by R E Kearney
“So, are there more posses here? Did she say anything about more posses?” Robert excitedly probes.
“I don’t know. Could be. She didn’t tell me.” Pausing, Croyant peers pensively at the ceiling for a moment before offering, “I think there may be more…possibly…probably. She told me so many crazy things. I don’t know what was true and what was her hallucinating.”
“Grote, did the police mention any other group deaths when you were at the Préfecture?” Robert softens his tone and voice, so he will not upset Grote, more than he already is.
Grote silently shakes his head no. “They did not discuss anything with me other than the death of Allie. They are suppressing all information. I did not think to ask them any questions. I apologize for my…”
“You did what you could.” Robert motions toward Grote and then the others. “I too believe we should keep all of this quiet. No reason to cause a panic. The less les citoyens know about the poisoning of their food and the deaths of the AAU agronomists the better. After all…if you heard that somebody is attempting to start a war, wouldn’t you be alarmed or terrified?”
Simultaneously, the four nod in agreement.
“Your block chain ransom Trojan horse is signaling Limos Lives ransom transfer received in the Metrostate of Denver on community-wide financial network.” AGI abruptly invades his thoughts. “Rita requested that you be apprised that her investigation into Allie Hooya’s Internet activity indicates her membership in a worldwide organization of rural Reversionists committed to compelling the replacement of all genetically engineered flora and fauna with woman-born, unadulterated humans and non-GMO, heirloom vegetables. Rita is continuing her analysis of Allie Hooya’s communications.”
An alarm sounds in Robert’s head, Denver Metrostate is where the world’s seed vault is located. Instantly, Robert fears for its security. If the head and heart of Limos Lives is in the Denver Metrostate, he certainly cannot fight it from France. Clearly, the next step in his investigation awaits him in Denver. He must go now.
Robert describes his newest theory to his new detective squad. “As I told you earlier, I’ve re-evaluated my theory. I no longer believe we’re battling an Agromafia. Although, it’s similar…uses the same structure. I believe what we’re fighting in Limos Lives resembles a giant octopus. With the suicides of Allie’s posse, one of the octopus’ limbs has been cut off. But, an octopus can regenerate its limbs and be just as dangerous as before, if you don’t destroy its brain. To find and destroy the brain of this Limos Lives octopus, I must leave here immediately.”
“So? What do you want us to do?” Grote asks.
Chewing his lower lip, Robert studies and evaluates Grote and his three member investigative team. “Well, I cannot depart to do what I need to do unless I know that you four, and the agronomists remaining at AAU’s other facilities, will be able to sufficiently restore food production once the Fort Collens’ replacement seeds arrive.”
“Monsieur!” Grote is insulted by Robert’s statement. “Supposedly, your skill is catching cyber criminals. While, our skill, for years has been growing the AAU food feeding Ile-de-France. When you do your job properly, then we will be able to once again do our job…grow our food. So, Mister Goodfellow, the sooner you leave, the better for everybody here. You have work to do. We have work to do. Ga weg meneer. Goodbye sir.”
PURVEYANCE
“Your leg or your life.” A razor sharp blade twists and twirls a sneeze above Rube’s nose.
“Off? You’re cutting off my leg? Why?” Screaming, Rube battles to yank his leg away from three men eager to amputate.
“Sheriff said to. She has work for you.” With no emotion, a hefty, bearded, young man retorts, as he measures his knife’s sharpness with his thumb.
Pushing with all of their corpulence, two of the men pin his leg to Fett’s table top. Surrounding their feet are the containers and bags, they shoved onto the floor when they cleared her table for surgery. Both Fett and her cats spit and growled when these three invaded and commandeered their home. But when they told Fett the Sheriff had sent them, she rapidly retreated to the steps outside. She abandoned her cats to angrily sulk among the clutter on the floor.
Stabbing his sharp blade forward, a stout, bald, bearded man slices across the top of Rube’s leg. Rube struggles and twists. He cannot escape.
“Eldon, tear that leg off!” The man wielding the knife directs a fellow resembling a hawk in a hat.
