by Steven John
The outrider spotted the figure slip from behind a QV pillar to the east but made no move yet. He kept on kicking at the soil, subtly easing the rifle’s strap to the very edge of his shoulder. It looked to be a man of above average height. He wore a long beige robe with a hood obscuring his face. His steps were slow, measured. Scofield trusted his own quickness enough to wait a second longer before engaging. If he could get the rifle aimed square at the man fast enough, perhaps they could trade in words rather than lead.
But the drainer had other ideas. Scofield whirled about as the man dropped to one knee, raising a pistol. The outrider spun his rifle off his shoulder and up into a shooter’s stance, firing three quick shots as the drainer squeezed off two. No bullets found their mark and both men scrambled for cover, the outrider behind the iron plate of the apparatus, the drainer back behind the pillar.
“Fuck!” Scofield swore under his breath. Why the hell had he moved? He had a rifle squared off against a pistol! He knocked his hat off and dropped down onto his belly. Working his way quickly to the edge of the metal plate, the outrider found himself strangely energized; nearly elated. Adrenaline was pouring into his bloodstream. His heartbeat quickened but did not race. Here, finally, after days of confusion, fear, and fury, was definitive action. You better be ready, you sonofabitch . . . I’m ready for you.
Just as Scofield sucked in a breath to pop clear of his cover, a burst of three shots rang out. The bullets impacted inches from the outrider’s right thigh. Time slowed to a crawl. Or rather Scofield’s thoughts sped up tenfold: the drainer was east, the iron plate directly between them—these shots had come from south. From deeper within the field. Second shooter.
Scofield leapt to his feet and stumbled backward halfway around the pillar, trying to get cover between both the established contact and the likely vector of the new assailant. He drew his pistol and fired two shots into the sand for good measure—keep their heads down for a second. Jamming the six-shooter back into its holster, Scofield pressed the rifle stock against his shoulder and pressed his cheek down along the weapon, getting his eye lined up with the sights. Then he spun around the north side of the pillar. The first drainer was leaning out from his column. He ducked behind it just as Scofield pulled the trigger.
Immediately, the outrider wheeled to the south. There he was: a shorter man wearing the same beige robe but with his head exposed. He was running toward Scofield full tilt, an assault rifle in his hands. The man raised the weapon, erratically spraying bullets, but it was too late—Scofield had already zeroed in on him. He fired a single round. The man spun a full three-hundred and sixty degrees, ending up face down on the sand. This was no time to take chances: Scofield took a step backward to where the first drainer would be unable to draw a bead on him and fired three well-aimed shots into the fallen man. His body shuddered slightly as each piece of lead found its mark.
Scofield dropped the clip from his carbine—he still had two, maybe three rounds in it but no reason to be conservative at the moment—and jammed a fresh one home. He ventured a quick glance around the apparatus to be sure the drainer hadn’t broken cover, and began to hash out a quick plan. If the man had a rifle he’d have readied it by now. Hitting a person on the run with a pistol was tricky business even for a seasoned, steady hand, so the outrider could be safe enough in the open for just—
Suddenly two pistol shots rang out. Scofield was confounded—he was totally hidden behind the apparatus. What could the drainer possibly be shooting at? A third shot followed by a whinny from Reese gave answer. Scofield broke cover and was charging in a split second.
“Don’t shoot at my girl you motherfucker!” Scofield screamed, his voice cracking. His feet flew across the sand, carrying him faster than he’d ever run in his life. The drainer stepped out from the pillar, then balked at the sight of this raging man bearing down on him. He raised his pistol and fired a few rounds before being cut down by a hail of lead Scofield squeezed off from the hip. The outrider reached his crumpled foe and landed a savage kick into the man’s ribcage. Bones snapped and the drainer bellowed, suffering as much pain from the blow as from the searing lead in his belly.
Scofield swung his rifle around like a baseball bat. The stock connected with the man’s head just below his left ear. No way he’d be putting up a fight any time soon, if ever again. The outrider wheeled and set off sprinting toward his horse, which was standing only a few feet from where he’d left her.
