Head Dead West

by Oliver Atlas

  It’s a good thing, too, because New Pokey is a real thieves’ kitchen. I don’t make it two blocks from The Last Stand before I’ve turned down invites into street-side games of five finger fillet; ship, captain and crew; name the needle; and strip poker. When I do stop to watch a game of shells, it takes me two seconds to understand why the shell man gets up and moves ten feet after every round of bets. He’s angling the crowd into movement so his hidden shills can rub against them and pick their pockets. For a second I think about crying foul or heading back to the room for my badge, but then I consider that I’ve already picked up enough complications to my simple trip west. After checking to make sure my wallet and ID are still in my pocket, I move along.

  Even though it’s past midnight, hawkers are still out in force. They’re yelling on about loaded dice, loaded guns, loaded whiskey, loaded women. One man with bright yellow suspenders and a black handlebar mustache is selling the local paper, The New Pokian. I hand him a quarter and take one. The headlines are a mixed bag:

  * * *

  OUTBREAK FESTIVAL OPENS AT UNION POWDER: CITIZENS BRACE THEMSELVES FOR TOURISTS AND MAYHEM

  * * *

  MAYOR MAPLENUT TO HOLD WELCOME BRUNCH FOR NEW BENTLAMITES

  * * *

  DUCHESS D CAUGHT GIVING BIRTH TO A BROOD OF WEREWOLVES!

  * * *

  THE BANSHEE STRIKES AGAIN: THIRTEEN DEPUTIES MASSACRED!

  * * *

  I’m leaning against a saloon’s porch banister, reading the menu for the Mayor’s luncheon under the porch lights, when a salty voice calls my name:

  “Blake Prose? That’s gotta be you.”

  A man with a drowned skunk of a beard walks straight across the crowded street, grinning at me with a mouthful of silver and gold fillings. He’s a short, wiry man, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, and he skips past my offered handshake to clasp me in a bear hug.

  “Blake Prose! You won’t recognize Yarely Frickle, of course. But of course he recognizes you! You just gotta be your brother’s brother. Hey!” shouts the man, letting me go in order to pound a fist to his chest, as though trying to wake me to the obvious. “I’m Yarely Frickle. You may not recognize me, but surely you’ve heard of me! Your brother’s courier, driver, bodyguard? The meanest-slash-nicest guy in all of Oregon? I’m here unloading a shipment for the train when it heads east, just like all the hundred times I unloaded a shipment when it had your name on it. Casey said you might be in town and that I ought to keep my eyes out. But I suppose you would’ve looked me up at the trading post in the morning? Did you just get into town? New Pokey’s not the safest place for . . . well, for new folks to be at night. Do you need a place to stay? I’ve gotta room at The Barge House. Ha! No, you rascal, it’s no whorehouse. My wife has spies everywhere. She’d find out and find a wall to stuff me behind, Edgar Allen Poe style. No, The Barge House—it’s kind of an uppity bed and breakfast, run by an old friend. Anyway, you’re welcome to take the bed. I’ve always preferred sleeping on the floor, but I feel guilty not using the bed whenever I pay for a room and a bed’s included. So come on! You’d be doing me a favor. And if you got mugged or killed and your brother found out I’d seen you first . . . well, things for me would get uglier than I already am! Did your brother ever tell you about the time—”

  “Yarely Frickle!” I yell.

  My brother’s courier—I remember Casey mentioning the man’s short, whip-like build and that the only way to shut him up is to shout his name. “Yarely Frickle!” I yell again for good measure.

  Yarely bursts into high-pitched giggles before blowing his potato nose into the shoulder of his flannel. “What is it, Blake?”

  “When are you heading back to Portland?”

  “Soon as possible. Taking the main road past Bentlam, over the pass, skirting round Sylvan, and up the Willamette. I haven’t hired a shotgun yet.” Yarely winks. “I’m assuming I won’t need to now that we’ve found each other. We can go right now, Blake. The sooner the better.”

  “I’ve got a friend with me, Yarely. She’s traveling west too. We’re trying to catch up to someone, a little girl. Do you have room for both of us, and possibly the girl if we catch her?”

