him for moving whilst they were missing chunks. Ignoring them would be easy for a few seconds if he adopted a weird run to not use the torn muscle. It wasn’t dignified but it was effective. Even if he looked like a scared cripple in the process.
Then a shot echoed out. He threw himself to one side, landing painfully on the fleshless part of his arm, and prepared himself to receive another bullet wound. But there was no impact and no explosion of red dust beside him; instead there came a tinkle of glass.
