by Oliver Atlas
Buffoons and a Balloon
For the most part, the road back to New Pokey is quiet. First, I pass a wagonload of immigrants bound for Bentlam. From adults to children, everyone carries a weapon—a shotgun, an axe, a pointy stick. They brandish the weapons openly, making sure I don’t miss them, even from a distance. As soon as they’re satisfied I’m not a bandit, though, they greet me with wide smiles. Their faces are bright with the hope of paradise. They have full faith they’re headed to a place without fear or pain. As for me, I’ve never been able to imagine how Bentlam—a city smack in the heart of the Oregon Zombie Preserve—keeps up its reputation, let alone how it lives up to its reputation. They must have terribly thick walls to live without fear. They must have terribly good booze to live without pain. Someday—and someday soon if I ever catch up with Milly and we catch up with Jenny—I’ll get to see Bentlam for myself. That will be an intriguing day.
After passing the immigrants, I meet a hunting party on its way to Monty. My badge must throw them because they all insist on showing me their passports and permits. One woman even makes sure I see a picture of her with her two children. It’s as if she’s saying please don’t arrest me, please don’t hurt me. These hunters strike me as veterans. They’ve been around the Territory for a while. Their fear makes me curious what locals really think about Rangers—and why. Moon’s voice leaps to mind: if you catch sight of anyone following you, lone riders on a black horse or a red horse . . . . He must have meant two of the Rangers, probably East and South, given the short story he shared about his death. When I was a child, Jeremiah Klickitat and Aubrey Carlyle were the Rangers for East and South. In Texas, their names carried the glow of living legends, men able to tame not only the wilderness, but the living dead as well. That was twenty years ago and I’m almost certain those two have retired. They were already getting old. Besides, unless the stories I heard about them were one hundred percent lie, I can’t imagine either one shooting a fellow Ranger in the back. But who were their replacements? I can’t remember.
The hunters ride on with relieved expressions. I don’t know whether to feel like a badass or a villain. Maybe I shouldn’t wear Moon’s badge anymore. Or Clementine, for that matter. Lancaster acted as though I ought to wear them. He seemed to believe I was really supposed to be the Western Ranger now. But I’m not so sure. I have a feeling there are plenty of folks who might like to gun a Ranger down just for the notoriety. Then again, I’m sure there are just as many who see a Ranger coming and put on their best behavior. Unable to decide, I flip a coin. Heads, I bag the Ranger gear, tails, I don’t. It’s tails. I’m still a Ranger.
Daylight drops quickly behind the mountains at my back. One minute I’m daydreaming to the rust-red lining of the clouds, thinking vaguely of Milly, when the next they’ve grown a cold blue-gray and a night breeze begins to flow. I check my watch: 5:55 p.m. Enemy has sneakily veered off the road where she can steal occasional munches of grass and daisies. Until now, I’ve humored her, but a thought of that fast-moving red blip from earlier makes me steer us back between the pylons. If there’s any chance their calming frequency works on Screamers, I’ll take it.
Before long, we crest a hill and the Wall is suddenly on the horizon. If it was impressive up close, it’s more impressive now, stretching north and south as far as I can see, a white band lit by thousands of spotlights. Although the night air is already chilly, its scent is rich with pine and earth and I can’t help closing my eyes and giving thanks for being alive. As soon as I do, though, I feel a stab of guilt. The mangled forms of Einstein and Mophead flash into my mind.
“I didn’t want to do it,” I tell Enemy. “But I don’t know what else I could’ve done besides letting them eat me. And getting torn up by mindless ghouls for compassion’s sake seems a bit perverse, doesn’t it? Ah, crap. I’m such an idiot. Shouldn’t there be a law against letting someone like me through the Wall? Shouldn’t there be a law against letting someone like me into this world? I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to kill. I don’t want to be infected by this place. But in the meanwhile, I’m afraid I’ll probably end up shooting more zombies.”
