The Marauder

by Sean M. Hogan

  The man in red plaid and black torn jeans took her arm and swung it over his shoulder. “Come on, get in the car,” he spoke through a red bandana that covered his mouth. “We’re gettin’ the hell outta here.”

  She nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  He helped her into the front seat, slammed the door shut, slid over the hood, and took his place behind the steering wheel.

  “Better buckle up, Miss,” advised the man.

  A ghoul leaped onto the hood.

  “Floor it,” she hollered.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He slammed his foot on the gas pedal and they were speeding off down the highway.

  The ghoul tumbled to the road with a gory splat, his messy remains shrinking in Michelle’s side view mirror. She rested her head back against the soft cushioned headrest of her seat, closed her eyes, and cleared her mind.

  Chapter Two

  Atlas Fulbright sat on a boulder, leaning against the hilt of his broadsword, as he watched little ten-year-old Michelle head up the mountain trail.

  On Michelle’s shoulders, a wooden pole with two buckets filled with rocks swinging from each end—otherwise known as a milkmaid’s yoke. She struggled with every step she took, her small knees wobbling, to support the weight. Her brow dripped with sweat and her simple white tunic was soaked. She huffed out every labored breath.

  “Do you give up?” the same question he asked her at the end of each lap. “Say the word, little queen, and you can stop.”

  When she got within spitting distance of him she shot him a defiant glare.

  “No?” He scratched at the stubble on his square jaw. “Are you sure? You look tired. And those rocks seem to be getting heavier.”

  “I… can…” She clenched her jaw to fight back the pain shooting up her legs. “I can go on!”

  “Oh?” Atlas inched up an eyebrow. “Can you now?”

  This was the end of her sixth lap up the half-mile-long mountain trail—the farthest she had ever gotten in a single day. It had taken her months to get this far. And if she finished the seventh he promised he would teach her how to use a sword.

  Michelle slowed, each advancing step became heavier than the one that came before. It had gotten to the point where she swore her feet had turned to the same stones that filled the swaying buckets at each side of her hips.

  He pulled out a deerskin flask from his purple cloak, uncorked it, and took a long drag of water. “The sun is bright today.” He raised his head and shielded his eyes with his hand. A single vulture circled the blistering sun above. “And it seems you’ve attracted a friend. Maybe he knows something we don’t.” He gave her a wide toothy grin paired with a bushy white mustache.

  “He can drop dead,” she fired back.

  Atlas checked his golden pocket watch. “Just a matter of time before we all drop. Though some drop sooner than others.”

  Michelle lost her footing on a loose bed of rocks and tripped. She landed face first in the sand and stones. A mouthful of salty, grainy sand her reward for finishing her sixth lap. Her two buckets spilled their rocks as they hit the ground. The pain stung something smart, her knees and forehead were scraped raw. Once she saw her bloody kneecap the tears came and she wept hard.

  Atlas sighed, stood up, and stepped over to her. He knelt down by her side and softly brushed her dirt-coated bangs from her wet eyes. “It hurts. I know. Falls always do.” He stroked her head, smoothing out her long blonde hair. “But it’s what we do after we hit the ground that matters.” He grabbed hold of the wooden pole and lifted it off of Michelle. “That’s enough for today, time to go home, little queen.”

  Michelle pushed off the ground and wiped the tears from her eyes. “No!” She shot a fiery glare up at him.

  Atlas’ eyes widened.

  “I can still keep going.” She staggered to her feet and grabbed hold of the pole, slinging it over her shoulders once more.

  The old master shook his head. “Why bother?”

  “What?”

  He rose to his feet. “Why bother?”

  She had no answer for him.

  Atlas circled her. “Even if you finish today what will you gain? Honor? Fame? Applause? A shiny little trophy with your name etched on it? No. All you will win is more laps tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that too. And on and on, till your last breath. That is the prize you struggle for.” He leaned in close and whispered into her ear. “That is what life is, little queen. A struggle. Nothing more. Nothing less.” He turned his back on her and headed down the trail. “So, what will you do? Will you continue to struggle? Will you pick up your burden and soldier on or will you shrug and go home?”

