by Oliver Atlas
My heart freezes. Fifty feet from me, not twenty feet from the stairs leading onto the stage, I catch sight of Panzer. He’s hanging at the edge of the crowd, glaring. His hands are empty. I try to spot his holster. That looks empty too.
An alarm shoots through my head. No metal weapons.
“Milly,” I say.
But then a woman’s shriek cuts the air. For a moment, it’s the only thing anyone hears. A moment later and hundreds of people are screaming. And there is fire.
I grab for Milly’s hand but she’s ahead of me, already fighting through the crowd, toward the stage. Then the crowd suddenly parts and we find ourselves facing a figure streaking directly at us, shrieking madly, completely on fire.
“What the!—”
We duck aside and the burning thing races by. My mind clicks with the memory of a word, just as people begin screaming it. The word rises into a frantic din.
“Torcher. Torcher? Torcher!”
“TORCHER!”
Another flailing, burning figure catches the corner of my eye. This one, too, is running away from the stage. About half the guards have their rifles down, trying to get a clean shot at the Torchers. The other half has vanished, caught up in the stampeding crowd.
“Your rifle!” calls Milly, a .38 revolver appearing in her hand.
A new terrified chorus breaks out toward the edge of the square. “Screamers! Screamers!”
My chest is all flood and chill as I scan the horizon. Everyone is running, many in silent desperation. Any of them could be a Screamer. Or none of them.
I see Milly raise her pistol and fire—one, two, three shots.
I see that weasel-faced Panzer ducking and darting past the distracted guards, onto the stage, straight for the Mayor. Most of Maplenut’s fellow dignitaries have fled, but he remains gripping the microphone, dumbstruck. On the fly, Panzer grabs a plastic skewer from a meat platter before seizing the Mayor from behind in a chokehold, the skewer pressed to his jugular. He barks at Maplenut, who raises the microphone over his shoulder, near to Panzer’s snarling lips.
“This Fairyfly’s day is done!” he froths. “You, guards—set down your weapons and back away. Set them right here in front of me. Do it! Otherwise, I butcher this beast early.” His head cocks toward Milly. “You too, bitch. Put your gun down and join the guards.”
Milly and the guards obey. Together, we walk slowly toward the area in front of the stage. As we go, I can see the chaos beyond the square. A half-dozen flaming figures are streaking through the streets, some folks fleeing them, others chasing after them shooting. I can see deputies among them, running wildly, shooting and shouting, calling for order, blind to the hostage situation in the center square.
Behind us a few hundred people remain unmoved, standing grim and silent. I know who they are. These are the Rubies. The Territory’s representative believers, apparently. None of them have surprised eyes. None look afraid. They all knew what they were coming out for today: a public execution.
“Hinton Maplenut,” says Panzer. “We the people find you guilty of conspiracy to aid and abet the living dead. We name you a Fairyfly—a Mymar—and ask if you have anything to confess before receiving justice.”
Maplenut shivers visibly. His knees are knocking. He lowers the microphone to his mouth and gulps. “I confess . . . I confess I never knew . . . I never knew there were so many of you idiotic imbeciles in my town. I also confess I do not understand how anyone could be stupid enough to give credence to the idea that a person with the use of frontal lobes—a person who can talk and think and practice self-control—can also be a zombie. If you hate a person, you might as well call him a vermin. The metaphor is less nonsensical and more historically obvious. But to call a person a talking, thinking, zombie-in-disguise? I would point you to the irony of your inanity if I knew it wasn’t a tragic waste of a fine piece of humor—one requiring a fully functioning adult brain to comprehend.” For a few seconds, the Mayor’s knees had been still. Now that he’s done speaking, they start quaking again. “Thank you,” he adds meekly, before raising the microphone back toward Panzer.
“You heard him!” It’s clear Panzer can taste blood.
“We heard him!” calls back someone from the crowd behind us.
“Did you hear him? He’s a doubter! He’s a denier! He’s a liar! He knows full well about Fairyflies, and how they run things around here, how they steal people’s children and eat them, how they feed zombies choice meat while living people starve. Did you hear him or not?”
“WE HEARD HIM!” shouts the crowd.
“Then what’s your verdict?”
