Head Dead West

by Oliver Atlas

  Now the crowd erupts.

  WESTERN!—CLAP CLAP—RANGER!—CLAP CLAP—WESTERN!—CLAP CLAP—RANGER!

  Skiss nudges me to my feet. All I can think is that I hate this attention. I hate knowing East’s eyes are on me, that South’s eyes might be as well, that I’ll soon be standing beside Milly-attached-to-Damon, and Yaverts with his mocking grin. I have a feeling that I’m heading in the opposite direction I want to head, toward tension and uncertainty, away from Skiss and, probably, once more, away from Portland. But I also know I can’t leave Milly until she releases me. Because she’s more than a strange idealist who wants to find the Cure. She’s more than a compassionate woman who wants to make sure one little girl, Jenny, stays safe. She’s also my friend, and however much she wounds my pride—and however poorly I feel used by her—I will not stop trying to do right by her. As I step onto the stage, adored by a throng of wild, warped, and whooping folks who know how to kill zombies in a million entertaining ways, I know in my bones the only way the world ever changes for the better is when one person does good to someone who doesn’t seem to deserve it. For me, today, a better world starts with Milly.

  After indulging the Mayor with a handshake and some light banter, I step in line between Yaverts and Damon. Both men, I’m sure, give me suspicious sidelong glances. Oh well. Nothing can compare to the intensity of East, who has lowered his martini glass and watches us all with his overly dark, unblinking eyes.

  Behind us, a white curtain rises, revealing a long rectangular table stacked with prizes. Weapons, gold bars, high-tech instruments, cash, property deeds—Mayor Quincy introduces everything we’ve won, plugging sponsors and flattering the audience with the aplomb of a good game show host. Then, each of the champions gets to choose a prize, going in chronological order. A massively muscular cowboy, the winner of the Balloon Rodeo, chooses first. He selects the deed for a fortified hunting castle in the mountains west of Union Powder. An elderly woman, the winner of the Torcher Torture, picks next. She paces back and forth, spitting chaw and ruffling her receding hair until she finally swears and grabs the biggest wad of cash.

  I’m next.

  I approach the table alone, feeling odd. There is a gravity to the moment, an urgency I can’t explain. I’ve always treated gifts with a playful flippancy, always keeping things at arm’s length. My eyes flit to Skiss. She nods, meaningfully. Okay. Meaningfully why? What am I looking for? What do I need? The table has some enticing weapons. A sniper rifle with a scope out of the distant future. A modified shotgun that, I’d guess, is designed to turn about anything into a projectile. And I’m shocked to see a laser dagger, the hilt of a blade reputed to cut through anything. That’s tempting, if only on principle. There are also more deeds—deeds to saloons in Baker’s Flat, to pleasure houses in Hood Creek, even to a bookstore in Sylvan. And there are mystery gifts: unmarked sealed envelopes, amulets, and vials full of colorful liquids.

  One of the mystery envelopes catches my eye. Unlike the others, it does have one marking, the iconic image of a black crow stamped in the corner. The super shotgun, the bookstore in Sylvan, the laser knife—all very tempting. Still . . . I pick up the crow envelope. The crowd’s roar cuts out. They know I am a gambler. I risked the Hero’s Crossing, after all. But a mystery envelope?

  “Open it!” someone yells.

  I only smile and slip it into my jacket’s inside pocket.

  The crowd shouts in protest. The suspense is too much. The cry of “Open it!” soon resounds through the room, until the chandeliers rattle.

  I raise my hand for silence. “I intend it as a gift to a friend,” I say. “And it’s for my friend to open.”

  That seems enough to appease the crowd, and I return to my seat beside Skiss.

  As declared in his boastings on the street, Damon won the Crown Blood Cup the morning I rode in, and he goes next, selecting the laser knife. The winner of the Crawler Mauler follows. Then Yaverts, who makes what I’m certain is only a show of deciding, before taking the shotgun. Then comes the Hellhogtie winner. And then Milly, the Bleeding Heart champion. Ha. Well, that’s ripe. I have no idea what the Bleeding Heart challenge entailed, but it makes perfect sense Milly would have won it. She goes immediately to the vials and takes one that irradiates a bright blue. Those following Milly choose immediately as well. They come up knowing what they want, and before I know it, Skiss and I are saying ‘no thank you’ to Chef Klaus Von Scellick and his scrumptious-looking courses, numbers eleven through twenty-two.