  Michelle trained her pale gray eyes ahead. “I have no home to go back to. All I have…” She took a step forward and then another until her pace was faster than ever before. “…is what’s in front of me.”

  ***

  “Miss?” a voice echoed in Michelle’s mind. “Miss? Miss!”

  Her eyes fluttered open. She was in the passenger seat of the station wagon. Fuzzy dice hung from the rear-view mirror. A musky odor poorly masked by a cheap orange-scented air freshener lingered in the air. The taste of blood in her mouth. Then the throbbing returned. She moaned and massaged her temples.

  “Miss!”

  “…Keep your voice down,” she muttered. “I have a splitting headache.”

  “Dagnammit, woman, help me out over here.”

  She glanced to the voice’s source.

  The man in plaid was in the driver’s seat, staring at her with wide grim eyes, his hands clutching the steering wheel in a death-grip. He yanked his red bandana from his mouth. “Call him off!”

  “Him?” That’s when she spotted her raised left hand, the palm facing him and her fingers wiggling on their own. “Lefty?”

  “Shut your filthy meat-hole and keep driving—human—or we will devour your soul,” shouted Lefty, hissing at the man and spraying spit.

  The man gulped. “Can he do that?”

  A flicker of light caught the corner of her eye. She turned straight ahead. A flaming trash can came speeding their way. “Eyes on the road!”

  The man swerved just in time to miss the metal can and a huddled group of homeless refugees in the middle of the street. The station wagon jumped the curb and plowed through a stack of shopping carts, boxes, and trash bags. Garbage spilled onto the hood and bounced off the windshield. He swerved back onto the road, the locals mouthing curses and vulgar hand gestures in the reflection of the rear-view mirror.

  “Whoa.” Michelle rested her hand against her chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” She looked over at the man’s odd expression. “What?”

  “You—You have a face on your hand,” said the man. “And it’s givin’ me orders.”

  “Yeah, so what?” She hid her left hand under her cloak. “Mind your own business. Just keep on driving. In a straight line, preferably.”

  “Fine.” The man scoffed and returned his sights ahead. “Ain’t like I saved your life or nothin’.”

  Soon the only noise was the hum of the engine and the crunch of dead leaves and litter under rolling tires. The decaying city of New York surrounded them in every direction. Blackened buildings with shattered windows, long since overgrown with weeds, lined the street. Scavengers rummaged through dumpsters and picked through trash heaps, most wrapped in too many layers to count, their weathered faces powdered with ash.

  The dying scenery of the city did nothing to quell her soured mood. Her eyes shifted back to the man. Odd, for a big city-slickin’ Yankee you sure look the spitting image of one of those grizzled cowboys one finds on a cigarette ad.

  The man’s dusty brown hair lifted with the breeze coming from the heaters. His eyes were green and narrow, a half-dozen wrinkled lines stretched out from the corners. He had an odd-shaped nose, soft and dainty, but otherwise wore a surprisingly, rugged and handsome face. Though he couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, hard times had taken their to
ll. Scars and old nicks seemed to have chipped away at him around the edges—not a single exposed patch of his skin didn’t at least carry one small souvenir of past conflicts.

  Time hasn’t been kind to either of us. Then it hit her. How long was I out? Damn it, did I overshoot the deadline? She instinctively reached for her hip but resisted the urge to check her pocket watch. Get a hold of yourself, Michelle. Better to just ask him than risk exposing the watch to a potential enemy. “What time is it?”

  “Nine and a quarter,” he said with a quick glance at his wristwatch. He refused to look her way.

  Good. It’s not too late then. There’s still time. I haven’t lost yet, Arthur. “Where are you driving me?” I need to get to the mirror as soon as possible.

  An annoyed smile crept up the man’s face. “As per instructions of your hand goblin—”

  Lefty reared up and lunged at the man—taking her left hand along with—her fingers spread like a cobra’s hood. “We are no mere goblin, filthy meat-sack.”

