Clark

"Bang!!!"

A guttural roar of a gunshot tore through the air at Shady Belle, and with it, the unfortunate chap manning the Maxim gun on the second floor found his head performing an impromptu, rather gory magic trick: disappearing in a fine mist of red.

"Enemy attack! Dammit, someone's coming!" A piercing, almost operatic scream followed, as if someone had just discovered their prized whiskey collection had spontaneously combusted. Shady Belle, in turn, descended into a chaos so profound, it made a pig wrestling a greased up watermelon look organized.

The real-world adversaries, unlike their pixelated counterparts in a game, weren't content to wait their turn. The moment the first shot echoed, a good number of these grizzled Lemoyne Raiders were already drawing iron, snapping off retaliatory shots with the practiced grace of a viper striking. These weren't your average bar brawlers; no, these battle-hardened old soldiers, veterans of countless skirmishes (the Spanish-American War in '98 and other delightful little dust-ups before that had ensured no shortage of the 'seen-it-all' type), dropped to the ground or dove behind cover quicker than a politician avoids a straight answer. Their movements, swift and coordinated, spoke of an unholy synergy forged in the crucible of war.

The door on Shady Belle's second floor creaked open, and a new hopeful, with a glint in his eye and a firm grip on the Maxim gun handle, charged out.

Below, the crowd instantly recoiled from anything vaguely explosive, bodies contorting into improbable shapes behind trees and obstacles, a flurry of return fire aimed squarely at the Van der Linde Gang members at the entrance.

These veterans were dripping with experience, but even the most seasoned old-timer of this era still needed to watch their step. Otherwise, those cowboys, who'd also spent their entire lives immersed in the delightful art of war, were more than ready to offer a brutal lesson in humility.

"Bang!" The instant the Maxim gunner on the second floor burst forth, his head, with a rather uncivilized pop, exploded. Seriously, the Van der Linde Gang's marksmanship was so abnormally precise, it made the veterans' proud experience and so-called 'instinctual shooting methods' about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

"Bang!" A gunman, peeking from behind a sturdy tree, dared to extend an arm to return fire. The next moment, with a sharp crack, his palm was not just shot through, but three fingers took an unscheduled, permanent vacation from his hand.

"Ahhh!!!" Piercing screams, raw and full of unadulterated agony, erupted from behind the tree. Meanwhile, a dense chorus of gunshots continued to reverberate throughout Shady Belle, a symphony of lead and terror.

Sean and his two comrades pressed forward relentlessly, a relentless wave of suppressing fire and cover. Behind them, John and Davey, armed with their trusty sniper rifles, were delivering a masterclass in 'one shot, one kill.' Anyone foolish enough to enter their crosshairs promptly joined the choir invisible.

"Bang, bang, bang…" A veritable Fourth of July explosion of gunshots ripped through the dense forest, sounding less like a battle and more like a particularly aggressive firecracker display. It was a cacophony that screamed 'fierce.'

For the Lemoyne Raiders, who usually considered themselves invincible thanks to their combat experience (always ensuring an escape route, even if victory was elusive), today's battle was a brutal, morale-shattering revelation.

Because the opposition? They were just too damn accurate!

Hiding behind cover offered only a fleeting sense of security. The moment a thought of returning fire flickered, the instant an arm or even a sliver of a body was exposed, a bullet, as if guided by an invisible hand, would whistle over.

Then, with a sickening thud, it would pierce their bodies, harvesting their lives with grim efficiency. These veterans, who'd faced down armies, were utterly helpless against these cowboys. They couldn't even attempt a tactical retreat by changing cover; a precisely aimed bullet would tag them mid-dash. It was as if the gunmen opposite them were inhuman, with reaction speeds that would make a cheetah look sluggish.

"Oh, sh*t! These people are devils! They're devils!!!" One Raider shrieked, his eyes wide with a frantic, unhinged terror.

"Why is their aim so accurate, dammit! I've never seen such accurate marksmanship!" Another wailed, throwing his hands up in utter exasperation.

"Sh*t! Sh*t!" The air was thick with curses, anxious cries, and fearful whimpers echoing through Shady Belle. These damned Lemoyne Raiders were so thoroughly beaten, they didn't even dare to pull out their guns to return fire.

Any exposed body part, they'd learned, would be met with a searingly painful bullet. And next to the Maxim gun on the second floor, a gruesome pile of five corpses already lay slumped, victims of the Van der Linde Gang's 'head-shot-upon-entry' policy.

