by Oliver Atlas
“My word,” breathes Milly, disgusted. “You really mean it.”
“I do indeed.” Yaverts produces a match from an inner pocket and lights his thick cigarette. He takes a purplish black puff, sighs with pleasure, and I suddenly understand why he hurried off the train. There’s nothing like a desperado in desperate need of a smoke.
“He’s got a point, Milly,” I say. “That document looks pretty real. And I’m even more sure his gun is real.”
That earns me a flash of fiery blue ire. “People forge documents every day, Mr. Prose, and we can assume it behooves forgers to make them look pretty real. This is the Preserve. I’ve read the reports. Thousands of children get trafficked through here every year. Some become slaves. Some become bait for . . . ”
Milly suddenly seems to remember that Jenny is listening to everything. The little girl’s eyes are wide.
“Ah,” says Yaverts, wagging his cigarette. “Now you’re scaring my ward. Not very sensitive of you. So I think that’s enough: she and I will be leaving now.”
“Not quite yet,” I say, taking the moment to unsling my rifle. “Milly’s right. Forgive me, Mr. Yaverts, but for all we know you’re about to steal off with a friend of ours. Give us twenty minutes. Ease our consciences.”
By Yaverts’ deadpan, it’s clear he’s hardly persuaded. “I can ease your consciences a lot quicker,” he growls.
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m not as bookworm helpless as you might like to imagine. Try to ease my conscience your way and you might actually end up weighing it down with a bit of guilt. I’m faster with a gun than I am with my mouth.”
Even though the station’s crowd is thinning, people are beginning to stop and stare. My guess is the locals have seen this kind of scene from Yaverts before.
The big man raises an eyebrow, half impressed, half bored. “You know the punishment for killing a lawman in the Territory, pretty boy?”
“We’re not in the Territory yet, Mr. Yaverts.”
His eyes narrow. The hand on his cigarette twitches. What I just said didn’t really make much sense. Past the Wall or not, I’d go to prison for shooting him. Still. He doesn’t think I can do it. He doesn’t think I can pull the trigger at all, let alone pull it fast enough. He’s going to draw.
His hand twitches.
“Damn!” yells Yaverts, barking out laughter. “You know how I love people calling my bluffs! All right, pipsqueak. You and the wildcat want more assurance. You want some bona fide ratification from some boneheaded rat’s ass. Then, damn it, let’s go see the Mayor. Or the Sheriff. I’ll give you a whole sixty minutes to set your consciences at ease before I haul our little mum doll here out into the big bad scary darkness. But after that, I warn you: if I have to gun you down to keep schedule, my conscience will be clean as sun bleached bone.”
“Evocative simile,” I say, playing it cool, as though a yellow streak of fear hasn’t just rushed down my spine.
If I’m trying to look devil-may-care, Milly is succeeding in looking certifiably homicidal, her eyes pinched and her cheeks afire. “To the Mayor!” she shouts, barging down the stairs with Jenny in hand. She slams the document onto Yaverts chest before moving out into the gawking crowd.
The streets of Charonville are full of gawkers too. Some people keep their interest to glances, but many stop and stare. My guess was correct: people here know Yaverts well. His name carries on whispers from every side, Yaverts . . . Yaverts . . . Yaverts, with unsettling tag ons like little girl . . . gunfight . . . dead . . . . If Milly notices any of this, she’s unbelievably skilled at playing oblivious. Her tense blue eyes cut lasers down the cobblestone streets, hunting for signs to city hall. I’m personally a little embarrassed. If the decision had been up to me alone and Yaverts showed the document, I probably would’ve shrugged and let him go. But a tiny part of me wonders if my attitude about the matter doesn’t come from the same kind of apathy that would pass by a person collapsed on the side of the road, thinking ‘they’re just taking a nap’ or ‘someone more qualified will stop and help.’ Sometimes I hate how passive, private, and theoretical I’ve grown up to be.
