Fighting Iron 2: Perdition Plains

by Jake Bible

  The old woman, Estelle, was right, he had died and come back. Clay mused on that for a long while until his lids began to droop. He stretched out, his boots still on since there was no way he was going to be caught without them in the middle of the night. He’d almost dozed off again when he heard soft footfalls out on the landing.

  “What now?” he whispered to himself, drawing his knife for the second time that night.

  Clay wondered why the barman had taken his watch, but left him with the knife. That seemed odd. Why not take both? Removing a prisoner’s means of communication was a good idea, but leaving him with a weapon? Didn’t make sense.

  The footfalls stopped outside Clay’s door. He expected they would.

  He waited in the pitch black. There was no light coming from under the door, so whoever the person was, they’d traversed the narrow landing blind. Clay waited. After several minutes, Clay heard a slight rustling then the footfalls retreated, and Clay knew he was alone in the night once more.

  He let some cautious time go by before he walked over to the door. Suspecting what he’d find, Clay knelt and felt about on the floor until his hand touched a scrap of paper. It was too dark to read, and there was no way in hell Clay was turning the light on, so he put the paper in his trousers pocket and went back to the bed.

  He climbed in, his back against the headboard and knees tucked up against his chest once more, and waited for daylight. Clay was wide awake and despite his utter exhaustion, sleep was not happening that night.

  Nine

  The second there was even close to enough dawn light, Clay took the paper from his pocket and squinted hard until he could make out the words.

  “I will need your assistance. If you could be so kind as to not die anytime soon, that would be appreciated. Cooperate. Remain humble. Stay patient. I will fetch you when I can.”

  “Great,” Clay mumbled. “More insanity.”

  He crumpled the paper and was about to throw it across the room when he paused, flattened it, folded it into a tiny square instead and placed it into a small slit inside his right boot. It seemed like a better idea than throwing it away and risking the barman discovering it. Clay had no clue as to what the note meant, other than what was printed on it, in a rather educated hand, but he was fairly certain that if it was discovered, his life would get uncomfortable fast.

  More uncomfortable than it already was.

  Clay stood and stretched, his muscles and limbs stiff with fatigue. His brain was sleep deprived and starved of nutrients, so he had a hard time thinking about what his next move should be. Other than the need to relieve himself. He knelt and looked for a chamber pot under the bed, since he obviously didn’t have immediate access to any bathroom facilities.

  No chamber pot.

  “Great,” Clay said as his bladder began to protest.

  He hadn’t been allowed to leave the room since before sundown the previous evening. That was becoming a problem. Clay took a deep breath, hoping that would help, but it didn’t. What it did do was remind him that there was a hunk of spoiled meat sitting on the dresser. Along with a pitcher of yuck.

  “You make do,” Clay said as he hurried over to the pitcher.

  He avoided looking at the meat directly, but he thought he caught sight of a good deal more squirming out of the corner of his eye as he grabbed the pitcher. He poured what was inside onto the floor, a feeling of satisfaction at the small bit of defiance, then unzipped and took care of business.

  He wasn’t sure what was louder, the sound of his stream hitting the side of the pitcher, or the satisfied sigh he let out as his bladder returned to a normal state of background anonymity. When he was done, he looked at the pitcher, looked about the room, shrugged, and returned it to the tray. He zipped up, poured some of the water from the other pitcher that sat by the wash basin, rinsed his hands, dried them on his shirt since no towel was provided, then went back to the bed and sat his ass down to wait.

  Wait he did.

  The sun had fully risen before he heard evidence that someone was downstairs. It took just as long before footsteps approached the door and the tumblers made themselves known yet again.

  The door opened, and the barman held it wide, never looking at Clay. Clay didn’t need an interpreter and left the room that smelled of rotten meat and his own piss as fast as his tired legs could take him. He glanced over the landing’s railing and saw no one down in the not-saloon. Clay glanced at the stairs, back at the barman, and waited for the walking cadaver to nod before he proceeded to the steps and made his way down to the main floor.

