The Righteous Man

by Michael Carroll

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Esteban asked, then added, “Racist.”

  “It’s not racist. It’s just a fact. They’re mutants. I’m not saying that they’re bad people.” O’Donnell shrugged. “Well, I mean, these guys are bad people, but not because they’re mutants.”

  “Enough,” Ramini said. “We can’t hide from the storm and protect the town from the Earthers at the same time.” She turned in a slow circle. “Hell with the town—it’s just buildings. Let the raiders take it. We’re evacuating everyone to the mines.”

  Esteban said, “Hanenberger won’t permit that.”

  “She won’t have a choice,” Dredd said. “The mines will provide shelter from the storm, and the iridium ore will shield us from some of the radiation. Get your people to start moving in the supplies.” He walked to the edge of the roof. “I’ll deal with Hanenberger.”

  DREDD FOUND ALFONSA Hanenberger in her home, the largest house in Ezekiel. She greeted him on the porch, along with her advisors and ever-present bodyguards.

  “The mine is off-limits to anyone but me and my security people,” Hanenberger said.

  There was a slight cough from behind her.

  “And my advisors,” she added. “We’re going to seal the entrances and ventilation shafts, wait until the storm blows over and the Earthers are gone.”

  “The raiders are not the problem,” Dredd said. “I told you already: there’s a storm coming.”

  “This is the Cursed Earth. There’s always a storm coming. You’re not getting it, Dredd. This is my town. My family owns everything you see out there. The buildings, the mine, the land itself. So out here I am the law, not you. You were brought in to help defend my property against the Earthers, not to defend the people. If you’re not going to do your job, then why don’t you just drokk off back to Mega-City One and leave us be?”

  One of the advisors leaned close to Hanenberger and whispered something. She nodded, and looked back at Dredd. “I rescind my request for help from the Justice Department of Mega-City One. You and your friends will get out of my town immediately. You’re trespassing... My people here have every right to gun you down.”

  “The right, perhaps,” Dredd said, “but not the ability.”

  She stepped closer to Dredd. “Before the storm cut off all comms with the city, last thing we heard was that the SJS are coming for you. Did you know that? They won’t get here before the storm, but they will get here. They’re building a small army, Dredd, just for you. If you’re lucky, you might even end up on the same ship to Titan as your brother.” She smiled. “Didn’t think we knew about that, did you? You’ve forgotten how powerful my family is, I think. We’re powerful because the right people are afraid of us. Look at me: I have four homes in the city and I can come and go as much as I like. Me, Dredd. What do you think of that?”

  Dredd looked down at the woman’s wrinkled, loose-hanging skin. “So that’s not just a skin condition. You’re a mutant.”

  “I’m a Hanenberger, and that’s more important than any radiation-triggered twist of genetics. We Hanenbergers look after our own. My people at the mine have orders to defend my property with extreme prejudice if that becomes necessary. Now, get out.”

  THE FIRST EARTHERS to arrive at the barricade were an old man and a young woman riding a thin black and white horse. They were stopped by Esteban and Travis Crow.

  “Move on,” Esteban called out. He and Travis stood either side of the makeshift drawbridge over the trench. “There’s nothing for you here.”

  “My brother lives here,” the old man called back. He climbed down from the horse and pushed back his hat. “I’m Abraham Stinnett, this is my girl Novena. My brother’s Ishmael. Fetch him—he’ll vouch for me.”

  A few minutes later, Dredd and O’Donnell accompanied the preacher to the barricade.

  “That you, Ishmael?” the old man called. “Yeah, it’s you.”

  Stinnett called back, “What you want, Abe?” To Dredd, he said, “Haven’t seen this drokker in damn near twenty years.”

  “Storm’s coming, Ishmael. A big one.”

  “We know that—we got eyes!”

  “It’s gonna be bad. Real bad. Remember the storm back in Oklahoma when grandma’s whole town got wiped out? Badder than that. Much, much badder. I seen it.”

  “How can he know that?” O’Donnell asked.

