by Jake Bible
“Right,” Clay said. “Wouldn’t want to be them.”
He leaned forward so he could get a better look at what looked like a team of four creatures, six legs apiece, their bodies about the same size as a full grown bison. They were even built similarly, with muscled haunches and huge shoulders.
The only reason that Clay didn’t think they were bison right off was because they had no hides. No skin at all, just exposed muscle. That and all the metal that shown rusty red in the gloomy light of the day. Metal that was interlaced throughout the creatures’ musculature.
Clay had no idea how long he’d been staring when Holcomb appeared again, climbing up into the driver’s seat directly in front of Clay. The man grabbed a set of reins and gave them a snap. The roller jerked forward then eased into a steady pace as the bizarre creatures pulled it along a rutted path between the piles of dead bison and past the dozens and dozens of workers hurrying to get as much done before the sun set and the grey day turned to pitch black night.
Six
“Interesting, ain’t they?” Holcomb said over his shoulder to Clay. “The few travelers that we come across always end up about as slack-jawed as you when they first see them.”
Clay barely heard the words, but he knew he needed to respond.
“Yeah,” was all he could say.
“I am sure you can guess that at one point in their existence, they were happy bison, content with eating grass and popping out calves,” Holcomb said. “You can domesticate bison, if need be, but it ain’t easy, and they don’t take naturally to pulling rollers.”
“Why pull a roller at all?” Clay asked. “They have engines for a reason.”
“Resources is scarce,” Holcomb said. “We don’t exactly have an abundance of diesel fuel at our disposal. It made more sense to convert the rollers to heavy wagons, such as this one, and use a team of tweeners to pull them across the prairies.”
“Tweeners? That’s what you call them?” Clay asked. “Why, because they are between an animal and a machine?”
“You nailed it on the head the first try, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb chuckled. “Now, I’m no expert mechanic. I’m a skilled engineer, or I like to think I am, that handles the locks and maintains the pumps and flow of the Catchall River. Without the Catchall, we’d starve before a year passed by. Good thing there are enough bison in the Midlands to last us for generations. Hell, we could drive and catch two-thirds of the damn things and still have enough for all eternity, their numbers are so great.”
“Drive? Did you drive the herd to that river?” Clay said. “On purpose?”
“Well, yes on purpose,” Holcomb said. “We drive them into the water, the current takes them down to the locks, and once the containment area is full, we open the locks, drain out the water, and bring up our catch. Almost like fishing on the prairies, I say.”
“Except you drove my mech into the river with the bison,” Clay said. “You caught a fish of a different scale.”
“That we did,” Holcomb said. “Not our intention, I can assure you of that. Your mech took up a good amount of space in the containment area, so our catch will be a little lighter than usual. No thing, really. We should still have plenty of carcasses to get us through the winter. Shouldn’t have to do another drive until late spring when the plains is full of newborn calves.”
Holcomb smacked his lips and something about the sound made Clay shiver.
“Look at me babbling on,” Holcomb said, his head turned slightly so he could see Clay out of the corner of his eye. “I plumb forgot to turn on the heater for ya.”
Holcomb fiddled with some controls on the dashboard and soon a blast of hot air was rushing out of a vent at Clay’s feet. Clay wanted to ask a few more questions, but the cab of the roller became a toasty oasis in the bleak landscape within two minutes. It didn’t take long for his eyelids to start to droop and for sleep to sneak up on him.
“Just gonna rest my eyes a spell,” Clay said as he lay across the bench seat. “Just need a little rest.”
“I would think you do,” Holcomb said. “We got about an hour before we reach town.”
The man said a few more words, but Clay’s conscious mind didn’t catch any of them. He was out and snoring in seconds.
A gentle hand brought him around, and Clay instinctively went for his pistol, but his hand slapped at an empty holster.
“Got it right here, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said as Clay’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright. “Careful now, calm yourself. I had a feeling you might be a touch disoriented, so I saved us both some trouble and relieved you of your weapon so no unfortunate accidents occurred. I did say before I was gonna have to relieve you of it.”
“Who? What?” Clay snapped, his head whipping one direction then the other.
The roller. He was in the roller wagon. A roller wagon pulled by a team of creatures.
Clay looked towards the front of the roller, but there was no sign of the creatures.
“They’re put up for the night,” Holcomb said. “I’m sure you can get a tour of the stables once you’re done speaking with the folks in charge.”
“Huh? Right, yeah, sure,” Clay said. He shook the sleep from his head which quickly produced a painful pounding in his skull. “The town council.”
“We don’t have a formal name for them,” Holcomb said. “No need. Everyone knows they’re in charge.” Holcomb eyed Clay. “You think you got enough sleep that your legs will hold you without me helping?”
Clay stretched his legs across the bench seat, feeling their strength.
“Yeah, I think so,” Clay responded.
“Good,” Holcomb said and moved out of the way so Clay could hop down out of the roller. “I need to tend to some quick business, if you don’t mind, so you’ll have to make your own way over to that building there.”
Holcomb pointed to a simple clapboard building, two story with a pitched roof, that stood at the far side of what looked like a town square.
