My second novel, The Clockwork Caterpillar, should have released by now. Links to the digital copies on Amazon can be followed here and the digital Kobo link can be found here. Last week I posted the first half of the first chapter. Here’s the second part. The rest can be found in the book itself! Hope you enjoy.

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There was the briefest of hesitations: enough pause to make her rebelliousness known. But the weapon dropped nonetheless.

In one quick motion, Hopkins’ boot sent the weapon tumbling over the edge of the bridge into the great beyond.

Felicity cried out, making a useless grab. As she shifted her weight, Hopkins struck her back, sprawling her across the bridge as her hat tumbled loose. She coughed and groaned as he hunched over her.

“You see, life out on the frontier ain’t a simple thing. Some men got to do what they got to do. You take some jobs other folk ain’t. You get a name that some ain’t like. But as I tell you, you live and better than the rest. That’s all that matters.”

He grabbed her by her hair, pulling her to her feet with a yelp.

“And sometimes you get some blood on your hands. But this land ain’t for the weak. Take a look on them hills. They’ve been bathed in the stuff. Always been since them savages learned two stones smashed against each other creates an edge that could paint in crimson. You either fight and live or you get put into the ground to pay the earth her due.”

He pulled her to the bridge’s side, forcing her upon its razor edge. Her arms flailed, fingertips clutching for ribbed steel. He held her tight by her knot; her head pulled uncomfortably back. Her eyes could only see the top of the canyon. Its dark line wound as far as the eye could grasp.

“You can hear the groans of all them stiffs. First was them savages with their constant fighting and hollering. Then them kuli’s in those junks they sailed across the waters with long nails and shaved tails like rats fleeing a sunk ship. Got them cities digging right into the coast all the way up to the mountains. Been nothing but sieged for generations.

“This land is a harsh one.”

He pulled her back, throwing her to the bridge’s planks. He stood over her like a rancher evaluating a lame mule. He half-smiled, watching her fingers tighten around the boards. But she did not move as he crouched.

She coughed and he turned his head, losing her words in the distant cry of an eagle.

“Hunter’s on the wing,” he grinned, reaching down and grasping her chin. He turned her face to look in her eyes, noting with amusement the fierce glare. “So what were them pretty last words you wanted?”

“Should have come willingly.”

He raised a hand to strike her, but thunder cracked against the canyon walls. Hopkins turned to the sky, searching for the phantom storm, but a clatter off his shoulder pulled his attention. One of the barrels landed upon its side, rolled along the wood and bounced against the discarded tools. Hopkins spun to his feet, taking a step towards the wayward vessel while berating its clumsy handler.

Just as unexpectedly as the barrel’s descent, the ruffian fell to the ground. Unlike his parcel, he didn’t move as a dark pool stained his shirt.

Hopkins’ strangled criticism drowned in a second sharp clap.

“Sharpshooter!”

The warning worked its way down the line as bodies dropped behind what cover they could. Eyes scanned the skyline, searching the craggy sides around them for the source. Hopkins dropped to the planks of the bridge, but as he fumbled his revolver, Felicity scampered to her hands and knees. She snatched her hat, fitting it squarely on her head.

“Kill her, fools!”

But the gunmen were slow in loosening their shots. She leaped over a pile of iron girders, pressing tightly against their backsides. The metal sang with the ricochet of bullets. One wayward shot struck the barrel Hopkins had saved and he felt his heart still.

“Stop! Idiots! You’ll hit the kegs!”

It took a few seconds for his order to carry. That floppy hat poked from its cover and regarded both Hopkins and his escort with equal disdain. Hopkins slipped away from its side least another stray shot catch it. He noticed the barrel’s lid had slipped loose. A thin line of black powder traced back to the body of its fallen owner.

A sullen silence filled the bridge.

“So what’s the plan, Hopkins?” Felicity called, her voice ringing clear in the respite. “Things be a little dire unless you’re going for a final stand.”

Her head poked again and the outlaw’s pistol fired. But the shot was off the mark. Hopkins lay on his stomach, hand still shaking with the thought of that barrel exploding. He turned like an engorged snake, inching towards his steed standing obediently at the edge of the bridge. If he could get mounted, surely he could seek escape along the old mule trail into the canyon and away from the sharpshooter’s angle.

But before he could get far, the sound of iron shoes striking wood drew his gaze. All eyes on the bridge turned to its far side. A rider bounded towards them without a single shot to greet him. None dared their cover least they invoke the sky’s wrath by providing a clear line.

