“How so?” Murphy demanded.
“Not sure, he wouldn’t say what happened exactly. But when I asked about our little buddy Marco, he turned pale. I got the distinct impression we won’t be seeing Marco, ever again," Rory explained.
Murphy sat down at his desk, his hand clasped in front of him. “What in the hell happened over there? Our little care package was working better than could be expected. Rincone stopped supporting the council. It all seemed to be working out so nicely. What changed?”
“I knew we should have killed the council as soon as the Black Jackets pulled out," Vincent said.
Murphy didn’t look up at the big man, he just spoke. “Say anything that similar to, I told you so, again and I’ll have Rory and his boys take you into the desert and let them use you for entertainment.”
Vincent slowly leaned back in his chair and very pointedly did not look in Rory’s direction. The Ranger leader just smiled at the big man before speaking.
“That Black Jacket did have one other thing of interest to add. While he flat out refused to talk about Black Jacket business, it seems he didn’t have no qualms about talking about non-members. Last night Rincone had a visitor at the clubhouse, an Indian on horseback," Rory said.
The Councilman and Vincent’s heads both turned to look at the Ranger. Vincent’s held a look of confusion for a moment, and then he turned back to face the Councilman. Murphy’s eyes were wide, his face had gone pale, and he trembled slightly with barely contained rage. Then the room broke into motion.
Murphy reached for the humidor on his desk, and Vincent was up moving for the door. A quick flip of the lid and Murphy had a nickel plated 1911 in hand. He fired the first round wildly into the ceiling. Rory spun in a rush to get the office door open and escape the crime lord’s rage.
Murphy shouted curses as he fired, only some of which even made any sense. “Dirty fucking half breed….horse fucking cock sucker…..”
Murphy fired the second round into the chair in which Vincent had sat moments before. The chair toppled backward a fountain of splinters and feathers filling the room behind it.
“Worthless Indian giving….cum stain fuck head…”
Rory finally had the door open as Vincent pushed him through it and both men fell out into the bar. The third round struck the door jamb inches from where Rory had stood.
“Inbred fucking peasant…”
Patrons were already fleeing the bar, while Murphy’s remaining men took cover wherever they could find it. Most had learned from experience when the boss flew into one of his fits it was safest not to move or draw his attention in any way.
The crime lord’s two lieutenants crawled to opposite sides of the office door, careful not to give the councilman anything else to shoot at. The litany of curses continued unabated for several more minutes before devolving into just quiet mumblings.
“Get your asses back in here!” Murphy finally shouted.
Both of the men cautiously stood and reentered the office. The councilman was still seated at his desk, his pistol still in hand but resting on the desk at least for the moment forgotten. He looked slightly downward his eyes partially closed as he spoke quietly to himself. Both Rory and Vincent knew from experience that the rage had at least temporarily fled the powerful man. Still, both remained silent, waiting for him to speak first.
“The Indian dies tonight," Murphy said simply.
“No problem," Rory said with a smile.
“Not you. Vincent, it’s time for Coal to have some domestic issues I think.”
The big man smiled and nodded.
“What? Why don’t me and the boys just go burn him out?” Rory questioned.
The councilman turned to regard the ranger. “How many times do I have to fucking explain this? It’s the same reason we don’t go around just offing ever scavenging fuck that walks in here with a trade deal. Fucking perception. The City Council, the traders, they all see that half-breed as a fucking businessman. We can’t just burn him out, the bastards will join together and come after everything I have. We aren’t ready for that, at least not yet, no.”
“Why not just wait until he goes out hunting again? Let the Rangers and me ride him down out in the desert, no witnesses then," Rory pleaded.
Murphy turned to look at the Ranger, contempt plain upon his face. “Do I have to even explain that? Because out in the desert, he’ll find you long before you find him, he’ll kill you, all of you, then he’ll probably eat your fucking horses and horses, Rory, are expensive.”
