Jack

Prologue

 *If you're one of those people who has a Wattpad account and is reading this, I'd appreciate feedback on the story. If people don't like it but don't say why, then I can't find out what I should change to make you like it! :)*

Prologue

"You ain't from these parts, are ya, boy?" 

Jack slowly turned around. He stared with dread at the weathered face in front of him, its tanned, old surface showing no signs of emotion. Jack's own countenance was pale and smooth. The other man slowly reached into his pocket with a casualness that was almost terrifying. He drew out a pouch of tobacco and some rolling paper. He proffered it to Jack. 

"You smoke, boy?" Jack shook his head slightly, declining the offer with what he hoped was poise. Beads of sweat, thick, heavy and dirty, slid down his face. The noiseless splashes as they fell stretched the silence even tighter. 

The man turned around and walked into the cool shade of the nearest saloon's porch. Jack didn't blame him. Today the sun was beating down with all its might, turning the already scorching hell of a desert into something abominable, something even the man in front of him hadn't faced. It was ominous, yet gloriously so.  

The man proceeded to sit down in a rocking chair, its aged wood creaking as it rolled across the worn and dusty surface of the porch, swinging smoothly with the movement of the man. He looked again at Jack, with that terrifying casualness, and began to speak. 

"You know me, Jack. I have been following you for a while now. Believe me, sonny, that I've wanted to shoot you in the back from the start. I reckon you know how much the bounty for a murderer is worth; ya need only look at your daddy to figure that one out. The apple don't fall too far from the tree, eh?" The man coolly regarded Jack, moving no muscle except to take his cigarette momentarily out of his mouth. Jack began to shiver, although the desert town was as hot, dry, and miserable as it had been at the start. He knew why the man was here. This was Percy Omaha. He was to be the first.  

Omaha drew out his gun, a large and weathered revolver with a steel barrel coated with God-knows how many layers of dust, and a sandalwood butt painted a deep jet black; black as Omaha's eyes. He stuck it under his own chin, grinning at the irony, then pointed it at Jack. He spoke seven words: 

"You will now pay for your crimes." 

Jack threw himself onto the ground as Omaha shot up to his feet and let loose with a shot. Bullets began to crack through the air. Omaha was pumping the hammer on his large revolver with poise and the confidence of a veteran. Jack tucked and rolled as he landed on the hard ground, bringing up a cloud of sand as he did so. He drew his own guns, a pair of small revolvers, recently cleaned. He always cleaned his guns before a fight. 

Jack got up and started running towards the back of the saloon on his right. Omaha followed, still firing. On his sixth shot, he stopped shooting and began to reload. Jack took his chance. He turned around and fired at the other man, hoping to luckily catch him at his most vulnerable. He had no such luck. Omaha turned and lithely dodged the sharp bullet as it flew past his left ear, bringing with it a song of death. 

Jack turned again and ran, his heart hammering intensely in his chest. He reached the back of the saloon. When he did so, he pulled himself up onto a barrel and began to stretch his fingers upward to grasp a ledge; muscles straining and full of adrenaline, he managed to pull himself up right as Omaha rounded the corner. 

"Hey, boy, what in the hell do you think you're doing? I could gun you down where you are right now and nobody would have no problems. I suggest you just come on down here, turn around, and let me handcuff you right up. Sound good, Jackie?" Omaha's decision to speak before firing was to be his undoing. 

Jack cocked his head to the side, mockingly. Then he whipped out his second revolver, and with mechanical efficiency, shot twice from the hip. The bullets thumped into Omaha's chest, slamming him onto the ground like a wrecking ball. Jack looked down through the smoke at the bleeding form below him. Omaha's chest was oozing with blood. The cavity where the bullet had lodged was swollen and it was clear that the wound was lethal. Omaha's breath came out in short, shallow, raspy gasps. He managed to speak two words: 

"Devil's...son." 

Jack shot Omaha in the head. His brain and skull erupted into a shower of flesh and bone, the bone fragments and teeth going every which way and the blood and brains simply showering over the ground. The headless corpse shuddered violently, fell onto one knee, and fell stomach-down onto the ground. It was over. Jack stared unblinkingly at the body of the man he had just killed. He felt no remorse, pity, or sorrow; it was always the same. 

Jack walked to the front of the saloon, his leather boots crunching against the chipped terracotta roof. His jacket fluttered in the dry breeze. Now that the deed was done, Jack was at peace. His dark green eyes showed no sign of the battle that had just taken place, for they were cool and uncompromising. They were a token of his father.  

The next day, Jack went to the town hall meeting, introduced himself and requested a place to stay. He wrote Omaha off as a bandit he'd been pursuing. He would live here for a long time, six months, to be exact. It was part of his eternal ritual. After he had blended into the community, he would kill every person in the town, save one. That one person would be told that he could find Jack in another town across the desert. That one would be thirsty for vengeance. Jack was counting on it. 

Jack looked up at the setting sun, a deep orange against sky behind it. Tonight, the horizon was a dark crimson. It told of blood. It told of death. Jack smiled.