  The man recoiled, raising his fist. “You better back off now or I’ll whup ya like a rented mule.”

  Michelle reprimanded her left hand a lite smack. “Quiet, you.”

  Lefty yelped like a puppy hit with a rolled-up newspaper. He spun around and faced his master with a whimper. “But—”

  “Hush.” She cut him short. “Or no dinner.”

  Lefty screwed his mouth shut with a defiant pout. “Hmpf.” He retreated back into her cloak.

  The man shot her a look. “No dinner?”

  She shot him her pointer finger. “You too. Just focus on the road.”

  The man turned back ahead, hunched over the steering wheel, and grumbled quietly to himself. “Just like Momma always said: ‘Jonny boy, no good deed goes unpunished. And if you lie down with hounds, you’ll get up with fleas.’ But do I listen? Nope. And here I am. Itchin’.”

  Michelle glanced back out her side passenger window and took note of the passing scenery—searching for any familiar buildings and signs. Wasn’t long before she recognized a name on a fallen light pole. Good. From the looks of that street sign, we’re taking the route to the old antique store in Manhattan. She leaned back against her seat and relaxed with a sigh. And, with any luck, my ticket home will still be inside.

  ***

  After twenty minutes on the empty road, Michelle’s headache had subsided enough for her to remember she had better keep the location of the mirror secret. Her driver was still an unknown. Saving her was reason enough to be suspicious. He could be a spy or an assassin of the Black Sun, playing nice and trying to earn her trust. Better to stay on guard and keep an eye on him.

  She caught Jon stealing a glance at her more than a few times. Finally, with another heavy sigh, she broke the awkward silence. “You’re still thinking about my hand, aren’t you?”

  Jon took in a deep breath, before beginning. “I mean, are we not gonna talk about this? How can we not talk about this? I feel like a talkin’ face in your hand warrants a bit of discussion. Don’t you?”

  Michelle raised an eyebrow.

  “No? Ya ain’t gonna fill me in. Just hang me out to dry in the dark over here like yesterday’s overalls. Never mind that I almost got my soul sucked out—which I imagine would leave the nastiest hickey this side of prom night. My reward for rescuin’ ya from a horde of brain munchin’ zombies. I should’ve left your sorry butt where I found ya. My mistake.”

  She smirked. “You talk too much.”

  He fumed. “I only talk when I’m nervous. And right now, I’m darn near nervous as a whore in church. Pardon my French. Evil-talkin’-face-hands will do that to ya.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You get one question.”

  “Alright, now we’re gittin’ somewhere.” Jon, smiling like he just won a giant stuffed carnival prize, took his time thinking—scratching at his chin stubble as the cogs in his brain clicked along. At last, he nodded to himself and turned back to Michelle. “Do you have to feed it separately like a pet hog or does it eat when you eat like some wiggly parasite?”

  Michelle shrugged. “A bit of both.”

  “Next question. How? I mean, does it have its own stomach. How about a brain for that matter? The logistics alone—”

  “You only get one.” She wagged her finger. “Sorry.”

  “But—”

  “Sorry. Those are the rules.”

  Jon returned his sights to the road, pouting. “Rules suck.”

  The station wagon hit a pothole and jostled them. A pair of camo painted binoculars resting on the dashboard slid into Michelle’s line of sight.

  She frowned. “Were you spying on me?” She picked up the pair.

  “No, Ma’am,” answered Jon. “Binoculars are standard issue end of the world equipment. Would be dead ten times over by now without these beauts.”

  Michelle grabbed hold of the hilt of her sword. “If our meeting wasn’t a mere coincidence—”

  “Kinda just like you were about to be before I risked my bacon to save your gorgeous self.” He snatched the binoculars from her hand and put them back on the dashboard.

  They both glared at each other for an intense moment.

  Jon frilled his brow.

  Michelle’s eyes narrowed. “You have bacon?”

