Chapter 27: Song of the Salesman

Chapter 27: Song of the Salesman

Darkness smothered the world.

Then—fire.

Levi ran.

His bleeding feet slapped against the dirt, the heat scorching them black. Smoke tore at his lungs. The screams were everywhere, tangled with the crackling of wood splitting apart. 

He didn't look back. Couldn't.

Run.

The wind carried the stench of burnt hair, of flesh, of things he didn't want to name. His legs pumped faster. The church bell tolled—once, twice—before a deafening crash silenced it forever.

The orphanage was collapsing.

And he was still too close.

Boom!

The wall beside him exploded, a blast of heat and debris knocking him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop against a charred body—eyes wide, mouth open, like they'd died screaming.

His stomach turned, but before he could move—

A hand clamped his throat.

Cold metal. Too strong. It hoisted him up like he weighed nothing.

The man before him was wrapped in firelight, a dark specter against the inferno. His robes, once pristine white, were streaked with soot and blood, draped over massive, vaporguard arms. Arms too heavy for a man, built for killing, the steel engraved with scripture. 

His eyes glowed like burning coals.

"And I saw, and behold, a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him."

Levi struggled, his nails scraping at the metal crushing his throat.

The priest only smiled.

"You were judged, boy. Your sins are your chains. This fire? Your rightful punishment."

He tightened his grip. Levi's vision blurred. The world dimmed.

Somewhere in the flames, he swore he heard laughter.

Then—

He woke.

Gasping, drenched in sweat, his hand shot to his throat. His fingers dug into flesh, flesh—not metal, not broken. His pulse slammed against his ribs, his breath coming in short, ragged gulps.

The room was dark, still. The orphanage. Not the past.

Not the fire.

Dragging a trembling hand through his hair, he forced himself to breathe.

In. Out.

The heat lingered. The smell of burning bodies clung to his skin like a ghost.

He grabbed the pitcher beside his bed and drank deep, like a fire still smoldered in his throat. The water cooled the embers, but the heat didn't leave.

Setting the pitcher down slow, he flopped back onto the bed, arm draped over his eyes.

"Dreams suck."

The air was thick with dawn's first warmth, the glow creeping over the night sky. He could hear the soft stirrings of the house—the creak of a bed frame, murmured voices, the distant crow of a rooster.

His fists clenched.

'Crimson Song.'

He was ready.

The last few days had shifted something in him, carved out something rusted. He wasn't the same as when he was first carted into Denton, running on nothing but instinct and spite.

He was still angry. That hadn't changed a bit.

 He still found himself, in every quiet moment, drifting back to the Stitcher. Imagining his hands around that bastard's throat.

But the bitterness in his mouth was gone.

Pulling himself up, he grabbed his shirt, stretching his body as he dressed. His movements were automatic, but his mind pulled back, back to that night. To the escape.

The rage. The paranoia. The gut-wrenching, body-splitting agony. But worse than all of it—the worst damn thing of all—was the loss of hope.

Through all the surgeries, through every piece they carved away, they'd burned it out of him.

He bent down, tying his boots, pausing just long enough to glance at his hand. Maggie's work still caught his breath. The plating shining a bit in the morning light, smooth as skin but nothing close to human. And yet—there were moments, just fleeting seconds, where he forgot it wasn't his own.

He still hated it. But he knew he needed it.

That was the strange part. The arm didn't just make him stronger. It didn't just give him an edge.

It gave him back a part of what he'd lost.

His hope. But not the hope for revenge—he never lost that—but hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd survive it.

Outside, the house stirred awake. The smell of Edmond's cooking hit him as he stepped out of his room, boots heavy against the floorboards.

He could hear the kids, half-awake and grumbling. He could hear the soft scrape of cutlery, the clang of a pan against the stove.

Edmond and Rufus had shown him a lot in the past few days. Showed him how far he still had to go. How much there was still to learn. Their fists had taught him that better than any lesson.

But as he stepped into the kitchen, seeing Edmond at the stove, Rufus half-slouched in a chair, and the kids rubbing sleep from their eyes, something settled in him.

