//The Inferno
//by Brett Parsons  VulpineHero
Concept and Characters © Anon_Edge

Clara's horse kicked up clouds of dust as it stormed across the open plain. It was dangerous to ride at these speeds in the dark, as the horse's hoof could fall into a hole and tumble, breaking its leg. But speed was essential, and the risk was necessary. She bent low over the horse's neck and rode hard, keeping her hat held on with a single hand, the other clutching the reins for dear life.

She risked a glance back over her shoulder. Far on the horizon, she could still just barely make out the glow of the bonfire as she rode away from it.

Just a couple hours earlier, Clara was helping to build that campfire. It was one of the limited selection of uses the measly gang could find for her. The girl couldn't shoot a can of beans if it was only a few paces away, making her terrible as a brigand and an outlaw. She was, however, useful as a survivalist and a gatherer, and she had a better way with the horses than any of the others.

Unfortunately, those things didn't endear her to the rest of the gang. She had been with the gang for several weeks, but now the others were treating her distantly, like an unwanted pet. They roamed off to do their own duties for setting camp. One of the others tied the horses' reins together to keep them from wandering off. Another watched to make sure Clara was starting the fire right, even though she was the one who did it almost every night.

Suzanne, their leader, was off staring into the east, arms crossed underneath her modest chest. The sun had vanished underneath the horizon, staining the sky with hues of ruddy pink. Once the fire was sufficiently blazing, Clara stood up without even offering a glance towards the gang member minding her and walked over to Suzanne.

Being the head of a gang was not a duty that aged someone gracefully, Clara noted. Suzanne was about middle-aged, and not the picture of Eastern beauty. The hard living out in the plains and deserts had lined her face deeply. Her personality matched her craggy face as if the latter was a silk glove pulled over it. Clara didn't like her at all. But the gang had its uses to her.

“Suzanne,” Clara ventured, staying a pace back from the leader. The older woman turned around and glared at her, her weathered face dagger-sharp.

“It's out there, Clara,” the older woman said, taking a glance back to the horizon. Just out of view lay the sleepy town they were casing. “Just a couple more hours now.”

“Exactly,” Clara replied. She was almost a foot shorter than the gang leader, and always intimidated by her. Still, she mustered up as much confidence a farm girl could possess. “That's why I want the first watch tonight. I definitely won't be able to sleep.”

Suzanne looked at her, eyes narrowed. “It's just a few hours, girl. I want you rested so you can mind the horses. This'll be a quick in-and-out job. Gregory will be taking first watch and then Zeke and then you. We'll move in before dawn.”

“And you sleep all night, right?” Clara replied, crossing her arms across herself.

Suzanne's gaze sharpened. Clara had stepped past a line. “Don't you question me, girl. Get your ass over there and go to sleep. Those horses are going to be ornery when we wake them up.”

Clara did as she was ordered, outwardly storming off like a petulant child, but inwardly reworking her plan. Again ignoring the other members of the gang, she returned to the now-blazing campfire and set up her bedroll. She laid down on the thin mattress and covered herself with her blanket, rolling away from the warmth – and more importantly, light – of the fire and staring off into the darkness for a while, hoping she passed for being asleep.

She strained her hearing as she used her hat as a pillow, inspecting every noise she could hear over the crack and pop of the fire. Clara counted one, then two, and finally she could account for everyone gathering over by the fire. She gave it a little more time, listening as bedrolls were unfurled and curses were uttered towards rocks half-buried in the earth. The horses snorted occasionally as they laid down together. Suzanne kicked someone and told him off, moving him out of the best spot by the fire.

Clara waited another hour, just to be sure. She heard the snoring now, and the sounds of rustling in bedrolls were few and far between. Carefully, she rolled over and looked for Gregory. The man was sitting off on the edge of the firelight, gazing off into the darkness of the prairie at night. His back was to her, making her feel safe enough to slide out of her bedroll, checking everyone's faces around the fire to see if they were awake. No one moved in response to her motions, so she crept along the ground and brush, out of the light.

In the dark beyond the reach of the fire, Clara sneaked her way around the edges of the camp like a rattlesnake, keeping herself faced towards the fire in case anyone stirred. She made her way over to the horses and quietly woke them, gently brushing them along their faces. The girl had always had a way with the animals, growing up on a farm in her youth. The horses didn't mind her presence, usually equating her with food. They all stood up, snorting lightly and whinnying.

Gregory turned and looked over at the horses, seeing they were up. Clara hid in the center of them, clutching the reins in her hands. The watchman ignored the horses and went back to his bored whittling. Clara exhaled quietly and began to untie the horses, releasing all of them but one, which she held on to tightly.

