Lawless Lands: Tales from the Weird Frontier

by Emily Lavin Leverett

  He tried to thrash, but heavy hands held him down as his life was slowly sucked from him. After a couple of minutes, his vision swam, and he lost consciousness.

  Had to have been days. No way he would have survived as many drainings as he did. Clay knew that, even though thinking was about as useful as punching fog.

  Clay lay there, the shackles beginning to chafe his skin, blisters forming, oozing pus a part of his waking life, and waited for the next bout with the heavy gauge needle and rubber tubing. He had a distinct feeling it would be his last. Pretty much everyone that had been in the side branch of the mine when he woke up had died. The old man was long gone.

  His body shook, and Clay guessed shock had finally set in. He was surprised he even had the energy to shiver the way he was. Then a solid and loud boom grabbed his attention, pulling his mind from the constant fog punching that had become his mental pastime.

  Clay wasn't shaking, the floor of the mine was. More accurately, the entire mine was. Ceiling, wall, floor, everything. Dirt clods and rocks began to fall everywhere, and Clay tried to cover his head, but the shackles didn't afford him enough slack.

  "After all of this, I die in a damned earthquake," Clay mumbled.

  The few people still alive began to weep and cry. Clay wanted to weep and cry with them, but he was just too dried out, and it took a lot of energy to cry.

  Then the world around him became a nightmare of falling rock and choking dust. The little light that his captors had allowed him to experience from the three candles stuck into the walls of the side branch was snuffed out.

  "Hello darkness, my old friend," Clay chuckled before the air was squeezed from his lungs.

  Again, Clay looked forward to the day he came awake and wasn't hurting like all hell.

  "Holy shit!" he yelled as he sat upright then proceeded to collapse back onto the metal floor. "Holy shit…"

  "Clay?" Gibbons asked. "Clay? Can you hear me?"

  "I hear you," Clay whispered. "I was trying to take a nap, pal. But, man, was I having one messed up dream. It was all so…"

  Clay looked about the cockpit. Why was he on the floor?

  "Gibbons?"

  "Yeah, Clay?"

  "What happened?"

  "Do you remember the pass?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you remember what happened after?"

  Clay sat up again, although without as much enthusiasm as before. The smell hit him hard. The cockpit stank. Clay looked down at his pale, emaciated body and realized he was what was stinking up the cockpit. He was coated in his own filth.

  His fingers traced the huge bruise on the inside of his thigh.

  "Gibbons?"

  "Yeah, Clay?"

  "How am I alive? How did I get here?"

  "Both excellent questions," Gibbons replied. "The answer to the first is that I have been giving you small electric shocks to keep your heart going these past two days."

  "Two days?" Clay exclaimed as he rolled onto his hands and knees. He grabbed the edge of the pilot's seat and struggled up into it. "Keep talking."

  "Sure," Gibbons said. "Just waiting for you to get settled. That must have been hard."

  "It was," Clay said.

  "The answer to the second question is I dug," Gibbons said. "I dug through the mountain until I found you. Took three days. The digging was the easy part. Finding you wasn't."

  "Because of the lead," Clay said.

  "Yes!" Gibbons exclaimed. "It was the lead ore that was messing with the scanners."

  "Messing with my body, too, pal," Clay said. "I'm a dead man. I was exposed to lethal levels."

  "It is a good thing I have plasma stores for you," Gibbons said. "I can also perform a purge of your liver as well as kidneys and bladder. Did you eat anything they gave you?"

  "They didn't give me anything except water," Clay said.

  "Good then your intestines should be fine," Gibbons said. "Can I stop to help you perform these tasks?"

  "Yeah, that would be great," Clay said.

  The mech stopped moving, and the sudden stillness gave Clay the shivers. He hadn't realized just how comforting the movements of the mech were to him until they stopped.

  "What now?" Clay asked.

  "Now comes the hard part," Gibbons said. "I'll talk you through it all."

  For the next twelve hours, Clay fought to stay coherent enough to perform the tasks needed to keep himself alive. Gibbons was expert in giving instructions, but the fog continued, and Clay struggled to get through each procedure.

