Wolves (21 page)

Chapter 4

“Red Water Landing is barely even a town,” Don gripes as he sways in the cramped back end of the wagon. “It's just a dock in the middle of the Red River.”

“You been?” Huxley asks from the bench seat where he handles the reins awkwardly and mostly lets the horse walk down the wagon trail on its own. Underneath him, the small, one-man bench seat is still dark with blood. But when he is sitting on it, he cannot see it. He pretends that it isn't there.

“I been through that way a time or two,” Don says. “I promise, it's not much to see.”

“We're not going to see things,” Huxley says. “We're going to cross the river. Right? That's how you said we get to the Riverlands.”

“Yeah, yeah. Going to the Riverlands,” Don mumbles. Then louder, “What's a Wastelander trying to do in the Riverlands anyway?”

Jay speaks up suddenly. His voice is thoughtful. “I heard what you were saying about the Riverlands. About the slavers. The councilmen.”

A pause. “Yeah? What of it?”

Jay sighs, chuckles darkly. “Let's be real honest with each other, shall we?”

Huxley doesn't stop him. He just faces forward. And remembers everything Don said. Don, who was also a Riverlander. One of
them
. One of the people perpetuating this cycle that they'd established, that the stupid, dumbshit Wastelanders didn't even know they were a part of. Don was right. They were just fodder for the Riverlands. They were just cattle. Livestock to be harvested when the need arose.

Jay's voice takes on an antagonistic tone. “We savages from the Wastelands don't know much. I really appreciate you educating us so well. And it just so happens, maybe we're here in the Riverlands because we want to kill some slavers.”

Nothing from Don.

Huxley cranes his neck to look around, finds Don just sitting there, looking uncomfortable, while Jay smiles at him, pale eyes fixed on the other man. The way a snake might hold a conversation with a rat. Then, very quickly, the humor in Jay's eyes fades to nothing.

Huxley turns back to the road.

Jay continues, icily: “You see, we're not just fodder, Don. We're people. And we had families. And we had loved ones. The slavers came and took all of that. Something I doubt you can really comprehend. But suffice it to say that we're going into the Riverlands because we want them to know we'll bite back. And after what you just told us … well … seems like our opportunities have really branched out.”

Don is off-balance. “What the fuck you mean by that?”

Jay presses, prods. “I mean you're all dirty. You're all filthy. So now it's just a matter of seeing how many we can put in the ground before they catch up to us.”

In the front, Huxley shifts in his seat.

Do I agree with that?

Kill them all
, he thought when Don had told him. But he'd been angry. Now, after being able to cool off some, he knew that not everybody in the Riverlands was evil. There would be farmers. There would be workers who weren't slaves. It wasn't the populace that was the enemy. It was the councilmen. The people who purchased the slaves, for whatever purpose. To build, possibly.

But the words from that slaver—just before Huxley had taken his jaw—still make his heart sink in his chest.
Castrating your sons and fucking your daughters
, he'd said. And he must have been talking about the councilmen. Maybe they used the slaves to build too, but a decade of slavery could've boomed their newfangled economy. Maybe now it was just about money.

Still, he didn't agree with Jay.

But he kept his mouth shut. For now.

“You got a death wish,” Don says, petulantly. “Riverlands'll chew you up and spit you out.”

“Then why are you still on this wagon?” Huxley asks, almost hoping the man will simply agree and then jump off the wagon and walk away.

“Hell, I dunno.” Don sounds briefly wistful. “Same reason I went along with my brother, I guess. I tend to just go with the flow. Got a gypsy soul, my mom used to say. But don't worry. I'll sure as hell jump ship before you catch me up into anything real bad. Hope you're not offended by that. Nothing personal. I just like living.”

Huxley grinds his teeth. “I won't take it personal.”

The motley group rides on in silence.

Don's impression of Red Water Landing was uncharitable, Huxley thinks. As they top a rise and the town comes into view, Huxley judges that it is about as big as New Amarillo, as far as its sprawl. But it seems more densely populated, the buildings grown up on themselves, one stacked on another. It almost looks like a city from Huxley's slight vantage. A simple wall surrounds it, only eight feet high or so. Different materials for different sections. Some of it is stone. Some of it is wooden poles stuck into the earth with sharpened tips. Some of it is chain-link fencing with barbed or razor wire across the top.

