I looked back at my employees. “Do me a favor, guys. Rent us seven rooms. Tell Otis to put it on my tab.”
“Who’s Otis?” Broome asked.
“The owner. He knows me.”
The contractors glanced at each other and Broome said, “Are we staying the night here?”
I gave him a flat stare. “You think Sheriff Elliott will be happy with us if we leave?”
Broome grimaced. “Good point.”
I walked wearily into the tavern, ignored the dead bodies, and motioned to the bartender. He walked over slowly, eyes wary.
“Mr. Riordan, is everything all right?”
I sat down on a stool. “Got it all under control. Pour me a drink will you?”
“What?”
My glare must have been pretty harsh, because he straightened up immediately. “Pour. Me. A. Drink.”
“Y…yes sir.”
He lifted a bottle of Stall’s Reserve from under the table, poured some into a glass with shaking hands, and handed it to me. I drained it in one gulp, winced, and wiggled my fingers toward the bottle.
“Just leave it. Is Otis around?”
“He’s next door, I think.”
“Send someone to go get him, will you? Let him know the fun’s over.”
“Okay. I’ll uh…I’ll do that.” A look of relief crossed the bartender’s face as he scuttled away.
Rather than wait for Otis, I picked up my bottle and glass, walked to the manager’s office, and took a key from a pegboard against the wall. Then I carried all of the aforementioned items to my room, locked the door behind me, and set about the very serious business of drinking myself to sleep.
TWELVE
Five days later, Deputy Sarah Glover and two of her colleagues stopped by the store and asked me if I could come to the station with them and speak to Sheriff Elliott. I asked them if I had a choice. Sarah frowned at me and told me not to be a jerk and just fucking do it. I almost said no, but then remembered I owed her for helping me. Not to mention the fact she was a friend of the family, and if she complained to my wife, I would be relegated to the couch for no less than two nights. So I shut my mouth and went along.
At the station, Walter Elliott was sitting behind his desk with a stack of paperwork in front of him. I stopped in the doorway and knocked twice. The old lawman looked up, frowned, and motioned to one of the chairs opposite him.
“You made a hell of a mess,” he said.
I sat down. “Sorry about that.”
He picked up a file folder. “I took photos and fingerprints from what was left of those boys you shot all to hell, and sent them to the Archive. Didn’t expect to hear back for weeks. So imagine my surprise when they get back to me within forty-eight hours.”
My eyes widened. “Must have been some pretty bad men.”
Elliott looked down and shuffled a few papers. “That they were. Everything from petty larceny to murder for hire. These guys have been terrorizing towns along the trade routes for years. And now, lo and behold, they come here looking to strong-arm an old farmer’s land from him.”
He leaned forward and squinted at me. “Does that sound like raiders to you?”
I shrugged. “Only if someone hired them.”
“Exactly.”
“Do we know who did the hiring?”
“No. They used a middle man.”
“Got any leads on him?”
“We do, but it’s outside my jurisdiction. I turned what I have over to the FBI. The SAC of the Wichita Safe Zone said he’d have one of his guys look into it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t hold your breath, Sheriff.”
“Believe me, I’m not.”
We sat in silence for a few seconds. Finally, I said, “I’m guessing all the evidence you have is from that courier I turned over to you?”
“Yep.”
“How did you get him to talk?”
“Easy. I told him he could either confess, or I’d cut him loose in the market square. But before I did, I’d make sure word got out about what he was involved in.”
I nodded. “There’s a lot of rough people here who don’t take kindly to raiders.”
“That there are. He wouldn’t have made it a mile out of town, and he knew it.”
“So what happens to him now?”
“He’ll sit in lockup until the next convoy from Fort McCray heads west. The government liaison will sign papers for him to be taken into federal custody when he reaches Wichita. After that, it’s up to the courts.”
“You think there’s a chance he’ll walk?”
Sheriff Elliott shook his head. “I highly doubt it. We have a signed confession and witness testimony. He delivered the kidnappers’ instructions, so at a minimum, we have him on conspiracy.”
“Good. I hope he enjoys the federal prison camp he’ll be calling home the next few years.”
Sheriff Elliott looked out the window. “Amen.”
A few seconds passed in silence. Sensing something was amiss, I said, “Is that all you wanted to talk about, Walt?”
The sheriff heaved a sigh. “You and your men dropped a lot of bodies, Eric. That kind of thing hasn’t happened around here in a couple of years. People are talking.”
“So what? Let ‘em talk. Maybe it’ll remind them the world outside the wall is still a dangerous place. Not everybody has it as good as we do.”
“Eric, I’m not saying what you did was wrong. Those sons of bitches had it coming. But you should have come to me first so I could put the stamp of the law on this thing. Make it legit.”
I was silent a few seconds. “Are saying it wasn’t?”
“What I’m saying is things are changing, Eric. Law and order is being restored. It’s slow going, but it is happening. If the Feds decide to take a look at this one, it might not go so well for you. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and counted backward from five before answering.