  There was a plate of food and a glass of what might have been water set on one of the tables. The barman moved past Clay and nodded at the table then took his place behind the bar. Clay stared at yet another plate of grey meat and moldy bread. He sighed and took a seat at the table. He picked up the glass, sniffed it, detected the distinct odor of rust, and set the glass back down. He sighed again.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have some coffee, would ya?” Clay asked as he looked over his shoulder at the barman. The barman only stared back at him, the rag firmly in place on his shoulder. “Didn’t think so.”

  Clay pushed the plate of spoiled food away and relaxed in the chair. As much as one could relax in a plain wood chair that was built for function only and not comfort. He waited. It was all he could do.

  The day brightened outside and soon a few customers came into the not-saloon. Clay studied them, but they all pretty much looked the same. Pale as a ghost skin, slumped shoulders, dead eyes. Not one glanced his direction. They simply found seats at the empty tables and waited for the barman to serve them, which the barman did, pouring them all drinks from bottles of the mystery liquid.

  Clay wasn’t sure if it was the meat in front of him or the drinks being poured, more than likely it was the patrons, but the smell in the not-saloon grew unpleasant fast.

  “Your town stinks,” Clay said, unable to stay silent any longer. “Y’all might want to invest in something to mitigate that. Has to be hard on tourism.”

  Not a head moved to look at him. There wasn’t even a twitch or tilt to indicate any of the people had even heard him speak.

  “Screw this,” Clay snapped and stood up.

  Every single one of the patrons stood up as well. Clay froze. They still didn’t look at him, their attentions firmly on their glasses of funk, but their bodies were tensed with an energy Clay knew all too well. Impending violence.

  Clay sat back down. The patrons sat back down.

  Clay stood up. The patrons stood up. A couple of them hissed, but none looked in his direction.

  A tapping from the bar got Clay’s attention, and he looked over to see the barman wagging a finger at him.

  “Can I have my watch back?” Clay asked the man.

  He was answered with the continual wagging of that finger. Clay seriously considered drawing his knife, marching over there, and cutting that finger right off. Instead, he flipped the barman off and sat back down.

  The patrons sat down as well.

  Clay kicked his boots up onto the table, his fingers tracing the outline of his knife’s handle, as he waited. And waited. And waited.

  He had no idea how much time went by, since he fell into a strange half-sleep, but eventually boots clomped from outside on the porch and Holcomb came rushing inside. The man stood just inside the doors for a second, probably to let his eyes adjust, then nodded and hurried over to Clay’s table.

  “The folks in charge would like to see you,” Holcomb said.

  “They had you fetch me?” Clay asked. He kept his boots up on the table, making no sign he was going to get up anytime soon. “Aren’t you needed out by the locks?”

  “They have decided we have a relationship,” Holcomb said. “Somehow, you’ve become my new responsibility.”

  “Sorry about that,” Clay said. He truly was. He liked Holcomb. “How’s my mech?”

  “It’s where you left it,” Holcomb said.

/>   “That doesn’t answer my question,” Clay said. “You haven’t let no one mess with it, have you?”

  “There’s been some curiosity,” Holcomb said, “maybe a little exploring, but no additional harm has come to your mech.”

  “Any chance I can get some grey?” Clay asked.

  “We don’t have any grey,” Holcomb replied quickly. He glanced over at the barman, who was engrossed in the singular activity of staring them both down. “But we may be able to figure something out to get those power cells working again. You already know your alternators are the problem, so this won’t be an easy fix.”

  Clay’s boots hit the floor and he stood up fast. Too fast. His head spun, but he maintained his footing and tried to act like he wasn’t half a second from passing out. None of the patrons stood that time, but the barman did hiss under his breath and slap his rag down on the bar counter.

  “What do you mean I already know my alternators are the problem?” Clay asked. “Why would I already know that? Why would you think I already know that?”

