Head Dead West

by Oliver Atlas

  The crowd cheers and presses in again, begging for my autograph. A few people try plucking a hair from Enemy’s tail. Some make a clean getaway, but one gets a hoof in the thigh. He goes down with a yelp and the crowd roars with amusement. Mayor Quincy yells jovially for us to be given space. He and the silent man in the boulder hat lead us through the dusty town to what he calls our ‘hero’s quarters.’ As we go, he points out the different points of interest in Union Powder. City Hall is behind us, the building with the rotunda. The jail is a squat, red building made of cement, and it must take up a full city block. The Grand Hotel is a beached sternwheeler, giant and opulent and strung with many-colored lights. There are dozens of saloons, dozens of trading posts, two street markets, and brothel upon brothel upon brothel.

  When we arrive at one of the latter, a big violet Victorian mansion that reminds me of The Naughty Pony, Quincy raises a hand. “Here we are,” he says, turning to shoo the remaining crowd away. “Madame Rogger’s. The finest, most coveted accommodations in Union Powder, if not all of Oregon. It’s part of your Dare winnings. Madame Rogger made arrangements long ago to have the winner of the Crossing stay here. She would be quite offended by us both if I let you stay anywhere else.”

  “I’d hate to offend anybody,” I say, dismounting Enemy and taking my bag. I entrust her reigns to a stablehand and she gives me a nervous snort. “It’s all right, girl. I’m sure you’ll get some winnings too.”

  “Absolutely,” says the Mayor. “That horse will have a full rubdown and the softest hay in the Territory.”

  “Mayor?” I say, worried about Milly and wanting to cut through all the ado. “I’m searching for a woman named Milly Ruse. I think she would have arrived last night by balloon.”

  The big man frowns. “I see the name and file of every person to enter Union Powder. We had four balloons arrive last night, none of them with a Milly aboard. Why are you after her? Is she a love interest or a safety concern?”

  I hesitate. The man’s handsome face has a particularly untrustworthy quality to it. “Neither,” I say, after a pause. “She’s an ODOZ agent, and I have reason to be concerned for her safety.”

  “ODOZ?” Quincy laughs. “You needn’t worry about her safety once she’s here, Mr. Prose. We may be a town full of ruffians, but if there’s one law everyone respects, it’s that no one interferes with ODOZ. All the same, Sheriff Flinter,” he says, turning to the silent man beside him, “keep an eye out for this Milly Ruse, would you?”

  The Sheriff continues staring into nowhere but nods as though he understands.

  Quincy claps me on the back and leads me into the big house where he turns me over to a raven-haired, brown-skinned young woman in skimpy black and scarlet burlesque. The young woman, who calls herself Skiss, leads me through the ostentatious mansion, past a dozen versions of herself, offering a tour of the indoor pool, the sauna, the rumpus room, the billiard room, the massage parlor, the theater, the costume closet—I finally have to stop her and ask to see my room. Skiss gives a graceful nod and guides me up to a lavish garden veranda built into the northeastern corner of the rooftop. An elegant cottage-solarium, framed with cedar and walled with rose-colored glass, stands in one corner of the garden. Across from it rests a heated pool, a large brazier, and a luxuriously pillowed patio hammock. The scents of cedar and hot coal fill the air, along with the faint hint of salty soil from the dozens of planter boxes.

  “Your quarters, Mr. Ranger,” says the girl softly, before gliding through the cottage’s open door to fluff the bed’s pillows. She takes a seat on the bed and leans back, relaxing. “Anything you need before I go, sir? Anything you desire?”

  “That’s enough, Skiss,” chimes a droll voice from behind me.

  Skiss bolts up, her seductive half-smile replaced by a flustered one. She glides past, brushing up against me on her way to the exit. At the door, she passes a shapely woman with close-cropped blond hair who is dressed in a pink bathrobe trimmed with white mink.

  “Madame Rogger,” says the woman, introducing herself. She extends a tattooed hand covered in rings. “And you are the Hero of the Crossing.”

  “So I hear,” I say, taking her hand.

  “You’re also the Western Ranger.” She teases a finger down the side of my jaw.

