The Amtrak Wars: Blood River

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘Leave this one to me,’ muttered Steve as he dismounted. He handed the reins of his horse to Cadillac then walked forward, unslinging his halberd. Fitted with an Iron Master blade, it was a later model of the turbo-charged piece of lightning she’d bequeathed to him before flying to Ne-Issan. And she had poured the same electrifying power into the one he now held.

  A blunt-featured man, in the centre of the group of riflemen ranged across the trail, stepped forward ready to fire from the hip and called out: ‘Hang up the sharp iron, friend.’

  Steve halted about ten yards away from the line and did as he was told.

  ‘Okay.’ The speaker put up his rifle. ‘This ain’t gonna hurt. Just step forward, nice and slow.’

  The men on either side reacted as they got a closer look at what Steve was wearing: the travel-stained white, wide-sleeved cotton jacket, walking skins – the Mute name for their soft leather trousers – and on his feet, the boots worn by mounted samurai. Protecting his chest, back, shoulders and forearms, various pieces of samurai armour. Like the renegades who faced him, Steve’s hair was now long and unkempt and he’d stopped dyeing the blond roots. Holding it back from his face was the green and gold silken headband. Every inch of exposed skin – like the bits they couldn’t see – was covered with the irregular blotches and swirls of light olive-brown, dark brown and black. Lightened here and there by steaks of pinkish ochre. The legacy of the Holocaust that separated the Mute from the rest of humankind.

  Steve had been wearing these colours for almost a year. They had become like a second skin. There was nothing to distinguish him from Cadillac and Clearwater and, in fact, he looked even more genuine than they did because his face bore the scars of a warrior who had ‘bitten the arrow’. The Mute badge of courage. The Kojak had accepted him without question and so had the clanfolk they’d encountered on their journey westwards. With pools of water and polished knife blades providing the only reflections of himself he had few opportunities to study his appearance and had not paused to consider the possible reaction of other Trackers.

  As the renegades gave him the once-over, Steve studied the man who’d called him forward and was stunned when he realized they’d already met. The square, deeply-lined face with the pale piercing eyes, and the blunt squashed nose: the camouflaged headband, and the long brown hair tied on the nape of his neck with a torn strip of the same material belonged to Malone, leader of the renegade band that Jodi, Kelso, Medicine Hat and Jinx had run with before being captured and sold down the river. Malone, the hard-faced sonofabitch who had punched the shit out of him before ordering him to be posted – tied kneeling upright to a stake, face-to-face with a week-old corpse. Fresh from a shallow grave Steve had dug himself. Despite his own protestations of innocence and Jodi’s appeals for clemency, Malone and the rest of his gang had just walked away and left him to die.

  But things had worked out very differently. And now Malone was on the hit list. Not now. But one day, yes… his turn would come.

  Steve forced a smile onto his lips. ‘Small world …’ He extended his hand. ‘We had a little misunderstanding last year.’

  Malone eyed him suspiciously. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Steve left his hand on offer. ‘But afterwards you changed your mind and sent Kelso and Jodi to let me off the hook.’ He paused then added. ‘Brickman. You posted me last April – up by Medicine Creek.’

  Malone frowned in surprise, walked slowly round Steve then stood in front of him again and thrust his face closer. ‘Well, jack me! So it is. What the hell you doin’ dressed up like a piece of lumpshit?’

  Steve swallowed the reply on the tip of his tongue and said: ‘It’s a long story.’

  Malone jerked his head towards Cadillac and Clearwater. ‘And those two?’

  ‘They’re part of it.’

  Malone pointed to the hilt of the samurai sword thrust through the sash around Steve’s waist then flicked the front edge of the small square shield attached to Steve’s right shoulder. ‘Where did all this junk come from?’

  ‘We collected it on our way out.’

  ‘Out of where?’

  ‘Ne-Issan. Where the Iron Masters live. They’re the guys who trade with the Mutes – and ship any breakers they’ve captured back east.’

  ‘Christo,’ breathed Malone. ‘Is that where you’ve been?’

