Chapter 3
The whiskey went to Dust’s head on the journey back, spurred on by the frosted night air. He’d never had any trouble sleeping on horseback so he was able to sink under the warm alcoholic glow and catch some much-needed rest whilst the uniforms returned him to the Solution.
Dust was still sleeping when more uniforms knocked loudly on his door. He opened his eyes and looked around, disoriented momentarily. Daylight strutted through the gaps in familiar curtains; he was back in his cell, had apparently slept through Tom and Bill dumping him in bed. Granted it was big enough to hold a herd of cattle and came with furnishings, a real bed and even fancy plumbing but Dust wasn’t supposed to get out and they locked the door so it was still a cell.
Dust sat up. He didn’t get hangovers any more and so felt as fine as he ever did in a morning. “Yeah?” he asked.
“Get your ass moving, Dust. The General wants to see you.”
After taking a moment to stretch and spot where his tattoo was resting – it’d chosen the heel of his foot for some reason – he stood, opened his wardrobe and looked over his array of clothing; twelve sets of off-white cotton shirts, jeans and boots with twelve lots of underwear, each the same as the ones he wore.
Picking out random lots, he changed out of last night’s clothes. Then he stretched again, taking his time before opening his cell’s wooden door.
A second door – barred, iron and with runes carved into it – stood behind the wooden one and two uniforms stood behind that. He didn’t recognise the men and that was probably purposeful; Dick Ryman, commander of the Solution, wouldn’t want Dust to have the joy of companionship after he’d skipped out.
“Come on, scum bag, you’re late,” one of the uniforms said as he unlocked the gate. Both he and his partner carried truncheons and guns.
Dust merely eyeballed him, this presumably former-military man with his waxed moustache and regulation haircut. The uniform held Dust’s gaze for a moment but soon backed down. Most people did. After this there was a moment of fear between the uniforms; Dust’s reputation worked on most people, even those within the Solution, and neither wanted to provoke a merciless killer.
To break it, Dust stepped out of his cell. The uniforms seemed to snap back to their duties at this. They grabbed him, each taking a shoulder, and he was marched through the Solution’s main facility. Having been handed the initiative back, it didn’t take them long to act as though Dust didn’t have a choice in the matter again; they pulled him along by his shoulders, yanked him round corners and swore constantly.
Dust amused himself by imagining what would happen if he just stopped short and made them try to force him along. Seeing them struggle to get Dust to move so much as a muscle, straining and swearing at his strength… He smiled to himself. If it weren’t so close to dawn, if there were more people around, he might’ve done it.
“What’s funny?” the nervous uniform asked, his voice quivering.
But then again, maybe not. It’d be pretty cruel on the uniforms, embarrassing them like tha when they were just scared, just doing their jobs, and Dust wasn’t the cruel type. Not really.
“Nothing,” Dust replied.
So he followed, let them pretend they had control. After all, maintaining the illusion of control was what the Solution was for…
And Dick… well, old Dick typified that. Why’d he engage in the pretense of an escort anyway? These men weren’t really in charge and Dust didn’t need guiding; the route from his cell to Dick’s office was ingrained in his memory, just as the way from his cell to the labs was. Dust had done both journeys so many times that they’d only have to look for him in two places if he started sleepwalking. It was practically his life, besides his forbidden trips and the occasional sweet mission.
Ah, missions. Dust missed missions. In the before he’d had plenty of missions. Now it was only every now and then. He found he longed for the freedom of a well-fed horse and endless lands.
They got to Dick’s quickly, perhaps because the uniforms were keen to be rid of him. The nervous uniform knocked at the spartan wooden door and stood back, spine straight as a rifle.
“Bring him in,” growled Dick from within his office.
The General was not in a good mood. As commanded, the uniforms opened the door and dragged Dust inside.
Dick’s office was small because he wanted it to be; a proper Southern gentlemen, Dick didn’t hold with a man of station showing off so he had taken a small room in the Solution’s opulent facility and appointed it modestly. A fine but humble desk, cheap carpets and some paintings of his Grandpa on the wall. That was all the man wanted or needed.
Squeezed into the remaining space was Dick himself. He looked out over the sand as they entered, a tall man with wide shoulders and greying hair slicked back against his head. Dust couldn’t hazard a guess at Dick’s age; he just had that sort of crinkled face that’d likely looked that way since he was twenty. He wasn’t balding. Maybe he never would; he had some of the best genes in the country, came from a proud military line, and none of them seemed to have lost their hair.
“Leave him here,” Dick said, still watching America. His voice was like Texan oil, slick and glistening.