The stallion drew upon them with flanks glistening from sweat and exhaustion. Upon the back was a hunched young man as ridiculous as he was stylish. His hair was slicked and immaculately placed. A crisp suit with full breast pockets, polished shoes and a high banded collar clasped about his slender frame and was tailored professionally to his cut. Aside from the light dusting, the clothes were peculiarly clean compared to the rest of the bridge’s visitors. His was a guise more fitting the busy streets of old Rhea Silvia than the rough plains of the frontier. It was as if the Lord had plucked him from across the ocean and dropped him at the very edge of the wastes.

Hopkins leveraged his pistol and released a preemptive shot, dispelling the paralysis holding fast his compatriots.

At such a distance, the shot was too wide, but it served as the vanguard of an entire swarm. The horse cried, kicking at one shot that found mark in its flank. It bucked and knocked its rider free. Frightened and directionless, the beast made the only sensible decision and fled. Its owner scrambled for cover behind the scattered rubbish.

“What are you doing?!” Felicity called.

Crawling on all fours, the gentleman dodged and wove amongst the barrels and wood piles.

“Reinforcing! It appears your lovely self is in quite a bind.”

There was no telling how many of her men remained. Hopkins abandoned all subtlety, emptying chambers to cover his escape.

“Toss me your pistol!” Felicity cried.

“Where’s yours?”

“It got misplaced.”

“Misplaced? After all of your lecturing?”

“Schroeder!”

Her tone was weapon enough and Hopkins pressed up against a thick girder fearing a discharge. He waved for his hands to move and flank them. But the craven snakes shook their heads, hunkering further within their cover despite their clear advantage in numbers.

Hopkins shouted at the closest spring calf and when his head shook a second time in defiance, Hopkins deposited a lead ball in his brainpan as payment.

“Kill her!” Hopkins scream. “Or I’ll kill you!”

There was reservation as the outlaws debated between the untamed they knew and the ones they didn’t amongst the rocks.

A pistol tumbled through the air and bounced, twirling along the planks until it came to an abrupt stop well short of Felicity’s position.

“You throw like a girl.”

“But I love like a man!”

Hopkins raised his jittering firearm towards the lonely weapon. This was an opening. If she stepped out to retrieve it, he could strike her down. He followed the slow inch of her wide hat as it worked along the beams. Then, a large hand reached out and he squinted in concentration. He squeezed, trying to keep the shaking of his arm from reaching his fingers.

The shot missed, but the arm retreated.

“I hope you are satisfied.”

“I’d rather Pacal.”

“My captain, you wound me!”

“At least he can throw!”

It happened before Hopkins expected. From the newcomer’s cover flew a hammer, catching the stranded pistol and sending both skittering to Felicity’s waiting arms.

There was no hesitation.

Felicity dashed to the fallen barrel, popping out the chamber and removing the bullet. Hopkins raised his pistol for a second shot, but the woman kicked the barrel away. It tumbled across his sight.

She fell to the ground but not from a strike. She held the cocked hammer close to the stretching black line of powder and pulled the trigger.

The spark was so brief as to be almost invisible. The flame from the discharge ate the powder greedily, rushing up its twisting path like a frenzied lizard. It popped and hissed as its rolling parent fed it a direct course to the huddled gunmen.

Hopkins’ heart stopped as he saw her game. He flew from his cover—the sharpshooter be damned. Little else pressed upon his mind as he scrambled for the horse. Others shouted and ran. Most were too late.

They fell like pegs hammered into the rail by a grand, unseen hammer. Those that weren’t struck down were caught in the blast.

The explosion was spectacular. A great geyser of splintered and burning wood mixed with charred metals into a hailstorm of deadly debris. The force of the blast knocked those closest to the ground and sent Hopkins tumbling roughly into wood and dirt. He coughed, gasping for the air pounded from his lungs. He looked towards the bridge.

The planks burned fiercely and the steel shook and groaned. Burning wreckage fell like the Lord’s divine wrath. Some of those fiery pieces caught other barrels.

The fireball was spectacular. Metal girders bent before its majesty. The bridge twisted like a loosened rope. Its death rattle shook the canyon itself. The fate of the Glorious Belt Bridge was sealed. Like lips of a parting mouth, the structure peeled back to reveal the gaping maw of the canyon’s throat. Greedily it drank the wreckage, swallowing whole tools, towers, supports and bodies indiscriminately.

Hopkins scrambled to shaking feet as the floor beneath him buckled. He lurched forward, tossing any useless fool who fell across his path backwards into the abyss. He heard the pitying cries of his horse and he made for it with single-mindedness.

The woman’s shout followed his heels.

“Schroeder!”