The Van der Linde Gang, even more brutal in their conviction, charged straight in. They moved with the predatory grace of wolves, sniffing out hidden enemies behind every scrap of cover, then dispatching them to meet their maker with a single, decisive shot.

Even Sean, whose marksmanship usually leaned more towards 'enthusiastic' than 'precise' when it came to bottles, was proving lethally effective. Turns out, hitting a person doesn't require the same delicate touch as a whiskey bottle, especially when anywhere a bullet hits means loss of combat effectiveness or, more likely, death.

(And let's be honest, in that tobacco mission, Sean's aim was surprisingly on point; those first few unlucky souls never stood a chance.)

As the battle raged, the crescendo of gunshots and screams slowly began to ebb, like a storm finally losing its fury. Almost ninety percent of the Lemoyne Raiders had paid the ultimate price, their broken bodies now grim decorations on the blood-soaked ground.

The few remaining, those who'd been lucky enough to be closer to the edge of this particular hell, were utterly terrified, some even looking like they'd developed a permanent twitch. They fled in a blind panic into the wilderness, one even attempting a desperate escape by boat. But Davey, with a casual flick of his wrist, put a hole in the poor vessel with a single shot, then tied the sputtering, soaking man up with a horse rope.

After a thorough sweep, confirming every last enemy had either fled or ceased to be, Davey and the others finally let out a collective sigh of relief.

"Sean, Lenny, John, Mac," Davey commanded, a slight grimace on his face, "let's clean up these… decorations first. Just toss 'em in that ditch nearby. I reckon the alligators will appreciate the free buffet. And as for this gentleman," he gestured with his chin towards the bound man, "I think you and I need to have a little chat, wouldn't you agree?"

"Alright, Davey," Mac grinned, clapping John on the shoulder. "But seriously, the loot in this place is insane! Look at these carts! Holy moly, that much gunpowder could definitely blow Saint Denis sky-high!" With that, they set about the grim task of body disposal.

Davey, however, had eyes only for the man tied before him. He squatted down, a glint in his eye that suggested something less than pleasant.

"Whoosh!" With a flourish, a dagger materialized from Davey's sheath, catching the sunlight in a dazzling, almost artistic flash. He grabbed the man's collar with one hand, and with the other, pressed the dagger's tip, ever so gently, to the man's left eyelid. He even used the tip to prod it, causing the man to let out a terrified, strangled scream, yet he remained frozen, utterly unwilling to move.

"Ahhh, I was wrong, I was wrong! Please spare me! I swear I'll never come back! oh…" The man blubbered, tears streaming down his face.

"Oh ho ho, sir, sparing you is quite simple, after all, your life isn't exactly high on my priority list," Davey purred, running the blade of his dagger across the man's face, rotating it slowly. The tip, still tickling his eyelid, elicited a fresh torrent of terrified screams, effectively rendering the man incapable of forming a coherent answer. "But before I let you go on your merry way, I have a few small questions to ask you."

"Oh, sir, please spare me, spare me, I haven't killed anyone, I'm just responsible for loading gunpowder! ahaa…" the man pleaded, practically vibrating with fear.

"Dammit! Calm down!" Davey snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin.

"Slap!" A sharp crack echoed as Davey's open palm connected with the man's face. The pain, oddly enough, seemed to snap the man out of his hysterical loop. He finally clamped his mouth shut, eyes wide, and came back to his senses.

"Oh, ask away, sir, ask away, please, please spare me, I really have never killed anyone!" he stammered, nodding vigorously.

Davey, grabbing his collar, gave a satisfied nod. He then roughly pulled the man to his feet, and with a surprisingly gentlemanly gesture, pulled down his collar before pressing the blade firmly to his neck. "Very good, sir, very good. What is your name?"

"Ah, my name is Randy Clark, sir, my name is Randy Clark…" Randy whimpered, the words tumbling out in a rush.

"Very good, Mr. Clark, very good!" Davey's grip on Randy's collar tightened, pulling him closer, his eyes narrowing. "Shady Belle is your arms and ammunition storage warehouse, correct? Mr. Clark?" he pressed, his voice dripping with menace.

"Ow!! Yes, sir, it's an arms and ammunition storage warehouse!" Randy was pitifully timid, practically folding in half under Davey's intense stare.

"Very good, then besides Shady Belle, how many other arms and ammunition storage warehouses do you have?"

"I, I, I don't know, sir, ow!"

"I was wrong, sir, I know there's one more, one more!!!" The instant Randy claimed ignorance, Davey's right fist connected with his face in a sickening thud.