by Oliver Atlas
I spot a lone walker heading toward me down the street.
“Evening!” I cry. “Can you point me to The Stable?”
The figure stops and says nothing. A moment more and I’m close enough to recognize the man’s face. It’s Sheriff Flinter. He glances meaningfully at his watch.
“It’s almost curfew,” he says, his voice as soft and scratchy as dried leaves.
“Almost,” I pant. “Sheriff . . . The Stable? Can you point the way?”
“Madame Rogger’s doesn’t have enough tail for you?”
Perplexed, I frown. “It’s not like that, Sheriff. I’m going to escort a friend.”
“There’s only thirty-two minutes until midnight. You’d better escort your friend into the nearest door and call it good.”
I give the man a look of good-humored pleading.
A tiny, wicked grin peels across his mouth. “Let’s keep things interesting. Let’s see if you can find The Stable on your own before the whipping hour.”
For a second, I’m sorely tempted to introduce the rude little man to Clementine. A Ranger is above the law. I remember Mayor Maplenut saying as much. Not only is Flinter out of line threatening me, but I could put him in his place and never hear another word about it. But, first, I don’t have time for an ego-driven gunfight, second, I need to try and see the redeemable human in the bitter toady before me, and third, he’s no doubt the Sheriff of Union Powder for a reason, and that reason probably has something to do with how he handles the sidearm dangling so loosely at his side.
Without a word, I tip my hat and run. On the next block, I find a stableboy toting water and he offers me directions. Two blocks north, three blocks east, a giant red barn. That was easier than a gunfight.
Two blocks later I turn a corner and am nearly trampled by a galloping rider. I reel back, falling to the stones. In the gas lamp, all I see are wide horse eyes, flaring nostrils, and a streak of wild red hair.
“Milly!”
The rider wheels around. “Blake?”
I run for her.
“Get on,” she says, offering a hand. “They’re already gone. An hour at least, according to the Madame. We need to get your horse and get on their trail.”
Then, as I’m climbing behind her, I remember. “That vial, Milly—the one Maplenut gave you—”
“I know. Something about it kept Damon right at my side. If I ever ditched it, I’m sure he would have known.”
“But it’s gone now?”
“It’s in dear Damon’s pocket,” she says, spurring her horse back into a gallop. “It’s a shame I couldn’t have sold it instead. You wouldn’t believe what people will pay for that stuff. Apparently, you can use it to make a whole ton of chum.”
I can’t help shaking my head in admiration, proud of her gumption and sass. “Even without chum,” I say, “the road will be crazy. Trust me. I’ve done it.”
Milly grunts. “I doubt we’ll be on the road. My guess is Yaverts is heading due west. Through the mountains.”
I grunt in turn.
The mountains? That is utter madness. Dodging zombies is one thing. Dodging them in the crevices and ravines of a mountain range in the middle of the night is another.
But that makes perfect sense. My impressions of Rickard Yaverts insist that Milly is spot on. That’s exactly what Yaverts would do: he would head for the mountains, where no one would be crazy enough to follow.
When we arrive at Madame Rogger’s, ten riders await us, lined up in front of the mansion. My arms are wrapped around Milly and I can feel her stomach go tense. Mine tenses too. Each of the riders is holding a rifle. Maybe we’re too late. Maybe we missed curfew. Maybe we’ve arrived just in time for whipping hour. Or worse.
“Good evening, Mr. Ranger,” says one of the riders. At least it’s not the Sheriff’s voice. Madame Rogger rides forward into the light of a gas lamp. She’s dressed in black leather riding gear, her short blond hair spiky and awry. In one hand she holds her mare’s reigns, in the other a lever action carbine. “You don’t expect to take one of my daughters without a fight, do you?”
I take a moment to try reading her face. If she hadn’t gone into the pleasure business, she might have been a great card sharp, because she’s giving nothing away. “Actually, Madame,” I concede, “that’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”
The flint-eyed woman grins. “Good. Me too. We thought we’d see you safely out of town.”
Another rider moves forward. Skiss. I see now that she’s leading Enemy, loaded with my bags.
Milly’s stomach manages to knot even tighter. I slide from her horse and go mount my own. With a discreet glance, Skiss welcomes me. She must sense the tension. A quick look through my bags and I’m satisfied everything is in order. Well, nearly.
