Outrider

by Steven John

  Scofield waited a minute, then checked the drainer’s pulse to be sure. There was none. He sighed, shaking his head slowly.

  Scofield turned away from the dead man and looked at his horse, casually swishing her tail at flies while she waited for him. He looked out toward the western horizon, so distant and crisp, all soft dunes and faraway brown mountains beneath a deep blue sky. The arrays hummed above him, a sound so familiar he never heard it except when he focused on the noise.

  This was the second man Scofield had ever killed. And the first lay not fifty yards away. As the realization that now he was a killer settled in on him, a profound weight lowered itself onto his soul. Strangely, the burden was made harder to bear by Scofield’s summary acceptance of it. He was acutely aware that having crossed the line he could never go back. And, undoubtedly, he would soon wade deeper into the blood that lay on that boundary’s far side.

  How was this so effortless for some men? So simple to rectify and repeat? Scofield could scarcely have been less of a coward; could hardly have had more courage and confidence. Yet these attributes did not make a man ready to kill. They had nothing in common with comfort in the letting of blood—quite the opposite, even, as he figured it. There had been no other recourse today, and the outrider knew his soul would rest easily in the days and years to come, but for now he was shaken, saddened, and confused. This was not the first time he had shot to kill, but it was the first time he had completed the task. He felt sick with himself for his cruel, threatening bravado knowing now that the death rattle had echoed in the man’s ears. But he hadn’t known—it was just another incident until it wasn’t. He didn’t know the man’s liver had been ripped to shreds; that his stomach had filled with blood.

  Scofield shivered involuntarily as he looked down at the fresh corpse. He knelt and pulled the man’s hood over his face. Resigned to searching the body—and then inspecting the other man he’d killed—Scofield found himself for the first time questioning his line of work; his life. What was really out here that was so precious men had to die for it? Power?

  17

  Kretch had never ridden so hard in his life. He was exhausted, near delirious. Shady’s breath came out in ragged wheezing; foam frothed at the sides of his mouth. Wilton’s spurs had torn the colt’s flanks to shreds. Crimson blood glistened against the horse’s gray hair beneath the noontime sun. Just keep goin’ goddammit, boy! Just keep going.

  He was riding due east, several miles north of the field. He’d told Haskell when they split up a few miles back that he would head straight to the Outpost to debrief. Kretch let himself think this was honorable adherence to duty, but somewhere deep inside he knew he was terrified and just wanted to be in a place he’d feel safe. This shit ain’t fun when they’re shooting back, he thought to himself with a grim smile.

  The horse was fading. Grudgingly, Kretch reined the colt down to a trot. His eyes were constantly roving, his head twisting from side to side. He pulled his rifle out of its saddle holster and began to reload. The desert was quiet save for a gentle, welcome breeze. Miles ahead, Kretch could see the vague gray outline of New Las Vegas. The sun was bright but the day cool. Wilton’s neck and armpits began to itch as his sweat dried. As soon he scratched those places, new itches appeared: on his thighs, his chest, his crotch—in his goddamn boots. Gotta shit, shower, and shave before I head in. Get some new threads on. I gotta get my boy watered up and fed—wouldn’t be right by him not to, he nodded to himself, sliding the eighth round into his rifle and ratcheting down the load lever. He placed one last bullet in the weapon then rested it across his lap.

  “Not a bad day out, huh boy?” Kretch said aloud, his voice strong as his nerves calmed. “We hit a pretty rough patch there, ey Shady? Got out of that one real good, though.”

  The gravity of the day was lost on Kretch as soon as he had regained his cool—it had been a tense moment; that was all. Already he had suppressed the sensation of abject terror that had gripped him not an hour before and was planning how he would describe the gun battle to his comrades: he’d acted bravely that morning, holding his ground amidst an onslaught of goddamn machine gun fire—why, he’d even dropped one of the bastards at three hundred yards all while lead was ripping through the air inches from his head! What have you boys done today? Hmm? Had some coffee and a piss? Well I was out dodgin’ machine gun bullets, you sonofabitch! How about that for a morning wake-me-up?

