Chapter 3- "An unexpected visitor"
Tanner's Barn, or "The Barn," as it was most commonly called, defined the term "podunk." A running joke among its neighbouring communities was that the family tree in The Barn had four branches; and that was because a cousin had ended up involved in one of the marriages, instead of the usual sibling.
By no means a "metropolitan" settlement, Tanner's Barn still managed to pick up some of the "finer" thing in life, and the single bar, set square in the middle of town, had recently equipped itself with the largest vid screen available on planet. Power tools and heavy farm equipment were also available, as well as the corresponding services for the machines, but those were all there more out of economic necessity than anything else. Most folks still used private wells—many operated by hand—and only about half of the fifteen-hundred residents owned any form of telecommunications; most just used local pay telephones.
The population density defied the use of the word "density," and it was basically expected that, except in the "town" proper, your nearest neighbour was no less than three kilometers away. "Town centre" was merely a collection of low lying, pre-fabbed buildings used to house the token government, the power substation, what passed as a phone company, and a baker's dozen of sundry shops and service buildings. The interconnecting streets were covered with mud, animal faeces, and crops fallen from trailers and wagons, and were patrolled by a handful of ownerless mutts trying to scrounge whatever food they could.
And Matt still felt there was more action to be had here than at the ranch.
The ATV quite literally rattled to a stop as Matt let off the throttle, just in front of the bar, and he knew he'd probably have to be finding a ride home tonight, unless someone were willing to let him board with them until the morning. Then, he might be able to catch one of the few cross-country buses that serviced the outlying farms and ranches.
Stepping off the machine, Matt planted a solid kick to the left, front tire, and mumbled a curse about, "stupid machines" and "fat zcheks." The few credits jingling in his pocket, however, were enough to remind him that he might just be able to have a half-decent time this evening, before facing the drab reality he called his life. I used to wonder why people got suicidal, 'round these parts. Maybe Gramps was lucky after all; he was at least alive, until he died.
If Matt's vocabulary had been a little larger, the word "lurid" may have popped to mind as he looked up at the one, working neon sign that hung over the bar, brazenly proclaiming the place to be "The Crow's nest." The Nest was about as multi-purpose a building as one was likely to find on all of Soliven, and that out of necessity. While its primary function was as a run-of-the-mill public house, the establishment had also served as everything from a place to get married to an emergency hospital, during the one planet raid Soliven had ever faced. But generally, it was just the local favourite when it came to places to socialize, watch a game, or simply drown one's troubles in a few shots of the house special; it was widely held that a "Gracie's Kicker" rivaled even the potent Zallun zgrah, when it came right down to it, though the patrons tended to favour the kicker, for its hint of fruit taste.
Matt had never been a drinker, to be honest. What few friends he had had tried to wrangle him into it on several occasions, but his one try at the Gracie's Kicker had put him off from the alcohol scene altogether. It could be said, however, that the company at the Nest—sober or not—was still worthwhile, and though Matt never could quite get around to striking up a conversation with the nightshift barmaid, he promised himself, every single visit, that the next visit would see him with the guts to at least say hello, and maybe even learn if she were dating.
If ever a stereotype could be properly applied, it was inside the Crow's Nest. Aside from the massive vid screen mounted on the far wall in the "sports lounge," this bar looked pretty much like every other one anywhere one could travel. Matt made his way in, past a row of booths, set against the wall to his right, and over to the bar, where three men sat, deep in conversation.
"So I was telling the guy that I just wasn't interested, but he kept bugging me about buying the blasted thing. So I said, 'look, pal. I'm a farmer. What the heck does a guy like me need an a chocolate-covered megrat for, anyway?'"
A few gruff chuckles followed, and Matt flopped into the stool next to the speaker.
"Telling your lies again, Harrison?"
"Still haven't shown a girl how to become a woman, 'Li'l Mattsy'?"
The chuckles were louder, this time, and Harrison ruffled Matt's hair good-naturedly with a grubby paw. "Nice to see ya' again, kid. Where you been hangin' out, anyway? The boys and I were starting to wonder if one 'a them fat-reared zcheks fell over on you. Or maybe you'd gone and done the whole 'drill shaft to the face' thing, or something."
"Hey, that's not fair, Harrison."
