Head Dead West

by Oliver Atlas

  The Bowie knife.

  Sunlight.

  Life.

  In a blink, I’m off Enemy, gently setting Skiss on the ground. Her face is blanched, her skin clammy cold. She has a pulse, but it’s faint.

  I produce the Bowie knife and double check the hidden syringe. It’s empty. Of course. I’m such a fool. With a grunt, I drive it into the ground and it slices down to the hilt without any resistance. Now to wait. How long? Two hours? That’s too long. Too, too long.

  “I thought I warned you to keep it charged.”

  Lancaster Moon is suddenly behind me, atop Abe, both of them staring at me with such intensity, I feel like a mere shadow. But Moon is the real shadow. As when we first me, he is dressed all in black, from hat to boots. His eyes, even in the morning light, shine with the blue of a night sea.

  “Lancaster,” I cry. “They’ve got Milly. You need to—”

  The big man raises a calming hand. “I already caught up with her, Blake. She’s fine. Should be here any second.”

  True enough, I can hear the alien sound of a combustion engine drawing near. The silver truck speeds over a berm, across the black grass, and skids to a stop beside us.

  When the driver door flies open, my gun is ready, but it’s Milly who stumbles out, covered in blood. “Blake.” Her head droops and she falls to a knee. “I’m sorry.”

  I run to her, pawing her clothes in search of a wound. “Are you shot? How did you—”

  She shakes her head faintly. “They forgot to . . . the knife . . . ” From her hand falls a small object, something like a flash-lamp.

  And then I know the blood isn’t Milly’s. She’d taken Damon’s laser knife and used it on the Bokor. My eyes flick toward the truck, but I immediately think better of it. No sense seeing more horror than necessary. I retrieve the knife and tuck it in Milly’s belt.

  “Milly needs to come with me, Blake. So does—”

  Moon’s eyes fix on Skiss and I can feel the electricity of his recognition in the air. He reads the situation in an instant. He didn’t know.

  But now he does.

  His daughter is alive.

  Barely.

  “Please lift her up to me,” says the big man, somehow able to absorb the situation and remain collected. After a beat he adds, “Be careful.”

  “I’m . . . I’m . . . ” The words won’t come. I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say I love her. I want to say I tried to protect her. But what would that be worth? I pass Lancaster Moon the body of his daughter and he reverently places her before him, securing her limp form with one powerful arm.

  I have to say something. My hand fumbles, stroking her hair. “Will she be okay?”

  Abe snorts and paws the ground. Behind him, the dead prairie writhes.

  Lancaster straightens. “You’d better get moving, Ranger. The rest of the Duchess’s crew will be coming. They’ll be coming fast.”

  “What? I’m coming with you.”

  “Abe will carry no more than three riders. And you can’t keep up. You’ll have to make your way west the long way. Come on, Milly.” He holds out a hand and Milly, rasping and dripping with sweat and blood, struggles up onto the horse behind him.

  “Where are you going?” I cry, feeling more alone than ever. “How will I find you?”

  Lancaster Moon raises an eyebrow. “How else? Look for us in Portland.”

  He turns and whispers something to Milly, who then leans toward me and says, “I’m sorry, Blake, about so much. I was wrong about Yaverts. Please help him see that Jenny’s safe. And I’m sorry. I . . . you were right. I’ve been sick. I’ve been awful. I pray we’ll see each other again.”

  Without warning, Lancaster wheels Abe around and the stallion gathers himself to spring. Milly, clutching the Banshee tight, pivots in the saddle, torment in her eyes. She needs my reassurance. But by the time I’ve called out “I forgive you,” they’ve already vanished.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  In the Meantime

  I’ve barely retrieved the Bowie knife and climbed onto Enemy when the howling begins. Guttural, gargling wails. The sound is horrific—part wolf, part pig, part something else. Whatever’s behind the noise, they’re hungry and hurried and mindless. Exhausted or not, Enemy bolts without waiting for my command. And we’re off, blazing south, away from the ominous berms and the valley’s menacing field, away from the infamous ghost town to the north, away—I hope—from whatever is making that wretched sound.