Even though I’m talking to a horse, the words almost feel like a prayer. I need help. Big help. Help bigger and better than myself. Help bigger and better than anything I know. Some crazy intuition deep within me insists that I need such help if I’m ever to live the life I want to live—especially if I’m to live it in Oregon. But who knows what the feeling really means? It could be the classic wish dream for an angelic escort. It could be a roundabout way of reminding myself I’ll need to be cautious and humble if I hope to survive. In any case, I’m not picky. I’ll take one or the other, because if Hinton Maplenut really wants me dead, going back to New Pokey for word of Milly may prove tricky.
As New Pokey draws near, I spot a giant ruckus out in front of the western gate. Guns are firing, people are screaming, spotlights are bouncing and spinning—apparently strapped to horseback. Some people are lurching—wait—are those zombies? Enemy snorts in question.
“I don’t know, girl,” I say, reaching into my bag for Dirt-face’s spotting scope.
Yep. Those lurching forms are zombies—hundreds of zombies. And they’re being goaded, herded, teased, and lassoed by a few dozen riders. What the hell? I shake my head, realizing I’m witnessing an impromptu, drunken, living dead rodeo.
The riders gallop back and forth, circling the huge swarm of dead-heads, keeping them in divided currents, chasing them this way then that. The riders run down a stray zombie here, lasso and drag one there. It’s a dangerous game. A very dangerous game. Even from a half mile away, I can hear the slurring in the riders’ yells. They’re all skunked. There’s no way they’ll be able to keep the game going. Pretty soon one of them will make a fatal mistake, and if their tenuous weave closes or shifts a half-second too soon, they’ll all be supper for the agitated, ever-hungry mob.
Through the spotting scope I can see the Sentinels on the Wall above the gate. They’re drinking too, watching the show, probably placing bets on how long the cowboys can go. Apparently, intervening for the good of idiots is not in their job description. Apparently, this kind of thing must go on outside the Wall all of the time. Apparently, keeping the road clear for other traffic isn’t a top priority.
“Come on, Enemy,” I say, patting her head. “Let’s try the northwestern gate and leave these clowns to their fate.”
Enemy stamps a foot and we start off the road, north toward the lesser used gate. I make a quick check of the GPS to scout the way. All’s clear to the northwest. All the nearby dead-heads must be at the rodeo. There is a slew of them behind us, slogging toward the city, but none are closer than a quarter mile, and none have the speed of a Screamer. That’s really all I care about. Those fast ones give me the creeps. They’re the reason the word ‘horripilate’ exists.
The little quarter horse stops and stamps her forefeet again, ducking her head.
“What?” I say, checking the GPS again. Does she sense something it doesn’t? “What is it?”
Enemy continues her head ducking. She whinnies and snorts and stamps. Anxious to be moving, I urge her forward, but she only spins and throws her head again. Is it a snake? A pit? Some kind of zombie that doesn’t register on my scanner? But then I see it: in the air—a wide, round silhouette rising out of the city, lit at the edges by the moon. A balloon! I wonder if it’s Buzz Dingini, heading out on another mission. A second later, the spotting scope reveals that it’s not. Beneath the yellow glow of the balloon’s burners I can make out two figures. One of them is tall and sleight, not Buzz’s build at all. The other is much shorter than the other, slender, with hair fiery enough to shine red in the faint light.
Milly.
And the tall figure must be her friend from ODOZ. What had she said about him?
He’s now liaison to the Mayor.
The Mayor.
Milly!—heading for Union Powder in a balloon with one of the Mayor�
�s rising-star toadies. And if the Mayor really wants Milly dead . . . all it would take would be a quick heave-ho from her friend. I reach for my bag and hesitate. A rifle shot from this range is conceivably possible. If I calculated for wind and distance and the balloon’s motion, I’d have a chance of hitting her friend. But without a scope on the rifle itself, I’d never know if the two had moved—if the two had switched places. I could make the shot of ten lifetimes and end up killing the woman I’ve come back to help keep alive.
The rodeo, I realize, has paused. The cowboy carousers have spotted the balloon now, too. They’re watching it drift away, whooping and gazing, half-forgetful of the zombies around them. They’re all so used to speed and bravado being enough. They don’t really think they can die. Their horses trot out of harms way, away from the mob, where they calmly admire the balloon’s elegant departure.
Those fools, I think. And then another thought comes to me and I shiver.
