Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall)

by Michael Lane

  “As the scouts reported, sir, not many weapons in evidence and generally friendly,” Nakamura said. “The mayor is waiting on you, and the defensive points on the perimeter seem to be vacant.”

  “Where are their men, Captain?”

  “Cleared off, sir. The mayor wants to warn you about them.”

  “Excellent, let’s hear what he has to say.”

  Rastowich had been leading his men west for three years, so what he heard from Pullman’s Mayor - a tall man named Williams - wasn’t a surprise.

  The townspeople were afraid. They were afraid of the army, of the criminals who had controlled them, of change. The Colonel did what he always did, answering questions patiently and assuaging fear. On more than one occasion over the years he’d been amused by his role as therapist rather than military commander.

  Williams and his fellow townspeople had heard of the CDF and were willing to accept, tentatively, that the army was here to reunite them with the nation rather than to loot their farms and rape their women. They would have to discuss the logistics of basing a permanent garrison of troopers, but were willing to consider it. All of the discussion was necessary but boring and the Colonel let Nakamura do most of the explaining, standing at an ancient podium in one of the school’s lecture halls. The place still had its folding metal seats, and all were occupied. Rastowich spent his time studying the faces and only half-listening.

  “We also have someone who would like to speak with you from the Castle,” Williams said, capturing Rastowich’s attention.

  “Oh? I’d understood they had fled.”

  “Most did, Colonel, but this man, Kevin Moorhouse, he’s from Pullman and stayed on.” the Mayor gestured at a youngish man with drab brown hair cut to collar length. He was clad in old denim pants and a crimson and gray hooded sweatshirt that was unraveling at the cuffs.

  “All right, Mister Moorhouse, what have you to add?”

  “Ah, Colonel, sir.” Moorhouse stopped, took a deep breath, and began again. “Colonel, my boss, the garrison commander, Toby Kovacs, I mean, he wanted to know if he could meet with you. Sir.”

  “Why would I want to meet with him?” Rastowich asked.

  “Um, yeah, well, Mister Creedy said he’d been talking to you and that the Castle would be joining up with you to help guard the towns and such,” Moorhouse said.

  “I’ve never spoken with the man, nor is the CDF interested in his plans to merge his force of outlaws with its ranks,” the Colonel said. “I understand you are one of his ‘soldiers’? Were you ordered to act as a go-between?”

  “I was, yeah.”

  “I assume that he’s somewhere nearby awaiting my response?” Rastowich asked.

  “Yes sir, he is.”

  The Colonel shifted his gaze to Williams, who was pale but composed.

  “Mister Mayor, did this Kovacs individual act against the people of this community? That is to say, is he wanted for criminal acts?”

  The Mayor looked at Moorhouse. Both men looked out of their depth. “Yes, I guess he is, Colonel.”

  “Do you have a system of jurisprudence in place, Mayor Williams?”

  “Jurisprudence?”

  “Do you have a court of law, here?” The Colonel clarified.

  “Oh. No, the Castle was the only law,” Williams said. “If you could call it that.”

  “Then I’ll take this case under consideration in a tribunal. Captain, please take this man to a secure location, and have him inform you of the whereabouts of Kovacs. We’ll want him for trial.”

  Nakamura rose and led the paste-pale Moorhouse from the auditorium while the crowd murmured.

  “Until such time as this area has a circuit court, the CDF will be available,” Rastowich said. “Once the rail lines are active, you’ll be able to send a delegation to the western regional command in Colorado.”

  “The rail lines?” Williams asked. “Western regional command? I mean, we’ve heard rumors, but the trains are running?”

  Rastowich yawned behind a fist before answering.

  “Sorry. Been a long day. They are. To Lewiston so far, but they’re headed this way as quick as the engineers can certify the track.”

  The questions continued for another hour, and the Colonel finally begged off, exhausted. He and his men, along with their prisoner, rode back to the camp, seeing nothing unusual and listening to the little coyotes yip and call in the grasslands.

  Captain Nakamura slowed his horse until he rode beside the Colonel, out of earshot of Moorhouse at the head of the column.