“Gotcha, Merle.” Eldon grabs one side of Rube’s knife-slit pant leg with his left hand while still shoving against Rube’s thigh with his right. Nodding toward a tall, skinny, rosacea scarred man, he directs him to assist. “Vern, now you grab the other side of his pants and you pull, too.”
Yanking together, the two men rip Rube’s left pant leg open. With his left hand, Merle slowly slides a radio frequency identification signal reader across the front of Rube’s exposed foot, along his ankle and then up his shin to his knee. At Rube’s knee, Merle stops. He hesitates before beginning to retrace his examination route.
“You ain’t a pill popper like Fett, are you? Ain’t finden no tiny trackers floaten in your blood.” Above Rube’s medial malleolus where his leg and ankle connect, he carefully positions his reader. “Yep! Here it is. Right here is ICC’s tiny tracker.”
Merle presses the tip of his knife against Rube’s skin. “Now, don’t you move old man. If I can dig this RFID out, I won’t have to cut off your leg. Or, I can just whack off your foot if you want. Up to you.
Gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and tensing every muscle in his body, Rube growls. “Dig! Dig it out.”
Closely studying his reader, Merle slices a small x in Rube’s skin. Rube flinches and groans. Blood oozes from his wound.
With his x marking the spot where he plans to dig, Merle sets the reader aside. He taps the top of Rube’s foot with the side of his knife blade. “These little slits are nothing. But, now your pain begins. This RFID is embedded in your bone and I have to cut it out without giving you an anesthetic or pain killer. Too many ICC nano biotrackers hidden in their meds. Ok? You ready?”
“Ready.” Rube halfheartedly agrees, grabbing Eldon’s and Vern’s wrists.
Merle gently inserts the tip of his knife into the center of his x. “Don’t squirm. I don’t want to damage the RFID. If it stops signaling, ICC Enforcers will be on top of us fore we get out the door.”
Preparing for pain, Rube crushes Eldon’s and Vern’s wrists in his grip. Both of them grimace and groan. Their hands and fingers begin turning blue and going numb. They are suffering more pain than Rube. Vern grits his teeth and sheds tears of agony.
Merle delicately deepens his blade inside Rube’s ankle. More blood seeps from the cut, surrounding the knife, before trickling across Rube’s skin and dribbling onto the table. Merle lowers his head and tilts his right ear toward his incision. Sweat drips from his forehead mixing with Rube’s blood. Listening intently, he inserts his blade another millimeter, then another and then another. Pain sweat pours across Rube’s face.
Slowly, a grin sneaks across Merle’s face. “I believe I found it. Guess I won’t need to hack off your foot, after all. Disappointen too, looks like I sharpened my meat cleaver for nothen.”
Poof! Poof! Poof! Rube blows out air, attempting to ease his pain.
Wiggling his knife, Merle enlarges the incision. He retrieves a pair of tweezers from his pocket, which he sterilizes by wiping them across his pant leg. Sliding the tweezers along the knife blade, he shoves them into Rube’s ankle. Rube jerks and moans.
Merle spreads the tweezers and probes. Twisting the tweezers left, then right, he searches for a grip on the RFID. “Aha, got it. Ok, hang on, while I yank it out.”
Wiggling, waggling, twisting and turning the tweezers, Merle frees the RFID from Rube’s bone with a crunch. Pop. He wrenches and tugs it through the skin slit in Rube’s ankle. Rube passes out. Eldon and Vern yank their mashed ha
nds free of Rube’s grip.
“I think my hands goen to fall off.” Hoping to return some blood and feeling, Vern vigorously shakes his numb, blue hand.
“Whatcha goin do with that thing you took outta him?” Eldon points at the small pill held in Merle’s tweezers.
Contemplating the RFID in his tweezers, Merle purses his lips while he chases a plan. “Well, we just can’t toss it into the trash or leave it lay somewhere. It has to move some or the ICCEs will get suspicious and come looken for him.”
Seeking a closer look, Vern steps toward Merle, squashing a cat’s tail beneath his boot. Squalling and screaming, the cat claws and bites his boot and pant leg. Not being fast on his feet or when thinking, Vern stands confused trapping the twisting, writhing, snarling cat.