The town sits nestled against the river, and from this viewpoint it seems that the eastern side of the burg simply falls into the water. Beyond the clamor of stacked buildings, the Red River moves slowly by, the color of it more brown than red. A breeze rolls up to them from the river valley and it carries with it all the smells of Red Water Landing—smoke, latrines, cattle, and the odd fishy smell of the river itself.

Huxley twitches the reins back a bit, and the horse slows, shaking its mane as though it is irritated at having to be slowed. Huxley feels exposed on the top of the hill leading down to Red Water Landing, but they are still a ways off from the gates and if there are guards posted, he hopes they do not notice them yet.

Hopefully they wouldn't recognize the horse.

Or the wagon.

Or see the blood on it.

Huxley turns around and sees Low sitting between Don and Jay with his hands clasped between his knees and his shoulders slumped against the burden of the world and the life that it gave him.
Like a turtle in its shell.

“Low, is this the town?”

Low raises his eyes, then cranes his neck. He looks down the road. Assesses what he is seeing. His lips are downturned at the edges. His nose wrinkled like he smells something bad. Which he does: Red Water Landing, if it is the right town.

“Yeah,” Low finally mumbles. “That's it.”

“You tellin' the truth?” Don demands, jutting his face very near the boys.

Completely unnecessary. Don knows the boy is telling the truth. The boy had said it was Red Water Landing, and Don had claimed to be familiar. You would think he would recognize it at sight, and Huxley believes that he does. But he seems to want to goad the boy.

Low turns to meet the man's gaze. Something flashes through the boy's eyes, all those things that Huxley recognized the previous night. They are dark things that slip behind the mask of the boy's face like swift shadows in the woods.

“Yes,” Low says. And then he turns back forward.

Don sneers, apparently dissatisfied that the boy did not quake. On the other side of Low, Jay watches the man with a certain sort of eerie stillness. Like he is already picturing Don's death. Wondering what his insides would look like if they were piled on the ground. Maybe wondering what facial expression Don would make if he were to be opened up … 

Who's thinking about it? Me or Jay?

Huxley's neck smarts and he pulls his fingers away from scratching, finding his nails slightly red with blood.
Damn
. “Will anyone there recognize this wagon? Or the horse?”

Low thinks, then shrugs. “I don't know. There are a lot of wagons and horses.”

Huxley grimaces and shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. For a moment, he thinks he can feel the wet blood that stains the bench, seeping through the seat of his pants.

“Don't go to the market,” Low adds.

“What's that?” Huxley looks back again.

Low leans forward, his jaw working like he's rethinking what he had just said. Perhaps he wants them to be caught. Perhaps he thinks it would be best if they wandered into the wrong area, or if they were recognized by someone. Then he would watch the city guards surround them. And he would watch with those cold angry eyes as Huxley, Jay, and Don were strung up, and he might even laugh as their necks snapped and their feet kicked.

But I'm your friend
, Huxley thinks.
I know you don't know it yet. But I'm your friend and I'm going to keep you alive, because otherwise I'll forget. I'll forget about who I was before I became … this.

Low finds his words again. “Don't go to the market,” he says, more subdued this time. The sound of his voice is the sound of a final decision. He leans back and looks off into the gathering woods that are beginning to crowd in the sides of the wagon trail as they draw closer to the river basin. “Everybody in the market knows Mr. Crofter. And some of them know me. They might recognize the horse or the wagon.”

Huxley nods and faces forward again, wondering if it is all a trap. The boy seems smart enough. Wily enough.

Huxley flicks the reins and the horse picks up the pace. The ride with a harnessed horse is significantly easier than horseback, Huxley has decided, even if he is still getting the hang of it. And the horse seems more docile, perhaps older than the ones that Huxley had stolen from Captain Tim back in New Amarillo.

