Outrider

by Steven John

  He had all but forgotten his cigarette as he hunched over when the shots were fired. Now suddenly came a burning between his left index and middle fingers and at first Haskell was confused, thinking somehow he had been injured, before he looked down at his hand and then shook the smoldering cigarette butt free with a quiet yelp.

  Haskell scratched off a small blister that had already formed on one finger, exposing the tender red flesh beneath. As he studied the little wound, staring intently at the small droplets of blood forming, something suddenly occurred to the young man. The thought shot through him like a bolt of electricity, literally jolting him back upright: if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead. One man on six, seven? Maybe more? They were trying to take him alive. Had to be.

  This new assumption became an immediate certainty. Haskell was unsure whether he was more at ease with a definite end or the unknowable abyss of captivity. Would he be tortured? Starved? Locked away in a little cell? What would they try to get from him and what the hell did he really have to offer, anyway? For the first time that day, he found his mouth going dry. His fingers no longer stung from the burn, but rather his hands were cold, damp. The half-thought faded before galvanizing but he had begun to think of charging to assure a set conclusion.

  His thoughts were racing so fast that it took Haskell a few seconds to notice the strange whistling noise. As soon as his mind cleared enough to isolate the new sound from the racket in his head, the whistle had become a whine, louder and louder and then suddenly he was lifting and then falling, a deafening roar and a mighty pressure wave all around him. C. J. landed flat on his chest as a second concussion rattled the earth, followed quickly by a third and fourth. He felt the heat and crushing power of the last two blasts but could scarcely hear anything but a persistent ringing in his ears. A long, bass groan made its way through the tinny echo, followed by a crash that shook the ground.

  As suddenly as the awful, earth-shaking attack had come all was silent. Haskell rolled onto his back, staring up into the twilight sky. The arrays above hung black beneath the crimson evening. A cloud of dust, sand, and smoke hung heavy over the area and the outrider could smell an acrid mix of cordite and petroleum. The ringing went on in his skull but as he ran his hands over his face and neck he could hear the quiet shuffling of his fingers and knew his eardrums had not ruptured. He was not injured; the wind had been knocked from his chest but that was all.

  Slowly, dazed, Haskell rose to his feet. He forgot his adversaries entirely and took a few stumbling steps away from the steel column where he had sheltered to look around. Through the dusty haze, now barely backlit by the sun’s last rays, Haskell could see that one of the massive QV pillars had fallen. There were three distinct craters in the acre or so around it, thick trails of smoke rising above them. The photovoltaic array had been thrown clear as the column fell and lay a good hundred yards away, cracked in half on the desert floor.

  Haskell stood perfectly still for a long time. He could not fathom what had just taken place. Slowly, his ears stopped ringing and he was left with the silence of the night. It was a full two minutes before he realized he was standing in the open and that there could still be a drainer alive and ready even after whatever the hell had just happened. He turned and walked the few feet back behind the pillar, and leaned against it as he dug out his cigarettes. The pack was crushed. Haskell could find only three cigarettes worth smoking. He ripped the filter of one of them and stuck the smoke between his lips, his hands suddenly beginning to tremble.

  As C. J. lit the smoke, he caught a familiar sound: galloping hooves. The rhythmic pounding was growing closer. Haskell stayed leaning against the QV pillar and slid his pistol from its holster. His rifle lay only a few feet away where it had fallen when the explosions began but he thought better of going for it. The tobacco smoke was rich and fine. He was perfectly calm. He was ready to die fighting.

  Haskell raised the .45 as the first rider came into view, but left his finger resting on the trigger guard, hoping against hope . . .

  The horseman drew closer. The sun had set but there was still light in the sky. Haskell dropped the cigarette and, out of habit, stomped it out. Their eyes met.

  “I never thought I’d be so happy to see your face.”

  “What’s that mean, asshole?” Gregory White smiled from atop his black steed.

  “Aw, don’t mean shit, Greg.”

  White slid from atop his massive thoroughbred and walked over to C. J., clapping his comrade on the shoulder. “We heard you needed a little help out here.”

  “You heard? How the fuck did you ‘hear’?”

