Head Dead West

By Oliver Atlas

WARNING: Abandon hope (and modern tech) all who enter the Oregon Zombie Preserve. Zombies are about to become the least of your concerns.

For some reason, ever since the old world died at the teeth and nails of its infected citizens, zombies inevitably shambled their way to Oregon. Nobody seemed to know why. Even more mysterious, people built a city there, in the middle of the sea of dead — a city that turned into a veritable paradise: Bentlam. Pilgrims flock from across the globe to venture beyond the giant wall of the Zombie Preserve in hopes of reaching the world's greatest remaining city.Blake Prose, on the other hand, is an idealistic Texan who simply wants to reach his family in Portland, another city managing to thrive amidst the rotting hordes. But when he meets a little girl in trouble and a beautiful scientist who is determined to see the girl to safety, Blake's straightforward plans suddenly turn as wild and hair-raising as the darkest pits of zombie country itself.From romance on a train to being lynched on the trail; from being named successor to the legendary Western Ranger to competing in the Outbreak Festival; from the horrible secrets of Bentlam to the strange catacombs of a magical library and finally to a confrontation with the true rulers of the Zombie Preserve — Blake learns why a person content to go to paradise alone will never go to paradise.

This omnibus includes volumes 1-5, which sees Blake through to a climactic confrontation with the rulers of zombie country.

Part spiritual memoir, part steampunk romance, part dime store western, part Oregon travelogue, Head Dead West will appeal to a wide range of readers. Think of Max Brooks' World War Z mixed with Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazzand then poured into Stephen King's The Gunslinger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oliver Atlas
• Release date: Apr 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781386730866

Book preview

Prologue

Go west, young man.

---

The phrase first struck ink in 1851, composed by a no-name newspaperman named John Babsone Lane Soule of the Terra Haute Express. Fourteen years later it found its way into the edictal arsenal of the influential, Horace Greeley, who ran the New York Tribune. Greeley revised and republished the imperative as Go west, young man, and grow up with the country. The command resonated with the day’s zeitgeist and the dust of wagon trails quickly billowed.

People racked by the civil war heard it as the pithy expression of their inner longings, the direction of their better angels, even the voice of God. For some, it simply reinforced the ethos they’d received from Puritanical forbearers who left Europe in search of religious freedom. Going further west made exquisite sense. What on earth had they been waiting for?

For others, for those freshly liberated to be in search of any freedom, religious or otherwise, it was the first time they could imagine themselves being addressed with a command they were truly free to fully Amen. West was the only way left to go. The country was new and flush with opportunity. And perhaps it was finally their country too.

Only the west wasn’t an empty land, of course. It teemed with peoples and cultures of fabulous depth and diversity. Alas, the same could have been said for the multitude of tribes in Canaan when the Israelites arrived, a few thousand years earlier. You see, history had already decided that roots didn’t matter when they collided with divine promises. Thus, the Bible itself was used to assure Greeley’s audience that the Promised Land belonged to those who could blithely imagine themselves its exclusive promisees.

And the land’s current inhabitants? They were savage squatters at best, ravenous devils at worst. Either way, in the Calvinistic mythos of the time, they were pseudo beings, sub-humans doomed by God to fill the role of faith-testing antagonists. They were the latest Philistines, predictably impure and expendable.

And you know the rest.

Those fleeing brother and sister to the east, flooded sister and brother to the west. Under the banner of liberty, they strode forth as conquerors; in the name of peace, they became the apocalypse. Under the march of their pilgrimage, one world died, and another was born.

In the new world, smokestacks became railroads, railroads became combustion engines, combustion engines became skyscrapers, skyscrapers became computers… in a few quick generations, the circle of life had given way to the circuit of progress. But what progress really meant, nobody seemed to know (a child in the slums would have been forgiven for thinking it meant having a one-in-a-billion chance to become another oligarch lounging on an oversized yacht).

And yet somehow those of us still alive think of those as the good ol’ days. The wonder days. The sloganized, harken-back-to, make-it-great-again days. Because of course those days didn’t last long.