"Not fair," he said, looking shocked. "Not fair? You gotta admit old Doc wasn't all together upstairs, kid."
"Yeah, but he was kind of also my grandfather."
"Yeah, well I got a granddad still alive. Lives somewhere in Taelon, here, one of those systems just up north. The man never writes, never calls, never visits and— of all things— never sends me any money! Admit it, Mattsy, just 'case they're blood don't always mean you love 'em."
"And just 'cause they're not 'mainstream' doesn't mean you shouldn't."
"Aww, Matt. You know I'm just giving you a hard time, eh? I mean, look, he fed you, sure, he gave you a place to live, and then he ignored you, gets himself killed and leaves you in a cesspool of debt.
"Yeah, we all had to take our hats off to Doc, every now and again; man had more guts than I think I've seen just about anywhere else. But who in shioll imports zchek'zelks to a place like this?"
Matt absently rubbed at an eye with a clenched fist. The day had definitely taken its toll on him, and he really wasn't in the mood for even a friendly ribbing. Sure, he knew that Harrison didn't really mean most of what he was saying— didn't mean it to hurt Matt, anyway— and he knew that he actually shared much of the spoken sentiment. But still, blood was blood, and Matt Sarray wasn't one to ignore blood ties, even if they weren't all that strong.
"How about someone with vision and the guts to try something new, maybe? You have to admit, Harry, that if those things had worked out..."
Harrison cut him off with a small slap to the knee. "Those things'd worked out, you and your granddad might own this whole world, yeah, yeah. Heard the whole thing from Doc, five years back when he sent in that order.
"How are the lard balls, anyway?
"The 'lard balls' are doing fine, Harry. Okay, so they're not fine. Three more dead, most too tired and too fat to do more than lie on their bellies and look around. I was this close to just pumping them full of birdshot and cutting my losses. I mean, really, all they are big, fat liabilities, anyway."
"You hear that, Zren," Harrison called across the room, to a husky, middle-aged man on the far end of the bar. "Looks like Mattsy has just the answer for your old woman."
Zren grabbed a handful of beer nuts from the bowl in front of him, and shotgunned them at Harrison, pelting the target and those sitting near him. Matt, and the two men seated next to him, ducked or blocked reflexively, but Harrison just opened his mouth wide, and did his best to catch the nutty missiles. Zren tossed a few obscenities and a gesture after the beer nuts, shook his head and went back to his drink.
"Bah. That guy never did know how to take a joke. Sure can hold his whiskey, though, gotta give him that. Frell, If I drank even a quarter what Zren put down in a night, I'd be bombed out of my skull for a week.
"You drink twice as much as he does, Harrison, and you're pretty much always drunk."
"See, like I was saying. So anyway, Matt, where ya' been? You never answered my question."
"Where do you think I've been? I'm still the same place I've been hanging out at for the last long while; between nowhere and next to nothin'. Still a million and a half in the hole, got a bunch of dying cattle, and no credit whatsoever to get back on my feet — the bank sure don't care what my problems are, I'll tell you that much.
"If there's a bottomless pit, on this planet, I'm as close to the bottom as a guy can go."
"You say you're having financial problems, young man," said a new voice.
"Excuse me," Matt replied, turning to look at the source of the voice.
"I mean no intrusion, young man, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation." Matt picked out the man who was speaking to him, and sized him up immediately. Never knew if you might need to plant a fist in a face, when you saw it for the first time.
The booth the speaker was seated at could barely contain his bulk. Even while the man was sitting, Matt could tell he topped two metres, and from the amount of his belly spilling over the table, Matt also placed him in the one-forty kilo range, give or take. His jet-black hair was slicked back, readily pronouncing his widow's peak. Pudgy fingers were folded around some drink, as the pasty-skinned Derivian nursed it with a small measure of trepidation.
While his chubby face and polished accent most decidedly marked him as an "out-of-towner," what intrigued Matthew the most was that here, in the poor lighting of the Crow's Nest, the large man was wearing tinted glasses. This guy think he's some sort of bigwig or something? Heh, if he's stupid enough to wear sunglasses in here, maybe he needs both his eyes and his head checked. What the hey. I'll humour him; should be good for a laugh.
"So you come to laugh at hard-luck farm boys then, eh? Is that what you were listening in for? Needed something to remind you just how good you must have it, right? Hey, that's fine, friend. These guys laugh me to blushes just 'bout every time I come in here, so why not you too?"