  When the dancing begins, I see Milly and Damon get up.

  Now’s my chance, the moment I can finally speak with her alone. I whisper to Skiss where I’m going, leaving her to console Chef Klaus, and head for the stage-turned-dance-floor in order to cut in.

  Only Milly and Damon don’t go to dance. Instead, they pass through the doors behind East, who still sits alone brooding. The rest of his table has scattered elsewhere.

  “Damn it, Milly,” I grumble to myself, annoyed at another complication. I wade down the aisle through adoring fans, catch East’s evil eye in passing, and slip out the ballroom door into a dim hallway. I’m going to have a heart to heart with Milly if it takes Hellhogtying her. Whatever that entails.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Surprises

  I suppose the hallway’s gauzy lighting is meant to set a romantic mood. It matches the thick gold and crimson Persian rugs lining the floors, the parchment-like walls and their burnt orange crown moulding.

  Right.

  Couples coming to Union Powder for romance.

  As I scan the passages for Milly and Damon, the thought makes me chuckle darkly. Nothing like being afloat in a sea of the living dead to fire up all the old animal instincts.

  Their room must be nearby. They must already be in it. What number did she say?

  I pass rooms 25 through 30, turn a corner to the stern of the ship, and find 31, 32 . . . and 33. That was it. I knock. “Room service.”

  “One second,” calls Milly from behind the door, almost too gently to hear.

  A minute passes. Two minutes. Three.

  I knock again, this time louder. “Law enforcement. Open the door.”

  “Just a second,” comes the hushed voice again, a note of warning in it.

  Okay. I wait another minute, two, three, four. I’m just about to kick in the door when I hear footsteps. The doorknob turns silently and Milly slips out, closing the door behind her with one hand and rubbing her neck with another. Feeling peevish, annoyed, hurt, angry, and a few other unpleasant emotions, I’m about to lay into her when she quickly peers right and left and grabs my hand. She trots down the hallway, dragging me behind.

  I’m not amused. “Milly, what the—”

  “Here we are,” she says, pushing through swinging double doors to a small, empty lounge. The room has two leather couches, a small sink with a counter and coffee grinder, a bookshelf made of oak and brass, and a small wood burning stove. As soon as the doors swing shut, Milly practically tackles me. “Blake!” she cries, attacking my cheek with a flurry of kisses. “You came back for me!” She kisses my chin and my neck. “I knew you would. And you’ve been magnificent.” She kisses my eyes and nose. “Everything—from your ostentatious entry, to picking a fight with Vandercain, to pretending to take up with whores and hate my guts—you drew almost all the suspicion away from me.”

  I hope I don’t look as clueless as I feel, but I’m pretty sure my face is red from anger and embarrassment and that my mouth is hanging open.

  “There isn’t much time,” rushes Milly, kissing my cheek again. “I’ve drugged Damon so—”

  “You drugged Damon?”

  “Of course. What do you think my blue vial contained? It was almost too easy. Slipped enough tranquilizer in his drink to keep him dreaming for two days. Maplenut will be livid.” Milly nearly suppresses a gleeful cackle. “Tonight is the night. Now that he’s out of our hair, we can go get Jenny and get out of here. We’ve got at least three ho
urs before the Gala ends and Yaverts finds out she’s gone. With any luck, he’ll get drunk or seduced and won’t get home until morning.”

  “What about Schlozfield?” I say. “I thought finding him was your priority?”

  “It is! But you remember what Sheriff Sanchez said: let him come to us. Once we lose all these cronies, that will be possible.”

  My head is reeling. Is it possible I’ve been judging Milly as a two-faced imbecile while she’s been treating me as about ten times sharper than I really am? I can’t decide if I should confess as much or play along. “Milly,” I say, stepping back from her. “How did you know? About Damon, I mean.”