“KILL HIM!”
Panzer grins and cups his free hand over an ear.
The crowd gets the idea and starts jumping and chanting. “KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”
The Torchers must finally be under control, because a flood of people are suddenly returning to the square, walking forward in confusion. Many are clearly horrified, transfixed by the mob and the Mayor as hostage.
“Join us for justice!” roars Panzer, crackling through the speakers above the riotous crowd.
“Blake . . . ” Milly has her hand on the small of my back. “Look,” she whispers. “Look on stage.”
I am looking on stage. And then I realize, remembering the confidence men in the streets last night, that actually I’m not—I’m really only looking at the skewer in Panzer’s hand, not the stage. When I look past the makeshift weapon, though, I catch the sight of a pair of boots . . . and the flash of a hand . . . behind the generator. Someone is disabling the magnetic field, some sneaky guard.
I catch Milly’s eye. She nods. There’s no time left. A deep spot of blood is already dripping from the Mayor’s throat. The crowd is in a frenzy and Panzer is near to ecstasy, his head tipped back, his arms tensed. They’re about to have their justice.
Smoothly, I unsling my rifle, fixing the small hooded sight on Panzer’s head.
Just as during a party when hearing your name makes your ears perk up, my particular motion catches everyone off guard. The sudden silence is palpable.
“Faggot?” Panzer’s voice cracks in surprise. He squints in a perversely pleased disbelief. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Asking you to set down the skewer.”
The weasel cackles. “I’ll plunge it down on you and your woman as soon as I’m done with this here Fairyfly.”
Summoning my coolest, cockiest voice, I say, “Too bad. Then I’d like to revise my initial explanation for what I’m doing. I’m not asking you to set down your weapon. I’m ordering you to set it down. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to knock the ugliness off your face.”
“Why you damn fairy,” says Panzer. “Let me tell you something before I gouge your eyes out. That whole damn sky will fall bef—”
That’s what I am hoping for. The man’s hand shifts the skewer away from the Mayor’s neck for a second, vaguely stabbing at the sky. In that instant, I pull the trigger. Almost before the shot sounds, the skewer—and the majority of Panzer’s hand—vanishes. He screams, rage and torment mixing, the Mayor spins away, and the deputy who has been hidden behind the generator smashes into the weasel-faced Ruby from behind, wrestling him down.
The treacherous crowd, startled by the sudden turn of events, tries to bolt, but the Mayor is already on his feet, yelling for anyone and everyone to seize them.
My watch says it’s just after 9:45. Still plenty of time to catch Yarely. And I’m glad to see my hands aren’t shaking too much. I almost feel brave.
“Wow,” says Milly, a little flushed and dumbfounded, her freckles now aglow as morning sun finally crests over the Wall. She steps near and dazedly touches my chest. “Wow.”
With a dry grin, I gently remove her hand. “We only have a few minutes, Ms. Milly, but I have a hunch you might get to meet the Mayor after all. Something tells me he’s going to be thankful you insisted on attending the ceremony.”
Chapter Fifteen
Blood and a Badge
Hinton Maplenut’s office is the plushest room I’ve ever seen. Maybe the gaudiest too. Purple satin curtains, tightly drawn with bands of crimson silk. A dark mahogany desk that probably contains enough wood to be recut as a king-sized fourposter bed. Two matching mahogany bookshelves full of leather-bound, gold-stenciled tomes. Oriental carpets, rust red and thick, laced with intricate knot motifs in gold. Dark cherrywood wainscoting with fanged gargoyles carved in the trim. The obligatory roaring fireplace with a black marble mantle. And four matching leather chairs with bright gold buttons down the seams.
By the time the Mayor’s assistant ushers us into the office, Milly and I have already been to the Sheriff’s office to sign an official report, we’ve already had our picture taken with the Mayor for The New Pokian, we’ve already waved at adoring fans and ducked a few rotten potatoes thrown from unseen Maplenut haters, and we’ve already discussed the madness of Rubies setting themselves on fire to pose as Torchers or risking a bullet by posing as Screamers. “Oh well,” says Hinton Maplenut, who has been with us since the pictures. “That’s the Territory.”
Already a bit fidgety, I check my watch.
