Part 33 (1/2)
This leg of the trip he was piloting a single-seater called the Majestic Majestic, one could only presume as a matter of irony. The small airs.h.i.+p was hardly more complex or majestic than a penny farthing strapped to a balloon, but Walter didn't mind. Next stop was Reluctance, where he'd pick up something different-something full of gas and ready to fly another leg.
Reluctance was technically a set of mobile gas docks, same as Walter would find on the rest of his route. But truth be told, it was almost a town. Sometimes the stations put down roots, for whatever reason.
And Reluctance had roots.
Walter was glad for it. He'd been riding since dawn and he liked the idea of a nap, down in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Express offices where the flyers sometimes stole a few hours of rest. He'd like a bed, but he'd settle for a cot and he wouldn't complain about a hammock, because Walter wasn't the complaining kind. Not anymore.
Keeping one eye on the unending sprawl of blonde dirt below in case of cows, Walter reached under the control panel and dug out a pouch of tobacco and tissue-thin papers. He rolled himself a cigarette, fiddled with the controls, and sat back to light it and smoke even though he d.a.m.n well knew he wasn't supposed to.
His knee gave an old man's pop when he stretched it, but it wasn't so loud as the clatter his foot made when he lifted it up to rest on the Majestic Majestic's console. The foot was a piece of machinery, strapped to the stump starting at his knee.
More sophisticated than a peg leg and slightly more natural-looking than a vacant s.p.a.ce where a foot ought to be, the mechanical limb had been paid for by the Union army upon his discharge. It was heavy and slow and none too pretty, but it was better than nothing. Even when it pulled on its straps until he thought his knee would pop off like a jar lid, and even when the heft of it left bruises around the buckles that held it in place.
Besides, that was one of the perks of flying for the Dirigible Express Post Service: not a lot of walking required.
Everybody knew how dangerous it was, flying over Native turf and through unincorporated stretches-with no people, no water, no help coming if a s.h.i.+p went cripple or, G.o.d forbid, caught a spark. A graze of lightning would send a hydrogen s.h.i.+p home to Jesus in the s.p.a.ce of a gasp; or a stray bullet might do the same, should a pirate get the urge to see what the post was moving.
That's why they only hired fellows like Walter. Orphans. Boys with no family to mourn them, no wives to leave widows and no children to leave fatherless. Walter was a prize so far as the Union Post-and absolutely n.o.body else-was concerned. Still a teenager, just barely; no family to speak of; and a veteran to boot. The post wanted boys like him, who knew precisely how bad their lot could get-and who came with a bit of perspective. It wanted boys who could think under pressure, or at the very least, have the good grace to face death without hysterics.
Boys like Walter McMullin had faced death with serious, pants-s.h.i.+tting hysterics, and more than once. But after five years drumming, and marching, and shooting, and slogging through mud with a face full of blood and a handful of Stanley's hair or maybe a piece of his uniform still clutched like he could save his big brother or save himself or save anybody...he'd gotten the worst of the screaming out of his system.
With this in mind, the Express route was practically a lazy retirement. It beat the h.e.l.l out of the army, that was for d.a.m.n sure; or so Walter mused as he reclined inside the narrow dirigible cab, sucking on the end of his sizzling cigarette.
n.o.body shot at him very often, n.o.body hardly ever yelled at him, and his clothes were usually dry. All he had to do was stay awake all day and stay on time. Keep the ground a fair measure below. Keep his temporary s.h.i.+p from being struck by lightning or wrestled to the ground by a tornado.
Not a bad job at all.
Something large down below caught his eye. He sat up, holding the cigarette lightly between his lips. He sagged, disappointed, then perked again and took hold of the levers that moved his steering flaps.
He wanted to see that one more time. Even though it wasn't much to see.
One lone cow, and it'd been off its feet for a bit. He could tell, even from his elevated vantage point, that the beast was dead and beginning to droop. Its skin hung across its bones like laundry on a line.
Of course that happened out on the trail. Every now and again.
But a quick sweep of the vista showed him three more meaty corpses blistering and popping on the pie-crust plain.
He said, ”Huh.” Because he could see a few more, dotting the land to the north, and to the south a little bit too. If he could get a higher view, he imagined there might be enough scattered bodies to sketch the Goodnight-Loving, pointing a ghastly arrow all the way to Salt Lake City. It looked strange and sad. It looked like the aftermath of something.
He did not think of any battlefields in east Virginia.
He did not think of Stanley, lying in a ditch behind a broken, folded fence.
He ran through a mental checklist of the usual suspects. Disease? Indians? Mexicans? But he was too far away to detect or conclude anything, and that was just as well. He didn't want to smell it anyway. He was plenty familiar with the reek, that rotting sweetness tempered with the methane stink of bowels and bloat.
Another check of the gauges told him more of what he already knew. One way or another, sooner rather than later, the Majestic Majestic was going down for a refill. was going down for a refill.
Walter wondered what s.h.i.+p he'd get next. A two-seater, maybe? Something with a little room to stretch out? He liked being able to lift his leg off the floor and let it rest where a copilot ought to go, but almost never went. That'd be nice.
Oh well. He'd find out when he got there, or in the morning.