The rich got bored with their yachts and cosmetic surgery. In a dubious quest to prolong their ennui, they began dabbling in an ancient hobby of the decadent, one stretching from Egypt’s Pharaohs to France’s Sun Kings.

They started meddling with vampires.

Long story short, their experiments ended up infecting 89 percent of the world’s population with a parasitical entity that turned them into flesh-seeking automatons. And that is how we ended up in the zombie apocalypse.

The following is the roundabout tale of how I got involved in trying to help set the world aright.

Chapter One

New Pokey

Not an hour before we’re set to arrive in New Pokey, the little girl in the seat beside me starts to cry. I ask her if it’s the dead. Now that we’re near the Wall they’re everywhere, no longer isolated stragglers limping across the grasslands, but a steady string of foot-dragging ghouls on their own trek westward to the Preserve. The girl shakes her head. It’s not those dead she’s afraid of. It’s the ones crammed like cattle into the cars behind ours. What if they break out somehow?

I observe that we’re already ten hours past Salt Lake City and they haven’t gotten out yet. And, I add, she hasn’t cried until now either. What’s the deal?

Then the truth ekes out.

Desperately squeezing her ragged brown teddy bear, she confesses she’s had to go pee for the last six hours.

That earns her an arched eyebrow. Wowser. I’m scarier than your bladder exploding? You could have gotten us both drenched.

She grimaces through the tears, and, in case her suffering isn’t enough to placate a fierce-eyed, angle-faced bloke like myself, she adds, I’m nine.

I nod, offering what I hope is a reassuring smirk. I can be kind, though, try as I might, my face usually fails to convey that possibility.

Okay, I say, standing up and reaching for the black felt gaucho hat crumpled in the overhead bin. There’s a lav just behind our car.

A redheaded gal who’s been sitting across from us since Boise gets up too. That’s okay, she says with a gentle smile. I can take her.

The lady’s wearing a green dress that sets off her blue eyes. As she glances at me, she blushes the tiniest bit. At least I hope she’s blushing. My hat’s now on and I instinctively tip the bill, reminding myself what a sucker I am for redheads.

Thanks, I say, trying not to smile too broadly while reclaiming my seat.

If I were you, I’d take that off, she replies with wry discretion.

Without thinking, I snatch off my hat. Why?

Not your hat. Her eyes are sprightly and relaxed, not tense with adrenaline like everyone else’s. She points to my chest and the simple wooden cross hanging there at the V of my black vest. People in Oregon don’t think much of that anymore.

I twiddle its cord with a smirk. That’s all right. Folks in most places don’t think much of it anymore. That makes it great bait for amusing rants.

The woman winces through her smile. That’s soon to become a dangerous entertainment. You might simply be taken for a fool elsewhere, but in the Territory you might be taken for a . . . Her voice trails off and she glances around.

What she means to say, interjects the big, crook-nosed desperado in the window seat beside her, is that beyond the Wall your little necklace can be both premonition of and provocation for a good old fashioned hangin’.

I chuckle, as though with a joke. Right. Folks will want to hang me for wearing a cross.

The desperado’s eyes are a fierce, ghostly green and they narrow by the slightest degree. Apparently, he is being serious. Folks will want to lynch me good and dead.

The big man turns back to the window and the woman shrugs in basic agreement with him. She leads the nine-year-old back to the lav.

Even though the man’s eyes made it clear he’d probably like to hang me himself, I can’t resist pushing my luck: Do you know the Preserve well?

His bearish head swings toward me and if tobacco had been allowed on the train I’m sure he would have spit on my boot. Know it well enough, he says. His eyes narrow again: they’re daring me to ask another question.

Again, I can’t resist. How about the dead?

What about ‘em?

You have much experience?

The man pats a bulge in the side of his brown rawhide. Just in blowing their wormy brains out.

The elderly couple in the seat in front of him begins to fidget.

For sport?

For kicks.

Is there a difference?

The big man’s eyes are razors. "For sport might imply a respect for legalities. For kicks expresses my penchant to do as I please."