What if . . .
I check the GPS and, sure enough, three fast-moving red dots have appeared out of the northeast, moving across the plain toward the cowboys. Screamers. A jolt shoots down my back. Goosebumps rise on my arms. This time, though, it’s not simply from fear of the silent, swift zombies. It’s because the Screamers seem to know the cowboys are distracted. It’s because for a second I wonder if the Screamers can actually think. Maybe not think think, but something in them—some instinct or impulse—is apparently making use of their fellow dead as a trap and a decoy. Just like the scene I witnessed on the GPS under the oak tree, Screamers are about to capitalize on our human tendency to focus on the threat we’ve already met.
The words of an old proverb pop into my head. You will be like one who runs from a lion only to meet a bear.
Enemy stamps again, as though she knows what’s happening.
“I guess they had it coming, girl,” I assure her, but she ducks her head again, and I swear she’s disagreeing.
Again, I try prodding her away from the situation, but she won’t budge. She only snorts at me in gentle indignation.
Okay. So wait a minute. The horse I named Enemy—as a sardonic reminder that it’s a shame we can’t love our enemies—is disagreeing with my willingness to let a few idiots die a terrible death? I’m sure I’m projecting my conscience onto her—she’s probably simply demanding a carrot or something—but crap.
Crap. Now I guess I’ve got to do the right thing.
“Yah!” I cry, spurring my opinionated little steed northeast at a gallop. She flies quick and smooth, smooth enough for me to read the GPS and get us lined up on an intercept with the Screamers. If Enemy can keep up her pace, we should reach them a few seconds before they reach the cowboys. I’m hoping the Screamers will be as focused on the revelers as the revelers are on the balloon. I also hope the cowboys don’t shift their fool’s focus to me, get nervous, and start shooting.
Thankfully, they’re not as big of idiots as I might have feared. They do spot me. They do start hollering in alarm. They do finally spot the three figures streaking across the plain toward them, about to leap. Two of them are quick. One draws for a pistol but drops it. Another fires her rifle and misses high. By then I have Clementine out and firing. There’s no philosopher in me this time: six shots, two for each Screamer. Each goes down instantly, double-tapped to the head. Miracle shots—in the dark, from horseback, into sprinting targets. I’m suddenly glad I decided not to stow Clementine.
“Come on, you boneheads,” I growl at the startled bunch of cowboys as I reign up beside them. “Let’s go. Unless you’re determined to feed a Screamer tonight.”
The cowboys sober instantly. They gallop after me, circling away from the zombie herd, to the Western Gate. When we arrive, they’re all gushing in adulation. I gruffly tip my hat and tell them to grow up. They’re all at least my age if not twice over, but they all nod obediently. The gate clicks open, they all rush in, and I ride away north after Milly’s balloon.
Before I get out of earshot, though, I hear one of the cowboys cry in a tone of awe that makes me cringe.
“Did you see his badge? That was a Ranger!”
Unless all the Sentinels at the gate are drunk, it seems as though Hinton Maplenut will soon know I’m alive and well.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Durkadee
Traveling north at night, alone on horseback, has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. If not, it’s a close second to my midnight jaunt through the oilfields after breaking up with Chelsea. The moon soon grows into a fat yellow orb, casting enough light on the gravel road for me to spot potholes, but Enemy is doing the driving anyway, trotting along tirelessly. That leaves me scanning the forested hills, scanning the GPS, debating about whether or not to stop at the first town or keep pressing forward.
We’ve long since lost sight of the balloon. It climbed up high, caught a night breeze, and took off in a crow-line. We, on the other hand, have been ducking between hills and small mountains, following the narrow northern road’s winding way. Barring any problems or pit stops—or fatal accidents—the balloon should reach Union Powder before dawn. As for us . . . barring Enemy’s total collapse or my falling asleep or an ambush by bandits or zombies, we should get there by tomorrow around noon. I’m not sure if pressing through all night can help Milly, but we have to try.
We pass Huntersville and Limbo without stopping. At Limbo, the night watchman yells out in hello, figuring we can’t be doing anything else than hightailing it for his town, grateful to still be alive, but we ride on in silence. I’m sure the watchman must frown and scratch his head. Maybe he even suspects I’m a Ranger. Who else would keep riding the northern road at night?