As in the train station, the streets are a fairly even mix of thrill-seekers and homesteaders, respectable folks toting respectable bags, and seedy aired carpetbagger types packing nothing but pistols and chaw tins. Most of the buildings are squat and square, made either of brown brick or white cement. Not a single building has fewer than two stories. Many rise three or four, some five or six. Each is evenly spaced from the next, on a grid with about six feet in between. The windows in every building are identically sized and aligned whenever possible with the windows in a neighboring building. I’m sure it all has something to do with precautions in case of zombie outbreaks.
From what I’ve read, no horde has ever broken into Charonville. The town’s eastern wall is tall, probably twenty feet and topped with a six foot awning of razor wire. I can still see it behind us, quickly shrinking. But the town’s western wall, which is simply a section of the Oregon Wall, has already blocked out the late afternoon sun. Since leaving the station, I’ve been struggling not to join all the other newcomers in gawking at it. Four hundred feet of cement stretched up and out like a dam holding back a malevolent ocean. It runs north and south as far as the eye can see. Atop it, I can spot a few figures on patrol. The Sentinels.
Yaverts catches my gaze. “There’s worse beyond that Wall than zombies, boy.”
I choke down a dozen witty retorts. Something in his tone—in the almost semi-respectful way he says boy—makes me believe him. But I don’t really want to know what he means. At the moment, crossing a wilderness full of the living dead is enough for me to worry about.
We’re passing through a crowded marketplace full of guns, cured meats, and Jamaican talismans when Milly says, “There it is,” and heads toward a four-story, burnt orange adobe building. The sign in front reads: Sheriff’s Office / City Hall.
Inside, we find a young woman reading behind a desk. Her white blouse has a silver badge pinned on the chest, and her long-legged bell bottoms are crossed up over a pile of paperwork. She flips away her blond bangs to shoot us an eye. “Hello?”
“We’re here to see the Mayor,” says Milly. “It’s an important matter.”
The blonde’s brown eyes flick to Yaverts. “What’s this about, Rickard?”
The big man shrugs theatrically. “They don’t trust me with this here Jenny.”
At mention of her name, Jenny’s head shrinks down toward her shoulders, apparently wishing it could hide like a turtle’s.
The blonde gives us a quick study, then sighs. “Look, folks: much as I hate to have to say it, Rickard is for real. He’s all legal. He may smell and act like a ratfink, but he’s the man you want getting Jenny to her new place.”
Yaverts chuckles. “Thanks for the heartfelt endorsement, Josie.”
“My pleasure, as always.”
Stepping up to Josie, her head shaking, Milly jabs a finger onto the desktop. “I want to see the Mayor.”
“Look, honey,” says Josie, setting down her dog-eared copy of Maisie Matins Slays the Sky, “the Mayor isn’t in. But you can see the Sheriff if you like.”
“No. I want the Mayor. When will he be back?”
“Who knows?” says Josie, throwing up her hands. “Maplenut has to run two cities, you know. He could be in New Pokey for another week before checking back over.”
Milly pauses. “Hinton Maplenut is Mayor here too?”
“As of two months ago. The city councils voted him in, the feds stamped their approval. We’re hoping he can coordinate border crossings a bit better than before. Things were starting to get ugly, especially over here. ODOZ had us storing all their overstock. The last year’s been hell. Up until two weeks ago we still had meat-heads in most of these cells.”
“Zombies?” I ask. “In here?”
Josie just stares at me.
Milly, meanwhile, is frowning, chewing absently at her lower
lip. “Fine,” she says at last. “Take us to the Sheriff.”
Chapter Five
The Dungeon
“If you say so,” shrugs Josie, swinging her feet off the desk and standing. She’s all legs, taller than I am by a few inches, and only a few shorter than Yaverts. “I’ve got to warn you though, he’s down in the dungeon. And he’s only going to tell you the same thing I have: Rickard’s got full authority to take Jenny on to Bentlam.”
“That’s fine,” declares Milly. “I want to hear him say it.”
Josie shrugs again. “Oookay. You’ve been warned.” She points to me, then Yaverts. “I’ll need your firearms, gentlemen. Nobody but our staff packs in the dungeon.”
“Hell no, Josie,” says Yaverts. “Might as well leave you my eyes. Since when does a plenipotentiary have to comply with Podunk local law? I don’t even have to be humoring this minx. I could take the girl right now.”
