The Sheriff
by Matthew Smith
The Sheriff is a sci-fi western short story about a sheriff on a run-down planet. The idea for this story came from a classroom activity in my creative writing class where we created sentences based on different prompts. One of those sentences turned into a whole short story! I also took a lot of inspiration from sci-fi franchises like Mad Max and The Mandalorian to create the rough, gritty world of The Sheriff. I hope you enjoy it!
When you’re the sheriff of Desolett, you encounter a lot of retribution. In these parts of the galaxy, being an outlaw is almost second nature. From birth, most boys are raised with a gun at the hip and saying, “every man for himself.” That’s just part of living on Desolett:
Sometimes you take justice into your own hands.
“Clayton, pistol need ammo?” Deputy Anton Payne asks.
“Yeah, toss me… three cartridges,” I respond. “I never got to top off the Viper after the standoff this week.”
“Yeah, that was a rough one. I’m glad we took the Stalker out, but I did have to burn a lot of ammo,” chuckles Payne. “Lucky for me, I was able to get my weapons cleaned and reloaded yesterday. You take the day off or somethin’?”
“There’s never really a day off in this place, is there?” I say with a smile.
Being one of the last remnants of law enforcement isn’t pretty, but the job’s always been the right fit for me. From the moment my late father gave me this pistol, I knew I wanted to be a sheriff. Now that I am, I think using his pistol is the only way I can thank him. The Viper C18 has history like no other gun I’ve ever held. “A relic,” my father would call it. I’m sure it’s seen it all: bloody wars on Old Earth, starport raids in the remote systems, and the fearful eyes of whatever poor soul crossed its path. Now with every shootout, I add to its history.
“Alright, Anton, we ready to head out?” I ask. “Raymond will be waiting on us.”
“Yes sir, Sheriff,” Payne says. “I’ll grab the drifter out of the garage. Sounds like we’ve got another homicide.”
Desolett, as its name suggests, is a scarce, broken-down planet. If the galaxy had a junkyard, Desolett would be the top prospect. Forty years ago, this star system’s governing force decided Desolett, the primary mining planet in our
system, was no longer a viable resource, and pulled their support, leaving its mining operations and people in the dust. Literally. In the time since, sandstorms have covered much of the planet’s surface, making life even more miserable for the people here.
For Desolett’s abandoned people, there are two ways off this rock: You either save up enough for a starship, or you join the Shipyard Stalkers, this sector’s pirate syndicate. Though a starship sounds like a ticket to paradise, without the mining outposts, most won’t make enough money in a lifetime to get a starship. As for the Shipyard Stalkers, only the most desperate and cowardly people of Desolett join their ranks. The Stalkers travel the star system, looting and killing wherever they go. And with no governing force to keep them in line, they run rampant, and small departments like us are left to defend our sectors and pick up the pieces of the mess they make.
The shooting was in the slums, just like the last dozen. Last week, I responded to a double homicide two blocks down. One of the Stalkers had broken into a woman’s home and killed her son for a little extra cash. He was 19. When the poor mother saw what happened, she picked up a shotgun and gave him a new hole to breathe through, right smack-dab in the middle of his chest. It was… unfortunate that the files of that case got lost.
“Anton, let Raymond know that we’re ‘bout 10 minutes out,” I call out over the grinding of the drifter’s engine.
“You got it, Clayton. How much you wanna bet it's another Stalker case?” Payne jokes.
“They’ve sure been active recently. It seems like every other call is one of their victims!”
Crime has been up since the Shipyard Stalkers came back. Those thugs come and go as they please, and use Desolett as their playground. Whenever they come back, homicides go through the roof, and the crime scenes get bloodier and bloodier.
This crime scene is no different. The body was found in one of the abandoned spaceports. The layers of sand and grime tell us it probably hasn’t been used in decades. It’s a bloody crime scene. Blood on the wall and floor suggests that the victim was dragged over near the console before he was killed.
“Don’t tell me, another lowlife Stalker found a new victim?” I say as I walk up to Forensics Officer Raymond. Raymond stands up and walks over to greet Deputy Payne and me. I pull out a cigarette as I look at the tarp on the body. “Got a light?”
Raymond hands me a lighter. “Actually, quite the opposite. Sheriff Spears. Deputy Payne,” he replies, shaking our hands. “In a turn of events around here, a Stalker is the victim this time. We’re working on an identification to see if he was born around here, but judging by his chest branding, it looks like this guy has been in their ranks for decades. He has some years under his belt, and a rank to show for it.”
“Interesting. Cause of death?” I ask, uncovering the body.
“Shot to death. We found him with three bullet wounds. Two shots to the chest, one to the head,” Raymond says. “By the looks of it, he didn’t get a chance to fight back.”
Serves him right, I thought. After the bloodshed that the Stalkers have caused, it's hard to blame people for fighting back. Some of the Shipyard Stalkers have been around for years, and on Desolett, revenge is often the way to honor the dead. Decades of service to the Stalkers is a long time. Long enough for vengeance to build up. “Any leads?”
“The ammunition isn’t unique —pistol caliber— and there are no prints on him, so it’s hard to get a suspect ID. In all honesty, Sheriff, I don’t think there’s enough to keep this investigation open. I’d clean this up and move on. But of course, it's your call,” Raymond says.
“What do you think, Deputy?” I ask.
Payne shakes his head. “As far as I’m concerned, Clayton, our duty is to protect the people of Desolett, not these assholes. Our people have suffered enough because of them. I say let the people have this one.”
“Alright then. We’re done here,” I say, looking down on the body.
Raymond walks away to grab a body bag while Deputy Payne and I stand over the body. “Hey,” Payne says. “I hate to pick at old wounds, but wasn’t your dad killed by one of these scumbags?”
“A long time ago.”
“You ever find out what happened to the bastard?”
I toss my cigarette onto the corpse in front of me. “He got what he deserved.”