Fighting Iron 2: Perdition Plains

by Jake Bible

  “You know I have a mech,” Clay said. “It’s a little banged up after falling into your river. What was its name?”

  “We would not know the name of your mech,” Thaddeus responded.

  “No, the river,” Clay said. “I can’t remember what Holcomb called it.”

  “Catchall River,” Thaddeus answered.

  “Catchall River,” Clay said and laughed. It was weak and held zero mirth. “Certainly lives up to its name. It caught itself a battle mech today.”

  “You died,” Estelle said.

  Clay gave a quiet yelp then laughed again.

  “Yep, I sure did,” Clay said. “Drowned in that river of yours. Got lucky and came to when Holcomb and his crew pulled my mech out of the locks.”

  “You died. You came back,” Estelle said.

  “Uh…yep,” Clay said and nodded. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “You must be exhausted,” Thaddeus said. “You should rest. Eat some food. Gather your strength. Consider yourself our guest. You will be shown to your room.”

  “Oh, hey, that’s mighty hospitable of you, but I’d rather get back to my mech and start repairs,” Clay said. “Maybe in lieu of room and board, you fine folks in charge could provide me with some liters of grey so I can power up my mech and get out of your hair.”

  “You should rest. Eat some food. Gather your strength. Consider yourself our guest. You will be shown to your room,” Thaddeus repeated right down to the exact inflection of his first statement. It was like a recording had been played again.

  “Like I said, that is mighty—” Clay started then stopped as a figure removed itself from a dark corner. Clay had no idea the man had even been in the room. “Oh, howdy. They certainly don’t hold back your meals, do they?”

  The figure, an immense man of over two meters tall with shoulders that looked like they’d have a hard time fitting through the building’s double doors, strode purposefully towards Clay. The ubiquitous pale skin was there, but in a strange patchwork pattern across the man’s face and neck. Clay swallowed hard as the man came to stop only half a meter from where Clay sat.

  “Torsten will show you to your room,” Thaddeus said. “A meal will be sent up to you. Please wait there until we have conferred.”

  Despite every instinct in his being telling him to stay put, Clay stood up, the backs of his legs scooting the chair, the feet making a horrible screeching noise on the plain wood floorboards. Torsten made no move towards him, but Clay could see by the length of the giant’s arms, he didn’t need to; Clay’s neck was only a short reach away.

  “Hey, I appreciate the offer and all, but I’m going to leave now,” Clay said. “I’ll work out my predicament on my own.”

  “You were caught,” Thaddeus said. “Your predicament is our predicament now. Torsten will show you to your room, and a meal will be sent up. Please wait there until we have conferred.”

  “You ain’t gonna let that go, are you?” Clay asked.

  Thaddeus did not respond.

  Torsten lifted a huge arm and pointed at the doors.

  “Right,” Clay said. He made to tip his hat again then sighed. “If y’all happen to see a hat around, let me know, will you? I’m missing mine.” He looked up at Torsten and winced at the scarred patchwork that made up the giant’s face. “Torsten, is it? Lead the way, big, uh, man.”

  Torsten only continued to point.

  “Or I’ll lead the way,” Clay said. “You keep pointing.” He gave a quick bow to the folks in charge. “A pleasure. Looking forward to hearing the results of your conference.”

  With that, he turned on his boot heels and hurried as fast as he could out of the building without looking like he was running. Torsten was right behind him the whole way until they were outside and in the town square. Then the giant man did take the lead and walked with careful, deliberate steps to the building where Holcomb had entered earlier.

  “I like your boots,” Clay said to Torsten as they crossed the square. “I’m not kidding. They look sturdy. Strong. I could use a new pair of boots. There wouldn’t happen to be a good cobbler in town, would there? I might need a milliner as well if I don’t retrieve my hat. You all have one of those? Maybe the same person?”

  Torsten didn’t respond. Clay hadn’t expected him to.

  When they reached the other building, Torsten stopped, turned to the side, and pointed at the double doors. Clay didn’t have to ask for clarification. He walked up the steps and across the porch to the double doors. He started to push one open then looked back over his shoulder. Torsten had taken up a spot directly in front of the porch’s steps. The man’s bulk filled up the entire space. No one was getting past him without issue.