“Walt, everything I did, I did acting as an agent of a civilian in duress who could not reasonably bring his predicament to the attention of law enforcement authorities due to extenuating, and life threatening, circumstances. As a licensed and certified private security contractor, having successfully passed all necessary testing and qualifications thereof, I am allowed, by law, to use deadly force when necessary in self-defense, defense of others, and defense of property that can be reasonably deemed essential to the livelihood and survival of the principal to whom my services are contracted. If the Feds think there was something wrong with the way I handled things, I’m certain my team of attorneys would be happy to speak with them. They’re very much up to date on the new Constitution, as well as all recently enacted federal statutes appertaining. Especially the ones regarding the use of private security forces as an alternative to further burdening our nation’s already insufficient supply of sworn peace officers.”
Sheriff Elliott stared at me for a few seconds, then lowered his head and rubbed at a spot between his eyes. “Eric, I’m just the messenger, okay? And the message is simple—be careful. If there’s one thing the government doesn’t want right now, it’s private security companies overstepping their mandate. The powers-that-be are a nervous bunch, and we both know how far they’ll go to maintain authority. You follow what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. I follow. Anything else?”
The sheriff shook his head tiredly. “No. That’s it.”
I stood up. “See you around, Walt.”
“Yeah. See you.”
THIRTEEN
The next afternoon, at ten minutes until three, John Redstone walked into the general store. He had a canvas satchel over one shoulder. I greeted him, asked Great Hawk to watch the counter for a few minutes, and led the old farmer into my office. He sat down in a chair across from me and removed a stack of papers from the satchel.
“I think you’ll find everything is in order,” he said.
I read over the paperwork. It was, i
ndeed, in order. All I had to do was sign and date in three places, and I would own a twenty percent stake in Redstone’s farm. It was a great deal for me. He would do the work, and I would reap a hefty percentage of the reward. And all I’d had to do from my end was rescue a terrified girl from a bunch of fucking savages.
The pen was in my hand. It hovered over the papers for nearly a minute. There was no reason not to sign. A deal is a deal, after all. Redstone had agreed to the terms. But I wondered what I might have done if he’d had nothing to offer. If he had come to me and asked for my help with empty pockets and his hat in his hands. Would I have refused? The question made me think of my son, and my wife, and what they would think of me if I did something like that. If I had refused to help when I had been more than capable of doing so. What would they think if I had let those evil bastards kill that girl? More to the point, what would I think of myself? Finally, I decided there were things in life more important than money. The cap went back on the pen and I put it away.
“What’s wrong?” Redstone asked, sounding worried.
“Nothing,” I replied, and pushed the paperwork back toward him. “Everything’s in order.”
The old farmer looked confused. “Then why didn’t you sign?”
“Because I’ve changed my mind. We’re square, John. Go home to your daughter and tell her the farm is all yours. How’s she doing by the way?”
Redstone’s confusion gave way to sorrow, and then anger. He clenched his fists and looked down at the table.
“Those men, they uh…did things to her.”
I closed my eyes and let out a breath. “I’m sorry, John. I really am. I wish I could have gotten to her sooner.”
He looked up at me. “You saved her life, Mr. Riordan. She knows that, and I know it too. And ain’t neither one of us ever gonna forget it.”
I picked up a pad from my desk and wrote an address on it, then handed it to Redstone. “This is the office of Patricia Murphy. She was a therapist before the Outbreak, worked with a lot of women who had been…hurt. Like your daughter. You understand?”
Redstone nodded.
“She’s good. My wife knows her. She’s done some great work with people coming in from the wastelands. She can help Emilia.”
“I don’t know if Emilia wants any help.”
“Whether she wants it or not, she needs it. If you really want to pay me back for saving her, then convince Emilia to go see Patricia. And while you’re at it just…be there for her, John. She has a hard road ahead of her. Make sure she doesn’t have to walk it alone.”
Redstone’s chin trembled, and he had to wipe a hand across his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.
“I’ll do that. You can count on it.”
“Good.” I stood up, and John stood as well.
“Thank you,” he said, and reached out a hand. I shook it.
“I’m glad I could help, John.”
“I owe you, Mr. Riordan. If you ever need anything from me, anything at all, you know where to find me.”
“I appreciate it.”
The old man stood there a few more seconds, then gathered his papers, thanked me again, and left.
*****
It was a slow day, and the store was empty until shortly before closing. I was just about ready to flip the sign when the bell rang over the door and Alan White walked in.
I kept my expression blank, but shifted on my stool so my right hand was close to the Glock 17 under the counter. Alan approached to within a few feet. He was carrying the same quiver he’d had before, and it was once again full of arrows. He still had some ugly yellow bruising along his jaw and dark rings under both eyes.
“How’s it going?” he said, shuffling where he stood.
I kept my face blank. “Been a slow one. How about you?”
He placed the quiver on the counter. “I made some more arrows. Wanted you to look at them, see what you think.”
I picked up the arrows and inspected a few of them. “The fletching is a lot better than your last batch. Shafts are straight, heads are balanced right.” I looked up at him. “Not bad at all. I can get a pretty good price for these. You looking to trade?”
