Outrider

by Steven John

  Hale thought he detected a smile speaking those words and found himself grinning. He leaned back in his chair and rested the heel of one shoe on his desk.

  “Yeah. Good point. Listen, I . . . can I make it up to you? I just . . . I’ve always meant to talk to you. To really talk—not about work and the grid and all. I want to know you. It’s stupid, I guess, but sometimes, you know you just meet someone and you feel like you should . . . Jesus, I don’t know. Do you get what I’m saying some or am I rambling like an idiot?”

  “You’re making more sense than the other night, at least.”

  “That’s saying a lot. Listen, can we meet up sometime?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. Maybe.”

  “That’s all I could ask for, given my recent grace and poise. Alright, I guess I’ll get to the point.” Timothy sighed, switching back into his professional demeanor. “The actual reason I called—though you certainly deserved the apology—was to ask if you’d noticed any steady rises in the afternoon usage. Most grids seem to be using power steadily” he lied, “but Three has been hit extra hard.” This last fact was true. It was as if half the electricity from Grid Three was disappearing daily.

  “Hmm . . . no, it’s been fine as far as my tracking, but this seems to be growing into a regular issue. Our lines and transmission beacons are due for inspection in a month, so why don’t I just send the team to check them out early?”

  “No!” Hale barked too loudly. Then, his voice measured, he added “No. Everything is fine. We’ve had some complications in the field but it’s just a logistical thing. Just some maintenance so we already have men out there.”

  “You’ve already sent teams out to inspect?”

  He paused, and then said “Yes” with resolution. “Any hardware problems and they’ll find them. I’m on top of it. All you need to do is relax and track the numbers and give me a chance to make it up to you.”

  “I’ll think about it, OK?”

  “Think. That’s all I ask.” Timothy hung up without another word. He tucked his hands behind his head and leaned back again, conflicted. When The Mayor spoke Hale sucked in a bit of saliva and coughed. He had no idea how long Dreg had been standing in the doorway.

  “Think about what?”

  Hale sputtered, clearing his throat and hacking. “Sorry, Frank.” He coughed again. “Down the wrong pipe. I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

  “Who were you talking to and what did you want them to think about?” Dreg took a few steps into the secretary general’s office. His pale blue shirt was open at the collar and hung down over his slacks, as if he had been caught in the midst of dressing. The Mayor often lounged behind his desk in this disheveled state, but rarely ventured farther than the door of his private office without his tie tied tight and his vest buttoned to the top.

  “Maria Rodrigues,” Hale replied evenly. “The lady from grid three.”

  “Right. Maria. What was the nature of the call?”

  “Sir?”

  “You said ‘I’m on top of it’ and ‘think.’ What was that regarding, Tim?” Dreg lowered himself slowly into one of the wooden chairs facing Hale’s desk.

  “Just that she should, um . . . not worry—”

  “She should what? What were you talking about, Mr. Hale?”

  “Mayor. Frank. If you doubt my integrity we can call back right now and prove that I was talking to her.”

  Dreg raised a hand, massive palm out, and bowed his head. “I don’t doubt your integrity. I doubt your motives.” The air hung thick between the two men. Dreg’s beady, black eyes locked onto Hale’s face. He felt his brow flush.

  “Was this a business call?” Dreg practically whispered. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up. His eyes grew brighter and the fleshy, crowfeet wrinkles deeper. “Or did you finally make a pass at the pretty thing?”

  “Well . . . I—I mean we talked . . .” the secretary exhaled, the tension in his neck releasing.

  “Talked! Ha! I bet she positively swooned, old boy!” Dreg rose and clapped Tim on the shoulder, walking behind Hale’s desk to look out the window. “What did you do? Offer a private tour of the executive office? A fine dinner? Was it wine or champagne?” The Mayor was chuckling, greatly amused with himself. He tucked his shirt in with forceful jabs, working the cotton between his trousers and paunch.

  Still looking out over the city, Dreg went on. “When the cat’s away, hm Hale? Come now, man. Tell me how it went?”

  “It will be a . . . long pursuit, shall we say.” He spun round in his chair to face The Mayor’s back. “But I’m a patient man.”

