Her gaze drifted in his general direction. “Yes, sir.”
“This your first tour?”
“No, sir. My second.”
“Who’d you head out with your first time?”
“Agent Morgenstern. We were Sanfran-bound. Supply trade.”
Troy licked his lips. Meadowlark had ventured new information by telling him where she’d gone without being prompted. That’s something he hadn’t seen a Sleeper do yet. But that didn’t mean she was cleared of suspicion.
Troy figured he should keep pressing her. He looked at her shaded face through the rear-view mirror. “How’d it go?” With a Bag Man for private audience, he’d never get a better chance. Despite how exposed he felt.
“Quiet,” snapped Agent Morris. “The road, Sergeant.”
Squinting ahead, Troy sucked in a breath.
“We have some drifters, gentlemen,” said Morris.
Scavenger crews had spent years clearing I-5, and other major highways snaking out from Republic territory, for several reasons: scrap metal, medicines, canned goods, books, oddities you’d never find elsewhere. And I-5 was so frequently used by Sac convoys that it had been deemed necessary to pull most of the cars off-road. Getting stuck navigating around junked cars and flipped trucks would leave personnel needlessly exposed. So, Troy thought, what’s that, up ahead?
Didn’t look like cars. Not animals either.
Morris laughed. “They’re carts. Rudimentary.”
“Sir?”
“A Wild-Childs blockade, Sergeant. Wooden carts and — ah, see there?” Morris pointed.
The shapes of people were poking out over the top and on the sides of the carts and stacked boxes.
Morris said, “Our speed is dropping, Sergeant.”
Troy realized he’d lifted his foot from the gas pedal. The Humvee slowed from 60 mph to 55, then 50. They were closing in fast on the barricade. Really fast.
Morris grinned. “Actually, I have an idea. Stop the vehicle.”
Obeying the order, Troy applied the brake. They were only a few hundred feet from the barricade now.
“Corporal.” Morris turned around. “Man the .50 caliber, if you’d be so kind.”
Troy watched Meadowlark’s reaction closely. Her mouth drooped open.
“You want me to mow them down, sir?” she said.
“I’m ordering you to clear the road.”
Troy cleared his throat. “Sir, they haven’t engaged us.”
Morris pulled off his sunglasses, rubbing them with the hem of his shirt. “They’ve barred our passage. Don’t tell me they — O, simple and noble savages that they are — have no idea what they’re doing, here.” He put his aviators back on. “And, enlightened though we may be, we don’t tolerate banditry or terrorism.” When Meadowlark didn’t jump up immediately to climb up through the hatch in the ceiling, Morris said, without turning, “I know you’re not hesitating to fulfill a direct order, Corporal.” He chuckled. “Unlike these, umm, people in front of us, we’re civilized. Fire a warning shot. That’s more courtesy than they’d show us.”
Morris gazed on ahead. Meadowlark moved to do as ordered. With a metallic squeal, she opened the hatch and climbed up.
A single boom followed. The warning shot, fired into the air.
“That’s your cue, Sergeant Myers.” Morris flicked two fingers toward the barricade. “Full steam ahead.”
No one had ever claimed this area was supposed to be anything close to resembling “secure,” but Troy was still angry at no one in particular for this early road bump.
It was going to be a long couple of weeks.
He pressed down on the gas pedal. The Humvee shot forward.
Morris told him, “Aim for the left lane. Looks to be the weakest point.”
Troy steered left as the .50 cal started screaming at the Wild-Childs whom he could now see in detail. Most of them scattered at the thunderous voice of the machine gun, but a few were either unafraid or just too slow to get away in time.
The Humvee smashed through the blockade like a toy train knocking over blocks. A spray of red, pink, and sickly orange spattered the windshield. The vehicle’s occupants bounced up and down once or twice.
Troy grunted and turned the windshield wipers on full-blast. He was left with two ugly, stretched smears. But he could see.
Meadowlark clambered back into the rear passenger seat.
“Well.” Morris rotated and shook out his wrists. “Par for the course.”
Troy said, “Usually don’t see them come out this far west.”
