Outrider

by Steven John

  “I don’t really drink, usually.”

  “No? You don’t drink? Well, you should come watch me then. I have some wine you could watch me drink.”

  “I really have to get home.”

  “For what?”

  She opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Aha!” Hale laughed much too loudly. “You’re putting me on, Maria! Come on. Come with me. I’ll show you The Mayor’s office.” He took a lunging step toward her and reached for her arm. Maria shrank back instinctively and Hale almost fell to the ground, his knees buckling as he grasped at the air where her shoulder had been.

  “Mr. Hale—Tim. This is very inappropriate.”

  “So formal . . .” he muttered, dragging out the ‘or’ syllable.

  “OK. You’re making a fucking idiot of yourself. How’s that?”

  Hale took a few uneasy steps back to the doorframe and leaned against it, his head hanging like a scolded child. When he looked up, the drunken haze had cleared from his eyes. “Jesus. You’re right. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry, Maria . . . this is fucking pathetic.”

  Maria sighed, letting out a bit of tension. She dropped her cigarette, even though it was not even halfway smoked, and came over to stand beside the secretary.

  “What were you doing here, anyway?”

  “Waiting for you,” he said matter-of-factly. “I like you and I’m a coward so I got drunk and came to talk to you. And now I’ve blown it all. So if you’ll forgive and excuse me, I’m gonna go home and finish off the bottle.” Hale pushed himself away from the wall and began to shuffle off, his shoulders stooped, swaying beneath the artificial glow of the streets. Above the city lights the sky was darkening.

  Maria shook her head, watching Timothy stumble and nearly fall twice in less than thirty feet. She took in a breath, hesitated, and then called aloud: “Are you OK, Tim? To get home, I mean?”

  “Sure. Great.” He waved without looking back. An elderly woman clutched her handbag more closely as Hale lurched toward her, then regained his footing.

  “Well, I tried. Whatever.” Maria turned on her heels and began to march quickly in the other direction. She had already missed the local 5:10 pod and would need to hurry to catch the cross-town line a few blocks south. Two things occurred to her as she reflected back on the awkward encounter. One was that, despite his dismal condition, Hale had looked rather handsome dressed in a fitted t-shirt and casual pants. Second was that, while she couldn’t be sure, it looked as though he had recently been crying.

  Dusk was just taking hold of the desert when Scofield broke the near hour long silence. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Hm? Oh, shit. Right.” Kretch was casually rolling a cigarette. He had forgotten that he told Scofield he was out of shake leaf. “Found me a bit of tobacco after all. Inside pocket, y’know.”

  Kretch had not looked up while talking, the rolling process requiring his full attention while on a moving horse and in twilight, no less. Finally happy with the cigarette, Wilton licked it shut and placed one tip in his mouth. His eyes rose at last to Scofield, a guilty grin on his lips. But his partner’s eyes were staring straight ahead, intensely focused. Kretch followed his gaze down the line of QV pillars. His sharp vision immediately isolated the object of Scofield’s concern.

  About a hundred yards ahead of the men, a massive structure had been built around the base of a pillar. It was the size of a small building. Though it was hard to distinguish much detail in the gloaming, they could see various facets and components jutting from every angle of the object. Both riders reined their horses to a halt without a word. Kretch sat forward in his saddle, eyes squinting to take in as much visual information as possible. Scofield meanwhile let his gaze drift among the arrays and out over the desert, watching for any movement. Then he shut his eyes and listened to the night, silent but for the breath of two men and two horses.

  Scofield opened his eyes. “Move slow or charge on in?”

  “Gut says slow.”

  “Mine too. Let’s leave the mounts here.”

  Kretch nodded and the outriders kicked free of their stirrups and slid to the ground in unison. Kretch grabbed a length of rope from Shady’s saddle and passed one end through the bridle of each horse.

  “I’ll tie ’em off,” Scofield whispered, taking the rope in his hands. “You keep watch, you got better eyes.”

  The horses secured, the pair set off toward the strange construction, each with rifle loaded and at the ready. It was almost true night by now, the western horizon minutes from relinquishing a final swath of light. Scofield waved Kretch over to him as they reached the last pillar between them and the structure.

  “If anyone’s been lookin’ out they probably got a bead on us already.”