  “Yes you are, Mr. Hale.” Dreg seemed to stiffen. The warmth faded from his voice. “You are a very patient man indeed. I’ve always known that. The kind of man who waits for the right time. Well . . . I’m sure you’ll get her.”

  Hale rose quietly and backed away from his boss. When The Mayor turned, Timothy feigned interest in a document lying on the sideboard, then stood facing Dreg. After an awkward silence, Franklin looked down and buttoned his collar.

  “Such a gloomy day. Bitter out. Awful. But all my meters and tracking boards are running so perfectly smooth that I’m getting bored in that damn office.” Dreg made for the door to his suite, pausing with a hand on the knob. “I thought I’d go around to a few municipal stations. Make sure everything is OK in my town—I can’t rely on a bunch of monitors all the time, you know. Why don’t you stay here and hold down the fort, alright Tim?”

  “Sure. Of course, Frank.”

  “Atta boy.” Dreg pulled open the door and stepped out of the room. Before shutting it behind him, he added casually: “Oh, and Hale—I think Colonel Strayer is going to be calling on you sometime this afternoon. Some new protocol he wanted to discuss. He seemed unhappy about the um . . . what did he call it—communication channels, I believe. Maybe something you said or didn’t say or did or didn’t do.” With that, Mayor Dreg slammed the door. His feet fell heavily on the floor of his inner chamber.

  “The thing I just can’t figure,” Scofield shouted above the whipping wind and engine noise, “is how someone got something that big there in the first place. And how in the hell they moved it out in one night. Not a track, Hut. Nothing. If I’d been alone I’d think I dreamt it. So much steel and copper and all the wiring—it must have weighed over a ton, easy.”

  Boss Hutton shook his head, chewing on his bottom lip in thought. “Don’t make sense,” he replied.

  The boy was awake in the back seat. He had curled into fetal position and was staring at the sky, utterly despondent. Scofield had offered him water and food; the young man had not even glanced over. Hutton took a peek at the youth in the rearview mirror then looked over at Scofield.

  Scofield met Hutton’s gaze, his face grim. “Cold blood,” he said just loud enough to be heard.

  Hutton nodded. “We’ll talk.”

  “Also, put the northwest holding cell on the route. I got a real son of a bitch leech locked up in there. I’ll remind you later.”

  Hutton nodded. “Son of a bitch, huh?”

  “Tried to jump me twice. Strange guy. Seemed like all he wanted was me to shoot him. Just wanted to be dead. Sebastian’s the name if it matters.”

  “Not much. I’ll put him on the pickup route.”

  They were nearing the Outpost. The Boss slowed the jeep as they crossed the glowline. A few pedestrians wandered between the charge station and shop, but the little township was quiet. It had begun to drizzle intermittently. Scofield desperately wanted to ask Hutton about the siren and tell him more about the contraption and the shooting and all of it, but they had to drop the boy off first.

  It tore Scofield up inside to stick the freshly orphaned kid in a cell, but there was nothing else to do. They couldn’t just cut him loose, at any rate. And maybe he had information. That, above all else, was what they needed.

  Hutton parked next to the cinderblock jail—known as “The Office” among the men—and switched off the
engine. Both outriders were taken by surprise when the young man immediately rose and climbed out of the jeep. He stood beside the vehicle, his face resigned. He had aged years during the short drive.

  “I’ll do this part. Watch my girl,” Hutton muttered. He walked around the jeep and laid a hand on the boy’s thin shoulder. “We’re just gonna put you somewhere safe for a bit, young man. Somewhere warm and with food and a bed. It’ll be alright.”

  The old man and young man walked toward the squat gray building. Some other day, in some other life, they could easily have been mistaken for grandfather and grandson walking side by side. Hutton held the door open for his charge and the two disappeared inside.

  The rain was picking up and Scofield began to fidget with the jeep’s old canvas roof. After a few minutes he had the cabin covered as best the worn vehicle would allow, and he climbed back into the shotgun seat and lit a smoke. Raindrops pattered off the fabric roof and drummed on the steel hood. The air grew musty and thick. Scofield watched the smoke curl slowly around his fingers as he held the cigarette near his mouth.

