Outrider

by Steven John

  “This field? About a decade. Stopped working years before that but I guess Dreg thought maybe someone could come along and reinstate it. There’s been nothing connected to it for . . . long as I can recall, anyway.”

  Again the old woman turned and walked away, leaving little puffs of dust where her heels dragged across the ground. Scofield scanned the expanse of toppled QV pillars and shattered arrays. The sunfield had likely stood about two miles long by a quarter of that deep. Maybe a bit less. It would have been enough to run a few small towns or many hundreds of acres of farmland. The outrider had not known there was another sunfield within four hundred miles. Everything within that radius was entirely dependent on New Las Vegas. Makes a bit more sense, he fumed as he pressed his eyes closed tightly. Scofield was unmoving for a long time, feeling the cool breeze on his cheeks; hearing it drift across the land and whistle gently as it blew among the shattered arrays and columns.

  Then there were feet crunching on the sand behind him, approaching more quickly than the elderly Wilbee could muster. Scofield recognized the voice, and turned, opening his eyes.

  “I just wanted to shake your hand, if you’re willing,” Sebastian said earnestly, stopping a few feet from the outrider. “Then we’re taking you back to your outpost. You’ll be dropped within a few miles from it.”

  “Think I should trust that?”

  “I won’t deign to think for you, Scofield. Will you shake my hand?” He stepped closer and tossed his robe behind his shoulders, extending his right hand.

  The outrider was still for a minute, then, slowly, he reached out and clasped the drainer’s hand.

  “Don’t take that as anything more’n it is, get me? Ain’t like we’re friends now. I ain’t on your team. I just . . .”

  “No need to explain.” Sebastian released the outrider’s hand. “You decide for yourself if it’s the devil you know or the devil you don’t.”

  Timothy Hale sat in the corner of the motel room sulking. He was leaning back in a chair, his eyes on the water-stained ceiling. The toilet flushed and David Flint walked out of the commode, stopping at the sink to wash his hands.

  “Again, sorry to impose, Tim. Next nearest head is all the way at the Town Hall.” The drainer poured a bottle of water over his hands, then scrubbed at them with soap.

  “The toilet works but not the sink?”

  “Yup. This toilet and only two others in town. There’s a cistern on the roof. You get used to it.”

  Flint dried his hands and walked toward the door, stopping to lean against the wall. “You sure you don’t want a book or something? You’re going to be waiting around here for a loooong time.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, Flint. If I were you, I’d be counting my own time as precious.” A bright smile lifted Flint’s reddish cheeks. He shook his head, looking down as Hale went on. “So you were an outrider, huh? Then I guess you know something about the resources the city has on hand.”

  “I know lots. Which helped out in planning, believe me. You still sound so righteous, man. I don’t know how you maintain the delusion.”

  “Delusion!” Hale let the front legs of the chair slam down onto the thin carpet. He leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows resting on his knees. “Is a gunship delusion? Are regiments of soldiers delusion? The Defense Forces may be run by a bunch of assholes but they’re goddamn good. I’ve seen the plans for an assault of the field, Mr. Flint—it’s a strategic Royal Flush. That sonofabitch Strayer will drive his men until every one of you bastards is killed or rotting in jail.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Flint pulled back a jacket sleeve to check his wristwatch. “That may be a bit hard for him to do now that he’s dead.”

  Hale’s face went ashen, his throat dry. “Strayer’s dead?”

  “By now . . . yes.” Flint looked up again.

  “We . . . it doesn’t matter . . . he’s one man . . .”

  “Just a second ago you seemed to think he was the one man. Delusion, Tim. I’ll go find you some books and magazines.”

  The capacitor bank, built into plates along the dirt floor, was locked and ready; all its wires were threaded together and attached to the massive copper spool. The spool, fifteen feet high and more than half that around, perched between two large cones of steel mesh, each a dozen feet long. Russell Ascher was literally jumping from place to place, connecting lines and tightening bolts.

  So many goddamn cables! I need ten hands! Then, aloud, he swore to himself, “There’s not enough fucking time!” Under his breath, again he cursed whoever had slipped up, revealing that the drainers had access to Civil Defense’s schedules, thus causing them to move their assault earlier.

