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Walker’s brain conjured up fantastic dreams for the second day in a row. This time, instead of hazy images of old men riding atop the shoulders of striding metal giants, it was he who was the jockey. He was unceremoniously slung over the Machine’s shoulders like a fallen cowboy strapped across his horse. Of course, he knew that this was no dream; he’d seen reality stretched too far and too frequently recently to dismiss what his eyes showed now, but he was helpless and disorientated, so there was nothing left to do but treat the episode as if it were a dream. So Walker lazily watched the horizon and slipped in and out of consciousness.
Between the frequent patches of inky black sleep bleeding into his vision to claim him, Walker remembered a shuddering view of the returning mountain range drawing closer. His bruised body jolted against the Machine’s broad, steel-hard shoulders as it sprinted across the desert terrain, heading back towards Folly. He was aware of huge blasts of sand and dirt rising up from the ground in the Machine’s wake behind him. His spinning head filled with a boozy sickness, as spots and coloured trails of dancing light flirted across his eyes. Then, to his relief, the blackness flooded back in again and finally took him.
*
When Walker came to again, his face was buried in the stretched carcass-skin that covered the Machine, breathing in the rancid stink of a dead man’s hide as it rotted and baked to leather beneath the desert sun. He snatched back his rattled head and fought the urge to vomit. He immediately saw Folly’s decrepit high street bobbing in front of him, as the Machine carried him back into town. He groaned and feebly swatted at the squadron of circling horseflies that had made the corpse-skin their home. He could feel patches of hot metal pressed against his own flesh where the Machine’s costume had split, and the exposed steel and plastic chassis beneath had been heated by the morning sun. Walker ached all over and considered repositioning himself on the Machine’s shoulders, but he was terrified of drawing attention to himself. He was amazed that the Machine hadn’t killed him for trying to escape and he didn’t want to push his luck. A terrible thought then ignited in his brain.
Maybe he was being carried up to the mountain to be hung on the Machine’s cross for his crime?
Then he remembered that he was already halfway down Main Street and heading away from the ridge. He quietly let out a deep sigh of relief.
The Machine came to an abrupt halt and pitched Walker into the dirt. He sat up and choked against the rising dust, thinking twice about trying to stand. Instead he remained low to the ground and submissive, watching the Machine’s head slowly glide left to right as it surveyed the street. Walker’s eyes searched his surroundings too, and he saw the vague outline of the men, at least he thought they were men, hiding in the darkened interior of the saloon behind its dirty windows.
Suddenly the Machine reached down and grabbed Walker just above his ankle, hauling him up into the air as if he’d tripped through a snare. The Machine held him as high as it could, dangling his inverted form like the catch of the day, showing it to the men inside the saloon. Then it waited, its head tracking back and forth again, ensuring that it had the full attention of its concealed audience.
“Walker,” stated the Machine coldly.
A bad feeling clouded Walker’s mind and he heard himself murmuring a vague plea, aware that he was probably about to be made an example of. Before he could get the words out, the Machine closed its fingers in a vice-like grip around his calf, squeezing and displacing the muscle there, until his shin bone gave out with a loud crack.
A shrill scream escaped Walker’s upended mouth, then tailed off into a wailing moan. The Machine held him aloft, shaking him by the crushed leg, until tears ran from his eyes and dripped into the dirt. Then, apparently satisfied with the demonstration, it released him. Walker’s flaccid body thudded against the ground, and he began to roll back and forth in delirious agony.
The Machine then turned and began stalking towards the saloon. Before the Machine reached it, the front door burst open and the men bolted, streaming out into the street, scattering in different directions, trying to confuse it. The Machine froze and hovered, its head rotating back and forth, tracking each man’s trajectory, selecting its target.
“Jackson,” it said in a flat tone.
The desperate men weren’t stopping to listen though. They sprinted away into the shadows, diving into alleyways and squeezing under walkways. The Machine turned in one fluid movement and instantly zeroed in on its prey: Flashback Jackson. Jackson had flattened himself against the corner wall of a defunct general store, and when he peered around the corner with wide, frightened eyes, he saw the Machine striding across the street to take him.
“Jackson,” it repeated.
