Black Rust (20 page)

A little bit surprised I made the jump to the bank without an injury, I scooted quickly into a stand of shrubs.  The ground I’d come down on, at least where it was bare dirt, was tracked in the boot prints of the men who had passed by looking for me.  With all that, the marks I’d left on the dirt would not give me away.

Not that it mattered.  I wasn’t staying.

It was time to execute my new and improved plan, which was sub-optimal in every way, except it gave me the only path I could come up with to get near Sienna before too much of the day disappeared. 

I stripped myself bare, wrapped my weapons in my clothes, and stuffed them under a thick bush.  I put on the pair of pants I took off the dead d-gen I’d found in the river.  I slipped into his torn t-shirt, wrapped his grungy collar around my neck, and buckled it.  I sat down and put his work boots on.  They were a few sizes too big for my feet, but I pulled the Velcro straps tight.  They’d do.  I completed my disguise by rolling on the ground to get a good layer of dirt on my skin, taking care to put some smudges on my face.  And there I was, no longer a Regulator on the run from an ad-hoc posse, I was one of thirty thousand d-gens on Blue Bean Farms, indistinguishable from the rest except for the randomly assigned name and numbered tag on my collar. 

I put my cash and a knife in my pocket, not worried I was leaving my rifle and pistols.  They were tools that made it easy to kill a lot of people quickly.  I had plenty of skill at making people die without a gun in my hands.

I jogged in the direction of the admin buildings.

“You better do some talking, and do it quick,” Workman told Goose without turning away from the windows.

Goose walked across the Persian rug, past the couch—it wasn’t going to be a couch conversation—and dropped his butt into one of the high-backed leather chairs in front of Workman’s desk.  That’s where Workman liked to put him when he did his yelling.  “Where you want me to start?”

“Yeah,” Workman laughed meanly, “you got a list, don’t you?”

Goose didn’t answer.  He knew how these things went.  Workman was finding his excuse to start the yelling.  Talking would come after.

Workman snapped around, took one long, hard look at Goose, seated himself across the desk, and leaned forward.  He picked up an old horseshoe he used as a paperweight and gripped it in his hands, pulling hard at it, turning his knuckles white as his forearms trembled from the effort.  It looked to Goose like Workman might be trying to bend the steel into a straight rod.

This was a deviation from the norm. 

Goose got worried. 

Goose pulled a bandana out of his pocket and rubbed it over his face.  He took off his straw hat and laid it on the chair next to him.  He looked at Mr. Workman and stretched his face into pained sincerity before he said, “I been workin’ hard, long hours, doin’ everything you asked and more you didn’t.”

Workman clenched his jaw as he tried to twist the horseshoe.

“You know that’s true,” said Goose.  “Ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do to make this farm work out for ya, Boss Man.  You know it.”

Workman looked at Goose like he was trying to burn a hole through him.

No yelling?

Goose leaned forward, and he laid a dirty hand on Workman’s desk.  “You know all I done, Boss Man.  I done some things.  Sure I screwed up here an there, but you gotta admit, I get shit done you want done.  Ain’t nobody gonna work fer you like me.”

“If your work’s so damn good,” Workman spat, “why’d you screw everything so far to Hell today, yesterday—dammit, all week for all I know.  Goddammit, Goose, I’m trying to remember the last thing you did right.”

Goose shrunk back into his chair as he mumbled, “Most of what I do you don’t see ‘less it breaks.  I keep the trustees in line.  You know that.  I keep the prisoners on them d-gen lazy asses, and we get our production numbers every month, you know that’s true.  You know it.” 

Workman worked at that horseshoe like he might squeeze some resolution out of it.  When none came, he spoke in words, slow and simple, the kind an angry man might speak to simple-minded children.  “This fiasco started with you telling me you could fix my problem with Dr. Galloway.  Now I’ve got degenerates running all over the farm.  I’ve got fugitive Regulators up to who knows what.  The inspector can’t work through the kill list ‘cause all the defects are running loose.  I won’t be able to get my replacement requisitions put in because I’ll miss the deadline this month.  You’ve stolen the hover bikes Blue Bean bought for the Warden’s men, and I’ve got two dead trustees I don’t have any explanation for.”

“‘bout Deke and Rusty Jim,” said Goose, “them Regulators killt ‘em.  Ran ‘em down with that black SUV.  Well, one of ‘em anyway.  Might only be one Regulator we’re trying to catch.”

“But they wouldn’t be dead if they weren’t there trying to steal those hover bikes,” Workman accused.

