Outrider Read online

  “OK. Alright . . . let’s drop our extra chow, feed, and water and get moving, double-time.” Scofield was already dismounting. He began to rummage through his saddle bags the second his boots were on the ground. Kretch remained glued to his saddle for a long moment more, finally kicking free of the stirrups. He slowly climbed off Shady and began lightening the horse’s load in a stupor. He was terrified.

  A clean-shaven, sober, and conflicted Timothy Hale sat at his desk, racing to deal with all the work he had eschewed the day before. There were forms to be approved, calls to return, a schedule to establish. The secretary general was determined to have Mayor Dreg return to an executive office free of any issues—and to keep it that way for as long as he could.

  A mix of contrition and frightened excitement coursed through Hale’s veins. The first thing he had done that morning was to port control of the monitor wall in Franklin’s office to his own computer. Then he had entered false information into the systems that tracked power consumption. Hale was going to deal with the drain himself and on his terms. For too long had he stayed in Mayor Dreg’s shadow, watching the lumbering braggart make rash decisions, issue foolish orders, and generally muddle the handling of the city. If he could assume management of the problem from its outset, Hale reasoned that he could see it through to resolution. Why not finally take the reins when the biggest catastrophe yet had struck? Was not he the best man for the task? If The Mayor thought Timothy Hale would be forever content in his current post, would never seek to rise, well then Dreg had much to learn. Outside, the morning was brightening; inside, Hale’s confidence was growing.

  Then the phone rang.

  “Hale.”

  “Secretary Hale? This is Major J. P. Engel. Security deputy.”

  “Oh, right. You work under Colonel Strayer.”

  “Correct.”

  “What can I do for you, Major?”

  “Can you get outside fast? Or are you near a window that opens?”

  “What?” Hale asked, almost laughing. “No. I mean . . . yes, I guess I can crack a window in my office, what the hell are you talking about, Engel?”

  “Well please do it right now. As fast as you can. And listen.”

  Shaking his head incredulously, Hale pressed the key for speakerphone and rose, turning to face his window. He clicked open the lock and slid the heavy frame aside a few inches, holding his head near the open gap. At first he heard nothing but the standard din of a New Las Vegas morning: pods and trains cruising along their tracks, a chorus of voices, and the clang of construction. But then, a different sound, a foreign sound . . . a deep, echoing drone.

  “What is that, Engel?” Hale asked loudly, his ear still held to the open window.

  “It’s the warning horns from the sunfield.” The deputy officer’s voice crackled through the speaker. “It means we have an emergency out there.”

  Hale’s knees buckled. His face went cold. This was too fast. Too big. He slammed the window shut and returned to his chair. Picking up the handset, he took in a slow, steady breath. His voice was unnaturally calm when he spoke.

  “We’re already on it. Don’t worry about this, Engel. No need to spread alarm. I’m in control here.” Hale hung up immediately.

  The men dozed in the morning sun, another night’s work finished. From atop the dune—the highest in sight—the sentry could see miles of the sunfield and easily spot anyone approaching across the barren stretch of sand. It would take a galloping rider ten minutes to close the gap between the field and this outpost; more than enough time for the group to decide whether to fight or flee. None of the outriders ever bothered to stray more than a few hundred yards from the field anyway, and even bothering to post a guard was done merely out of routine.

  The sentry was wearing a loose, beige robe over his jeans and flannel shirt. He glanced back at his sleeping comrades, only one of whom had bothered to switch from the black robes they wore at night when working. He snorted, then smoothed the thick whiskers of his brown beard flat, shaking his head with a smile. It was almost too easy.

  The man turned back to face the sunfield. He had been lying prone and was just rising up on his elbows to fish a cigar from his jacket when the horns began to wail. He froze, his left hand in a pocket, his right unconsciously grabbing a fistful of sand. The sinister moan grew stronger, deeper.

  “Guys!” He called out, not yet looking back. “Wake up, guys!”

  “The fuck’s that?” one of the others mumbled. The sentry got up on his knees and raised a pair of binoculars. He scanned the field but could see no one. Behind him the men began to stir. He glanced over his shoulder to find the group in varying degrees of wakefulness. Two men were already up and alert, one was still fast asleep, and the other three groggily coming to.