  “What? No.” He shook his head. “It’s a figure of speech, Lady. Geez laweez.”

  They went back to another long stretch of awkward silence. Then, without warning, Jon slammed his foot on the brakes and the station wagon skidded to a stop.

  Michelle sat straight up. “Why are we stopping?”

  Jon just stared ahead, silent.

  She looked around. There was nothing outside except rundown buildings and scattered debris. “Hey, is something wrong?”

  Finally, he turned her way.

  “What?”

  Jon rested his elbow atop the steering wheel and locked eyes with her. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just waitin’ for an ungrateful someone to thank me.”

  Her eyes narrowed again. “For what?”

  Jon’s whole body contorted with frustration as he fought back the urge to scream.

  Michelle smirked. “I’m kidding.” She fist-bumped his shoulder. “Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it.”

  He vice-gripped the steering wheel. “Thanks for the ride, she says. Does this look like a taxi to you?” He rolled up his bandana, shoved it into his mouth, bit down, and muffled out a scream. After his fit passed he yanked out the bandana and calmed himself with a few deep breaths. “Lady,” he said at last, “gittin’ along with you is as hopeless as a cat tryin’ to cover its crap on a marble floor.”

  She started to crack up.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She laughed hard, her face turning red as she tried to hold back her snorting. “Your accent.”

  “My accent?”

  “It’s so… so weird.” She clutched her stomach as she curled up in her seat, snorting uncontrollably.

  Jon couldn’t help but laugh too.

  “But honestly,” she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks with a brush of her thumb. “Thanks for savin’ my bacon, partner.” She fired two finger guns his way.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied with a sigh. “Now that will be twenty-two fifty.”

  She smiled. “Do you take plastic?”

  “Only if you got some ID to go with that broadsword.” He offered up his hand. “Jonathan Lincoln Thomas. My friends just call me Jon. And you are?”

  She made sure to shake his hand with her right. “Michelle Lionmane. And I have no friends—unless you count my left hand.”

  He inched up an eyebrow.

  Michelle cringe-laughed. “That sounded better in my head.”

  He gently turned her hand, lifted it up to his lips, and kissed the back. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Lionmane?”

  “Miss.” She wormed her hand free. “I’m no longer married.”

  “Awesome. I’m mean, I’m sorry for
your loss.”

  “I’m not. My ex was a real psycho.”

  “I hear that.” He leaned in. “You feelin’ alright? I saw the fall. Hit your head somethin’ ugly.” He reached out to touch her forehead. “Still a smidge of blood—”

  She swatted his hand back. “What do you care?” she fired the question at him.

  He gritted his teeth as he massaged his hand. “Cold much, Ice Queen.”

  “Sorry.” Her cheeks flushed, she averted her eyes and slumped her shoulders. “I’m not very sociable.”

  “I gathered. If you were anymore stuck up, you’d drown in a rainstorm.”

  “In my defense, most people I meet are in the habit of trying to kill me.” She forced a smile. “But, yeah. I’m okay. My head hurts like hell but I’ve been through worse…” That’s when she noticed him open the car door and step outside. “Where are you going?”

  “To stretch my legs,” he hollered back. “Wanna come with?”

  She nodded and opened her door.

  ***

  Shattered glass crunched under Michelle’s boots as she trailed a few feet behind Jon. The streets were empty save for the broken remains of the city. The surrounding shops and tourist pits long since gutted out and left to rot along with the ghosts of those who once ran them. A featureless female mannequin behind dirty jagged glass caught Michelle’s gaze. She stepped over and onto the sidewalk.

  Jon stopped and turned her way. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She extended her hand, reaching for a pink derby hat with a fancy feathery ascot atop the mannequin’s head. “I just like this hat.” She frowned as she adjusted the hat to its proper position. If things were different, would I be the kind of girl who would wear one of these? The hat was just another reminder of the things that were taken from her, of what he took from her.

  Jon stepped to her side. “I don’t think pink is your color,” he remarked with a smirk.