  “It’s, um, well, I assumed, you know, well, since you’re an experienced pilot and all, that since…” Holcomb stuttered then trailed off. He took a deep breath then looked Clay square in the face. “Shit, Mr. MacAulay, this is hard enough as it is. Don’t make it worse, please.”

  Clay didn’t know what to make of that statement. Was it a threat? A warning? Was Holcomb the one that sent the note? It didn’t seem likely, but nothing did in Perdition Plains.

  “Alright, I won’t,” Clay finally replied. “On one condition.”

  “A condition? What condition?” Holcomb asked.

  Clay nodded at the plate of spoiled meat. “Can I please get some decent food? I’ll eat raw oats at this point, but since I ain’t seen no horses, only those tweeners of yours, I suppose you probably don’t have any. I’ve got some salted meat back in my mech.”

  “It was ruined by the water,” Holcomb said then held up a hand. “Yes, I searched your mech. The folks in charge insisted. I didn’t take nothing and left everything right where it is, so don’t get mad. But I am afraid to say your supplies are ruined.”

  “Well, what is there in this town that can be considered palatable?” Clay asked.

  “I could have some fresh bison meat brought into town for you, if that will be to your liking,” Holcomb said. “The meat is still plenty good. I could even ask some of my crew to pack some cuts in salt and save them for you, so you have meals during your stay.”

  “My stay?” Clay said then waved Holcomb off. “Don’t bother. I’m sure the folks in charge will fill me in.”

  “That they will,” Holcomb said and looked relieved that Clay wasn’t more upset than he was. “May I show you to them now?” He looked over at the disapproving barman. “I’ve got work to get back to, you see.”

  “Why isn’t Torsten showing me the way?” Clay asked.

  “I couldn’t answer that,” Holcomb said.

  “Fine,” Clay said, “let’s get this over with.”

  Holcomb smiled with relief and led Clay from the not-saloon. Clay nodded to each of the patrons, but none looked at him. As soon as they had stepped out onto the porch, Clay heard the shoving of chairs and clatter of boots across floorboards. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the patrons rushing to his table then fighting each other over the hunk of spoiled meat that had been intended as his breakfast.

  Ten

  “You think I can get my revolver back?” Clay asked. “I’d feel a lot more secure with it on my hip.”

  “That won’t be possible,” Holcomb said.

  “I hope it’s not because it’s gone missing,” Clay said. “That was a family heirloom. It has sentimental value.”

  “I assumed as much,” Holcomb said as they walked away from the not-saloon in the direction of the folks in charge’s building. “From the Bloody Conflict, ain’t it?”

  “It is,” Clay acknowledged.

  “You’re too young to have served,” Holcomb said.

  “That’s true,” Clay said. “Family heirloom. I just mentioned that.”

  “You did,” Holcomb said.

  Clay was about to ask a question, nothing important, just something random to keep the conversation going, but the words died in his throat.

  “Someone had an accident,” Holcomb said as Clay stood next to the wide patch of bloodstained dirt in the center of the town square.

  “I’m guessing they aren’t doing so well this morning,” Clay said.

  “It happens,” Holcomb said. “Nothing to be done. Can we keep going, Mr. MacAulay? I do have other work to handle today. And I’d like to get that food to you as soon as possible. A man needs his strength.”

  “A man sure does,” Clay said as they continued on.

  They ascended the steps, crossed the porch, then pushed on inside. The room was as dark as the day before. Everything was.

  The folks in charge were seated exactly as they had been during Clay’s previous meeting. Clay had a sinking feeling that if he swiped a finger across the floorboards in front of their chairs, he’d find a layer of dust that hadn’t been disturbed in a very long time. He shook the preposterous thought from his head and sat in the chair facing the folks in charge.

  “Thank you, Holcomb,” Thaddeus said. “Please return to your work.”

  “Mr. MacAulay has requested some fresh food to eat,” Holcomb said. He cleared his throat nervously. “I said I’d oblige and bring him some bison steaks and pack some more in salt for the duration of his stay. Uh…if that’s alright with you folks?”