The speaker turned to look at Matt, though there was something odd about the angle of his gaze. It was almost as though the fat man were looking just past Matt, to his right. Shaking his large head, he answered, "No, son. I haven't come to mock anyone. Especially not you. That is, if you happen to be surnamed 'Sarray.' I did catch the 'Matt' part, so I'm taking a chance on the other half."
The rancher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sleepy farm towns never had large, well dressed men in shades randomly stepping into bars and knowing any of the locals, especially not ones the likes of Matthew Sarray.
By the stars, is this guy some sort of hit man from the bank? They told me I had at least 'til the end of the season before they were to take action. And I figured they only meant foreclosure, not lynching...
"Um, look, Mister, I really don't know who you are, or why you're here, but Krall Jenzdot, over at First Mutual told me I still had four months on the loans. Look, I'm really sorry that Grandpa Lanza racked up that much debt, but hey, can you cut an orphan kid some slack, maybe? I know it's a lot of cash, but..."
"You're grandfather was a Lanza? As in 'Gryser' Lanza?"
What the nyag? Now he's playing with my mind.
"Yep," piped up Harrison. "Li'l Mattsy here's the only heir to that whole line, since old Doc up and..."
Matt cut the drunkard off with a none-too-soft elbow to the ribs. "Okay, I think it's about time for me to leave. Zren? Mind if I borrow your pickup? Promise I'll have it back to you before morning watering."
Zren looked at Matt, over at the stranger, and back to Matt, nodding solemnly, and tossed over a set of keys. "Get out of here, kid, we'll handle this guy." It was only then that the young Sarray noticed that all fifteen patrons— and the nightshift barmaid, fortunately— had stopped whatever they had been about, and had turned their attentions to the little drama playing its way out in their own little pub.
"Wait! Matthew! We can help each other. Really! I'm not from the bank," the outsider started, as he edged his way out of the booth with more ease than Matt would have expected.
"How about you come with us, pal," Zren said, stepping up off his bar stool. Harrison, properly sobered by his younger compatriot's "gentle nudge," stepped up beside Zren, and the barmaid went for the vid-phone, just in case the need to ring the police arose.
"Matthew! Wait, please! This is not some kind of joke!"
The zchek herder simply grabbed the keys and his light jacket, and headed for the door, keeping an eye on the well-dressed visitor until right before he opened the door. Oddly, the rotund mystery man never turned his head to watch the kid make his exit.
As he stepped outside, Matt shuddered. But it was not the chill in the air that sent tremors down his spine. I thought we had enough crazies with just the locals. Maybe that big screen is attracting high-class nutters, these days.
The nervous young man crossed the muddy street to a older (but still working, thank all things good) pickup truck, and got in. He started the old vehicle, gunned the engine to get it warm, and dropped it into gear.
Presently, the headlights of the pickup cast their waning beams on the drive leading up to his small ranch home, an eerie silence greeting him. Normally, Matthew would have tuned in to one radio station or other, depending on his mood, but tonight, tonight his mood was one of anxiety and guardedness; he felt it best not to have his attention divided. His alertness was rewarded just before he reached his house. As gravel crunched beneath the tires, the whirrings of what were unmistakably hovercraft drive fans caught his ear. He whipped his head around to notice a small hover car zipping up behind him. Guy can't take a "no," can he? This is really starting to freak me out, now. Okay, then, you want me? Let's see how well you can drive.
Without warning, Matt punched the accelerator, and grinned with great satisfaction as the old engine showed why it was once one of the best on the market. When the driver of the hover car noticed he was being suddenly left behind, he poured on the speed as well. It didn't take the orphan long to realise that, good as the pickup's motor may have been, it wasn't a match for this sleek, probably late model hover-car. Guess the flat-out run ain't gonna work, then. Let's see how he handles the gauntlet.
Jerking the wheel to the right, with one hand, he immediately down-shifted a whole two gears, before revving the engine at the end of his one-eighty. The maneuver apparently caught his pursuer by surprise, but whoever was behind the controls of the hover car obviously knew what they were doing. The fan brakes flared hard to the right, the rear part of the vehicle's "skirt" deflating slightly, dipping the craft's tail to assist the braking turn. It took the hover car a second longer than the truck to fully reverse its momentum, allowing the pickup that much more of a head start.