“Not any more, Rickard.” Josie holds out a hand for my gun. “You’ve gone and engaged the wheels of civil law now. Unless my fellow minx has changed her mind and wants to give you the girl peaceably, the Sheriff will need to vouch for you to her face.”
“Then shit,” says the big man. “I’m waitin’ here. With my pistol. And I’m waitin’ for no more than an hour. If, at that time, I need to come get Jenny, I will. With my pistol.”
“Mm-hmm,” says Josie, unimpressed. She raises an eyebrow at me. “Now how about you, skinny jeans? Are you coming or staying?”
“You don’t have to come, Blake,” says Milly, trying to sound as if she means it, her eyes still tight around the edges. She holds out her hand, presumably so I can shake it. “It was good to meet you.”
Crap. Something in me isn’t ready to say goodbye. I think Milly’s probably taking this precautionary stuff too far, but now I’ve got to know.
With a wince that says I ought to know better, I fork over my rifle and Josie locks it away in a gun safe on the back wall. She winks mockingly at Yaverts. “Watch their bags, Rickard? We’ll be right back.”
Josie leads us down a side hallway to a cement stairwell full of cutbacks. After a half-dozen mini-flights, we arrive at a thick trapdoor. It is open, suspended by a six-inch stainless steel chain. Below the door, another steep staircase descends. Gas lamps glow faintly below.
“In case of complications,” explains Josie, touching the trapdoor as she starts down the stairs.
I’m right behind her, with Milly and Jenny in tow.
Beyond the suspended door is an antechamber lined with supply shelves.
“Strange place for a fallout shelter,” I observe.
“Most jails in the Territory double as bunkers,” says Josie, swiping a chocolate bar from a box on the shelf. “If there are ever problems below, you close the door. If there are ever problems above, you close the door. After you get on the appropriate side, of course.”
“I’d rather take my chances with the ‘problems’ than bury myself alive,” says Milly, cracking her knuckles, obviously still bristling at the thought of giving Jenny up to Yaverts.
“That’s why there are about a half-dozen security hatches scattered all through town,” replies Josie. She leads us into a dark corridor lined with wide iron doors and dim gas lamps.
“Hatches?” Milly snorts. “Leading from here? That’s a nice way to help prisoners escape.”
“Each exit is coded. If you don’t have the right four digits, you’ll be banging your head for a while.”
I glance back. There’s enough light to see that Milly is scared and Jenny is terrified. The little girl’s cheeks are bright and wet. “It’s all right, Jenny,” I say gently. But I’m not sure if it is all right. It seems as if Josie’s ‘wheels of civil law’ should have been able to get the Sheriff to meet with us somewhere above ground.
The cold cement floor dampens the sound of our footsteps. Even so, we make enough noise that the cells start to ring with pleas, moans, and catcalls. Male voices, female voices, unidentifiable voices—the whole place soon reverberates with them.
Joooosieeee . . . I been dreaming about you, Joooosieeee . . . Please, Sheriff . . . please . . . my hand is turning black, I need some medicine bad . . . O little girl, I can see you . . . I wonder what color your eyes are . . . Jooosieee . . . medicine . . . eyes . . .
“Damn it,” breathes Milly, about to lose her remaining cool.
“Hey! That’s enough!” shouts Josie, sudden and fierce. The voices die to a murmur. “As of now,” she spits into the darkness, “I’m taking names. Anybody who starts wailing again is going on my shit list.”
Apparently, that threat only appeals to one person, the lascivious dreamer, who continues his taunting love song.
“All right, Tanner,” she says. “When I get back, keep in mind I warned you.”
We crisscross down a few more corridors before we turn into one that T’s at a brightly lit lab. In a well-stocked medical room, a doctor in white and an orderly in blue stand over an unconscious, half-naked man who is strapped to an operating table. In the corner sits a burly man in uniform. He is brushing his gray mustache with a finger and reading the Charonville Gazette. His dark eyes glance up over the edge of the paper.
“Interesting,” he says, setting down the Gazette. “Doc, you can keep working. Josie, what is this?”
