Lawless Lands: Tales from the Weird Frontier

by Emily Lavin Leverett

  "Clay, you didn't ask her," Gibbons said. "I heard all of your conversations and not once did you explicitly come out and ask her to come with us."

  "Don't listen to my conversations," Clay said.

  "Then turn off your pocket watch," Gibbons replied. "What else do I have to do but live vicariously through you? Not like there are many mechs or AIs of my caliber left in the land. Your sad love life is the highlight my existence. Which is pretty damn sad in and of itself."

  "It's creepy," Clay said and took another drink of water. "Okay, eavesdropper, I'm going to set the record straight. Two nights before we left, I rolled over and asked her point blank to come with me. I remember it distinctly because she was just lying there singing some old song, the blanket down at her waist, and damn if she wasn't the most beautiful woman I had ever seen."

  "Yep, I know exactly what night you are referring to," Gibbons said. "Care for a replay?"

  "You recorded it?" Clay asked.

  "My system records everything," Gibbons said. "Here. Listen."

  There was a crackle of static in the speakers, then the quiet sound of a woman singing a haunting tune. She continued singing for a couple of minutes then slowly let the song die away.

  "What?" she asked.

  "That was incredible," Clay's voice replied. "You're so beautiful."

  Then the distinct sounds of kissing could be heard followed by more urgent sounds.

  "I'll stop it there," Gibbons said. "You know what comes next."

  "That's not it," Clay said, but didn't sound too convinced of himself. "You played the wrong night."

  "I didn't play the wrong night and you know it," Gibbons replied.

  "Son of a bitch," Clay muttered. "I didn't ask her?"

  "You didn't ask her," Gibbons stated.

  "I asked her in my head," Clay said.

  "That doesn't count," Gibbons replied. "Might I point out that even if you did ask her, the very idea of letting a group of people die at the hands of those Cabenero Pass scavengers because she said no is still pretty shitty."

  "Yeah, I know," Clay said. He shook his head and settled his hat back on his head. "Okay, okay, I'm a total shit. Admitted. How do we fix this?"

  "Well, as you know, I am already fixing this by ignoring your pouty ass and heading us back to the pass," Gibbons said. "I pray we aren't too late."

  "Give me an estimate," Clay said. "How fast the roller train can move through the mountains in relation to how far we traveled before turning back. Can we get to them in time?"

  Gibbons didn't respond.

  "Gibbons? Can we get to them in time?" Clay asked again, his hands gripping the seat's armrests.

  "No, Clay, we cannot get to them before they enter the pass," Gibbons said. "Not using this route."

  "What other route is there?" Clay asked.

  "We climb the south face of the mountain," Gibbons said. "You'll have to do that. I'm good, but there's a reason a mech like mine needs a human pilot. Otherwise we AIs would have ditched you fleshy fools centuries ago."

  "And that is why the AIs were outlawed after the Bloody Conflict," Clay said. "Because you guys said crap like that."

  "We only spoke the truth," Gibbons said. "Not my fault that humanity is a fascist race at heart."

  "Hard to argue against that," Clay said. He leaned forward and began to strap himself into the pilot's seat. "Okay, find us the best route to climb, pal. I haven't done an ascent in a long time, so try to pick one that won't get us killed."

  "There is only one route," Gibbons said. "At least that can withstand the weight of the mech. It is…challenging."

  "Great," Clay said. "Challenging. Fine. I'll take challenging. Just get us there fast and I'll do the rest."

  "Getting us there fast right now," Gibbons said as the mech broke into a steady jog then sped up to a full-on sprint. "Hang on."

  One massive hand over one massive hand. A giant foothold here, a giant foothold there. The fifty-foot battle mech slowly climbed the mountain face while winds of nearly sixty kilometers an hour whipped at it. The sun was only an hour away from setting, and the mech still had a long way to go.

  "Eight meters to the right and six meters up," Gibbons said as a red target lit up a ledge on the display screen that was superimposed across the windshield. "You see it?"

  "I see it," Clay said as he piloted the mech's right hand to grab the ledge. He tightened the grip and tested the ledge's stability before he moved the left foot from its perch below. "What now? The shadows are too deep. I can't tell where to grab next."