Ah. I see. How many?

How many what?

How many have you killed?

You can’t kill what’s already dead.

Are you sure they’re already dead?

Why are you still talkin’?

Just making friends.

You’re just makin’ noise.

Touche. I hold up my cross. Why would anyone lynch me for wearing this?

The man turns a shade paler and gives a sardonic snort. This is only a hunch, but probably because they know the kind of person who would wear it the way you’re wearin’ it would have the gall to ask what you’re askin’.

I try to convey my effort at following his words by letting my eyes dart from side to side. Could you simplify that for me?

He eyes narrow to slits. It’s mindless ignorance people hate.

Mindless ignorance? I can’t keep a grin from hooking into the corners of my mouth.

In response, the man’s pale skin bleeds a bit whiter. Now you’re all shitfaced tickled, huh? A vein stands out on his forehead. For a moment I think he’s mad enough to draw his gun. The giant hand on his knee twitches. My rifle is stuffed in the overhead bin. No chance of getting to it in time, even if I thought I could shoot the man. I’ve done it now. But then he laughs, turns back in his seat, and pulls down his tan hat. You know, he says, "I hope you do make it through New Pokey without getting skinned. I’d like to meet your sorry hipster ass out on the range."

The car door behind us opens and the ladies are back, the nine-year-old a floating grin of relief.

How about trading seats for a while, Jenny? says the redhead. I’d like to talk to your friend.

For a second, Jenny’s expression broadcasts that she loves the idea of getting away from me. But then she notices her new seat, or more precisely the bear of a man beside it. Her eyes widen, she gulps, and if she’d had an ounce of fluid left in her, she probably would have peed herself at last. For all my hard angles and tanned complexion, I’m a miniature milk chocolate koala compared to the man in rawhide.

It’s okay, says the redhead, touching Jenny’s arm. We’ll trade back in a few minutes and you can have the window seat. The trees are amazing in this light. Besides, we’ll be at the station before you know it.

I glance out the window. The trees are amazing right now, approaching full-blooded fall and afire with late afternoon. There aren’t a tenth as many deciduous trees out west, but that they’re rare gives them a special glory. The coniferous greens and browns add a splendid depth to their russets and oranges. All too often I forget to stop and notice these things.

Jenny? prompts the redhead again, touching the girl’s arm.

Jenny forces her grimace into a pained smile, trying to be brave. Okay, Milly.

Chapter Two

Milly Ruse

Milly Ruse, says the woman, offering her hand as she settles in beside me. She’s close enough now that her freckles pop. I can smell the lightest scent of sage perfume. Her hand is cool, her handshake firm.

It’s me who may be blushing a little now. Good to meet you.

Milly grins. What’s your name?

Blake. Blake Prose.

What’s your real name?

That is my real name.

With a toss of her long fiery hair she laughs. Really? Your parents really named you Blake Prose? That’s a true Oregon name if I ever heard one. I guess you were destined to come here.

I glance out at the rolling hills, the nearby craggy mountains, and the huge white gray ribbon of the Wall looming up in the west. That’s the hope.

Milly’s manner softens. She casually stretches her freckled arms in front of her. My real name has about as much western poetry in it as a Jersey accent. I figured coming out here was a great chance to ditch it.

The accent or the name?

The name! I already ditched the accent. She touches her face self-consciously. Can you pick up on it?

The name or the accent?

The accent.

What accent?

Milly favors me with an approving smirk.

I smirk back. And? I say.

And what?

And what’s your real name?

Pam Johnson.

I give a plangent whistle. "That is pretty bland."

Milly ducks her head in mock shyness.

Suddenly full of nervous energy, I scrunch my hat. So you headed west in order to justify changing your name? That seems a little drastic.

She rolls her bright blues and laughs. Losing ‘Pam Johnson’ was just a perk. I’m really . . . She looks around furtively, lowering her voice. I’m really here to work with ODOZ.

The Oregon Department of Zombies. They practically run the Territory. I can’t see anything particularly controversial about that. But in a voice mirroring hers, I ask, Is that hush-hush?

