3. THE COWBOY WAY

NEW WAR + 1 YEAR, 4 MONTHS

Four months after we arrived at the fabled defensive stronghold of Gray Horse, the city fell into disarray. The call to arms had paralyzed the tribal council with indecision. Lonnie Wayne Blanton trusted his son implicitly and argued to muster the army and march; however, John Tenkiller insisted on staying to defend. As I describe in these pages, Rob ultimately made the choice for us.

—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

I’m standing on the edge of Gray Horse bluffs, blowing into my hands for warmth and squinting as the dawn breaks like fire over the Great Plains below. The thin cries of thousands of cattle and buffalo rise in the still morning.

With Jack in the lead, our squad was on the move nonstop to get here. Everywhere we’ve been, nature is back in action. There’re more birds in the sky, more bugs in the bushes, and more coyotes in the night. As the months pass, mother earth has been swallowing up everything but the cities. The cities are where Rob lives.

A lean Cherokee kid stands next to me, methodically packing chewing tobacco into his mouth. He’s watching the plains with expressionless brown eyes and doesn’t seem to notice me at all. It’s hard not to notice him, though.

Lark Iron Cloud.

He looks about twenty and he’s decked out in some kind of slick uniform. A black-and-red scarf is tucked under a half-zipped jacket and his pale green pant legs are folded into polished leather cowboy boots. Black goggles hang around his tawny neck. He’s holding a walking stick with feathers hanging from it. The stick is made of metal—some kind of antenna he must have snapped off a Rob scout walker. A war trophy.

This kid looks like a fighter pilot from the future. And here I am in my ripped-up, mud-splattered army combat uniform. I’m not sure which of us should be ashamed of his appearance, but I’m pretty sure it’s me.

“Think we’ll go to war?” I ask the kid.

He looks over at me for a second, then back at the vista.

“Maybe. Lonnie Wayne’s on it. He’ll let us know.”

“You trust him?”

“He’s the reason I’m alive.”

“Oh.”

A flock of birds flaps across the sky, sunlight glinting from their wings like the rainbow on a pool of oil.

“Y’all look pretty rough,” says Lark, motioning to the rest of my squad with his stick. “What are you, like, soldiers?”

I look at my squad mates. Leonardo. Cherrah. Tiberius. Carl. They stand around talking, waiting for Jack to return. Their movements are familiar, relaxed. The last few months have forged us into more than just a unit—we’re a family now.

“Nah. We’re not soldiers, just survivors. My brother, Jack, he’s the soldier. I’m just tagging along for the sheer fun of it.”

“Oh,” says Lark.

I can’t tell if he just took me seriously or not.

“Where’s your brother at?” Lark asks.

“In the war council. With Lonnie and them.”

“So he’s one of those.”

“One of what?”

“Responsible kind.”

“People say that. You’re not?”

“I do my thing. The old-timers do theirs.”

Lark gestures behind us with the walking stick. There, waiting patiently in a row, are dozens of what these people call spider tanks. The walking tanks each stand about eight feet tall. The four sturdy legs are Rob created, made of ropy synthetic muscles. The rest of the tanks have been modified by human beings. Most vehicles have tank turrets and heavy-machine-gun mounts on top, but I see that one has the cab and blade off a bulldozer.

What can I say? It’s just an anything goes kind of war.

Rob didn’t come at Gray Horse all at once; it had to evolve to get up here. That meant sending walking scouts. And some of those scouts got caught. Some of those got taken apart and put back together again. Gray Horse Army prefers to fight with captured robots.

“You’re the one who figured out how to liberate the spider tanks? To lobotomize them?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says.

“Jesus. Are you a scientist or something?”

Lark chuckles. “A mechanic is just an engineer in blue jeans.”

“Damn,” I say.

“Yep.”

I look out over the prairie and see something odd.

“Hey, Lark?” I ask.

“Yeah?” he says.

“You live around here. So maybe you can tell me something.”

“Sure.”

“Just what in the fuck is that?” I ask, pointing.

He looks out over the plain. Sees the sinuous, glinting metal writhing through the grass like a hidden river. Lark spits tobacco on the ground, turns, and motions to his squad with the walking stick.

“That’s our war, brother.”