  “I’m also here on duty,” I say, right about the time her finger tickles onto my chest.

  Madame Rogger bats her brown-green eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?” She pulls my head down close where she can kiss at my ear. I’m about to push her away when she whispers, “You’d best let one of my girls stay with you. For your protection.”

  I’m about to ask what she means when a movement at the veranda door catches my eyes. It’s Skiss again, her almond eyes uncertain. Madame Rogger feels my distraction and releases me, turning her head. “What is it?” she asks, her voice betraying annoyance.

  Skiss frowns. “The Ranger has a guest, Madame.”

  Madame Rogger shakes her head. “Then tell his guest to wait, Skiss. In case you didn’t read our body language, we are busy at the moment.”

  “Skiss already told me to wait,” says another voice from the darkened doorway.

  I know that voice.

  My heart leaps, Milly’s name on my lips, but when Milly herself steps into the light, her expression dampens my excitement.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Turnabout

  Madame Rogger reads the situation instantly. “Aha,” she murmurs, giving Clementine a quick pat that I know is meant to say, For your protection. But protection from what? From Milly?

  She turns and offers Milly the slightest of curtsies. “Forgive me, Ms., I was just making sure Mr. Prose was familiar with the amenities that come with his winnings. I’m sure you heard: he survived the Hero’s Crossing. He’s a living legend now.”

  Milly’s smirk is biting. “Oh, yes, I know.” She steps into the room, arms folded, her hair taller and wilder than ever. “But of course, so am I.”

  Both Madame Rogger and I can’t help quizzical stares.

  “This morning’s Crown Blood Cup went to Damon and I.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. “The Crown Blood Cup? Damon?”

  At his name, the tall dark man from the ODOZ store steps through the doorway. “Nice to see you again, Blake.” He extends a cold, slender hand. His eyes are a deep gray with a luster that reminds me of Lancaster Moon’s, only lacking the warmth and goodness. “Yes, Milly and I were in the sky with the balloons this morning. You may have noticed us before starting your epic ride.”

  My eyes find Milly’s. “You were shooting zombies from above?”

  “I’m rather good with a sniper rifle,” says Damon, either sparing Milly from having to answer or sparing me from that answer. “We happened to be passing into town just before dawn and we thought: why not wait a little while and try our luck? Milly kept the ammunition coming and I kept getting off fortunate shots. What was the end tally, my dear—two hundred and fifty-nine head shots? I believe the runner-up failed to break one seventy-five.”

  My dear?

  “Would you excuse us, Madame Rogger?” says Milly. She steps aside, clearing the way for the door. Madame Rogger nods and exits, adding as she does, “Please ring if you need anything, Mr. Prose.”

  A moment later, Milly turns and smacks me hard across the face. “What are you doing?”

  “Milly!” I rub my jaw, wishing I could rub my pride. “It wasn’t what it looked like. I was only—”

  She raises a hand, gesturing for me to stop. “That’s not what I’m talking about. If you want to play cheap and loose with your precious desire and enjoy this place’s amenities, go ahead. I don’t care. What I do care about, however, is that you’ve already broadcast to the Mayor and the Sheriff that Damon and I are with ODOZ. Why do you think we hung around for the Crown Blood Cup? We wanted to come in with a crowd, Blake, not as ODOZ agents, but as respected celebrities. Now, thanks to you, we’re simply extra co
nspicuous feds who were obviously trying to come into town undercover. Now every snoop in Union Powder will be watching us. Do you have any clue how damned hard it’s going to be to get word of Schlozfield now?” Milly plants her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “I thought you had to get to Portland, Blake. I thought your sister-in-law was dying. Did she die early or something? Are you mad with grief? Is that why you’re making suicide rides and cavorting with whores?”

  My mouth falls open. Cavorting with whores? And did she say get word of Schlozfield? We expressly promised Sheriff Sanchez that we wouldn’t go hunting for Schlozfield but wait for him to find us. Milly’s gone AWOL. I have so much to say—but in front of Damon? I can feel his eerie eyes watching me with a studied mildness. All I can manage is, “I came to make things right, Milly.”