“That’s it. That cat’s the answer.” Merle points at the cat. “Vern, grab that cat and I’ll drop this RFID into its ear. That should fool them ICCEs for a while.”
Vern’s head rattles, he so fiercely shakes it, refusing. “No! This cat crazy. It’s biten me…clawen me. I ain’t touchen it.”
“Grab that cat! Just hold its head still, so I can stuff this in its ear. Get hold of it, Vern!” Merle shouts.
Ripping, tearing, biting, the furious feline shreds Vern’s hands and wrists. His blood flies through the air, splattering the floor, his shirt, his pants and Merle’s face. Bawling and howling louder than the cat, Vern finally captures the animal’s head. He wrestles it steady. As fast as possible, Merle plants the RFID deep inside the cat’s ear. Zip! Vern lifts his boot and the cat flies away.
Chuckling at the fleeing feline, Eldon declares. “I doubt them ICCEs have ever watched Rube move that fast.”
“But, enough fun, boys.” Merle jerks his thumb toward the door. “You two got to cut that ICC tracking device off that transporter thing of his while he’s still out. Soon as he can operate it, we got to go. Be getten dark soon. Can’t be here, when them ICCE patrols come.”
The threat of ICCEs spurs Eldon and Vern into action. They hustle from Fett’s squat and tackle the task of removing the tracker. Merle is ready to insert his first stitch into Rube’s ankle wound when a storm of hammering, cursing and shouting shakes the squat walls and demands his attention.
Glancing out the window, Merle discovers that Eldon and Vern have attracted a large audience of cheering children and direction shouting adults. Their assigned task is a comedy of incompetence attracting the attention of every squatter in Squalor. Merle hears Fett yelling her opinions of their efforts while sitting on her squat’s steps.
After repeated attempts, Vern successfully pries the tracker loose and shoves it crashing onto the ground. The crowd raucously cheers and applauds. Now, their show finished, the spectators hastily disappear to escape the heat.
When Eldon begins walking toward their horses to retrieve the fuel containers they brought, Merle returns to stitching Rube’s wound. Shoving the needle into Rube’s skin shocks him awake. Cursing, Rube jerks upright.
Rube shoves Merle away. ”Stop! You’re killing me. Just wrap it!”
Merle tosses Rube a roll of tape, “Here. Do it yourself. But, hurry it up. We need to go. Can you still operate that…uh…machine of yours?”
“Do you mean, can I drive it?” Rube finishes wrapping his ankle and drops the tape on the table. “Yes, I can drive it, but it won’t run. It’s empty. Lymon doesn’t have a petroleum depot anymore. So, I don’t have no gas.”
“We brought some gas. Well, we think it is gas. Don’t know for sure. We found some cans marked gas in a dead, rancher’s abandoned building. It’s old, but we think it’s still good.”
Before climbing off the table, Rube cautiously tests his ankle. Leaning against the table, he hesitantly takes two steps. “Well, at least, you didn’t cripple me. Now, where is your, so called, gas?”
Merle motions toward the door. “Eldon and Vern have it by your machine. They are waiting for you to show them what to do with it.”
“Truck! It’s called a pick-up truck.” Rube limps toward the door. “Haven’t you ever seen one…or at least a picture of one? Read about internal combustion engines…maybe…somewhere? You can’t be that ignorant.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Merle sarcastically remarks. “I’m only twenty-three, grandpa, so no, I ain’t never seen no truck, before. Been told that the ICC and government seized and destroyed most all private…uh trucks in the wastedlands years ago. All of them they could find, anyway. You musta hid yours good. Anyway, I guess the ICC figured we can’t cause no trouble if we only got these horses. Sides, if we knew how to operate your machine, then we wouldn’t…Sheriff wouldn’t need you. Now, would she?”
“For what?” Rube waves his arm at Eldon and Vern signaling them to set down the gas containers. They nod their heads, leave the gas containers, and run to retrieve their horses.
“What?” Merle trails Rube from the squat to the truck.
“What does Sheriff want me to do?!” Rube barks in exasperation, while he opens the nearest can and sniffs. He shakes his head at its anemic smell. He fears that the gasoline may be too old and too stale to power his truck’s eight cylinder engine.