Shaking his head—it was time to spin another lie—Goose said, “Wasn’t like that.  I noticed the direction them Regulators was headin’ and I figured they was goin’ for them buzz bikes.  I figured they’d want to steal ‘em and fly ‘em off to Mexico or whatnot.”

“And why not just drive there?” Workman asked.

“Can’t speak for ‘em,” said Goose.  “They was on the farm.  Police chased ‘em onto the property.  I was just trying to catch ‘em ‘fore they caused any harm.”

“Well you didn’t do that,” spat Workman.

Goose didn’t agree.  No real damage had been done except that of letting the d-gens run free, and that blame fell squarely on Dr. Galloway.  “They was plannin’ to steal them buzz bikes.  We stopped ‘em.  They killed Deke and Rusty Jim fer it.  After that, I figured we’d better fly the bikes that was left to keep ‘em from goin’ back and tryin’ to steal ‘em again.”

“The ones that are left?” Workman asked.

“Them Regulators wrecked two of the buzz bikes when they killed Deke and Rusty Jim.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me,” said Workman.  “Here’s what you’re going to do about those hover bikes.  You’re going to park them out front of the building here where I can look out and see them, and you’re going to get it done the minute you leave my office.  You got me?”

Goose nodded. 

“Now,” Workman went on, “why don’t you tell me how you screwed the pooch in the first place?  That’s what I want to know.  You told me this Galloway plan of yours was a sure thing.”

Goose rubbed a hand over his chin, suddenly wondering if Workman was trying to get him to admit his crimes on a recording.  When he spoke, he chose his words carefully.  “I do exactly what you tell me, but when you tell me you don’t want to know the details of what I’m gonna do, I don’t give ‘em.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Workman yelled. 

Goose flinched back in his chair.

“I asked you a simple goddamned question.  Answer me.”

It’s just yelling.  He’ll burn through it pretty quick.

Goose answered, “You said it couldn’t look like nobody here at Blue Bean Farms or the work camp could have anythin’ to do with it.  That’s what you told me.”

In a voice coming back down in volume, Workman said, “And you told me she was sneaking away from her cottage at night and that you followed her, and you had an idea to scare her off without getting our hands dirty.”

“I did.”  Goose nodded.

“How many times to do I have to ask you for the goddamn details?” Workman raised his voice again.  “You want me to ship you out to Lubbock?  Is that what you want?  You want to see what the rest of your life in a real hellhole looks like?”

“She was followin’ a handful of d-gens,” Goose blurted, “off the property where they was meetin’ up with other d-gens.  Out there in the woods about a mile east of the fence, they had themselves some kind of temple made of rings of old broken-down appliances and such.  They built a big fire and danced around it a coupla times a week, cookin’ raccoons, and possums and such.”

“And Galloway was participating in this?” Workman asked, disgust on his face.

“Just watchin’ at first,” said Goose.  “Mostly, I guess.  Eventually, she did strip down, get all covered in blood and dance ‘round the fire with them.”

“Human sacrifice?” Workman asked.

“None that I saw, but I figured they’d either done it before or would do it soon.”

“And?”

It was time for a lie to get some credit he hadn’t earned.  “I called it in.  Told the police I saw the bodies of the kids they was killin’.”

“And there weren’t any kids?” Workman asked.

Goose shook his head.

“And the phone you used?”

“I ain’t completely stupid,” said Goose.  “Can’t be traced back to me.” 

“But the call had to go out from Blue Bean’s network.  There’s no public cellular network out this far.”

Goose shrugged, hoping Workman wouldn’t berate him on that implication of his lie.  “Can’t avoid some things.”

“So you called it in.  Then what?” asked Workman.

“I figured some Regulators would show up, see all the dancin’ and the blood, and just shoot everybody.”

“Which they did,” said Workman.  “Would have been nice if one of them would have accidentally shot her.”

Goose shook his head.  “I figured it’d be enough to run her off, if not permanent, then maybe fer a week or two.”

“No,” said Workman, “because you screwed up.  Once the shooting started, you should have taken a shot, winged her, or maybe one in the leg.”  Workman rubbed his hands over his weathered old face and exhaled as he thought about how the weight of his responsibilities was wearing him down.  “Maybe you should have just shot her in the head.  Maybe we need to stop pussyfooting around this and do what needs to be done.”

Goose gulped.  In the past, Workman had implied dozens of times that Goose should break the law, but Workman had never explicitly told Goose to do something illegal, especially not when a drone might get a video recording of the whole thing.  “Yessir.  You’re right about that.”