  The sun is up in earnest now. The greasy dark is giving way to rising warmth, and the mealy rock beneath us flecks white with our hurry. Even now, I can’t help but marvel at how my mind insists on spotting points of beauty in the midst of terror, offering amens to the nooks and crannies in creation’s shrouded potential. I wonder what my mind would make of a world completely taken over by such nooks and crannies. What would earth be like without anything to fear, without any need for locks, guns, or tombs? What would it be like, I wonder, glancing over my shoulder and squinting—what it would be like without . . . snarling rat wolves with oversized teeth?

  Hah. That’s perfect. Nothing like snarling rat wolves to enhance a beautiful morning reverie.

  A bullet whizzes over my head. Then another, this time closer. I’m quickly becoming an expert in identifying that particular zing.

  Squinting ahead, I scan the mountainsides until I spot him: Yaverts, to the southwest, atop a low lying ridge, apparently shooting at me. Or shooting at Enemy. I can imagine the man wanting to spare Enemy the pain of being devoured by mutant beasts, especially if that meant leaving me to face them on foot. Right. I’d guess a good two dozen are on my tail, which means that even if I unloaded Clementine without missing, managed to reload and repeat the process, I’d still have eight of the suckers to take on with nothing but my pearly whites and winning attitude.

  Well, maybe it’s the sleepless night, maybe it’s feeling coated in Skiss’s blood and Milly’s sorrow, maybe it’s being alone and about to be eaten, and maybe it’s simply that I’m being conformed to the ways of the Territory—whichever the case, I suddenly feel no qualms in betraying my pacifist convictions, especially if that means taking a shot at that snake, Rickard Yaverts.

  Milly said she’d been wrong about him, but it’s hard to believe that was anything more than the fever talking. One minute she was ready to bury him, and the next—after a ride with the Bokor and a whisper from Lancaster Moon—she’s asking me to help him. I don’t think so.

  I fumble for my rifle and, adjusting for the heave and ho of Enemy’s gait, prepare to try for a miracle shot. My aim can’t prove any worse than his, I think, as bullets continue zinging by me. In fact, after another fifty yards, the shot doesn’t seem so miraculous. I have a feeling it’s a shot I can make. The distance, the motion, the trajectory. I’m certain I have Yaverts’ life in my sights.

  Just as I’m squeezing the trigger, Enemy bucks a little. My rifle fires, but more at the moon than at Yaverts.

  “Enemy!” I growl. “Hold. Still.”

  Grumbling, I prepare to fire again. I square Yaverts back into my sight, preparing to raise for elevation. And suddenly he’s waving his arms wide, making a bigger target. The little figure beside him—Jenny—is waving her arms as well.

  What the—

  Then I get it.

  A glance behind confirms it. He’s been shooting the rat wolves. Only a dozen follow me now. My mind races back to try and recount how many shots flew over me. There couldn’t have been many more than a dozen. Which means—given the fact about a dozen rat wolves are missing—if Yaverts had wanted me dead, I would be dead. The man can shoot.

  Confused, I race on. By the time I’ve crossed the valley and started up the road to Yaverts and Jenny, only three of the beasts remain in pursuit. They’re close now, visible only to me, and gaining on my poor, flagging horse. I can see the contorted wrinkles in their elongated rat jaws, the boar-like size of their fangs, the dilated void in their eyes.

  Z
ombies.

  Sort of.

  Because when I fire at one, it sees the shot coming and dodges. Human zombies—even Screamers—are basically pure hunger. They can sense danger if it’s environmental, like fire or cliffs, but they don’t understand dangers like guns. These rat dogs, though, seem to treat everything as a threat. Even so, they only seem able to react. If I feint one way with my rifle, they leap the opposite and I simply meet them there. Three shots later and the chase is over. Two of the beasts now lack heads. The third is still crawling, dragging itself up the trail, snapping blindly. With the unflinching stare of a hardened rat dog killer, I put it down.

  More shots ring out from above. Apparently, Yaverts isn’t done covering my back.

  “Thanks,” I say, when I’ve reached him on the ridge. “Jenny,” I say, tipping my hat.

  “You were going to shoot us, Blake,” she scolds.