This was it. Once she stepped her plan forward one more bit, it would be do or die. Swallowing, Clara checked her gunbelt, making sure she had her pistol. She tipped her hat onto her head, turned to one of the other horses, and then slapped it hard on the flank.

The horse panicked, bucking and then running off into the night with a surprised whinny. The other horses, spooked by the other's sudden outburst, followed suit, scattering away from the camp. Even the one Clara clung on to by the reins reared and tried to pull away, but she eased it back down and soothed it.

Gregory, however, obviously noticed the disturbance. He leaped up from his boulder perch and watched as the horses scattered away, then his eyes settled on the girl holding on to the last mount. “Clara? What the hell are you doing?”

She chose not to reply, calming the horse and leaping onto its back by the stirrups. The horse protested, but she tugged on the reins and turned it around. Gregory raised the alarm, shouting after her as she spurred the horse away. If everyone wasn't already awake, they would be after the man pulled his revolver from his belt and shot after her once, sending up a plume of dirt as the bullet struck the ground near the horse.

Clara hoped that scattering the horses would give her enough of a lead on the others to get to the town and get away. She rode hard through the night, trying to give herself the best possible advantage before the gang could catch up. Holding her hat down and clinging to the reins, she rode towards the town far in the distance.

She found a road and turned on it, passing farmhouses and little general stores on the outskirts, the lights all out in the late evening and the farmers long gone to bed. Clara rode in like a phantom, slowing her pace slightly so she could inspect the buildings as she approached the heart of the town. She was searching for a pawn shop, looking for a second-story painted sign or something of the such.

It was hard to see with only the moonlight and the amber glow of the occasional tavern to see by, but eventually she found what she was searching for. A big sign over the front awning read, “Orrel's Jewelry and Pawn.”

Clara rode her horse up to a saloon where some late-night revelers were whiling away the hours and dismounted. She tied up the reins on the hitching post and walked over to the pawn shop, looking it over and taking a moment to circle around it. It was a two-story building, likely so the store could make up the lower level and the rest could be used for a residence. There were windows on the second floor, but the only doorway was the front of the shop. There wasn't even a rear access in the alley behind the store.

Feeling confident that the place was secure, Clara walked up the short stairs onto the porch of the store, testing the doors. Of course, they were locked. It was a jewelry store, too, after all. She knelt down and reached to her belt to take out a rolled-up kit hanging at her hip. Setting it in front of her, she unrolled it and took out several tools, beginning to work on the lock.

Her shaking hands made it hard to work, however. It was impossible to concentrate knowing that the object of her search was only a few feet away. Clara had spent the past two years of her life hunting for the Inferno, a folk legend in six-shooter form. Myth held that it either once belonged to the Devil himself, or he traded it to a gunslinger who sold his soul for an edge. Either way, the legends claimed that the Inferno granted its wielder the Devil's own skill. And with Clara's horrible aim, she needed that skill.

Most people who heard the stories refused to believe the Inferno actually existed, but Clara had seen it before. Years ago, as a little girl, her father had shown it to her when it came into his possession. She could still recall it perfectly. The metal of the barrel and cylinder was an ugly red-orange, like rust, and eldritch symbols were carved down the length of the barrel. A pentacle had been carved into the handle, the circle eerily perfect in shape.

Though Clara had never learned why her father owned the gun, even for a short time, it may have been why her family had been targeted. But that ownership had allowed her to track the path the Inferno had taken since then, with Suzanne's gang's help. Clara had promised Suzanne the Inferno, and hopefully now that decision would not backfire on her.

She popped open the lock and gathered her tools, looking around the street to make sure no one noticed her legal transgression. She slipped into the store, her eyes adjusting to the near-total darkness. Orrel's Jewelry and Pawn was as much a country store as she had ever seen. The front half of the first floor was dedicated to the store, with a counter and a door leading to the back room. There were racks set up in the center of the room, with various goods and items on display. Shelves lined the walls, too, containing practically anything imaginable, being a pawn shop. She wondered where the jewelry was kept, but it was probably under lock and key. None of it interested her, anyways. Maybe a couple years from now, if she was still around, she might want some jewelry, but not now. She still had a mission.

Despite the low light level, it was obvious there were no weapons on the shelves. The Inferno was probably held in the back room. But in the dark, Clara's foot knocked over a bucket full of small, metallic objects, probably nails. She froze, listening, and heard thumping coming from the floor above. Clara rushed quietly over to the door to the back of the store, where she assumed the stairs were since she couldn't see them in the front.