  “Do you think this spot will do, Sir?” He asked.

  “It will work, Captain. There’s a rail yard here from when this was wheat country, and there’s grass for the horses and food for the men until the supply trains reach us. What’s on your mind?”

  The Captain was silent for a few seconds.

  “I suppose I’m just getting a little antsy. We’re almost there, sir. Do you want the prisoner’s information tonight?”

  “Tomorrow is fine. Let him worry overnight. It’ll make him more talkative come the morning.”

  “You’ll want a scaffold set up?”

  “Yes. But in the town, not at camp. See that it’s ready in three days, Captain.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Chapter 14: Mattawa

  Clay sat at the campfire and smoked a tiny soot-stained meerschaum pipe. Georgia walked in from the dark, straightening her clothes.

  “I will be glad to see an outhouse again,” she said, sitting beside Clay and tossing a stick of wood on the fire. They watched the sparks fly and fade.

  “And a real bed,” Clay said. “And not being worried that twenty angry men with guns may suddenly wander into my camp. But I should be happy it’s not raining.”

  “Don’t even say that, you’ll jinx us,” Georgia said, squinting up at the stars. She sucked air through her teeth and peered around. “Is Sowter on watch?”

  “Yeah, he’s walking a slow circuit with Doc. You smoke?”

  “I was going to ask what stank so bad, so no,” Georgia admitted, glancing at the pipe.

  “It’s rabbit tobacco and pot. Hippie-cowboy mix, I guess.” Clay shrugged and knocked the pipe empty against a boot heel. “It’s relaxing.”

  “Are you feeling nervous?”

  Clay thought for a moment. “I guess I am,” he said.

  “Why? What is it?”

  “Grey. I can’t quite work him out.”

  Georgia cocked her head to the side and smiled slightly.

  “I’d have thought he was pretty obvious, but maybe you’re right,” she said.

  “Obvious? How?”

  “On top, he’s looking to make up for his past, but under that he’s good at this sort of thing, and everyone takes pleasure in what they’re good at,” Georgia said.

  Clay grimaced. “Yeah, I get those, but I keep wondering if there’s another layer under there.”

  “I’m sure there is. There’s personal baggage of some kind with this Creedy, and there may be some urge to go off and get killed as a hero, and another part of him that wants to run away and pretend the past never happened. People are always a mix, cowboy.”

  Clay laughed and pushed his hat back so that a forelock of hair escaped to hang like a dark comma on his forehead.

  “Not always,” he said.

  “Oh, really? I suppose you’re here like a good soldier, with no questions?”

  “Pretty much. Well, wait, that’s not true,” Clay said, leaning back against his bedroll. “I’m here for two reasons. I started off with the one; follow Grey down and see if we could stop these guys getting into the valley.”

  “What’s the new one, then?”

  “I want to see if you’ll decide you like me,” Clay said.

  “I like you well enough to sleep with you,” Georgia said with a grin.

  Clay reached to her, and she moved to him. With her head nestled under his chin, she heard him chuckle.

  “Well, that’s
a start, anyway,” he said.

  The rest of the group had split up and were sampling the entertainment in Mattawa, two days southwest of Creedy’s castle.

  Mattawa was a cluster of old wood frame homes and brick businesses. Few of the buildings had been left to ruin, and those that had fallen had been cleared away. The population of three hundred or so was largely farmers. Their fields surrounded the town in a great, irregular checkerboard delineated by irrigation canals from a foot across to twenty yards in width. The wet fields and slow-moving slough water gave the air of the town a rich muddy smell that contrasted with the faint sage perfume of the arid scrub around it.

  Businesses were limited to a blacksmith and stables, a general store in an old converted Laundromat, two bars - one with a brothel upstairs - and a huge mill. Much of the mill was unused except as storage and crowded with rusted ranks of useless machinery, but a pair of gristmills had been converted to wind-power. The big multiblade fans creaked and rattled night and day, driving the axles that turned the mills. Grain growers throughout the scablands and the Palouse plains to the east would cart their crops here to sell, and the mills would in turn sell flour to the traders. Crews worked night and day from harvest through the winter months, ghostly in their coats of flour. By July the first early wheat would be in and dry and the work would start again.