  She laughs darkly. “Brilliant start, Mr. Ranger.” But then a thought appears to strike her and the scorn on her face softens a little. “Well . . . if you want to do that, maybe you can track down our old friend, Yaverts. Don’t fight him, don’t provoke him. Just find out where he is and what he’s doing. We,” she says, taking Damon’s hand, “have to see about another matter.”

  At the sign of affection, Damon bends his head down and kisses her on the mouth.

  “Good luck, Blake,” he says as they leave, his smile a little too friendly.

  After they’ve gone, I pace the solarium fighting off a few strong, unsavory fantasies. First, I picture Damon teetering over the edge of a balloon with his sniper rifle and give him a shove. Second, I imagine Skiss with me on the veranda as I lead her into the hot tub. Third, I relive Milly’s unjust rebuke and reply with a backhand of my own.

  No, Blake. Knock it off.

  I’m angry, but none of those visions reflect who I am or who I want to be. And that’s part of the problem: I’m suddenly in a place where I don’t know how to deal with the roles that circumstance has left for me. I came to help Milly—to save Milly—but now it’s clear I can’t do so as a friend, much less a possible love interest. Now my character options seem far less noble and far more demeaning. At best, I’m the hypocritically jealous doofus who owes her one. At worst, I’m the phony idealist who can still be leveraged by guilt to a semblance of virtue. No matter what good I do now, she’ll see it through a vulgar lens. Ha! I think back to Durkadee, to the Imam Reservoir, to when I entrusted Yarely and my family to Lancaster Moon so I could make this trip in the first place. And now, after a few insanely close calls, I’ve arrived back in the thick of my so-called story to play the role of the pathetic fool.

  “Get over yourself, Blake.” That’s what my dad used to tell me and I repeat the words aloud now. Dad was always so wise, so blunt, so willing to confront my addictions to immaturity. And I realize that that’s where I’ve arrived: not so much in Union Powder and a choice between unsavory ways to view myself, but at a place where I have to be mature enough to be secure in a truth that I alone know. I came north to help a friend in trouble. I came north to help a helpless little girl. I didn’t come out of guilt or lust or spite. Milly can think that if she wants. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I stay faithful to my convictions, even if they’re misunderstood and misrepresented.

  Ha, again! My wounded ego has managed to forget that my convictions involve alerting Milly to the grave possibility that she’s in danger—from the synthetic blood, from Maplenut, from her smarmy charmy consort, Damon. I need to warn her, to get her out of here.

  But first things first.

  I ring the bell-button beside the solarium’s bed. A few minutes later, Madame Rogger appears.

  “Yes, Mr. Prose? Have you changed your mind about a companion?”

  “Do you know where I can find Rickard Yaverts?”

  The Madame gasps silently and glances east, over the side of the mansion. “Well, well,” she says quietly. “Why ever would you want to know about him?”

  I decide to play into a role I’m sure is pretty familiar around Union Powder. “We’ve got an old score to settle,” I say.

  She studies me, half alarmed, half amused. “Ranger or not, do you know his reputation? He’s shot more men in the back than the rest of the men in this town have shot zombies in the head.”

  “I’m aware of his reputation.”

  Madame Rogger shrugs. “Well, I guess it’s no secret. Yaverts is the Festival’s defending Lobe Lopping Champion. That means he’ll be out in front of the grandstands at three o’clock, defending his title.”

  I can’t contain a snort. “Lobe Lopping? Let me guess. That has something to do with chopping off the most zombie ears in as little time as possible.”

  “You got it,” says Madame Rogger with a sly smile. “Tackiness is part of our charm around here.”

  “True enough,” I say, sitting down on the bed and patting a spot beside me. “But there are so many other parts to Union Powder’s charms. Share a few more with me?”

  The sly look on Madame Rogger’s face deepens. She takes the seat beside me and starts kissing my neck.

  “Why,” I whisper, “did you suggest I need protection?”

  She whispers back. “The Western Ranger has never been popular here. And you? You look like you came straight from Portland. That alone gets some folks tossed in the moat.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No,” she says, tickling my ear with her lips. “I think you’re being watched.”