Out the front windscreen, which screened almost no wind and kept almost no bugs out of his mouth, the sun was setting-the nebulous...o...b..melting into an orange and pink line against the far, flat horizon.
In half an hour the sky was the color of blueberry jam, and only a lilac haze marked the western edge of the world.
The Majestic Majestic was riding lower in the air because Walter was conserving the thrust and letting the desert breeze move him as much as the engine. Coasting was a pleasant way to sail and the lights of Reluctance should be up ahead, any minute. was riding lower in the air because Walter was conserving the thrust and letting the desert breeze move him as much as the engine. Coasting was a pleasant way to sail and the lights of Reluctance should be up ahead, any minute.
Some minute.
One of these minutes.
Where were they?
Walter checked the compa.s.s and peeked at his instruments, which told him only that he was on course and that Reluctance should be a mile or less out. But where were the lights? He could always see the lights by now; he always knew when to start smiling, when the gaslamps and lanterns meant people, and a drink, and a place to sleep.
Wait. There. Maybe? Yes Yes.
Telltale pinp.r.i.c.ks of white, laid out patternless on the dark sprawl.
Not so many as usual, though. Only a few, here and there. Haphazard and lost-looking, as if they were simply the remainder-the hardy leftovers after a storm, the ones which had not gone out quite yet. There was a feebleness to them, or so Walter thought as he gazed out and over and down. He used his elbow to wipe away the dirt on the gla.s.s screen as if it might be hiding something. But no. No more lights revealed themselves, and the existing flickers of white did not brighten.
Walter reached for his satchel and slung it over his chest, where he could feel the weight of his brother's Colt b.u.mping up against his ribs.
He set himself a course for Reluctance. He was out of hydrogen and sinking anyway; and it was either set down in relative civilization-where nothing might be wrong, after all-or drop like a feather into the desert dust alone with the coyotes, cactus, and cougars. If he had to wait for sunrise somewhere, better to do it down in an almost-town he knew well enough to navigate.
There were only a few lights, yes.
But no flashes of firearms, and no bonfires of pillage or some hostile victory. He could see nothing and no one, n.o.body walking or running. n.o.body dead, either, he realized when the Majestic Majestic swayed down close enough to give him a dim view of the dirt streets with their clapboard sidewalks. swayed down close enough to give him a dim view of the dirt streets with their clapboard sidewalks.
n.o.body at all.
He licked at his lower lip and gave it a bite, then he pulled out the Colt and began to load it, sure and steady, counting to six and counting out six more bullets for each of the two pockets on his vest.
Could be, he was overreacting. Could be, Reluctance had gone bust real quick, or there'd been a dust storm, or a twister, or any number of other natural and unpleasant events that could drive a thrown-together town into darkness. Could be, people were digging themselves out now, even as he wondered about it. Maybe something had made them sick. Cholera, or typhoid. He'd seen it wipe out towns and troops before.
His gut didn't buy it.
He didn't like it, how he couldn't a.s.sume the best and he didn't have any idea what the worst might be.
And still, as the Majestic Majestic came in for a landing. No bodies. came in for a landing. No bodies.
That was the thing. n.o.body down there, including the dead.
He picked up his cane off the dirigible's floor and tested the weight of it. It was a good cane, solid enough to bring down a big man or a small wildcat, push come to shove. He set it across his knees.
The Majestic Majestic drooped down swiftly, but Walter was in control. He'd landed in the dark before and it was tricky, but it didn't scare him much. It made him cautious, sure. A man would be a fool to be incautious when piloting a half-ton craft into a facility with enough flammable gas to move a fleet. All things being ready and bright, and all it took was a wrongly placed spark-just a graze of metal on metal, the screech of one thing against another, or a single cigarette fallen from a lip-and the whole town would be reduced to matchsticks. Everybody knew it, and everybody lived with it. Just like everybody knew that flying post was a dangerous job, and a bunch of the boys who flew never made it home, just like going to war. drooped down swiftly, but Walter was in control. He'd landed in the dark before and it was tricky, but it didn't scare him much. It made him cautious, sure. A man would be a fool to be incautious when piloting a half-ton craft into a facility with enough flammable gas to move a fleet. All things being ready and bright, and all it took was a wrongly placed spark-just a graze of metal on metal, the screech of one thing against another, or a single cigarette fallen from a lip-and the whole town would be reduced to matchsticks. Everybody knew it, and everybody lived with it. Just like everybody knew that flying post was a dangerous job, and a bunch of the boys who flew never made it home, just like going to war.
Walter sniffed, one nostril arching up high and dropping down again. He set his jaw, pulled the back drag chute, flipped the switch to give himself some light on the s.h.i.+p's underbelly, and spun the Majestic Majestic like a girl at a dance. He dropped her down onto the wooden platform with a big red X painted to mark the spot, and she shuddered to silence in the middle of the circle cast by her undercarriage light. like a girl at a dance. He dropped her down onto the wooden platform with a big red X painted to mark the spot, and she shuddered to silence in the middle of the circle cast by her undercarriage light.
With one hand he popped the anchor chain lever, and with the other he reached for the door handle as he listened to that chain unspool outside.