“I already been in there to tell them who you are and that you’d be coming,” Holcomb said. “They’re eager to meet you. Like I said before, we don’t get many travelers through here. We sure as hell don’t get any mech pilots with a working mech.”
“Not sure how working it is at the moment,” Clay said. “About that…”
“I left word for no one to touch your machine, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said. “It’ll be in the same condition you left it in.”
“Which isn’t so great,” Clay said. He nodded at the building across the square. “That one there?”
“That one there,” Holcomb replied. “Best not to delay. The folks in charge won’t like to be made to wait all evening for ya.”
“Wouldn’t want them to,” Clay said. He took a few steps, was confident his legs weren’t going to buckle, then gave Holcomb one last look. “I’ll see you soon.”
“You might,” Holcomb said. “But if not, then it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. MacAulay.”
“Clay,” Clay said. “Call me Clay.”
That strange look clouded Holcomb’s features once more, but was gone in a blink.
“I was raised to be formal,” Holcomb said. “We’ll keep it to Mr. MacAulay for now.”
“Alright,” Clay responded cautiously. “I’d hate to argue against a proper, formal upbringing. Thank you, Holcomb, for the ride and the help.”
“My pleasure,” Holcomb said.
Then the man was striding towards a building in the opposite direction. It had a distinct look of a saloon, but with none of the bustle and energy that usually surrounded that type of establishment. Clay waited until Holcomb had stepped onto the porch and was lost from sight through a pair of double doors before he turned to regard his destination.
Clay was glad the town square wasn’t too big, because despite being able to walk under his own power, he was unsure how long that power would hold out. He felt beat. Just flat out beat. His body ached, his head ached, even his thoughts ached. He couldn
’t wait to get the business with the folks in charge over with and hopefully be shown to a room with a soft bed where he could sleep for a week.
Hell, he’d take a hard bed, if that’s all there was.
After a few paces, it finally occurred to Clay that Holcomb had been serious about keeping his pistol. He thought about turning and going after the man, but as he hesitated, he noticed that he was being watched very closely by quite a few pairs of eyes. Behind dusty windows of the other buildings that lined the town square were pale faces. Men, women, some children, all carefully observing his progress across the packed dirt that made up the square.
By habit, he reached up to tip his hat, but realized that was gone as well. He couldn’t remember if he left the mech with it on his head or if it was still in the cockpit. The pistol would be a sad loss, but losing his hat would be devastating. It was irreplaceable.
Clay patted the pockets of his leather vest, shivering a little as a chill wind whipped through the square and tugged at his thick hemp shirt, and retrieved a pocket watch. He thumbed it open and the watch came to life, not with a small and big hand, but with a continual readout that streamed across its face.
“Gibbons?” he muttered, trying to keep his lips as still as possible so as not to look like he was talking. “You there?”
“Yes, Clay,” Gibbons said. “I’m here. I will say that one nice thing about being out on open prairies is there are no obstructions to get in the way of the coms.”
“How are you holding up?” Clay asked.
“I’m ready to tuck into the stealth decks, if needed,” Gibbons said. “Everyone is leaving the mech alone, but I’m not sure for how long that will last. How are you?”
“I’ve been worse,” Clay said. “About to have a meeting with the folks in charge.”
“Town council?” Gibbons asked.
“Apparently not,” Clay replied. “Just the folks in charge.”
“Interesting,” Gibbons said.
“If by that you mean weird and a little creepy, then sure,” Clay said. A door creaked, and a man in a bloody apron stepped out onto a porch, a scatter gun held loose by his side. “Listen, I gotta go. I think I’m freaking out the locals. A stranger talking to himself. We’ll chat more when I have some privacy.”
“Stay safe,” Gibbons said.
“You know I will,” Clay said as he reached his destination.
“I don’t know that at all,” Gibbons said. “That’s why I—”
Clay snapped the pocket watch closed, severing the long range coms, as he climbed the five steps to the building’s wide porch. The double doors in front of him had opened on their own and a voice inside called out, “Mr. MacAulay. Welcome to Perdition Plains. Come in.”
Clay took a deep breath then walked into the shadowed gloom of the building, the doors closing slowly behind him.
Seven
There was a smell.
That was the first thing Clay noticed as he stepped into the room and waited for his eyes to adjust. Not that they needed to adjust much considering the gloomy nature of the weather outside.
“Mr. MacAulay,” a reedy voice said. “Please. Sit.”
Clay’s nose twitched as he tried to identify the smell. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it wasn’t a fragrance he cared to savor either. He turned his head to look at the reedy-voiced man and nodded.
“Thank you kindly,” Clay said and took the seat offered to him.
It was a simple wood chair, as simple as the buildings that made up the town. Plain wood, no frills or adornments. Utilitarian in all aspects. Clay went to take his hat off then paused as he remembered his hat was missing. That was hard getting used to.
“Lost my hat,” he said as he received inquisitive looks.
The looks came from two men and two women. To say they were old would have been a gross understatement. They were downright ancient. They looked older than the land itself. Clay realized the smell was them. The odor of age and withering tissues, dry bones and brittle hair.