  A long aluminum rod ran through the tall copper spool, its ends extending well into each of the mesh cones. The last step below ground was to connect dozens of thin filaments from the steel mesh to the aluminum pole. Ascher worked as quickly as his thick fingers could to secure the delicate wiring.

  He had three glow rods tucked into his jacket pocket and the heavy coil of cable he’d carry to the surface was waiting by the ladder.

  Ascher finished attaching the final filament and let out a little victory whoop. He dragged a sleeve across his brow, wiping off a mixture of sweat and dust. He looked down at his pocket watch as he hurried toward the ladder. 10:46 a.m. It was going to be goddamn close. Russell hefted the heavy length of wire up and worked it over his neck and one shoulder to hang across his broad torso.

  He glanced once more around the small room, making sure there were no errant scraps of metal or loose wires, then cracked a glow rod, shaking it to brighten the ethereal green light. Russell took hold of the rickety wooden ladder and began his ascent. The rungs groaned under his weight.

  Mayor Dreg’s eyes darted about the room. He was working hard to keep his cool. No one had seen Ridley Strayer in two hours and now that Major Engel had found the colonel’s mobile phone and sidearm, an undercurrent of alarm was drifting through the Meeting Hall.

  “Probably got a case of the runs or something,” Franklin said, forcing a little laugh. “That’ll lead a man to drop everything for a while, ey?” When Engel responded only with furrowed brows, Dreg abandoned any further attempts at levity. He scratched roughly at an itch on the side of his nose. As much as he loathed the bastard personally, Dreg had not appointed Strayer the head of his martial forces for conversation, but because he was damn good at affairs of defense. And attack. It was unclear just what this operation would be.

  “Colonel Strayer is the last man in the world who would lose his pistol, Mayor. The gun was just lying in the sand. And his mobile . . . this isn’t good at all.”

  “Well, check the security cameras again! Ask the men again!”

  “What would change, sir?”

  Major Engel had already ordered a full review of every Outpost camera log and had personally questioned or sent his top captains to question every single Civil Defense Force soldier and outrider not dispatched to the field. The soldiers knew nothing, all of them merely following the orders of their designated roles; most of the Civil Defense men left around the Meeting Hall were glued to computer screens tracking flight patterns, heat and infrared monitors, and communications from the field.

  And as far as Engel knew, there were only two outriders left within miles of home base: a doddering old timer named Ryan Cannell and a cold-eyed man who gave his name only as Scofield.

  Dreg paced back and forth behind Engel, who was typing away at his console, feigning work as he let his mind run through the possibilities. Or probabilities, to be more accurate: he had to operate under the assumption that Colonel Strayer was at best compromised, likely dead. How, the Major scrambled to understand. No one had seen anything unusual, there had been no signs of struggle—Strayer had simply walked out of the Meeting Hall to place a call and disappeared.

  Engel’s thinking was jarringly interrupted when Dreg suddenly boomed: “Mr. Scofield! My friend!”

  The outrider stood in t
he doorway of the Meeting Hall. The Mayor was rushing to meet him. He took up Scofield’s right hand in both of his, shaking it vigorously. Scofield’s flesh was limp and cold.

  “Tell me what’s what out there, old man!” Dreg exclaimed loudly enough that most men in the room could hear despite the constant drone of gear and murmuring voices.

  “We already debriefed him, Mr. Mayor,” Engel said, coming up behind Dreg. “He just got back from running horsefeed. I need to show you something on—”

  “In a minute, Engel!” Dreg waved a dismissive hand over one shoulder. The Major’s dark lips flattened out, his eyes narrowed. He didn’t care to be taken so lightly. Especially when he had just come up with something very odd. There were strange dark patches emerging all around the sunfield, picked up by heat sensing drones. The officer had no clue what could be causing areas of cooler signature. Shaking his head, Engel turned to walk away and consult with his team.

  “So? What’s happening in my field?” Dreg asked.