“The answer is no. However, I had Vincent put a piece into play a while back, even before you joined our little team here. After Coal refused our offer the first time, just in case something like this came up. Vincent, send a note," Murphy commanded.
Vincent produced a small notepad and just a nub of a pencil from his pocket and waited expectantly for the councilman to speak again.
“Kill the Indian tonight. Kill his wives. Open the gates," Murphy said the words slowly as Vincent wrote.
“It’s too late in the day now, send it in the morning," the councilman added and Vincent nodded.
“Rory, you and the Rangers, will still have a part to play in this though. Tomorrow night when those gates on the ranch open up, I want your men nearby to ride in and secure the place. Make sure the Indian is dead and most importantly secure his horses," as Murphy spoke the Rangers smile returned.
“This isn’t a raid. You’re not to kill anyone you don’t have to; you understand? Keep as many of Coal’s workers alive as possible, epically that damn chinaman. Kill only if you have to. Do you understand me Rory?” the councilman asked.
Rory nodded his reply, his smile gone again.
“I want you to say it Rory," Murphy demanded.
“I understand," the Ranger begrudgingly whispered.
“Good, because the next day Vincent is going to put the word out that your men rode to the rescue. That Coal’s own people threw open the gates and begged for help. That the Indian finally went completely blood crazed and killed his wives, his own reputation will work against him this time. The Rangers will be hailed as heroes for putting down that rabid dog," Murphy explained.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to be a hero Rory?” the councilman mocked.
Rory turned and walked from the room.
“Boss, do you really think people will believe that? That Rory and his men rode in to help?” Vincent asked cautiously.
“I don’t give a fuck what they believe. But the story should spread just enough doubt to keep the rabble in line. Keep the City Council from uniting them against me. Now get the fuck out, make sure everything is ready for tomorrow night," Murphy said.
Vincent nodded and quickly left the office. As the door shut behind him, Murphy popped another Oxy into his mouth, bit down on it with a satisfying crunch and leaned back in his chair to enjoy the coming rush.
Once Dante had helped Kyle secure the water in the office it hadn’t taken long for the self-appointed head of security to bring up the distribution of the water again. Eventually, Kyle relented agreeing to part with five gallons in total, moved by guilt more than anything. The men decided that filling the community pot and serving everyone would be more welcomed than simply handing out water to a select few. So Dante had taken two gallons to the Hub for trade. He had returned with a few pounds of rat meat, a hand full of bones and some wild herbs. The pot bubbled now on the community fire and was watched anxiously by a growing crowd, as a pair of old women tended to it lovingly.
Anna had avoided Kyle the rest of the afternoon. She had thrown herself into her work as she always had and at the clinic, there was never a shortage of work. Half of the RVs on the lot were set aside for transients, filled with patients and their families too sick or injured to leave. Kyle had seen her in passing several times as she checked on those in need of care, the compound was too small for that to be avoided. She hadn’t spoken to him or even acknowledged his presence, Kyle doubted anyone else had no
ticed, but Kyle noticed, and it had hurt.
As the thin soup simmered the smell of it had permeated the camp, drawing out more people than Kyle had even realized were in the compound. Two dozen dirty and withered faces circled the small fire now, many clutching bowls, old coffee mugs, some visibly trembling in anticipation.
Dante strode into the circle. “How much longer Mothers?” he asked the old women.
“Five more minutes and not a moment sooner," one of them replied without looking up.
“Perfect," Dante said, turning to the gathered crowd.
“Friends, friends, I ask for just a moment before we eat," Dante shouted over the crowd, drawing every eye.
“Before we enjoy this meal, let’s take a moment to give our thanks," Dante said.
A murmur went through the crowd, some bowing their heads while others grumbled in discontent. For some, the reshaped world had strengthened their faith. But for many more, it had shattered it.
“I’m not talking about prayer," Dante shouted over the sound of the dissenters. “Though please do so if you wish," Dante paused.