Confusion and death. The grass is too tall. The smoke is too thick.

Gray Horse Army is made up of every able-bodied adult in the city—men and women, young and old. A thousand soldiers and some change. They’ve been drilling together for months and they’ve almost all got guns, but nobody knows anything once those killing machines are slicing through the grass and latching onto people.

“Stay with the tanks,” Lonnie said. “Stay with old Houdini and you’ll be fine.”

Custom-made spider tanks plod across the prairie in a ragged line, one measured step after another. Their massive feet sink into the damp earth and their chest hulls trample the grass down, leaving a wake behind them. A few soldiers cling to the top of each tank, weapons out, scanning the fields.

We’re marching out to face what’s in the grass. Whatever it is, we’ve got to stop it before it reaches Gray Horse.

I stay with my squad, following the tank called Houdini on foot. Jack’s up on top with Lark. I’ve got Tiberius lumbering on one side of me and Cherrah on the other. Her profile is sharp in the morning light. She looks feline, quick, and ferocious. And, I can’t help thinking, beautiful. Carl and Leo are buddying up a few meters away. We all focus on staying with the tanks—they’re our only frame of reference in this never-ending maze of tall grass.

For twenty minutes we clomp across the plains, trying our best to look through the grass and see whatever’s waiting for us out here. Our primary goal is to stop the machines from advancing on Gray Horse. Secondary goal is to protect the herds of cattle that live out here on the prairie—the lifeblood of the city.

We don’t even know what kind of Rob we’re facing. Only that it’s new varieties. Always something new with our friend Rob.

“Hey, Lark,” calls Carl. “Why they call ’em spider tanks if they only have four legs?”

Lark calls down from the tank, “ ’Cause it beats calling it a large, quadruped walker.”

“Well, I don’t think it does,” mutters Carl.

The first concussion throws dirt and shredded plants into the air, and the screams start coming from the tall grass. A herd of buffalo stampedes, and the world rings with vibration and noise. Instant chaos.

“What’s out there, Jack?” I shout. He’s crouched on top of the spider tank, heavy mounted gun swiveling from one side to the other. Lark steers the tank. His gloved hand is wrapped tight in a rope wrapped around the hull, rodeo style.

“Nothing yet, little brother,” calls Jack.

For a few minutes there are no targets, only faceless screams.

Then something comes crashing through the yellow stalks of grass. We all pivot and aim our weapons at it—a huge Osage man. He’s huffing and puffing and dragging an unconscious body by its blood-slicked arms. The unconscious guy looks like he got hit by a meteorite. There’s a deep, bleeding crater in his upper thigh.

More explosions rip through the soldiers out in front of the tanks. Lark yanks his hand, and Houdini transitions to a trot gait, motors grinding as it moves full speed ahead to provide support. Jack turns and watches me, shrugging as the tank lumbers away into the grass.

“Help,” bawls the big Osage.

Fuck. I signal a stop to the squad and watch our spider tank over the Osage man’s shoulder as it takes another plodding step away from our position, leaving behind a half-crushed swath of grass. Every step it takes leaves us more exposed to whatever is out here.

Cherrah drops to her knee and tourniquets the unconscious man’s damaged leg. I grab the blubbering Osage by the shoulders and give him a little shake.

“What did this?” I ask.

“Bugs, man. They’re like bugs. They get on you and then blow up,” says the Osage, wiping tears off his face with a meaty forearm. “I gotta get Jay out of here. He’s gonna die.”

The concussions and the screams are coming thicker now. We crouch as gunshots ring out and stray bullets tear through the grass. It sounds like a massacre. A fine rain of dirt particles have started to float down from the clear blue sky.

Cherrah looks up from her tourniquet job and we make grim eye contact. It’s a silent agreement: You watch my back and I’ll watch yours. Then I flinch as a shower of dirt cascades through the grass and rattles against my helmet.

Our spider tank is long gone, and Jack with it.

“Okay,” I say, slapping the Osage man on the shoulder. “That should stop the bleeding. Take your friend back. We’re moving forward, so you’re on your own. Keep your eyes open.”

The Osage man throws his friend over his shoulder and hustles away. It sounds like whatever happened to old Jay has already torn through the front ranks and is coming for us, too.