  He smiled to himself. Sure, he’d been lucky. But luck only ever counted when you were neck deep in the shit out there where the shit mattered. Kretch dug in his saddle bag and pulled his little cigar case from beneath a few crumpled shirts and random sacks of chow and ammunition. It was time for a good honest victory smoke.

  “This’ll be for both of us, Shady,” Kretch said with a cackling laugh as he struck two matches and held them to the tip of a cigar. The horse plodded along unevenly, favoring its right hind leg. Wilton hardly noticed as he puffed out thick plumes of smoke. He took a long pull from his canteen, then splashed a handful of water over his face and neck. Slinging his rifle over one shoulder, he kicked free of the stirrups and leaned back in the saddle, riding easy.

  Kretch thought he imagined the sound at first. It was distant and indeterminate—a sound that didn’t fit the tableau of calm desert but was so faint he could easily write it off. Once, at least. The second time the low, baleful moan drifted across the sands, all the calm and happiness Wilton had felt just a minute before turned to a creeping fear. He’d heard this sound before; just a few nights ago when he was patrolling solo he’d heard it.

  He clenched the cigar between his teeth and pulled the rifle back off his shoulder, gripping the gun tightly as if it could ward off the unknown menace. Where the hell had the ominous noise come from? And more to the point, what had it come from? It was like nothing he’d ever heard before. Something caught the corner of Wilton’s eye to the distant south, but when he whipped his head around to peer into the sunfield, nothing remarkable stood out.

  There it was again, almost like some great pipe organ sounding a single note; a distant dirge. Slowly, the sound faded. Or rather it wasn’t fading, it was being replaced. Far away—Kretch couldn’t tell from which direction—a deep, powerful rumble had begun. It sounded like thunder but it was constant, rhythmic. And growing. Louder and nearer. The very air seemed to grow heavier.

  Suddenly, with an awful crackling roar, a group of fighter planes ripped through the sky above the outrider. They had passed him not a second after he even realized they were there, zipping over so quickly he could barely see the sleek, delta winged aircraft as he tossed his head back. There were five planes in the formation, flying at about twenty thousand feet—near to their operational floor this close to the sunfield.

  As the jets passed overhead, a mighty sonic boom shook the desert floor, the shriek of their engines trailing behind them. Shady bucked twice then leapt into the air and Kretch threw his arms around the colt’s neck to keep from being thrown. His hat fell from his head and he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the deafening cacophony.

  “Easy boy! Easy now!” he shouted as much to himself as to the horse.

  As quickly as the terrible thundering had come it was over, a distant rumble on the horizon. Shady calmed, still side-stepping and tossing his mane, but no longer jumping. Kretch slid off the colt, taking the reins in his hand and leading Shady back to where his hat had fallen. He grabbed the Stetson and was placing it on his head when a new sound began.

  This time the outrider could clearly see the source of the din: no fewer than twenty helicopters were approaching from the east. There was a mix of sleek attack craft and heavy transport birds. As the choppers drew nearer to Kretch, several branched out to cruise due west, a few seemed to be banking east, and several maintained their course toward the field, rising higher into the sky as they passed overhead.

  Wilton wrapped Shady’s reins around his right fist and took his hat back off. He stood next to the horse,
the cigar hanging from his mouth, staring up at the helicopters. His throat went dry. The tobacco smoke drifted into his eyes and nostrils, stinging and acrid, but he felt nothing. He was profoundly numb, body and mind.

  Timothy Hale wrapped his fingers around the doorknob. He twisted it slowly and, to his surprise, the door clicked open. He took in a deep breath, glancing once more around the simple but clean motel room where he had spent the morning, then exhaled and pulled open the door. Bright sunlight spilled into the dimly lit room and Hale shielded his eyes, squinting, unable to see anything of the outside world.

  A minute passed before Hale could discern shapes and colors in the brilliant early afternoon. Still half-blind, he stepped out onto a porch of faded but evenly cut and measured pine planks. An awning of matching wood hung a few feet above his head, the floorboards and deck running the length of what Timothy could now see was indeed a long, single-story motel. He had half-expected he was being held in a room appointed as a residence but built into some strange citadel or bunker or . . . or something other than the quaint town he now found himself looking around.