“I’m talking about thanking the man that paid for this meal today. I know most of you don’t even know him, but his hard work has provided most of what we have here. He is the one that has made this place of healing even possible,” Dante turned to face Kyle, and the crowd followed his gaze.
Kyle had only been half listening up to that point stood up quickly, almost losing his balance and having to take a half a step backward to keep from falling on his ass.
“Thank you, Kyle," Dante said, and a chorus of thanks followed his words. A handful of “God Bless you!” thrown in for good measure as well.
Kyle stood in shock, his mouth partially open. He didn’t know what to say, what to even think. The only thing he knew is he didn’t like this, being the center of attention, being the center of their praise. From the back of the circle, Kyle saw her then. Anna watched him from the back of the group. Her face was a mix of emotion, her eyes beamed with pride, but they also showed pain.
“It’s ready," said one of the Mothers said simply and the crowd’s attention mercifully shifted from Kyle as soup began to be ladled out.
As if released from a spell, Kyle was able to move again, he turned to flee from the circle, but a hand grabbed his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Dante asked turning the Scavenger to face him.
“What the fuck was that?” Kyle demanded in reply.
“That was a thank you, Kyle. I’m assuming you have heard one before," Dante said with a grin.
“What are you trying to do Dante?” Kyle demanded.
“Relax, just relax. Maybe I’m just trying to remind you that these are all people too. That their lives matter," Dante replied.
“I fucking know that! I said I would find a way to get them out and I meant," Kyle snapped back, surprising himself with his own passion.
“Good, good. That’s all I wanted to hear. Now come on, let’s go get some soup," with that Kyle allowed Dante to lead him back to the fire.
The Scavenger retook his previous place as Dante moved to pour them each a bowl of the quickly vanishing meal. It gave Kyle time to really look around the circle. Everywhere people sat or crouched, many just on the ground. They huddled in small groups, many in families and ate mostly in silence. Anna sat with one small group on the far side of the circle from him. He watched her as she ate and then talked quietly with the group. He wanted to go over to her, to sit and just listen, maybe find the words to explain what he had done, he had to make her understand. He strained to hear her words, but they were lost in the murmur of the crowd. Dante returned and handed Kyle a small bowl of the soup, before sitting down next to him with a groan. The two men ate in silence, though Kyle was still more interested in watching Anna than the meal.
“It’s nice, seeing all these people get a full belly for a change. I liked to watch my kids eat too, back in the day, back when they were young," Dante said.
The comment took Kyle by surprise, and he realized Dante thought he was staring at the group eating, not just Anna.
“It does, in a way," Kyle replied weakly.
“So what’s the plan? How are we going to take all of these folks with us?” Dante asked between sips from his bowl.
“Still working on that part," Kyle replied honestly.
“That little garden cart won’t do us much good, not out there anyways," Dante said. Kyle found himself nodding his head in agreement though he hadn’t even looked at the cart that closely.
“We are going to need to either strengthen it or find something like it, something a little more suited for the terrain. Then the plan is to have these people pull it the whole way?” Dante continued.
“Unless you have a functioning car hidden away somewhere, yeah," Kyle replied.
“I guess there’s really no chance to trade for a horse, is there? I mean, it’s either Murphy or that Indian. I think either of them just may kill you for even asking," Dante said.
Kyle considered the option for a moment. Dante was right about Murphy at least, even if the Councilman would agree to trade for a horse, which Kyle doubted, it would definitely tip his hand that Kyle intended to leave town and skip out on their deal.
Murphy wasn’t an option, but Coal, would Coal sell him a horse? He wondered as he absently sipped at his own bowl. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, but Coal had only threatened to kill him if he mentioned the Indians to anyone. So not exactly an open death threat? At least that was something.
With the group’s appetite sated, conversations, raised voices and even some laughter began to fill the circle. Soon enough one of the others began to lead the children in a song. Before they were through adult voices started to join in. The small gathering and shared meal had the clinic showing more life than it had seen in some time. Kyle and Dante watched the group for a time, each lost in their own memories of happier days.