Even men like them—like him—could have something close to normal.

He didn't know what that meant yet.

Didn't know if it was something he wanted.

But for the first time since the fire, he wasn't just surviving.

He was living.

"Mornin' Levi!"

"Good luck today."

"What's for breakfast?"

He didn't speak right away. Just pulled out a chair and sat down, feeling something almost like ease settle into his bones.

He wasn't sure he'd ever really belong here.

But for now, it was enough.

----

The Red River frontier stretched wide and merciless, its beauty a thing of cruel deception. Sand and rock rolled in endless waves beneath a sky so vast it made men feel small. Dust devils twisted through the arid wasteland, vanishing as quickly as they came. 

The land was alive—only not in a way that welcomed travelers. It endured, it swallowed, and it did not forgive mistakes.

And yet, through this inhospitable wild, a train of steam wagons trudged forward, iron-rimmed wheels cutting deep into the dirt.

There were four wagons in all, each belonging to a different family, hauling what they could of their lives westward. The settlers rode high in their carts, eyes sharp against the horizon.

 Lines of animals trailed behind—mules, cattle, a handful of horses—pulling at their leads, their breath thick with heat. Steam hissed from the wagons at intervals, their primitive Vaporguard engines struggling against the strain of the journey.

And at the rear of the convoy, just a touch removed from the others, a different kind of cart followed. 

This one was lower to the ground, its wheels reinforced with thick metal spokes. Pipes twisted along its sides, some venting small bursts of steam as it rumbled forward. The paint was old but still bold—deep red and gold, with looping letters emblazoned on the side.

WHITAKER'S WONDERS & CURES

The cart itself was a traveling stage on wheels, with collapsible panels and hidden compartments that could open to form a makeshift storefront. Brass embellishments and peeling decals of saints and snakes intertwined, each promising the buyer some form of salvation, be it spiritual or medicinal.

And perched atop the driver's seat, like he owned the whole damn desert, was the man himself, Snakebite Sam Whitaker.

The man was grinning—always grinning—his angular face barely hidden beneath the shadow of his battered top hat. The brass emblem of a coiled snake shined dully against the torn fabric. 

His patchwork suit, though worn, still had the flair of a man who refused to accept he wasn't rich. One hand idly rested on the handle of a lever, knuckles tapping a slow rhythm.

Scanning the road ahead, he had one shrewd eye always watching, always calculating.

The Red River frontier was a cruel mistress.

But Sam Whitaker?

He knew how to dance with the devil.

Beside him, sprawled out atop a velvet pillow, sat a bearded dragon—dusty brown, scaly, and utterly unimpressed.

Sam clicked his tongue, tilting his head to the reptile. 

"Well now, Monty, reckon we've tumbled straight to rock bottom, social standin'-wise. I mean, honestly—farm folk? Salt o' the bleedin' earth, sure, but salt dries the throat, don't it? Bad for business, bad for the skin, an' downright criminal for a man o' refinement such as meself." 

He gave his striped sleeve an exaggerated flick, ridding it of imaginary dust.

 "These poor sods wouldn't know luxury if it waltzed into camp, bought 'em a drink, an' called 'em sweetheart. I ask ya, what kinda man settles down in a land that wants 'im dead? Foolish, foolish—misplaced ambition, that's what that is."

Monty flicked his tongue, expression unchanging.

Snakebite scoffed, reaching into his coat and fishing out a wringling green grub, flicking it toward the lizard. 

"Ahh, don't look at me like that, you scaly ingrate. My reasons are more refined than some peasants dream of cheap land."

Straightening, he cracked his knuckles as he warmed up his vocal cords. The cart gave a soft hiss beneath him, steam venting from the pipes. But Sam was already lost in the performance.

"Ladies an' gentlemen! Weary travelers, seekers o' fortune, down-an'-outs an' high rollers alike—gather 'round, gather 'round! You there!" 

He gestured to a cactus in the distance, nodding as though receiving a response.

 "Lookin' a bit worse for wear, sir! Like a man what's walked one mile too many, aye?"