10:30 a.m.
The Mayor plunks down in one of the chairs and gestures for us to take the seat of our choice. He takes a tube of lotion from his pocket and casually slathers it thickly over his face and hands. “Please,” he says to the young raven-headed woman who saw us in. “Get us a few drinks, Jasmine? My usual Bloody Mary, please. And for our guests?”
Milly asks for scotch. I follow her lead.
When Jasmine has left the room, the Mayor stands up and begins pacing in front of his chair. “As I said before, I want to thank you two—especially you, Mr. Prose. Your shot—well, frankly—that was remarkable. You could have taken his head off. You could have taken my head off. Not only do you have the aim of Diomedes and the bravado of Odysseus, you have the honor of Hector.”
“There wasn’t any time to think, sir. I’m afraid we were all subject to my dumb instincts and a whole lot of luck.”
“And you have modesty! But now you’ve slayed my string of Greek comparisons, as the Greeks didn’t think so highly of humility. No, Mr. Prose, from my experience, luck is a highly overrated concept. You can shoot. You can shoot with the best of them. You said Sheriff Sanchez already promoted you to Deputy. Well, if you would consent to stay, I would like to offer you the duties of a Marshall in New Pokey. That would make you the third highest law enforcement officer in town, other than our Sheriff, Dani Donner, and her chief Marshall, Croft Malloney. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that there is an excellent salary and benefits package connected to the post. Oh, and by the way, Mr. Prose—would you mind removing your necklace for me? I’m afraid the press will see it on your way out and make a big deal of our meeting. It’s not a terribly important matter, but you’d certainly be saving me a headache. Not only would I be a Mymar, I’d be seen as indebted to a Rubie! The attacks on my life would start coming from every side.”
After hesitating for a moment, I take off the cross necklace and put it in my jacket’s interior pocket. My gut says this isn’t the time or place to be stubborn about my right to be mistake for a Rubie. “Thank you for the generous offer, sir,” I say, feeling formal. “But I must decline. I’m on my way to Portland to be with family. And besides, I’m not sure how long a Marshall could survive around here shooting weapons out of people’s hands. I’m not a strict pacifist by any means, but I’d probably go to self-destructive lengths to keep from killing someone.”
“Yes,” murmurs Maplenut sounding impressed, “even an ass like that Panzer.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Mayor stops pacing when the door opens. Jasmine enters with a tray of drinks. After she’s left, the Mayor leads us in a toast. “To excellent marksmanship,” he declares.
“Hear hear!” laughs Milly. “And to even better character.”
“Hear hear!” cries Maplenut, ringing his cocktail against our scotches before we knock back our booze in single swigs.
“Now, I know you only have a little time,” continues the Mayor, “so let’s get to the rewards.”
“Sir, that’s not—”
Maplenut raises a hand and an eyebrow. “Mr. Prose, it is necessary. I’m a politician, which means, among other things, I understand and respect the power of symbol and recognition. And besides, one of the perks of this job is getting to bestow honors on people, and trust me: few people have earned honors as dramatically as you two did today. So, Ms. Johnson—I’m sorry—I mean, Ms. Ruse, do you have any requests? How can the government of Oregon say thank you for your intervention today?”
“Well, sir,” says Milly, eyes down, weighing her words. “Would it be out of bounds to ask for the truth about a classified matter?”
Maplenut temples his fingers. “Asking wouldn’t be out of bounds, Ms. Ruse. My answering, on the other hand, might be. But we’ll have to hear your question to know. Please—what would you like to know?”
Milly looks up, eyes burning. At last she stands, facing the Mayor squarely. “Are the rumors true that you were once living dead and . . . came back?” She suddenly blushes and lowers her eyes. “I’m sorry—now that I hear myself say it, it sounds so stupid.”
Maplenut sits down again, hands perched on a knee. “On the contrary, Ms. Ruse, it’s the question I would expect you to ask. I was on the committee that approved your passport application, after all. I know, for instance, about your interest in the work of Dr. M. Schlozfield. I’d wager you’d like to ask me about him too.”
A childlike smile, impish and afraid and pleased, sweeps over Milly’s face. “You’re right.”