Reese tossed her mane and snorted as Scofield reached her, dropping his rifle and throwing his arms around the horse’s neck. “Are you OK baby? You OK girl?” He made his way around the mare, running his hands over her velvety flesh. She had a scratch across her withers. A thin trail of blood trickled from the glancing wound, barely visible against her chocolate-colored side.
“Is that it girl? That all that got you?” Scofield began to smile, resting one hand on her sinewy neck. Then something caught his eye: there was a small hole in the leather of the saddle. Scofield’s hands broke out in a cold sweat as he ripped at and fumbled with the bridle and stirrup straps. Once the saddle was unhooked he practically ripped it off the horse’s back. Nothing. The pooled blood the outrider had already begun to picture in his mind was not there. Incredulous, Scofield turned and picked up the saddle.
I don’t fuckin’ believe it . . . There it was. “You got some angels watching over you, Reese.” The bullet had almost penetrated the thick saddle, stopping with just a hint of its brass casing sticking out from the burnished leather. It was unlikely the horse had even felt a thing. Scofield dug the deformed slug from the saddle with the tip of his knife, wrapping his fist tightly around the bullet. He stepped back from his horse, smiling at her.
Then he turned around slowly. His smile flattened out.
* * *
“What’s this stain on the wall here?” Mayor Dreg asked, pointing at the honey-colored splotches covering a portion of Hale’s dining room wainscoting.
“Liquor, I think. Or rather it is liquor. I’m sure of it.” Colonel Strayer glanced up from his mobile and nodded, affirming his words.
“How are you sure?”
Must you question every goddamn detail to feel like you’re relevant, you fat fuck? Strayer took in a breath and let it out slowly enough to make a point. “Because . . . sir . . . it smells like it. And there are shards of a crystal glass on the floor and because there is a bottle missing one glass worth of alcohol in a kitchen cupboard that’s not tucked neatly back in among the others. I feel we can safely assume that a retentive—or rather . . . meticulous man like Timothy Hale would have realigned all of his bottles were he done drinking for the night.” Strayer walked into the kitchen, beckoning for Dreg to follow him.
“Do you agree? Sir?”
“Frankly, yes,” The Mayor nodded and crossed his arms over his large belly as the security officer pulled open the liquor cabinet and pointed to the shelf of bottles. In the living room, the other three security personnel Strayer had summoned were having a quiet debate. The officer strained to listen in while feigning attention to Mayor Dreg. Had he heard what he thought he did? Was word spreading among the men? He managed to tune out Franklin’s muttering and distinctly heard one of his men utter both the words “sunfield” and “drain” twice before Dreg let out a gasp.
“Fuck’s sake . . . this is the bottle of cognac I gave him the day of his appointment! I remember it well! This liquor is nearly as old as he! Fine stuff . . . fine, fine stuff . . .” Dreg pulled the bottle down from the shelf, and admired it for a good long time, seeming to lose track of the present. A private smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Then, abruptly, he tapped on the cork to make sure it was secure in the bottle and then returned the cognac to its shelf, carefully sliding it in among the other liquors and closing the cupboard.
“What do you think, Strayer? Think he flew the coop?”
“Sir?”
“He could have realized his executive chevron had been deactivated and hi
t the road. Hale’s a smart man, though—I can’t see him fleeing without a damn good reason; more than that rot about the computer passwords. Christ I hope I didn’t scare him off—just needed to dress the bastard down bit. . . .”
“I highly doubt he left of his own volition, Mayor.”
Dreg sighed, leaning heavily against a marble countertop. Had he imperiled his strongest ally and shrewdest advisor in a moment of foolishness? Had his anger and tendency toward mistrust caused a lapse in judgment that had in turn landed Timothy in some trouble?
“So you think he was . . . forced from here? Snatched away?”
“That or he was compelled to leave in a very big hurry. All I think we can be sure of is that this was not a choreographed exit. He—”
“Colonel Strayer!” One of the security officers in the next room shouted for his commander.