  “Got some help as of today, young buck. We got eyes in the skies and boots on the ground.”

  “Civil Defense is in the game, huh?”

  “Civil’s playing a whole new sport.” The smile left Greg’s large, square face, replaced by his customary scowl. “They’ve taken over. And you know what? I can’t say I mind, this time. Do you know how many men that strike just took out?”

  “Counted seven, maybe a couple more. I got—”

  Greg interrupted, whispering “Thirty. Maybe thirty-five.” He paused to let that figure sink in.

  “Jesus Christ . . . you know . . . I wondered. I wondered if they were trying to take me in alive.”

  “Had to be. You’re goddamn fortunate one of the planes picked them up. They got birds up there with cameras and heat sensors and all. And as you may have guessed, some pretty fuckin’ angry rockets. It’s a brand new sport. Anyway, we come to get you out. Looks like your horse ran off.”

  C. J. nodded slowly, half-listening to the last few words the big man had said. “Yeah . . . little while back. Hope he didn’t . . . didn’t get hit or . . . .” Haskell shook his head to clear it, looking over at Greg again. “Wait, whose we?”

  White laughed, looking back over his shoulder. “Motley crew, your rescue team. Just me and Moses Smith and some old pony.”

  “Moses? He dragged his ass out of bed?”

  “Yup. You shoulda seen his face when his crotch hit the saddle. Looked like he was sitting on hot coals!”

  Both outriders laughed good and long. C. J. felt the tension of the evening finally leaving him. White went on: “He had to slow down because the bouncing hurt too much. I told him to ride back but he wanted to come on along; feel like part of the gang again. Me? I’m happy to sit this fight out. There’s hundreds of ’em, Hasky. Hundreds. I kept trying to listen in to what the Civil D officers were saying back at the Outpost—none of it seemed good.”

  The two outriders went on jawboning for a time. Greg bummed a cigarette off Haskell who decided not to mention it was his next to last. After all, the man had ridden out to help him. It was a few minutes before they finally heard two sets of hooves drawing nearer. A faint glow still lit the sky but it was mere minutes from true night, so Moses Smith was less than thirty yards away before Haskell spotted him lurching about atop his horse, a little ten-hand colt in tow.

  “How you feelin’, Moses?” Haskell called out as his comrade came into hailing distance.

  “I feel like shiiiiiiiit!” Smith bellowed back, drawing out the expletive. He was smiling nonetheless as he reined the mounts to a halt beside his buddies. “Jesus H, C. J., we could hear those goddamn explosions for miles. I can’t hardly believe yer in one piece.”

  “Woke me up good—I’ll tell you that.”

  Moses kicked free of his stirrups and gingerly swung one leg over the saddle then slid to the ground. He accepted Haskell’s outstretched hand with a vigorous shake.

  “Thanks for coming out. Both of you.” C. J. looked into each man’s eyes.

  Greg White took a long drag off his smoke, the ember illuminating his face as he met the young man’s gaze. His jaw was set tight, his nostrils flaring suddenly. He lowered the cigarette, whispering: “You boys hear anything just now?”

  It started as a few loud clicks and some distant mechanical grinding. The clicking grew faster and louder and then, i
nitially with a faraway ripple but soon a surrounding drone, the sunfield was alive. Above the three bewildered men, the arrays slowly shifted to face their photovoltaic panels west. Every night, once finished tracking usable light, the arrays flipped back to face the sunrise—now they came to a gentle stop one hundred eighty degrees opposite their standard alignment.

  “OK . . . what the fuck?” Moses muttered.

  “Don’t know, hell with it, let’s ride,” Haskell hissed through his teeth. As he took a step toward the colt lashed to Smith’s horse, he felt a sensation like someone was fanning his neck. Then the air inches from his nose was crackling. By the time he heard the distant reports he was already reacting to the bullets, dropping to the ground.

  “Cover!” Greg shouted as he threw himself flat beside C. J. The air was alive with the racing, raging hiss of lead and the echo of shooting rumbled across the sand. How the fuck did anything live through the bombs? White thought.

