Things were going badly. Things always go badly. No good deed goes unpunished. Call it Reverse Karma. Why hadn't he let the stupid fangirl die? He'd stuck his neck out for the girl and this was how she repaid him. Unbelievable. Unbelievable. He was going to die like this, like a worm on his belly in the mud, to a pebble-throwing mercenary called Thomas. Oh the shame.

  Thomas grinned manically. One million credits can do that to a man. It was probably the happiest day of his life. He leveled his stone, taking careful aim. No rush. No rush at all. Bob shot wildly. Somehow, some way, he had to stop Thomas from firing.

  Bob mashed the trigger. Bang, bang, bang. The metal slugs spiraled at Thomas, each riding on the flash of gunpowder fire. The shieldsman braced himself and three bullets pinged off his shield. Where was Harry when you needed him? Where was a good, heat-seeking mud dart when you needed it?

  Thomas released. The pebble shuddered forward. Bob squeezed the trigger. Then again. Then again. Bang, Bang, click, click, click. The magazine was empty. He kept pulling the trigger over and over, unthinkingly, instinctively. Crack. The last bullet collided head-on with the pebble. He'd actually done it. He'd stopped the missile. He was saved. The metal exploded into fragments as the pebble shoved its way through. No way. Shrapnel hailed down on Thomas and the shieldsman. A cloud of dust, mud and metal. The pebble was speeding towards him. Boom.

  "Am I hit? Am I hit?" Bob patted down his chest, his thighs, his head. There was no pain. There was no injury. Wait. There was something sticky. Something metallic-smelling and red. Bob gagged. Blood. There was a lot of blood. He'd been hit. He was bleeding out. He was going to die. He was going to die.

  "Robert," a weak voice called out to him. The dust was starting to settle. There was a black shape just in front of him. He probed forward with a shaking hand. He felt something. Something warm and soft, something human. He squeezed the person's hand. He squeezed Anastasia's hand.

  "You're going to be alright Anastasia. Don't worry."

  There was a lot of blood. It was pooling around her. She looked small now. Even smaller than before. Young and fragile. Overflowing with hopes and dreams and promise. Bob knelt over her.

  "Anastasia, don't worry. I'm here. You're safe."

  "Robert," she said again. Bob understood. He nodded his head. "I'm here. Don't worry, Anastasia. Don't worry," Bob's voice was cracking, he was trying to look reassuring, but tears were streaming down his face.

  "You'll be fine. It's nothing. A scratch." It was not nothing. It was not a scratch. Her whole chest was caved in. It was a miracle she could talk at all. She should have died long ago.

  "Robert, do you really think I'm pretty?"

  Dammit, that's what she asked him at the very end. Wasn't there something else to say. Teenager girls really are insufferable. "Anastasia," he started, but his voice caught, "Anastasia," he pushed back a few strands of her hair that had strayed out of place, "yes, I think you're very pretty," his voice failed him again "very... pretty."

  She died right there. Right in front of him. She was smiling. She looked happy. It didn't make any sense. Nothing made sense. Bob's mind was a wreck, a swirl of confused and broken thoughts. It didn't make sense.

  Bob stood up. He stumbled down. His leg was dripping with blood where Thomas had grazed him. He couldn't put weight on it. Bob pushed himself up. The shieldsman had caught a face full of shrapnel and was rolling on the floor. He'd never see again. Thomas's right arm was blooded. His throwing arm. A sliver of the bullet must have stayed on course. The man picked up a stone with his left hand and tried to force it into his right. The stone dropped out on to the floor. No more throwing stones for you.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Bob staggered forward. He had a white dagger in his hand. Thomas backed away. He tripped. He crabbed backwards as fast as he could. Bob staggered forward. The battlefield was mayhem and ruin. Craters, blood, weapons, wounded calling out for mercy or just moaning with animal pain. Thomas turned around, scrambled up and started to run.

  Ruff!

  At the tunnel entrance was a golden retriever. A golden retriever with a red backpack. And sitting on that red backpack like a saddle was a little boy. A little boy with a big grin and a shiny scout whistle around his neck. George had arrived. Thomas froze. He eyed the dog and his rider. Then he looked back at Bob, still staggering forward, like a zombie with that misty, white dagger in his hand. Thomas decided he'd rather take the dog.