  As his eyes adjusted, Hale scanned his surroundings. He was standing beside what could well have been the main street of most any little town in America, save for pale yellow sand replacing the usual swaths of green grass and pavement. Not a soul was in sight. There were a few shops across the street, all with clean windows reflecting the sunlight and carefully lettered signs above their doors. A row of houses sat a bit up the street to his right, each with white siding and red doors. Three horses were tied to a hitching post at the left end of the motel’s porch, and beyond them a larger brick building looked to be a town hall.

  “Nice place, isn’t it?”

  Hale wheeled to face the voice. It came from a smiling man with ruddy cheeks and warm brown eyes twinkling beneath a formless tweed hat. He was maybe fifty years old. His fingers were intertwined, palms resting on his round belly as he leaned back in a wooden chair, his head against the motel’s stucco wall. The man wore drab green canvas pants and brown boots. His tweed jacket matched his hat both in its gray-brown color and its well-worn condition.

  “I’m Dave. David Flint. Dave’s fine . . . Flint’s fine—whatever suits your mood, Tim. Is Tim OK?”

  “Where am I?” Hale whispered between clenched teeth, ignoring the question. David smiled even wider, looking away, and disregarded Hale’s inquiry right back.

  “We thought you were gonna sleep all day. Ms. Wilbee was by a few times to see if you’d come out yet. Actually, were you asleep, or did you just assume the door was locked? People always think the door’s locked.”

  Timothy took a few steps away from the door, the floorboards creaking under foot. He heard the front legs of David Flint’s chair touch down as he stepped out onto the sand. The sun was warm on his shoulders.

  “Yeah, sure, look around all you want.” David said from behind him, rising with a slight groan. “In fact, you’re free to go anywhere you want in this town.”

  “Where is this town, Flint?” Hale looked over his shoulder.

  David dug his hands into the pockets of his blazer, cocking his head to one side. “Well, that’s a tricky question to answer. See, as far as the world knows, this town ain’t anywhere. Doesn’t exist. It’s our little secret, so I’m not sure the best way to answer. Best to say nothing—just right now, at least. For me, at least.”

  Hale’s shoulders drooped. He closed his eyes tightly. He had spent the morning running through all that had happened and trying to calculate what was likely to come next. This strange, provincial man in his slouch hat, leaning casually against the wall with a friendly smile, didn’t square up with anything he’d imagined.

  If the door was unlocked, why had the windows been painted over? If the lights and ceiling fan worked, why was the tap dry? Why had he been assaulted and dragged from his home, writhed for hours in some awful, deafening, smoldering hell only to be deposited in a clean motel room and now free to wander about this tidy, deserted town?

  “I can tell you have a lot of questions. That’s only fair. Ms. Wilbee and Russ Ascher are waiting for you. You know Ms. Wilbee and Russell is the big guy. Oh, wait—you know him too.” David laughed, tapping his jaw. Hale involuntarily raised a hand to his own bruised cheek. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though Flint’s pause and even his laughter had been calculated, rehearsed. “Sorry. I don’t mean to make light. Anyway, they’re over at Town Hall. It’s the big brick building. Pretty obvious, I guess. So poke around if you want, but make your way over there soon, hmm?”

  Timothy turned and took a long look at David Flint. The squat man held eye contact, regarding Hale with the same calm a man might reserve for a signpost: something to study, nothing to fear.

  Hale spun on his heel and began to make his way down the dusty street, away from Town Hall.

  “Plenty to see that way, Tim. Plenty of miles and miles of open desert to see. Just one thing!” Flint called from behind him. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this!”

  Hutton’s right hand draped limply over the gear shift. His left fist was wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. The jeep’s ancient engine alternately purred and coughed beneath the hood. The Boss had stopped the vehicle right between the meeting hall and Matteson’s Place; logic and desire were battling one another in his head. The early afternoon sun was bright, but already the shadows were beginning to stretch longer across the sand. The days grew shorter so quickly it took the old outrider by surprise every year.