The thumping came down the stairs and Clara reached down to her hip, pulling out her revolver. She didn't want to have to kill anyone, but she may have to in order to survive. Pressed to the wall beside the door, gun raised to her shoulder, she waited as the door to the back room was thrown open and orange light filled a cone in the front room. The shopkeeper, presumably Mr. Orrel, followed after his outstretched arm, lamp in one hand and a hammer in the other.

He didn't see Clara in the dark as he stepped into the storefront and she rushed him, revolver raised high. Mr. Orrel spun towards her and squealed, shielding his face, but Clara managed to club him on the forehead with the grip of her weapon. The plump shopkeeper fell like a sack of feed onto the floor, his hammer and lamp clattering away from him. Clara set the lamp just inside the door to the back of the store and then hauled Mr. Orrel through the doorway with some difficulty thanks to his weight. She slumped him into the corner, panting, and replaced her revolver into its holster.

Turning, Clara looked around the poorly-lit backroom, picking up the lantern and looking around. There were crates and barrels back here, containing more items that were likely not top sellers. But there was also a huge metal safe in the corner. That had to be it.

Clara knelt beside the safe and held her ear against its surface, rolling the lock and listening to the tumblers through the iron. She tried for a minute, but she knew that time wasn't on her side in this instance, so cracking the safe quietly was no option. The gang was going to be hot on her heels and showing up any minute, depending on how much trouble wrangling the horses had been for them.

She stood and drew her revolver again, taking aim at the hinge. She fired, with a bright flash from the muzzle, a poof of gunsmoke, and a sound that would likely wake the neighbors. It was almost deafening in the enclosed room. But the bullet bent the hinge enough that Clara was able to kick the safe door open with her foot.

Inside rest a stack of notes of various denominations and a small pile of coins, the typical things to be found in a safe. There was also a cloth-wrapped bundle, which Clara reached in and retrieved. The object within was hard and heavy, and her hand quivered as she unwrapped it. Rust-red metal rest within the bundle.

At long last, she had it in her grasp. The Inferno. The weapon that would allow her to have her vengeance. She pulled the cloth completely away and grasped the handle firmly, looking at the runes etched into the barrel and the symbol carved on the wood.

Unbidden, the memories from her home began to surface. She could smell the fire at first and feel the heat against her face. Her family farmhouse was ablaze, the flames rippling across the dry wheat fields and pouring smoke into the night sky. She hid with the animals in the barn, crying as she watched the senseless destruction between a gap in the barn's wall.

Then there was the man. He walked by the barn, acting like he was searching it. He was camouflaged into the night, wearing a long, black duster, as shadowy and velvet as the sky, that covered all the way down to his ankles. Clara couldn't see his face with the bright flames behind him, but it was better that way. She wouldn't have been able to look into the eyes of evil.

It was only later, in her quest to find the Inferno, that she discovered the identity of the men who burned down her farm: the Seven Spirits. Suzanne told her stories of them when she joined the gang. Like wraiths, they attacked randomly, razing farmhouses and small settlements without warning. Their motives were inscrutable. The Spirits killed indiscriminately, but never bothered to take any possessions or wealth. Stories held that they were searching for a weapon, as witnesses claimed they inspected the firearms of the people they slaughtered.

Noises drew Clara back out of her memories and she looked up sharply. People were talking just outside the pawn shop. It might have been the local sheriff and his deputies, but, unfortunately, Clara recognized the voices. Suzanne was shouting to the other gang members. Clara stuffed the Inferno between her belt and trousers and took cover beside the door, peering out around the corner.

She had no way to escape. Zeke was already barreling into the only door in or out of the pawn shop, revolver held straight-armed in front of himself. Clara whipped around the doorway and pointed her gun at him, firing. She tugged the trigger before she had totally lined up her shot and again at the end of the recoil from the first shot. Her bullets snapped into the floor and ceiling, respectively. Zeke hooked and fetched his way into cover, diving behind one of the racks in the center of the store. He fired blind around his cover and another gang member stormed through the door, firing.

Clara ducked back behind her cover, sinking to her knees as bullets ripped apart the wall, blowing splinters through the air. More bullets fired through the open doorway and blew holes in her cover. Clara popped off two more shots blindly into the storefront, hearing the bullets ping off metal objects resting on the shelves.

