Fighting Iron 2: Perdition Plains

by Jake Bible

  “Perhaps the cartridges are ones you did not make,” Gibbons said.

  “Nope,” Clay said. “I fired all of those back before we hit the NorthAm border, remember?”

  “I wasn’t sure what batch you had used,” Gibbons said.

  “Any chance we have ammo in a sealed compartment?” Clay asked.

  “A very good chance,” Gibbons said. “At least for your revolver. Check the fourth cabinet from the left.”

  “Which left? My left or your left?” Clay asked.

  “I don’t have a left, Clay,” Gibbons replied. “Use your brain.”

  “My previously dead brain that was starved for oxygen?” Clay grumbled.

  “That excuse is getting old,” Gibbons said. “You died. Boo hoo. Move on.”

  “You and me are going to have some words when this is all done,” Clay said.

  “We are having words now, but I applaud your optimism, pal,” Gibbons said. “I’m glad you think whatever we have gotten into will eventually be over at some point.”

  “It always is,” Clay said and pushed down on the pilot’s seat’s armrests.

  He tried to stand to move over to the cabinet Gibbons had indicated, but his legs were jelly, and he was lucky he didn’t fall flat on his face considering the strange angle the mech was at. Yet Clay didn’t give up. He half-stumbled, half-crawled his way to the cabinet, pressed his palm flat against it, and popped it open. About ten liters of water came rushing out at him.

  “Nice,” Clay sighed. He almost gave up and turned back to the pilot’s seat, but stopped and smiled inside. “Yes. Very nice.”

  Inside the cabinet were three cartons, completely sealed, of .45 ammunition, about three hundred rounds in all.

  “Damn, I don’t remember making all of these,” Clay said as he pulled out one of the cartons, popped it open, and nearly wept at the sight of the dry cartridges inside. “I must have been really bored at some point.”

  “That would sound about right,” Gibbons said.

  Clay opened the cylinder of his pistol and let the wet cartridges fall out. He blew in each chamber, forcing as much water out as he could. That was the best he could do. He reloaded with the dry cartridges, flipped the cylinder back in place, gave it a twirl, which sent water droplets flying everywhere, then looked towards the cockpit hatch and the mech claw that was coming down at them.

  “Nothing you can tell me about what’s waiting for us up there?” Clay asked.

  “Like I said, Clay, functionality is minimal,” Gibbons said. “Power cells have enough to keep me going for a while, but that’s the only good news. There is too much damage for me to get any accurate readings. Your eyes and ears are probably more reliable than my sensors and scanners right now.”

  Clay stumbled back into the pilot’s seat and strapped in as the mech lurched. The huge claw collided with the cockpit, its massive metal fingers wrapping around the back of the mech. Not the most adept grip, which made Clay wonder who was piloting the mech above. Not a seasoned mech pro, more likely a simple laborer that got to the controls first.

  With a heavy jolt, the mech was lifted up hard enough that the back of Clay’s skull slammed against the headrest of his seat. He saw stars briefly and winced as new pain joined old pain. But he shook it off, spun his cylinder one more time, and rested his pistol in his lap as he waited to meet those above.

  When the mech was clear of the concrete sides, Clay gasped. He was struck dumb at the sight before him.

  “Wasn’t expecting that,” Clay said.

  “You and me both, pal,” Gibbons said

  Five

  Clay’s mech was set down in a tangled heap of huge metal arms and legs. All he could do was stare out the cockpit at the landscape. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. He heard of the practice, but never thought he’d ever witness it.

  “Are they a tribe? What are they?” Clay asked as he blinked a couple times. “Settlers? How many are there?”

  “I count over four hundred people,” Gibbons said. “A mix of young and old, male and female. I could not say they are any specific tribe since they do not seem to share any distinctive dress or markings. I would say that we have stumbled upon some prairie community that is carrying out their annual bison harvest before the harsh winter sets in.”