Strayer turned and walked from Hale’s kitchen into the living room where he was met with three stony-eyed stares.
“Well, what is it boys?”
“Nothing good.” The officer who had called him, Major Engel, a man of medium height with wide shoulders and coffee brown skin framing an angular face, lowered his voice as Dreg came out of the kitchen.
“We’ve got shots fired out in the sunfield.”
“Multiple incidents, sir,” the tallest of the three security men added through clenched teeth.
“What does that mean?” The Mayor asked quietly, standing behind Strayer.
“It means a war is starting,” The colonel answered, barely above a whisper. He slowly turned to face Dreg. His voice was even softer when next he spoke. His lips barely moved and his eyes were aflame. “I guess that’s what you wanted.” Easy enough to change anything you want now, you megalomaniacal bastard.
Scofield polished the lenses of his dark sunglasses then slid them onto his face, hooking the metal loops behind his ears. He hardly ever wore the glasses except when there was a sandstorm. Better to let your eyes adjust than to shade them when on patrol, he found; the minutest gradations of color in the sand often led to a burrowed leech or tapline. Right now, though, he wanted his eyes covered.
The drainer was propped up against the QV pillar from which he’d been shooting, legs splayed out before him and hands bound behind. He was unconscious. A savage purple and black bruise spread from his right shoulder up to behind the ear where the outrider had struck him with his rifle. The bloodstain on his beige robe was still spreading slowly, and Scofield could only imagine how much had spilled out beneath the thick garment.
The outrider slung his rifle and began to draw his six-shooter, then, thinking better of it, he slid the long knife from his belt, admiring the polished steel blade before slowly crouching until his face was inches from the drainer’s.
“Wake up, you piece of shit.” He waited a few seconds, then slapped the man roughly across the cheek. “Wake up, motherfucker!”
With a pitiful groan, the man came to, his thin face twisting into a grimace. He blinked in the bright sunlight, disoriented and in agony. He was maybe thirty-five years old, with close-cropped golden-blonde hair and pale gray eyes. His face was ruddy with sunburn, and the lines of his crow’s-feet wrinkles stood out bright white against the red flesh of his cheeks and forehead.
“You with me? Hmm?”
The man nodded slowly, gritting his teeth.
“It takes a real lowdown fuckin’ coward to shoot at a horse. Horse that ain’t even being rode, no less. You rank somewhere between shit and a mosquito to me right now, so keep that in mind as we chat.”
“All’s fair, don’t they say?”
Scofield cocked his head to one side, making no attempt to hide his surprise at the man’s thick Australian accent. He casually tested the edge of his knife against the tip of one index finger.
“You’re a long way from home, huh?”
“I’m right where I want to be.”
Scofield rose to his feet, eyes locked on the drainer, who stared right back at his black sunglasses. The man’s chest rose and fell quickly. No doubt he was in excruciating pain, but he managed to keep his face impassive save for a clenched jaw.
“Right where you want to be is gutshot, bleeding out on the sands of Vegas County, huh? I guess we kind of have something in common, leave out the lead in the stomach. See, I like it around here. But I don’t like you being here. And you’re remaining here, or anywhere, is up to me right now. Puts me in the catbird seat, Aussie.”
The drainer struggled to sit up farther, gasping in pain and ultimately achieving nothing; he slumped back down against the pillar, leaning against a steel strut to his right to favor the bruised ribs on his left side. “I’m not . . . familiar with that little . . . turn of phrase.”
“What it means is if you so much as look at me in a way I don’t like, you’re dead and I’m smiling about it. Does that translate?” Scofield pulled out his pack of smokes and put a cigarette between his lips. “You smoke?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“You, for right now.” The outrider lit the cigarette and savored a long drag, pulling off his sunglasses and making eye contact with the drainer as he spoke. “Here’s the short version of a long story,” Scofield said quietly, smoke drifting from his mouth with each word. “I’m going to bring you back to my headquarters and if you expect any kind of medical attention or even a goddamn glass of water, you’re going to be a good little drainer and tell me everything I want to know.”