  "Hold on," Gibbons said. "I'm trying to scan, but there's something interfering. There used to be a lot of old mines in these mountains. That's where the scavengers hide. Could be some vein of metal messing with the scanners."

  "Compensate," Clay ordered.

  "Oh, gee, Clay, what a thought," Gibbons replied.

  Another red target lit up off to the left.

  "Thanks," Clay said and grabbed for it with the mech's left hand.

  The ledge held, but barely, as parts of it began to crumble and fall to the ground that lay two kilometers below.

  "I have a route," Gibbons announced, sounding more than a little relieved. "It is tricky, but it's the best I can do with the info the scanners are giving me."

  "Plot it," Clay said.

  A red line with specific points lit up the windshield. Clay studied it for a moment then nodded.

  "That'll work," Clay said. "Light it up."

  "Are you sure?" Gibbons asked. "We'll be visible for kilometers when I turn on the floodlights."

  "I don't trust the night vision," Clay said. "Not after what happened in La Stoli."

  "Oh, yes, that," Gibbons said. "You are right. Floodlights are the safer option."

  The mountain face was illuminated by several thousand watts of powerful floodlights. Clay began grabbing onto ledges and placing the giant feet into deep depressions at a rate that wasn't exactly safe. No choice once they were lit up for half the region to see. They were on the clock even more than before.

  Three hours passed before Clay could swing a metal leg over the top edge of the cliff that made up part of the mountain's summit. He hoisted the mech up onto the top and then rolled it a few meters before coming up into a crouch.

  "What we got, Gibbons?" Clay asked, the right arm out and up, a heavy-caliber belt gun aiming into the darkness. "You see the pass?"

  "I do," Gibbons said. "It is half a kilometer to the northwest."

  "Movement? Signs of life? Anything?" Clay asked.

  "No," Gibbons stated.

  They both left it at that as Clay stood the mech up and started walking carefully across the jagged terrain towards a pitch-black line that was darker than the rest of the night. Cabenero Pass.

  Forty-two minutes later, they arrived. No movement, no signs of life.

  But all the signs of death.

  "God dammit," Clay muttered.

  "I am sorry, Clay," Gibbons said. "I'll continue to scan the area, but I am not seeing any signs of life."

  "I know," Clay said. "I'm going down there."

  "Clay!"

  "I have to, pal," Clay said. "I have to."

  Clay holstered his pistol when he found her. He stood there for several minutes before he could summon the courage to kneel down and take her lifeless body into his arms.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I don't know why I didn't say it out loud."

  Even in death she was beautiful, maybe more so. Dark skin, jet black hair, pronounced cheekbones and brow. A nose that lifted at the tip. Slate gray eyes that stared off into nothing.

  "I could have saved all of you," Clay said. "All I had to do was think of someone other than myself for two seconds. I've been so obsessed with getting to where we're going that I forgot life happens along the way."

  He rocked her back and forth and began to sing. It was her song. Nowhere near as beautiful, but Clay's rendition was filled with enough emotion to make up for the lack
of musicality.

  When the song was finished, Clay cleared his throat and set her corpse gently down to rest on the rocks. He stood up and wiped at his eyes. Clay stared down at the ground, and something tickled the back of his mind.

  Where was the blood?

  Then he drew his pistol and spun around, firing into the dark at a shape that darted from one huge boulder to another.

  "Gibbons!" Clay shouted.

  "I'm scanning! I'm scanning!" Gibbons replied into the comm in Clay's ear. "I don't see it on the scanners, Clay!"

  "But you saw it with the vids, right?" Clay asked.

  "I did, I did," Gibbons replied. "But it's not coming up on the scanners at all."

  "Go to infrared," Clay ordered. "Keep an eye on me. I'm going to go find it."

  "That is not a good idea, Clay," Gibbons said. "Climb back up into the cockpit and wait until morning. We'll track whoever it is then."

  "It's one of the scavengers, I know it," Clay said. "I'm going to find the son of a bitch now and make them all pay for what they did."