  "Okay, you aren't going to die right away," Gibbons said. "Get some sleep, Clay."

  Clay started to give Gibbons a thumbs-up, but he barely lifted his hand off the seat's armrest before he was in a deep sleep.

  No dreams, no subconscious torture or moral lessons filled his mind. All he experienced was the sublime nothingness of true unconsciousness. When he finally came back awake, he felt better than he had in a long time, although still weak.

  "Thirty-eight hours straight," Gibbons announced as Clay stood on shaky legs and shuffled to the latrine chute. "I didn't have to shock your heart once."

  "Yay," Clay said.

  "However, we do have a slight situation on our hands," Gibbons said. "I'd take care of it, but once again I am faced with the reality that even AIs need physical pilots."

  "Slight situation?" Clay chuckled. "The only time you use that phrase is when we're about to get into a fight. What fight could we possibly get into out here in the middle of nowhere? We're not encroaching on anyone's territory."

  "Yes, that is true," Gibbons said. "But we are being pursued."

  "Pursued?" Clay asked as he made it back to his seat and fell back into it, exhausted.

  "Your captors," Gibbons said. "They are using the settlers' rollers to track us down. I have kept ahead of them, but it appears they will overtake us within the next few hours. I have not had a chance to recharge the power cells. We are totally out of gray and running off geothermal stores alone."

  "Weapons?" Clay asked as a sinking feeling gripped his guts.

  "Well, without full power cells, plasma cannons will be useless," Gibbons replied. "That leaves eight RPGs and the belt guns."

  "And fists," Clay said. "There are always fists."

  "Yes, well, you aren't in the shape needed for hand to hand," Gibbons stated.

  "Not fighting another mech, pal," Clay said. "This will be hand to roller combat. Much easier."

  "Is that so? Then perhaps give it a try," Gibbons suggested.

  Clay strapped in and powered up. He integrated and engaged with the mech controls and gave a couple of tentative swings with the massive fists. Then he slumped in the seat and took several deep breaths.

  "Ow," he muttered.

  "Yes, well, perhaps a nap will do you some good," Gibbons said. "Sleep, Clay. I'll wake you when they are thirty minutes out. That will give you a couple hours of rest."

  "A couple hours?" Clay laughed. "I'll be fine with a couple of hours."

  "Yes, of course you will," Gibbons replied.

  Clay came awake on his own. He opened his eyes and could see diagnostics being run on all systems. Gibbons was busy triple checking the mech for battle worthiness.

  "How long was I out?" Clay asked.

  "Two hours on the dot," Gibbons said. "I was about to wake you up. How do you feel?"

  "Like hell," Clay replied. "But I can do this. No choice, right?"

  "That is true," Gibbons said.

  "What's the status?" Clay asked as he stood and stretched.

  He bent each limb as far as it would go, then made sure he could twist and turn his back and at the hips. Fighting was fighting, whether one-on-one with bare fists or piloting a fifty-foot battle mech. You sure as hell didn't want to cramp up in the middle of the violence.

  "Five rollers," Gibbons reported. "Your captors have adapted them. Three have large canons on top while the other two have belt guns. They all have very sickly looking people hanging on to the ou
tsides, armed with rifles or pistols."

  "I'm amazed they've hung on for so long," Clay said. "Those people should be dead."

  "They would be if they hadn't been feeding their veins with stolen blood," Gibbons said. "If they are willing to do that, then what else have they been doing to themselves?"

  "Excellent point, pal," Clay said.

  "How should we handle this? Head on?" Gibbons asked.

  "I think that works best," Clay said. "Ready, Gibbons?"

  "As always, Clay," Gibbons replied.

  The mech began to jog toward the rollers. Instantly the drinkers opened fire. Plasma blasts hit the ground in front of the mech, gouging out two-meter-wide holes and sending rock and dirt ten meters up into the air, almost as high as the mech's cockpit.

  Clay ignored the attacks. If they got hit, they got hit. Nothing he could do about it since maneuverability was severely hampered by the low power cells. Every detour taken from the head-on path lessened the impact of the attack that Clay was counting on.

  "The plasma cannon on the right is locked onto us," Gibbons said. "Sending RPG now."