“From here on out,” said Workman, “I’m in on every detail of everything you do to fix this mess.  You need some help with that.  It’s obvious to me.  Is it obvious to you, Goose?”

“Yessir.”

Workman tilted his head in a curt nod.  “Now, what about these Regulators on the farm?  Why are they here?”

“I can’t say it’s both of them,” said Goose.  “So far we’ve only seen one in the SUV.  Maybe the other one skedaddled down to Mexico.  Anyways, we got one of ‘em.  Sure of that.

“How can you be
sure
of that?” Workman drawled.  His accent always went back to natural country boy when he got riled up.  “You either got ‘em or you don’t.”

“The woods that starts up over there on the other side of the trainin’ compound,” Goose started, “we trapped ‘im over there.”

“Trapped?”

“We run him off the road,” said Goose.  “He drove that Mercedes right into the trees.”  Goose figured he’d embellish.  “Prolly got hurt in the crash.  He hit them trees awful hard.”

“He ran into a tree?” Workman asked.

“Mostly branches and such.”  Goose rushed to the next part so as not to get caught in an exaggeration that Workman would call a lie.  “You know them woods is bordered on the east with the Brazos River.  Down south, we got nothing but acre an’ acre of soybean fields.  There ain’t that far to go in them woods.”

“Across the river?” Workman asked.  “He didn’t go that way?  Plenty of places to wade it.”

“Not now.”  Goose shook his head emphatically.  “When was the last time you was down to the river?  All that floodin’ up by Waco washed this way.  The river ain’t much to look at most times but right now, it’ll drown you and wash you right down to Freeport ‘fore you know what hit ya.”

“What are you saying?” Workman asked.  “He drowned in the river?”

“Exactly,” said Goose.  “We cornered him in them woods.  Had near fifty men in there lookin’ fer ‘im.  If he’d a been in there, we’d a caught ‘im.  Only way out was in the water, and we was onto that right off the bat, the buzz bikes running up and down the river, men patrollin’ the banks the whole time.  A coupla guys heard a big splash.”  Time for more embellishment.  “One saw him jump off the bank.  Never come up for air.”  Time for certainty.  “Got caught in that current and drown.  Sure as Christmas.”

“Did you find the body?”

“Lookin’ for it.”  A new lie.

“No idea, then?” Workman asked.

None.  But Goose wasn’t about to admit that, now that Workman seemed to be past yelling for the moment.

Workman sat back, intertwined his fingers and scratched his lips up and down with his thumbnails.  He was thinking. 

Goose didn’t interrupt.  He waited.

Finally, Workman asked, “Did you see the video on the Internet and on the news about those Regulators killin’ our degenerates?”

“You know we ain’t allowed to have none of that kinda—”

Workman stopped Goose with a raised hand.  “Don’t lie about something that’s so easy to check.  I know you boys have TVs in the trustee dorm.”

Embarrassed, Goose admitted, “I seen it.”

“You notice anything odd about it?”

Goose shook his head.  “I ain’t no expert in that kinda stuff, but no.”

“You notice how fast it happened?”

“Yeah,” said Goose.  “Now that you mention it.”

“You were there,” said Workman.  “Did it seem fast to you?”

“I was a couple hundred yards away across a cornfield,” said Goose, “watchin’ through some binoculars.  It was foggy, so I couldn’t always see, but once the shootin’ started, it was like somebody set off a string of firecrackers and just like that, it was done.  The fat one took some shots to clean up the wounded, but that skinny one, he just killed ‘em like roaches.  Damndest thing.”

“Looked like a goddamn science fiction movie robot to me,” said Workman.  “First time I saw it I figured it was sped up like they do on that show, Bash—you know, making the kills look funny?”

Goose chuckled a little.  It was his favorite show.

“It bothered me, though, because it didn’t look right,” said Workman, “so I had one of my IT boys do some research.  That video wasn’t sped up.”

Goose nodded.  “I ‘spose not.”

“You know why that was?” Workman asked.

“I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at.”

“My IT guy did some more research,” said Workman.  “That video was spot on.  My IT boy did some measurements and made himself up a number he called the kill rate.”

“Kill rate?” Goose asked.

“You ain’t got to look too far to find video of Regulators killing degenerates,” said Workman.  “Most of them do it slow and methodical, but lots of degenerates run off when the Regulators go slow.  The flip side is if they go fast, they miss, maybe wound some.”