  ‘Yeah. With Kelso and Jodi. They and I were collared at the same time. And a couple of other guys. Medicine Hat and Jinx. You lost about thirty guys – remember?’

  ‘I’m not likely to forget. What happened to ’em?’

  ‘Can’t say. After they landed Kelso and Jodi were in the same yard as Medicine Hat and Jinx for an hour or two then they were pulled out and bunched with us.’ Steve shrugged. ‘Never saw any of the others again – and my guess is you won’t see ’em either.’

  ‘Sounds like bad news …’

  ‘Ne-Issan? Yeah, it is. Once you’re there, it’s almost impossible to get out. But it can be done. We’re proof of that.’

  ‘So what happened to Kelso and Jodi?’

  ‘They got away with us but, uh – we got hit by some ’hawks from a wagon train and …’

  Malone got the message. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last year. Sometime around the end of November.’

  Malone registered the news with evident disbelief. He eyed his henchmen then said: ‘Are you telling me those suckers are sending out wagon-trains when there’s snow on the ground?!’

  ‘You’d better believe it.’

  Malone chewed this over then reached out and curled a set of steel fingers round Steve’s right arm, just above the elbow. It was meant to be a friendly gesture, but it didn’t feel like one. ‘Go tell your fancy-looking friends to join us, cuz. You and me have got some serious talking to do.’

  Dressed in camouflaged Trail-Blazer fatigues and a wing-man’s crash helmet, Roz climbed nervously into the passenger seat of a dark grey Sky-Rider. The plane, its engine running, stood facing the closed hangar doors. The AMEXICO pilot sat waiting with his hands on the controls, the dark mirrored visor of his helmet closed to preserve his anonymity.

  As Roz fastened her safety harness with the help of one of the ground crew, Commander-General Ben Karlstrom stepped through a side door and approached the cockpit.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Excited, sir. But a little nervous too.’

  ‘That’s understandable. But Steve adjusted very quickly. I’m sure you will too. Your performance so far has been absolutely magnificent, Roz. We’re very proud of you. And now we’re counting on you even more to help Steve complete his assignment. Do you think you’re going to be able to do it?’

  ‘Yes sir. There’s never been any question about that. It’s just …’

  Karlstrom smiled. ‘I know. The overground. No matter how many video pictures you see, they can never do justice to what’s waiting for you out there. For the first few minutes you’ll be overwhelmed by the sheer scale of everything. You may experience a degree of disorientation, of panic even. There are people who can’t take it. They suffer from space-sickness no matter how much exposure they get. But you’ll be okay. You’re special, Roz. If you weren’t I wouldn’t be here to see you off.’ Karlstrom gripped her gloved hand briefly then stepped back and saluted. ‘Have a safe trip – and good hunting!’

  Roz returned the salute. ‘Thank you, sir. Can’t wait!’

  As the motors controlling the hangar doors whined into action, Karlstrom strode back to the side entrance. One of the hanger staff closed the door behind him and spun the wheel to activate the air-tight seal. The Skyrider pilot lowered the bubble canopy and locked it into place, then checked that Roz was correctly plugged in to the intercomm.

  ‘You receiving me?’

  Roz held up both thumbs. ‘Loud and clear.’

  ‘Good. There’s nothing to be frightened of. Just sit back and relax. If you start feeling queasy or anxious, close your eyes and breathe deeply. We’re gonna
be airborne for several hours so you’ve got plenty of time to get adjusted. Just take it a step at a time. Okay?’

  ‘Yep …’

  ‘Right, let’s go.’ The pilot signalled the ground crew to remove the chocks from under the main wheels, opened the throttle and released the parking break.

  In front of them, the doors were sliding back to reveal a huge sloping slab of concrete topped by a narrow rectangle of brilliant blue. The sky above the overground …

  Although she had never been higher than Level Four-4, Roz had already been there. Her mind had merged with Steve’s on his first solo flight over the dazzling white sands of New Mexico. She had seen what he had seen, experienced the same dizzying emotions, the confusion, the sense of liberation, the awareness of ‘coming home’.