  "Good call," Clay replied, his focus on the rollers in the center of the horizontal line of vehicles racing at them.

  The rocket propelled grenade flew from its launcher in the mech's shoulder and spat fire as it sped toward the farthest roller to the right. The drinkers saw it coming, and those hanging on to the outside leapt blindly, obviously deciding that the risk of breaking a limb, or their necks, was better than getting blown to smithereens.

  The roller itself was not so lucky. Even a last minute evasive turn couldn't save it. The vehicle was destroyed instantly, sending shrapnel flying in all directions. The roller closest to it took the brunt of the onslaught of hot metal and melting plastic. Half of that vehicle's cockpit was shredded down to the struts, leaving a torso-less corpse in the driver's seat.

  "Two down," Gibbons announced.

  "Send all the RPGs," Clay ordered.

  Gibbons followed the orders, and the remaining RPGs launched from the mech. But the rollers were prepared as they fired their plasma cannons, ripping the rockets apart while they were still in the air. Fire and smoke blocked the view between the two forces, and for a second, it was impossible to see the oncoming rollers.

  Then the smoke cleared, and the three remaining rollers came speeding toward the mech, belt guns firing hot lead, and plasma cannons belching energy blasts. Clay sent the mech into a forward dive, tucking the massive machine's shoulder so it could tumble under his control and come up one knee, its own belt guns returning fire.

  A third roller was ripped apart by the mech's heavy caliber bullets. The vehicle's engine compartment exploded and flames engulfed the entire roller. The screams of burning men and women could be heard all the way inside the mech's cockpit, but they quickly died out as the drinkers became crispy corpses.

  Bullets tore into the midsection of the mech and warning klaxons began to blare.

  "Gibbons!" Clay shouted as he executed a sideways roll to get out of the line of fire.

  "We're going to lose the left side hydraulics soon!" Gibbons replied. "You need to end this, Clay!"

  Clay knew that. He almost snapped back with some hurtful, sarcastic reply, but he held his tongue. Gibbons was doing his job and keeping the mech operational. That's all Clay really needed.

  He emptied the belt guns into another roller, and the vehicle became more air than metal. Blood spurted from the windows and doors as those inside were aerated, completely torn apart in less than two seconds. The shredded roller lost its front wheels and came to a crashing halt as its nose was driven into the ground.

  A plasma blast hit the mech in the left leg, and the machine collapsed onto the desert floor. Clay pushed up onto its hands, but a second plasma blast hit it in the left bicep, and the mech fell back down.

  "Gibbons! I need to get up!" Clay yelled.

  "Yes, I am aware of that, Clay!" Gibbons replied. "I'm trying to work around this, but the leg is crumpled. I may be able to reroute fluid and power to the left arm so we can sit up, but no promises!"

  Two more plasma bolts hit the mech, and half the warning klaxons cut off.

  "Well, that ain't good," Clay said. "Gibbons? I'm going out. Pop the hatch."

  "Whoa, what?" Gibbons shouted. "Clay, no!"

  "I got this, just pop the hatch," Clay said as he struggled up out of the pilot's seat and crawled across the sideways cockpit to the weapons cabinet.

  He pulled out a carbine and grabbed a magazine, slapping it into the weapon. Clay pulled the action and moved toward the cockpit hatch.

  "Gibbons?" Clay said.

  "Fine," Gibbons replied as he popped the hatch open, forcing it down against the ground so it afforded just enough room for Clay to squeeze through.

  Clay watched as two more plasma blasts hit the mech. He grunted and walked a few meters from the fallen machine before taking a knee and putting the carbine to his shoulder. The drinkers hanging on to the side of the roller started to open fire with their pistols and rifles, but they were horrible shots. Clay actually laughed for a second.

  Then he opened fire with the carbine and dropped three drinkers before aiming directly at the driver's side of the roller's windshield. Two shots.

  The roller slowly came to a stop as the windshield was painted with the driver's skull, brains, and hair. The mess dripped slowly as Clay stood up and limped his way closer.