  For at least a kilometer, there were nothing but piles of dead bison. Some piles were of the dripping wet corpses that had just been plucked from the concrete riverbed, others were of animals completely void of their hides, skinned bodies that were striated with reds and pinks and fatty whites. Many more piles were of only the stripped hides that people walked back and forth from as they took a hide and staked it out in the cloud-filtered sunlight, letting it dry off from not just the river water, but the blood and fluids of the animals it had come from.

  Clay was so engrossed with the bloody industry that he didn’t notice the noise of someone grunting and swearing from just outside the mech. It wasn’t until a brave soul had climbed up to the cockpit and began rapping against the cracked hatch with an old-looking carbine that Clay snapped back to the predicament at hand.

  “You!” the man with the carbine shouted. “Stand up and show me your hands!”

  “You can see my hands right here,” Clay replied, nodding down at his lap where they rested, one gripping his revolver. “How about you tell me what’s going on before you start barking orders?”

  The man glared then forced the cockpit hatch up and open. Clay only waited. He didn’t have the strength to physically stop the guy.

  “Put the pistol on the floor,” the man ordered.

  “What did I just say about barking orders?” Clay snapped. “Tell me what I’ve fallen into first and then we can be the bestest of friends.”

  The man whipped the barrel of the carbine towards Clay, but Clay was faster. He had his pistol up and the hammer back before the man could get the butt of his carbine to his shoulder. Clay chuckled under his breath. The guy was an idiot. If he fired the carbine, the recoil would send him tumbling back from the mech. Even though the mech wasn’t up on its feet, it was still a good few meters of a fall.

  Someone shouted from down below, out of Clay’s sight.

  “He’s got a six shooter,” the man with the carbine responded.

  There was another unintelligible shout.

  “Yeah, it’s pointed at me,” the carbine man said. “But I’m willing to bet those cartridges are wet and useless.”

  “You really want to place that bet?” Clay asked. “Because there is only one way to know for sure.”

  “What?” the carbine man asked.

  “I said, do you really want to—?” Clay began.

  “Not you,” the carbine man snarled. “Shut up. What was that, Holcomb?”

  The carbine man listened for a second then shook his head.

  “I do that and he’ll shoot me,” the carbine man shouted to the voice below.

  “I’m only gonna shoot you if you keep pointing that carbine at me,” Clay said. “You aim that weapon somewhere else, and I’ll aim mine somewhere else. Then we can get back to you telling me what’s going on.”

  “I ain’t telling you nothing, stranger,” the carbine man said. “Holcomb can decide if you’re fit to know jack squat.”

  “I already know jack squat,” Clay said. “But maybe this Holcomb guy can fix that.”

  Another shout below.

  “Fine!” the carbine man shouted back. Then he slowly shifted the carbine so it was aimed off to the side. “You satisfied?”

  “Maybe relax up on the grip just a hair, pardner,” Clay said. “You’re looking a bit twitchy. I’d hate for that to, uh, accidentally go off when I ease my hammer down.”

  The carbine man hesitated for a long time then finally relaxed, letting the barrel of the carbine droop enough that Clay was satisfied he could fire first if the man changed his mind. Clay eased the hammer into place with his thumb then set the revolver to rest back in his lap. He raised his eye
brows and waited.

  “What?” the carbine man asked. “I told ya that Holcomb would answer your questions.” He shifted and moved to climb back down. “You want answers? Then get up off your ass and follow me.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” Clay said. “I’ll be right there.”

  The carbine man paused and studied Clay.

  “You don’t look so good, stranger,” he said. “Maybe you need some help getting out of that seat and out of this mech. Maybe you ain’t really much of a threat after all.”

  The carbine twitched. There was more shouting from below.

  “Okay! Shut the hell up, Holcomb! I’m coming down!” The carbine man gave Clay one last look then was lost from sight.

  “Thoughts?” Clay asked quietly.

  “A dozen men and women, all armed,” Gibbons said, his voice coming from the com in Clay’s ear so that half of the conversation was only between them. “No real organization to the group. If they have any combat training, they sure aren’t showing it. My guess is we’re looking at homesteaders.”

  “Homesteaders? Where the hell are we?” Clay asked.