Without questioning, the uniforms left. Dick didn’t notice them going, just stood there for a moment longer. In his blue uniform, with his Grandpa staring at those who dared enter this office, Dust guessed Dick was half as as imposing as people must find the Wanted Man.
Then Dick spun, a gun in his hand. Before Dust could say anything, Dick fired. Dust was quick but not quick enough to dodge the shot entirely; the bullet whizzed past his ear, catching it at the very tip.
“Damn it Dust,” Dick hissed, “when will you learn?”
Dust opened his eyes and shook his head. In the confined space, the gun’s roar made his head ring. He put a hand up to his ear and found that it was bleeding. Slowly, he took off his shirt and held it against his head.
“Ow,” Dust said.
Dick showed no signs of being affected by the loudness of the shot. Instead he slammed his gun against the desk. “Good, ow. I’d do a damn sight more to you if I could; if you were a normal man I’d have hung you a dozen times by now. God damn you, when are you going to learn? Tell me, Dustin. When?”
Nobody called him Dustin. Nobody but Dick. “I get bored, Dick.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. Nobody called him Dick. Nobody but Dust. “We have offered to get you whiskey, Dustin. And whores. And whatever else you need. Our aim is to study and look after you. But you keep insisting on running away and making a damn mess for us!”
“Making money for you, you mean?”
Dick looked at him for a moment, military man eyeing the Wanted Man, and then sighed. “You’re right. I can’t deny you’re technically the Solution’s second biggest donor.”
Of course the bounties he incidentally collected would never be worth as much as Naismith’s donation but it was still good to hear Dick admit how important his little trips could be. “Then I don’t see what the problem is.”
“No, you don’t,” Dick sighed. “And that’s the real reason we have to lock you up, Dustin.”
Dust frowned. This was new territory. They’d had this conversation more than a dozen times and it had never gone like this. “What do you mean?”
“Sit down, will you?”
Dust sat, shirtless, the garment still pressed against his ear. His back felt the smooth, cold embrace of the varnished chair.
“I mean, Dustin, that you don’t understand the wider world. You’re not a part of it any longer, you’re an outsider and you can’t understand normal people. Take your reputation; although the Government of these United States knows that you are not a criminal and are not in league with the Triangle, the people of the United States think the opposite.” He sat back in his chair. “As far as they are concerned, you’re a walking embodiment of the Dixie Problem.”
He and Dick, they had a somewhat antagonistic relationship. Dust didn’t quite know why but the man rankled him, brought out a petulant side that no-one else saw. Which was probably why he said “Have you tried talking with them? Maybe we could hold a press conference.”
Dick gave him a look of disdain.
Dust had the decency to look down. “I’m sorry, that was a bit below me.”
Dick sat with a sigh. “Alright. Seeing as you’re in a mood today, I’m going to try a new tack.”
“Which one?”
“Honesty,” he replied simply.
Dust eyed him. He seemed genuine, like he wanted to talk. They’d never had a man-to-man talk; just as Dick brought out the worst in Dust, Dust made the General uncomfortable and quick to anger. Probably because the man knew he had no control over Dust.
Intrigued, Dust nodded for him to start.
“You’ve not been out in the real world for some time. And, before you say it, a dump like Low Tracks is not the real world.” Dick leaned forward on his desk. “The common man hates you, Dust, because they don’t understand you. And because you’re linked with a great threat, to them and to this nation.”
“The Dixie Problem.”
Dick nodded. “The Dixie Problem; the dark things out there. People are simple, Dustin. They think it’s a matter of manpower, that the Dixie Problem should be resolved by now. With the slaves freed and the Indians mollified, they can’t see why a great nation like America can’t just sweep the place clean. Politically, we can’t explain that there are forces at work almost too strong for us to cope with. Especially when they are so-called Gods we’re supposed to be One Nation, Under God…”
Religion, Dust thought, always seemed to cause more problems than it solved.
“The President is taking serious heat for all of this; the Democrats are making a big deal of matters they don’t understand. So we can’t let it be widely known, on top of everything else, that you’re working with us. Which is why it’s so frustrating when you reveal yourself publicly and ‘kill’ people.”
Dust felt a hot anger rise in him. “I haven’t killed anyone, Dick, not for a long time. And certainly never someone who didn’t deserve it,” he said.
Dick laughed. “That’s not what people get told. You think the rumours have you peacefully handing people in? No. You’re as vicious as any cultist in the myth. And the myth is all that people know, Dustin. It’s the myth people turn to whenever you appear and they will turn to it again if they find out you work with the Government.”