  “I’ll see you around, Torsten,” Clay said and nodded.

  Then he pushed the door open and walked into his second building of Perdition Plains.

  Eight

  A saloon it was not.

  Yes, there was a bar that took up one wall to the right as Clay walked in.

  Yes, there were tables with chairs set about the place.

  Yes, there was even a small stage and a player piano to the side of it which was lazily chirping some somber tune that Clay did not recognize.

  Yes, there were a couple of men here and there, glasses of dark liquid at hand.

  But to Clay, a saloon had life in it, even if that life was lowdown, mean, and despicable.

  The place Clay walked into had no life. It matched the town of Perdition Plains perfectly.

  Clay sidled up to the bar and caught the eye of the cadaverous barman.

  “Beer?” Clay asked.

  The barman simply stared.

  “Okay, no beer,” Clay said. “Bourbon, or any whiskey you have will do.”

  The barman continued to stare, a rag the color of the clouds outside set over his shoulder. He yanked it down and started to wipe the bar counter, his eyes still on Clay.

  “I, uh, was just over talking with the folks in charge,” Clay said. “They sent me your way. I guess there is a room waiting for me? Possibly a meal?”

  The barman grunted, replaced the rag on his shoulder, then moved out from behind the bar and walked to a steep staircase against the far wall. Clay waited to be invited to follow, when that didn’t happen, he quickly reached back behind the bar and grabbed the first bottle his hand found.

  It was a murky liquid, thick and brownish red. He twirled the bottle and the liquid swirled about the glass, leaving a heavy film on the sides of the bottle before slowly settling. Clay grimaced and set the bottle back where he got it. He turned to the staircase, but the barman was already at the top and waiting on a narrow landing for Clay. If he’d been watching Clay’s interaction with the bottle, he showed no indication of it.

  “Coming,” Clay said and hurried up the staircase. He made it about a quarter of the way up before he had to put one hand on the rail and the other on the wall. “Phew. Not even close to full strength. Maybe lying down for a spell and a bite to eat ain’t such a bad thing.”

  The barman said nothing, only waited.

  It took Clay a couple of attempts before he made it to the landing. The barman turned and led him past four doors to a fifth at the very end of the landing. He unlocked the door, moved aside, and waited for Clay to enter.

  “Do I get one of those?” Clay asked, pointing his chin at the key the barman held.

  There was no response.

  Clay sighed and stepped into the room. The barman closed the door behind him, and Clay was not surprised to hear the key in the lock then the inevitable click of heavy tumblers falling into place.

  The bed looked comfortable, at least. Tarnished brass frame with a thick comforter and a second folded and draped over the end railing. There was a plain wood chest of drawers with a wash basin and a large pitcher next to it. Clay smiled at the sight of the plain wood chair set in the corner next to a narrow window that didn’t appear to have any type of latch or way to open it.

  He sat
down on the bed, felt the inviting softness, and had to fight the urge to lie back and let sleep take him. Instead, he pulled the pocket watch from his vest and thumbed it open.

  “Gibbons?” Clay called.

  “Good, you’re alive,” Gibbons responded.

  “You sound surprised,” Clay said.

  “You never know,” Gibbons said. “Are you safe?”

  “Not sure yet,” Clay said. “I’m currently locked in a room above the saddest saloon I’ve ever seen. I’ve had better times in graveyards. That is no joke, buddy.”

  “Locked in a room? Are you a prisoner?” Gibbons asked.

  “Not sure yet on that, either,” Clay said. “Had a short talk with the folks in charge. Learned zero about this place except that the folks in charge all have the last name Perdition.”

  “Like the town?” Gibbons asked.

  “Like the town,” Clay responded. “They are old as sin and apparently siblings. This creepy place is a family affair.”

  “I assumed so,” Gibbons said. “My observations of the butcher crew has lead me to believe there might only be a handful of bloodlines around here. If that.”