  “He’s got the Sight,” Stinnett said. “Always had. He can see down the road, sometimes. Devil’s work, if you ask me.”

  “A psychic?” Dredd asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Let them in.”

  Stinnett grabbed Dredd’s arm. “No, don’t. He’s not been saved and that means he’s not my kin anymore.”

  Dredd shrugged off the preacher and beckoned his brother forward. With some trepidation, the old man led his horse over the drawbridge. They looked a lot alike, Dredd noted. Same mid-brown skin, same wrinkles around the eyes, same pure-white hair, though Abraham was considerably more neatly-groomed than his brother.

  The young woman, Novena, bore some resemblance to her father; she was covered in dust, thin to the point of emaciation, and her face was barely visible behind masses of white hair.

  The preacher said, “Abe, you tell me that you’ve rejected the devil and then maybe we can talk. But if you’re still curled up all cosy in his evil pocket, best thing you can do is get back on that horse and turn around. The Almighty Grud is merciful, but only up to a point, got that? He is kindness and wrath and fury and snuggliness all in one neat, easy-to-use package. Yea, verily, he is both consistent and contradictory at the same time, and yet not! Praise Grud! Praise his awesome musty scent which is like unto that great smell you get when you’re digging fresh soil, for he is the creator of all things that ever were or ever will be, up to and including himself.”

  To Dredd, Abe said, “You see why I steer clear of this idiot? Our mother was a travelling faith-healer. Ishmael got all the belief and the showmanship, but I got the Sight.”

  “So I hear,” Dredd said. “What have you seen?”

  “There’s a storm coming.”

  From the side, Esteban said, “You said that already. Judge, how do we know he’s not a spy for the Earthers?”

  “Or for the Devil!” the preacher shouted. “It is written that he will travel the land in human form, spreading lies and untruths and falsehoods and false witnesses and, um, big fat hairy fibs... and he shall ride forth on a mighty thunderous beast of raging poisoned fire!”

  Everyone looked at the piebald horse, which was standing next to Abraham and gently chewing on the edge of his hat.

  Dredd said, “Esteban, get this nut out of here.” To Abraham, he said, “You, come with me. O’Donnell, find food and water for the girl. And the horse.”

  IN THE TOWN’S small jail, Judge Montag was guarding the prisoner. When Dredd and Abraham entered, the young man Dredd had captured during the last raid was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his cell, staring down at the floor. Montag was sitting nearby, sharpening her boot-knife on an old whetstone.

  Dredd nodded toward the prisoner. “He meditating?”

  “No, I’m not,” the prisoner said. “There’s a beetle here that keeps coming up out of the floorboards and then stopping, like he’s thinking, ‘Wait, what was it I came in here to get?’” He looked up at Dredd and smiled. “It’s kinda cute.”

  Dredd asked Abraham, “This creep one of yours?”

  “One of my what?”

  “One of your people. Earthers.”

  “Judge, I don’t have people. Only my horse. And my daughter.”

  “If you’ve got some sort of psychic abilities, scan this kid and tell me what’s going on inside his head.”

  The old man frowned. “He’s scared, but anyone can see that...” He walked up to the cell’s bars. “Let me in, boy. It won’t hurt... Just want to take a look around.” After a few seconds, he pulled back and turned to Dredd. “He came with the vanguard. They were
told to check out the town, test the defences. They heard there was Judges here, so they had to be sure.”

  “Doesn’t prove much,” Dredd said. “If you really are psychic, tell me how we caught him.”

  “He was hiding under a truck and you smashed his head up against the driveshaft, knocked him out.”

  Montag said, “Close. But it—”

  “No, not a truck. Some kind of digger. Big, rusting... That enough for you?”

  “It’ll do,” Dredd said. “So what brings you here to Ezekiel? You chasing or fleeing?”

  “Little of both. When the storm hits it’s going to be about as bad as you can imagine. We’ve got...” the old man walked to the window and looked out. “Reckon we’ve got an hour before it gets so bad out there that a fella won’t be able to stand up in the wind.”