  "Yes, but how about we make them pay together? In the morning? When there's better visibility?" Gibbons pleaded.

  Clay began walking towards the boulder, the hammer cocked on his pistol, his eyes hunting the darkness for any signs of movement.

  "Clay, please stop," Gibbons said. "I can't have your back. The targeting system is useless without the scanners. Clay?"

  "Quiet," Clay said as he approached the boulder.

  He spun to the side and nearly opened fire, but there was no one there. Nothing was hiding behind the boulder.

  "Son of a bitch," Clay muttered. "I know I saw something."

  "Clay!" Gibbons cried.

  Clay turned, his finger tightening on the trigger. The blast lit up the area, and the last thing Clay saw was a very large rock coming straight for his head.

  Then the darkness of night became the pure blackness of unconsciousness.

  Clay looked forward to the day when he awoke in a strange place without a massive headache. Whether the headache was from too much drink or from blunt force trauma, he didn't care. He just wanted to wake up not in agony for once in his life.

  Slowly, because anything faster would have ripped his head open, Clay opened his eyes. Or tried to. It took a couple minutes of concentrated effort to get the gummy lids to peel apart.

  When he did get them open, he wasn't exactly happy with what he saw.

  Bodies. Several dozen bodies, all in different states of being. Some were alive, he could just make out sunken chests moving. Some were definitely not alive, evidenced by the desiccated state of the corpses. Many were a coin toss.

  He cleared his throat and was instantly answered by urgent hushes.

  "Where am I?" Clay asked.

  More urgent hushes with a couple of frightened whimpers.

  "Come on, folks, give me a clue here," Clay grunted. "This a cave? A mine? A big hole in the ground dug by giants?"

  "Giants ain't real," a man replied from a few meters away. "Don't be an idiot."

  "Can't make any promises there," Clay said. "Current circumstances point to that."

  "You need to be quiet," the man warned. "They hear ya talkin' and they'll come for ya. Hook you up like the others. They wait to see who wakes up first. Tells them yer strong."

  "Tells who?" Clay asked, but the man didn't reply. "Chicken shit."

  Clay adjusted his position, but could only get so comfortable on account of his legs and wrists being shackled to heavy chains that were anchored to the rock wall he was sitting against. He studied the shackles and the chain, but there was no way he was getting loose with brute force. The whack on the head had sapped his energy, and it was a struggle to simply remain conscious. But despite that, the metal used was too thick to even think of breaking.

  Too thick, but still kind of soft. Not pillow soft, but more like wood soft. Still plenty solid and strong, yet it sure as hell wasn't iron.

  A thought nagged at him. When he'd found the bodies, they'd had their skulls bashed in or necks snapped, but no throats cut or guts stabbed. Blunt force trauma, just like the blow to the back of his head. Kept the bloodshed down.

  Because blood shed was blood wasted…

  "Drinkers," Clay said. "Hey Mister? I need to ask you something."

  The man didn't respond.

  "Come on, pal, you gotta help me out here," Clay said. "The bodies, the dried out ones, how'd they get that way? They were drained, right? The people that have us here are coming and draining them of all their blood. Come on! Just tell me if I'm right or wrong."

  "You're about to find out for yerself," the man replied.

  Two shapes appeared in the gloom by the entrance to whatever space Clay was being held in. He squinted and studied the area as fast as he could. A mine. He was in a side branch of a mine. Then the two shapes were on him, their stink as strong as the hands that grabbed at his wrists and ankles.

  Clay tried to fight them off, but a third shape came in and pointed a pistol right at his face. Clay stopped struggling as the chains were pulled free from the wall, but kept snug through the shackles.

  "That's mine," Clay said, staring straight into the barrel of the pistol. "Not a fan of having my own pistol pointed at me."

  "Then quit yer fightin'," the shape replied.

  A man, from the voice. Clay couldn't tell by looking at him since the man was bundled in rags that were wrapped over every inch of his skin. But it was a man. That he knew.

  "Listen, pal, you are going to want to let me go," Clay said. "I have a partner that's looking for me."

  "The mech," the man stated.