As the wagon descends the hill toward Red Water Landing, the boy speaks from the back again, his voice flat and without inflection: “It's Lowell,” he says. “Not ‘Low.'”

Huxley raises an eyebrow, then nods. “Okay, Lowell,” he says, loud enough to be heard in the back. “Lowell it is. And we don't go near the market.”

He hears no response, so he assumes that the boy concurs.

As they approach the front gates, Huxley can feel his legs getting jittery. He aches for the revolver that sits in his waistband, but he knows that to take it would only serve to draw more attention to him. He feels eyes on him already, though he tells himself it is only paranoia. He feels like he is walking into a lions' den, disguised in a costume mane and tail, hoping that it will fool the real beasts around him.

There are guards at the front gate where the wagon trail ends, but they seem to be relaxed about who enters the city. One leans up against a post, his eyes half-closed as he enjoys the heat radiating from a burning barrel. The other guard is distracted by a young woman with a huge duffel bag, though he seems to care little for what is inside the duffel. They banter back and forth. Huxley watches her touch his arm.

Maybe they won't notice me.

When they are within fifty feet of the gate, the woman with the duffel looks back over her shoulder and sees them approaching, and she hikes the duffel further onto her shoulders and gives the guard a nice smile, and then walks away.

Huxley swears under his breath.

The two guards straighten at their posts and look at Huxley, the wagon, the horse, and the ragged crew in the back. Huxley immediately takes note of their weapons—both of them are carrying long rifles. Those are not common. Whoever was in charge of Red Water Landing was not skimping on arms.

One of the guards—the amorous one—steps forward to block their path, his hand upraised.

This is normal
, Huxley tells himself, even while his chest starts to burn like an overheating engine, the piston of his heart suddenly throttling up.
They probably stop all the wagons coming through here.

“We should've approached on foot,” Jay says from the back.

Huxley jags a glance behind him to his companion. “Too late now.”

But even as the words leave his mouth, he's wondering what the hell they had planned to do with the wagon? They couldn't take it across the river with them, could they? Or was there a ferry that could haul them across? They could leave the wagon in a quiet corner of the town, but that ran the risk of being noticed, and people would want to know why you were leaving a perfectly good wagon just sitting with a horse attached to it.

Find somebody to sell it to. Somebody not in the market.

Huxley pulls the reins to stop the horse and wagon at the gate.

The guard seems to be looking hard at the horse and wagon, then up at Huxley.

He doesn't recognize it. Who the hell would recognize a damn brown horse? Or a wooden wagon? They all look alike. There's no way he knows.

“Whose cart is this?” the guard says, his brow furrowed.

Fuck.

Huxley's throat dries very suddenly. “What?” he manages.

The guard looks up, irritated. “The horse and wagon. Whose is it?”

“Mine and my partner's,” Huxley says, the lie coming out suddenly. He throws a thumb behind him, indicating Jay. “My business partner.”

The guard peers into the back, looking at the passengers, crammed shoulder to shoulder. Huxley turns in his bench seat and looks at them. Don has become very still, as though he somehow hopes not to be noticed. But he watches the guards from under his eyebrows, a strange look on his face, like a man ready to jump into action.

Please don't, you idiot,
Huxley curses him in his head. He'd jumped the gun with Mr. Crofter. There was a strong chance he might do the same with these two guards. All he had to do was sit there and keep his mouth shut. No reason to fail at something so simple.

Lowell, on the other hand, does not seem to care at all. If he has any intention of diming them out to the guards, Huxley can't see it on his face. Lowell stares blankly off at the riverside town, his face a mask of apathy. Huxley can't figure out what he's looking at. Probably nothing. Probably he is seeing memories from his own head.

Jay is sitting, comfortably, with one elbow on a knee, the other cocked up onto his side. He seems almost jovial. He smiles brightly for the guards and flicks the inquisitive one a quick salute. “Gentlemen,” Jay says fluidly. “Name's Marcus.” he lies, and then motions to Don and Lowell. “This is Mike and his boy, apprenticing with us. Heading east at the council's request. Apparently somebody got a bug up their ass about electricity, and it just so happens I was an electrical engineer back in the Old World.”