  "Out of the way."

  George opened his mouth. There was a crackling thrum. The tunnel suddenly grew uncomfortably warm and orange shadows danced across the walls. The dog hadn't attacked, only hinted at the menace of his attack, but Thomas fell to pieces.

  Bob staggered forward. Bob had caught up.

  Thomas was cowering as his feet. As he should. Bob raised the white dagger. This was the end. Blood for blood. Don't make me kill you, he had said it, hadn't he? Why hadn't he listened? The end. The end of all things. George stepped between them.

  The dog was blocking his master. Bob screwed up his face. He scowled at the dog.

  "Heel!" He shouted.

  The dog disobeyed him.

  "Heel!" The dog disobeyed.

  "George, he killed her. She wasn't supposed to die. It's all pointless."

  The dog stayed put.

  Bob started to beg, "George, you've got to let me. I've got to do it. I won't be able to live with myself."

  The dog didn't move.

  "Dammit George. Dammit George. I can't just do nothing."

  Bob's strength failed him. He toppled down. He was on his knees. On his stomach. The world crushes down on Atlas's back. I always end up here don't I? Beaten down. Lying in the mud. Pathetic and powerless. Why do I always end up here? Heroes are made from the dust, just like mortals.

  George whined and started licking at the wound on Bob's leg. Bob was going to pass out. The world was greying, losing focus. He was drifting. Drifting away. But not yet. Not yet. He didn't want to go just yet. He felt like he was on the edge of something. And he didn't want to lose this clarity. This understanding. Because he had been wrong.

  He had been wrong from the very beginning. Why hadn't he seen it? Why don't we ever see anything until it's too late, until we've paid for it? He had only thought abut how to drive them off. How to get rid of them. He had been afraid of them. Enemies. Strangers. And he was right to be afraid. But that wasn't enough. That wasn't reason enough. These people had come here for a reason. They were survivors. They were victims. And he had the power to help them. He had the strength. He could do it. He ought to do it. To step up. To lead.

  He saw Anastasia lying there. Her soft eyes and the dark, empty hole where her chest had been. Her heart. He remembered the way she looked at him. Like he was someone worth admiring. The hero of her dreams. Her savior. He wasn't though. He was a damn fool, weak and lazy and cowardly. But maybe he could be. Maybe he could be that person she'd seen in him. And probably he would fail. And probably he would lose his way. But that was no reason not to try. Failure is no argument against effort.

  He dragged himself up a little. Just enough to see the people's faces. There were only five of them left. Strong, bald Ali and next to the bespectacled father watching his little boy, and off to side, the grandmother with a walker and a middle-aged, housewife-looking woman. To Bob's eyes, they looked afraid. Hopeless really. Their strongest members lay slaughtered around them. Outside, the bandit king was hunting for scalps. And inside, was Bob the Brown, Arch Wizard of the Mud, Lord of Earth, Mr. Number One. Whom their company had attacked, unprovoked and with murderous intentions. What hope did they really have?

  And then Bob's eyes fell on the little boy. He was smiling and laughing. It was strange and sweet to hear the little boy laughing so. He was stroking George's fur in that clumsy, childlike way. The boy had been saved. George had saved him. In a way Bob never could. And Bob too couldn't help but smile a little. George was always two steps ahead of old Bob wasn't he? George always knows best.

  These people, they wanted a refuge, a safe place, a homeland. And he had one. He had one. Had he really meant to bar the gates and throw them back out into the cold world? Well he would do better now. He would follow George's lead. He called up his settlement tab and offered citizenship to each of them. Their eyes glazed over as they received the message. They all looked stunned.

  Why, the father even started to cry. He had to push up his glasses so he could better wipe away the tears. His little boy ran up to him and asked, "Daddy, can we live here? I want to play with the dog more."

  The father choked up. But he was smiling. He was smiling through it. His eyes had a happy, hopeful glint that Bob had never seen in them. Bob had done that. That was Bob's work.

  "Yes, George. We sure can."

  "Thanks Dad," and the boy George ran off to play with the dog George.