(no subject)
Once upon a time, before they numbered the highways, this was El Camino Real. The Road of the King. Here, not far from the Great Sand Dunes National Park (a nice spot to see, if a little out of the way; if you have a day or two to kill in Colorado before your train, it comes highly recommended) the land begins to get weird. It changes. Mountains become desert. Colorado becomes New Mexico. It's a boundary. It's an edge.
Here, on the edge, in the Way of the King, is a girl a long way from home. Her luggage sits on the side of the road, a neat stack of red hardshell cases, topped with a helmet in the same bloody shade. It looks, lit by the lurid light of morning, like a pile of skulls. It's holding down a tarp; a scarred leather jacket lays on it.
Foursquare in the highway stands Rose Toren. Her arms are bare; the token of a girl she'll never meet again is around her neck, and a cheap, battered cowboy hat is tilted back on her head. It fits pretty good.
She carries the guns of her mother. One of them--this was a Christmas present--is a shotgun.
She is a stranger and a pilgrim here, and she is alone.
Reyes waits as long as he can, then slews his El Camino to a stop, slanted across the highway. South of Pueblo the highway is deserted, and if anyone has a problem with him they can fight about it.
"You," he says, unfolding out of the low-slung car.
"Me." She's wearing sunglasses, dark and styling, with a lightning bolt enfolded in parenthesis on the ear piece. "Hello, Reyes."
He knows she's as surprised to see him as he is to see her. He knows it. He hates her so much.
"Where's Hill?" Behind him, hears the other cars stopping; doors slamming.
She shrugs.
"You working with him now?"
She shakes her head.
"Nah. I made an offer, but he didn't want my help."
"He take your bike?"
"I let him have it, yeah."
"Who the fuck is this?" Malloy demands. Reyes hates this guy, too, always fucking pushing. Reyes hates all of them. He's a thousand years old and today he feels it. This is all going to going bad.
"The Toren chick," Reyes says, clipped, as the girl says, "Rose Toren."
"She working with Hill?" Malloy demands, and the girl's mouth tightens a little.
"She says no," Reyes snaps back over his shoulder. He can see the other two dumbfucks milling around back there, too, as if the situation needs to be more complicated.
"Then what the fuck is she doing here?" Malloy demands, still talking like the girl isn't right in front of him, still dumping this all on Reyes like it's his fault, and Reyes wonders if it wouldn't save a lot of time to just kill Malloy himself.
"I just have a few questions," the girl says, with deceptive sweetness, and Reyes is pretty sure they're all going to die here, when Delacroix steps into the breech.
"Hey, I know you," he says, goofy and a little wondering. "You're that dyke gunslinger everbody's talking about."
Perfect silence reigns for a moment, interrupted only by Delacroix himself. "You are, ain't ya? Sheeeyit. I never thought I'd meet you out here. Reyes, Reyes, ain't this that dyke gunslinger you said you met?"
The shotgun swings up, and Reyes lifts a hand. He's just an idiot, he thinks, with no time to talk. He's too stupid to mean anything by it.
The gun hesitates on Delacroix; his mouth falls open. "When you call me that," the gunslinger says, "smile." Delacroix nods, carefully, like his head might come off if he moves too quick.
(It might.)
"Let's take a walk," Reyes says.
***
"What the fuck are they talking about?" Malloy snarls.
"Dunno, Malloy," Delacroix says.
"Somebody's watching," Murphy says, watching the sky. He didn't even know he could do that until now, but he's remembering now. It takes a while to remember things, after you die. "Psychics."
"Probably those retards down in Taos." Malloy kicks a tire, gritting his teeth.
"We could probably kill her," Delacroix says, looking up the highway at Reyes and the girl. Always a beat behind. "She ain't hardly paying attention."
"We kill her, we got the mother to deal with," Malloy says, and Delacroix cringes. "Remember her?"
"You guys met the gunslinger?" Murph asks.