  She nods soberly. “I’m sorry, Blake. Once again, I didn’t tell you everything. Basically, I know that most of the powers in the Territory don’t want Schlozfield’s work to succeed. They don’t want the Cure to succeed. That’s why he’s in hiding. As soon as the Mayor offered to help and Damon happened to be flying north, right where I needed to go, I realized I was being set up. So I decided to play along until a window came to escape with Jenny.”

  “But why you? Why would they think Schlozfield would fall for it?”

  “Well, the truth is, Schlozfield knows I’m coming. I have information from my mentor that could complete his research. Somehow, they know Schlozfield has to find me. They also know I’m a direct threat. The information I have is everything. But—”

  “But,” I interrupt, “your mentor can always send another intern with the information. They’ll kill you if they have to, but they’d much rather use you to lure the doctor into the open. I get it. The Cure would destroy the whole region’s economy.”

  Milly shakes her head. “No. It’s more than that. The Cure would destroy the nation’s economy, our new constitution, our most powerful political leverages. If the living dead were no longer a threat, how could anyone justify the experiments, the police state?”

  It’s my turn to shake my head. “What about ODOZ? Why all the scientists and tests if no one really cares about the Cure?”

  “You’re sharp tonight, Mr. Prose.” Milly eyes me slyly, pausing a moment as though deciding where to kiss me next. “There’s more. ODOZ doesn’t really exist to study what makes people turn into zombies or how to reverse or prevent the process. ODOZ exists to . . . well, to learn how to perfect the process.”

  “What?”

  “The wars,” says Milly, folding her arms. “That’s what I’m saying. Make a better zombie, make a better soldier. It’s a cliché, but it’s that simple.”

  “No,” I laugh. “That’s absurd. That’s way too cynical.”

  “Is it? Why, Blake? Not everyone shares your quasi-peaceable ways. These days, most people may not admit it, but they live as though it’s really a dog-eat-dog world, and whoever can become the biggest dog wins.”

  My head aches. “What about Jenny?” I ask. “I get that you care about protecting the innocent. That’s beautiful. It’s something I could see a better man than myself risking his life for. But if all you say is true, you’re risking much, much more than your own life by chasing after this girl. You might be risking the Cure.”

  “And you want to know why.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. The truth is, I was following Yaverts. We had a report that he would be transporting something Schlozfield would need. I think that something is Jenny.”

  “So you’re helping Jenny in order to help Schlozfield.”

  Milly’s jaw tightens. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, Blake. I can love Jenny and help the doctor at the same time. Okay? I was wrong not to confide in you sooner, and I’m sorry for that—but, really, we haven’t had too many ideal moments. And how could I know I could trust you? This whole land is a den of lies.”

  My jaw has gone tight too. I try to relax. “Okay. I forgive you. And . . . I hope you’ll forgive me for what happened back at the border.”

  She shrugs. “We need to get Jenny and get out of here. Fast. The balloons are under watch, so unless you’ve caught a cold-blooded streak and want to shoot a few guards, we’ll have to go by land. I can buy horses.”

  “All right,” I say, bracing myself for awkwardness. “But I need to go get Skiss.”

  “Skiss?”

  “I told her I’d take her to Portland.”

  I think it’s hurt that flashes across Milly’s freckled face. “Oh,” she says, all too gently.

  My heart rips a little, but there’s no time for dealing with such intricate pains. “You go get Jenny,” I say. “Remember, she’s at The Stable. You’ll have to figure out a way to get her room number from the desk attendant. I’ll get Skiss and meet you in front of Madame Rogger’s. If you get there before me, stay hidden. When you see us in the street, come out.”

  The room suddenly feels chilly. I don’t want to meet Milly’s eyes. Distracted, I hold out my hands toward the stove only to pull them back. The stove is cold.

  “Okay, Blake,” says Milly. Her tone is level and accepting and for some reason that makes things worse. “But give me twenty minutes lead. If you don’t show your face in the banquet hall again, people will notice. Everyone expects us to show up for the big vote, after all. Most people expect you to walk away with the night’s big prize. So make another appearance, wait a few minutes, and when you leave, try to hide it. And have an alibi ready if anyone questions you. You forgot your acceptance speech in the billiard hall or something.”