She launches into an answer but I’m distracted to discover the hazel tint in her eyes. I blink, making myself focus on her words.

" . . . take advantage of any connections with the agency. You know: special vehicle permits, extra body tags, gondola passage to Portland. That’s not so bad. But, as I’m sure you know, some people, and here she glances around again, really hate what ODOZ is about. From both sides. Some want the living dead wiped out completely. Some want the restrictions on killing them wiped out completely. Some want the remaining few federal laws wiped off the books. Broadcasting that I’m with the agency would be almost as bad as you wearing that cross. Why are you wearing it, by the way?"

One of my lively eyebrows cocks involuntarily. Why do you think I’m wearing it?

Irony? Hipster bravado? A misplaced fashion statement?

I make a show of checking off my fingers. Nicely done. Those all played a part in the decision. Now I glance around, my voice still lowered. But another big reason is that I like picking on social norms.

Milly’s nose scrunches and her eyes smile, causing the constellation of her freckles to shift. Really?

Why not? I say, pretending to be incredulous at her incredulity.

Once more, her expression mellows to a mirroring kindness. Well, flouting convention is one thing, but looking like a quack is another. You know how Oregon used to pride itself on being the most unchurched state? Well, now that it’s a Territory—a Territory formed around the Outbreak, no less—that pride has deepened. From what I hear, most folks don’t really mind religion. They don’t really care one way or the other. It’s the Rubies they hate. The rubies are always trying to control things.

And the Rubies wear crosses?

Most of them.

And do they wear sidearms?

Of course.

So if I wear a sidearm, will people take me for a Rubie?

Milly rolls her eyes. That’s different and you know it.

Is it? I think I’d prefer folks ask me who I am before they assume to know. But maybe I should have worn a dress so they could wonder if I’m a woman. Or a powdered wig so they could think I’m a founding father. Or maybe a rainbow broach so they could assume I’m gay.

You’re not gay, says Milly, suddenly serious.

I’m not?

Are you?

Not unless you’re a man.

That I am not.

Then I am not gay.

"Well, you are crazy, laughs Milly. That’s clear enough. Where are you from?"

Blackfish, just outside of Waco.

You mean Waco, D.C.?

Yep, D.C., not the state, although I do have some family in Seattle.

A mischievous light sparks in Milly’s gaze. Texas. I guess that comes as close to explaining you as anything can.

"What does that mean?"

It means you’re a strange one. You refuse to be controlled. You won’t be pressured. You believe you have the right to wear what you want, so you wear a symbol that dares people to challenge your right. You wear your rights like a badge. I don’t really know, I’ve never been to Texas, but that sounds Texan to me.

Nice analysis. It gives me too much credit though. I’m less a good Texan and more a sucker for confrontational banter.

Milly clucks her tongue, reaching for my cross. And for a minute I thought you really believed that some day the dead would rise without such a craving for brains and violence. She lets the necklace go and sighs. But it sounds like you’ll believe whatever gets the biggest rise out of people.

Ah, Milly. That hurts. Just because I’m a non-conformist smart ass doesn’t mean I’m a wayward cynic.

Well, she sighs, asking with her eyes that I treat carefully what she’s about to say. Then do you believe the dead can ever come back—not just to life, of course, but to a life worth living?

I shrug. I don’t know. I’d like to.

Milly nods in earnest. I wish I could believe that too. In fact, in a way, I kind of do.

She leans forward now, coming close for a whisper, a bit out of her dress. My white t-shirt collar suddenly feels too tight. What do you mean? I ask, even though it’s clear she’s about to tell me.

She means she’s an even bigger idiot than you are, rasps a deep, familiar voice.

The man in rawhide. His hat is down, his seat is tilted back, his eyes are closed, but it’s plain that he’s been listening to everything.

