No more bullets. That was, if he didn’t count the one she’d left in his shoulder and the one the dust ship’s machine gun had left in his thigh, now spurting blood and coloring his dark blue jeans red. He pushed his back against a tree and collapsed onto the ground.

  The rhythmic fire of the machine gun, a Macher, he figured from the distinctive drumming sound, had become nothing but background noise. If it hit him, it hit him. Nothing he could do now.

  Mirko couldn’t see the two women running from him anymore, but he still pictured them in his mind’s eye. That blonde actress, so clumsy and fragile, her beauty not meant to be hidden under a dust mask. Not meant for this world.

  And the young duster with her dull red hair. Harper was her name, he’d remember that. He’d underestimated her at first. It was the sight of her hands shaking as she held that gun of hers, the way her posture made her look like a cowering little mouse. It was obvious she was a rookie. Soft, easy prey. But she wasn’t a rookie anymore.

  He laughed as he took one of the bandages from the pouch on his belt. Mirko felt for the entry and exit wounds of the bullet. Gone right through the flesh, narrowly missing bone. Lucky. “I made her a warrior...” he thought as he wrapped it tight.

  The lone duster grabbed a stick and another bandage, and made a tourniquet above the wound. The gunfire stopped as he pulled it tight. He looked down on his shaking hands.

  “Kill them… Slay them…” the dust nanites whispered in his mind as he breathed in. The violent images filling his mind weren’t mere fantasies. They were a need, a craving, like hunger and thirst. His curse, his blessing.

  He had felt euphoric when he cut the guard’s throat, when he jammed the Siegfried’s air filters, when he watched the panic that ensued right after. And he felt no panic when the cartel guards stopped him from getting in his dust car in time, just like he felt no shock or concern from his injuries now.

  Mirko did not feel relief when he survived the crash, huddled and strapped in, in one of the VIP chambers of the Siegfried. A courtesy from his sponsors. But killing the wretched survivors one by one, watching those who had already become like him turn on their friends, families and coworkers… that was like a drug.

  But the curse never ended, the whispers never stopped. The drugs he had tried as a teenager in Vogelsang, sex, good food, booze… all the things that had once brought him joy before the dust spoke to him. They all came with a sense of euphoria that followed a while after, kept him sated. Killing was different. The high only lasted as long as the act. The craving came back right after. It always came back.

  That craving was why he wanted to crawl after them, even if it meant reopening his injuries, bleeding to death before he could even get close.

  But he didn’t.

  He sat there until he heard the whirring of the dust ship’s fans grow distant, then silent.

  Mirko was the only slayer in the world, as far as he knew, who could put his own survival before his need to kill. Sure, there were others vaguely like him. Sneaks, they called them: those who could keep their bloodlust in check long enough to win trust, form a plan, maybe catch two or three naive dusters off guard instead of just one. But Mirko was the only one who could fly into a city, find work, even as he grit his teeth imagining ripping his employer to shreds.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  It wasn’t about empathy or any form of care for human life. That part of him was long dead. Those little monsters crawling through his bloodstream made sure of it. It was because the longer he lived, the more he could kill.

  He tilted his head back, tangled black hair pressed into the tree bark, and stared up at the ashen sky. He saw little patterns in the dust, dancing through the air like little fireflies. The duster couldn’t remember if he ever noticed them before he first breathed in the dust. It was beautiful, one of the few things that could calm him apart from the act of violence. Mirko closed his eyes and wondered if he was going to die.

  Mirko felt something tug on his arm. He didn’t know how long had passed since he closed them, but the sky was darker now. There was a bony hand on his forearm. Two large, brown eyes stared at him. A gaunt pale face, frightened and curious. The figure was wearing a t-shirt full of holes that had once been white, now yellow. A blue suit jacket was draped over it, stained with fresh blood, far too big for the feral creature’s skinny frame. Matted brown hair that had never been washed of dust.

  It was impossible to put an age or gender on the strange human creature. It stumbled backwards, falling on its bony back as Mirko stirred awake.

  The duster sighed and tried to move his injured leg. No good. He looked at the one who woke him. There was no desire to kill this one. No mask, the wild, animal-like look in its eyes. Another slayer.

  “Rabid one, ain’t you?” he said. The creature merely tilted its head in response, dried lips moving but no words forming.

  “Always wonder how you manage to live out here, you know?” Mirko said, “Most slayers die within a week, you know that? It’s true… came across more starved and bloody corpses in my time than I care to count.”

  The rabid one didn’t answer, just stared at Mirko. What he said was true. Slayers were still people. People who had to eat, sleep, drink. That, coupled with an insatiable need to kill their fellow man, meant most folks unlucky enough to breathe in too much dust ended up starving to death, killed by dusters or mauled by some wild animal.

  But a rare few, the smart ones, managed to survive in the ruins. Sometimes they’d even gang up with other slayers. And sometimes… they fucked. Had kids, who’d, of course, be born slayers themselves. Whether the creature in front of him was one of those second-generation slayers, or had just been trapped out here long enough to forget how to speak, it was little more than a wild animal now.

  “You got a name, rabid?” Mirko asked, “Jak si? nazywasz? Wie hei?t du?”

  “Uh… nuu…” the rabid slayer made a sound, slackjawed, thin brows furrowed.

  “Uno,” Mirko said, “Yeah… Fuck it, I’ll call you that.” He pointed at the slayer he had just named and repeated. “Uno.”

  Uno looked at their chest and pointed at it, quietly repeating. “Uno…”

  “Yeah… you got it,” Mirko said, lifting his leg with both hands and adjusting it, feeling a wave of pain rush through him. “Fuck…”

  Uno moved forward towards him on all fours, staring at Mirko’s wounded leg. Mirko tugged on the bandage, feeling a rush of poison warmth rushing to his head.

  “Yeah… might be infected…” he said, looking Uno in the eyes, “Listen… the Siegfried, that wrecked ship? Gotta still have plenty of food, medical supplies for my leg. I was honestly ready to die out here, but maybe we can both live. If you help me get there…”

  Uno, unsurprisingly, didn't seem to understand a word. Just sat back, trying to repeat Mirko’s words back to him. “Sifrid…. Food?”

  “Right…” Mirko said, reaching for the protein bar in his chest pocket and unwrapping it with bloody fingers, “Take it… more where that came from if you help me up…”

  The wreck was less than a five minute walk away, but it ended up taking over an hour. Mirko tried his best to stay conscious, while his skeptical companion struggled to understand the reasons he should even care to help. Promises made by the duster that he could not understand, guided only by the finger pointing forward. As they reached the wreck, Mirko felt a void he could not place, a feeling of unease and insecurity.

  “Shit… dropped my damn gun,” he said when he finally placed the reason. “Well… not going back there…”

  But then he saw the glint of metal in the moonlight. “Wait, Uno… looks like our red-haired friend left me a little parting gift…”