  “I got nothing to tell you as of now, Frank. I gotta go see about my horse.” Scofield’s eyes were ablaze, fixing The Mayor with a gaze so intent Dreg blanched. “I need to go see my horse right now.”

  “But surely—”

  “It was all quiet where I saw, Mayor. Quiet as the grave.”

  Engel heard the door shut and glanced back over his shoulder to see Dreg standing alone. The Major hid a little smile, happy someone had slammed a door in The Mayor’s face. As he sat back down to continue tracking the heat sensors, he wondered why the outrider was so intent on seeing his horse. Hadn’t he just come in from a route?

  Scofield had already gone to check on Reese—he’d jogged three miles straight to the stable after the train stopped to let him out. He had spent almost five full minutes with his arms around her neck, whispering to her and caressing her smooth, firm flesh, savoring the familiar smell of the one thing still steady in his world. The horse, for her part, had whinnied and neighed and tossed her mane, stamping with excitement at his arrival. She was every bit as thrilled by the reunion.

  What the hell do we do now, girl? Scofield had whispered to her over and over again in his mind. Never before in all his life had he felt so totally unsure what was righteous and what was wrong. If there had been a way to disappear that very moment, to leave New Las Vegas and the sunfield and all of it behind, he would have done it, if only he could bring his horse.

  When he left the stable, heading toward his little home—where else to go?—three Civil Defense soldiers had stopped him. He had lied through his teeth to the men, a rarity for Scofield. He loathed deceit. But in the face of all he now knew, he had to keep himself as his only council for the time being. Later there would be time to . . . to decide, I guess, he thought with heavy heart.

  For now, though, what Scofield needed was information—no time even to grab a shower and fresh set of drawers. And with the Outpost overrun with city boys and apparently devoid of riders, there was only one place to go. Scofield pushed open the door to Matteson’s Place and stepped inside.

  It was cool within the bar; several degrees cooler than the warming late morning air outside. Only a few lamps shined, and Scofield made his way across the room slowly to let his eyes adjust. There was no one in sight and no sounds save the trickle from a brewing coffee pot and the quiet hum of the ventilation system. Scofield stopped at the bar, curling his thumbs under the smooth wooden lip and pressing his fingers down on the bar top. He stood there, holding on, for a few long breaths, letting his hands drop only as the backroom door opened.

  “Hey, Scof.”

  “Hey Matteson.”

  Matteson checked the coffee pot and flipped a switch on its side. His back turned to the outrider, he rubbed at both eyes with the sides of his index fingers, then ran his palms across his white shirt to smooth wrinkles from the fabric.

  “You seen Boss Hutton?”

  “No,” the bartender replied, turning to face Scofield. “Not since early this morning. Ain’t seen any of you boys in hours.”

  “Yeah—I guess we’re all at the office.”

  “Seems that way. You heard about the plans? For eleven or so? Won’t be long now.”

  “No, I wasn’t . . . I haven’t heard.”

  “Figured. Hutton’s gonna sound the sirens early. Start everything at eleven, not wait until one. May still be a few aircraft en route but I guess Dreg got impatient. Or someone got wind of something.”

  Scofield scratched his chin. “Did Hut tell you all that?”

  “People talk. I know all sorts of things, Scofield.” Matteson picked up a tumbler and set it before the outrider. He looked down at the empty glass. “You want a bourbon? Or maybe you’re ready for something different.”

  Matteson’s eyes were intense—glowing—when he lifted his gaze to meet Scofield’s. His face took on an aspect the outrider had never seen on it before; gone was the standard half-smile, the lifted brows. After a pause, Matteson tilted his head to one side as if to prompt a response.

  “I don’t know what I want, Matt.” Scofield eased down onto a stool, breaking eye contact. “Not the usual. Not . . . I don’t know. I guess you tried another drink, huh?” Getting no response but a softer though inscrutable face, Scofield whispered: “I guess I’ll just have some of that coffee. For now.”

  24

  Buss Hutton hung up the ancient phone with a sigh. No answer from Colonel Strayer and no one picking up at the Meeting Hall. No answer at Matteson’s Place. He’d tried a few random calls to city numbers and gotten people on the line, so it wasn’t a problem with the cracked and rusting handset attached to the concrete wall of the sirenhouse. Which was unsettling—an old broken phone would have made plenty of sense.