“I’m used to them. By now, I’d have to be,” said Bag Man Morris.
“How’s that, sir?” said Troy.
“They’ve been moving around. Migrating, I should say. Something’s agitated them out east.” Morris talked through his yawn, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this pack came from around Vegas.”
“How can you tell?”
Morris drew an invisible “v” over his face, from crown to chin. “Tribal markings.”
Troy let a mile of road pass by before he said, “They ought to have known better.”
“Bet they do now,” said Meadowlark.
Christopher Troy Myers
January 22nd, 2070
No Man’s Land
Long stretches of nothing. That’s what I-5 was as it passed by what used to be, but hadn’t been for a very long time, Bakersfield, California. Now it was No Man’s Land. Just another city of the dead. There were a lot of those.
If Troy concentrated hard enough, he could almost see row upon row upon row of verdant, green crops. What did they used to grow, here? Apples? Grapes? He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter anymore. But he wondered, because it passed the time.
Road hypnosis was a very real risk, especially with no traffic to keep him alert. He had to shake himself awake every handful of minutes.
His two passengers were lousy conversationalists. Meadowlark chewed gum, or fiddled with her thick, rectangular, black-rimmed glasses. Morris reviewed the transcribed radio transmission pages as he whistled The Undead Body, that horrible, mocking song set to the tune of The Battle Hymn of the Republic.
Automatically, the words sprung into Troy’s mind. “My eyes have seen the horror of the coming of the horde…”
Troy wasn’t one for political correctness. The world had left those kinds of ideas behind, he felt pretty certain. At any rate, the lives of people were governed by new laws, both natural and man-made. But, still, Morris blithely whistling that song… “Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die. Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die.” Well, he wasn’t winning Troy over.
It seemed particularly off-key here, so close to Bakersfield, disrespectful on a whole other level. Troy had been in the city proper, once before. He never wanted to go back. Bakersfield was one of those places that reminded him too much of how it was in the old days. You’d have cities cleared of people, and your only company would be the silent shufflers, the Drunks. Maybe you wouldn’t even know you were being watched until it was too late. Maybe they’d get you in your sleep. Maybe you didn’t sleep.
One of Troy’s earlier Runs had been clearing a hospital in Bakersfield where a group of survivors had holed up. That was back when Sac was still recruiting much more actively. Back when Sac was still seventy percent ideas and thirty percent execution.
Whoever was in charge of that group in the hospital had heard Sac’s radio broadcast, played on loop, and responded with an S.O.S. When Zulu Squad got there, after walking the streets of Bakersfield for a silent hour when no one dared speak or sneeze, they waved a white flag to hail the hospital’s defenders. They were met with bullets.
There was a very good reason why Zulu Company was nicknamed “Zoo Company.” Fucking with them was like poking a tiger in the eye. A tiger outfitted with assault rifles, flash bangs, tear-gas canisters, and other high-powered weaponry.
After suffering two casualties, Zulu Squad breached the hospital and cleared it hallwa
y by hallway. Superior, military-grade training gave the Sacramentans the edge over those wild-eyed, tar-faced psychos who’d butchered the people who had lived or been holed up inside the building. Turned out the gunmen weren’t bandits but Yumans. This was before anyone in Sac knew what Yuma was, when it was still just another maddened tribe eking out an existence in the desert.
That had been what the higher-ups would call a “snafu.” Long story short, the current unsteady neutrality with the Kingdom of Yuma was the end result of that altercation. It wasn’t called The Treaty of Bakersfield for nothing.
So, yeah, Troy didn’t have much nice to say about the place, except how much he enjoyed watching it turn into a speck in his rearview mirror.
He was doing just that when Meadowlark said, “What the hell is that?” As she leaned forward, Troy tensed.
Wild bramble patches, brown brush, and yellow grass lined the road and encircled it in every direction, running up to the bald hills of what was now the Mojave. With how the high sunlight glared off the windshield, it took Troy a couple of seconds to figure out that the eighteen-wheeler up ahead was actually blocking the road, rather than being off to the side, as he’d first thought. The road didn’t bend after all. That had been just a mirage or something.
