by Steven John
Haskell nodded, leaning back against the bench seat and locking his eyes attentively on Hutton.
“OK. We’re being drained. Real bad. Gotta be a lot of bad men out there, Hasky,” he glanced over at Scofield and then back to the younger outrider. “And you two sons of bitches are going to be a big part of my response. So listen good as we head toward town. Scofield here is going to talk to Mayor Dreg. You and I are heading out to the field.”
Kretch cursed the rain as he jogged through the muddy Outpost. He held a flimsy tarp over his head and shoulders but his jeans and boots were soaked through. He reached The Office—the nickname for this crude, all-purpose building—and ducked under a corrugated tin awning that stuck out over the iron door.
Wilton dropped the plastic tarp in a heap and wiped his damp hands on the inside of his jacket. He dug out his smokes, finding the pack soggy. A few of the cigarettes were dry enough, and he got one lit and stood there smoking and stamping his feet to keep warm. Through the gray haze of rain and fog Kretch could see only a few hundred yards in any direction. The world was monochrome, all outline and shadow free of detail.
Fuckin’ depressing out. Good thing Shady’s at the barn. He’d be good and pissed at me riding through this shit. Kretch began to rock back and forth on his heels, taking ever smaller drags off his cigarette as the ember crept closer to his fingers. When the tobacco was gone and he was sucking filter, Kretch tossed the butt away and considered lighting another. He thought maybe he should go and check on his horse after all. Make sure he had enough feed. Make sure he was dry.
After another minute of hesitation, Wilton shook his head and spat. Then he turned and keyed in the entry code and pushed the rusted door open. The Office was jail cells, storage, infirmary, and morgue all in one. This last detail was the thing that had unhappily summoned Kretch. He walked slowly down the dimly lit main corridor, his boots squeaking on the cement floor.
Stopping before the last door on the left, Wilton took in a deep breath and held it. Then he growled softly, getting up his courage, and entered the room. It was brightly lit and bitterly cold. A strange chorus filled the space: the whine of fluorescent lights mixed with the drone of an aging air conditioner that kept the ten-by-twenty foot room just above freezing.
There were three empty gurneys shoved into a corner and two draped with white sheets in the middle of the floor. Shivering uncontrollably, Wilton made his way to the closest gurney and checked the chart hanging off its side. The top line read: GREGORY WHITE. The report section of the form was already completed in angry, block letters. The outrider stretched his neck from side to side, making his way to the other bed. Sure enough his name was printed across the top of the page.
Wilton cracked his knuckles, then slowly drew back the white sheet. The old man’s face was a pale blue-gray. His eyes were open and his lips pursed. He looked strangely attentive, almost impatient. Bile rising in his throat, Kretch slid the sheet further down along the corpse. Back in the desert that morning, Kretch had worked the old man’s shirt back onto his lifeless body, but it had now been cut away from the torso, leaving only tattered sleeves hanging irreverently off withered arms.
The gunshot wound was savage. Wilton’s pistol had been close enough to cause powder burns around the gaping hole. Blood was caked all over the old man’s chest; brown where it had flowed down his flesh, crimson and congealed in the ragged wound itself.
OK, just do this goddammit. Kretch began to search his pockets for a pen.
“One of yours, huh?”
Wilton literally jumped, gasping in terror. He wheeled, beginning to draw his pistol, to find Moses Smith framed by the soft light from doorway. The heavyset man ambled into the room, wheezing and with a slight limp in his left leg.
“Yeah,” Kretch forced out, his heart racing. “Had to take this one out.”
“Old timer. Hoo boy . . . that’s a game-over shot right there.” Moses studied the body clinically, his large brown eyes looking the dead man up and down. “Cannell come by earlier. He took a look in here but I was achin’ goddamn bad then. Meant to get my ass out of bed and ask him about it—makes sense that ol’ boy weren’t the one that bagged him. Can you imagine riding the field pushin’ sixty five? Hell if I can.” Moses turned away from the gurney, wincing as pain flashed through his crotch.
“How you doing, Moses? What is it—pneumonia?”