"Yeah." Malloy sits on the hood of his car, his face dark and drawn. "You did, too. In the Before."
Murph nods.
***
"What did I say I liked about you guys, Reyes? Why did I say I was okay letting you go?"
Reyes doesn't answer her. Gunslinger or no, he's not in the fourth grade.
"You stay out of the big picture stuff, and you don't gang up. You stay out of my way." She takes off the sunglasses, hooking them from the front of her tank top. "You're in my way, Reyes. All four of you."
"It's just a job," he says, conciliatory. "Not even my job. These three were on it, offered me a share because I know the turf. Somebody wants this kid Hill. Don't know why. Malloy won't say who. He's keeping it fucking close."
"Mmm." She looks down the road. "Can I buy you guys out?"
"It'd be steep," Reyes says. "I think the guy's dicking me and my share's still pretty good. And some of what they're offering you won't wanna match."
Her face twists at that; road viruses have unpleasant tastes.
"We gonna fight?"
"If I was going to kill you," she sighs, "I would've done it already. I made him an offer. He doesn't want my help."
"And you're just letting it go?"
"For now," she says. She's still looking south. "I can't buy you out; fine. But here's some free advice, Reyes. Stay the fuck away from George Hill."
He studies her; weighs the future. After a thousand years, he's smart enough to do that. The older they get the more of their lives they can remember; he remembers a life where he rode into Scythia, and the terrified peasants who thought they were centaurs. He remembers a lot. A lot of mistakes, mostly, and a lot of dying. "Which way you headin'?"
She glances at him. "Why?"
"'Cuz you need a ride."
***
The El Camino heads north; the other three head south, with curses for him. "This don't make us friends," Reyes shouts over his tunes, the wind from the window smoking his cigarette for him.
"No, Reyes," she says, weary, punchy with faded adrenaline. The shotgun is still in her lap, between them like a chaperone. "It just makes you smart."
The feeling--that plugged-in feeling she had on the highway, where the sky all seemed to rush in one direction--is fading already; for a minute, it all made sense, and now it slips through her fingers. She knows by now better than to try and call it back. She turns her mind to Denver; the shipping service she can cancel now, and the train home.
The future is waiting.
Here, on the edge, in the Way of the King, is a girl a long way from home. Her luggage sits on the side of the road, a neat stack of red hardshell cases, topped with a helmet in the same bloody shade. It looks, lit by the lurid light of morning, like a pile of skulls. It's holding down a tarp; a scarred leather jacket lays on it.
Foursquare in the highway stands Rose Toren. Her arms are bare; the token of a girl she'll never meet again is around her neck, and a cheap, battered cowboy hat is tilted back on her head. It fits pretty good.
She carries the guns of her mother. One of them--this was a Christmas present--is a shotgun.
She is a stranger and a pilgrim here, and she is alone.
Reyes waits as long as he can, then slews his El Camino to a stop, slanted across the highway. South of Pueblo the highway is deserted, and if anyone has a problem with him they can fight about it.
"You," he says, unfolding out of the low-slung car.
"Me." She's wearing sunglasses, dark and styling, with a lightning bolt enfolded in parenthesis on the ear piece. "Hello, Reyes."
He knows she's as surprised to see him as he is to see her. He knows it. He hates her so much.
"Where's Hill?" Behind him, hears the other cars stopping; doors slamming.
She shrugs.
"You working with him now?"
She shakes her head.
"Nah. I made an offer, but he didn't want my help."
"He take your bike?"
"I let him have it, yeah."
"Who the fuck is this?" Malloy demands. Reyes hates this guy, too, always fucking pushing. Reyes hates all of them. He's a thousand years old and today he feels it. This is all going to going bad.
"The Toren chick," Reyes says, clipped, as the girl says, "Rose Toren."
"She working with Hill?" Malloy demands, and the girl's mouth tightens a little.
"She says no," Reyes snaps back over his shoulder. He can see the other two dumbfucks milling around back there, too, as if the situation needs to be more complicated.
