Outrider

by Steven John

  Curling his bottom lip over tawny-speckled teeth, Franklin pulled open the top right desk drawer and opened the cigar box within. He chose a thick, rum-scented corona and laid the cigar on his desk, turning back to his computer screen. Toggling through pages of data on troop movements and flight patterns, The Mayor soon accepted that the information before him might as well have been Greek. He shook his head, wishing he could tap the com button and call Hale into his office. Tim would have made sense of this mess for me. I’m a goddamn bastard for running him off.

  Dreg let his chin sag down onto his chest, thinking wistfully of a time not two weeks ago when he casually oversaw millions of stable lives. He and his trusted executive secretary. But just as soon as this nostalgia had come, The Mayor thought of Hale’s lies and his conniving; his changing passwords and withholding information. Everything was in flux, everything was different.

  Dreg tapped his screen twice to darken it; the data were all a meaningless jumble to him anyway. He grabbed the cigar, slipped off his shoes and stood, slowly making his way over to stand before the bank of screens on his office wall. Here was logic. Here were numbers he could understand. And all the worse for it: everything was in the red. Power was literally draining from his city. And they haven’t seen a fucking one of them? Idiots! Fools!

  Dreg ground his teeth as he fished a pewter cigar cutter from his vest pocket. His eyes were on the screens as he slid the tip of the corona into the cutter. The salt stores and PV arrays were being drawn from simultaneously, and this on a sunny day. It was truly staggering to grasp the scope of electricity lost. Almost as much power as was flowing into the city to keep life moving along was being drawn out to God knew where. How long before the fulcrum tipped? The Mayor made up his mind to travel personally to the command center. It would be good for the soldiers to see their chief, he reasoned. If only he had some kind of uniform . . .

  No time for that now, of course. Dreg slid his fingers into the cutter, sighing as he paced before the monitors. He bungled the slice, leaving dangling flaps of tobacco hanging limply from the cigar.

  Hale made his way down the deserted street slowly. The shadows were growing longer and a breeze had started, lifting sand and dust up into the air and howling softly among the buildings; whispering gently across the distant hills. He had hiked more than a mile south of the strange town and clambered to the top of a high dune. As far as he could see there was nothing but rolling desert rimmed by distant mountains. Without food and water, Timothy knew trying to escape across the barren landscape would be suicide.

  And his captors knew it too, of course. They would never have let him roam free if not to demonstrate just how very trapped he was. So what was left to do? Hale was making his way toward the large redbrick Town Hall. He passed the Sandy Dunes Inn where he’d awoken that morning. The chair where the portly, enigmatic David Flint had perched sat ominously empty.

  It was as if the whole town was one huge conveyor belt, pulling him along. There were shops and houses and the motel, all of them clean and in fine repair but utterly lifeless; nowhere to go but to the center—to the place they knew he had to go. Hale had the uneasy feeling that he was on the set of some play with the action preordained, the script written. He need only follow his stage directions to reach the inevitable denouement.

  He paused at the gleaming white steps of Town Hall, looking up at a brass plate mounted beside the building’s broad double doors. The top line of the plaque—surely the town’s name—had been buffed out. Below the scratch marks read the words:

  PROUDLY INCORPORATED IN

  1982 BY THE PEOPLE OF

  ………… COUNTY

  Again there was a word erased. Hale took in a deep breath as he slowly raised his left foot, lowering it onto the first of seven steps but not yet ascending the stairs. He looked off toward the horizon, squinting in the bright afternoon sun. Then he ran a palm across his hair and cleared his throat a few times.

  Timothy strode up the steps with confidence, and took hold of both heavy bronze doorknobs.

  It was dark inside Town Hall. The doors opened into a narrow, high-ceilinged vestibule. Hale blinked repeatedly as he stepped across the threshold from sunlight to interior gloom. A faint scent of ammonia mixed with tobacco smoke drifted through the air. Timothy eased the doors shut behind him, much of the determination he’d mustered mere seconds before now fading.