  “Do you know by whom?”

  She gives her head the slightest shake. “Not yet. Just a hunch.”

  “You’re kidding!” I laugh loudly, pulling away, as though scandalized by something saucy.

  Madame Rogger bursts into laughter too. “Oh, not at all, Mr. Ranger. You’ll see!”

  “Later, then,” I say, standing up. “Thank you for now, Madame.” I kiss her hand and she takes her leave.

  Skiss brings me a breakfast of eggs florentine and a blackberry crepe, which I devour. Afterwards, I nap until my 2:30 wake up call, at which time I strap on my backpack and head down to the sunny, bustling street. More people recognize me than I expected. My celebrity status is in full bloom. Folks point or wave. Women ask if I’d like company. Men ask if I’d like to arm wrestle. But, all in all, everyone is still too busy with the next competition of the festival to press past my universal ‘no thank you.’ The name of Yaverts buzzes everywhere and the passersby all head south for the high entertainment of Lobe Lopping. I stroll slowly, choosing to observe the foot traffic and the emptying buildings. In a few minutes, the town seems deserted. Everyone has gone to the show.

  Passing by the Sheriff’s office, I nearly trip on my own feet. Out front, two stallions are tethered to the building’s hitching post.

  One is a simmering black. The other is a bloody red.

  Chapter Thirty

  Who Hath Ears

  Naturally, I can’t remember the last time I peed my pants. But this moment comes close enough that I remember the fact that I can’t remember. My bladder is already sneaking off down the street, ready to watch Yaverts cut zombies’ ears off. The rest of me, though, freezes in the street, wondering what to do.

  All I can remember is Lancaster’s booming voice telling me to kiss my badge if I ever ran across a black horse beside a red horse.

  Now that the thought is in my head, I scoff aloud. A black horse and a red horse? There are probably hundreds in the Alley alone. And as for kissing a badge, even if it were some kind of signal, I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather die than use such a silly technology. Besides, Lancaster never said why I should kiss the badge, or even if I should be wary of the riders. For all I know, he’s acting as the Banshee, looking to hunt down some old enemies and using me as an extra pair of eyes. Could this be one of the men who killed him? I’ll kiss the badge and he’ll show up with the guns of vengeance blazing?

  “Hello, West.” A raspy voice from behind spins me around. I’m staring at a man my size with a black beard, black eyes, olive skin, and a white suit. He’s gripping a silver cane ca
pped with a white, soapstone wolf’s head.

  “I’m sorry?” I say.

  “You’re obviously West.” The man’s gaze flicks at my badge. He tuck-tucks with his tongue at my cross. “And a man of superstition, to boot.”

  “Always pleased to meet a poor deducer,” I say, tipping my hat as I make to leave.

  He hooks an iron finger on my arm. “I wouldn’t turn your back on me if I were you.”

  I face him, squarely. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m the patient one.” He wipes his forehead with a white hankie. He’s sweating profusely. “South is not so much.”

  My eyes scan the windows and balconies of the buildings behind him. If anyone has a beed on me, they’re well hidden. “So you’re East,” I say.

  The man nods, tipping his white hat. “Van Vandercain. Ranger of the East.” He stares right through me, unmoving, his pistol hand a little too poised.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Vandercain?”

  “Where is Lancaster Moon?”

  “Who?”

  East’s thin lips crack unexpectedly into a broad grin, revealing glossy white teeth. “A large black man on a pale yellow horse. It would be odd if the new Western Ranger hadn’t met him yet.”

  “Oddness seems to be the norm here,” I say, playing it cool. “But then again, wouldn’t it be odd if the new Western Ranger had met with him and was still alive?”

  Crap. No sooner are the clever-sounding words out of my mouth than I realize they weren’t so clever. They were exactly what Van Vandercain was already thinking. His knowing grin fades back to a thin smile.

  “That would be odd,” he agrees. “But you say you haven’t seen him?”

  “I don’t know how I could have,” I say. “Lancaster Moon is dead.”

  East strokes his bearded chin without comment. “Shall we go catch a little Lobe Lopping?” he asks instead.