  The sentry again raised his binoculars. He spotted a lone outrider, galloping at full speed. The rider was headed east, though, away from their dune and off toward New Las Vegas.

  The first man who had awoken was on his feet. He rolled out his massive shoulders, then pulled the dark robe off, not bothering to don its beige replacement. He rubbed at the black stubble on his powerful jaw, his eyes clear, serene. “Gather your things. Fast. And one of you head down and make sure everyone’s ready. We got work to do.”

  10

  Dreg wrapped his thick fingers around the armrests, his yellow nails leaving crescent divots in the tan leather. His plane had just reached its cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet and was nearing transcontinental flight speed. In less than three hours, The Mayor would have his feet back on home turf. He ground his teeth together, his mustache quivering. His eyes were fixed on a bare spot of wall.

  After ten minutes spent barely blinking, Dreg turned to look over the back of his seat at Strayer, who was leaning over a table spread with documents. “Any word from Hale?”

  “Nothing,” Strayer answered, his pale eyes briefly meeting Dreg’s then glancing over at his computer screen.

  The Mayor faced forward again, loosening his tie with slow, deliberate motions. He had resolved not to call his secretary; he was so infuriated by Hale’s lack of communication that he felt trying him again would be in some way a personal failure. But he had to know. “Nothing to report,” Hale had said in his one voicemail from the night before. “Carry on.” Fucking carry on! What the hell did that mean? Insubordinate bastard, Dreg thought, his face flushing.

  There was something to report. Dreg couldn’t remember what, but there was something very large indeed to report. Something was wrong with the executive network, though, and he’d been unable to wire into the mainframe and check up on the city remotely. His eyes drifted back to the same patch of wood-paneled wall. His hands gripped the armrests again. The jet bounced through a rough pocket of turbulence. Dreg hardly noticed.

  It was mid-morning but still the desert air was chilled. Winter was coming on fast. A cloud bank had filled much of the sky, blowing in from the eastern plains. It moved slowly, a mix of cottony splotches frozen into perfect forms high above and a muddled carpet of gray closer to the ground. Cold sweat dripped down Wilton’s back as he clung to Shady with his knees.

  The outriders had kept the horses at full gallop for miles that morning, easing to a canter only when either animal began to lose its rhythm, and once to give them water. Kretch could see spittle congealed into foamy clumps at the corner of Reese’s mouth and knew his colt was likely worse off, being the weaker horse. Wilton too was exhausted from the hours of riding. His thighs burned and his elbows ached. His neck was sore from the constant bouncing and even his jaw throbbed from being clenched tight for so long. He looked askance at Scofield. Envy tinged the anger he felt upon finding his companion with a smile on his face.

  Scofield was relishing the ride. Reese was going strong, her coat slick with sweat but her stride steady. The ten minutes the group had rested a while back was more than enough for the horse to recharge. She and her rider were in perfect harmony: Scofield’s head dropped when he
r flanks rose and bobbed up again when her back legs hit the sand. Reese let out a short whinny of protest when Scofield hauled back on her reins.

  “Kretch, let’s slow up a sec!” Scofield hollered over the pounding of hooves. Wilton slowed Shady to a walk and looked over his shoulder.

  “What’s up?”

  Scofield had brought his mare to a standstill. Wilton wheeled Shady about and trotted over to his partner.

  “Let’s give the mounts a sip.”

  “Only got a few miles till we cross the line, Scof. Oughta just finish the ride.”

  “They’re thirsty,” Scofield fixed Kretch in an unusually intense glare, then looked down and to his left.

  Kretch nodded slowly. “Suppose we should give them a quick drink.” He pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes and tried to follow Scofield’s suggested sightline. In the flat sunlight, diffused through the clouds, at first Wilton could see only the dusty sands. Then he caught it. About thirty yards back there was a wide, shallow depression in the sand. It was discernible only by its perfect flatness amid the parched, uneven soil. A big burrow, by the looks of it.