“Something like that,” Smith snorted. “Doc’s got me on these fuckin’ horse pills and bed rest.”
“That’s what a body needs, I guess. That and a stiff drink now and then.”
“Less drinkin’ and I’d find myself a bit healthier right now, you get my drift.” Moses smiled sourly and turned back to the dead leech. “Looks like this fellah took a bullet in his chest once before.”
“Yeah, that—that’s what it looks like.”
“They never learn, huh?”
“Never.”
“So you make it to Round Up?”
“Yeah.” Kretch nodded, awkwardly stepping in front of Moses and covering the corpse again. “The morning session, anyway. We’re gonna pick it back up in an hour or two.”
“Hutton say what them horns were about?”
“This morning? No. Not really. He just said what with the rain and all he didn’t see a reason to put it off.”
Moses casually leaned against the gurney, sighing as he took the weight off his legs. He looked down at the floor and Kretch could finally study his face for a few seconds. The man’s fleshy cheeks were sallow and covered with an oily sheen. Massive bags hung beneath his eyes and his hair was damp with perspiration. Moses was wearing a loose gray shirt and ill-fitting canvas trousers. His feet were bare.
“Well, I wish I could be there.”
“Yeah, well, I’d trade you if I could.” Kretch reached past Smith and grabbed the chart from beside the old leech. “Listen I gotta fill this out and get back.”
“OK, Kretch. You do that. I’m not supposed to be on my feet anyway.” He limped slowly back toward the hallway. “I’ll leave you to pay your respects and whatnot. It’s the worst part of the job, ain’t it?”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
13
Scofield ran his palms together nervously. His back was ramrod straight, glued to the plastic seat. Each time the pod stopped more people got on. When Boss Hutton dropped him at the third station east of the Outpost, he had been one of only three passengers and sat a good twenty feet from the nearest rider.
Now the pod was nearly full and there was a person sitting on either side of him. Among the growing throng of commuters, with their business suits or workman’s jumpers or damp, musty coats, Scofield stuck out like a sore thumb. He felt ridiculous in his leather boots, black trousers, and canvas jacket. His wide-brimmed hat rested conspicuously on his lap. He’d removed his holster, pistol, and ammo pouch and crammed them into a leather satchel. Also in the satchel were a canteen and a day’s rations. This made him feel all the more foolish. Christ sake I ain’t going to camp out somewhere—it’s a goddamn city. There’s stores and . . . and restaurants and all.
He shook his head at himself, sighing. His thoughts drifted to Reese alone in an eight by six pen. That just about ate him up inside. The screens flickered with the name of the next stop, announced by a female voice: “New Las Vegas City Limit Station.” Not much longer until he was deep in it. The sprawl had begun miles back but now the buildings began to grow taller and larger and ever more closely spaced. The desert sands were replaced by endless concrete and pavement. Now even the gray sky was obscured by towering construction. Scofield looked around the pod, scarcely believing how casually the other passengers accepted this transformation; this self-imposed plunge into the labyrinth. For them it was just another afternoon. Alone in the crowd, Scofield traveled into the heart of his hell to face Dreg; to face the future on behalf of his boys.
Some fuckin’ ambassador I am. Again he looked down at his boots. They were mostly dry now, and the salt-stain
ed, scuffed leather stood out against the white tiles of the floor. Thankfully an even number of commuters exited the pod as boarded at the next few stops. Then the screens flashed and the digital woman spoke the words he’d hoped in vain would never come: “Executive Center Station.”
Scofield rose stiffly as the pod came to a gentle stop. He allowed several passengers to exit before him, ignoring their eyes as they looked askance at the strange man in the long jacket and cowboy hat, then stepped out into the streets of New Las Vegas.
“Thank god for the rain,” Scofield muttered as he looked around to get his bearings: the streets were all but empty. Drizzle pattered steadily on his hat and shoulders but the outrider was in no rush to enter the Executive Building. He ambled across the wide sidewalk and leaned under a glass overhang.