  Yarely squints his already crinkled brown eyes at me. “You’ve been in town a day and you’re traveling with a woman who is chasing a girl? Why, I guess your not as straight-laced as your brother, eh? But then again, who is?” He giggles and holds up a preemptive hand. “Just joking. Don’t answer that, Blake, and don’t pay me any mind. I sometimes go with Casey and Kaite to Sunday service. I grew up going to Sunday school, you know. That story about Noah passing through the water—and how it was a dove that brought news about dry land—I always thought there was something to that—that the whole world, man and beast, was in this mess together. I asked my teacher about that, the dove, and she quoted some line about one hair on my head being worth more than a dozen doves. I’ll admit, that pissed me off so much I started finding ways to weasel my way out of going on Sundays. Anyway, it was for the best. Folks made fun of me enough without knowing I believed in the God of the Bible. Heck, one time—”

  “Yarely Frickle!” I shout, embracing the little man. “I’m so glad we found each other. But I can’t go ‘til around noon tomorrow, after the Mayor’s brunch. Would that work?”

  The scruffy little man licks a finger, pretending to test the air. “Noon? For you, Blake? Sure thing! But not a second after, right? From all I hear, the quote-unquote brunches they throw in these parts are more like gunfights than—”

  “I should get back to my room, Yarely, and . . . you know . . . rest up. How about we meet at the western gate at noon?”

  “Planning ahead,” says Yarely, grinning as though we’re two cavemen and I’ve just invented fire. “You’re your brother’s brother. Noon it is, Blake. See you then—on the dot!”

  Yarely stands there smiling at me.

  As though we’re in a game of flinch, it’s clear he intends for me to walk away first.

  “Goodnight, Yarely,” I say, tipping my hat, checking for my wallet, and turning back for the hotel.

  When I arrive, I find Milly sound asleep and mumbling in her dreams. I read the paper and try not to eavesdrop, but in between the Jenny’s and Schlozfield’s and Mirror Gene’s, I’m hoping to catch a Blake. I wonder if she understood what I was trying to say with my analogy about the bank, and, if she did understand, I wonder if she respected it. To my experience, she probably respects it in the old, vulgar it’s-fine-if-it-helps-you-cope sense, but what I really hope is that she might respect my view in the sense of seeing enough in it to give a second look. Passion without patience is empty, after all. But who am I kidding? We strong individualists are rarely as openminded as we think we are.

  “Don’t be so open-minded that your brains fall out,” I whisper to no one.

  Milly murmurs in reply and rolls over. I shut my eyes.

  The morning sun wakes us at the same time. I groan and pry myself out of the easy chair, feeling like an over-starched pair of coveralls. Milly stretches with a ferocious yawn that turns into a growl. She slept in her dress and gets up rumpled, her hair an unkempt halo of sunlit fire. “Shall we get some breakfast before you go search for your brother’s man?”

  “Actually, he ran into me last night. A funny old guy. Talkative. He’s willing to drive us.”

  “Brilliant!” cries Milly, beaming while she tries to smooth out the front of her dress. “ That should help us catch up with Jenny. It also means you can come with me to see Hinton Maplenut.”

  “Absolutely,” I say, donning my black hat and badge. “Although, I’m surprised you’re so eager to attend some politicized welcome rally when Yaverts is already on the move with Jenny. What’s so interesting about a small town Mayor?”

  Somehow Milly has already managed to tame her hair and dress. “Hinton Maplenut is no ordinary Mayor,” she says, lowering her voice, her hands still smoothing out her clothes. “Blake, this isn’t common knowledge, so l
et’s not talk about it openly on the street, but word has it he’s the only known person ever to turn fully living dead and come back. And I want to see him with my own eyes as. As close up as possible.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rubies

  When we’re pushing through the crowded streets toward town square, I remember a question that’s been eating me. “I’m sure this isn’t the best time, Milly, but I keep forgetting to ask: what did Josie whisper to you when you let go of Jenny?”

  The Wall still blocks the morning sun and Milly’s freckles splotch her face with shadow. She pulls a pocket watch from a fold in her dress and frowns. “You’re right—it isn’t the best time.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, confused whether she means ‘time’ literally or not.