Outside, people walked by Dick’s office. Dust could hear them talking, chatting about their families. It was some of the eggheads, off to do more experiments; another day had begun in the Solution. Dust never really thought about the wider world, what lay outside this facility, except when he was sent on a mission or was in need of a little freedom. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t wanted to face what Dick had just told him; it was hard to accept he was seen as a monster.
“So what’s my punishment?” Dick asked, finding that he wasn’t a fan of honesty.
“I’m sending you out on a mission.”
Dust blinked. He leaned forward, his wanderlust ignited. “Now I could have sworn you just said you’re sending me out on a mission.”
Dick nodded. “That’s because I did.”
Licking his lips, Dust asked “What’s the angle?”
He ignored Dust and picked some papers up from his desk, looked at them as though he hadn’t memorised the contents. “Two days ago, Senator Chalmer’s daughter was travelling through the Badlands with an escort even I would be impressed with; fifty hardened soldiers, each on horseback. They have not been seen since. We’ve tried to get reports from her likely last location but someone keeps taking down telegraph poles in the area; the TTC have repaired the line twice in the last week. It would seem, from that and other evidence, that we have a cult active in the area between a town called Crucifix and the Colorado River.”
Dust moved the shirt away from his ear, inspected it. Already the wound had mostly healed but it’d be good to clear away the remaining blood; his dead blood could get quite itchy against his skin. He began to dab at his ear with another part of his shirt
“Fifty soldiers?” he asked.
Dick nodded. “Fifty veterans.”
That was interesting. Dust blew air out through his lips. “And I’m to go in and find her? This Senator’s daughter?”
“Yes. You’ll leave today. And you won’t return until you’ve found her, dead or alive.”
Dust examined Dick for a while. There was definitely something more to all of this. “Alright then. Do I get to see a photo of her?”
Dick shuffled the papers and then rested them again on the desk. “There’s a file with photos and biographical information waiting for you with the horse. Read it on your journey. You’ll take a Solution horse and full tactical equipment with you. I presume I don’t need to tell you that time is of the essence and that we want the girl back alive if possible.”
Dust stopped dabbing at his ear. He touched the wound with his fingertips and examined them; no more blood, no pain from the touch. He was healed, clean, though he’d always be lopsided from now on. Somehow that didn’t seem like enough punishment though. Not from old Dick.
“So what aren’t you telling me?”
The corners of Dick’s mouth twitched. “What makes you think I’m not telling you something?”
“Anything too good to be true usually is.”
Dick stood and gestured for Dust to stand as well. Dust did so.
“Firstly,” Dick continued, walking back to his window, “I’m sending you out because we know what the cult want. And that indicates their strength.”
“What’re they after?” Dust asked, strolling over to stand beside Dick.
“They want the Eye of Zacatecas.”
Dust couldn’t help but laugh. “And I want to be President one day. The Government’ll never let them get hold of that!”
Dick turned to Dust, arched an eyebrow. “Won’t they? Senator Chalmers is quite influential in Washington. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started making serious inquiries about handing the Eye over.”
Suddenly this mission took on more importance; the Eye of Zacatecas was an incredibly powerful Mayan artefact, one that most people would think was harmless if they only knew of it from the legends. Dust knew it could be used for many strange magical operations on the soul. If they know of it, they probably know how to use it… so handing it over would be like giving TNT to drunken outlaws.
“Then why not scale a full search party?”
“I wish we could,” Dick sighed. “But the cult have said they’ll kill her if they see a large incursion into the Badlands. So we’re sending you. They’ll not connect you to the Solution despite your worst efforts.”
Dust paused, reflected on that. “Which God do the cult follow?” he asked.
“That Which Sins.”
Dust grunted. That Which Sins was the easiest God in the Triangle to cope with.
“The second reason I’m sending you out on this mission is because you’ve been too active in the area recently; people might start to tie you with the Solution, seeing as you’ll have been spotted in almost every damn drinking establishment within a twenty mile radius. Part of your value, as with this mission, is the deniability you give our Government so it’ll be good for you, and for us, if you’re seen in the Badlands.”
He couldn’t argue with that. But there was definitely something yet to come. “And? What’s the sting in the tail here?”
“’The sting in the tail’? Well, you’re going to have a partner in this mission.”
“Partner?” Dust asked cautiously.
“Yes, you’re going to take an agent out into the field with you. Someone who’s been raring to go for quite some time, particularly with you.”
He didn’t like where this was going, could see the punchline hurtling toward him like a pack of bison. “Who?”
“The Naismith kid.”
“I wasn’t that bad, surely?”
Dick grinned, a cruel and feline grin. “There are always consequences, Dustin.”
Dust searched Dick’s face to see whether he was joking. He wasn’t; he actually meant to send him out into the Badlands with the Naismith kid. “You son of a bitch.”