  “That fits what I’m seeing,” Clay said. “This place certainly ain’t normal. Some good old fashioned inbreeding would explain a lot.”

  “What’s your plan, pal?” Gibbons asked. “Shoot your way out if things get worse?”

  “Can’t, no pistol,” Clay said. “That Holcomb guy took it off me as I slept on the way here.”

  Gibbons sighed.

  “I know, I know, buddy,” Clay said. “But I’m pretty beat up. Even if I was awake, I’m not sure how much of a fight I would have been able to put up. I can barely fight the urge to curl up on this bed, let alone a person.”

  “Any idea what they want with you?” Gibbons asked. “I am certain they want something. Probably has to do with the mech. This crew hasn’t stopped staring at it since you left. A couple of them came close enough to touch it, but didn’t quite commit.”

  “The folks in charge are conferring,” Clay said. “That’s all they’ve told me. Do you have anything in the database about Perdition Plains in the Midlands? Or a homesteader family by the name of Perdition that may have come here a few decades ago?”

  “A few decades?” Gibbons asked.

  “Yeah, you should have seen these people,” Clay said. “Old as time and less forgiving. Only one of them spoke to me. No, wait, that’s not true. But mainly the guy named Thaddeus did the talking. Not that he said much.”

  “My database has no information on a Perdition Plains or a family going by the name of Perdition,” Gibbons said. “But we both know my database is far from complete. Even if that weren’t the case, the Midlands has never been a well-documented region to begin with.”

  “I figured as much,” Clay replied. “Thanks for trying. Have you finished diagnostics yet?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Gibbons said. “We’re screwed.”

  “That bad?” Clay asked, closing his eyes against the answer.

  “Worse,” Gibbons said. “The water has done some serious damage, Clay. I’m going to wait and see what dries out and what doesn’t before I make my final assessment, but as it looks right now, we aren’t going anywhere without a thorough overhaul of the power cell alternators. Even if I get that fixed, which I can’t do without your hands, we have no power to fill the cells. Any chance you’ve had a breakthrough there?”

  “Not so far,” Clay said. “The folks in charge said the same thing Holcomb did. They don’t have any grey. I don’t believe that load of crap, but my beliefs aren’t going to power the mech.”

  “The Midlands isn’t known for a wealth of geothermal,” Gibbons said. “I can’t even suggest rigging a solar charger. The weather here is about as monochromatic as the NorthAm army uniforms.”

  “Solar wouldn’t get us far,” Clay said. “But it would get us away from here, at least. That might be our only option.”

  “Once we fix the alternators,” Gibbons said. “Which means I need you to hunt down some parts and get your butt back here, pronto.”

  “Okay, okay,” Clay said. “Let me talk to Holcomb. He seemed reasonable. But it might not be until the morning. I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off.” The sound of tumblers turning caught Clay’s. “Room service is here. I’ll call you back in a bit. I’m going to try to eat something and see if it gets my energy up. Maybe sleep some, if I can. This is a one eye open situation, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Leave the coms on,” Gibbons said.

  “It’ll drain the watch at this distance,” Clay said. “So far, I haven’t seen a damn bit of evidence of any tech in town.” Clay looked up at the single bulb that burned weakly above him. “They have electricity, but there aren’t any ports or outlets in any of the building’s I’ve seen.”

  The door began to open.

  “I’ll call you,” Clay said and snapped the watch closed.

  He tucked it into his vest and sat on his hands as the barman brought in a tray of food and set it over on the dresser. Having completed that task, he turned and held out an open palm to Clay.

  “Oh, sure, right,” Clay said, standing up and checking his pockets. He grimaced and gave the barman an apologetic look. “Sorry. I don’t have any coins or scrip on me. Can you just add the tip to my tab?”

  The barman shook his head then pointed at Clay’s vest.

  “What? You want my clothes?” Clay asked.

  The barman moved faster than Clay would have guessed he could. His hand was in Clay’s vest pocket and plucking out the watch before Clay could barely react.

  “Hey!” Clay shouted and grabbed the barman’s wrist.