She’s a fed, he continues, pushing up his hat brim with a raw knuckle, projecting his voice to make sure everyone in the car can hear. They keep coming out here, supposedly looking for some pie in the sky Cure, poking the meat-heads, poking the citizens, taking blood from anyone and everything, writing laws that steal liberties in the name of putting an end to the plague. Just more damned priestcraft, boy, only updated to sound scientific and humane. The big man snorts. "Ruse?" He sits up, sniggering. "You sure chose the right name, Milly. Although Milly Fraud would have been just a hair more honest."

Milly’s eyes tighten and I’m almost certain she’s asking herself, Should I kill him?

Jenny, she says in a calm voice. You’d better trade seats with me again.

Ten seconds later and I’m sharing concerned looks with the little girl as we listen to Milly and the big man argue about whether or not humanity has a responsibility to treat the living dead humanely. After a minute, the conductor enters the car and asks them to keep their voices down.

Damned if I will, growls the man.

The conductor, a prim man with a sharply waxed golden mustache, does not seem intimidated. Mr. Yaverts, disobey my very reasonable and legally sanctioned order and I will report you to both ODOZ and Mayor Maplenut. Shoot me, and upon arrival in Charonville, the authorities will gag you, chain you, drive you up The Alley, and leave you for either the zombies or the Duchess—whoever reaches you faster.

Mr. Yaverts starts to rise, glaring at the conductor. He reaches slowly for his gun. What if I shot you and hopped the train?

Jenny’s little hand is suddenly in mine.

Damn! cries Yaverts, as though yelling boo in order to scare a child. He roars with laughter, free and easy, sitting back down and slapping his knee. You don’t mess around, Timson. Never do, I guess. All right, I can respect a man who knows how to deliver threats. I’ll keep my righteous indignation down to a mealy-mouthed decibel level. I suppose everyone already knows Ms. Johnson here is a bleeding heart federalist commie.

It’s Ms. Ruse, says Milly through gritted teeth.

"Oh, right. Not Ms. Johnson, and not Ms. Fraud, but Ms. Ruse. Hmm . . . Mr. Yaverts grins wickedly and cocks his hat over his eyes in dismissal. Maybe you should hook up with that self-righteous pretty boy after all, Ms. Ruse. The two of you cavorting ‘cross the Territory could draw near as much attention as the Nameless One set loose."

Chapter Three

The Station

I’ve never heard of the Nameless One before, but by the way Jenny’s little hand digs into mine, I take it she has. She’s suddenly terrified. I’m about to ask her why when the train whistle shrieks and cuts me off.

About damn time, grumbles Yaverts, standing up and grabbing for a satchel and rifle in the overhead.

Another dozen folks follow his lead and begin rummaging for their gear.

The conductor slides open the door behind us. Next stop, Charonville, the end of the line. Everyone, prepare to deboard.

Charonville? The end of the line? But that’s still on the outside of the Wall, I say. I thought the line ran all the way to Bentlam.

Not for you, pretty boy. Yaverts pushes past Milly and bulls his way down the aisle, obviously planning to be the first off the train.

Only zombies continue by train, Milly explains. The agency has two dozen pick-up points along the line where they unload quotas of the dead to keep regional numbers up. It all depends on where hunters are having success and where they’re not. We try to keep different areas equally stocked.

Then what now? I ask, a bad feeling already washing through my stomach. Once again my habit of winging things has landed me in trouble—in this particular case, the trouble of crossing the whole of the Oregon Zombie Preserve on foot.

We’ll all have to walk through customs to New Pokey, says Milly. From there, it’s either coach or horse or foot.

To Bentlam?

Milly nods.

But that’s gotta be two hundred miles.

She shrugs. Two hundred and sixty-two, by the main road. Why that face? You shouldn’t be worried. You look like you could run to Bentlam.

I groan. Thanks, but what I can do and what I want to do are not always the same. Any chance the tech laws ease up on the highway? Maybe we can rent a car?

Ha! Milly shoots me a droll glance. "Don’t let anybody on the street hear you ask that. From what I hear, only big shots can get their hands on a car. You know, politicians or outlaws. Somebody hears you asking about renting a car and they’ll think you’ve got way too much money. You’ll have half the town trying to scam you or rob you outright."

