The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [163]
"You may ride on ahead, sir," the woman said to him "Please stay on the road at all times. When you reach The New City, someone will meet you with further instructions."
"Have a glorious day," said the man.
Frank tipped his hat and urged his horse forward. The gat closed behind him. The road was simple but well maintained " flat stones laid down in orderly rows, wide enough for a wagon, cutting straight through the shifting dunes. Smoke rising from chimneys in the distance. As he rode the five mile to the next gate, a black stain that came into view in the distance turned out to be a gigantic black tower. Once he realized what he was looking at, Frank stopped; he heard Molly's voice again:
Looks like you wandered into the middle of somebody's nightmare now, Frankie; don't know whose exactly—ain't yours, 'cause I'm not in it. What you gonna do?
You know me, Molly; in for a penny, in for a pound.
A vast shantytown spread out ahead of him. Surprising, from the outside he'd figured The New City would be all picket fences, shade trees, and freckle-faced kids; this looked more like one of those dirt-poor slums he'd seen squatting outside big cities in Mexico.
He moved on. Smiling faces waved him through a second gate. A pretty young girl met him on horseback at the guardhouse and escorted him to a stable just off the town's main street. Looking through an arch to a courtyard in back, Frank spotted the actors' wagons grouped against a wall.
He'd come to the right place, that much he could bank on.
A group of five smiling young people in white shirts, none of them older than eighteen, blacks and whites mixed together, eagerly greeting him as he climbed off his horse. A stable hand led the horse, and his Henry rifle in its saddle holster, away. They pressed a printed flier into his hands—"The New City Rules for Our Guests"—and asked him to surrender his sidearm.
"No weapons are allowed in The New City," said one of the shirts, pointing to Rule 14 on the sheet, which was nearly as long as his arm.
Frank saw no percentage in arguing and handed over his Colt.
"I'll keep the holster, if you don't mind," said Frank.
"We don't mind at all, sir," beamed one of them.
"Good," said Frank.
'Cause I'm probably gonna need those bullets for the gun I hid in my boot.
"Would you please take off your hat and put your hands over your head, sir?" asked another.
"Why?"
"So we can give you your shirt," said another.
Two of them opening one of the white shirts, ready to slip it over his head. Frank thought this over for a second and decided it pissed him off.
"No thanks," he said.
He handed back the list of rules and walked out of the stable. The welcoming committee trailed after him like a flock of anxious ducks.
"But everyone who wants to join us has to wear their shirt, sir...."
"It says so right here in the rules."
Frank turned onto Main Street and kept walking; the avenue and the planked sidewalks crowded with busy, smiling people, all wearing the same white shirt. More than a few Chinese faces in the mix, Frank noticed. None that answered right off to the Chinaman's description, but enough of them to encourage the idea that Chop-Chop might not be far off.
Frank stopped, struck a match off a pillar, and lit up a cheroot. The five shirts following him whispered among themselves, confused; finally one of them, a bespectacled black kid, stepped forward.
"I'm sorry, sir, there's no smoking allowed in The New—"
Frank turned and shut him up with a look.
"How much you kids want to go fishing?" asked Frank, reaching into his pocket for a handful of silver dollars. "A buck apiece, how 'bout it?"
The six stared at him and each other in shock.
"There's no money here in The New City, sir."
"We have everything we need."
"All our needs are provided for." "That figures," said Frank, putting the coins away.
"It's important for everyone to follow the rules."
"Sure it is, kid, or what you got is anarchy