She spun out her cylinder and checked it. Only one bullet left. Digging around her belt, she looked for her bullet pouch, but couldn't find it. Either she had left it at the camp or it had fallen loose on her ride into town. She had only one bullet, but as long as the gang didn't suspect that, they wouldn't try to rush her. At the same time, there was no way for her to escape. Her best chance was to try to force them into cover and then run for it.

Gripping her revolver with both hands, Clara inhaled and then rushed into the storefront, weapon aimed. But no one was there. The gang members had pulled out of the store. Just as Clara had begun to wonder why, a firebomb, lit from the end, flew in through the open doorway and smashed across the floor. The glass shattered and spread the whiskey across the floorboards, igniting it. The flames soon spread throughout the store. In panic, Clara shot the last bullet through the open door and rushed back into the back room.

Unarmed and trapped, Clara sank to the floor in the corner, waiting for the flames to come take her. That's when she felt the bundle pressing into her back. She reached back and retrieved the Inferno, flipping out the cylinder. It was fully loaded. Her suicidal plan was back on track.

She wrapped her finger around the trigger and pushed herself to her feet, but a sudden wrack of pain knocked her legs out from under her, doubling her over. The girl grabbed her stomach, feeling ice prickle from within her body even as the flames started to sear from without. Then she began to grow hot, intensely so, and her muscles began to convulse, sending her into a sprawling heap on the floor.

Clara dropped the Inferno in her flailing, fortunately, so she did not waste any of its precious bullets, if they were, in fact, precious. Her skin itched painfully and then burst all over with almost midnight-black fur, covering every inch of her body. The woman's new pelt was thin and downy and extremely soft. The hat fell from her head as sharp, smooth horns extended agonizingly from her scalp, growing several inches long. They looked identical to bull's horns, tapering to dangerous-looking points.

As her legs kicked, they lengthened and thickened, growing curvy and powerful even as she gained several inches. Her clothes groaned and strained to contain the growing, furred woman. The top two buttons on her shirt blew open, exposing black fur and cleavage as the latter swelled. Clara's musculature thickened slightly and grew strong, as if she had spent years working hard to develop her body, transforming her into a lean but powerful beast.

Her eyes snapped open as her irises faded from their bright blue to a hazy purple and finally into a bright, devilish red. The convulsions slowed, leaving her laying, panting and overheated, on the floor of the pawn shop. Clara rolled onto her belly and grabbed the Inferno, seeing her black, fur-covered hand. Assuming she had been badly burned, the woman stood up, feeling her strength return swiftly. She had no right idea why, but she felt powerful, far more capable than she had ever been in her life.

As the inferno began to spread into the backroom, Clara changed her plan and grabbed Mr. Orrel by his shirt, heaving him over one shoulder. It did not even occur to her at the time that she should never have been able to manage such a feat of strength on her own. Doing it just felt so natural that she went into it without thinking.

Hauling the shopkeeper upstairs, Clara held her other forearm against her mouth, trying not to inhale the hot smoke that was flooding the building. She found one of the upstairs windows in the bedroom and kicked it out with the heel of her boot, sending a rain of broken glass to the alleyway below.

Gingerly, she heaved Mr. Orrel through the window and dropped him. He landed on his backside with a thump and sprawled on the ground. Hopefully the fall had not hurt him too badly; staying in the building would have been far worse. Sweeping the broken glass out of the window frame with the barrel of the Inferno, Clara grabbed the edge and swung herself out, perching on the outside of the wall to slow herself and then jumping down, landing on her boots with a catlike crouch. She stood and shook herself off, noticing something flap about behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, the woman noticed she had a short, black, tufted tail.

As absolutely bizarre as that was, there was no time to worry about it. The gang had heard the shattering glass and several members were running around the corner.

“Here she is!” one shouted, firing into the dark. All they could really see was a silhouette and two red pinpricks for eyes, assuming it was the firelight reflecting in Clara's gaze. Gregory lifted his rifle and fired, the bullet streaking past Clara's face. As she began to back up to get behind the building for cover, since the alley was bare of anything save Mr. Orrel, Clara lifted the Inferno and fired.

It was a one-in-a-million shot. Red, hellish flames flared from the muzzle of the Inferno and the girl who couldn't hit a can at ten yards put a bullet straight down the barrel of Gregory's rifle, blowing out the chamber at the back of the barrel. Gregory dropped the weapon and grabbed his face, howling. He slumped down to the ground and the others pressed past him, firing wildly with their sidearms.

Clara rushed around into the space between the backs of the buildings. There was more cover back here, but little of it was useful to Clara until she could get behind it. She had no time, anyways, as the gang members rushed in, right on her tail – literally, she noted.