  A door’s slam snapped Scofield out of his reverie and he flicked a half-inch ash out the window as Boss Hutton hefted himself into the driver’s seat with a groan.

  “Never get old, Scof.” Hutton pulled off his hat and shook the water from it. He looked down at his lap and sighed. “You got a cigarette for me?”

  Scofield pulled out his pack and handed it over. Hutton muttered his thanks and struck a match, then sucked greedily at the cigarette. “Mostly I just stick to my stogies these days. One time a doctor told me I burned up five percent of my lungs smokin’ these. I don’t know if that’s a lot or a little but it sounded bad.” Hutton closed his eyes tightly. “That boy’s broken now. He never said one damn word. Just stared at me when I locked the cell. You’d think it’d get easier, right? That you’d get harder . . . all these fuckin’ years. But it just adds up.”

  “Just gets heavier.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was fast. We pulled ’em out of their hole. Wilton checked their gear, I went for the horses. When I was leading the rides back, Kretch had the old man taking off his shirt. There was a scar on his chest. Bullet wound. Kretch said something about seeing him again and then bam, shot him as simple as you’d crack a smile.”

  “I loathe that son of a bitch,” Hutton hissed, slamming a fist on the steering wheel. “We gotta do something about him. Soon. But not now. Scofield, you listen good, OK? This is just you and me talking, alright?”

  Scofield looked over attentively.

  “Say that for me. This is just you and me talking.”

  “This is just you and me, Hut.”

  Hutton took one more long drag off the cigarette and tossed it out onto the wet sand. “I sounded the horns because we got drainers.”

  “What?”

  “We’re being drained. Bad, I think.” Hutton put his hat back on and cracked his knuckles. He turned the key and the engine rumbled but wouldn’t take. “Not now goddammit girl!” he shouted. The Boss pumped the gas pedal and ratcheted the key again and, sputtering in protest, the jeep came to life. Hutton sighed, eyes closed.

  “I haven’t got a man to spare so the field is gonna be empty all day. This is gonna be a quick and dirty Round Up—we need to get our men back out there fast. Much as I hate to think it, we’ll need help with this; need Civil Defense. When the meeting’s over, I’m sending you into Vegas to talk to the execs. I want you to sit in the back and not say much, OK? Just listen and learn. The boys don’t know fuck about what’s going on and I want it that way—bunch of hotheads. They’d just start shooting.”

  “Boss, I’ll do what you need but shouldn’t I be in the field? Not in the goddamn city? Why not send Tripp Hernandez or Haskell?”

  “Hasky’s too young. I thought about sending Tripp so I could have you right where you are now: next to me in shotgun. But he ain’t checked in yet and there’s no time to wait. Plus I trust you more. Look, I know you don’t like Vegas. If I didn’t hate it even more’n you I’d go. Besides I gotta be here with the gang. You’re my best man, Scof—you’re the best of ’em by long. At Round Up just sit and listen and don’t talk, OK? You don’t speak up often so whenever you do all them hotheads listen. And I need you to just hear right now, lie low. We’re going to start putting together a puzzle with whatever pieces we gather, but without letting too many people see the big picture. OK?”

  “OK. I get it.”

  Hutton nodded, then jammed the jeep in gear. They set off toward the meeting hall. “And we’ll deal with Wilton fucking Kretch as soon as this shit is settled.”

  “Send a black pod to stop five-one-six.” Dreg snapped his phone shut. He buttoned his overcoat as a shiver ran through his ample carriage. “Think I should have the street warmers switched on?”

  The security officer beside him, a tall, wide-shouldered fellow whose name The Mayor could never recall—it was something Asian, though the man looked white save for his almond shaped eyes—shrugged and looked up as if doing so would help him better gauge the temperature. “It should get better out by mid-afternoon.”

  “Already one and still cold. I think I’ll have them turned on.”

  The officer nodded, pursing his lips. Dreg may as well have been talking to a lamppost. The two men stood under the cover of a pod stop. The rain was falling steadily and the usually bustling streets of New Las Vegas were empty. People here had little experience being wet and even less patience for it. The first pod that had arrived was absolutely full, and while The Mayor preferred traveling among his people, he was in no mood to be crushed between damp, musty bodies.

