by M. C. Norris
Anything Malcolm said, at this point, would bring about his immediate death. Cecile wasn’t moving. He lay on his back, breathing heavily, and waiting to see what would be the next play. He still had his pistol at his hip. He was sure that they’d seen it. The fact that they didn’t order him to disarm told him all that he needed to know about his immediate future. They’d shoot him the very instant she stepped clear of him. Their interests seemed clear. They weren’t risking their lives to loot the vessel of its cargo, because they didn’t care about looting. These were raiders whose dark designs were rooted in the reptilian core of the male mind. Somehow, they knew that a woman was aboard this boat. Cecile was all they wanted.
“Do it,” the big one grunted.
The smaller invader, whose mask was dotted with red paint around the eyes, dropped his firearm to the deck and reached behind his back. When his hand reappeared, it waved a massive bowie knife. The killer savored this moment of absolute power, twisting the great slab of steel back and forth in the air, as if relishing the play of the waning sunlight upon the blade’s lethal curves. “Kidney pie,” the killer crooned, nodding his head, passing his knife slowly from one hand to the other.
Had Malcolm not been wearing a tinted mask, the killer might’ve noticed a marked heightening in his expression, as the silhouette of the bridge and a swiveling Bofors gun cast an ominous shadow over the Sawyer’s bow. Raiders, wood, glass and steel were instantaneously imparted into a torrent of obliteration that did not distinguish between the pounds of flesh that it hammered into mist, and the disintegrating structure that all took flight as one great migrating amalgam, harried into the hereafter by the thunderous percussion of the world’s most powerful machine gun.
The barrage of four-pound shells ceased. An inquiring shout came from somewhere high above. When the smoke cleared, the forms of Malcolm and Cecile lay wetted and exposed in the baleful glare of the setting sun, like a pair of sinners discovered by the wrathful eye of their god.
Chapter Eight
“General Cobb?” The soldier knocked twice before opening the trailer door, peering inside cautiously. The door was pocked with a tight pattern of small holes, right about at head-level. “Got a couple of VIPs out here from the IDC. Here to see you about arranging some transportation out west. Know anything about that?”
The terse reply from within was little more than a grunt. The soldier turned, nodding to Malcolm and Cecile, as he stepped to one side. Malcolm raised a few fingers to the trooper in an appreciative gesture, and then, glancing back toward Cecile, he stepped through the portal and into the General’s quarters.
Beyond a litter of blood-spattered papers, ransacked file cabinets, and the smashed remains of what looked to have been a ham radio receiver, a half-naked man knelt dripping over a water bucket in the very center of the chaos. The double-barrels of his shotgun were aimed at the trailer door, even as he scooped up slops of crimson water to his ruined face. One narrowed eye remained fixed on the doorway, while he smeared his fingers over his silver handlebar mustache. He cleared his throat, slicking back what sparse hair sprouted atop his head.
“Captain Malcolm Gann. British SAS. Needing some transport west, by rail.”
“Remember hearing something about that.” The General nodded, rising stiffly from the bucket, and lowering his shotgun. His lips were split. His left eye was swollen completely shut. He pinched the water from his nostrils, wiping his fingers against the side of his trousers. “Come in. Sit down,” he grunted. “Make yourselves at home.” The General dragged his bare feet through the wreckage of what looked to have recently been an orderly office. He lifted an upended chair and plunked it down upon its legs, and then halfheartedly smeared some red droplets off the seat of another, before limping around the corner of his desk. He sunk miserably into a squealing chair that was positioned behind it, releasing a long groan as his body relaxed. “Come by steamboat, did ye?”
“Yes, Sir. Out of St. Louis.”
“How was the trip?” The General fumbled a set of keys before reaching down low to some drawer to jimmy a lock. Pawing it open, he retrieved a partial bottle of brown liquid, and set it mightily down in the center of his desk. He eyed the both of them as he popped the stopper. Tipping the bottle into an empty aluminum can, he licked his bloodied lips, and then glanced up with his one good eye at his two quiet guests. Malcolm was sure that by now, the man could see that they were both covered in blood. “That good, eh? Either of ye care for a drink?” He eyed them intently. “Take them masks off, if ye like. Air’s good in here.” He grunted and shrugged his shoulders when they didn’t move. “Suit yourselves. Me, I hate the goddamned things.”