Well, I say, a little deflated, I guess there’s still the hope of a free wagon ride. My brother’s courier might be in town in the next few days. I know he’s due to ride east to stock up on merchandise and supplies. What about you, Jenny? I give the little girl’s hand a squeeze. Where are you headed?

I don’t know, whispers Jenny, her round face paler than ever. My old house marm said . . . she said I was going to another orphanage. I don’t know where it is.

Don’t worry, says Milly, getting up and kneeling in the bustling aisle beside the girl’s seat. A few people grumble, a few people huff past, but she rolls her eyes and otherwise ignores them. There’s a famous orphanage in Bentlam. Only the kindest, gentlest girls and boys are chosen to go there. That must be where you’re going. Or maybe you’re even going to Portland. I hear it’s almost as nice. Either way, I’m sure the moment you step off the train, someone will be waiting for you.

Jenny sniffles. What about the . . . the . . . ?

The dead? Milly smooths the girl’s hair. Don’t you worry about them. You’ll probably ride in a coach along the main road, with plenty of armed deputies. There won’t be any problems. You can close your eyes, take a nap, and chances are the next thing you know, you’ll be in the most wonderful city in the world.

So it’s true?

Milly laughs, giving the girl a quizzical look. What do you mean?

Is Bentlam really a . . . a magical place?

Well, Milly holds up her palms, as though to say she’s not hiding anything. I’ve never been inside Bentlam’s walls, but I’ve seen the city from across the valley and it’s just like the fairy tales. Maybe even better—like a gleaming seashell or a new summer moon turned into towers and walls and spires. And I’ve spoken with many, many people who have been in the city, and they say it’s like something out of a dream—the kind of dream you never want to end. You’re a very lucky girl to be going to a home there. Milly knuckles at the girl’s chin and Jenny smiles.

The moment strikes me with how easily hope can spark in the young. I’m not that old yet, but my hope’s tinder usually feels like it’s been drenched with rain. Jenny is suddenly more than a sweet, innocent girl. She’s an unwitting seer, a window into a strength I never want to lose sight of.

A forgotten proverb is suddenly on my lips. To carry on the feelings of childhood into the powers of manhood; to combine the child’s sense of wonder and novelty with the appearances which every day for perhaps forty years had rendered familiar . . . this is the character and privilege of genius.

A severely pockmarked man in a yellow straw hat snickers as he passes, catching my eye with scorn before stealing a leer at Milly’s backside.

She stands up, hands on her hips. Was that Coleridge?

I wink and tip my hat, playing down my show of culture, trying to hide how impressed I am that she could name the quotation’s source. Come on, Jenny, I say. Let’s get you to your coach.

Five minutes later, the three of us are pressing through the crowds of the train station. My satchel is slung over one shoulder, my .32 special over the other. I’ve got Milly’s bag in one hand and Jenny’s in the other. There is no sight of anyone from an orphanage in Bentlam, no signs that read Welcome Jenny! or a governess surrounded by urchins—only the same odd mixture of motley and elegant that filled the train, part wealthy immigrants bound for Bentlam, part thrill seeking adventurers eager to go hunt zombies.

Don’t worry, Milly assures the little girl. We won’t leave you until you’re in good hands. She catches herself with a nervous laugh. At least I won’t leave you. Mr. Prose might have his own pressing business. Milly sends me a questioning glance.

Oh boy. A vibrant redhead who knows Coleridge and looks after lost orphans. This could mean trouble.

I shake my head. I don’t have anything too pressing. I’m headed for Portland. But it’s already waited twenty-nine years for me, so another few hours won’t hurt. I spot an elevated platform ahead and point to it. Let’s head up there. Maybe we can spot your friends, Jenny.

Even with the better view, we have no luck. The crowds are thinning. The railroad crew is preparing the train for its delivery run into the Territory. My ear catches gunfire not far to the east—no doubt the authorities shooting down the straggling dead they can’t round up. The stragglers, I’ve read, are attracted by the Wall. They come from all across the continent. No one really knows why.