The reedy-voiced man was a contradiction. He was heavyset yet looked like he’d crack under his own weight if he stood up too quickly. Fleshy cadaver came to Clay’s mind as an apt description. The only hair on the man’s head were the thick tufts of white that stuck straight out of his ears as if he’d been using them as cheese caves and the mold had grown wild. His complexion was paler than any of the people Clay had seen yet. That could be said for all that watched him.
A woman seated next to the reedy-voiced man—all of them sat in the same plain wooden chairs as Clay—had hair down to her elbows. It wasn’t braided, pinned back, tucked up into a bun. It flowed down across her shoulders and upper arms like a shawl sprouting from her scalp. Purest of white, with interesting streaks of pitch black, the hair seemed to devour what little light the room held. Clay couldn’t help but stare at it, and it took a good deal of effort to tear his eyes away to regard the man seated to her left.
Unlike the first man, the second was truly cadaverously skinny. To Clay, it looked as if someone had painted the illusion of skin over bare bones. His cheeks were so sunken in that Clay was close to certain he had no cheeks and he was staring into the exposed maw of the old coot. But the eyes. They sparkled with a vitality that told Clay that calling the man an old coot to his face might not be the best choice.
To his left sat the second woman. Nondescript. That was all Clay could think of. Old like the others, but with grey hair up in a bun, head covered by a sheer scarf. Her fingertips drummed continually on the tops of her thighs, but they made not one bit of sound. Clay tried to make out her facial features, but her head was angled just right so that all he could see were poorly defined shadows. He didn’t know if she was smiling, frowning, staring at him, or possibly blind as a bat.
The room itself was a reflection of its furniture. Plain wood floorboards. A couple of plain wood desks with chairs behind them. A plain wood table, long enough to seat eight or ten, was shoved against a far wall. Clay’s guess was the room was ten meters by ten meters. A plain wood cabinet with a heavy lock was set into the far back corner. He started to look up at the rafters of the open ceiling, but the clearing of a throat brought his attention back to his hosts.
“What is your business in this region, sir?” the white-haired woman asked.
“I have none,” Clay replied. He smiled and coughed lightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch any of your names.”
“I am Thaddeus Perdition,” the reedy-voiced man replied. “These are my siblings— Estelle, Thackeray, and Emily. We are the elders of this town.”
“The folks in charge,” Clay said.
“Yes, quite,” Thaddeus said. “I see our man Holcomb has provided some information. Can I inquire as to what else he has told you about our humble town?”
“Nothing,” Clay said. He squinted into the gloom and furrowed his brow. “Did I hear you say that you are all siblings? Like brothers and sisters?”
“That is correct,” Thaddeus answered. “Does that trouble you in some way?”
“Not at all,” Clay said. “Never did have much of a family myself, so I envy those with kin. But, I do have to say I’m not seeing much of a resemblance.”
“Genetics can be strange,” Thaddeus said.
“Yeah…they can be,” Clay said. He clapped his hands together and Estelle jumped slightly. Clay was almost certain she gave a slight hiss, not unlike a startled cat. “My apologies. So, what can I do for you fine folks today?”
“What makes you think you can do anything for us?” Thaddeus asked.
“Nothing,” Clay said. “Holcomb brought me into town and said I needed to speak with the folks in charge. Say, those tweeners sure are something. They remind me of a rumor I heard about. It was before my time, way, way before my time, during the Bloody Conflict. One side, I can’t rightly remember which, had begun to experiment with organic mechanics. That rhymes. Say it five times fast.”
Not even a twitch of a smile.
“Anyway, always thought of it as one of those crazy tales told to scare kids,” Clay continued. “Never thought I’d see any in the flesh. Or whatever they are.”
“We do not deal in rumors,” Thaddeus said.
“Good policy,” Clay said.
“You say you have no business with our town, yet here you sit,” Thaddeus said. “Why are you in the Midlands, Mr. MacAulay? A man with a mech can go anywhere on this continent. Outfitted properly and you could even leave the continent.”
“No desire to do that,” Clay said. “I’ve been off the continent and it is no picnic, believe me.”
“Then why are you here?” Thaddeus asked.
“I was passing through and got caught up in your bison wrangling,” Clay said. “If wrangling is the right word. More like a forced drive to the death.”
“Folks must eat,” Thaddeus said.
That got a twitch of a smile from the others. But the twitches were gone as soon as they arrived.
“I can’t argue with that logic,” Clay said. With perfect timing, his stomach rumbled. “Been a good while since I’ve had a hot meal myself. Salted meat and lukewarm water have kept me going. Although, I did find an orchard of crab apples about six kilometers shy of the NorthAm border. Bitter, but filling.”
The folks in charge said nothing.
“Say, you wouldn’t know why the NorthAm border forces are so jumpy, would you?” Clay continued. “They about chased me halfway across the land without so much as a how do you do.”
Clay was usually silent in strange situations, happy to let others talk and reveal information about themselves, but there was something so unsettling about the four elders that sat in front of him that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was afraid that if he let silence fill the room, it would devour him. A silly fear, but one his gut kept screaming at him. So he talked.