Malcolm reached beneath his chin and pinched the plastic hasps. The strap halved with a click. He removed the helmet from his sodden head. Tucking it beneath his arm, he wormed his thumbs beneath the seal one either side of his jaws, lifting the mask from his face with a slurp of rubber suction. He coughed, as he always did, when his lungs drew that first gasp of flavorless outside air. It was the strangest feeling, every time, blinking in the world’s brightness without a tinted visor before his eyes.
“Need a little help, over there?” the General drawled, squinting at Cecile.
Malcolm glanced over at Cecile, who was still struggling with her chinstrap. He could have reached over and popped the hasp for her, but, he guessed that if she wanted it off badly enough, she was capable of figuring it out.
“I knew y’all was coming, but I couldn’t check up on ye. Lost my radio today.” The General tipped his bruised head in the direction of the smashed equipment scattered all over the trailer floor. “Goddamned looters. Took everything of value I had. They come in for the whiskey. Had several cases of it. They took that, then my boots, my best jacket, even my goddamned cowboy hat.” The General pulled a shot from his aluminum can, set it back down roughly, with a growl and a halfhearted chuckle. “I guess I can see robbing a man for his whiskey, but you don’t fuck with another man’s hat.” He looked down into the can, dabbed his lips on the back of his hand, and then leaned over to spit some more blood into the mess of scattered paperwork. He slouched back into his seat with a groan. “Kind of makes a feller want to question it all.” The General narrowed his one good eye. “You know it? Why the hell should we fight so hard to salvage one acre of this godforsaken shithole, when there might not be a soul left in the world who’s worth sharing it with?”
“I understand completely, Sir.” Malcolm watched the General’s good eye widen, as Cecile finally lifted the mask from her face. He turned, to look upon the face of the voodoo princess for the first time since their introduction, back in St. Louis. Caramel skin, reddish brown curls, and eyes like droplets of oil. She was beautiful, and she knew it. She understood the power she wielded over men, and while she tried to hide that understanding, she didn’t manage to hide it well enough. There was smugness about her, a confidence that suggested an unvoiced challenge to any man whose eyes she captured. Malcolm found this trait equally attractive and despicable.
“I’ll be damned,” the General said, leaning forward in his chair. “Pretty girl hiding in there.” He glanced nervously at Malcolm. “Might ought to keep her under wraps as best you can. That’s a rough town out there.”
“We were already attacked,” Cecile said.
“I can see that. You injured?”
Cecile shook her head.
“That’s good.” The General smoothed back his white hair, pulling another sip from his can, and exhaling hotly through his teeth. “Hunters, were they?”
“Not likely,” Malcolm replied, still a stranger to the thin timbre of his unmasked voice. “Soldiers, I’d guess. They were all wearing military masks.”
The General nodded, cocking his jaw. “They often wear masks, Hunters do. Wear them to blend in. They steal them off our dead soldiers.”
“They were loaded with fresh K-cartridges. I believe they were soldiers. Your soldiers.”
“My soldiers.”
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“Yes, Sir. They weren’t Hunters. They were only after her.”
The General eyed them both for a few uncomfortable seconds. “Can you blame them?” He immediately shook his head at his poor attempt at flattery, and then slapped a palm flatly against the surface of his desk. “Like I said, it’s become a rough town.”
“Rough?” Cecile said. “It’s anarchy. Have you stepped outside your trailer lately?”
“Cecile …”
“Killing, raping, looting … it’s anarchy. Your soldiers are all drunk.”
“Course they’re drunk.” The General scowled. “They stole my goddamned whiskey.” He rose from his chair, and spat. “I had high hopes for this place. This town. Centralized location. Defensible. Good railroads and rivers running through it. I took a big chance here, and probably ruined my reputation. Nothing I’ve attempted to do matters to them sons-of-bitches.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the wall of his trailer. “They’re all just a bunch of wild Indians, and the last thing they want around here is a chief. By tomorrow morning, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve burned the whole fucking place down.”
