Outrider

by Steven John

  Hale nodded slowly, intertwining his fingers and resting the nails of both thumbs against his lips. “Somewhere in the salt caverns or else in the field.”

  “What’s your gut, Tim?”

  “My gut says it’s in the field. We’ve been dipping into the reserves every night so it seems to me that the standard stores are under-heated.”

  Dreg rose and began pacing, his slacks swishing noisily as each thick leg rubbed against the other. His expression was dark; brows furrowed. The two men were silent for more than a minute, Hale lost in reverie while Dreg grew angrier by the second. When The Mayor next spoke it was in a loud bark. Hale jumped a bit and was relieved Dreg’s back was to him.

  “And not one of the damn engineers or the computers or the fucking line jockeys caught this until now! How many millions of my dollars were wasted? Goddamn them all!” Both of Dreg’s hands curled into large, meaty fists and he trembled with rage. His wormy lips curled into a sneer, spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth. As it usually did, the fit passed quickly and The Mayor took in a long, slow breath.

  “What would I do without you, Mr. Hale?”

  The secretary shrugged and forced a smile, then looked away. “Worry less, I sometimes think. It seems I’m always the one to stumble onto the bad news.”

  “Stumble? Hell! You’re a keen son of a bitch. You’re my tiger out there prowling! You’re my boots on the ground. My man! Without you I’d have to wipe every ass in this city, no less worry about the power and all the rest of it.”

  Hale mumbled, “Well, thank you, sir,” but was internally insulted by his boss’s words. His tiger? His boots? His man? He, for all intents and purposes, was the executor of the whole of New Las Vegas! Dreg merely waltzed into the office when he felt like doing so and shuffled documents around for a few hours. It was Hale who found the problems; Hale who fixed them. And this, the secretary general was sure, would be no exception. He made up his mind to put The Mayor at ease then deal with the issue on his own time, in his own way.

  “Listen, Frank—I’ve got this. The worst case scenario is that we have a few pillars down or one of the main transmission beacons failed. You have a speech to give at the Chamber of Commerce this afternoon, gotta make them feel like we listened to their proposal for decentralizing some of the programs we . . .” Hale trailed off as Dreg smiled and pumped his fist above his crotch. He started up again, saying: “Fine, I’ll handle drafting that speech, but you need to prepare to head to Boston in the morning.”

  “Boston! Christ, that’s right! When do I leave?”

  “In the morning,” Hale said flatly, quickly adding: “Tomorrow, sir, at eleven.”

  “Tomorrow! That’s right. . . . Right, Tuesday . . . .” Already Dreg was focused on other affairs. The gravity of the power loss situation at hand had totally escaped the portly man as he turned to a mirror and brushed one of his eyebrows into shape. Hale sighed. Had damage to the system been the culprit of so massive a loss of electricity, it would surely have been reported by now, regardless of the standard IQ of the minimum wage workers who tended to the city’s infrastructure. If it was a problem in any individual grid he’d have heard about it long before his three dozen outgoing phone calls that morning.

  Thus the problem had to be in the fields. And that was the worst kind of problem to have: on this scale it meant a disastrous equipment failure, an act of sabotage, or worse. Timothy Hale didn’t allow that last possibility to fully take root in his mind. He rose and followed Mayor Dreg to the inner office, resolved to deal with the more mundane affairs of the day before returning to the mess at hand in private.

  The old woman tossed and turned on her threadbare cot. The thin mattress scratched at her papery skin through gaping holes in the worn cotton sheets. The pains had just begun in her fingertips and toes and she knew a searing headache was not far off. In vain she tried to fall back to sleep. Late afternoon sun streamed through the solitary window of her one room home, painting the insides of her eyelids red. Coughing, she curled into fetal position, her head with its straggly white hair hanging over the side of the metal bed frame.

  Extra blood coursed into her head but it was no use—the pulsing pain was already beginning as her brain thirsted for hydration. Relenting, she cursed and began the laborious process of getting out of bed. Every joint creaked in protest; every muscle groaned with reproach. It took the septuagenarian more than a full minute to go from curled to extended to shakily sitting up with her feet on the cold linoleum. Finally she stood, one hand pressed against the cracked plaster wall, the other reaching towards the bag of diluted saline mixture suspended from a wheeled stand.