  “It’s 9 a.m. While you were sleeping, Josie and I checked on our friends and found out they’d missed checkout. That means they didn’t leave town until yesterday morning. Even so, we’re already a day behind. And now I’m going to put us further behind.”

  I wonder if I should press the matter. I’ve already pricked Milly’s conscience, and, given the crowded street around us, probably her sense of discretion too, but my gut says I need to know. “What did Josie say?” I ask.

  Stopping suddenly, Milly spins and grabs me by the vest. She’s either going to kiss me, knee me in the groin, or whisper in my ear. It’s the latter. She goes up on tiptoe and says, “She said Yaverts would shoot the girl if he needed to make a point.”

  And then we’re walking again, Milly bulling past the slower pedestrians.

  What kind of point did Josie mean? Why would Yaverts shoot the ward he was supposed to get safely to Bentlam? For pride? For reputation? Because no one—no one—crosses Rickard Yaverts? Was that the point Josie meant? Given the hard set of Milly’s jaw, I’m not about to keep the topic going, but I make a mental note of the matter. I like to keep my enemies close, and, the way I see it, that starts with knowing them.

  Then again, there’s Milly—feisty, gentle, open-faced, shrewd, receptive, stubborn. For a moment I feel as though I know Yaverts better. Some people are simpler knots to untie than others. But of course that’s part of the allure: Milly’s simple, passionate complexity is what has me about to chase after a gunslinger, who, despite his boorishness, is simply doing his job. My granddad’s voice is suddenly in my ear, with all the music of his slight Irish accent: Meet a red-haired woman, lad, and you’ll meet a crowd.

  I chuckle silently. Too true, Gramps, too true.

  On a map, New Pokey is a half-octagon with three entrances to the Territory: a southwestern, northwestern, and western gate. The streets follow the shape of the outer wall, wrapping concentrically toward the white-bricked town square, which spans about fifty meters. When Milly and I arrive, the square is packed. Even though the event is supposed to be a territorial welcome for folks bound for Bentlam, people of every stripe have turned out, half of them apparently hungover.

  “Watch your bags,” I whisper.

  “Watch your badge,” she replies with a tense wink.

  At the square’s center, around a thirty meter obelisk, stands a large platform lined with catering tables, a microphone stand, and a strange stainless steel generator. A dozen official-looking men and women mill about on stage chatting and laughing. Spaced evenly around the platform, a dozen deputies stand, rifles in hand.

  I’m puzzled by the guards, so I lean toward Milly. “Why have armed guards around you when anyone with a rifle could pick off anyone on stage?”

  “Shhh . . . ” Milly’s shoulders tense. She glances around. “Careful not to say anything that could be misconstrued. Deputy’s badge or not, there must be agents in the crowd and we don’t want to get mistaken for Rubies. And your cross doesn’t help.”

  She catches the lack of recognition on my face. “Rubies are—”

  “Damn it!” Someone roughly grabs my shirt sleeve. “Watch where you’re damn going, faggot.”

  I turn to find a man of my own size, with pockmarked pale skin and weaselly eyes, staring us down. He’s holding a revolver, pointed at the ground, but with index finger poised in the trigger guard.

  I hold up my hands. “Sorry,” I say, trying hard to sound apologetic and steely at the same time. “I didn’t mean anything.”

  “Are you shitting me? You go pushing your way by, and then you want to call it nothing?”

  “No,” I say, hands raising higher, nearer to my rifle stock. “I said sorry for pushing, not that it was nothing. I also said that it wasn’t on purpose. We only wanted to get close and—”

  “I heard your whore slandering people too. ‘Rubies’ isn’t a nice word around here. We prefer ‘patriots’ or ‘saints.’ Got it, fairy?”

  “Yep. Sorry about that.” I start to turn but the man jerks his gun up. The crowd around buzzes and starts clearing away.

  “You really going to turn your back on me?” He points his gun toward my belly. His squinty eyes narrow even more. After a long second, he aims the gun straight up. “That sky will fall before I let some Portlander turn his back on me when I’m talking. And—holy shit!—you’re wearing a cross? Where did an uppity faggot like you get the balls to wear the symbol of our faith? You trying to besmirch the ways of righteous folk? Are you mocking our convictions? Turning them into a queer fashion statement?”