The loud banging on steel awoke Miles with a start. Juan was already moving leaping from the top bunk to the floor and sliding under the bed. Miles scooped up his pipe rifle that always lay next to the bed and levered himself up. Painfully the old man dragged his crippled body to the railcar door.
“Who is it?” Miles shouted.
“It’s the fucking milkman, who do you think it is? Open up," came a voice with a thick Brooklyn accent.
“What do you want?” Miles demanded back already knowing the answer.
“Boss says its maintenance day old man,” replied the voice.
Miles leaned his head against the steel door in defeat. Another maintenance day, time to work on the pump, time to earn his blood money. If he only had the courage to say no, to tell Murphy’s toadies to fuck off, to tell them to fix the aging beast themselves. What would they do? Burn him out by sundown he guessed, what would happen to Juan then? And what would happen to the town the next time the pump seriously broke? The old man released a sigh of defeat.
“I’m coming, I’ll meet you out on the street," Miles said through the door.
“Two minutes," the voice replied followed by the sounds of retreating steps on steel.
Mile turned from the door. He placed the pipe rifle in the rack with the others and pulled a green slicker from a peg on the wall. The raincoat was about a ridiculous a jacket as a man could wear these days but, it kept the grease off. Miles had gotten tired of ruining clothes every time he was summoned to work on the pump.
“Juan," Miles called. The boy’s head peeked from beneath the bed just far enough to show his eyes.
“Lock the door behind me. If I’m not back by tomorrow morning, you go find our friend Kyle. You remember how to find him?” Miles asked.
The boy responded with an enthusiastic nod.
“Good, remember just follow the red crosses they’ll lead you right to his house," Miles said anyway.
The old man turned to leave but stopped just before opening the door. He retrieved the bottle of pills Kyle had gi
ven him from the nearby desk. He shook out a few into his hand. Two he immediately popped into his mouth the others he dropped into the pocket of his slicker before returning the bottle to the drawer. He then opened the steel door and stepped into the gloom of the museum. He waited a few moments until he heard Juan secure the door from the inside and then moved to the street.
Outside four of Murphy’s men waited in the pre-dawn half-light. They stood around a small garden cart waiting impatiently. The men were indistinguishable from any other street toughs or rag-clad citizens, except for the green cloth armbands they wore. Brooklyn was the only one that even stood out to Miles, mostly because of his accent and the way he liked to boss everyone around.
“About time, now get in the cart old man," Brooklyn commanded.
“No," Miles said looking down at the rickety thing. “I’ll walk," Miles replied.
“The fuck you will hop-along. We don’t got all day," Brooklyn said stepping up to Miles.
“My leg has been doing much better, I can walk. I won’t slow you down," Miles said as he and his crutch began plodding down the street.
“Get in the cart, or you’ll be put you in the cart," Brooklyn said flatly to his back.
It was just one more shame piled onto Mile’s conscious. Murphy’s men pulling him in a cart across town, like a cow they had paid for. He should have never resisted the first time they had brought the cart for him. Now they brought it every time. They pulled Miles straight down Main. Every person they passed looked directly at Miles. What did they see he wondered? The man that had handed the warden the keys to their prison? The man who continued to betray them every day? Some remembered Miles from before Murphy’s power grab, those were especially harsh, most believing he had a part in Murphy’s rise to power. Miles kept his head and his eyes down for the trip across town.
As they neared the base of the old blue tower, Miles realized there was no line for water. That meant that they had shut the pump down. That meant the problem was worse than just your everyday wear and tear. As the cart approached the small compound around the tower’s base, the gates were opened for the group, and a dozen men waited. Miles was wheeled inside, and once the gates were closed behind them he stood, painfully and slowly, but he stood.
To Cross a Wasteland Page 18