He held up a finger, silencing his invisible skeptic.

 "But fear not! For I, the esteemed, the entirely reputable, the magnanimous Samuel Whitaker, bring forth salvation in a bottle! Feast yer eyes on—" 

With a flourish, he yanked a glass vial from his coat, tilting it dramatically so the dark liquid within sloshed under the desert sun.

 "Snakebite's Special Revitalizin' Tonic! A concoction so potent, so brimming with vigor, it'll make the dead sit up an' reconsider their options! Ha-HAH!"

He chuckled, twirling the bottle between his fingers, flipping it over the back of his hand, catching it with a showman's grace.

The wind picked up. Ahead, the wagons rattled, canvas covers flapping like tethered ghosts. Even his own shifted as it hit.

"Storm's a-comin', Monty." 

Monty just blinked.

Ignoring the rising winds, Snakebite Sam and the caravan trudged on, the steady hiss of steam and the rattle of wheels barely able to be heard over the wail of the desert. 

Snakebite, undeterred, continued rehearsing his pitches—each one as grand as the last, each cure as miraculous as the next.

He was mid-sentence when a sound, thin as a whisper, slid through the storm.

His words caught. His grin faltered.

"Ssshh! Ye hear that, Monty?"

Nothing. Just wind howling through the rock and sand peppering his cart. But no—there it was again.

Faint. Almost impossible to catch if not for his augments.

Singing.

His grip tightened on the wheel. His spine locked up stiff. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, scanning the horizon. It was near impossible to see in this mess, but—again!

He stopped breathing.

Lightning shot through his spine.

"Monty… I think we've found ourselves in a bit of a predicament."

The song carried like smoke on the wind. Soft. Haunting. Out of place in the middle of nowhere.

And then, up ahead, the wagons slowed.

Sam swallowed hard.

 His gut twisted in a way he didn't like one bit. He wasn't the sort to spook easy—not with the things he'd seen, or the things he'd done—but at that moment, an image flashed through his mind so vivid it dried his throat.

"Her."

He knew the Frontier's worst. Knew their names, their deeds, their legends. Hell, he'd met more than a few. But this one? This one was different.

He'd heard of that voice.

Not just because he'd heard the stories. Not just because the legends said she could sing a man's soul from his bones. No—Snakebite Sam Whitaker had augments in his throat as well, just nothing like hers. But he understood what that voice could do. 

For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel much like talking.

The wind howled. The wagons dragged to a crawl. And just as the air seemed to squeeze too tight—

Silence.

The singing stopped.

Sam's stomach turned over.

"Idiots!"

His fist slammed the steam release. He yanked a lever hard. Pipes that had never puffed more than a lazy breath suddenly spat flames.

With a roar, his cart launched forward, blasting past the caravan like a fiery comet.

And just as he passed the lead cart—he saw her.

The Crimson Song.

Her eyes burned—red as hellfire.

Wild crimson hair whipped against the dull desert sky. That signature dress—once regal, now tattered—rippled in the wind like a banner of death.

Their eyes met.

'Huh?'

His chest clenched, but not with the fear he expected. He'd braced himself for madness, for the unhinged stare of a killer lost to the song. But instead—

Sadness.

A flicker. Just a second. A moment too short to be real as he passed and drove for his life.

Then—

"EEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

A sound like God's own wrath tore through the air.

Sam barely had time to yank some levers before his skull nearly split in two. He slammed a hand over his ear, shoulder hunched against the other, teeth grinding to keep from screaming. The world shook beneath him, the ground bucking like a wild beast.

He risked a glance back.

His blood froze.

The entire caravan was gone.

Ripped apart. Blood. Wood. Bone. Fire. A storm of bodies and debris rose behind him, spiraling into the sky, sucked into the wake of her song.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Then—laughter.

High. Choked. Manic.

It burst from him, ugly and raw, panic twisting it into something near hysterical. He didn't stop. He didn't dare.

Beside him, Monty didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't breathe.

Blood leaked from the little beast's ears. Lifeless.

Sam didn't look.

Didn't mourn.

Didn't stop.