They were headed straight for the obstruction. And, better yet, there was one just like it blocking off the other side of the highway.
“Stop the vehicle,” said Agent Morris.
“We could go around,” said Troy.
“Stop the vehicle, nimrod. Don’t you see the flag?”
Then Troy did see it. Divided into two rectangles, the lower one orange and the upper one midnight blue, the flag of the Kingdom of Yuma symbolized the harsh fickleness of life in the desert. Red sands and dark skies. Hot and cold.
Goddamn Yuma. Troy figured he’d cursed himself by remembering Bakersfield and that first fateful encounter. The Yumans were the last people he wanted to talk to. The only thing worse would be bumping into Sleepers. But these bandits that posed as soldiers were a close second, the way Troy saw it.
Only an hour later and here’s some more shit. Troy slowed the Humvee. That’s when he caught sight of the men climbing on top of the eighteen-wheelers. From experience, he knew they’d be carrying semi-automatics. But a few would have AK-47s, cheap, reliable, and still killing people in this new world.
The Humvee at a full stop, Troy gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
“What do we do, now, Agent Morris?” said Meadowlark.
“I imagine they’ll roll out the welcome mat in just a minute.” Morris smoothed his blond hair down with his palms. “We’ll step out to talk to them, and they’ll not bother us anymore.” He replaced his aviators on his nose.
“They’re not supposed to be this far north, are they, sir?”
Morris scowled. “Not nearly.” He muttered, “Uppity desert roaches.”
Troy wished he could just floor it, swing around the trucks by cutting through the dirt, and leave these bastards far behind. But Morris was operating according to the Treaty, which meant that the lines of communication had to stay open. Talk first. Always talk first.
Anyway, driving off like a bat out of hell wouldn’t work in broad daylight, like this; the trio from Sac was not anonymous because all Sac vehicles had the Republic’s own flag painted in bright colors on their sides. Sonovabitch.
And here they come. Four men, rifles in hand, were walking calmly toward the Humvee parked in the middle of the three-lane highway. After a couple of minutes they came to a stop some fifteen feet in front of the vehicle. One of them gestured “come here.”
“See?” said Morris, popping open his door. “So polite. Until they flap their lips, that is. Sergeant, Corporal, follow me.” He stepped outside.
“Corporal,” Troy told her without turning his head, “watch our six. Can’t trust these guys for a second.”
They slid out of the Humvee.
The temperature was mild. Troy was sweating, though. He wiped his forehead on his tan sleeve. He walked up to Agent Morris’ side, with Meadowlark in tow. The three of them faced the four sun-browned, oily-faced Yumans, who were all in their early-to-mid twenties, by the look of them.
“The name is Agent Bernard H. Morris, with the Sacramento Bureau of Public Health. These are my associates, Sergeant Myers and Corporal Meadowlark. We’re on official business, and this is a free roadway. We are left wondering what the meaning of this little embuscade is.”
One of the Yumans hefted his AK and chortled. “Hah, it speaks. We were sure a lily-white, soft-handed guy like you would just sigh and swoon when faced against us. And there’s no call for throwing around fancy words out here. Out here there’s just men, talking things out.” He turned to Meadowlark. “And, yes, miss, I saw you there. Like I said, men talking.”
Troy scratched his Adam’s apple. He told himself to keep cool.
The Yuman continued, “I’m Jack MacLeroy, and this is my crew. And you’re a bit outside your — whaddya call it, Derek?”
“Jurisdiction,” said Derek.
“Yeah. You’ve come a long way out from your city, boys.”
Morris smiled as if talking to a slightly senile old lady. “We’re on official business.” He reached inside his jacket and immediately rifle-barrels hiked up a few inches. “Relax. It’s a portable radio. A fancy walkie-talkie.” He pulled it out. “I was just about to offer to contact my superiors to prove what I’m telling you. Mr. MacLeroy.”
“Captain MacLeroy to you, friend.”
“I’m not your friend, captain.”
A grin tore at MacLeroy’s cheeks, and his eyes narrowed. “You lookin’ to start somethin’ out here, boy?”