  Her hand trembling, the old woman slid the case off easily the three thousandth needle of her life and affixed its backside to the tube hanging from the saline bag. She slid the needle’s tip into the permanent port just below her left elbow and turned a small valve on the IV tree. It would be approximately three minutes before she felt any relief from her chronic dehydration, and while motion—any motion, even a slow, pathetic shuffling walk back and forth around the tiny room—would speed this relief, the old woman couldn’t muster the effort, and she sat back down on the cot to wait.

  The only other furnishings in her little cell were a large armoire, a wooden chair, a dirty sink, and a mirror she tried to avoid. The commode and shower were in a separate room, barely large enough to turn around in. Her home was a half hour’s commute from the buildings of Government Center which she cleaned daily, and a whole world apart from the life she envisioned living.

  After a while, the throbbing in her fingers subsided and the ancient janitor began to fidget with the knot holding up her dark blue trousers. When the pain left her feet, she rose again and stepped in front of the mirror. Tired, broken eyes stared back at a woman who had once been pretty—almost striking—and vigorous. She sighed as she took note of every liver spot, every wrinkle . . . her gnarled hands . . . the sallow skin. The old woman’s interior matched her exterior to a tee: her arteries were lined with plaque, her stomach was an ulcerous mess, and her kidneys had shrunk into knotted lumps, thus the IV and the drainage bag she would need within the half hour. Her eyes drifted away from the mirror and she let out a very long sigh.

  4

  Scofield took a long pull of cool water from his canteen. He refilled it up to the brim from the spigot on the side of his hut, and then screwed the cap tight and set the canteen down beside the two water sacks. Reese’s feed bags were full. He’d oiled the saddle and bridle and stirrups and even all the straps for good measure; he’d be out for over three weeks this time. While satellite outposts were never more than an hour’s ride from any point in the sunfield, Scofield preferred to spend some time preparing alone at his home before each assignment to help minimize visits to posts; minimize contact with others.

  He’d be meeting Kretch in six days to patrol the farthest perimeters and he figured he could haul enough chow and water to remain entirely alone until they linked up. The outrider had only been in town—as much as one could fairly call the place that—for four days, but already he felt stifled by society, worn down by it. He’d gone to the saloon the first two nights of his time off. The first night he’d spent nursing a warm beer and turning a cold shoulder. Scofield had merely wanted a couple hot meals prepared by someone else, and during the first evening he’d been left blissfully alone. The second night had been different.

  That second night there were whores out in force, and his total indifference to their overtures had only made him more of a target. During the hour he’d spent hunched over a corner of the bar no fewer than four women had approached him. Their solicitations always began saccharine sweet, soon turned to direct appeals for guiltless sex, and ended with a mix of mockery and confusion. It was strange, Scofield thought, as he shook the sand from his wool socks before sliding on his boots, that a hooker could be so affected by rejection. Take any good, chaste woman and all she wanted was to be either left alone or approached with
the most patient, delicate courtship. But with these whores here in the post, anything less than an immediate fuck or a drunken slap was seen as some sort of breach in etiquette.

  Scofield wasn’t sure what was worse: the confused contempt of the women or the silent eyes of the other outriders. Scofield was well respected by those who knew him, mildly disdained by those who didn’t, and something of a mystery to both. The respect and mystery were both well founded: he was damn good at his work, he hardly ever talked, and he certainly never opened up when he did. The disdain was borne of misunderstanding—others perceived the man as constantly judging them, whereas in reality he just didn’t give a good goddamn about most people. It was neither like nor dislike, he just didn’t care to know. Scofield had spent his second evening “in the light” drinking much more than suited him just to pass the time as he waited for and then ate a hot meal.

  And then there had been last night. Scofield had awoken the day before with a hangover owing to far too much bourbon at the bar followed by a good deal more back in his hut. He had spent the morning wallowing atop his disheveled sheets, disgusted with himself at wasting so many hours, but not so disgusted as to rise and face his headache full on first thing.