  “Nope, girl. Only me.” Yaverts doesn’t bother turning to greet me. He doesn’t seem concerned I might shoot him in the back either. Instead, he remains coiled around a .300 Winchester, firing down into the valley at more pursuers. These don’t look like rat wolves. They’re smaller, sleeker, faster.

  “Hellcats,” spits Yaverts, reading my mind. “They’re easy enough to hit from a distance, but up close, they’re shadows. We’d better get moving. There’s worse where they came from. And the Bokor won’t like it that I’ve been killing their pets. You got a problem?” he asks, catching my expression.

  I realize I’m gaping. I shut my mouth. It’s the first time I’ve heard Yaverts speak without contempt oozing from his beard-lined lips. His down-home growl is also softer. He almost sounds . . . civilized. I don’t trust the man half as far as I can throw him, but hearing him actually treat somebody like a person catches me off guard.

  “What’s on your mind, Mr. Prose?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just trying to figure out who you are.”

  The big man shoulders his rifle with a snort. “Me too, Mr. Prose. Me too.”

  “He’s my friend,” offers Jenny. She sits on Yaverts’ horse, bright eyes admiring her bearish guardian. I notice she’s wearing a holster with a little .22 revolver in it. That wins an arched eyebrow.

  “Did you teach her to shoot?”

  “Ha!” Yaverts roars with laughter. “Did I teach her to shoot? Hell, Prose. She taught me to shoot. This little daisy is a natural. And I figured she ought to be able to defend herself. No use being more afraid than you have to be. Come on,” he says, crossing in front of me to climb up behind Jenny. “That’s all the cats for now. They’ll probably have motorcycles or a balloon after us next.”

  “But I thought you just made some kind of deal with them? Aren’t you their friend?”

  “Duchess Desreta doesn’t have friends. She has pawns, enemies, and question marks. I was a question mark, trading information. But the second Lancaster Moon zapped into her valley, everything changed. She’s going to want information about him and that horse more than anything else I can offer. She’s also going to be interested in you too. Word is already out about what you did in Durkadee. Those Bokor just asked me if I knew where to find you.”

  “And?”

  “And I told them you weren’t far behind.”

  “You give me up and then you decide to save me from the rat wolves?”

  “Skargs.”

  “What?”

  “The rat wolves. They call them skargs.”

  “You don’t even talk the way you did! Who are you?”

  Yaverts takes off his hat and scratches his thick, sunny hair. “If I tell you who I am, well, you know how it goes: kind of our normal schtick.”

  “Right. You’ll have to kill me. Well, can you tell me why you’re helping me now?”

  “That should be pretty obvious. I saw what happened down there. I saw you talking with the pale rider.”

  “So?”

  “So? So if Lancaster Moon wants you alive, I’m sure as hell not going to disappoint him. You’re coming with Jenny and me to Xanadu.”

  “Xanadu?”

  Yaverts spits out an arc of chaw. “Prose, for a literate man, you’re pretty dense. Come on. Xanadu? Coleridge?” He squints at me until he can see I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Hell. Guess I’ll just stick to salty literalism and off-color metaphors. ‘Round here, Xanadu is known as Bentlam.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  To Bentlam

  Autumn has finally arrived. The clouds and rain, the cold. In the days that follow Sumpter Dredge, the weather hounds us down out of the granite mountains, right along with steady waves of skargs and hellcats. Yaverts carries a tarp that we use as a bivouac. Every twelve hours we take turns trying to get dry, catching some sleep, munching some salmon, remembering something beautiful and bright to share with Jenny. Half the time, no one sleeps though. It’s too terrifying to wake to rapid rifle shots, frantically wondering How many? How close? Who heard?

  Sitting watch, of course, means I have to eat my compunctions about shooting the living dead. After facing my first hellcat—watching it dance side to side at me like a spider before cutting it down on the third shot—it’s not that hard to place mutant zombie animals on the Have Gun Will Shoot list. Rabid rat dogs and milk-eyed minxes are fair game. I’ll even joke with Yaverts about who’s killed more. It feels a little wrong to demean creatures that might once have been alive and more than teeth, but it gives me a bit more pull when I suggest we go around the human zombies instead of simply shooting our way through them. All the same, when we’re at camp and a bum-rush of dead-heads comes, I have to start gunning. By the start of day three, I’ve had to do so twice.