When we reach Durkadee, it’s clear the town has been overrun. From what I’ve gathered, that happens a lot in the Alley. A town will spring up, do well, either with tourists or mining or agriculture, and then one day—in a flash—its defenses will break down, an infection will sneak in, and, hello, everybody is either eaten or eating. The town’s main gate is open, ramshackle. The walls are already in disrepair. Apparently, Durkadee has been dead for a while.
Dead in a sense, at least.
According to the GPS, the place is now a hive. It’s basically one huge, warbly red dot on the screen. A hundred dead-heads? Five hundred? I can’t tell. All I know is we’re moving on, and quickly.
So of course Enemy stops and stamps her foot.
“What?” I squawk, exasperated.
The GPS screen catches my eye. For a second, in the center of the reddish swirl, I catch sight of green. Yep. One dot, two dots, three dots. Three dots, smack dead in the center of town.
Nuh-uh.
No way. Helping strangers out is one thing. But committing suicide on their behalf?
I spur Enemy onward but she won’t budge.
“You’re not serious!” I hiss in her ear. “Who made you my conscience? And why weren’t you so principled when your old master was stringing me up?”
The quarter horse replies with an irritated whinny that makes me wince.
“Okay, okay. Keep it down,” I say, rubbing her neck. I slide down and lead her to an apple tree next to the wall. “I’ll have a look. You stay close.”
While Enemy noses through the fallen apples, searching for one not yet rotted, I climb the short tree and peer over the twelve foot wall. Durkadee was a small settlement, only a trading post or way station really, a circular town no more than five blocks in diameter. It has no warning perimeter. Houses shoot up right next to the wall. They run in crammed proximity all the way to the center of town where a tall clock tower rises about five stories above everything else. The giant clock face, the pride of Durkadee, is blank. Its hands are missing. My guess is that they became spears when someone got trapped in the tower and ran out of ammo.
The tower. Something at the top of it catches my eye. I climb down, grab the spotting scope, climb back up, and, balancing between two branches, take a peek. The tower’s top opens up in mission-
style arches and between them I catch sight of three figures with oddly oversized heads. They’re moving too purposefully for dead-heads, passing objects back and forth while one works on . . . something . . . a contraption. I can’t tell. There’s not enough light to see. So I listen. Their voices almost carry far enough, but not quite. All I can hear is their tone: it is urgent. Not afraid, but definitely urgent. Why?
Zombies crowd the streets, thick as cattle milling through a stockade. There’s no way anyone could get into or out of town. Maybe they’re trapped?
I don’t think so.
The rooftops run side by side all the way across town. Ten leaps and a person could go from the town wall to a second level veranda of the clock tower, or vice versa. Those people aren’t trapped. They’re assembling something, and they’re in a hurry to get it ready.
Good for them. None of my business. Maybe they’re stargazers setting up a telescope. Maybe they’re ODOZ scientists preparing for an experiment. It doesn’t matter. I’m already behind in my chase to catch up with Milly. What matters is that these folks are okay now and they can escape at any time. My equestrian conscience should be appeased and let us move on.
I start climbing down but the urgency of the three figures finally breaks into a cry loud enough to hear. “Hurry! There it is!”
I stop and scan the town, trying to figure out what it could be.
Then I see it—not in the town but in the sky. The balloon. Milly’s balloon, coming into sight.
Or coming into range.
Two and two crash together and I suddenly know what the three are assembling.
A gun.
I know why their heads appear too big.
Dreadlocks.
They must be part of the Duchess Desreta’s gang, scavenging for tech. Everything Buzz told us about them back in the Charonville dungeon comes to mind.
There’s no time. In an instant I’m on the wall, leaping to the nearest house and onward, roof to roof. Despite the long day’s ride, my legs feel lithe and strong. Maybe it’s good genetics, maybe it’s a continued perk of chlorotein. Two minutes later and I’m on the veranda of the clock building. The door is locked so I duck through a shattered window, onto a steep cutback staircase, and draw Clementine.