"Then what the fuck is she doing here?" Malloy demands, still talking like the girl isn't right in front of him, still dumping this all on Reyes like it's his fault, and Reyes wonders if it wouldn't save a lot of time to just kill Malloy himself.
"I just have a few questions," the girl says, with deceptive sweetness, and Reyes is pretty sure they're all going to die here, when Delacroix steps into the breech.
"Hey, I know you," he says, goofy and a little wondering. "You're that dyke gunslinger everbody's talking about."
Perfect silence reigns for a moment, interrupted only by Delacroix himself. "You are, ain't ya? Sheeeyit. I never thought I'd meet you out here. Reyes, Reyes, ain't this that dyke gunslinger you said you met?"
The shotgun swings up, and Reyes lifts a hand. He's just an idiot, he thinks, with no time to talk. He's too stupid to mean anything by it.
The gun hesitates on Delacroix; his mouth falls open. "When you call me that," the gunslinger says, "smile." Delacroix nods, carefully, like his head might come off if he moves too quick.
(It might.)
"Let's take a walk," Reyes says.
***
"What the fuck are they talking about?" Malloy snarls.
"Dunno, Malloy," Delacroix says.
"Somebody's watching," Murphy says, watching the sky. He didn't even know he could do that until now, but he's remembering now. It takes a while to remember things, after you die. "Psychics."
"Probably those retards down in Taos." Malloy kicks a tire, gritting his teeth.
"We could probably kill her," Delacroix says, looking up the highway at Reyes and the girl. Always a beat behind. "She ain't hardly paying attention."
"We kill her, we got the mother to deal with," Malloy says, and Delacroix cringes. "Remember her?"
"You guys met the gunslinger?" Murph asks.
"Yeah." Malloy sits on the hood of his car, his face dark and drawn. "You did, too. In the Before."
Murph nods.
***
"What did I say I liked about you guys, Reyes? Why did I say I was okay letting you go?"
Reyes doesn't answer her. Gunslinger or no, he's not in the fourth grade.
"You stay out of the big picture stuff, and you don't gang up. You stay out of my way." She takes off the sunglasses, hooking them from the front of her tank top. "You're in my way, Reyes. All four of you."
"It's just a job," he says, conciliatory. "Not even my job. These three were on it, offered me a share because I know the turf. Somebody wants this kid Hill. Don't know why. Malloy won't say who. He's keeping it fucking close."
"Mmm." She looks down the road. "Can I buy you guys out?"
"It'd be steep," Reyes says. "I think the guy's dicking me and my share's still pretty good. And some of what they're offering you won't wanna match."
Her face twists at that; road viruses have unpleasant tastes.
"We gonna fight?"
"If I was going to kill you," she sighs, "I would've done it already. I made him an offer. He doesn't want my help."
"And you're just letting it go?"
"For now," she says. She's still looking south. "I can't buy you out; fine. But here's some free advice, Reyes. Stay the fuck away from George Hill."
He studies her; weighs the future. After a thousand years, he's smart enough to do that. The older they get the more of their lives they can remember; he remembers a life where he rode into Scythia, and the terrified peasants who thought they were centaurs. He remembers a lot. A lot of mistakes, mostly, and a lot of dying. "Which way you headin'?"
She glances at him. "Why?"
"'Cuz you need a ride."
***
The El Camino heads north; the other three head south, with curses for him. "This don't make us friends," Reyes shouts over his tunes, the wind from the window smoking his cigarette for him.
"No, Reyes," she says, weary, punchy with faded adrenaline. The shotgun is still in her lap, between them like a chaperone. "It just makes you smart."
The feeling--that plugged-in feeling she had on the highway, where the sky all seemed to rush in one direction--is fading already; for a minute, it all made sense, and now it slips through her fingers. She knows by now better than to try and call it back. She turns her mind to Denver; the shipping service she can cancel now, and the train home.
The future is waiting.