  “Woulda heard the horses if they was payin’ attention.”

  Scofield nodded slowly, removing his hat to peer around the pillar exposing as slight a profile as possible. “Maybe we’re being felt out. But good chance there ain’t a soul for miles, too.” He leaned back beside Wilton. “When was the last time you passed this stretch of field?”

  “Rode through about noon, I guess. Maybe one.” Kretch craned his neck from side to side, vertebrae popping loudly in the silent evening air. Without being asked, he added, “and no, that thing wasn’t there.”

  Scofield slung the rifle over his shoulder and drew his pistol, easing the hammer back to full cock. The air was cold enough to see his breath for a fleeting second as it left his body. “Let’s split up. You stay put for a count of two minutes, OK? I’m gonna head into the field a bit then jog east. When I’ve counted a minute fifty, I’ll make for that thing at a full run.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll stay put and cover.”

  “Nah, move in at two. It’s a good hundred yards—I need you tighter if we got company.”

  “Fine by me. I’ll move in two.”

  Scofield nodded and set out east by southeast. He moved as fast as he could without his boots crunching loudly on the sand. Counting the seconds in his head as he moved deeper into the sunfield, the outrider kept his eyes trained on the massive object around the QV pillar. He came parallel with the structure and turned north, slowing to a measured walk as he counted the seconds.

  When by his reckoning just about a minute and fifty seconds had passed, Scofield broke into a run. He kept his pistol in front of him, gripped between both hands, and swept back and forth across the sand with the gun barrel and his eyes. Thirty yards out and nothing. Ten yards and closing at a sprint; still nothing.

  Scofield was only feet from the pillar; the intricate wiring and gears on the huge object had just become visible in the starlight when the first shot rang out. Scofield dove to the sand and rolled over his left shoulder, coming up on one knee with his pistol ready. He took long, deep breaths to keep his arms steady. His heart raced. No sound. No movement. A second report rang out—the bullet tore through the air so close to Scofield he felt its rippling wake. He wheeled to face west, the direction of the shooter, and rose, sprinting to the foreign structure and flattening his back against it.

  Scofield sucked in a deep breath and held it, keeping his body perfectly still. He listened for any sound; sniffed the faint breeze. Then he slowly removed his hat and eased along the structure. His vest caught on a protruding barb and the outrider swore breathlessly, trying to wriggle free. He popped clear of the snag with a loud rip, pain lancing through his shoulder blade then quickly forgotten. Closing his eyes and letting the air drift from his lungs, Scofield gripped his revolver tightly in his right hand. Then with his left he tossed the hat away from the pillar, leaping around it a second later. Nothing.

  Scofield quickly circled the whole of the fifteen by fifteen foot object. There was not a soul to be found. As he began to relax his grip on the pistol, something occurred to him. His face grew hot, flushed; he stopped dead in his tracks. “Wilton!” He bellowed. “Is that you shooting goddammit!”

  Silence.


  “There’s no one here, Kretch!” Scofield waited a beat before realizing that he may have made a fatal error. The images came in a rush: he pictured Kretch dead on the sand, a bullet in him, and a barrel trained this way; a finger tensing on the trigger. Just as Scofield spun to confront his imagined adversary, Wilton’s voice finally called back.

  “Scofe?”

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, then shouting: “Yeah, Wilton! It’s just me.” He strained to see through the gloom and let out an exasperated sigh upon realizing that Kretch had been hiding behind the same QV pillar the whole time. Only now did Wilton step clear of his hideout and approach, the rifle held down by his waist but still trained.

  “Check your fire, Wil! What the fuck were you shooting at?”

  “Just givin’ you cover, bud.”

  “Cover! I heard the second goddamn shot whistle past my head, Kretch!” Scofield hissed as Wilton reached him.

  “Thought I saw something heading toward you.”

  “You got keen eyes, Wil. You were blind firing.”

  “Hell if I was.” Kretch spat back, his voice icy. In the pale starlight, Scofield could see Wilton glaring at him, his eyes unblinking. Several thoughts flitted through of Scofield’s head, none fully realized and together forming more of a gut feeling than a reading of the situation. Never broke cover . . . pretty accurate for shooting wild . . . but he’d finish it now if he’d meant . . .