  Montag slipped her boot-knife back into its scabbard, and walked over to Dredd. “That can’t be right. According to the weather charts we got from Mega-City One, we should have almost four hours.”

  The young prisoner in the cell said, “Okay... I think I wanna get out of here.”

  “Abraham, why only an hour?” Dredd asked. “There’s barely a breeze out there right now. For a storm to build to its apex in such a short time—”

  “I never said that was going to be the apex, Judge. In an hour, wind’ll be so bad you won’t be able to stand up. But that’s nothing compared to what’s coming. This has been building for months. Little storms all across the land from Mega-City Two to Texas City, each one creating the ideal conditions for the next. And they’re all gonna converge in this region.”

  Dredd looked out at the weather-vane across the street. It was starting to rock in the wind.

  “You have never seen anything like this,” Abraham said. “No one has, not since the atomic wars. The Cursed Earth is fighting back, you see. I’m not saying it’s deliberate; it ain’t sentient, it doesn’t know what it’s doing... But it is fighting. Lot of folks out there have been able to sense it, that’s what’s been driving them in this direction.”

  The young man in the cell stood up and approached the bars. “Judge Dredd, your people asked me who I was with, how many people and guns we had. They never asked me why we were coming to your town. Sure, some of us came for your supplies and weapons, but that’s because we know we’re going to need them. That big dust-cloud out there, to the south-west? That’s where the groups have been assembling.”

  “The boy is right,” the old man said. “I’m not much of a one for numbers, but there’s a lot of people out there now, and more coming every minute. Anyone who can’t find shelter elsewhere. They’re preparing to head this way all in one swarm.”

  Montag asked, “How many? Roughly.”

  Abraham Stinnett shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not good with numbers... Couple of thousand, maybe more.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Montag said. “If they know the storm will hit here in Ezekiel, why not run the other way?”

  Looking at Abraham, Dredd said, “Because it’s not the town they’re after, is it? The town won’t survive the storm. They want to shelter in the mine.”

  Twelve

  O’DONNELL LED THE young woman—still on her horse—to the Brazen Hussy.

  As she swung down from the horse, she spoke for the first time. “We have to get to shelter.”

  “I know, but there’s time.” He patted the horse’s rump. “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t speak horse.”

  “Right... But you could have named her yourself. Daisy, or something.” He smiled at the young woman. She was twenty-one, maybe. He thought she was pretty, in a dishevelled and dusty sort of way. Not classically beautiful, but then he wasn’t exactly a holo-vid-star himself. “Novena, right? That’s a religious thing, isn’t it?”

  “Prayers for the intervention of a saint.”

  “Well, we could use some of that around here right now.” He tied the horse’s reins to the arm of a wooden bench outside the tavern and said, “Come in. We’ll get you something to eat and drink.”

  Novena hesitated at the doorway, and O’Donnell looked back. “Pa always said never to go into a bar with a stranger.”

  He extended his hand, and shook hers. “Brian O’Donnell. Some folks here call me Red, because of my hair. Not the most imaginative nickname. I’m the deputy sheriff. There. Now we’re not strangers.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Come in.”

  From across the street, Ishmael Stinnett called, “Don’t you set one foot in that... that... cathedral of debauchery, missy! You mind what I say! Your father is my brother and that makes you kin, even if he has been felt-up by the Devil’s wandering hands and liked it! You hear me?”

  “Ignore him,” O’Donnell said.

  Novena glanced back at her uncle, then followed O’Donnell into the bar. All of the furniture had been roped together into one enormous pile. Boards had been nailed across the windows, and the shelves behind the bar were empty.

  “At least someone is taking the warnings seriously,” O’Donnell said. He crossed the room and went behind the bar, then pounded on the cellar trapdoor with his boot. “Open up! It’s me, O’Donnell!”

  A muffled voice came from below. “What do you want?”

  “You hoarding supplies down there, Maddox?”

  “They’re my supplies!”

  “I know that. Just pass me up some food and a couple of bottles of water, huh?”