  “We’re in the Midlands,” Gibbons said. “Neutral territory. These folks could be from NorthAm, Northeast MexiCali, maybe even Cascadia. Hell, Clay, they could have come up from the Brazilian Empire, for all we know. No way to tell where any of them are from until you talk to them.”

  “Midlands, right,” Clay said. “The great melting pot of refugees and misfits in a nightmare landscape where luck just means you live another day. I’m familiar with the Midlands’ reputation.”

  “You should feel right at home,” Gibbons said.

  “Hardy har har,” Clay replied.

  “I will say that there is a similarity among them,” Gibbons said. “I have limited processing power at the moment, but I’ll keep looking into it.”

  “What kind of similarities?” Clay asked.

  “Pallor, for one,” Gibbons aid. “Did you notice the skin tone of the man that was just up here? Pale and not quite healthy looking.”

  “I’d chalk that up to life in the Midlands,” Clay said. “These prairies are perpetually covered by clouds. My pallor would be just as pale if I was forced to live out here.”

  “You talking to yourself, mister?” a man asked as he appeared at the edge of the cockpit. “That’s never a good sign out in these parts.”

  He was older, but not aged. Perhaps in his early to mid-fifties. His head was a tangle of curly grey hair with a wild beard to match. The man’s eyes were almost as grey as the hair and sky that loomed over everything. But his lips held a friendly smirk and his hands were empty of any weapons, so Clay gave him a quick smile and a nod.

  “Bad habit from traveling alone,” Clay said. “Sometimes I even talk back to myself, but not often. I’m a horrible conversationalist.”

  “Are you now?” the man asked as he hooked a leg over the edge of the cockpit and hoisted himself inside. He stayed there, his butt set on the lip of the cockpit hatch while his eyes looked Clay up and down. “Are your conversation skills good enough to tell me your name?”

  “You first,” Clay said.

  “Okay,” the man said. “They call me Holcomb around here.”

  “Do they? What do you call yourself?” Clay asked.

  “Holcomb,” Holcomb responded. “Ain’t the name I was born with, but it’s the one I’ve had going on three decades now.”

  “That brings up all sorts of questions,” Clay said. “But how about we start with where around here is exactly?”

  Holcomb only smiled.

  “Right, of course,” Clay said and chuckled. “Clay MacAulay. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Holcomb.”

  “Just Holcomb,” Holcomb responded.

  Neither man made to shake hands.

  “And we are where?” Clay asked.

  “The Midlands,” Holcomb answered. “Perdition Plains, to be exact.”

  “Perdition Plains,” Clay said. “Never heard of it.”

  “No reason you should have,” Holcomb said. “We’re a small community. Keep to ourselves. Just a bunch of folks looking for some peace from all the strife the territories cause. Can’t trust any of them, NorthAm or the MexiCalis.”

  “I’ll agree with you there,” Clay said.

  They watched each other for a few minutes before Holcomb clapped his hands together.

  “How about we get you out of this cockpit and down around a campfire?” Holcomb asked. “I take it from my man Regan that you may not be able to handle the climb on your own.”

  “I won’t exactly admit to the infirmity, but then it would be hard to deny if you asked me to get up and dance,” Clay said.

  “Not to worry,” Holcomb said. “I think I can help.”

  He moved from the edge of the cockpit to Clay, his hands up in a friendly gesture saying he meant no harm.

  “Anything broken I need to know about before I help you out of your seat?” Holcomb asked.

  “Not that I am aware of,” Clay said.

  “Good to know,” Holcomb said and leaned over Clay. “Wrap your hands around the back of my neck. If you got any strength in your legs, then use it. I may be a man that labors everyday, but I ain’t as strong as I was when I was your age.”

  Holcomb lifted, Clay pushed with his legs, and between them they managed to get Clay over to the edge of the cockpit. He looked out at the strange and bloody scene. Quite a few eyes were turned up to him, but the majority were busy on their work, completing tasks that made Clay’s stomach turn. He wasn’t squeamish, but it was an awful lot of blood. Enough to stain most of the flattened grasses a dark brownish red.