  He didn’t see the punch coming. It rocked his head to the aside, and Clay collapsed across the bed, dazed. He started to get back up, but the barman cocked back his fist and Clay stayed put. The barman looked down at the pocket watch, tried to open it, but when it didn’t yield to him, he only shrugged and tucked the watch in his own vest pocket.

  He wagged a finger at Clay, turned and left, leaving Clay still sprawled across the bed. The tumblers fell into place, and Clay was locked in once again.

  “Well, son of a bitch,” Clay said as he rubbed his jaw.

  His eye caught sight of the tray of food, and he stood up on shaky legs, staggered his way to the dresser, and leaned against it as he stared down at what was on the plate.

  A grey hunk of meat, what he assumed was bison, lay there. It was uncooked and gave off a smell that told Clay instantly it had gone off. The smell triggered a memory, and Clay jolted at the thought. The grey meat smelled just like the folks in charge. Smelled pretty much like everything in the town of Perdition Plains.

  He picked up the bent and rusted fork he’d been provided and poked at the meat. Something squirmed just below the surface. Clay dropped the fork and took a couple steps back. When the squirming stopped, and Clay was sure he wasn’t going to throw up, he moved back to the dresser to inspect the one other piece of food provided.

  There was a hunk of bread next to the meat, but it had begun to culture its own brand of penicillin. Clay would have eaten it anyway, not the first time he’d had to swallow moldy bread, but it lay in a pool of congealed liquid that seeped out of the meat. Bravely, Clay leaned forward and inspected the liquid. It bore a disgusting resemblance to what had been in the bottle of liquor he’d tried to boost downstairs.

  “Sweet bloody hell on a cracker,” he muttered as he turned away from the dresser and made his way back to the bed.

  There had been a pitcher on the tray, as well, but Clay’s culinary bravery had ebbed, and he just couldn’t bring himself to pour a glass of whatever was in there. Instead, he fell back on the bed, closed his eyes, and decided the best sustenance would be some sleep.

  He had no idea how long he’d been asleep when he came awake with a jolt. Once again, he slapped at his empty holster, and swore as he found the familiar weight of his .45 still gone. The kni
fe was there, so he drew that as he painfully got to his feet. He had no idea why he’d come awake, but he’d learned from years of experience, and survival, not to ignore the instinct.

  The answer came in the form of a scream from outside. A man’s scream. Agonizing and full of pure terror.

  Clay moved to the narrow window and looked down on the town square. All he could see was his own reflection. He cursed his idiocy and hobbled over to the light switch on the wall by the locked door. He flicked it off and returned to the window, placing his knife back in its sheath.

  Another scream. Then another. Two voices. Both in excruciating pain.

  Clay looked down at the square again, but there were no lights on outside. He could barely make out a huddled mass of shapes in the middle of the square. No definition, no way to tell how many were down there, or who was screaming and who was causing the screams.

  There was a shout, and Clay tried to find the direction it came from, but without illumination of any kind, not even a torch or hemp oil lantern, Clay was blind. The perpetual clouds kept the stars or moon from helping.

  The shout came again, and it looked like the huddled mass may have split apart as what Clay thought might have been a person walked towards it. Clay waited, tried to watch, but mostly kept his ears open.

  Another scream cried out, but was quickly cut short in the unmistakable choked gurgle of a slit throat. Clay flinched and forced himself not to take a step back from the window. The second person didn’t scream again. Clay had no idea what that meant, but he was sure it wasn’t good.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up, and that was when Clay retreated from the window. He had no idea if they saw him watching or not, but his gut said his observations hadn’t gone unnoticed. Before returning to bed, he dragged the plain wood chair over to the door and tucked it up under the handle. It wouldn’t stop anyone from getting in if they really wanted to, especially if Torsten came a knocking, but it would make enough of a noise to rouse Clay if he fell back asleep.

  Clay sat on the bed, his back against the headboard and his knees tucked up to his chest. He tried to make sense of the past few days. The NorthAm border patrol chasing him off without even a warning or explanation. The flight across the plains. The bison herd, the Catchall River.