  Castle men were here in some numbers. Grey had scouted the town, and found two blockhouses, one near the mill, and one on a hill to the west that gave an encompassing view of the town and its surroundings. Each strongpoint was a cinderblock building, with reinforced windows and doors. Townsfolk said that the number of men varied. Most agreed that there were often three or four, heavily armed, at each location.

  “I want them relaxed,” Grey had explained to the others as they’d ridden to Mattawa that morning. “We’re a lot of strangers to show up in town at once, even if we don’t look armed.” Grey had made everyone conceal their weapons. Harmon left his crossbow behind, and wore a simple belt knife. The other three had tucked their pistols out of sight and left their long guns in camp.

  “What I want to do this evening is spread a few rumors, but quietly, about some hardcase riders down from the north. Make up whatever you like, as long as it sounds like there are a few dozen of them. These guys are pissed because Creedy was on their turf, right?”

  “Won’t he just ask his scouts?” Ronald asked.

  “Probably, but what’s he going to think? He has to take it seriously after the station and Potter’s Creek - and after we burn out his blockhouses here. Speaking of, does everyone remember their jobs?”

  The other three nodded their assent.

  “Good, stick to what you need to do. Don’t get distracted.”

  “What if someone sees us?” Harmon asked. “If we wind up in a fight, it’s not going to go well.”

  “Then don’t be seen,” Grey said. “And if you are, run away.”

  Mal and Grey visited one of the two bars. It was a two-story house that had been converted, with the sheetrock and paneling pulled out where feasible, leaving room for tables and a scuffed wooden dance floor. There were a dozen or so men drinking at the bar and the nearest tables and two older women playing cards and arguing at a small table near an unlit fireplace. Candles and oil lamps supplied enough light to see by, and not much more.

  A plate of fried dough twists sat on the bar, and Mal reached over a drinker’s shoulder with an apologetic grunt and took two. He gave one to Grey and began to eat his own.

  The drinker turned and gave Mal a stare, blinking.

  “Do I know you?” His voice was slurred and he leaned back against the bar at a dangerous angle on his stool.

  “I don’t think so. Have you ever been anywhere down south? Utah, maybe?”

  The drunk shook his head and blinked again. A pair of his friends had turned to listen. They were all in their twenties, with big hands and white flour dust graying the roots of their hair.

  “No. That’s in California, right?”

  “Yeah,” Mal said.

  The drunk blinked some more, trying to come up with another question. He shrugged and turned back to the bartender, gesturing for another beer. One of his buddies spoke with beery good cheer.

  “Welcome to Mattawa, buddy. Home of the best flour anywhere, and fuck all else. I’m Kevin. Have a beer.”

  Mal smiled and pushed a silver piece across the bar. The bartender swept it cleanly out of sight and replaced it with a stoneware mug of beer.

  By midnight Grey and Mal had made a half-dozen boozy friends, been offered a place to sleep, and heard stories about Potter’s Creek, the imminent arrival of the army, and the new whore over at the Blue Marmot. The consensus was that Boyfuck Jones hadn’t hit the station. Too many people had come forward later and testified to the existence of a fat man named Simmons. Word was that the Castle was extremely interested in who Simmons was, and was offering a reward for him. As for the rumors of the army, those had been growing thicker as spring grew warmer. The news from traders heading west kept moving the soldiers closer. The latest had them crossing the Snake River at Lewiston, and that was three weeks or more from Mattawa.

  Grey pulled Mal aside while their friends ordered another round.

  “You think that’s accurate? They’re in Lewiston?” Mal asked.

  “If it’s true, we’re out of time,” Grey said. “Creedy has to move in the next two or three weeks or they’ll have him trapped in his goddamn castle.”

  “Do we try to stop Harmon and Ronald and get out of here?” Mal asked.

  Grey’s brow creased and he scratched furiously in his beard. He sighed as he met Mal’s gaze.