Milly is studying me.

What?

How do you know Coleridge?

No, no, I say, wagging a finger. "How do you know him?"

My dad taught the Romantics at Rutgers before things went under.

Small world, I say with a chuckle. My mom still teaches Victorian Lit at a college in Waco. But that’s not how I know Coleridge. My B.A. was in Literature, with a special emphasis in Defamiliarization.

Defamiliarization?

Yep. Coleridge is big in those circles.

You make it sound like you have more than a B.A.

I grimace. I do. But I’d rather not talk about my master’s.

Why not, pretty boy? What could be more bassackwards than a degree in Useless Tomes with a special emphasis in Defecation?

My shoulders tense. I peak over the railing. Tucked beside the wall ten feet below us stands Yaverts. He glances up with his wicked, grizzled grin.

"What do you want?" spits Milly, knuckles white on the side railing.

Humming tunelessly, the big man strolls to the bottom of the stairs and starts up at a leisurely pace, rolling a cigarette in his paw-like hands. Shit, Ms. Ruse, he drawls, leopard eyes as wide and innocent as they’ll go. What do you think I want? You’ve got my ward. Me and her need to be off for Bentlam by nightfall.

Chapter Four

A Standoff

Over my dead body.

That’s what Milly is about to say, somehow I know it. Her cheeks are taut, her teeth bared, her eyes feral slits. I barely know the woman, but this seems a bit much. Sure, Yaverts is a cad, and I’d be the last one to claim it isn’t tempting to irritate him, but for all we know, Jenny really might be his ward. Still, better to err on the side of overprotective.

Stepping between Milly and the desperado, I touch her arm with one hand, holding her back, and put the other on Jenny’s head. What’s your authority, Mr. Yaverts?

Yaverts grins. His brownish teeth suddenly strike me as odd coming from the frame of his thick, golden beard. Always civil, aren’t you, pretty boy? That wildcat of yours would have disemboweled me with her eyes alone if you hadn’t intervened. My authority—besides my magnum, his eyes flick toward the concealed weapon in his jacket, —comes from the government of New America and the city-state of Bentlam. Yaverts reaches into his jacket. My hand goes from Jenny’s sandy hair to the rifle butt over my shoulder. Whoa, boy, he chuckles, producing a neatly folded document and handing it up to me.

Milly snatches for the paper but I’m too quick, knowing she means to rip it up. Hold on, I say, grabbing it. That could just make things worse.

Yaverts looks amused. And for good reason. The document is legitimate. It names him, Karl Rickard Yaverts, Plenipotentiary for the Inter-Territorial Transport of High Priority Persons.

High Priority Persons? fumes Milly. She manages to snatch the paper from me. She stares it over before crumpling it in a constricting fist. I’m beginning to think Yaverts’ crack about her being a wildcat may have been too soft. "Transport of High Priority Persons? You? You? Go screw yourself, Mr. Plenipotentiary Jackass! Take a flying—"

Milly appears about to launch into the saltiest tirade human ear has ever heard, so I squeeze her arm and glance toward Jenny.

Oh! she gasps, caught between instincts. She glares at Yaverts’ license for a second, uncrinkles it, then folds it with assiduous creasings. I’m going to need more proof than this, she says with acidic disdain. "Better proof. Human proof."

Yaverts’ hand goes back into his jacket. I don’t have time to humor you, Ms. Ruse.

I raise an eyebrow. So you’re going to shoot us down to stay on schedule?

Another brown grin, this one full of something other than amusement. Don’t think I won’t. And don’t think that me being a plenipotentiary means I can’t. Every lawman in this town will ask me why I capped you two right before he asks if I’d like to grab a drink at Hennesy’s and tell him the short of it.

My word, breathes Milly, disgusted. You really mean it.

I do indeed. Yaverts produces a match from an inner pocket and lights his thick cigarette. He takes a purplish black puff, sighs with pleasure, and I suddenly understand why he hurried off the train. There’s nothing like a desperado in desperate need of a smoke.