  Scofield let the notion drop, allowing himself to believe that Kretch had indeed been cowering and fired without looking. He also decided to curb any further derision of his partner’s lack of assistance.

  “You got a torch?”

  “Got a few back on Shady.”

  “Well, let’s take a look at this sumbitch.”

  Kretch nodded, slinging his rifle as he turned to walk back toward the horses. Scofield holstered his pistol then searched about until he found his black hat. He beat the dust from it on a thigh, then set the hat back on his head. His hair was matted and sweaty despite the chill air. Only then, finally calm, did the outrider realize he had cut himself when snared on the structure. He put a hand to where his clothes were torn and felt warm blood on his fingertips. Nothing bad—just a scratch and some ripped cotton. He found his pack of cigarettes crushed but the few smokes in it were intact, if slightly battered. Scofield lit one and took a long, deep drag.

  Finally he turned to face the QV pillar and its strange accessory. While he couldn’t see much in the dark, it was clearly a complex construction, to say the least: easily ten feet high and studded with countless parts. From over his shoulder came the sound of the horses’ hooves and Kretch quietly admonishing them to behave. Reese had never liked Wilton and whinnied when she caught sight of her rider.

  “Hey girl,” Scofield crooned as Kretch and the horses drew alongside him. He ran a hand along his mare’s flank, then slid the lead rope from her bridle and tossed it to Wilton.

  “What do you make of it?” Kretch asked, winding the rope around his forearm.

  “Can’t see much. I never seen anything like it, though—tell you that much right now.”

  “Here,” Kretch said, handing a torch to Scofield before securing the coiled rope over his saddle horn.

  Scofield peeled back a few inches of the thick paper wrapped around the magnesium stick, then flicked his lighter to life and held it to one tip of the torch. After a few seconds the magnesium caught, sparkling to life with a brilliant blue-white rush. Both men quickly averted their eyes, making sure to not stare directly at the searing flame.

  By the light of the torch a swath of desert lurched out of the darkness. Scofield stepped forward.

  “What the hell is this thing?” Kretch whispered, his tone near reverence.

  The massive apparatus was made almost entirely of cables, piping, and tubes. Serpentine copper coils wrapped around thick bundles of wiring in a series of switchbacks all along the ten foot tall structure. Beneath this outer layer were more intricately threaded filaments strung from little knobs on the copper casing and branching out to five steel discs that encircled the QV pillar. On the central disc, glass spheres shaped like oversized light bulbs perched atop aluminum dowels. These spheres were evenly spaced two feet apart from one another.

  Holding the torch above his head, Scofield began to walk around the machine. Three sides of it were identical; the fourth, the side against which he’d taken cover, was a sheet of solid iron. The metal wall was studded with protrusions: a dozen steel caps were screwed onto copper posts and two rows of metal brackets ran parallel to each other, one by the outrider’s knee and the other at shoulder height. Scofield held the flaming torch near one of these brackets to get a better look. A thick L-shaped bar of iron stuck out above a square recess cut into the metal plate.

  “C’mere Wil.”

  Kretch had been holding his lighter near one of the spheres to study it. The glass was thick and lightly yellowed as if with age, its surface riddled with imperfections. “Yeah. One sec,” he called back. Wilton snapped his lighter shut and returned it to a jacket pocket, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a thumb and finger. His mind was reeling and he tasted bile at the back of his throat.

  “These look like couplings. See here?” Scofield said, pointing to the brackets once Kretch had joined him.

  “Yeah. Looks like it. Big fuckin’ thing to move, huh?”

  “Mm.” Scofield grunted. “Explains why you didn’t see it earlier today though.”

  “It don’t explain how’n the hell someone got this thing here. Or who.”

  “Yeah. No. Doesn’t explain that. You think it’s anything legit? Official? Maybe some kind of test or measuring device or something?”

  “Nah.” Kretch shook his head, squinting against the bright blue-white flame of the magnesium torch. “Come look at these glass things.”

  The two walked back around the structure and Kretch bid Scofield inspect one of the spheres.

  “Pretty shitty craftsmanship, hm?” Wilton said.