Flashback ducked back behind the corner, but it was too late. From across the street where he was hiding amongst the smoking ruins of the barn they’d torched as a distraction at dawn, Lynch watched the Machine quickly close in on his friend’s position, whilst Flashback blindly hugged the corner wall, still hoping that he hadn’t been seen.
“Run, Jackson, run!” shouted Lynch. “It’s coming for you!”
Jackson’s terrified face emerged from behind the corner again to see the Machine advancing on him, blocking off his escape from the alleyway. Jackson backed deeper into the shadows of the alley, as the Machine marched after him, its arms outstretched from its sides, as if to herd him. Lynch made stuttering movements forwards, desperate to help Jackson, but he was too terrified of what the Machine would do to him. The struggle of emotions contorted Lynch’s face, until his fear won out. He held his position and screamed at Jackson again.
“Run, Jackson!”
Flashback Jackson stumbled backwards through the gloom of the alleyway, tripping over dried-out wooden crates. He crossed shafts of sunlight that streamed in through broken planks in the adjacent store’s cracked shell, lighting him up like a target caught in multiple sights. Jackson stared back at the spidery silhouette of the Machine closing in on him with its arms raised arms, and turned away for an all-out run. Ahead of him was the vague outline of a side door at the end of the blind alley. Flashback crashed forwards through more discarded crates and bone-dry water barrels, and then through the door itself, his brawny figure smashing through the brittle wood in a shower of splinters.
Flashback stumbled into the centre of the ancient, dusty store and spun around looking for something to arm himself with. There was very little of use left in the near-empty store, just warped timber and hollow packing crates, all draped in sprawling nets of spider’s webs. Flashback rushed to the back wall and vaulted over the counter there. He rummaged around in the darkness behind it, looking for something he could use. He sprang up with a large, rusting shovel raised in his hand, ready to fight. His eyes flicked to the front of the store, then over to the shadowy piles of empty boxes and packing cases blocking the way out back. There was no display window up front, but there was another door, and Flashback decided there and then that this was his best option, unsure if the clutter at the back of the shop concealed a third exit.
Flashback leapt over the counter and ran to the centre of the store, preparing to charge the front door and drive through it, as he had done the last door, but something stopped him. He hesitated, and his nervous eyes were reluctantly drawn back to the splintered door he’d breached from the alleyway. He stood there, his massive chest heaving quickly, the shovel raised in both hands, expecting the Machine to burst in through the remains of the broken door and rush him.
But nothing happened.
Flashback knew the Machine should be upon on him by now, he’d seen it run men down before, knew what it was capable of. It had been right behind him in the alleyway, so where was it now? His eyes darted to the door at the front of the store, then back again to its darkened rear, but there was no sign of it anywhere. He froze, so that only his eyes moved, roaming the floating gauze of webs that stretched across the store, hunting the shadows for the Machine’s decaying features. Old carpentry joints creaked and groaned in one corner of the store, then another, as the dimensions of the building shifted and changed with the sun’s heat on its tired wooden skeleton. Flashback’s eyes snapped from one ghostly creak to the next, his dark face now alive with manic tension. He began to whip his head around in short, jerky movements, trying to catch his unseen pursuer, his mind finally caving in against the relentless torment of the past week.
“No, not me,” he whispered to himself. “No, not me, not me, not me...”
His huge eyes locked on the smashed alleyway entrance again, detecting subtle movement in the surrounding shadows outside, or perhaps deep within his own terrified imagination. Flashback slowly turned to face the broken door full on, his sweating hands tightening around the shovel.
The Machine burst up through the floorboards less than a foot behind Flashback, spraying the store with shards of splintered wood as it exploded upwards through the dried-out planks. It rose quickly over the screaming war veteran’s back, lunging for him with open arms wrapped in split, discoloured skin, its stolen face an impassive, lifeless mask.
*
The Machine marched back up the high street with Flashback Jackson held high over its shoulders. The condemned man kicked, clawed and screamed, as tears streamed down his petrified face. The rest of the men slowly stepped out of their hiding places to watch the funeral march. Each man’s stare was filled with grief and pity for Flashback’s plight, but they all secretly counted their own blessings that it wasn’t them. Guilty eyes watched the Machine stride past with its weeping quarry, and none felt guiltier than Lynch. His gaze reluctantly met Flashback’s pleading eyes as the Machine carried him back towards the mountain. Lynch watched his former brother in arms scream and pummel the dead flesh that held him in a last-ditch attempt to free himself.