The old truck rattled and bounced hard along the dirt road, and Matt found his left hand white-knuckled as he clung to the steering wheel, keeping his right hand securely on the shifter lever. By the time the hovercar had resumed its earnest pursuit, Matt had goaded and extra twenty k.p.h. out of his ride, and was streaking along the dusty path at dangerous speeds. Only one more kilometer. I can do this!
The eagerly awaited turn came up just under a minute later, by which time the chase vehicle was inching its way along side Zren's beat up farm truck. Now! He nearly ripped the shifter off, in his haste, the brakes locking under the sudden slamming of the pedal. Pulling the wheel hard to his right, yet again, Matt held his breath as the front bumper of the truck ricocheted slightly off the back end of the hover car. Sorry, Zren, didn't mean it, I swear! The old beater popper up on its left-side wheels, and Matt threw his weight as far to the right as he could, praying he wouldn't roll the pickup on this slick, dusty road.
He failed.
But luck was with him, and the roll went all the way, righting Zren's favourite truck, and leaving its driver only slightly dazed. Matt quickly shook out the cobwebs, hit the high beams and realigned the pickup with the old, narrow sheep path known as "The Gauntlet." Stomping the gas pedal into the floorboard, he held on tight as he leapt forward onto the tight, sickeningly twisted back road, the hovercar snapping at his heels.
The race through the gauntlet rattled Matt's teeth in their sockets, and he was sure the wheels were going to fall off at any moment. He managed to only just glance off a few walls, in some of the more hairpin turns, and could tell that his superior knowledge of the trail was gaining him precious space and time for escaping this unknown hunter. The fact that he couldn't see his stalker through all the dust he was kicking up left him with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he had no idea where the other vehicle was. On the other hand, he was sure that the poor visibility went both way, and since the other driver had to contend with so much obscurity, he was certain to need to slow down, or risk barreling into one of the stone walls lining the trail.
Time to lose him— permanently. Right on time, he reached a fork in the path, just ten metres from the banks of the small lake that aided in irrigation of many of the surrounding farms. Slowing enough to prevent another rollover, Matt banked left, and headed into the very constricted, wooded stretch of the gauntlet that ran along the lake's southern shore. Driving as hard and as fast as he dare, he made it through the last stretch of the risky road in a matter of minutes. As he made ready to merge back on to pavement, he suddenly found his path squarely blocked by... a black hovercar. You must be kidding. He took the fraggin' lake!
Standing on the brakes, he skidded the vehicle to a dead stop, just decimetres from the second vehicle. The woods restricting a turnaround, he struggled frantically to put the truck into reverse.
No luck. Another try. Another failure. For the love! That's two gearboxes I've shredded today! Shralla help me.
Frantically glancing up, the Derivian kid froze as he watched an oddly shaped humanoid silhouette step out of the vehicle, holding what was, unmistakably, a rifle of some sort. This can't be how I go! Shralla no! I can't just be knocked off in the middle of the woods! I never even got to get her number!
For a brief second, Matt considered just ramming the other car. Yes, that would work wonderfully. He'd be almost certain to kill or disable the driver, and while Zren wouldn't be happy with the damage, surely he would understand a man's sense of self-preservation. Then followed thoughts of debt, a fat and dying herd, the lack of real friends, and... a million and a half credits worth of debt. You know what? If they want it enough to go to this kind of extreme, they'll make the rest of my life miserable if I run now. Nothing here worth living for anyway. Okay, Granpda, hope you don't mind me staying with you again.
He turned off the high beams and killed the engine. Nothing to do now, but wait.
The dark shape brought the rifle up, a small, blinding, barrel-mounted spotlight flicking on, and the washed-up rancher could almost hear the bullet dropping into the breach, or maybe the firing coils charging up with that same, high-pitched whine he always heard in the films.
This is it, then. All done in just a few seconds. And I was so looking forward to asking her out. Maybe Harry will miss me? He was surprised at just how calm he felt, with Death staring him in the face. He supposed that wasn't so hard, though, when life was meaningless.
Then, all was dark. There was no sound, no movement. Just bright, dancing colours before his eyes, and finally, a complete fade to black.