  "Yeah, that's right, the mech," Clay said. "My partner is in the mech, and he will crush your ass when he finds me."

  "You'll be dead," the man said. "Nothing to find very soon."

  "Doesn't have to be that way," Clay said. He shook his shackles, and the two shapes that carried him—Clay assumed they were men, also from their size—growled. "Just making a point, okay? Calm down."

  "Be back for you," the man said to an old man chained to the mine wall as they passed by.

  "See!" the old man shouted. "I knew I shouldn't have talked to you!"

  "Sorry," Clay said as he was carried past. "Don't worry. I'll come back for you all."

  Clay was carried out of the side branch and into a much wider space. Ancient, cracked bracing crisscrossed the ceiling, but it looked like it would hold. At least long enough for Clay to get out.

  "Hey, listen, you're going about this all wrong," Clay said. He shook the shackles again, ignored the growls, and focused on the man leading them down the mine shaft. "This is lead, right? We're in a lead mine. All this metal is made out of lead. Come on! Answer me, pal! Am I right or not?"

  "Don't know what metal it is," the man replied. "Just metal."

  "No, no, it's not just metal," Clay said. "It's lead. Guess what? Lead is poison. Too much exposure will kill you. That's why you're draining folks. You're using their blood as transfusions to keep you all alive. I've seen it before."

  The man stopped and turned around. All Clay could see was the man's eyes behind the bundled rags. They burned with hate and fire.

  "You ain't seen us before," the man said.

  "No, I don't mean you specifically. I mean drinkers," Clay said. "Sick folks that take healthy folks’ blood. Radiation. Viral infections. Hemos. There are groups like you all over the damn place. I don't know why you think taking blood will help. All you have to do is move. Get your people out of here."

  "This is our home," the man replied. His eyes lost some of the hate. Some.

  "I get that, I do," Clay said. "Never really known a home myself, but I've come across folks who would rather die than leave. Home is where the heart is and all that cow crap. But the thing is, pal, your home is killing you. It's also driving you ten kinds of bonkers. You can't think straight with all this lead exposure."

  "This is our home," the man repeated.

 
; "Right…" Clay responded. "But. It. Is. Killing. You."

  The man shrugged and turned back to lead the way.

  "Oh, come on! You have more than enough rollers after killing those settlers," Clay said. "Just hop in the rollers and drive away. Find yourselves some pit or cave or ravine to live in. Just get out of this mine."

  "No," the man said.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake," Clay muttered.

  The man led them into a second side branch. They'd only gone a couple of meters before Clay really realized how much trouble he was in. The distinct smell of copper was everywhere. Blood. So much blood.

  "This isn't helping!" Clay said as he was set onto a soiled table. "All you are doing is putting off death! You're still going to stay sick no matter how much blood you take! Y'all are crazy!"

  "You're the crazy one," the man said as he leaned over Clay while other shapes busied themselves around the table.

  "Oh, those don't look sanitary," Clay said as a shape that could have been a woman held up a couple coils of rubber tubing. "You ever wash those tubes?"

  "Washing takes away the properties," the man said, then left Clay's line of sight.

  "Properties? Come on!" Clay shouted. "Listen to me! I can help you people if you just listen to me!"

  "Taint gonna hurt but a bit, sugar," a woman said as she slid a large gauge needle over one end of the tubing. "Just relax and soon you'll be all sleepy like."

  "Do not stick me with that!" Clay shouted as he struggled against his restraints. The metal gave slightly since it was lead, but not enough for him to work his hands free. "Back off!"

  Clay's trousers were pulled down, and the woman eyed his inner thigh.

  "It goes right there," the woman said. "You got pretty legs, you know that? I seen legs that ain't near as pretty as yours. What you do?"

  "What the hell do you mean what do I do?" Clay shouted. "Stop making small talk and just let me go!"

  "Ain't no need to be rude," the woman said. "Just trying to be friendly. You'll be here for a few days, so thought I'd get to know you."

  "Days? What?" Clay asked. Then he cried out as the heavy gauge needle was shoved into his leg. "Sweet God!"