  But even the intensity of that experience could not compare with actually being there herself. As the Skyrider taxied out the hanger and up the sloping ramp the full majesty of the overground engulfed her senses. Raising her visor, she gazed in awe through the tinted canopy at the dazzling radiance of the sun as it lifted over the eastern horizon into a cloudless sky.

  The pilot turned the plane onto a concrete runway and put the nose wheel on the dashed white centre line as he exchanged clipped signals with the tower.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ he inquired.

  ‘Fine,’ murmured Roz. The plane surged forward. Roz felt her stomach drop a little as it lifted into the air then climbed steadily, its engine working hard to lift the added burden of the external long-range tanks fitted under each wing. And now as the ground dropped away, the vast, seemingly limitless expanse of the surrounding landscape was revealed. Pink, red and orange, mingling with the brown of the earth, colours that were the violent legacy of the Holocaust.

  There was a song from the Old Time which spoke of ‘the green, green hills of home’. One day, perhaps, things would return to the way they were but to Roz, who had never known anything else, the overground was stunningly beautiful. She felt it embrace her, like a mother gathering a long-lost child to her bosom. Her heart and mind seemed to blossom, bursting painlessly from the confines of her physical body to unite with the One-ness of all creation.

  And like Steve, she heard voices. But Roz did not try to shut them out. She listened, and she understood many things …

  Chapter Fourteen

  Malone and his four closest henchmen seemed reasonably satisfied with Steve’s account of the escape from Ne-Issan. He dropped all mention of the ill-fated Heron Pool project, the intervention of Skull-Face’s agents and the incident at Long Point from his narrative and substituted a perilous voyage as stowaways on a wheelboat which had taken them to the new outstations the Iron Masters were establishing on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. It was, he claimed, during the crossing to establish a new trading base at navref Chicago, that he and his friends had managed to blow up and sink the wheelboat and a Mute clan had completed the job by killing every Jap who managed to reach the shore.

  The horses, weapons and other booty explained Steve, was their share of the loot and to blunt any piercing questions from Malone or his sidekicks, Steve swiftly offered them a celebratory taste of sake. It had the desired effect but Malone was quick to spot the dangers of operating in a hostile environment with a group who were permanently smashed out of their skulls. The next morning, when Cadillac awoke with one arm draped fondly over a half-empty cask, he discovered to his horror that the rest of the stock had been systematically destroyed.

  Malone’s unilateral action left Steve outwardly sympathetic but secretly relieved. Clearwater felt the same way. The casks of sake they’d been lugging around had, in their own way, the same kind of destructive potential as four dozen kegs of dynamite. Steve watched him wander disbelievingly among the smashed casks littering the banks of a nearby stream, fiercely clutching the sole survivor of the massacre to his breast. When he returned he was still speechless. A broken man, silently nursing broken dreams.

  If he felt any anger, he did not show it. Or perhaps did not dare. Faced with a sullen undercurrent of protest, Malone promptly challenged anyone who was not happy with his decision to step forward and say their piece. Two breakers who had unwisely appointed themselves as spokesmen for the parched-throat majority had accepted his invitation and Malone shot both of them before they could open their mouths.

  Apart from the Iron Masters swords and bows Steve’s party had brought with them, the sole remaining item of interest was the herd of horses. There were no animals of any kind in the Federation and this had bred an antipathy towards them. Which wasn’t a problem for renegades since the idea of making friends with one rarely entered their heads. Animals were there to be killed and, as a last resort, eaten.

  Loyal Trackers, living inside the Federation, did not eat animal flesh. That was one of the disgusting things Mutes did and, in any case, overground animals were contaminated with radiation. The ‘beef’ burgers served in divisional mess-halls were soya-bean derivatives. Their diet included rice, various kinds of beans and root vegetables but basically it was a hi-tech laboratory product – bland-tasting, highly nutritious junk-food. Renegade Trackers had to adapt quickly or starve but it was not easy and not everybody was able to do so. Old habits died hard, and despite the risks, abandoned ration packs were still preferable to anything the overground had to offer.