  By early afternoon he had been back to right, and he spent time straightening up his already tidy shack. He refolded his few articles of clothing, wiped down the diminutive bathroom, and generally killed time with pointless pursuits—well aware of that fact—waiting for the night to come and a few hours of sleep to bring around the time for him to ride back into the field.

  It had been around eight o’clock in the evening when the knocking rattled the door. Scofield was not actually alarmed, only mildly confused, but he grabbed his pistol and tucked it into the back of his pants before opening the door without bothering to ask who was entreating.

  In the weak glow cast from within the shack, Scofield was met with the stern face of Tripp Hernandez. Beyond Tripp, he could see Eric Bay, ever squinting regardless of the light and, behind him in the shadows, a large man, who from the square shape of his head and the width of his shoulders, had to be Noah Fischer.

  “Evening, Scofy,” Tripp said quietly.

  “What’s this, Hernandez? Some kinda hangin’ mob?”

  “Much worse.” Tripp Hernandez looked back over his shoulder and nodded to Eric Bay, who stepped forward. “It’s a drinkin’ mob.”

  Hernandez turned back to Scofield and smiled widely, taking the bottle Bay had just handed him and extending it to Scofield, who leaned against the doorframe with a sigh. Tripp’s face broke into a wide, lopsided grin. His big teeth were yellow but even behind his light brown skin.

  “And you’re coming with us.”

  “Gotta ride early tomorrow, boys.”

  “Tripp thought you’d say that,” the big fellow said, stepping into the light and, sure enough, revealing himself as Noah Fischer. Fischer tried to keep his face hard as he continued. “That’s why they brought me. I figure a bastard my size can convince a man to take a drink or two. Or ten.”

  Scofield shook his head ruefully, smiling despite himself as he straightened up again. “I guess there ain’t gonna be any chasing off of you assholes, huh?”

  “Not until we’re good n’ drunk and you are too. Mr. Matteson told us you was out at his bar last night and us three boys decided if you was good enough to drink alone, you were good enough to drink with us.” Hernandez was still holding the whiskey bottle out to Scofield, who finally grabbed it and pulled the cork out. He took a decent swallow, then turned and stepped back into his hut.

  “Come on in then, dammit.”

  “Ain’t hardly enough room in there for you, Scof. We’ll never fit with ol’ Dumptruck Fischer here!” Eric Bay said with a laugh. “Come on. There’s gonna be a fire lit up over near my brother’s n’ my places.”

  Eric Bay had a half-brother named Joseph who was ten years older and every bit as taciturn and silent as Eric was not. The Bay Boys were an odd pair—they were nothing alike in any way and yet had never once been known to have an argument or even a mild disagreement. Rather they seemed to have the same take on everything, from what constituted a moral imperative to what whiskey went down the quickest served neat to which rifle performed best with sand in the breech. The Bay Brothers were constant companions.

  The light caught the polished silver cross Eric Bay wore around his neck as Scofield turned around to look out at the boys again (Joe Bay wore an identical cross at all times, a point Scofield noted for the hundredth time).

  “Christ,” Scofield said, perhaps cued by the necklace, “can’t a man forced to drink at least do it in his own home?”

  Hernandez looked over his shoulder at Bay and then at Fischer, sighing as he caught the second man’s eye, and then he turned back to Scofield. Before Tripp Hernandez could speak, Noah Fisher jumped in, rumbling:

  “Just get your boots on, you whiny bastard. We’re gonna drink, boy!”

  Less than ten minutes later, the group spotted the camp fire Joseph Bay had kindled between the two huts he and his brother called home. They were by far the closest two shacks of any outrider dwelling, separated by a mere forty feet. The fire circle between them saw use most every night the brothers were not out riding the field. The Bay brothers had sat with crackling flames between them time and time again, discussing the mother they shared, or the fathers they didn’t, the leeches they’d dealt with together over the years, women, and all the other disasters.

  Joe Bay rose as his comrades drew near. He stood, backlit by the fire, with his hands on his hips and his hatless head cast back. His eyes were on the stars. Joe looked down as the men reached him.

  “How do, gentlemen? Looks like you managed to wrangle him OK.”