Lighting a smoke, Scofield ran through all the things he and Hutton had discussed that afternoon. He had much to tell The Mayor, but an equal amount to learn. And while the outriders and the City were all on the same team, there was little love lost between them and even less trust. Scofield needed to play his hand tightly; he needed to keep the sunfield the domain of the riders as much as he could, or else risk a botched response. These people—these boardroom and condominium air-conditioning people—had no grasp of the realities of the field. Fuck up the response and good men would die. A leech, or, for that matter, a drainer, had no one to report to and no one to worry about: they’d just start shooting. There was nothing for them to lose, everything to gain. A man can never face a more dangerous adversary. This the outrider knew well. This he knew personally.
Of course, on the other hand, Scofield was the one on foreign ground at the moment. The polished granite of the sidewalk was hard beneath his feet. Even muted by steady rain the city was a cacophony of humming rails, clattering machines, and human voices. Scofield exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the air and, figuring it was the right thing to do, he looked around for a receptacle to toss his cigarette in. Finally he dropped the butt on the ground. It didn’t feel at all like he was polluting.
“He’s here, sir,” Hale’s voice came quietly from the intercom.
“Are you on speaker?” Dreg asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“No.”
“Alright. Show him into my chambers and leave him there alone. Let me know when he’s in.” The Mayor rose and stretched his back, twisting from side to side with a groan. Outside the bank of windows, the gray afternoon was slowly yielding to night. Dreg stepped before a mirror hanging near the coat tree and re-tucked in his white shirt. He straightened the knot of his tie and then took his blazer from its hanger.
“Alright, Frank. He’s inside.”
“What was his name again?”
“He didn’t give it.”
Dreg took in a breath to berate the secretary general for not asking, but changed his mind. There was something more important to be said. The Mayor took a step closer to the intercom panel on his desk and spoke in a hushed voice.
“Mr. Hale, what I’m going to talk to this fellow about is our drain. I remember now that you told me about it on the phone in Boston. Days ago. I have no idea why you haven’t brought it up since, and I don’t know how the hell you could think I haven’t known about this for a while now, but I decided to leave those facts alone until I find out for myself what happened on the ground while I was away. We’ll deal with you later.”
“Sir—Frank, wait! I’m going to come through the side door. Just—”
“Just nothing, Tim. Go home. You’ve always been a trusted ally and don’t think I’ve forgotten all you’ve done for me overnight, but that trust is shaken for the moment. I’m confused. I’m displeased. I don’t want to see your face again today. Go home. Now.”
As he said this, The Mayor’s voice had been perfectly calm, measured. Hale knew all too well what that meant. He was out the door before Dreg had even one arm in his jacket sleeve. The Mayor jostled his heavy frame into the blazer and turned back to the mirror.
It’s always the patient ones you have to worry about, isn’t it old boy? He licked the tips of both index fingers and smoothed down his eyebrows and mustache. Impatient men gain quickly but often gain little . . . patient men can gain much. He had asked Colonel Strayer to pay Hale a visit at his home that evening. Not for an interrogation, per se, but for a very thorough . . . debriefing. The number one question he’d instructed the security officer to ask was why Hale thought he’d get away with resetting the executive password for the central tracking systems. Thought I had no idea what goes on around here, ey Tim? Thought I trusted you fully, you pissant? I trust only one man fully. Only one. He would deal with Secretary Hale tomorrow. Tonight, The Mayor would personally address the crisis facing his beloved city’s power fields. He had waited, watching, long enough. Now he would start the ball rolling; he would take action.
“Now,” Dreg said aloud to himself, taking one last look in the mirror. “Let’s see about this fellow.”
Mayor Dreg pulled wide the double doors of his office, stepping into his opulent receiving chamber with pomp. He smiled brightly and took in a deep breath, practically bellowing: “Good evening, sir!”
Dreg stopped short. His head whipped from side to side. The room was empty. His shoulders slumped, his chest dropped its regal thrust. “The fuck?” he muttered. Growling, The Mayor began walking across the room to Hale’s office, assuming the foolish executive had left the visitor there after all.
“Evening, Mayor.”