Damn.
I’ve forgotten to charge the dagger. Oh, well. I guess the three of us will just have to avoid needing any miraculous first-aid. “All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We ride through town at a trot, everyone with guns at ready. East and South might have an interest in our departure. And there’s Flinter to think about. It must be next to midnight. I don’t know if Madame Rogger and her girls are risking a flogging to escort us out of town, but I doubt it. Even the Sheriff must make exceptions—especially when they’re such well-armed, steely-eyed, beautiful exceptions.
By the time we arrive at the bridge, the guards are snoring. Madame Rogger rousts them up, and, after a sharp threat and a few soft promises, has them cranking the bridge out across the moat. The horizon looks clear. Most of the living dead must be congregating to the south still, where the day’s bloodletting occurred. The sky is dark, smothered in clouds. A cold, pungent, piny wind carries from the north. All I can hear is the faint rubbing of summer’s last crickets—and maybe the distant moaning of zombies as they mill about the plain.
Skiss and her sisters weep and embrace. She kisses them, laughs with them, reassures them. They’ll all come to visit and she will come back to see them soon. I can sense no judgement or hurt between them. But when, at last, she reaches Madame Rogger, things are silent.
The two eye one another for a long moment, unmoving, until the Madame fiercely wraps the tall, dark girl into her arms. She whispers something in Skiss’s ear, kisses her cheek, and nods toward the bridge and the dark plains beyond.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Pursuit
When we’re barely a quarter mile out of town, the gunfire starts behind us. Rifles, pistols—shots volleying back and forth at the bridge. Someone apparently wants across and Madame Rogger is denying them easy passage.
My attention goes immediately to Skiss. I can see her in the faint, phosphorescent glow of our horses’ chest lamps. She’s already turning around.
“No,” I say, taking her arm, holding her reigns steady. “We’ve got to ride. We can’t waste this chance.”
Milly looks up from the GPS. “They’re not in range. I can’t see anything west of us, red or green.”
I peer into the pitch black, toward the deeper black of the nearby mountains. “We should get to the foot of the range and check again. Yaverts must have her on his horse. That means once they’re out of the valley and into the mountains, their pace will go to a crawl.”
“I agree,” says Milly, urging her horse into a trot. Even with the chest-lights, we can hardly see more than ten feet ahead and a trot feels recklessly fast. A ditch, an old barbed wire fence, a pack of dead-heads—anything could jump out at us. But there’s little choice. The mountains are probably our last chance to catch Yaverts’ trail. And besides, the mountains might be our best chance to lose whoever is shooting up Union Powder in order to follow.
I can’t imagine Milly has done too many such midnight suicide rides, but she presses into the night with a dogged boldness. Skiss, as seems her pattern, remains calm and quiet. She rides tight alongside me, turning every few minutes toward the fading gunfire. I think her lips are moving. She must be praying for her fami
ly. I say a prayer for them too. And for us. Between Yaverts, East and South, the zombies, and the mountains, this latest sleepless night already promises to be a doozy.
After we’ve ridden a few miles and the gunfire behind us has finally died, I ask Milly, “How many are after us?”
Slowing a bit, she turns and hands me the GPS. I study the screen. To the south swirls a sea of red. To the north there is a multitude of red blips as well. Behind us, on the edge of the screen, I see Union Powder, a solid swarm of green. And emerging from that swarm the screen shows one dot, heading west.
“One?” I can’t contain my surprise. At very least I expected two. At least East and South. Maybe Damon? I shake my head. “It must be East,” I say. “I’m beginning to think South doesn’t really exist.”
“He exists,” says Skiss. I barely catch her voice above the thud of our horses’ hooves. Her tone speaks volumes. He exists, as much as she might wish he didn’t.
We pick up the pace, pushing our horses blindly. The extra speed doesn’t seem to matter. The rider behind us gains.
At the foot of the mountains, we stop by an old ruined farmhouse to check the GPS carefully. Four decrepit zombies stumble out of the barn into the dark, moaning. I open my mouth to suggest moving north a space, but before I can speak the words, Milly’s pistol spits four rounds into the dark. The four ghouls drop like dominoes. Her aim has improved. “What do you see?” she asks.