  Hutton checked his wristwatch. 10:51 a.m. Just minutes to go, and no going back. Time to draw these bastards into the open. Time to fight. He pulled off his hat and glanced up at the sky. It was pure blue and cloudless. The sun was bright and the day would be warmer than any in the weeks preceding it. A light breeze stirred the loose top layer of sand. The Boss pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket—he had given up the dream of ever quitting them again—and lit a smoke, leaning against the sirenhouse, still hatless.

  Little pings and clanks sounded beneath the hood of the jeep parked nearby. The drive all the way around the eastern tip of the sunfield to this station had taken him the better part of two hours. Hutton had not stopped once, but he had slowed down to a crawl each time he passed a Civil Defense squad or a group of vehicles or one of the many forward operating posts the soldiers had established. It all looked neat and tidy—men in matching uniforms with matching weapons and dozens of menacing assault vehicles and overhead the near-constant whine of engines.

  Helicopters and unmanned drones and a few large surveillance craft were flying dozens of patterns over the field. This was the first time all day Hutton had not been able to hear any mechanical noise. He savored the moment, taking slow drags from the cigarette and trying to let his mind go blank. How many years did you think it would go on like that? Ain’t you lucky, really? What were you gonna do when these knees gave out? When this brain started going sour? Shuffle around at night and read the papers in the morning? They still even print the paper? You got a pretty lucky run, ol boy.

  The sound of a horse fast approaching shook Hutton back into the present. The rider was coming from the west, obscured by the sirenhouse. Hutton dropped the smoke and jammed his hat back on, drawing his pistol. He eased around the southern corner of the little building, keeping his body tight to the cinderblock walls. When The Boss reached the southwest edge of the sirenhouse, he cocked his six-shooter and stepped into the clear, keeping the gun down by his thigh.

  A smile turned up Hutton’s lips and he immediately eased the hammer back down and returned his pistol to its holster. The outrider rode to within a few feet of The Boss and then reined his horse to a halt.

  Joseph Bay dismounted and walked over to Hutton. He was not smiling. Hu
tton’s grin melted back into his gray whiskers.

  “How’re the Bay Brothers holdin’ up, Joe?”

  “Ain’t no Bay Brothers left.” His face was hard as marble. “There’s just Joe B.” Joseph lowered his head, looking down at the desert. His shoulders rose and fell heavily, obviously surging with emotion though the face above them betrayed no hint of feeling.

  Hutton took in a breath and began to speak, but only succeeded in stammering “Christ, man . . . I—damn Joe . . . damn . . . I got no idea what to say.”

  Joseph raised a hand, palm out, to stop any further attempt at consolation. Slowly, he turned his hand around until he was looking down at its palm. His fingers curled into a fist. Finally he raised his eyes. They fell on Hutton but saw nothing—his gaze was endless.

  “I aim to join my kin soon. With enough blood on my hands to squeeze the Devil a glass when I meet him.”

  “Joe, I know it hurts bad, believe me I know, but what you—”

  “It’s done, Hut. It’s already finished. I just gotta go through the motions. I heard your ol’ jeep and wanted to come by and shake your hand one more time. That’s it. It’s already done.”

  Bay extended his hand and immediately Boss Hutton took it in his own, squeezing hard. Joseph’s eyes finally seemed to focus and Hutton held them with his own for a second, then nodded. The handshake ended and Joseph stepped back, turning his head in a slow pan across the horizon. Then he wheeled and walked back toward his horse with quick, long strides.

  As Bay settled into his saddle and gathered the reins in his hands, he looked back at The Boss one more time.

  “Ride hard, Joe,” Hutton raised an index finger to his hat brim, then pointed at the outrider. Bay nodded, a strange smile on his face. Then he spun the horse about and set his spurs into the colt.

  Hutton watched Joseph Bay for several minutes as he galloped toward the field. When the horse and rider were no more than a distant object, no longer audible, The Boss walked toward the sirenhouse door. 10:59. Time to get on with it.