  “It’s almost midnight. It’s too late. Let’s stick with the plan instead of running around in the dark trying to change it.”

  Grey remembered that decision, later, after it went so wrong.

  The moon shone down on Mattawa, a half-circle of silver, when Ronald and Harmon left the Blue Marmot and headed east out of town. They didn’t see anyone on the streets, and weren’t expecting to. They were both surprised when a voice hailed them from the roadside. Three men detached from the shadows and moved to their right, boots crunching on the gravel.

  “Where are you two headed?” one asked. There was enough light to see that all three were armed. The leader wore a dark coat or vest that made his torso bulk strangely. “You two got somewhere to be, middle of the night?” he asked.

  “What the hell business of yours is that?” Harmon slurred, sounding drunk and belligerent. Ronald blinked.

  “It’s our business because we make sure things run nice and smooth,” the leader said, altering course to stand at Harmon’s side. “So, I’ll ask one more time, why you’re sneaking out of town in the middle of the night.”

  “Fuckin’ nosey pricks,” Harmon growled, kicking clumsily at the questioner. The man stepped aside easily, grabbed Harmon’s leg, and yanked him off his horse onto the cracked pavement. Harmon landed hard and Ronald thought he could hear his teeth click as his head rebounded off the asphalt. The leader planted a single energetic kick into the sprawled figure’s stomach and then turned to Ronald as Harmon retched.

  “Your friend fell off his horse,” he said in a reasonable voice. “While he’s recovering, you can answer the question.”

  Ronald tried to sound frightened. He discovered that wasn’t very hard to do.

  “I’m sorry Mister, he’s drunk. He didn’t mean nothing.”

  The man stepped closer, rested a hand companionably on Ronald’s stirrup. “That’s not an answer, son.”

  “Sorry. We just stopped to get some drinks, and we wanted to see if there was any work around here, and the girls at the Marmot, you know, but we spent all our money so the bartender said we had to leave, so we figured we’d just go sleep it off...” Ronald babbled. He loosened the pistol in his belt with his right hand, away from the view of the three men.

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down, kid. Jesus, no answer or a hundred of t
hem all at once.” The other two laughed. “Tell you what, we’ll send Earl here over to the Marmot and check your story out, and if the bartender backs you up, well, then you can put your friend back on his horse and get the hell out of my town.”

  “All right,” Ronald said, trying to sound relieved. It wasn’t like they’d actually been kicked out or bought a whore, or ran out of cash, but at least this would get one of the three away for a while and even the odds.

  “Uh, Mister, I need to piss,” Ronald said. Harmon continued to moan and make weak retching noises. Ronald hoped he was not as hurt as he sounded.

  “Well, get down and piss, then,” the guardsman said. “If you run off, I’ll kick your drunk buddy to death.”

  He really did have to urinate, and he unzipped to do so, watching Earl trot the five short blocks back to the Marmot. Earl had made it about halfway when he finished and zipped up.

  That was when the explosions started.

  A lot happened at once. A lurid orange fireball accompanied by a bowel-loosening thump rose on the far side of town, the glare illuminating the grain elevators at the mill. Earl, caught midstride by the shockwave, tripped and landed hard on his hands and knees. Both guards and Ronald stood gaping for a second as a blast of hot wind swirled grittily past them.

  The leader turned, staring open-mouthed up the street. He started to say something, and a second wave of smaller explosions, rolling in an arrhythmic stagger, kicked more flame and debris into the air. This went on for what felt to Ronald like a long time, but was probably no more than twenty or thirty seconds. People were staggering into the street half-naked to see what was happening.

  The leader of the three guards set off toward the fire at a run, trailed by his companion. They picked up Earl as they passed. Within a minute a few other men staggered after them, some carrying shovels and buckets.

  The concrete silos glowed a pulsing orange now, lit by the flames growing at their feet.

  “I guess they managed to get that blockhouse lit,” Harmon said as he rose and dusted himself off. “We’d better hurry and get out of here.” He paused and spit. “Bit my damn tongue when he pulled me off my horse.”