  The firing kept up for no more than fifteen seconds, but it was enough to rip Greg White’s horse apart. The black steed crumpled without so much as a whinny, six fifty caliber rounds having passed clear through it.

  White watched his horse fall with a breathless gasp. He scrambled toward the animal on his hands and knees but by the time he got to it, the horse was dead. The outrider didn’t have long to dwell on it.

  “Oh fuck! Greg, they got Moses!” Haskell called out as he lunged toward his fallen brother-in-arms. Greg rose to his feet and sprinted over and together he and Haskell dragged Smith back behind the nearest pillar.

  Moses was coughing and wheezing, half his breaths coming out as a sickening gurgle. One lung had been shredded, among other body parts. In the gloom, he could barely see his comrades’ eyes as he rapidly looked back and forth from C. J. to Greg’s faces. He couldn’t feel anything other than an immense pressure on his chest. A great weight was crushing him. One of their knees maybe or a stack of bricks. But why would there be bricks out here? It was someone on top of him or it was a great vise or something that was on his ribs and was making him so thirsty. So goddamn thirsty and his feet were so cold and his hands were cold and he was all alone and then C. J. was there again and his hands weren’t cold but they wouldn’t reach up to scratch the itches or to wipe the sweat off his brow and in his eyes and there were no more bricks on him but now there was pain in him Oh Lord now there was pain.

  Moses was gasping ever more quickly yet ever more faintly. Haskell held his head up with both hands, trying to keep eye contact. He could feel Smith’s muscles beginning to unclench; could see his eyes losing focus.

  “I thought . . . I thought it . . . the clap was bad . . . boys . . .” Smith’s eyes were closing. Greg had begun to rip the outrider’s jacket and shirt open but he stopped, rocking back until he sat Indian-style; there was nothing to do. “I . . . I’ll tell you . . .” Smith went on, “someone gives you the choice between. . . . ’tween gonorrhea and getting . . . shot . . . you boys get the VD, y’hear?”

  His last breath came out as a pathetic sigh, somewhere between a gasp and a shrill laugh. Haskell pushed his eyelids closed.

  The two men talked it over quickly and came to the bitter but rational conclusion that with two horses and three bodies, the dead body would have to be left behind. Greg took Moses Smith’s horse and Haskell vaulted up onto the little chestnut colt. They would come back for their comrade by daylight and with numbers.

  As C. J. Haskell set his spurs into the horse, he found himself thinking: If and when I go, I sure as hell hope my last words are something a bit more noble than moaning about the clap.

  20

  The nighttime landscape rumbled by, a saw-tooth of distant hills silhouetted against the purple sky and, closer, shadowy dunes and outcroppings. The sky was clear but moonless. Scofield could feel the crisp, fresh air of the late fall evening on the left side of his face as it blew through the open window; his right cheek and his right arm and leg were warm with the heat of the coal-fired boiler. When the two-car train had first set out, the outrider had been overwhelmed by the cacophony of grinding gears, belching steam, and the clatter of the heavy iron treads turning on their steel wheels. Now he barely noticed the din; his ears were accustomed, his mind near numb.

  Only one drainer was with him in the conductor’s cabin. He was a short man with wide shoulders and a vaguely ugly face smeared with grease. Nothing about him was quite in proportion—his nose was too long with nostrils too large; his hands were too big for his arms—and he stood, rocking back and forth as the locomotive dipped and swayed, always with his knees bent, never rising to his full height, diminutive though it was. Scofield figured him for fifty. A single kerosene lantern hung in the room. It danced about, painting the space with an undulating mix of shadow and flickering yellow haze.

  The man had not given his name. But he was friendly enough, even trying to start a conversation or two. He would tuck his stringy gray-black hairs up into a shabby knit cap and turn to Scofield, explaining how some part or other of the engine worked, speaking in arcane detail for a minute or two before again falling silent. Scofield hadn’t responded with more than a grunt each time.

  He was not afraid. He was not resigned. He was not even angry. Rather Scofield found himself profoundly impatient. When the drainers had first taken him in, a few hours before, they had stripped his weapons, blindfolded him and he had been manhandled into the locomotive. Shortly thereafter the cramped engine room grew hot, the clamor began, and soon the train was moving.