  He was standing in a corridor some thirty feet long by eight feet wide. The floor was polished black granite and the walls half wood paneling, half painted dark burgundy. Several doors were spaced evenly along either side of the hall and one large window above the entryway, paned with smoky glass, provided the only light in the space. The end of the hallway was lost in shadow; Hale couldn’t tell if it stopped in a wall or led deeper into an open space. Faint murmurs drifted from somewhere.

  Maintaining what resolve he could, Hale walked down the dark hall, wincing as his loafers squeaked on the smooth stone floor. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness and ahead at the end of the corridor he could now see two large wooden doors propped slightly ajar. The sound of voices grew louder the nearer he drew to the doorway. Several people were speaking all at the same time, each in hushed tones. Timothy sidled up against one of the doors and strained to make out what was being said but any specific words were lost in a gentle echo off the stone floors and wooden walls.

  Finally Hale sighed, then slid between the open doors. He entered a cavernous room. At the center of the Town Hall proper was a massive table laden with documents, maps, phones and various communication gear. The space was lit only by six or seven tall lamps, the same as one would find in any parlor, and a few naked bulbs suspended above the large table. Twelve or fifteen people leaned over the table, variously muttering to one another or studying paperwork. There was a large bank of windows around the top of the room but every pane was papered over.

  Hale stood just inside the room for the better part of a minute before he was noticed.

  “He’s here,” a voice said above the quiet din. Instantly the room became a hive of activity, bodies scrambling to roll up documents, cover images and terminate conversations on the various equipment.

  “Clear it out! Clear it all out!” Hale recognized Russell Ascher’s baritone voice and then spotted the massive man making his way toward him.

  “Mr. Hale, please just stay where you are for a moment.” Ascher approached with his hands raised, palms out but with a look of deference on his square face, stopping a few paces from the Secretary General.

  “Do you need water or something to eat? Anything?”

  “I need answers.”

  “Sure. That’s coming very soon, I assure you. But if you’re thirsty or hungry or . . . or need to piss or anything, believe me, now is the time to take advantage.”

  Hale stammered. What did that mean? He sucked in a breath to respond with defiance but was shocked to instead find himself quietly saying: “A cup of coffee wouldn’t be so bad.”

  Ascher nodded, a faint smile turning up the corners of his lips. “I think we can arrange that.” He glanced over his shoulder, watching as the room’s inhabitants shuffled out a side door. Then he turned back to Hale. “Why don’t you grab a seat? I’ll see about some coffee. Just cream OK? We’re out of sugar.”

  “Yes. Fine,” Hale said, looking down. He always drank his coffee black.

  The large man walked away and Timothy slowly approached the massive table, now covered by only a few random documents and a plethora of half-empty mugs and leftover food. Two men sat at the far end of room, casually watching Hale. Only one person remained at the table, stooped over a map.

  “How are you holding up, Mr. Hale?”

  “I’m honestly not sure how to answer, Ms. Wilbee. Or are you going by “Is” yet?”

  The elderly woman raised her head and smiled warmly, cocking her head to one side and scratching her chin. “Hmm . . . no, I think I’ll wait a bit longer. A lady my age has learned pa
tience, you know.” She beckoned Hale with a gnarled finger. “Come over here, Timothy. Come have a look at this.”

  Hale made his way around the table slowly, trying to study some of the graphs and writing that had been left behind. None of it made sense to him at a glance. Wilbee was looking down at a large topographical map.

  “See, here about in the center is New Las Vegas. Can you believe I remember a time before they added that damn word? New—ha! Lipstick on a pig is all. Anyway, that was then. See, here is the sunfield. These here,” the old woman pointed to a number of dark blue triangles, “are some things we’ll get to a bit later and last . . . over in this corner . . .” she pointed to a green square, “is where we are. Home sweet home. We keep it nice and clean, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. There is civilized life left yet, Tim.”