Dreg gasped, wheeling about. There, leaning against the doorframe, was a tall, striking man. He wore a dark canvas jacket and knee-high boots. A leather satchel was slung across his chest and he was wearing a gray, wide-brimmed hat. His face was made up of strong lines and sharp angles, handsome in an imposing way, and covered in a five-day beard.
As Dreg regained his composure, embarrassed and shaken, the man stood up to his full height and pulled off the hat.“Name’s Scofield. Sorry to give you a start, Mr. Dreg.”
“No, not at all, Mr. Scofield. Call me Frank, please.” Dreg grinned and extended his fleshy hand. Scofield’s grasp was firm, the handshake brief.
“Well do feel free to drop your bag, hang up your coat. Make yourself most comfortable, Mr. Scofield.” Dreg began to amble about the large room, switching into the warm tone he used when addressing constituents and investors. “Do you get into the city much?”
“No.”
“Must seem rather boring here compared with the open range, I suppose. Stuffy. And on a day like this! What miserable weather, right?”
“Lots of rain,” Scofield replied, sliding between two of the couches. Selecting a loveseat perpendicular to both doors, he rested his hat and bag on one cushion then lowered himself down onto the other.
“Lots of rain indeed. I haven’t seen it like this in years. I was in Boston earlier this week on city business and it was a genuine blizzard, I tell you. Snow for days and flakes as thick as my fist. Have you ever been?”
“To Boston?”
“Yes.”
“I have, yes. Many years ago.”
“Beautiful city! And so much history. A bit dreary of a place, but a fine town to visit. Seeing as it’s after five, may I offer you a drink?”
“I wouldn’t say no to bourbon, thanks.”
“Bourbon!” Dreg slapped his thigh. “I think I’ll join you in that. Sounds divine. So tell me about yourself, Mr. Scofield.”
Scofield leaned back against the soft leather of the sofa but kept both feet planted on the floor. Without staring, exactly, he kept his eyes on The Mayor as Dreg made his way to a corner bar.
“Not much to tell, Mayor. Frank. I spend all my days out in the field. Riding ‘til it’s time to sleep, you know.”
Dreg selected two wide tumbler glasses and put a few ice cubes in each. “Oh, there must be more to you than that. I can see it in your eyes, Mr. Scofield.” He poured himself a modest amount of whiskey, then filled his guest’s glass with several fingers of liq
uor. “You have a first name, Mr. Scofield?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Dreg smiled gamely, cocking his head to one side. “Scofield it is, then.”
He made his way around a couch, cupping his glass to keep it obscured from his visitor, and handed Scofield the other.
“Thanks.”
“Most welcome, sir! Let’s make it the first round of many! You’ve traveled far enough to deserve it, I’d say. Now, really, there must be some story you can tell me before we get down to business. You outriders have all the adventure in these parts. It’s my job to ensure things stay good and boring around here.”
“That’s my job description too, Mayor. Just a different part of the equation. The parts you might think of as adventure are the parts I hate.”
“Mm,” Dreg nodded solemnly, “I think I know what you mean. Well, to the hard parts, sir.” Franklin raised his glass, then took a small sip. The outrider nodded, looking down. He took a long draught of his bourbon, his eyes focused on the table. For a moment he seemed lost in thought; in remembrance.
“May I tell you a bit about myself, then? About the city?”
“By all means.” Scofield set down his glass and looked up at The Mayor.
“I’ve served New Las Vegas for most of my adult life. For well more than a decade now as its chief executive. It has been a wonderful and humbling experience. Those two words are the only two for it. I didn’t grow up with much, Scofield,” Franklin looked down at his hands, as he had a thousand times when delivering this monologue, “and it grounds a man to remember where he’s been when he sees where he is. It makes a man wiser, more patient and more . . . convicted, if I may. And dedicated—this city is my love; my passion. What’s something you’re passionate about?”
“My horse.”
“Ha! Goddamn, what a good answer! I’ll drink to that! I’ve asked so many men that question and it’s all bullshit, Mr. Scofield! All bullshit. Not with you though. I can see that clear as day.” Dreg set down his drink and leaned back, loosening his tie. He reached into a pocket of his blazer and drew out the cigar case. “Cigar?”