  As soon as they’d been under way Scofield’s blindfold had been removed and the three other men in the locomotive, including this nameless engineer, had begun to chat casually, as if he weren’t even there. The outrider had tried to keep track of time as the sun approached and then dipped behind the horizon—he figured it to be around midnight now, maybe as much as a half hour either side. That meant they had been chugging along for a good six hours in a seemingly aimless series of slow turns and rapid straight-aways. Once, about two hours back, the train had stopped for a while and there had been some shouting and clatters and clanking out behind the trailing car but Scofield could not see what was happening. The other two drainers had left the compartment during the stop and not returned when the journey continued.

  So now, hours into his mobile captivity, neither tired nor alert, not particularly hungry or thirsty and not even worried save in an academic way, Scofield just wanted to get on with it. Whatever it was. He dug in his vest pocket for a smoke, noting that the sweating engineer quickly looked askance at him as he reached into his garment and watched until he could see the cigarette. He’s watching me good and close, Scofield affirmed to himself as he fished for his matches. He struck one but it blew out.

  “Here, let me,” the engineer said above the noise, a wry smile on his cracked lips. He held out a hand, pointing at the cigarette and then opening his palm. After a moment’s hesitation, Scofield took the smoke from his lips and dropped it into the outstretched hand. The drainer turned and held the tip of the cigarette against the grate over the coal fire for a mere second, then handed it back to the outrider. Its tip glowed brightly.

  Scofield nodded his thanks and looked away.

  “You learn little tricks when you’ve been driving these old girls long enough.”

  “Oh yeah?” Scofield replied, not looking over. “How long you been driving this thing?”

  “This one? A few years. About three. But I’ve . . .” the man stopped short, letting the next words die on his tongue.

  “How long have you been working with trains overall?” Now the outrider looked over at the engineer, staring into his eyes. The man held his gaze for a moment, eyes dark in the lantern’s glow, then he turned away.

  “Long enough.”

  Scofield looked out the window again, his gaze drifting up to the stars. He’d get no information from the engineer, who now hunched over a series of levers and gauges. Where’n the hell does a man learn how to drive a goddamn steam
engine, anyway? he mused. The tip of the cigarette shone brightly against the background of night, and every now and then little orange embers danced away from it, briefly mingling with the speckling of starlight above. It took the outrider a few minutes to realize that now and again patches of the sky were starless. Something else was different, too. The din of the engine room had dropped in pitch and the train seemed to be shaking less. It was slowing down. Then he could finally see a QV pillar as it passed close by and he realized the darker patches of sky were arrays overhead.

  There was a small door to the right of the coal grate next to the bench where the engineer sat when he wasn’t fiddling with gauges or peering out his window. The drainers who had left the engine room hours ago had used it and it had been so long now that Scofield scarcely remembered the door’s existence when suddenly it swung open. A tall man wearing a long beige cloak with its hood pulled low over his face stooped to enter through the low, narrow door. The train was nearly at a stop.

  “You got about ten. Coal us up and check the boiler, OK?” the tall man said barely above a whisper, leaning in close to the engineer, who nodded and then slipped through the open door after lowering a large lever set in the floor. Within seconds, the train was still, the clank and grind of gears gone. Now the only sound was the low crackle of the coal fire and an occasional puff of steam.

  “You need water or anything?” the man asked quietly, turning to face Scofield. The lantern now hung still and the engine room was relatively bright. The outrider kept his left eye all but closed to preserve night vision, just in case he found himself able to make a break for it. With his right eye, he peered into the darkness beneath the beige hood. He could see eyes and a nose and a mouth but the face was too shadowed to perceive anything other than generic man features. When next he spoke his voice was louder, his tone oddly warm.

  “Quite a night you’ve had, huh?”

  Scofield said nothing. He allowed his left eye to unsquint and rose from the little bench where he had been perched these many hours. His legs were stiff and he almost stumbled; his body had become accustomed to the rocking motion. The outrider steadied himself with one hand on the window frame and leaned closer to the hooded figure.