  This was usually the start of the quiet season. Fewer hours of sunlight meant fewer leeches. More time with feet kicked back and a glass of bourbon. More sleep. More calm. Miles away Hutton heard the deep reverberations of a second squadron of helicopters making its way from their base north of Vegas. All goddamn day the desert had been a din of machines overhead. These last few minutes had been the first quiet he’d heard, save for the comforting rumble of his old jeep.

  The Boss figured one drink was a solid compromise between reason and longing. He threw the stick back in gear.

  It was dark inside. Just a few lamps shone in the corners and one rested on the bar itself. Hutton blinked repeatedly, navigating the familiar space as much by memory as by sight. He sidled up to his regular stool but remained standing. There wasn’t a soul in the place. Hutton cleared his throat loudly and heard a cough and some shuffling from the back room. He turned and looked around the bar—it was the first time he had ever seen it empty. Every one of his boys was now out on assignment, save the few awaiting him in the Meeting Hall.

  “Hey, Hut,” Matteson said as he came through the door from his living quarters. His voice was dry and rasping like he’d been asleep. “How bad is it?”

  “Ain’t good, buddy. Sorry to wake you.”

  “No, no—I’m up. Glad for the business.” Matteson grinned, though his bleary eyes and sallow cheeks made it clear the smile was forced. He looked utterly exhausted.

  “Double me up then cut me off, if you would.”

  The bartender nodded, reaching for his black apron out of habit, then shaking his head and turning the other way, leaving his shirt tails untucked. He scanned the back row of whiskey bottles and then selected a fifteen year old rye, placing two small glasses on the bar.

  “Figure this might be a good time for you’n me to share something,” the bartender said, pointing to the glass closest to him. “I heard a lot of planes goin’ over?”

  “Yeah. Choppers, too. And there’s gonna be trucks and half-treads soon enough.”

  “That so?” Matteson poured a few fingers into each glass, setting the bottle down uncorked.

  “That’s so. Do me a favor, Matt—put the bottle away now. I don’t think I’m fit to fight temptation. Be way too easy for me to drink myself outta this shit for the day and I can’t afford that.”

  “Course. Wise of ya.” The bartender returned the bottle to its place, then walked around the end of the bar. He was barefoot. Matte
son eased himself down onto a chair at the table nearest Hutton as The Boss took a seat on his stool, resting his back against the bar. He pulled his cigar case from his vest and looked up as he lit a stogie.

  “How long you been here?”

  “Forever I think. It’s twenty years if it’s two.”

  “Feels more like the former. The forever I mean. Christ man, we seen it all, ain’t we?”

  “All that’s to see around here, sure.”

  “What did you always want to do, Matt? When you were a kid, I mean.”

  “When I was a kid?” Matteson laughed, running a hand through his thinning black hair. “I wanted to be a knight. And if that didn’t work, I was gonna be a pirate.”

  Hutton laughed quietly, cigar smoke drifting from his nostrils. “I think all the knights are dead. Plenty of pirates around though.”

  “Not quite so romantic now, hmm?”

  “Not quite so much.”

  “So what do you think’s gonna happen, Hut? Shoot me straight. You think there’s gonna be a war here? Think they got the numbers, whoever it is? Or is this shit blown out of proportion?”

  Boss Hutton sighed, pulling off his hat. He rested an elbow on his thigh and cupped his chin in one palm. His five-day whiskers were coarse and his face itched where his hand bent them back. The whiskey warmed his throat and belly and it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten an honest meal. Yesterday’s breakfast? Had he had anything but a hunk of wheat bread since then? A few bites of corn cake an hour or two back. Or three hours or five.

  He was feeling the few sips of liquor; feeling them work their way into the darker reaches of his mind. When the South Australian Field faced a drain some seven or eight years back, the assailants had drawn down enough power to fuel their insurgency for weeks and then run a thriving black market for months. What was worse, they had destroyed half the S.A. Field’s infrastructure, leaving their illegal power taps an economically viable source for several years.