  Hale was studying the map incredulously. “That’s not possible. There’s nothing for . . . for thirty miles in any direction from there.” Timothy stabbed a finger against the section of map Candice had indicated.

  “Yet here we are.” Wilbee straightened up, her spine popping. She was wearing a gray sweater and a long crimson skirt, looking every bit the grandmother rather than the master tactician. Her white hair was combed straight, though wiry strays escaped the coiffure here and there.

  “There’s nothing there on any of the maps you’ve seen, Mr. Hale. Nor is there anything where the blue dots or red squares are. And as far as you and most City people are concerned, there never has been.”

  She turned and looked up at Hale’s face, still smiling but with a strange intensity in her watery eyes. Just then, Russell Ascher reentered the room holding two coffee mugs. Wilbee lowered her voice, maintaining eye contact with Timothy. “But there was.”

  Candice Wilbee winked and turned to leave. Ascher leaned toward her as he drew alongside the table, whispering something to the elderly lady.

  “Yes, send her in, I suppose,” Wilbee replied with a slow nod. She made her way toward the back door limping slightly, her feet dragging across the granite with a rhythmic whisper.

  “Grab a seat, Tim,” Russell set down both coffee mugs and turned to leave. “You guys come on with me.” The two men seated against the wall rose and followed Ascher out.

  Hale stood perfectly still for a long while, rooted to the spot by confusion. The large room was utterly silent save for the sound of his own breathing. He thought of grabbing up all the documents he could and stuffing them in his pockets. Or of trying to use some of the arcane, antique communication gear to raise someone back in the city. He thought of fleeing the building and taking his chances on foot across the sands. Then, reluctantly, he eased down onto one of the wooden chairs set about the table.

  Two thin columns of steam rose from the mugs. Tim could smell the mildly acrid coffee. A cigarette butt smoldered in an ashtray on the far side of the table. Then from behind the closed doors Hale heard heels clicking as someone approached. The knob turned and the hinges creaked.

  He sucked in a breath as she entered.

  “Hi, Timothy.”

  “Maria?”

  Maria Rodrigues walked over to Hale and stood before him, looking down. She was wearing a gray sweater above blue jeans and heavy black boots. A beige cloak hung from her shoulders, gathered at the small of her back by a thin cord.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she whispered, a sad smile on her face. She tucked a few errant dark hairs behind her ears as she sat down beside him and wrapped her hands around one of the coffee mugs.

  “What the f—what the hell are you doing here, Maria?”

  “You’ll never understand, I think. You’ll never . . . you won’t see. I’m sure of it, actually. But I asked Candice to let me talk to you for a minute before they show you.”

  “Show me what?”

  She took a sip of coffee, her eyes on her knees. “Show you why we’re here, why we’re anywhere, why we’re together, and have been for a long time.”

  Hale looked away, shaking his head as he exhaled heavily. His throat had gone dry. He grabbed his cup of coffee and took a large, noisy slurp. Then a circuit in his brain closed—he had been so dumfounded by her appearance that only now did he realize that she spoke with an accent. He leaned forward suddenly, staring at her face.

  “Where are you from, Maria?”

  “Lisbon. Portugal.”

  “Then what are you doing here? What the hell were you doing in the city? What . . .” he trailed off. She held his gaze, her eyes soft.

  “It’s not just here, Tim. Believe me. And please, just try to keep an open mind.”

  Candice Wilbee had been standing just outside the door as Maria and Timothy talked. She was not eavesdropping, exactly, having been unable to hear their words, but she had caught the tenor of rising fear in the man’s voice and the calming, almost warm tones with which Maria seemed to be soothing him. Wilbee smiled to herself, momentarily thinking of Maria not as an able comrade but rather as such a nice young lady, really.

  Wilbee was still smiling as Maria stepped out into the hallway beside her and gently shut the door.

  “How is he?” Candice asked, looking up into Maria’s dark, brooding eyes.

  “Fine, I guess. Considering. Actually . . . not fine. He’s so far out of his element I’m not sure he’ll ever make sense of a single thing again.”