  A few seconds later, the trapdoor opened and the tattooed barman peered out. “Here. I’ll put them on your tab.”

  O’Donnell took the packages and passed them to Novena, then said, “I wouldn’t bother. When the storm hits and crushes your bar into sawdust, and you die because you didn’t evacuate like I told you, it won’t make any difference how much I owe you.”

  “Them Judges still pushing your buttons, huh? It’s not going to be that bad, Red. Any time there’s a storm brewing, there’s always some fear-mongering doom-sayer who predicts it’ll be the worst ever. They’re always wrong.”

  Novena said, “Not this time. In two hours this whole town will be gone.”

  “I reckon she’s right,” O’Donnell said. “Seriously, Maddox... You need to clear out. We’re heading for the mines. That’s the only chance we have of riding out the storm. That’s if the Earthers don’t get us first. So get to the mine, and bring all the supplies you can carry because we don’t know how long we’ll be trapped in there.”

  “Not gonna happen, Red. I’m happy where I am.”

  “Then I hate that you’re making me do this...” O’Donnell drew his gun and aimed it at the barman’s head. “You can stay here if you like, but I’m taking your supplies.”

  Maddox stared up into the barrel of the gun. “Thought you were my friend.”

  “I am. But food and water are no good to a dead man. So what’s it to be?”

  IN THE CHIEF Judge’s office at the top of Mega-City One’s Hall of Justice, Goodman stepped back from his monitors and slowly shook his head. The screens showed a real-time satellite feed centred on the town of Ezekiel. To the east of the town, the rad-storm was beginning to grow. Already, the hyper-charged storm was blocking out all radio communications with the town.

  But that one was a wet slap compared to the body-blow that was coming: eight separate storms had been brewing for weeks, slowly drifting north and east, from the Slough of St Louis in the west and the Alabama Morass to the south.

  Little more than zephyrs at first, the storms had grown steadily larger and stronger. The Justice Department’s weather-control computers had predicted they would all converge just south of Lake Erie.

  Instinctively, Goodman turned toward the window, but there was nothing to see from this distance. Most of Mega-City One would be safe. Perhaps a few of the sectors close to the western wall would suffer a little damage, but nothing that couldn’t be easily fixed. The city’s weather-control technology was the best in the world. It could trigger localise
d rainfall to an accuracy of twenty-three metres—handy for dampening the spirits of protest marches—or give specific temperatures to individual sectors. Wind-speed, humidity and cloud-cover were all easily adjusted as required.

  But the satellites only covered the city itself, not the Cursed Earth. Out there, the weather was unpredictable.

  Goodman had occasionally wondered if maybe controlling the weather in Mega-City One only made things worse elsewhere.

  He contacted Judge Robertson of Weather Division again. “Give me some good news, Robertson.”

  The older man’s voice came back, “I’m sorry, Chief Judge. We just don’t have the time.”

  “You only need to adjust one satellite, for Grud’s sake! How long does it take to reprogram it?”

  “Sir, it’s not that simple. Right now there are thirty-four active weather control satellites covering the city. They—”

  “And I’m just telling you to reassign one. The one closest to Ezekiel.”

  “If we adjust that one, sir, then that leaves a gap over Sectors 195 to 201. We’d be exposing close to thirty million people to the storms. We’re not just talking about rain, wind and lightning. The storms carry irradiated dust. That gets into the city’s water supplies, and we’re looking at a major catastrophe. The only way to do it is to spread out all the satellites to continue to provide even coverage, and that’ll take the best part of a day.”

  “Robertson, I know something about satellite control. You don’t have to move them, just reassign their targets. That should only take a couple of minutes.”

  “That’s true, but unless you want a simple change like an adjustment to the humidity levels, it takes hours for each satellite’s effects to be felt. To change the weather in a specific location we have to generate precisely-targeted bubbles of adjusted gravity, each one lasting only a few milliseconds. But we’d need to create hundreds of thousands of bubbles to have any noticeable effect on even a standard rainstorm, and every change has to be monitored carefully.”