The GPS takes a second to reload as it wipes away the four red dots next to us. And then, at last, it registers with Yaverts. And Jenny. Two little overlapping dots not far from us. “They’re a few miles northwest, on a road into the mountains.”
Milly shouts into the night, half in jubilation, half in guttural ferocity. Her face is fixed in a haunting, jack-o’-lantern rictus.
I glance at Skiss to say give us a minute and ride over to Milly.
When we’re out of earshot, I ask, “Are you okay? You seem . . . ”
“I’m fine. We’re going to catch that shit and get Jenny. Come on.”
She raises her reigns to reenter the chase but I’m faster, grabbing her arm. “Hold on, Milly. Jenny is still alive. She’s still headed west. It looks like Yaverts is simply doing his job. He’s seeing her safely to Bentlam.”
“So?”
“So remember Sheriff Sanchez? He said if we wanted to find Schlozfield we should do no more than follow Yaverts.”
“That’s all we’re doing, Blake.”
“Is it?” I glance at the GPS. “Come on. Whoever’s behind is gaining. We don’t have time for bickering.”
Milly practically snarls. “Then get off my ass and let’s go. You’re the one bickering. Not me.”
“Wait a minute,” I growl back, losing my calm in an instant. “You’re the one acting like you’ll start shooting the second we see that shit we’re supposed to only be following.”
She shakes her head. “Following is the old plan. Yaverts isn’t as tough as Sanchez made him out. We can take him.”
“’Take him’? Without a gunfight? Yeah, right. And risk Jenny? And risk Skiss?”
Milly snorts with disdain. “Of course. I’m sorry. Of course we can’t risk Skiss.”
At her words, a vague uneasiness begins broiling in my stomach. “Milly,” I say, warily. “Are you . . . okay? Did something happen since New Pokey? Something you’re not telling me?”
Without a word, she wrenches her arm free and heads north.
The three of us ride until we reach an old road marked with a battered sign. We read it in the green light of the horses’ harnesses—Pine Creek Highway – Twin Lakes, 4 miles—and begin climbing the narrow gravel strip into a lightless ravine. The way is steep, but Milly insists we push the horses. Enemy, faithful as ever, labors beneath me. She seems fully recovered from our epic ride into town. But Skiss’s mare soon begins wheezing and stumbling. She’s old and has probably never been away from the flat streets of Union Powder. When I insist we slow our pace, Milly nods and keeps plunging up the winding, rock-strewn road anyway.
I’m considering hogtying my redheaded friend when Skiss reaches over and rubs Enemy’s nose. “I think Juniper can make it another few miles,” she says, stroking her own mount’s neck. “She’ll suffer, but she’ll make it.” Her eyes flick to the GPS. “How close?”
I know she doesn’t mean ‘How close are we to Yaverts?’ She means ‘How close is East to us?’
“We still have two miles on him,” I reassure her. “Once we’re over the ridgeline, we’ll pull away even more.”
“For a little while.”
She’s right. Only for a little while. Sooner or later we’ll have to face the Eastern Ranger. But at least the darkness will protect us from a long-range ambush. And, if he catches us, in Milly’s current mood she could probably glare him to death.
We’ve already fallen behind Milly by fifty paces, well out of earshot. Even so, Skiss glances up the trail and whispers, “I’m not sure I should have come along.”
That catches me off guard and I chuckle dryly. “Why do you suppose? Is it being on a lightless mountain road, pinned between two of the most dangerous killers in the country? Or is it riding with Milly when she’s in such a charming mood?”
Skiss grins and I study her face in the faint netherlight coming from her mare’s chest. The humor on her lips is real. The fear in her eyes is too.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say.
Skiss gives a merciful nod, as if allowing me a comforting illusion.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Love & Snow
Night in the mountains doesn’t take long to leave me shivering. Not only have the clouds blotted the sky, they’ve sunk into our ravine, drenching us in an icy mist. Skiss and Milly both came prepared. When we hit the clouds, they pull warm jackets and gloves from their bags. But I’m the dummy. My only gloves are fingerless, and my black jacket is too thin. Before long, I’m holding the GPS with quavering hands.