“Lynch! Lynch!” screamed Flashback. “You’ve got to help me! Do something man, it’s going to kill me...please man, you’ve got to do something...”
Lynch felt the stiletto slip out of his cuff and into the palm of his hand. The blade shot out, catching the sun.
To hell with it.
Lynch took a step towards the Machine, but a hand rested on his shoulder, stopping him. He looked back to see Marlowe staring at him, his dog-tired features drawn with resignation. Marlowe shook his head slowly, but there was no command there, not this time.
“It won’t do any good,” whispered Marlowe.
Lynch pulled away from the captain, only to stop two steps later of his own accord. He stared at the knife in his hand, then lowered it against his side, his weak eyes returning to the abduction of his oldest friend.
“Damn you, Lynch!” shouted Flashback, as he beat his fists against the Machine’s back. “Damn you, you bastard! Damn you all to hell!”
Then he broke down and began to sob again, his body going limp in surrender, hanging from the Machine’s arms like a hunter’s prize.
The men silently converged on the centre of the street under the hot sun, watching the Machine leave for the slopes of the mountain with its next victim in no particular hurry. After a while Marlowe broke off from the group and made his way over to where Walker was still lying. He crouched down next to him and stared at a dark red stain on the Englishman’s jeans, a couple of inches above the ankle where the Machine had crushed the bone. Walker was quiet now, but his face was bright red and drenched with sweat. His eyes rolled up to Marlowe and blinked against the sun’s glare.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t get through.”
“Don’t worry,” said Marlowe. “I’m just glad you’re still alive. Hurt?”
Walker tried to grin, but his features only managed to flush redder with more pain.
“A little.”
“Hang on,” said Marlowe. “We’ll rustle up a splint and find you some painkillers.”
“Maybe go straight for the painkillers...”
Marlowe managed a smile and stood up, just in time to feel the edge of Lynch’s knife blade press against his throat. Marlowe automatically raised his chin away from the threat, but the blade followed, taking up the slack. Marlowe remained silent as Lynch’s eyes burned into him.
“What’s it doing now?” said Lynch, his voice like gravel.
“It’s dragging him up the side of the mountain,” replied Blane, nonchalantly.
“So what now, Captain?” said Lynch. “How do we help Flash now?”
“We can’t. There’s nothing we can do...”
Lynch raised the blade higher and it bit into the skin. Marlowe’s blood trickled out across it.
“Wrong answer,” he said. “We’re getting out of here, like we should’ve done last night.”
“OK, OK,” said Marlowe quickly.
“I’m going for those guns. Now you can arm the dogs if you want, but me, I’m going up the mountain and I’m going to get Flash.” Lynch changed the angle of the knife, preparing to drive it home. “You got a problem with that?”
Marlowe waited, then slowly turned his head to fix Lynch with a stare of his own.
“It’s your funeral, Sergeant.”
Lynch held the knife up a little longer, determined to keep Marlowe sweating, but he saw that the captain was no longer afraid of him. He then noticed the anxious stares of the other men around them.
“You hear that?” he said, without a hint of triumph. “We hit the lab tonight.”
Lynch stepped back from Marlowe and whipped the knife away from his throat, quickly retracting the blade in one fluid movement. Marlowe rubbed at the sore line of red etched into the stubble on his throat. He watched Lynch push past the others and head towards the edge of town alone. The other men stared back at him with a forlorn mixture of dread and regret on their tired faces. Marlowe turned to Walker, who was now sitting up, his teeth bared against the pain.
“Right,” said Marlowe, as if nothing had happened. “About those painkillers.”
*
Lynch remained alone on the edge of town long after the other men went back inside the saloon. He stood and waited, guarding his old friend Flashback from afar, keeping watch on him through his field glasses. He watched Flashback from the moment the Machine reached the top of the mountain and lashed Jackson to its cross, to the moment the dying sun slipped behind the ridge, casting the sky a brooding, blood red. Lynch was still out there alone, staring at Flashback’s bedraggled form sagging against the cross when the darkness came. He used his blade to carve deep notches of regret into his forearm, as he silently swore to release his friend from agony one way or the other.