“Why don’t you come with us,” Cecile asked, “out west?”
“West? Hell, you ever been out west?” The General lowered his gaze and stared at her. “Ye think Kansas City looks bad, do ye? There ain’t nothing out west but Hunters, from Fort Riley all the way to the Rockies. Every town out there’s been massacred. Ain’t nothing west of Riley but dried skulls and bones. The hell you want to go poking around out there for?”
“Classified.” Malcolm cast a sideways glance at Cecile. For an extra moment, his allowed his eyes to linger on her exotic beauty. When her eyes flicked toward him, he looked away, but her image was already burned into his mind for keeps.
“Course it is.” The General swept up his can and downed the last shot. “Classified, my ass.” He snatched the bottle and poured himself another canful. “Nope, I think I’m headed out east, truth be told. Lived here all my life and I’d reckon that’s long enough. This old man’s had his fill of the bullshit. Going to catch me a lift with a squadron of ballooners, here in just a couple days.” He hitched his eyebrows. “If those sons-of-bitches out there don’t frag me first.”
“We’re looking for a man,” Cecile said, stepping forward.
“A man?” General Cobb took a shot off the bottle, and grimaced. “Maybe I know him.”
“He doesn’t have a name.”
“The man with no name … believe I’ve heard of him.” General Cobb grinned at Malcolm, and winked.
Cecile strode up to the edge of Cobb’s desk, and she looked in dead in the eye as she unzipped the front of her jacket from her throat to her naval. The General’s good eye tracked the zipper’s path. Slipped into the front of her pants and tucked beneath her bare breasts, was a manila folder. “I have a photograph.”
General Cobb licked his lips, and stuck out his hand. “Let’s have us a look.”
Malcolm watched, as she withdrew the hidden article, lifted the flap, and then slid a glossy print from the yellowish sleeve. She surprised Malcolm by passing it over to him first, leaving the General’s outstretched hand hanging beggarly in the air.
“We have the name of a town, called Zurich,” she said.
“I know Zurich,” the General nodded. “About an hour or so north of Hays. Maybe less. Smallish town.”
Malcolm stared down into the horror of an inhuman countenance that gaped back from the image. Flesh like melted bubble gum seemed to ooze inward, as if flowing into the gaping crater where a nose should’ve been. The subject was badly burned, that much was obvious. Burned and mutilated. He looked to be the victim of the most sadistic sort of torture. Malcolm passed the photograph grimly across the desk, and dropped it in front of the General.
“Well, he’s a handsome son-of-a-bitch, ain’t he?” General Cobb snorted, and then shook his head slowly from side to side. “No. I can say with absolute confidence that I do not know this man.”
“They call him the Green Man,” Cecile said.
“Nope,” the General said, clearing his throat, and pinching his nose. “Don’t know nothing about no green men, but I tell ye, you’d might as well leave both your heads at the train station before you go traipsing up north of Hays. That’s some bad country, up there. Worst I’ve ever seen. Hunters travel in regular war parties, out there. Talking hundreds of them. The things they do to the folks they catch—” the General bit down on his lower lip, glaring at Malcolm while sucking air through his teeth, “—you’re bound to sorely regret this course of action, ye know. Taking her out there. Wouldn’t do it, if I was you.”
“Why there?” Malcolm asked, clearing his throat. “Why is the region such a haven for Hunters if there’s no human population left to bother?”
Cobb shrugged. “That’s always the case with Hunters. Like they all know something the rest of us don’t. I suppose you can ask them that question yourself, once they find ye, and start cutting off your nuts.”
“The IDC has reason to believe that this man is someone of great importance to the Hunters,” Cecile said. “They think he’s the one controlling all of them.”
Outside, the staccato of automatic weapon fire was succeeded by the scream of a horse. The General’s face fell and furrowed, as if he were experiencing some pain. He kept his head down and his eyes closed, as the animal’s cries pierced the trailer walls like cavalry lances. Men’s shouting led to another burst of rounds, and then silence.