I hear Lark start screaming from somewhere ahead of us.

And for the first time, I see the enemy. Early-model stumpers. They remind me of the scuttle mines from that first moment of Zero Hour in Boston, a million years ago. Each one is the size of a baseball, with a knot of flailing legs that somehow shoves its little body over and through the clumps of grass.

“Shit!” shouts Carl. “Let’s get out of here!”

The lanky soldier starts to run away. By instinct, I catch him by the front of his sweaty shirt and stop him. I yank his face down to my level, look into his wide eyes, and say one word: “Fight.”

My voice is even, but my body is on fire with adrenaline.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Our guns light up the dirt, dashing the stumpers to pieces. But more are coming. And more after that. It’s a tidal wave of crawling nasties flowing through the grass like ants.

“It is getting too heavy,” calls Tiberius. “What do we do, Cormac?”

“Three-round burst,” I call. A half-dozen rifles snick into auto mode.

Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.

Rifle muzzles flash, painting shadows on our dirt-covered faces. Spouts of dirt and twisted metal jet from the ground, along with occasional flares as the liquids inside the stumpers come into contact. We stand in a semicircle and pour lead into the dirt. But the stumpers keep coming, and they’re starting to spread out around us, swarm style.

Jack is gone and somehow I’m in charge, and now we’re going to get blown to pieces. Where the fuck is Jack? My hero brother is supposed to save me from situations like this.

Goddamnit.

As the stumpers close in I call out, “Fall in on me!”

Two minutes later I’m sweating under the sun, my right shoulder pressed into Cherrah’s left shoulder blade, and almost shooting at my own feet. Carl is squeezed tight between big Leo and Ty. I can smell Cherrah’s long black hair and I can picture her smile in my head, but I can’t let myself think of that right now. A shadow passes over my face and the legend himself, Lonnie Wayne Blanton, falls out of the sky.

The old dude is riding a tall walker—one of Lark’s Frankenstein projects. The thing is just two seven-foot-long robotic ostrich legs with an old rodeo saddle grafted onto it. Lonnie Wayne sits up top, cowboy boots pushed into stirrups and hand resting lazily on the pommel. Lonnie rides the tall walker like an old pro, hips swaying with each giraffe step of the machine. Just like a damn cowboy.

“Howdy, y’all,” he says. Then he turns and unloads a couple of shotgun blasts into the tangled pile of stumpers scurrying over the churned dirt toward our position.

“Doin’ great, bud,” Lonnie Wayne says to me. My face is blank. I can’t believe I’m still alive.

Just then, two more tall walkers drop into our clearing, the Osage cowboys on top raining down shotgun blasts that tear big gouges out of the oncoming stumper swarm.

Inside a few seconds, the three tall walkers have used their high vantage points and the spread of shotgun blasts to eradicate most of the stumper swarm. Not all of it, though.

“Watch your leg,” I yell up to Lonnie.

A stumper that’s somehow gotten behind us is climbing the metal of Lonnie’s tall walker leg. He glances down, then leans in the saddle in a way that causes the leg to raise up and shake. The stumper flies away into the underbrush, where it’s promptly blasted by one of my squad.

Why didn’t the stumper trigger?

Lark is yelling again from somewhere up ahead, hoarse this time. I can also hear Jack barking short commands. Lonnie turns his head and motions to his bodyguard. But before he can go, I wrap my hand around the smooth metal shaft of Lonnie’s stilt leg.

“Lonnie,” I say, “stay back where it’s safe, man. You’re not supposed to put your general in the front line.”

“I hear ya,” says the grizzled old man. “But, hell, kid, it’s the cowboy way. The buck’s gotta stop somewhere.” He cocks the shotgun and ejects a spent cartridge, pulls his hat down, and nods. Then, fluid in the stiltlike tall walker, he turns and leaps over the six-foot-tall grass.

“C’mon!” I shout to the squad. We rush forward over the crumpled grass, striving to keep up with Lonnie. As we go, we see corpses through the stalks and, even worse, the ones who are alive and wounded, ashen-faced and mouths murmuring in prayer.

I put my head down and keep going. Got to catch up with Jack. He’ll help us.