Maplenut smooths his mutton chops and chuckles. “Good. I am accustomed to being so.” He stands and starts pacing again. “First of all, a clause: I trust you both, but I will deny any of this conversation if asked about it. Understood?” Maplenut pauses to study us with a raised eyebrow. “Good. Then as to your first question: I never came back from the living dead. That is all propaganda, tied, as you can imagine, to the smear tactics of the Rubies. As for your interest in our most controversial scientist, the last intelligence I received about Dr. Schlozfield reported he was near Union Powder conducting tests on new, particularly exotic specimens. Ms. Ruse,” he says in a confiding voice, kneeling in front of her. “I know you believe in the Cure, which means you must have come to Oregon in the hopes of finding Dr. Schlozfield. Well, you did not receive this from me, but if you find him—” The Mayor produces a small vial of blood from his breast pocket “—then please deliver this to him. This is Uni-O, our newest synthetic blood. Currently, it’s used in the best chum, but there is hope it might contribute toward, hmm, let us say more medicinal applications. It is of great, great worth, and, I believe, can help in your cause. I mean, our cause. You must do everything in your power to keep it safe and in your possession.”
With a reverently outstretched palm, Milly lets Maplenut place the vial in her hand. “Thank you, sir,” she breathes.
The Mayor nods graciously, standing. “Now, Mr. Prose, since you’ve declined my offer of Marshall, I will punish you with a choice of rewards. You would like to join your family in Portland—your brother, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. And his wife and child.”
“Very good. Then I will offer you the use of my private balloon and its pilot. A direct flight to Portland takes the span of two nights. You can leave at nightfall, safe in the dark from any ruffian’s rifle, safe in the air from the hell-hordes that make our Territory so colorful. One night and you will be in Bentlam, wonder of the west. The next night and you will be in Portland, greeting your brother and his family.”
Four hundred miles without wear and tear and far less risk of being eaten alive. That is tempting. I can feel the weight of Milly’s eyes on me. “Thank you, Mayor, but I’m already committed to helping Milly check on the safety of a little girl we met on the train. So I’m afraid I can’t accep
t, generous and thoughtful an offer as it is.”
“Ah, yes,” says Maplenut, his eyes shining jovially as he begins to pace. “I know the girl you must mean. Jenny Thurman. I am on the committee that selected her for the orphanage. So when you say ‘checking on her safety’ you must also mean checking up on Rickard Yaverts, her plenipotentiary.”
“Very astute, sir.”
The Mayor pauses, perhaps unsure if I’m being droll. “Yaverts is an unsavory fellow, that’s undeniable. I’ve often thought it would be nice to be rid of his ilk, but I’m afraid he’s extremely well connected.” The Mayor dry washes his hands. “I would warn most people I care about to steer fifty miles clear of that man. But not you. You, Mr. Prose, I’ve seen handle a weapon. You may actually stand a chance against Yaverts. Even so, please do not take my admiration too far,” he says, straightening his already straight neck tie. “You still probably wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”
“I don’t intend to start any trouble with Yaverts, sir.”
Maplenut chuckles. “No one ever does, Mr. Prose. Yaverts knows how to start trouble for you. That is why my second reward, which I ask you not to refuse, is this . . . . ”
The Mayor walks behind his desk and opens a drawer. From it, he pulls a cobalt badge and a matching pistol. Both gleam with a blackish, smoldering iridescence.
Milly’s breath catches.
“Correct, Ms. Ruse. I intend to make your friend, Mr. Blake Samuel Prose, the replacement for Lancaster Moon.”
Milly is staring at me. “A Ranger?”
“The Western Ranger of the Oregon Territory.”
Until now, I’ve been counting minutes and pleasantries, gritting my teeth while trying to move things along politely. In my mind, I keep picturing Yarely hearing the noon bell ring and driving off without us. But now—now the Mayor has caught me off guard. I’ve heard of the Oregon Rangers. Everyone has. If there are celebrities left in the States, they’re it. And Lancaster Moon? The Western Ranger? He was the most famous of all . . . until he was gunned down by Duchess Desreta’s henchmen somewhere in the Core. I don’t know what to say. “Pardon me, sir, but do you even have the authority to name a Ranger?”