After a moment, the General’s eyes opened. He raised his chin from his chest. “In a time like this, I’d love to know how one man manages to control the actions of a single fucking person, much less a whole bunch of them.” He lifted the photograph from his desk, and tossed it carelessly back in front of Cecile. He watched her every movement, as she slipped it back into its folder, slid it down the front of her pants, and drew the zipper slowly back up to her pulsing throat.
“Alright,” the General said, “I’ll put the two of you on my train. We’ll take you as far west as Hays, but from there, the train’s northbound to Portland with my shipment of horses, so it ain’t going to wait around for ye. I can’t risk it. There’ll be another one rolling back down this way from Oregon, shortly. It’s scheduled to pass through Hays right around midnight, tomorrow night. I don’t know how fast y’all can hustle, but you manage to make it back to Hays in twenty-four hours, then that Portland steamer can bring you back in. I’ll make sure their engineer is notified to be expecting you, but don’t expect him to wait around, or even come to a complete stop. That’s just how bad things are out there.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Malcolm rose from his seat.
“Now, hang on just a minute. The Hunters that are out that way,” the General said, lowering his voice, pressing the pad of his index finger to his desk, then tapping it lightly against the wooden surface, “they travel night and day, just like the bugs. They don’t sleep. Don’t hardly eat or drink. They keep on the move. We don’t know how they live the way they do. Truth is, we don’t even know if they’re even human beings at all. They can breathe unfiltered cyanide,” the General said, furrowing his brow. “Think about that for just a minute. Alright, yet they look just like the rest of us. Blend right in, same as they did before Z-Day, when they were working in the Pentagon, the Senate, running major corporations, or just handing us our food through a drive-thru window. They were all living right there amongst us, all along, fitting in so well that not a one of us ever knew we’d been infiltrated until that day when something in their minds went click—and they started cutting folks down.”
Outside, a man began to scream, until his cries were cut short by a single pop of small arms fire. The General struggled to fight back a smirk. He lifted the bottle to his lips and tossed back another shot. “Hell, it seems like we’re doing a pretty good job of that on our own, aren’t we?”
###
Masked horses were driven over the 12th Street Viaduct, t
heir hooves thundering down into the old stockyard district of the West Bottoms. The grotesque architecture of the old bricked buildings suggested that it was an older part of town, one that still somehow managed to retain the original trimmings. There were no drunken militiamen here, where most of the roads and structures remained intact. Hundreds of regular army personnel in hazmat uniforms patrolled the perimeter of a great dome of inflated plastic situated at the confluence of the Kansas and Missouri Rivers. The herd of screaming beasts stampeded down the viaduct into a makeshift chute of car bodies and scrap metal that funneled them into the mouth of a plastic tunnel. This livestock duct snaked through the Bottoms to its terminal point of connection to the inflated dome. Beyond this covered corral idled the steam locomotive, a jet black machine that chuffed and hissed indignantly, while it inched its way past an air-locked loading bay. Through this flapping portal, groups of horses were funneled into boxcars that billowed fumes as their doors were rolled open to receive the streams of terrified animals.
Cecile followed Malcolm up the steps of a steel scaffold that was positioned near enough the train that they could step right down atop the creeping cars. An armed guard grabbed Malcolm as he stepped up onto the loading platform, and yelled over the chaos into the side of his helmet.
“There’s a passenger car up yonder, right up behind the engine.” The guard patted Malcolm’s back, pointing a finger along a disjointed upper walkway cobbled entirely out of wooden pallets that were suspended between cars on steel cables. The path meandered over the roofs of the cars toward the puffing steam engine.
Malcolm nodded to the guard. He stepped down off the scaffold and onto the wooden walkway. He looked back in Cecile’s direction, offering a hand to help her down. Cecile could feel the guard’s stare being attracted to the meaning of this simple gesture. She refused the offered hand, dropping instead down onto the train roof on her own in hopes of retaining the secrecy of her femininity, but she guessed it was probably too late. One gentlemanly gesture was all it took to give her away. Irritated, she gave Malcolm a small shove with her elbow, goading him forward.