  Beside me, I can feel Milly about to boil over. Without turning my attention from the weasel, I gesture for her to stay quiet. This man is crazier than Yaverts by far. He is aching to kill. We’re close enough that if I distract him for an instant, I might be able to side step a shot and wrestle him down. But that’s no good. In this crowd, a side stepped shot would hit somebody. I’m fast with my rifle too. You don’t grow up in Texas without learning how to shoot and playing about every form of quick draw imaginable. Even so, he’d have to be unbelievably slow for me to beat him to a shot, and I doubt a man his age with such a big mouth could be slow.

  And there’s the fact I’ve never killed anyone. If that wouldn’t make me slow, I’m sure it would make me shaky. And if I missed, I’d kill somebody innocent. At this range, I could hit the man and still kill a bystander.

  The folks around us are gathering at a distance and we’re suddenly alone with the man in our own mini-square.

  “Panzer,” hisses a dirty faced man in cowboy garb who steps out to grab the weasel by the shoulder. “You’re makin’ a scene. Holster that thing and let’s get a-goin’. It’s almost time.”

  Panzer’s eyes widen at me and he jabs his revolver at the sky again suggestively before holstering it and blending with his friend into the relieved crowd. With a collective sigh and a mumbling of curses, the pocket around Milly and I collapses and we’re back to weaving our way closer to the center of the square. My hand fidgets with my cross and I finally understand peoples’ furtive glances at it.

  “That,” says Milly, “was a Rubie—proud progeny of the militant conspiracy theorists who obsessed about bar codes branded in our foreheads and black helicopters smuggling alien soldiers. He’s the main reason it’s dangerous for you to wear that cross. He’s also the reason for the guards and the magnetic shield.”

  The magnetic shield?

  Now I understand. The generator on stage must be creating a magnetic field strong enough to bend or deflect bullet trajectories. That means a would-be killer would have to make it on stage and past the guards without aid of a metal weapon.

  “That generator,” I say. “That’s completely modern tech. How in the world did that get sanctioned for a potluck in New Pokey?”

  “I told you,” whispers Milly. “The Mayor is a high priority person for highly secret reasons. That earns him some perks. Plus, the Rubies are determined to see him dead.”

  “Why?”

  “Why else? They managed to get ahold of leaked intel, combined it with urban legend, and then mixed it into their favorite conspiracy.”

  “You mean . . . they think . . . ”

  Mill
y cranes her neck to see the stage. The Mayor, a middle-aged man with an average build and silver muttonchops, is stepping up to the microphone. The crowd is going quiet. When Milly speaks in my ear, her voice is barely audible. “They think Hinton Maplenut is a Mymar.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Midmorning Horror

  I can’t help guffawing. “Really?”

  To shut me up, Milly takes my hand. The Mayor has started speaking.

  “ . . . so many here to encourage our immigrants to Bentlam. They’ve come from all across the continent, and all across the world. Many are here through lottery, others through purchase, a few even come as new officials for our great city on a hill. The whole world looks to Bentlam, my friends, and when they do, they also look to Oregon. Let us, therefore, offer a warm, warm hand of welcome to Oregon’s newest and finest.” The Mayor starts to clap and about a third of the crowd joins in. Another third remains motionless and silent. But the final third begins to shout boos.

  The Mayor tries to speak again but he’s booed down. Scattered rabble-rousers with bullhorns begin inciting the crowd to join in a chant:

  FAIRYFLY – HE MUST DIE! FAIRYFLY – HE MUST DIE!

  The Mayor frowns and raises his hands, calling for silence, but the chanting swells. Agents begin intervening where the crowd is the loudest. Fights begin to break out. Then, at once, the guards around the stage fire their rifles into the air. That wins a moment’s attention.

  “Please, my friends,” says the Mayor, sounding weary yet firm. “Enough of the distracting drivel. We all know slander is the oldest political weapon, and I, as a politician in one of history’s most controversial towns, expect to be under plenty of duress. But save it for another day, friends. Today is about our brothers and sisters and their future in Bentlam. We ought to send them off with a serious festival, not a foolish riot.”