Morris held up his hands. “No, no. Just stating the obvious. We’re not friends because our cities are not allies. We’re amiably neutral. At best.” The smile left his face. “And we can keep our relationship that way, or not.”
Troy waited for it all to go south. Someone was just about to start blasting, and he’d have to whip out his handgun. And he’d probably end up dead.
Par for the course, just like Morris had said earlier that day.
But, almost as if the breeze was a sigh of relief, everyone took a breath and no one started something that they’d all regret.
Captain Jack MacLeroy forced a laugh. “Soft-handed and soft-skinned. Yeah, call your head honchos if you want. But you should know that you’re in Wheeler Ridge. And Wheeler Ridge is now Yuma’s northern outpost.”
Morris said what Troy was thinking: “This close to Bakersfield? On whose authority?”
“Grayson Davis II, King of Yuma.”
“Ah, well.” For once, Morris looked flustered. “I’ll just be giving my superiors a call. Please excuse us.”
Jack MacLeroy laughed again. “Take your time, now. Ain’t gonna change a thing.”
Once he, Troy, and Meadowlark were out of earshot, Morris hissed, “Shithead inbreds.”
Troy finally agreed with him on something.
As Morris hailed HQ, Troy thought about the mission. He thought about how far out of their way they were made to go to honor the Treaty of Bakersfield. HQ had purposefully charted a route for this expedition that would steer clear from crossing into Yuma territory: I-5 to route 138, then north again via 14 near Lancaster to head east via 58. Finally, they’d hit I-40 East which would take them to 93 south and straight to their destination. If Yuma hadn’t been the growing wart on the ass of the West Coast that it was, this Sac expedition (and so many before and after it) would have had many more options open.
Yuma territory had always been expanding, steadily. But too damned fast, in the last couple of years. And now this shit? Parking your asses just beyond the border of Bakersfield? At least Troy finally knew why, after this exchange with Captain Jack. He deduced that Old Man Yuma was dead. Apparently, his son, Grayson the second had taken over. Apparently, this new King Yuma was even feistier than his father. That was very probably terrible
news. This development was certainly what had Morris’ panties in a twist.
This was some macro-scale bullshit. In other words, way beyond Troy’s pay-grade.
Morris was speaking into the radio, “Yes, sir. No. No, that won’t be necessary. We can re-route. Acknowledged. Out.”
He handed the radio to Meadowlark and blew his nose into a white handkerchief.
“What’s the word from HQ, sir?” Troy asked.
Screwing up his face, Morris waved him off irritably. He’d plastered a congenial smile over his features by the time he returned to Jack and his gang.
“Well, Captain MacLeroy, for the purposes of this mission, at least, Sacramento will abide you. And your new position. The exact parameters of the issue to be renegotiated at a later date.”
MacLeroy nodded. “I expected as much.” The other Yumans sniggered.
“Have a nice day,” Morris said.
“Be safe out there,” said MacLeroy.
Once they were inside the Humvee again, Troy said, “What now, sir?”
“Back it up, Sergeant.” Morris pouted like a kid who’d been first out in dodge ball. “To Bakersfield.”
Troy sighed.
God damn it.
And Morris sang, softly, “Over the river, and through the wood, to grandfather’s house we go.”
Christopher Troy Myers
September 2nd, 2069
New Sacramento, R&D Quad, Health & Wellness Building
Mary Jones, Troy’s new government-appointed head doctor, studied him like a slightly off-putting painting. “Tell me about that day, at the hospital. You keep bringing it up, but avoiding the issue. Like it’s a door you don’t want to open.”
These meetings were required, or Troy wouldn’t be there, in that sterile office. He was not happy about this, about any of it. He had to put on a good show, though. He had to prove he was still lucid, capable, balanced, or Sac Command might put him behind a desk. Or retire him.
Troy thought about what he could say that sounded a lot like the truth. “I felt excited, at first. It was my first Run. I wanted to prove myself to the community. Prove that I belonged in Sac…” But he slipped right into the memory, and it started taking over. “I killed a lot of people in my time. Sometimes I think I remember the exact number, but I probably am just imagining that. It’s a lot though. A big number.”
Bag Men Page 6