  A loud whistle startled Clay, but Holcomb held him tight and kept him from tumbling out of the mech.

  “Sorry about that,” Holcomb said. “Just calling for your ride.”

  “All good,” Clay responded as he watched the Vernacht mech claw swing into view.

  It dripped with bison fluids, but it had a clean enough center between the huge fingers for Clay to climb out onto that he didn’t feel the need to argue the sanitary issues that came to mind. Holcomb helped him get situated so he wouldn’t tumble from between the gaps as the claw was lowered to the ground.

  “Thanks,” Clay said. “Much appreciated.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb responded.

  Clay was helped onto the blood-stained earth, and he tried to give the small crowd a confident smile. From their indifferent expressions, he either failed at the smile or they could care less how confident he was. Half of them kept their eyes on him while the other half drifted their gazes to his holstered revolver.

  “I’m going to have to relieve you of your sidearm, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said. “The right to bear arms here is earned. You can have it back once the folks in charge back in town are confident you present no threat to our little community.”

  Clay didn’t offer the pistol, Holcomb didn’t make a move for it. They left it at that for the moment.

  “Town?” Clay asked. He looked around, but besides the industry around him, there was nothing but grass for as far as he could see.

  “Yes, a town,” Holcomb laughed. “What? You think we just plop down on the dirt and sleep in the open? This may be the Midlands, Mr. MacAulay, but we do have some semblance of civilization.”

  “Sorry, no offense meant,” Clay said.

  “None taken,” Holcomb said. “We don’t see many strangers traveling through. Most stick to the routes along the borders if they need to travel from one side of the continent to the other.” He squinted up into the ever-present cloud bank that stretched from horizon to horizon. “Not that I can blame them. I’d rather be looking at orange and red mesas than this constant grey.”

  “Speaking of grey,” Clay said. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could get some for my mech, would you?” He turned his head and nodded at the giant Vernacht mech that loomed over his own battle mech behind them, its claw back to work fishing out handfuls o
f bison corpses from the concrete riverbed. “I assume you have some to keep that baby there operating.”

  “Grey? No, we ain’t got no grey,” Holcomb said. His face shifted, looking slightly uneasy, then returned to its previously easygoing, friendly features.

  “Really?” Clay asked, surprised. “I thought Vernachts only ran on grey. Mechs that size will drain a power cell faster than—”

  “Might be able to get you hooked up with some geothermal and charge those power cells for ya, but that’s up to the folks in charge,” Holcomb interrupted, turning Clay away from the mech. “But we ain’t got no grey.”

  “Folks in charge?” Clay asked. “Mayor? Town council? Knights of the roundtable?”

  He laughed. No one else did.

  As he did a quick study of the less than hospitable faces that surrounded him, Clay could see that Gibbons was right, their pallor wasn’t just from living in a land that didn’t see much direct sunlight. They were all pale and wan-looking. He figured if he stumbled upon one of them sleeping, he’d think he was seeing a corpse. Fitting considering the field of death that stretched around him.

  “I think we may skip the campfire and take you straight to them,” Holcomb said as he started Clay walking again and steered him towards an ancient-looking roller a few meters away. “There’s a heater in the cab that should get you toasty. May not completely dry out those wet clothes before we arrive, but it’ll keep you from catching your death of cold. You’re lucky, Mr. MacAulay, the day is a mild one for these parts. Normally, we’d be fighting early snow squalls. It’s why we endeavored to complete a late-season harvest. Have to use the weather when you can around here.”

  “I can only imagine,” Clay said.

  They reached the roller, and Clay pulled up short. It was a good-sized transport with the classic eight-wheel arrangement, four on each side, but instead of being powered by a heavy engine in front, the roller was hitched to a team of creatures that were unlike any Clay had ever seen.

  “I’ll explain along the way,” Holcomb said as he opened a rear door and helped Clay up into the roller. “Sit tight while I make sure my people have things in hand here before we leave. I have a good crew, but if anyone gets lazy and damages the locks, well, I wouldn’t want to be them.”