I’m moving fast, spitting grass out of my mouth and concentrating on keeping up with the damp spot between Cherrah’s shoulder blades, when we burst into a clearing.

Some serious shit has gone down here.

For roughly a thirty-meter circle, the grass is trampled to mud and the field gouged up in huge chunks. There is only a split second to take in the scene before I throw my arms around Cherrah and tackle her to the ground. She falls on top of me, the butt of her gun driving all the air out of my lungs. But the foot of the spider tank whizzes past her head without knocking her brains out.

Houdini’s legs are covered in stumpers. The tank is leaping around like a bucking bronco. Lark and Jack are both on top, teeth gritted, hanging on for dear life. Hardly any of the stumpers have fallen off; dozens of them are embedded in the belly net, and others are tenaciously climbing the flanks of the armored walker.

Jack is hunched over, trying to untie Lark from something. The kid’s gotten tangled up in his guide rope. Lonnie and his two guards nimbly leap around the bucking monster on their tall walkers, but they can’t get to a good spot to shoot.

“Y’all jump off!” shouts Lonnie.

The tank careens past, and in a flash I see that Lark’s forearm is twisted under the rope. Jack can’t get him free with all the bucking and heaving. If the spider tank were to sit still though, even for a second, the stumpers would climb on top. Lark is shouting and cursing and crying a little bit, but he can’t get free.

He shouldn’t worry. We all know that Jack won’t leave him behind. The word abandon just isn’t in a hero’s vocabulary.

Watching the stumpers, I notice they’re clustered on the knee joints of the tank. A thought tickles the back of my head. Why don’t the stumpers detonate? And the answer squirms into reach. Heat. Those joints are warm from all the jumping around. The little bastards don’t trigger until they reach someplace hot.

They’re looking for skin temperature.

“Lonnie!” I wave my arms to get his attention. The old man spins around and crouches his tall walker near me. He cups his ear with one hand and with the other dabs his forehead with a white hankie.

“They go for the heat, Lonnie,” I shout. “We’ve got to start a fire.”

“Start a fire and it won’t stop,” he says. “Might kill our stock.”

“It’s that or Lark dies. Maybe we all die.”

Lonnie looks down on me, deep creases in his face. His eyes are watery blue and serious. Then he sets his shotgun into the crook of his elbow and digs into the watch pocket of his jeans. I hear a metallic clink and an antique Zippo lighter drops right into my hand. A double R symbol is painted on the side, along with the words “King of the Cowboys.”

“Let old Roy Rogers help ya out,” says Lonnie Wayne, face breaking into a gap-toothed smile.

“How old is this thing?” I ask, but when I flip the thumb wheel, a strong flame spurts from the top. Lonnie has already wheeled his tall walker around and he’s corralling the rest of the squad while avoiding the out-of-control spider tank.

“Burn it, burn it, burn it all down!” shouts Lonnie Wayne. “That’s all we got left, boys! No choice.”

I toss the lighter into the grass, and within seconds a raging fire begins to grow. The squad retreats to the other side of the clearing and we watch as, one by one, the stumpers drop off the spider tank. In that same idiotic clambering motion, they jounce over the chewed-up ground toward the sheet of flames.

Finally, Houdini stops bucking. On groaning, overheated motors, the huge machine settles down. I see my brother’s hand silhouetted against the sky. Thumbs-up. Time to go.

Thank you, Jesus.

Out of nowhere, Cherrah grabs my face with both hands. She pushes her forehead against mine, bopping our helmets together, and smiles wide. Her face is covered in dirt and blood and sweat, but it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. “You done good, Bright Boy,” she says, her breath tickling my lips.

Somehow, my heart is beating faster right now than it has all day.

Then Cherrah and her flashing smile are gone—darted away into the grass for our retreat back to Gray Horse.

One week later, Gray Horse Army heeded Paul Blanton’s call to arms and mustered a force to march on Alaska. Their fearless response likely occurred because none of the soldiers truly understood how close they had come to utter destruction on the Great Plains. Postwar records indicate that the entire battle was recorded in great detail by two squads of military-grade humanoid robots camping two miles outside Gray Horse. Mysteriously, these machines chose to defy Archos’s orders and did not join the battle.

—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217