  “Let’s each give these fellahs a drink at the same time,” Scofield whispered, kicking out of his stirrups. Kretch nodded, and both outriders dismounted and drew their pistols. Kretch slung his rifle over one shoulder as Scofield wriggled out of his long jacket, passing the six-shooter from one hand to the other as he slid his arms from the sleeves.

  The two men approached the depression slowly, spreading out to close in at an acute angle relative to one another. The burrow was concealed by a large, circular tarp painted to match the desert floor and anchored by dozens of tiny copper stakes. The setup would complicate a swift removal. Using gestures, Scofield indicated for Kretch to take hold of one side and him the other, then for both to drag the cloth up and south. Wilton nodded, and they closed the last few feet to the tarp with painfully slow steps.

  Scofield knelt and gingerly took a handful of canvas. When Wilton signaled that he was ready, Scofield fired into the air and both outriders heaved up on the tarp then lunged aside in unison, exposing the burrow.

  Scofield dropped the canvas and spun to face the hole, his pistol trained with both hands. Peering out from heavy sleeping bags, two fearful sets of eyes stared back at him.

  “Hands where I can see ’em! Real fast!”

  The man was first to his feet, followed clumsily by the teenager. It was immediately clear that they were father and son: the same slender, hooked nose, same brown eyes, and the same dark hair, thinning and graying on the man; full and unkempt on the youngster.

  “Get up here,” Wilton sneered.

  The teen crawled out of the burrow then turned to help his father, who rasped for breath after the short ordeal of climbing four feet up onto the desert floor. The pair stood before the outriders in matching gray uniforms. The boy’s was ill-fitting, likely a hand-me-down. His boots, too, were oversized and clunky. His skin was pale and patchy but red with pubescence in places.

  The father looked to be near fifty years old. The flesh of his face was tanned and tight, cut with the wrinkles of a man who had never known a desk job. But his shoulders drooped, rising and falling as he sucked in rapid, wheezing breaths.

  “You gentlemen step towards me. Wilton, be so kind as to check out that hole, hm?” Kretch nodded and holstered his pistol, sitting on the ledge of the burrow before sliding down in.

  “Anything on you I should know about? Things that shoot or stab or any of that?”

  “Nothing, sir.” The man said quietly. His voice was even; calm but humble. “We’re just out here to—”

  “Make a living or feed the family or whatnot. Yeah. Same shit thieves been saying for ten thousand years.” Scofield waved the man’s words away dismissively. “Now real slow, I want you boys to unbutton those jackets and toss ’em onto the sand.”

  The teen glanced over at his father, who nodded without returning the look. Both removed their coats and set them on the soil. The boy was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt. It was stained yellow around the neck and under his armpits. The man had on a sleeveless undershirt, and began to shiver almost immediately.

  “Let’s see them wrists.”

  Scofield looked at both sets of forearms and found them free of marks.

  “Anything?” Kretch called from the hideout where he was busily searching through the pair’s belongings.

  “Clean.”

  “Wouldn’t a’thought that,” Kretch muttered, dusting himself as he crawled from the burrow. “C’mere, Scof.”

  Scofield backed away from the leeches, keeping his gun aimed at the man. Both the father and son had their arms raised, fingers intertwined behind their necks. Looking back and forth between the captives and the hole, the outrider followed his partner’s finger as Wilton pointed out various items.

  “That crate’s got enough wire to stretch a half mile. Maybe more. They got the makings of three taps and pieces to repair a busted collector. See that sack there?” Wilton jumped back down into the burrow and hefted an olive green bag, shaking it up and down. Its contents clattered loudly. Kretch raised the sack out of the hole and upended it dramatically. Out spilled a random assortment of plugs and metal discs. Scofield immediately recognized the parts as fitting both the cable he’d found out east and the structure they’d discovered the night before.

  Scofield knelt and sifted through the arcane hardware. Running his fingers across a smooth, steel disc, he looked over at Wilton.

  “What’s your gut?” he whispered.

  “Not sure. But I think maybe these boys heard the horn and thought they could get in a day of heavy leechin’.”

  Scofield dropped the metal cap and scratched at the whiskers under his chin.

  “Nah . . . they were sleeping when we tossed their hole open. Wouldn’t have bedded down again if the warning was what brought ’em out here.”

