Note - Well I didnt get many reviews for my first chapter, so I'll see how it goes with the second. X_X I hope that I can do a little better this time. I really appreciate the views and reviews. Keep them coming, and I'll keep writing! LoL, I sincerely hope I can keep the ideas flowing. I like what I have so far....

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Two days. It seemed like two years. But what would he know of time, he'd been dead. Nicholas trudged on, lost in the constant loop of illogical happenings. He was a man of faith, yes, once even known as "Mr. Priest" to someone from a life once lived. However, no amount of faith or judgement passing had ever brought one back from beyond the reaches of the grave. Everyone thought about death, but few had ever lived it, to be ironic about it. It wasnt what he'd expected; no bright lights, no comforting music, no outstretched arms. He didnt even remember what it was like. He'd done his best not to think about it for the two days he'd walked. And he'd tried not to sleep, it did nothing but remind him of the darkness. He kept going, foot over foot, wishing for small things that even surprised him. A sandwich, a smoke, a haircut. He'd run out of the who knew how old cigarettes the previous day, and often found himself reaching into an empty pocket. Fortunately for him, the Punisher wasnt an extra burden, it felt strangely at home rested over his shoulder.

Two days under the twin suns, and Gunsmoke was just as unfriendly as he remembered. He was tired, and still hungry. He had cooked a desert-lizzard dinner from an odd looking horned lizard that he'd caught with his bare hands. He couldnt bring himself to open his only real possession. Breaking the canvas seal on the Punisher meant only one thing; reliving a life and creating new, violent memories. He thought about where he was going, he thought about the desolation, but mostly he thought about why. Why was he revived, for lack of a better term? There had to be a purpose, there had to be some method in the madness that was building at the edges of his sanity. Maybe that red-coated broomhead had something to do with this. Maybe those freaks the Gung-Ho's had a hand in it. He didnt know. The only thing he felt sure about was that if he didnt reach civilization of some kind shortly, his revisit would be remarkably short.

He guessed he was heading south, late in that second day. The suns were on their decent, but still a good hour away from dusk. Nicholas was again swimming in the ocean of thought and possibility, and still no closer to anything resembling a straw to grab at. So lost, was he, that he never even heard the riders approaching. A large, squatty transport rumbled through the loose sand toward him from the west. Eventually he found it in himself to care, and turned to face them, again feeling a nagging itch at the corner of his lips where a cigarette should be. He lowered the Punisher to the ground and leaned on it, dragging a silver crossed-cuffed jacket sleeve across his eyes. The vechicular travellers, four in number, were scraggly at best. The wagon itself was six wheeled, greyed with age, and featureless. Three of the men, all wearing scraps of clothing that looked like the desert sands in the evening, stepped briskly from the crawler.
"Ho there, good fella. Whats a holy man like you doing fifty iles from anywhere?" the speaker was the largest of the bunch, distinguishable only by that and a pair of overly large goggles resting on his forehead. He scratched a hand across his day-old black stubble, waiting for an answer.
"I dont really know, actually. Looking for a town, a city, a smoke," Wolfwood shrugged a bit, squinting his right eye against the sun glaring on the side of his face.
"A city?" the just-less-than-portly man laughed almost to the point of tears before he continued. "Your the first funny one we've come across. You'll do just fine." A slow grin split the sun-baked lips of the man.
"Do just fine?" Wolfwood cocked a brow behind his considerably long bangs. And then he got it. He chanced a quick look to the crawler, to the fourth occupant. It was an old man, with his hands suspiciously in front of him, remaining obediently silent. Slavers. Even scum like this were still around. A funny thought, considering it could have been yesterday for all Nick knew. "Ah, I see." At the same time Nick knew the outcome of the impending confrontation, an immense wave of sadness washed over him. His one distant hope for this new life, this second chance, was shattered like a window pane. And then another feeling. Nothing. His features relaxed, his shoulders slumped, and the emotion raced away from him like sands pushed by wind.
The slavers had made their mistake. The saw his shoulders sag, and took it as a sign of resignation. They made a horrible judgement call. They closed in on him all at once, most under the pretense that they could overpower him and toss him in the back with the old man. Wrong. The Punisher whipped up, weightless in a thoughtless hand, and promptly stole away the consciousness of the leftmost slaver; he dropped in a heap. Before eyes could go wide and swears could be recited, the Punisher whipped a tight arc around Nick's head and forcibly slammed into the rightmost slaver's considerable stomach. Before his descent brought him to his knees, two things happened. The Punisher found itself resting lightly against the first slaver's chin, and the old man in the back of the crawler erupted in tearful laughter.
"Who are y-" the remaining, and now not nearly so brave slaver was interrupted.
"Dont breathe." The flat venom in Nick's voice was so iced that even the man in the crawler stopped short. "Its people like you that cause the faithlessness in this world." Wolfwood didnt entirely know what he was saying, "Its people like you who never see goodness for what it is." Nick stepped close to the man, close enough to smell the sweat that was beading on his forehead, trickling into horrified eyes. "Your going to wait for your friends to wake up, and then your going to walk. I dont care where, but if, by the graces of God I ever lay eyes on you again, so help me I will inflict the judgement of all thats holy on your undeserving carcass." He had never spoken words like that, and it frankly surprised him. He knew better, however, than to make it seem a bluff. He took two steps away from the slaver and spun the Punisher up onto his shoulder. The man went white.
Wolfwood never looked back. He swung himself into the driver's seat and placed the Punisher in the seat beside him, almost lovingly. He glanced at the Slavers, one still standing open-mouthed and ghostly, and shook his head. A brave old world that had such lowlings in it. He pulled away, back in the direction he was walking. Even that seemed so long ago, but it was only minutes. The crawler rumbled on for a few minutes, with Nicholas at the helm, trying in vain to continue what seemed to be an occupation; sorting things out. Apparent resurrection, misdirection, slavers, it was overwhelming to say the very least. The only thing that saved him this time was the old man.
"Its nice riding back here and all, but is there any chance I could get you to cut my ropes, son?" The old man's voice was kind, and quite disalarming. Nick glanced over his shoulder and for the first time since, well, he didnt remember when, he smiled. THe old fellow was bald and skinny, but a spryness found itself dancing in his deep, knowledgable eyes. Wolfwood let the crawler coast, reaching back to untie the man. After a brief episode with a complicated knot, he resumed driving, and the man tentatively moved intot eh passenger seat. He was weary of the cloth covered cross, moving it with what could almost have been observed as respect. The man propped it against him and glanced to his apparent new friend. Wolfwood was a young man, by standard, and the way he handled his weapon of choice was astounding. To the old fellow, though, it was neither of these that caught his attention. As Nick stared out into the desert, the man grew solemn. He saw in those eyes a load of grief and pain. An emotion that would never flow onto Nick's features, but hid carefully in the recesses of his mind. THe man knew it for what it was, and nodded to himself. "There is a village about forty five iles from here, to the south," he pointed. "I'm Giddeon, a friend. Thank you, son, for helping me. Kindness like that is difficult to find in a world like ours." For his trouble and introduction, he got a nod. The boy was lost in his own business, so better to let him be. Giddeon curled up in the seat next to the Punisher. For some reason, the old, haggard man felt safe in the presence of the holy man. "Goodnight," he breathed.
Nick looked once over at the old man. Giddeon, he realized, were the types of people who deserved second chances, and perhaps people like Giddeon were the reasons he had been granted such an amazing gift. Either way, the old man was shortly in a light slumber, and Nick looked back out over the hood of the crawler. Sand, just lonely sand.