  The last two drinkers still hanging on to the side jumped down and ran in the opposite direction. Clay dropped them both, putting holes squarely in their backs. It wasn't very honorable, but the last thing he needed was for one of them to come sneaking back in the night to slash his throat.

  By the time Clay reached the stopped roller, he was exhausted. He leaned against the hood and took several deep breaths.

  "Clay? Can you hear me?" Gibbons asked over the comm.

  "I hear ya, pal," Clay replied. "Just taking a breather. Give me a second."

  It was closer to three minutes before Clay was able to push away from the roller and keep walking. He surveyed the destruction and made a note of what parts could be salvaged from the vehicles to help repair the fallen mech.

  Then he plopped down on his ass and closed his eyes.

  It was Gibbons's constantly calling that finally woke him back up.

  "Here, here," Clay mumbled. "Sorry."

  "Thank whatever Lord AIs get to pray to," Gibbons said. "Can you get up?"

  "Yep," Clay said as he used the carbine as a cane and slowly got to his feet.

  He hobbled his way back to the mech, climbed in through the open hatch, and collapsed again as soon as he was inside.

  "Just gonna take a little nap," Clay said. "You gonna be good?"

  "I'll keep watch," Gibbons said. "Any parts worth using?"

  "A few, a few," Clay whispered. "I'll get to them once I feel a little better."

  "Understood, Clay," Gibbons said. "Sleep well."

  Clay mumbled something unintelligible then was out. Gibbons used what power the mech had left to dial up the scanners and keep watch over the sleeping pilot. He'd be fine. They'd both be fine. They'd faced much, much worse and made it.

  No reason they couldn't make it through this.

  It took a week for repairs and another week of walking slowly until they reached the old reactor. It would have taken only four days, but they had to stop periodically to drill down and recharge on geothermal.

  Gibbons scanned the reactor once they'd reached it and gave a sad, slow sigh.

  "Not nearly as much gray left in that cooling tower as we thought," Gibbons said.

  "Is it enough to get us back to the pass?" Clay asked.

  "Get us back to the what?" Gibbons replied. "Clay? I know you haven't been in the best of health, and living off lizards and birds hasn't helped much, but have you gone completely nuts?"

  "Not completely, no," Clay replied.

  "Then please tell me why we would go back to
the pass," Gibbons said.

  "Because I have to," Clay said. "If I don't, I'll never forgive myself. Gonna be hard enough as it is."

  Gibbons grumbled for a minute, but didn't argue.

  "I'll get the hose ready," Clay said as he stood up and then popped open the cockpit hatch. "You prep the holding tank."

  "Will do, Clay," Gibbons said as Clay climbed over the edge of the cockpit and was lost from sight.

  It was another week of walking before they reached Cabenero Pass. But, instead of scaling the cliff, they took the long way and hiked up the roller trail. It added a day, but Clay knew he had time.

  When they finally reached the sight of the massacre, Clay sat on the edge of the cockpit for a good hour before he could bring himself to climb down and do what needed doing.

  “I can use my hands and dig for you," Gibbons said.

  "No, pal, I have to do this myself," Clay said as he unfolded the shovel and began testing the ground for soft areas to dig in. "This is my penance."

  "Clay…"

  "I can't explain it," Clay said. "It's just something I have to do."

  Clay dug for a few hours then began dragging bodies over to the huge grave. He did that through the night, Gibbons illuminating the area with the mech's floodlights. By the time Clay had covered over the mass grave, dawn was breaking and the pass was bathed in a pinkish-orange glow.

  "One more," Clay said.

  He took great care to dig the last grave, a single plot, as deep as he could. It wasn't the standard six feet, but it was deep enough that animals shouldn't be able to defile it and dig up the body.

  When he was finished, he sat next to the grave and stared into the hole for a long while, trying to muster the courage to do what needed doing. Finally, as the sun stood at high noon, Clay got up and walked to the last body.

  He couldn't say the words he wanted to say. His throat was nothing but a grief-stricken, constricted mess. Tears streamed down his dirt-smeared cheeks, cutting clean furrows through his filthiness.

  He knelt and took her in his arms one last time, then stood, his back popping and joints creaking. Clay walked her over to the grave and struggled to get her down inside without her tumbling in a heap.