Desperately, the woman held her ground and spun around, arm held straight and locked, the Inferno raised. The first gang member came around the corner, a bandanna covering half of his face so she couldn't tell who it was. He drew down on her, but she was far quicker now. Her first shot struck the cylinder of his revolver, the shock of the impact blowing the weapon out of his hand. Her second and third bullets blasted into his arm and leg, tearing through meat and sending him in a heap, wounded, to the ground.

Her aim was perfect. No longer did she under-aim or over-correct. Instinct pointed the Inferno and pulled the trigger, her mind aiming and firing subconsciously. She saw herself firing like it was a dream. The second gang member charged in over the first, two revolvers in his fists. Clara took away his ability to use them. Severed index fingers flew through the air with tiny streams of blood and the man crumpled onto the ground, trying to grasp his maimed hands.

Zeke leaped around the far side of the building and took cover behind some metal roof sheeting, which was thick enough that Clara was dubious her bullets could penetrate. Instead, she had an itching to shoot the wall of the pawn shop itself and fired. The bullet ricocheted off the hard wood and she heard it spang against the far side of the metal, shaking it. Zeke never popped up.

Clara counted her shots to get a tally of how many she had left. But, impossibly, she had fired seven times. Once at Gregory, three times more, twice more, and then once again. The Inferno, unusual as it was, was still a six-shooter. She rolled the cylinder and, to her amazement, found that the firing caps on all of the bullets were whole and pristine. The gun was still fully-loaded.

She heard the cock of a hammer and looked up. Suzanne stood across from her in the alleyway, revolver drawn down on her head. The older woman glared hard in the dim firelight, the flames glittering off the barrel of her weapon.

“Drop it, Clara,” she growled. “It's done.”

Clara held onto the Inferno, turning to face Suzanne.

“Clara! I know you're out!”

No, Suzanne suspected she was out, Clara knew. If she knew for sure that Clara had no bullets, she would shoot her between the eyes and be done with it.

Part of the back wall of the pawn shop weakened and broke free, clattering to the ground and releasing a cloud of embers. The gap in the wall shined with firelight, lining the women's sides with an orange glow. Suzanne's eyes widened and her revolver began to waver as Clara's horns reflected the light and her black fur didn't. The younger woman narrowed her fire-red eyes and pushed the Inferno into the holster where her old gun had rest.

Suzanne fired wildly as Clara bull-rushed her. The bullets soared past, fear reducing the older woman's aim to nothing. Clara smacked the revolver away with a bone-breaking smack and grabbed Suzanne by the vest and hauled her off her feet. She slammed the gang leader against the wall of the saloon a foot in the air, her eyes wide with terror as she could finally completely behold Clara's transformation.

“What the hell are you?!” she gasped, legs dangling in empty air as she tried to peel Clara's vice grip from her vest. The younger, transformed woman just glared silently. “God, Clara, please. Please! Don't do this. Don't kill me!”

Clara balled her fist, but Suzanne continued begging. “I can give you money! I'll tell you where the stash is! Remember the bank we knocked over in Easton? It's all still there. At least five hundred dollars. You could buy a lot with that!”

Clara dropped Suzanne onto her hindquarters, and the older woman continued to cower at her feet. Cocking back her fist, Clara slammed it against Suzanne's temple, knocking her cold. She bounced once against the saloon wall and then slumped forward, unconscious.

The gang members that were not unconscious watched the tall woman stride away in mortal fear, trying desperately not to invite her wrath again. Clara walked down the alleyway, pausing to scoop up Mr. Orrel and deposit him on the steps of the saloon. The late-night drinkers had come out in response to all the gunfire, but they backed away in fear from the demonic-looking cow-woman as she stepped into the light and set the unconscious man down.

Clara finally took a moment to look down at herself. She was so utterly different, she didn't recognize her own body. Her skin, her shape, everything – it was all changed. It looked unnatural, even if it didn't feel that way. But she wanted it. This was her edge. It was what would take her to the Seven Spirits and bring her vengeance.

She turned away from the terrified townsfolk and untied her horse. The animal seemed to recognize her and calmed when she stroked her hand down its muzzle. As she climbed onto its back, flames seemed to engulf the horse, spooking the others tied at the hitch. When the fire died down, Clara's mount had grown larger and stronger, covered in black fur just like its master. A mane as red as flame cascaded over one side of its neck.

Clara turned her horse towards the road leading out of town and spurred it. The woman, the horse, and the gun disappeared into the night, leaving a trail of flaming shoemarks in their wake.