  “Mr. MacAulay has been provided food,” Thaddeus said. “Is it not to his liking?”

  “Speaking on my own, no, it is not to my liking,” Clay said. “Have y’all heard of refrigeration? Not a new thing. Been around for a couple dozen centuries now. Helps keep the meat from spoiling.”

  “Meat is meant to spoil,” Estelle said.

  “Such is the natural way,” Emily said.

  It was the first time Clay had heard her speak. He looked at Thackeray, expecting the man to add his words of wisdom to the conversation, but he only sat there, his sunken cheeks somehow looking more sunken than the evening before.

  “I’m a rare steak guy,” Clay said. “I prefer my meat fresh and seared nicely. But salt packed or smoked is fine too.”

  Estelle hissed.

  “Fire and meat,” she sneered. “No.”

  “Uh…what shall I do?” Holcomb asked.

  “Return to your duties,” Thaddeus said. “Do as you are expected. Contribute.”

  “Contribute,” Estelle said.

  “Contribute,” Emily said.

  Nothing from Thackeray.

  “You best go contribute,” Clay said, letting the man off the hook. “Don’t worry about me. I have a couple extra pounds I need to work off anyway from sitting all day and night in a mech cockpit.”

  “Good day then,” Holcomb said and hurried his butt out of the building before his words had finished echoing off the bare walls.

  They sat in silence for a long while.

  “Is this a telepathic conversation?” Clay finally asked. “Because I’m not tuned in and must be missing most of it.”

  “Were your accommodations acceptable?” Thaddeus asked.

  “That depends on your definition of acceptable,” Clay said. “I prefer access to a crapper and meat that isn’t trying to crawl off the plate, but beggars can’t be choosers. That’s how that old saying goes, right?”

  “Were your accommodations acceptable?” Thaddeus asked again.

  “Yes, they were fine,” Clay answered. He nodded and smiled, leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “And…? Why am I here, folks?”

  “You have a mech,” Thaddeus said. “We are in need of a mech.”

  “I charge by the hour,” Clay said. No reaction. “That’s a joke. I don’t charge by the hour. I actually don’t charge at all. Why? Because I’m not for hire.”

 
“We do not need you,” Thaddeus said. “We need your mech.”

  “We want your mech,” Estelle said.

  Thaddeus held up a hand and she quieted. Clay was fairly certain he heard the man’s flesh and tendons creak from the motion.

  “Mechs are hard to come by,” Thaddeus said. “We understand that. We can compensate you considerably for your mech.”

  “Compensate me?” Clay responded. “Hold up now, my mech isn’t for sale. Even if it was, it’d be useless to you. I’m the only one that can pilot it.”

  “Because of this?” Thaddeus asked and held out his other hand. More creaking of tendons.

  Then clomping of boots.

  “Torsten, there you are,” Clay said as the giant stomped his way from his shadowed corner and over to Thaddeus. He placed Clay’s watch in Thaddeus’s hand then retreated back to his hidey spot.

  Thaddeus attempted to open the watch, running his thumb across the surface, picking at the seam with his frightfully long and yellowed, almost browned, fingernails. He finally gave up and extended his hand, offering the watch to Clay.

  “You will open it,” Thaddeus said.

  “Sure,” Clay said. He took the watch and thumbed it open. The face glowed brightly, which was a good sign. Still plenty of charge. “Here you go.”

  He handed the watch back to Thaddeus. The man looked pleased, although it was hard to tell considering his ancient features. Thaddeus tapped at the watch face several times, but nothing happened.

  “Hold on, give it here,” Clay said and reached forward.

  Torsten was by Thaddeus’s side in a blink. Clay jerked back so fast that he toppled over in his chair. He picked himself up, wiping dust from his trousers, and set the chair upright then retook his seat.

  “He’s a fast one,” Clay said.

  “He is,” Thaddeus agreed.

  “Show us how it works,” Estelle ordered. “Show us now.”