  All of which meant that the renegades were curious about the rapport Steve, Cadillac and Clearwater had developed with the herd of horses, the way they used them as a means of transportation, and the uncanny way Clearwater could make them obey her. For Steve, her skills provided a useful focus of attention, drawing the interest of Malone and his men away from his own adventures, his present appearance and the true nature of his involvement with his travelling companions.

  Working with the horses also helped draw the renegades’ minds away from the fact that, despite being marked like a Mute, Clearwater was a strong, beautiful woman with a great body. The only female among seventy-odd hairy-assed renegades and probably the last they’d gotten a sniff of since Jodi was captured. Not every guy was ready to bounce beaver but Steve was willing to bet that, given the right opportunity or sufficient provocation, a good half of them would be ready to try.

  If they did, he and Cadillac wouldn’t be able to stop them. Clearwater would have to call on outside help. But Talisman had done nothing to protect her from the attentions of Nakane Toh-Shiba, and he might not help her now. After falling from a height of two thousand feet, the fat Consul-General had dug a satisfyingly deep hole in the ground but the sweet vengeance did not prevent Steve being wracked by jealousy at the thought of Clearwater in his sweaty embrace. It was all very curious. She was supposed to be under the protection of Talisman but he had done absolutely nothing to prevent her being jacked up and generally abused by anyone who took a fancy to her. It was one more reason for approving Malone’s decision to liquidate Cadillac’s private stockpile of joy-juice.

  Since there were more than enough horses to go round, Steve suggested to Malone that it might be a good idea if Clearwater gave him and his men a few riding lessons. Malone, who could see that it was a skill that might have useful applications, agreed to give it a whirl. When outlining the possible benefits, Steve omitted to say that besides occupying their minds they would discover that several hours of bouncing up and down in a saddle was guaranteed to leave them hobbling about bandy-legged with their thighs and butts on fire. And it would also banish any thoughts of a quick bunk-up.

  Cadillac, of course, was no longer a happy man. The stories which had held Mute clans spellbound were of absolutely no interest to Malone’s renegades. And had he spoken of these things they would have undermined Steve’s account of their escape. After having been the life and soul of the party for a few glorious weeks, it was extremely annoying to be suddenly relegated to the sidelines. It was now Clearwater and her stupid horses who were the centre of attention and he found that irritating too. Gritting his teeth, Cadillac had acquitt
ed himself manfully mile after painful mile but the bad sailor had revealed himself to be an even worse rider and as a consequence horses had now superseded boats at the top of his list of Least Favourite Things. It peeved him that Clearwater not only had this magical affinity with these stupid beasts but that she was also a far better rider than he was. On top of which, to add insult to injury, Brickman was once again dominating the action – well, temporarily anyway.

  The bunch of cut-throats he was trying to cosy up to had made no attempt to hide their distrust of Mutes. In itself, that was understandable, but it quickly dawned on Cadillac that he was the only one who was being cold-shouldered! Clearwater was besieged by her pupils and Brickman – despite being dressed like a Mute from head to foot – was constantly being invited to confer with the renegades’ leader!

  And – worst of all – the one thing that might have helped him bear these insults to his person and his position as leader of The Chosen had been taken from him. These vandals had smashed every single cask of sake bar one! And that was half empty. He now faced the agonizing choice of seeking solace a few drops at a time and remaining depressingly sober, or splurging the lot on one glorious burst of oblivion. His inability to decide, plus the knowledge that he had allowed his need for alcohol to gain a new foothold, plunged him into a black, vengeful mood.

  Yes … It was time for someone else to suffer …

  To avoid any trouble, Steve, Cadillac and Clearwater had laid their sleeping furs around a small fire in a shallow cave beneath the brow of the hill. Their nearest neighbours were the sentinels who had taken over the post previously manned by Gordon and Walsh. The main body of renegades were camped some eighty yards to the west of them, among the trees at the bottom of the slope. Steve and Clearwater had unsaddled the horses and let them roam free to graze at will. Now firmly attached to their new mistress, they would not roam far. When the time came, all she had to do was throw back her head and call to them using a warbling cry which caused them to neigh with delight and brought them galloping towards her.