He’s got a point, Milly, I say. That document looks pretty real. And I’m even more sure his gun is real.

That earns me a flash of fiery blue ire. "People forge documents every day, Mr. Prose, and we can assume it behooves forgers to make them look pretty real. This is the Preserve. I’ve read the reports. Thousands of children get trafficked through here every year. Some become slaves. Some become bait for . . . "

Milly suddenly seems to remember that Jenny is listening to everything. The little girl’s eyes are wide.

Ah, says Yaverts, wagging his cigarette. Now you’re scaring my ward. Not very sensitive of you. So I think that’s enough: she and I will be leaving now.

Not quite yet, I say, taking the moment to unsling my rifle. Milly’s right. Forgive me, Mr. Yaverts, but for all we know you’re about to steal off with a friend of ours. Give us twenty minutes. Ease our consciences.

By Yaverts’ deadpan, it’s clear he’s hardly persuaded. I can ease your consciences a lot quicker, he growls.

Maybe, I say. But I’m not as bookworm helpless as you might like to imagine. Try to ease my conscience your way and you might actually end up weighing it down with a bit of guilt. I’m faster with a gun than I am with my mouth.

Even though the station’s crowd is thinning, people are beginning to stop and stare. My guess is the locals have seen this kind of scene from Yaverts before.

The big man raises an eyebrow, half impressed, half bored. You know the punishment for killing a lawman in the Territory, pretty boy?

"We’re not in the Territory yet, Mr. Yaverts."

His eyes narrow. The hand on his cigarette twitches. What I just said didn’t really make much sense. Past the Wall or not, I’d go to prison for shooting him. Still. He doesn’t think I can do it. He doesn’t think I can pull the trigger at all, let alone pull it fast enough. He’s going to draw.

His hand twitches.

Damn! yells Yaverts, barking out laughter. You know how I love people calling my bluffs! All right, pipsqueak. You and the wildcat want more assurance. You want some bona fide ratification from some boneheaded rat’s ass. Then, damn it, let’s go see the Mayor. Or the Sheriff. I’ll give you a whole sixty minutes to set your consciences at ease before I haul our little mum doll here out into the big bad scary darkness. But after that, I warn you: if I have to gun you down to keep schedule, my conscience will be clean as sun bleached bone.

Evocative simile, I say, playing it cool, as though a yellow streak of fear hasn’t just rushed down my spine.

If I’m trying to look devil-may-care, Milly is succeeding in looking certifiably homicidal, her eyes pinched and her cheeks afire. To the Mayor! she shouts, barging down the stairs with Jenny in hand. She slams the document onto Yaverts chest before moving out into the gawking crowd.

The streets of Charonville are full of gawkers too. Some people keep their interest to glances, but many stop and stare. My guess was correct: people here know Yaverts well. His name carries on whispers from every side, Yaverts . . . Yaverts . . . Yaverts, with unsettling tag ons like little girl . . . gunfight . . . dead . . . . If Milly notices any of this, she’s unbelievably skilled at playing oblivious. Her tense blue eyes cut lasers down the cobblestone streets, hunting for signs to city hall. I’m personally a little embarrassed. If the decision had been up to me alone and Yaverts showed the document, I probably would’ve shrugged and let him go. But a tiny part of me wonders if my attitude about the matter doesn’t come from the same kind of apathy that would pass by a person collapsed on the side of the road, thinking ‘they’re just taking a nap’ or ‘someone more qualified will stop and help.’ Sometimes I hate how passive, private, and theoretical I’ve grown up to be.

As in the train station, the streets are a fairly even mix of thrill-seekers and homesteaders, respectable folks toting respectable bags, and seedy aired carpetbagger types packing nothing but pistols and chaw tins. Most of the buildings are squat and square, made either of brown brick or white cement. Not a single building has fewer than two stories. Many rise three or four, some five or six. Each is evenly spaced from the next, on a grid with about six feet in between. The windows in every building are identically sized and aligned whenever possible with the windows in a neighboring building. I’m sure