Merle shrugs his shoulders again. “Don’t know. Sheriff didn’t tell me. Just ordered me to come and get you and your…uh…truck…and uh…some type of weapons you’re supposed to have. Oh, and Sheriff said to make sure the ICCEs can’t follow you.”
“That’s it? That’s all you know?” Rube empties the first gas container into his truck. Seeing that the fuel is not separated or thick as varnish encourages him.
“That’s all I need to know.” Merle takes the emptied container from Rube and tosses it into the pick-up truck’s bed. “I don’t ask Sheriff questions. I just do what Sheriff orders me to do, when Sheriff orders me to do it. Best for you to learn to do that too.”
Eldon and Vern lead their three horses to the rear of the truck. Working quickly, they remove the horses’ saddles and packs and load them into the truck. Clutching the horses’ reins, they climb into the truck bed and sit on their saddles.
“We won’t be able to travel very fast or very far with your horses tied to my truck.” Rube hands the second empty container to Merle, who drops it next to the other one.
“Don’t worry bout them. They’re mustangs. This is their home. Know how to live in these deserts, bettern we do. That’s why we ride them.” Merle affectionately rubs the nose of his horse. “That, and because they’re cut from a wild herd, they ain’t marked…don’t carry no tracking signature. Sheriff says to stay free in this twenty first century, best learn to live in the nineteenth century.”
“Well, your mustangs may have to pull my truck instead of it pulling them. Even if your gasoline is good, my battery may be dead after sitting here this long.” Rube speculates, as he brushes a thick layer of dust off his door window.
Rube yanks at the truck door. It stubbornly resists. Three jerks, a kick and a curse later, the door surrenders, squawking loudly. Rube climbs inside, pumps the gas pedal six times and turns the key he had left in its ignition. Urrrgh. His battery is tired, but still alive, barely.
The engine growls, coughs, chokes and quits. Again, Rube pumps the gas pedal six times. He hesitates, as if waiting for the engine to swallow the fuel.
“Ok baby, I know you can do it. Come on now.” Rube twists the ignition key.
Grudgingly, grumbling, growling, the engine awakens. Rube pushes on the gas pedal. The engine coughs, chokes and then revs to life. Rube reduces the gas, then increases it. The engine roars.
“It is alive!” Shaking his right fist triumphantly, Rube shouts to Merle. “Climb in and let’s roll, while this old lady is still willing to go.”
Merle nods his head and holds up his hand extending his index finger. “Just one more thing to do.”
Carrying a small bag tossed to him by Eldon, Merle jogs to Fett. She is sitting, watching and waiting on her squat’s steps. He hands her the bag
and then runs back to the truck. After wrestling open the balking rider’s side door, he clambers inside, hauling along a box of beers. He recklessly shoves Rube’s pistol, rifle and ammunition off his seat and onto the floor. When his pistol bounces hard, Rube instinctively flinches then blows out a heavy sigh when it does not fire.
“What did you give Fett?” Rube asks, as he looks in his rearview mirror, watching Fett wave the bag at him before disappearing behind her door.
“Don’t know. Somethen from Sheriff.” Merle slams his door closed. “Just know, Sheriff called it payen your bounty. Now, you’re Sheriff’s property. Like us, you’re just another member of her chattel. She owns you, and she’s waiting for you. So, let’s go.”
FORT MORGHAN
North. Merle directs Rube onto the warped and rutted remains of a forsaken, asphalt road. Rocking, bouncing and lurching, they plod along at five miles-per-hour. Craters and lumps in the fragmented asphalt prohibit traveling faster. At this slow speed, the three mustangs trail the truck at an easy gait.
As they lumber north, Rube’s truck chokes and coughs. His eight cylinder engine is struggling to stay running drinking the old, weak gasoline, he is feeding it. Staggering and struggling along, he considers how much his life in the wastedlands has changed since the day he first climbed into this seat and started this truck’s engine.
In the beginning, his truck’s engine thundered as it devoured gallon after gallon of premium gasoline. His testosterone soared every time his engine roared. He believed everybody regarded him as a big man then, because he drove a big truck – a big, expensive truck. But, the cost of fueling and operating his big truck quickly started eating him up.