  I help Milly gather her things from the room, where, on the bed, Damon is snoring softly, stretched spread eagle. His closed eyes roll wildly. His mouth twitches in little bites. I resist the temptation to shave off his eyebrows, muttering how his dreams must certainly be dark.

  As Milly shoulders her packed bag, I notice her neck is bleeding. She catches my eyes and explains Damon realized he was being drugged just before it took effect. He attacked her, raking her neck. “I’m fine,” she insists.

  A few minutes later, she’s down a back ladder and I’m tossing her bag to her, asking if she has a gun. Of course she does. She rolls her eyes flirtatiously before darting away into the quiet streets.

  Back in the ballroom, I find a crowded dance floor. In its center, I spot Skiss arm in arm with Van Vandercain. When I cut in, the other Ranger turns without a word, receding into the shadows.

  “What was that?” I whisper.

  “He was asking me questions,” answers Skiss. “About you.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  Skiss purrs, tracing a finger down my cheek. I’m sure it’s because she knows we’re being watched. “Of course,” she says. “Mostly about how you became Ranger, and if you’ve mentioned a Dr. Schlozfield.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Only how long you’ll be in town.”

  “And how long did you say?”

  “That my guess was you’d want to be in my bed for another week, at least.”

  “Hmm . . . good answer.” I lean to kiss her neck, surreptitiously searching for prying eyes. “We’re leaving tonight,” I whisper. “Right now. I need you to start fixing your makeup and excuse yourself, like you’re going to the powder room. But go to Madame Rogger’s, get your things, say your goodbyes. And I don’t know what’s in this,” I add, slipping the crow-marked envelope to her, “but I had a feeling you should give it to her, as a goodbye gift.”

  Skiss discreetly takes the envelope. “You’ll meet me?”

  “Yes. I’ll be right behind you. One last thing,” I say, still scanning the room as we spin slowly with the dancers. “Where is Yaverts? I don’t see him.”

  “The Lobe Lopper? I think he left the room not long after you did. I haven’t seen him since.”

  My feet stop spinning. “Well, crap.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A Flurry

  Yaverts.

  That fox.

  He must have known we’d choose the moment of the awards to try and steal Jenny away. Either that or he figured we wouldn’t dream of missing the awards
and decided to steal away himself. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Milly could very well run into him. Alone. She may be tough, and she may be resourceful, but I’ve seen her shoot and she’s no Annie Oakley.

  My stomach is a cast iron stove as I duck out into the street, dashing eastward in the direction given to me by a runny-nosed bellhop. As I run, I pray—for Milly’s safety, for Jenny’s, for Skiss’s. The way we left the room was too obvious. Even though we tried to act casually, leaving separately, and with the appearance of coming right back, I doubt Van Vandercain will be fooled. There’s no doubt he was watching us. I nearly trip over my own feet.

  He was watching us. I think back to the Screamer Scamper, to Skiss taking my hand. If East saw that . . . . Crap. If he’d only seen us tonight, well, that would be nothing. I needed an escort for the Gala. Why not one of the most beautiful girls in town? But if he saw us earlier and tonight . . . that’s a pattern, that’s a possibility, that’s grounds for guessing that I really do care about her. He’ll want to see if he can get at me through her.

  Now my mind is divided. On one side, I can see Milly easing open the door to Yaverts’ darkened room. She calls out softly for Jenny, takes a step, and—BLAM!—Yaverts’ shotgun rips her stomach wide open. On the other side, I can see Vandercain snugged up behind Skiss, his white smile gleaming as he presses a knife to her throat. “Throw me your badge,” he rasps at me. “Then we’ll see about the girl.”

  It’s not too late for me to turn back. I might make Madame Rogger’s in time. But that’s all guesswork. Milly I know could be in trouble. Besides, if what Skiss has told me is accurate, there isn’t a woman in Madame Rogger’s who can’t hold her own in a gunfight. And Skiss, I’m guessing, can be a flickering shadow or a raging tiger when she needs to be. The fearlessness I’ve seen in her eyes is more than bravado. Encouraged by the thought, I keep running for The Stable. Or at least the direction of The Stable.