He dared a glance. Dislodged steel beams tumbled across the collapsing surface, striking those clinging against boards tilting at unnatural angles. The supports gave out in rapid succession and the well-dressed man stumbled in his attempts to keep pace with the woman. He fell and she stopped to grab him as both bodies threatened to spill over the edge.

It would be the perfect shot. Hopkins paused, looking between the horse and the hunter. He could plant a bullet right between her shoulders and be done with them both. The survivors of his gang ignored the vulnerable pair, tripping over themselves as they sought firm footing. Hopkins raised his gun, tasting blood on his lip.

But he felt the earth shudder beneath his feet and his eyes carried across the widening gap between him and his promise of pay. He shoved his pistol into its holster and ran for the sure deal.

His horse was stamping madly but, mercifully, had not taken flight. He grabbed her reins, shouting obscenities as he pulled harsh on her head to reestablish dominance. He was just checking the latches on the saddle to ensure they had not shaken loose in her frenzy when he heard the crunching of gravel.

He caught a flash of brown coat and floppy hat before the woman was upon him.

His fingers instinctively wrapped about the handle of his pistol. But the collision with the ground jolted the weapon from his grasp as the two bodies entwined in the dirt. He struck with boots and she lashed with knees and elbows. He managed to plant a solid kick to her side. She was knocked from him. He crawled through the dust, snatching up his pistol.

She struck like lightning as he turned. The trigger squeezed and the muzzle spat. Felicity grunted as the bullet caught her leg. But her assault continued unimpeded. Fists lashed. She struck again and again. Each knuckle was like a jagged rock pulverizing Hopkins flesh. Her hand gripped his in a struggle for the firearm. In the contest, the weapon spat and Hopkins shrieked as the stray shot tore his shoulder. With his strength sapped, Felicity tore the gun from him. Her punches didn’t abate, however. One strike caught his jaw and his head snapped back, meeting the earth in a shattering impact. He cried. His arms raised uselessly to stem the onslaught.

“Clemency, I beg of you!”

Miraculously, it was granted. Felicity stood, grabbing his fallen pistol. Hopkins’ face was a burning storm of pain and heat. He felt thick liquid upon his skin and reached fingers to a nose that bleed profusely. Numerous cuts oozed hot sanguine over his swelling bruises.

“Stand.”

He simpered. The toe of her boot pressed against his chest as air fled him.

“Not so pleasant, ain’t it?” she asked while he wheezed. “To think all them folk you saw fit to string or worse. It will be more than a pleasure to watch you dance before the noose, you pathetic pond-sucking parasite. Now stand!”

Hopkins sobbed as he lifted to one knee. Felicity’s command grew more stern, but he only shook his head.

“Stand!”

“I can’t!”

Great unseen fingers wrapped about his torso as Hopkins was lifted effortlessly upright. He stumbled. Turning, he found a massive specimen of a man wrapped in thick muscles beneath a wide, golden frame barely contained within worn clothes. But though his dress lacked remarkability itself, he was bedecked in odd adornments. Around his wrists and ankles were thick roped bracers, a trio of deep purple feathers covering their length. The tendons of his hands were highlighted with bright ink running along his knuckles and well beneath his sleeves. A clatter of polished green rocks etched in the shape of round, stylistic faces jangled from his neck. Each head was deformed with massive tongues, large ears or great almond eyes. A strange mantle rested about his shoulders fashioned from brightly dyed cloths woven into intoxicating patterns and fringed with tattered coloured feathers.

And over one shoulder was slung a marksman’s rifle.

“Baax ka waalik, captain. Fine day for catch.”

Felicity smiled at the southerner.

“Fine shooting, Pacal. Couldn’t help notice you shaving things awful close.”

“Forgiveness, captain. Had to pay Kukulcan respects. But you Zaccimi touch.”

She looked at her leg and the wound which spat blood. She shook her head.

“I’ll be fine. Best see to Schroeder, though.”

“I shall yet live!” Only now did Hopkins see the suited man seated upon the brink of the new precipice, nursing his ankle while looking thoroughly less respectable than when he arrived. “But your sun will not visit anywhere it has not travelled already. How about we get these two back to the surgeon and see if we cannot postpone their visit to the Lord’s gate for another day.”

“Ain’t hardly nothing,” Felicity protested. “T’was you who nearly died in that explosion!”

“You have your story, captain, and I have mine.”

“Should have let you drop.”

“And lose a visage like this?” Schroeder smiled. “I believe there is scarcely a replacement in all of Athemisa or beyond.”

“Surely, the Graces would weep,” Felicity sighed. She turned to Hopkins, pulling loose a knotted handkerchief. “Now if you don’t mind rightly, I’m going to need to ensure you don’t try biting off your tongue and choking to death before we get you back all nice and sorted.”