“What are you going to do with that knife? Try to loosen up my tongue?”
“We’ll see.” Scofield crouched and took hold of the drainer’s thick beige cloak. He pulled a section of the cotton garment taught, then cut a long slice into it. Sliding the knife back into its sheath, he took two fistfuls of fabric and ripped the cloak wide open. The drainer groaned as his body was jostled. Beneath the robe he wore blue jeans and a worn gray sweater. There was blood everywhere. It looked like one of Scofield’s shots had caught him dead in the navel.
“This ain’t too good, mister. You’re on the clock, as they say.”
“We’re . . . all on the clock . . .” he gritted his teeth as Scofield roughly pulled up his sweater to examine the gunshot and cracked ribs. “Just at different . . . times.”
“That’s a nice philosophy. I hope you take some comfort in it.” The outrider stood up and stretched his legs, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. “I reckon we got a little time, just us two. Then, you behave, and I’ll take you to see some real nice fellahs. They’ll patch you up all ship shape.” His face grew hard. He took one last drag off his cigarette and dropped it between the drainer’s feet.
“How many of there are you?”
“Five.”
“Real cute. Listen, bud, I’m not gonna fuck around here. You’re dead or alive based on the next few answers. How many men are out here draining my goddamn sunfield?”
“Maybe I meant five hundred. Maybe five thousand.” The man forced a saccharine smile. “There are lots and lots of us, that’s the truth.”
“Who’s behind it? Who’s in charge? I’m going to guess this ain’t some Australian conspiracy—why are you here?”
“I’m here because this is where it’s happening this time.”
“What’s happening?”
“The change. The shift.”
“Go on, and make some goddamn sense.” Scofield pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. A single bead of sweat trickled down his brow despite the cool air.
“You don’t know a goddamn thing, mate. You couldn’t even start to understand.”
“Try me.”
The Aussie shook his head, a look of profound resignation on his face. “If you only knew . . . perhaps you wouldn’t be fighting back. Listen—I don’t wish you any harm. If I’m going to die out here that’s fine but it’s important to me that you understand that. It’s not about you or your comrades. It’s about the change that’s coming. I . . . I’m sorry I shot at your horse . . .” he trai
led off for a minute, his eyes seeming to lose focus.
“I’m sorry you did that too. You’re goddamn lucky you only nicked her. If you’d hit my girl square on, I—” The drainer cut Scofield off with a violent coughing fit. Flecks of blood dotted his lips and chin by the time he got himself back under control.
“Listen: I’m dying. A man knows when it’s coming. Never knew that until this very moment, but now . . . I can speak to it with conviction. I won’t tell you anything you want to know so do whatever you want. I’ll tell you this, though—we won’t stop. For anything. You can’t win unless we’re all dead and you’ll never kill us all.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Scofield asked, his voice involuntarily raising an octave.
“Just . . . people who think differently. That’s all. People who see that the world is never going to change itself and so . . . ” the drainer was fading, “so we’re . . . forcing it to.”
“Just hold on, you goddamn bastard. I’ll get you some water and take you in.”
“Don’t bother.” The drainer closed his eyes. His eyelids were milk white against ruddy skin slowly growing pale.
“Look, if you’re going to fucking die then what’s the point, man? Just answer what I ask—how many of there are you? Who’s leading you?”
“If I didn’t think that we were right, mate, I’d tell you all about it. If I didn’t know. But if you think I’ll use my last breaths to piss on all I believe . . . then just get that knife of yours back out and get to work.”
“I don’t want . . .” Scofield trailed off, the words ‘you to die here’ staying in his mouth. Again the man was wracked by coughs; this time a thin trail of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. His breaths were growing short. The outrider thought to offer him a cigarette, but looking down at the broken wretch figured there wasn’t enough time left for him to smoke it. He figured maybe he should untie the man’s hands and let him expire with dignity, but already the Aussie’s eyes were glazing over. Once more he looked up at Scofield, then, slowly, his chin lowered down onto his chest. His shoulders rose and fell as he rasped out his last few breaths and then he was still. Gone.