  When the executive pod arrived—jet black and about one third the size of the commuter vehicles—Dreg was only too happy to board and take a seat in one of the overstuffed leather chairs.

  “Let’s scoot over to grid three, alright? Power station.”

  “Of course, sir,” The operator called over his shoulder, glancing back into the passenger compartment. The Mayor relished the notion of being chauffeured about; he alone had access to pods operated by humans rather than the computer network. He alone could disrupt traffic at will. The pod set off across town with a gentle hum. Dreg reached into his damp overcoat and pulled out his brushed steel cigar case. He selected a slender Dominican cigar wrapped in coffee -brown leaves.

  “Can I offer you a light, Mr. Dreg?” The security officer asked, starting to rise from his seat with a lighter in his hand.

  “No, thanks. Never use a lighter with a fine cigar, my man. The fluid taints the tobacco. I only use wooden matches.” Dreg struck three matches, holding them together in a bundle, and puffed at his cigar. Blue-gray smoke drifted up into the stale air of the pod. “Do this for me, though. Call Strayer and tell him not to visit my offices until he’s spoken to me.”

  “Would you like to talk to him? I’m sure he’ll answer.”

  “No.” Dreg blew out a great cloud of smoke. “Just tell him not to do anything for the moment. He’ll get it.”

  The officer nodded and rose, walking to the back of the pod as he dialed his commander. The hushed conversation lasted longer than Dreg expected, and he peeked back at the man several times, his brow furrowed. The officer finally hung up and returned to The Mayor’s side, tucking his black shirt more evenly into his matching trousers before he sat.

  “What did he say?”

  “Hm? I’m sorry, sir?”

  “What were you and Mr. Strayer discussing?”

  “Oh—nothing sir. I just relayed your message and he said he’d comply.”

  Dreg turned his head away, looking out the rain streaked windows at his city flying past at fifty miles an hour.

  “And that exchange took several minutes?”

  “Sir?”

  “What else did he say?” Dreg looked over at the man again, placing his cigar in his mouth and lowering his hand. Two tendrils of smoke curled from his nostrils.

  “Well it w
as unrelated, Mayor. I didn’t want to trouble you.” Wilting under Dreg’s unyielding gaze, the man swallowed and went on. “It’s just that we have a few Civil Defense men AWOL, apparently.”

  “How many are missing?”

  “Six or seven. Colonel Strayer wasn’t certain yet but a few of them are from my squad so he wanted to see if I had any information or . . . or thoughts on that.”

  “And do you?”

  “No, sir.” The officer looked down at his hands, locking them together in his lap self-consciously. The Mayor exhaled another puff. The cabin was growing hazy with cigar smoke. The officer stifled a small cough, which Dreg noted with derisive pleasure.

  “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing. Anyway, here we are.”

  Sure enough, not ten seconds later the pod eased to a halt.

  “Station three, gentlemen,” The driver called.

  “You see? I know my city well.” Dreg rose, smiling at the security officer. The two men stepped from the pod onto the slick sidewalk and The Mayor took a final puff of his cigar, then dropped it.

  “Should I keep the pod here waiting for you?” The driver called through the open doors. But Dreg was already walking away. He hurried across the pavement, turning his collar up against the rain.

  The doors to Power Station Three slid open and The Mayor entered, pulling off his overcoat. “Take this, would you,” he said to the officer without the intonation of a question. “And wait here in the lobby. I won’t be long.” Dreg made his way toward the elevators, his shoes alternately clicking and squeaking on the marble floor.

  When he arrived at the fourth floor—the operations department—Mayor Dreg ran a palm across his damp hair several times as the elevator doors opened. He straightened his lapels and put on a bright smile. Then he made his way down a short hall and turned a corner.

  “Hello! Ms. Maria Rodrigues! How are you? I wanted to ask you a few questions, if you weren’t too busy.”

  12

  “Alright you sons of bitches, shut the hell up!” Boss Hutton bellowed into the microphone. A cacophony of shouts, curses, and laughter echoed back at him. Hutton closed his eyes and nodded knowingly, raising both hands, palms facing the assembly. The fifty-some outriders shouted, slapped one another on the back or face, swapped grandiose stories of bullshit, and generally had a grand old time.