“Let me take care of that,” snaps Milly. Something is wrong with her. Our horses’ lights are too dim for me to tell, but I’m almost certain there’s a sheen on her forehead. She’s sweating. A fever. Has she been exposed to—
Milly grabs for the GPS, but I yank it back. “I’m fine,” I insist, trying to downplay how troubled I am by her behavior. “It looks like Yaverts stopped another mile up the road at a lake on the other side of the peak. We’ve nearly caught up with him. He just started moving again—south, along the ridgeline.”
“South?” Milly takes another swipe at the device. This time, she lands hold and yanks it out of my hands. “Damn,” she breathes. “He is moving south. Double damn.”
“Satisfied?” I hold out my hand again. “I’ll take that back, please.”
“You’re too shaky,” she says, her voice smug and accusing. “I’ll hold it until you settle down.”
“Milly,” I frown, “you’re not okay. Did one of the dead . . . touch you?”
She laughs. It’s more of a cackle, really. “Right! Have I been infected? I guess you’ll find out when I fall off my horse and start metamorphosing. Graaargghhhk! I’m . . . a . . . zombie! Shit. Come on, let’s go.”
Pick your battles, Blake. Pick your battles. Besides, she has a point. Would Milly really let herself blunder off into the wilderness when she’d been infected by a zombie? No way. Especially not when we still have the syringes Sanchez gave us. She must be sick. I know the flu makes me ornery. Or maybe she has the worst case of PMS this mountain range has seen in centuries.
And there’s always the possibility that she’s jealous. And angry. I can see myself standing in front of her door in the Grand Hotel, ready to break it down. Jealous and angry. I know what that’s like. And I haven’t been the smoothest dancing partner, after all. One minute I’m with her to get Jenny, the next I’m running off to Portland. One minute I’ve come back to make things right with her, the next I’ve decided to help make things right with Skiss. Yeah. She’s just sick and needs sp
ace.
Skiss, on the other hand, rides so close to me that I can’t tell what is mountain cloud and what is the steam from her breath. She hums as we go. It’s the melody to the folk song I taught her. Feeling warmed and proud by that, I join her, humming harmony. After a minute, Milly clears her throat loudly. Crap. I have the memory of a potato bug. She needs space, and here I am filling it with a duet. Music fills space like nothing else—physical space, mental space, spiritual space—and as someone who studied Music Therapy, I wonder if the sound isn’t better for her than she can know or admit.
Anyway, we stop humming. The treeline stops too. A glassy lake pops out of the clouds. It’s rimmed by snow. The gravel road gives way to scrabbled dirt and rock, with more tendrils of snow reaching up the slopes. We must be nearing the ridgeline. I can’t feel my toes.
Trying to distract myself, I say, “Music can teach us a lot about love, you know.”
“I’ve had a hunch about that,” Skiss replies dryly.
I chuckle. “The thought’s not as obvious as it sounds.”
Ahead of us, we hear Milly yaw! her horse up a scrabbly slope. The darkness rattles with loose rocks softened by sifting snow.
“Love,” says Skiss, savoring the word. “Tell me about love and music.”
Before I can, we each have to follow Milly up a steep fifty yards of trail. Skiss goes first, her tired mare slipping and wheezing, climbing higher into the frigid clouds until she disappears from sight. I follow, Enemy picking her way up with surefooted steadiness, her nostrils puffing with an eery, earnest, gauzy green steam. At the top of the ridge, Milly and Skiss are waiting on a narrow trail that runs precipitously above a craggy valley full of narrow lakes. They wait in silence, Milly looking ready to attack something, Skiss like she wishes she could make herself vanish into the mists.
The going is slow along the ridgeline. For one thing, sudden winds whip out of the east from time to time, shoving us toward the steep rockslide to our right. For another, the way is slick with packed snow and ice and sharp rocks. Our horses are already cold and well-worn and trying to cope with only the faintest of light. As we travel single file—Milly, Skiss, me—I ramble to Skiss about the different ways people have thought about love. I describe how the deepest definition, to my mind, is the ecstasy reached when two or more hearts learn to delight in the one another, paradoxically finding truest self by forgetting self and attending fully to another’s good. We discuss what it means to be at once the same and yet still distinct. We talk about teams and bands, lovers and families—examples in which people seem to experience becoming one with someone else while simultaneously feeling all the more themselves as a result.