  The second time, Yaverts inspects the bodies with suspicious eyes. “These are way too fresh, just like the last batch,” he says, scowling. “No rot. No gangrene.” He spits and rolls one of the bodies face up. “Hell, this gal’s still wearing makeup. And too much makeup, if you ask me. But look! There’s not a bite or gouge on her.”

  I don’t comment, only shake my head. The deeper I get into the Territory, the weirder and fouler things seem to get. I wonder if it’s because of Duchess Desreta. Yaverts won’t say much about her, only things I’ve already heard—things about voodoo, tech-looting, and ghastly experiments. He won’t say much about the mutants or the Bokor either. When I press him about meeting with them back in the valley, he ignores me. But when I ask how it is the Feds allow a valley like Sumpter Dredge to exist, he shoots me a glower that says I’d better drop the subject.

  We move on, skirting a few more packs of wandering dead-heads, leaving them to chase goats and rock-badgers. At midmorning, when we’re passing by the old John Day fossil beds, I spot three humans on the GPS. They’re approaching from the east, coming fast, so we hide in a thick pine tree grove. When they should be right on top of us, we still haven’t heard a sound. Tense as can be, weapons tight in hand, our eyes scour everything. Is this another new weird zombie twist? Some mutation out of the Duchess’s valley? Has she developed an invisible dead-head? Jenny taps me on the shoulder and points up. A hot air balloon peeks through the trees.

  “Damn,” whispers Yaverts, pressing up against a tree and motioning for us to do the same.

  My spotting scope reveals three Bokor in the balloon, peering down with sniper rifles.

  For a second I’m sure they’ve seen me too. After all, if I can see them, they can see me. One of the rifles lingers a little too long. I signal Yaverts to get his rifle ready. But then the Bokor raises his sights and the balloon floats onward, northwest along the Ochoco Canyon. We make camp in the grove and wait for a few hours. Around 12:30, we too press northwest toward Mitchell, a hunting town where Yaverts says we’ll find room and board. As we go, the road narrows. The mountains on either side rise with patchy woods and an alarming number of zombies. By nightfall, as the lanterns of Mitchell’s gates flicker into sight, Yaverts has already killed a dozen. I’ve taken down three Screamers. Jenny has killed a rabbit, which we’ve skinned
and saved for dinner.

  The innkeeper at Mitchell doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t ask for any money either. My Ranger’s badge and Yaverts’ stare ensure that. He gives us a two bedroom suite in his big colonial farmhouse, and after we’ve roasted and eaten the rabbit, Yaverts takes one bed, Jenny takes the other, and I curl up on the couch. We’re out the second we touch pillow.

  In my dreams—or my nightmares, I should say—I accidentally shoot Skiss, I marry Milly in Durkadee and then abandon her, I watch Jenny twitching with fever as she turns into a zombie, and I arrive in Portland only to find that it’s one giant graveyard and every tombstone is etched with a name I can’t quite make out.

  In the morning, the innkeeper surprises us with eggs benedict and raspberry crepes. I’m worse than haggard, but the crisp muffins, creamy hollandaise, and tart fruit help pierce through the film of gloom left by my dreams. That the morning is sunny helps, too. Cold gold floods through the warm farmhouse, making the dust and wood gleam.

  “That is so good,” gushes Jenny, launching into her third helping of crepes.

  Yaverts pokes her in the shoulder. “You’re riding with Mr. Prose this morning. I don’t want you throwing up on Brom.”

  “Brom?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Prose. I have read a book, you know.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “Brom Bones,” offers Jenny brightly as she chews. “He was in love with Katrina Van Tassel and dressed up as the headless horseman to scare Ichabod Crane out of town. Because he loved Katrina too.”

  “Talk about spoiler alert,” I say, impressed. “You’ve read The Legend of Sleepy Hollow?”

  Jenny shakes her head. “No. But Mr. Yaverts told me the story on the trail out of New Pokey.”

  “You’re telling her ghost stories?”

  “Now, now,” drawls Yaverts, winking at Jenny. “It’s an American classic, Mr. Prose. And what better ambiance to hear it for the first time than the open range of the Zombie Preserve?”