  “And every one is fucked up in a different way,” Scofield added, nodding in agreement as he moved along a side of the machine. When he got back to the iron wall, he noticed several threads torn from his vest hanging off one of the brackets. He gingerly removed the fabric, rolling it back and forth between his fingers. Then his eyes drifted past the scrap of cloth and he let it fall, fixated on one of the metal caps. He reached out and took hold of the disc. At first it wouldn’t budge. After a considerable effort it began to twist, and with a grating whine, Scofield slowly unscrewed the cap. Beneath it were six plugs; receptors for the standardized four pronged cords used in everyday life. And surely designed to fit the strange cable he’d found days earlier and miles away. Scofield silently berated himself for disregarding the buried cord when he’d found it: You know better’n that goddammit! Sloppy, man! Sloppy. He shook his head. His thoughts raced, struggling to make some connection. Nothing added up, and he decided not to mention the other cord for now.

  The outriders spent a few more minutes inspecting the peculiar device, then Scofield buried the torch in the sand to preserve what was left of it. He stood still for a while to let his eyes readjust to the darkness, then walked over to Kretch and the horses. Wilton was rolling a cigarette, swearing under his breath as he spilled tobacco in the dark. Finally getting the smoke into some semblance of a tube, he lit it and looked up at his partner. His eyes reflected the orange glow of the ember as he breathed in slowly. Then he exhaled through his nose and his face was hidden behind a swirl of smoke.

  “This is bad, ain’t it?”

  “Safe bet,” Scofield whispered.

  “We ought to head back. Report in.”

  “I think we need to wait for morning.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “That thing didn’t walk here on its own. And those couplings or brackets or whatever—that thing was moved here by a . . . I don’t know. Wasn’t man power or horses, though. Not something that big. Had to be a
machine.”

  “How the fuck would that work out here, Scofe?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But we should wait for the light and look for tracks. Maybe see if there’s a trail to follow.”

  Kretch put the cigarette back in his mouth, gripping its soggy end between his teeth. He slid his hands into his jacket pockets, making fists to ward off the cold. Again his eyes shone above the smoldering cigarette tip.

  “Good thinking.” He spit the butt out and stamped on it. “But we should bunk down a fair distance off. Someone might be coming back.”

  9

  “Frank, it’s me. It’s Hale. Mr. Mayor. My phone was dead all day . . . my phone was in the office—I left it in the office. Or at home . . . just say it was at home . . .” Hale wandered around the room aimlessly, now and then bumping into a sofa or shelf or table. He tripped over a plush carpet spread across the middle of Dreg’s outer chamber and stumbled against the wall, knocking a painting askew.

  Timothy straightened up and took a slow step backward, staring intently at the work of art. If he closed one eye, he could see it clearly: an oil wrought in thick, decisive jabs. The painter had used his palette knife for the whole piece—there was not a brushstroke to be found. Up close, the canvas was just a patchwork of color. Swaths of grays here, tan and beige near the center, and auburn mixed with deeper browns below. But from a distance of two feet one began to perceive a ship. Here was the prow, there the rigging and sails, below and all around the roiling sea.

  At five paces the tableau was complete: a tri-masted ship-of-the-line cresting a giant wave. The sky and sea were rendered in a matching slate color, the only differentiation being a flat stillness in the air and a rough, thickly applied chop to the waters. A small patch of pale yellow in the top right corner of the painting suggested sunshine. It was unclear whether the ship was heading into the storm or had just weathered it. In the bottom left corner, the artist had signed the work in small, precise black lettering: “Marion–’21.”

  Hale took another step back and leaned against one of the couches set in the middle of the room. He didn’t know to which century this “21” referred. Doesn’t matter, he thought, closing his eyes. Or does it? Dead and gone. No matter. His glass of bourbon and ice had formed a thick ring of condensation on the mahogany table perched between the sofas. Hale craned his neck around, both hands gripping the back of the couch, and looked longingly at the liquor. But it was nearing midnight and if he didn’t make the call to Dreg soon he would be derelict in his duty, having avoided The Mayor all day. He had left his mobile phone at home that morning—an intentional and absolute first—and upon returning to his apartment an hour ago found no fewer than seventeen missed calls from Dreg, not to mention several from Strayer and a few from unimportant city employees. Hale erased all of his messages unheard.