  “How deep does this conspiracy go?” Scofield asked, smiling as he looked askance at Tripp Hernandez. He had taken several large swigs of liquor on the short walk over—his hangover from the morning already an ancient memory—and was feeling more affection for the other outriders than he had in months.

  “Deep enough to lead back to the Bay Brother who keeps a case of bourbon in his footlocker, I’ll tell ya that much!” Noah Fischer clapped Joseph on the shoulder as he walked past him, easing his hefty carriage down onto one of the wooden crates beside the soot-blackened circle of stones Eric Bay had set two years prior.

  “Y’know, your little brother and these boys are some real keen negotiators,” Scofield said as he handed Joseph the bottle and dug in his jacket for a pack of cigarettes.

  “Oh yeah? What’d they say?” Joe turned and made a loose gesture toward another of the crates that doubled as seats, shivering in the cold night air.

  “Uh, what was it . . . oh, right. Drink!”

  All five men shared a laugh as they settled themselves on their makeshift seats. Joseph had laid the fire in stages, starting with a loose pile of twigs and paper shreds beneath stacked lengths of slender branches on which was piled a jumble of boards and thicker logs. This top layer was just now catching and the fire’s warmth and glow grew quickly.

  In the bright light, Scofield looked around at his friends. Hernandez had pulled off his wide brimmed hat and repeatedly ran his hands through his shaggy mop of black hair, a habit of his. Noah Fisher had a faint smile on his large face and his eyes were fixed on the flames. Scofield could barely see the younger Bay brother across the fire, but Eric was nodding as Joseph said something to him.

  It’s good not to be such a damn hermit all the time, Scofield thought to himself. He realized he had nodded and grunted in the affirmative to his own thought and, embarrassed that one of the men might have heard him, he voiced his thinking.

  “I’m glad you boys drug me out. Good to spend some time not, uh . . . not sitting around alone thinking so much.”

  “What’d’ya spend yer time thinkin’ about?” Tripp asked, reaching out for the whiskey bottle.

  Scofield handed over the whiskey, then hesitated before saying “Well what do you think, Tripp?
I think about your Mexican ass all day.”

  Fischer let out a howling laugh. “We ought to get you some tequila, actually, and you hand me that bottle of bourbon! Ain’t that right Trippy?”

  “Hey, my ass is Mexican-American-French, OK? I can drink whiskey, tequila, and wine, if I want.”

  “French? Fuckin’ French!” Eric exclaimed.

  “One eighth is one eighth, Mr. Bay.”

  “All I see is the Mexican,” Noah added, still laughing. “Speaking of whiskey, how we doin’ on that front, Joe?”

  Joseph Bay rose without a word, tipping his cap and turning to walk toward his shack. No one noticed him sway and almost stumble. The bottle made the rounds and each man had a small swallow before it was gone. Eric unsuccessfully tried to light a cigarette off the fire several times. He kept singing the hairs of his hand and having to pull back when the searing heat grew too intense.

  “Y’know we all got matches and lighters, young buck,” Scofield said.

  “Yeah, but it’s better this way if you can do it. More caveman.”

  “Everything caveman is better, sure. That’s why we moved outta caves and started cookin’ things, and wearing clothes, and having medicine, right?” Hernandez asked sarcastically.

  “Sir, what works, works,” Bay responded with mocking severity. He jerked his hand back from the fire for a fifth time. “Gimme some fuckin’ matches!”

  Fischer handed Eric a lighter as the elder Bay brother rejoined the group. Joe Bay sat and placed a full bottle of bourbon on the sand between him and Noah as he took a seat. Scofield leaned to one side to take a look at Joe—he had seen him listing as he walked back to the fire.

  “How you doin’, Joe B?”

  “Doin’ . . . real drunk. Doing fine.”

  The two men were about the same age and had been riding the sunfield for about the same length of time, but it bothered Scofield to realize just how little he really knew his brother-at-arms. He studied Bay’s face for a few seconds more before resting his elbows on his knees and staring into the crackling fire. It was warm on his face and hands. He wondered if his own wrinkles looked so deep and black in the firelight; if his own eyes were so dark beneath their brows. He heard Fischer slurp at the whiskey bottle and then cough. Eric chuckled and reached out for it.