  “True.”

  “And these things here match the taps on that big fucker we found.”

  “Yup . . . also true. Hm. What do you think?”

  “Don’t know yet. But we oughta bring ’em in. Fast. Maybe take some of this stuff with us.”

  Wilton crawled out of the burrow and stood. He tapped a few of the random plugs and discs with the tip of one boot. “Never seen this kinda shit before.” He looked up at the shivering leeches. “What y’all got here, huh? What’s this stuff?”

  Neither spoke. The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously. His father stood still, his eyes on the ground.

  “I’ll bring the horses over,” Scofield said, holstering his pistol and walking away. Kretch turned to face the leeches. A sneer lifted one corner of his lips. Unconsciously, he tugged at the buttons of his jacket then ran a palm across his chest. “Cold out, huh? Just about wintertime.” He ambled slowly toward the men. “You boys smoke? Hm?” Getting no response, Kretch let out a short, sinister laugh. “Well, that makes one of us.” He fished about in a pocket and found a cigarette he’d rolled the night before. Kretch placed the smoke between his lips and glanced up at the teenager. “You don’t smoke? Huh, kid? No?”

  “No,” the young man murmured.

  “Oh, so daddy taught you good, huh?” Kretch struck a match and held the flame to his cigarette, tossing the match at the boy’s feet once the tobacco had caught. “Seems to me a man should share a smoke with his boy out in a place like this. Good thing to do. Good memory to share.”

  “He doesn’t smoke. I don’t either,” the man rasped, his face averted. Slowly, the older leech lowered his hands from his head and began to rub his palms together. His son kept his arms tucked behind his neck. Scofield had looped Reese’s and Shady’s reins together and was leading the horses over.

  Kretch glanced back at his partner, then fixed his gaze on the father. “You think I forgot you, ol’ man?”

  The leech raised his head and locked eyes with Kretch.

  “Hitch up your shirt.” Wilton
snarled.

  “Pa, we just—”

  “Shut up kid!” Kretch barked. “Take off that shirt.”

  The humble pride in the man’s eyes disappeared, replaced by fear. His hands trembled as he gripped the hem of his shirt, slowly raising it until much of his pale torso was exposed.

  “All the way off,” Kretch whispered, stepping closer. Scofield stopped a few paces back. He stood still, holding onto his horse’s bridle with his right hand, his left awkwardly held before him where he had frozen upon seeing the old leech undressing. The boy’s eyes whipped back and forth from his father to Kretch. Then he looked up at Scofield, his mouth opening slightly as if to speak.

  The father held his shirt between both hands, clutching it to his chest like some talisman. His eyes were closed. Finally, after a long pause, he sighed slowly and let his arms drop, revealing a sinister scar just in from his right nipple.

  “Just what I thought.” Kretch hissed. “You remember what I told you, leech? You think I was playin’ around?”

  Kretch leveled his pistol and fired so fast none of the other three men had time to blink. The bullet tore into the old leech’s chest opposite the shot that had taken out his lung two years ago. This one found his heart. He was dead by the time he hit the ground.

  “No!” the boy shrieked, dropping to his knees. He took his father’s head in his hands, whimpering. Blood stained the youth’s white shirt. It spilled onto the sand. He looked up at Kretch, rage and hatred flashing in his eyes. Wilton lowered the gun down beside his hip but kept its muzzle loosely trained on the young man. A smile played across his face. He looked strangely satisfied, as though he had accomplished some goal. Kretch and the boy held each other’s gaze for a long time. The outrider continued staring down at the dead man and his son after the boy finally lowered his tearful eyes, looking past the outrider.

  Had Wilton glanced behind him, he would have seen what the youth did: Scofield quietly sliding his pistol back into its holster. He had drawn it instantly when Kretch shot the leech. His trigger finger had been taut, ready—a few more ounces of pressure and Wilton would have been dead. A silent, black rage grew in the pit of Scofield’s stomach. He swallowed it down—for now—and approached his partner slowly. The boy looked up at him. Scofield curled his lips in over his teeth and gave the slightest nod. Then he turned away.