“A problem with Yaverts, sir.”
“Did he kill another tourist?”
“No. But it’s an odd thing he didn’t.” Josie nods at us. “These two took it upon themselves to take an interest in the well-being of Miss Jenny here, the ward in Rickard’s custody. Now they want official assurance that he’s really working under lawful authority, not as some slaver or pervert. Can’t say I blame them.”
“Well,” says the Sheriff, standing up and rifling a hand through his steel wool hair. “That is strange. Normally, Dick Yaverts would shoot down a neighborhood grandma for getting in his way. But maybe the fact somebody in the Territory actually cared about a little girl caught him off guard.” The Sheriff holds an expectant hand out to Josie. “Let me see their papers.”
A red hue washes up Josie’s perfect skin.
A darker red washes over the Sheriff. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”
“Sir—”
“Hot horse hell, girl. The Banshee take us all. What do you want to bet this is going to bite us right in the ass?” He turns to us, a large expectant hand still extended. “Your papers, please.”
Milly seems edgy. Her pretty face has been tense, but now it seems to carry a nervous heat. She won’t look at the Sheriff. Unsure what’s the matter, I hand over my passport.
The Sheriff looks it over and nods. “Another Texican.” He hands it back. “Did you know we lose more of you than from any other state?”
“Not surprising, sir. We tend to be a foolhardy lot.”
“Indeed. And you, Ms. I’ll need your papers.” The Sheriff’s eyes take on extra steel. “Right now.”
Milly doesn’t move.
Again, for some reason I think she’s about to do something crazy. “Milly?” I touch her arm.
Finally, as though in a daze, her hand drifts toward her bodice. But then her face brightens and her hand drops. “I think I left it upstairs in my travel bag.”
The Sheriff’s eyes go cold. “Did you?” He steps back, unholsters his sidearm, and points it at her chest. “Then we’ll go get it after you satisfy my curiosity. Josie, take the little girl up to Yaverts.”
“But, dad—”
“Now.”
Jenny is already wailing, Milly’s arms are already wrapped around her, and I’m already trying to decide whether to shout, attack, run, or yell what the hell? Time stops. But then Josie whispers something in Milly’s ear and a second later she’s untangled Jenny from her arms.
Josie shoots the Sheriff an icy look and leads the little girl back through the dark corridors, where her sobs battle Tanner’s lingering catcalls.
“Now,” says the Sheriff to Milly through an
irritated scowl. “Either hand over your passport . . . or strip.”
Chapter Six
The Sleeper
“Son,” he says, shifting the gun’s bead to my guts. “I get paid to read body language. You’d best get off your toes and settle down. She’s a pretty woman, but that’s not why she’s going to show me every inch of her lily whites.”
“Okay,” sighs Milly. “Well played, Sheriff.” She reaches down the front of her dress and produces a passport. “How did you know?”
“Like I said, I get paid to read people. Not many folks come through Charonville with balls enough to cross Yaverts, let alone for something as bleeding heart as looking after a little girl. Add your balls and your heart to the fact you have highly intelligent eyes and, well, the odds suddenly become pretty damn good that you’re ODOZ.”
Milly shrugs. “Bravo. I’m ODOZ.”
“Nip, check her passport,” orders the Sheriff. “And try not to get caught in a chokehold or the like. Otherwise, I might have to shoot through you.”
Until now, the orderly and the doctor have been working as if they were still alone. But now the orderly comes over and relieves Milly of her passport. He’s a thick man, all muscle, and I doubt Milly and I together could catch him with a chokehold.
“Got it,” announces Nip in a baritone. “Milly Ruse. Necrologist. ODOZ. Level two clearance.”
Fury washes over the Sheriff’s face. “Shit . . . shit shit shit! Damn it, Josie,” he mutters. “Of all the times to have a blasted brainfart.”
I’m confused, and gun aimed at my guts or not, I’m tired of being in the dark. “Sheriff, excuse me, but what exactly is the problem?”
“Shut up, kid. I’ll let the lady explain once you’re in your quarters.”
“Our quarters?”
“Your cell.” He gestures back toward the dark corridors with his gun barrel. “Get walking.”