“Yeah, I was uh…hoping you still had some beef jerky.”
“I do. Ten arrows will buy you a pound. Fair enough?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
I took the arrows to the storeroom, weighed out the beef, wrapped it in some cheese cloth, and gave it to Alan.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
The man hesitated. “Look, I’m really sorry about the other day. I’ve been having a tough time lately, you know? Seems like there’s never enough work to make ends meet. I got a woman and a stepson, and I…” he trailed off.
“Life is hard for everyone, Alan. You might think I have it easy, but I don’t. Success can be just as difficult as poverty. Believe me, I’ve done both. Guys like me, we walk around with targets on our backs. Everybody thinks they can carve off a piece. Not a day goes by I don’t have to look over my shoulder. But despite all that, I haven’t let the challenges I live with turn me into a bad person. You shouldn’t either.”
White looked down. “I know. Like I said, I’m sorry. That was wrong, what I did.”
“Apology accepted.”
He looked at me and laughed nervously. “Just like that?”
I smiled at him. “What do you want, a kiss on the cheek?”
He laughed. “No, I don’t. I just, you know, didn’t think it would be that easy.”
“I’ve got enough problems, Alan. The last thing I need is a feud with you and your friends. I’m cool if you are.”
“I’m cool.”
“Good. So you got plans for that beef?”
White seemed relieved at the change of subject. “Yeah, I’m on a, uh, road crew next week. Three day job. Figured it would be good to have something high-protein to snack on while I work.”
“Not a bad idea.”
We talked a little more. Nothing important, just shooting the breeze. Alan eventually ran out of things to say, so I informed him I was about to close for the day. He said his goodbyes and left.
A few seconds later, just as I was about to get up from my stool, the door opened again. This time it was Jasso and Vance who walked in. Great Hawk must have recognized the footsteps. I heard his chair slide back and he walked out of the storeroom and stood next to me at the counter.
“What’s up, Hawk?” Jasso said.
“Another day,” Great Hawk replied.
Vance was stoic and silent, which I assumed was his standard operating mode.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” I asked.
“Actually, we’re here to give you something,” Jasso said. Vance nodded in agreement.
I looked back and forth between them. “Okay. What is it?”
Jasso reached into a hip pocket and produced a hammered copper disc about the size of a half dollar. He held it out to me. There was a small lanyard hole near the edge, just big enough for a piece of rawhide or thin cord.
A medallion? I thought.
“Here you go,” Jasso said.
I took the disc from him and examined it. It looked to have been made in a stamping press. There was a raised image of a rabbit in full sprint with four marked compass points around it. At the perimeter of the medallion there was Latin writing. The inscription read: Viam Invenium Aut Faciam
“Find a way, or make one,” I said.
Jasso looked surprised. “Yeah, that’s right. You speak Latin?”
I shrugged. “I was raised Catholic.”
“Well, that inscription is the Runner’s motto. Having one our markers means you’re a trusted man among us. Show that when you’re hiring one of us, or if you meet us on the road and need information. You’ll need to give them your name too.”
“My actual name, or my Runner name?”
Jasso’s eyebrows went up. “So you know about that?”
&n
bsp; “I’ve heard rumors.”
“Right. Well, I guess we couldn’t keep it a secret forever.”
“So do I have a name among the Runners now?”
“You do.”
I waited. “Okay, what is it?”
Jasso grinned. “Iceman.”
“Iceman?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. Can I ask why?”
Jasso looked over to Vance, who took half a step forward. “I saw the way you dealt with that raider at the trading post. You know, the one with the hostage?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Man, you walked up to him all casual-like, took out your gun, called him an asshole, and popped him in the head like swatting a fly. I saw that and I said to myself, man that fella’s as cold as ice.”
I grimaced a little and nodded. “Ergo, Iceman.”
Vance nodded. “Yep.”
“What about you, Hawk?” I said, looking over at the big Apache. “You got one of these medallions?”
“Yes,” he said. He looked amused.
I pointed a thumb at Jasso and Vance. “What do they call you?”
“Quick Killer.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Vance and Jasso. They confirmed he was telling the truth, which led me to wonder just exactly what kind of history the three men had with each other.
“Well, duty calls,” Jasso said. “I’m afraid we gotta run.” He pointed at the medallion. “Don’t lose that, you hear?”
“I won’t.”
The two men left, and this time, I wasted no time flipping the sign over on the door. After locking up, I sat back down on my stool and examined the medallion for a while. Great Hawk leaned against the counter as I did so, picking at his fingernails with a pocket knife.
“You ever use yours?” I said, holding up the piece of copper.
“Once or twice.”
I looked at the medallion again. “Quick Killer and the Iceman. Sounds like the title of a really bad western.”
“I never cared for westerns. Not enough cowboys getting killed.”
A glance at Great Hawk told me he was joking. I think.
Surviving The Dead (Short Story): Quick Killer & The Iceman Page 6