  “It’s a lot to understand so fast, Maria. I remember when I first met you—you were a bit dazed by all of it, and you were already, dare I say, simpatico?”

  Maria smiled at the shared private joke playing off her native Portuguese. “That’s still Spanish, Candice.”

  “Well, at least I try. Now tell me . . . how are you?”

  Maria looked away, her eyes staring off down the darkened hallway and slowly losing focus. “I’m scared. I’m excited. Or anxious, is more like it. I just . . . I know what we do—what we’re doing—I know it’s right . . .”

  “But . . .” Candice led her, gently laying one of her wizened hands on Maria’s left forearm.

  Maria took in a deep breath and turned her head back to meet the elderly woman’s gaze. “But I know lots of people are going to die soon.”

  Wilbee lowered her head, her eyes closing. She was silent for a long while. Finally, taking her hand from Maria’s arm and turning to walk down the hall, she whispered, as much to herself as to her companion: “What we’re doing is right.”

  19

  The sun was just beginning to dip below the western horizon. Impossibly orange, it slid behind the distant hills, painting the sands with a rich palette of reds, purple, and gray. A solitary evening star pierced the darkening eastern sky. More likely it was a planet, actually—probably Venus. Yeah, gotta be, in fact, C. J. Haskel nodded to himself in silent confirmation. Still too early to see true stars. Guess I’ve got nothing to wish on, then.

  He tried to force a smile as he dug in his vest pocket for cigarettes. Boss Hutton had counseled his boys a thousand times not to smoke when there was a potential engagement; the scent of the smoke could carry for great distances. It didn’t much matter, Haskell figured, when you were already pinned down. He slid a few inches up the QV pillar he was propped against to dig in his blue jeans for a pack of matches, keeping his shoulders pressed against the cold steel and his legs close together and stuck straight out, just inside of what he reckoned was their firing line.

  His lungs filled with smoke and he let his hatless head lean back against the column. The outrider had three rounds left in his rifle. His .45 had a full magazine loaded and one in reserve. Seventeen bullets total. He had counted at least five shooters, not including the one he knew he’d dropped. There were probably more. At this rate, they could practically charge with knives and still best him. His horse had run off a half hour ago. He was glad for it—better to have Duncan alive and gone—as he’d surely have been shot had he made a break for it on horseback, anyway. No reason to have his boy in the line of fire, too.

  As he smoked, C. J. began to mull over the questio
ns that only matter when their answer is no longer academic. He was happy with the life he had lived; the life he had chosen. But the young man felt distinctly cheated by fate at only twenty-four years. There had been women, there had been challenges met, there had been camaraderie, there had been tears. But Haskell was sure he would die missing out on that indefinable but perceptible “It” that let a man nod as the light grew dim and accept the end with equanimity. Fuck, maybe it’s all just bullshit, anyway. Maybe it’s not worth fighting for; maybe it’s not worth fighting against.

  Haskell didn’t consciously know what the “it” he now singled out was, but he figured somewhere in his mind—somewhere in the mix of surging emotion and lucid perception that fought for control—that “it” was a convention men with years left to live and no fears to face brought out in pleasant conversation. The meaning of . . . of life? Was it not merely to be alive without suffering?

  A rapid burst rang out from an automatic, quickly followed by three deeper reports from a large caliber weapon. A few of the bullets from the first barrage caromed off the QV pillar and C. J. heard the lead of the second rifle crackle past him at the same time as the awful echo of the shooting rippled by. There was a chance they figured him dead by now, but it was unlikely—no reason to fire for effect if you think your target is gone. If they took him for dead, the logical thing to do would be to lie low for much longer than they had, then spread out wide while leaving a couple of men spotting for movement. So likely they were patiently waiting for his move and occasionally firing to hope for a lucky hit. Goddamn, if only I could’ve taken two of these fuckers out—wish I was gonna give ’em less than a fair trade.