Fin didn’t say anything for a while. At least he’s considering it, Ben thought.
‘If it was any other time, this would be a no brainer,’ Fin said eventually, tapping his thigh anxiously with two fingers.
‘I’ll give you half my earnings if you agree.’
Fin looked up at Ben, suspicion etched all over his face. His eyes narrowed; he licked his dried lips, and asked, ‘Why d’you want this job so bad?’
‘’Cause it’s easy and I’m restless. Here’—Ben went to a shelf and brought back a chessboard and box of chess pieces—‘We’ll play for it. I win, we do it. If you win, it’s your call.’
What Ben lacked in technological ability, he made up for in chess; it had been one of his favorite pastimes at the orphanage with Townes. When Townes had been too busy being punished by the headmaster, Ben would play against himself with a tiny chess set hidden beneath his bed. But Fin was smart and could put up a good fight on the chessboard. They’d played plenty of times before and were almost equally matched.
‘Fine, we’ll leave it to the gods of competition,’ said Fin, and they began setting up the board.
3
Ben parked the ATV fifty yards from his mobile home. He dismounted slowly and slipped his rifle from the side holster, all the while staring at a truck he didn’t recognize that was parked under a nearby tree. Its engine was chugging pitifully and its lights were on, illuminating the tree trunk. Ben walked carefully up to it and peered inside. Trash, porn magazines, and empty beer cans covered the floor. Spare bullets filled the cup-holder. Ben gripped his rifle tighter, his finger hovering over the trigger.
He crept past the truck to his home. The only other light on that he could see was the one outside the front door, soaking the steps in a grainy yellow. A shadow moved behind a curtained window. Ben stepped as softly as he could amidst the chirruping crickets and the hooting owls and stopped at the foot of the steps, where he saw cigarette butts smothered in the dirt. As he stooped down to examine them, he heard the rattle of his refrigerator door swinging open. With quick, jerky motions, he was back on his feet, eyes and barrel pointed towards the front door. With his left hand, he reached out and silently pulled the door open. The porch light burned hotly above his head as he crossed the threshold into the main room of his mobile home. A glow emitted from the kitchen. Ben glanced all around the empty room. Panels of moonlight framed the filthy, unwashed rug embedded with crushed potato chips, and beer and oil stains. He stepped through the panes of light until he reached the kitchen.
A huge man was rooting through the refrigerator, pushing aside slabs of raw meat and cheese as he slid a greedy hand over the jug of water. His shirt had risen up his back revealing a six-shooter wedged beside his butt-crack. Ben’s eyes went from the six-shooter to the shotgun angled against the corner wall. With the rifle barrel directed at the man’s back, he stepped forward. But the decrepit floor creaked beneath his weight and in an instant, the man spun around, the jug flipping out of the fridge and exploding on the floor. His hand swung to his back, going for the weapon.
A deafening ringing sound filled the room, followed by a bright flash. The man crashed into the open fridge as the bullet ripped a fist-sized hole in his chest. His gun skidded across the room and slammed against the wall, while his flailing hands brought down the raw meat, cheese, and old sticks of butter into the puddle of blood and water forming on the carpet. He sank down into the puddle, with his head slung back, mouth wide, in the refrigerator.
The rifle quivered in Ben’s hands. It took several minutes for the ringing to die down. When it did, he stepped forward with the rifle still centered on the dead man’s chest as if expecting him to bounce up and fight back. Ben nudged the man’s foot with his own, more out of interest than anything else. His limp, lifeless body rocked sideways over the grotesque puddle.
‘Dammit,’ Ben said under his breath as his senses returned. The carcass lying on his floor was materializing into a real human being. ‘Damn,’ he said, louder this time, lowering the rifle to the floor and taking a step back.
What the hell was this guy doing in his home? And why did he have a pistol and a shotgun? No regular squatter or thief would be that heavily armed. One weapon was hard enough to come by. This guy had come for a purpose, and judging by the state of his truck, he’d come a long way. Did Townes want Ben dead so badly that he had sent some fat down-on-his-luck assassin to snuff him out? Those dismal Slummers were a dime a dozen in Slushland. Ben remembered how it had been down there when he had been among their ranks. He would’ve done anything to get out, even if it had meant killing someone he didn’t know. He pitied this dead man, knowing if he’d been in his situation, he’d likely have done the same thing; he’d have traveled hundreds of miles to kill some random if it meant getting a leg up in life.
Ben took the man’s pistol, stuffed the slabs of meat into a plastic shopping bag, and grabbed the shotgun from the corner. It was double-barreled and fully loaded. If that man had been prepared for Ben’s arrival, if he’d been sitting on the couch when he walked in, then Ben would have been the one with a hole in his chest. He took a nervous breath, whispering silent thanks that his assassin didn’t have an ounce of sense. Next time he might not be so lucky.
He couldn’t stay here. Ben thought Milford would be the one place in America that Townes wouldn’t expect him to be. He had obviously been wrong. Townes probably realized that Ben wanted to be somewhere close to the North, close to Jen and all the smuggling jobs that presented themselves. Now he was left with only one option: relocation. Once he and Fin had pulled off Tesh’s latest job, he could cash in on Tesh’s offer of sanctuary, if such a thing existed. Ben had heard the news from the south; he could read the signs. Give Townes another month and he would have that city under his thumb.
Before leaving his home, he shoved some clothes into a duffle bag, then went outside to siphon all the gas out of the man’s truck and pilfer what he could from the reeking cab. Slinging his rifle over his back and sliding the shotgun into the ATV’s side holster, he took one last sad look at his mobile home. It resembled a scene from a movie: the lone abandoned truck, the dimly lit mobile home split in half by the grainy porch light, the dead man inside whose discarded body would grow moist and foul in his own blood and urine. Ben was tired of being constantly on the move, but it seemed he had little choice in the matter. He slammed the ATV into gear and tore off into the night.
………
Bang!
Ben’s fist slammed against the door, buckling the wood inward.
Bang!
He glanced back, half-expecting more of Townes’s assassins to emerge from the dark trees, intent on finishing the job they had started.
Bang!
Eventually the door swung open. Fin stood on the threshold with a baseball bat held high in the air, ready to bash in the trespasser’s skull. He lowered the bat when he saw it was Ben. ‘What the hell are you doin’ here?’
Missy’s face, contorted into an angry grimace, appeared in the background. She rocked the baby slowly, lulling it back to sleep. ‘Do you know what time it is?’ she growled in a fearsome wolf-mother’s voice.
‘I’m sorry ’bout the hour,’ Ben said, leaning past Fin to see her better. She huffed, shook her head, and went back to tending the whimpering baby. Then he spoke quietly to Fin. ‘Townes knows I’m here.’
Fin’s tired face turned grave. ‘How?’ It had been on their first job, years ago, that Ben had told Fin about what had happened in Slushland—how he had found himself at the top of Townes’s hit list for refusing to kill a man. Townes’s reasoning didn’t make sense to anyone who had never met him. He was hunting Ben, his best childhood friend, for something any normal person would have forgotten about years ago. But not Townes. He was vindictive, incapable of forgiving and forgetting.
‘I don’t know how, but he found me. There was a guy waitin’ at my place.’
‘And?’ Fin asked softly.
‘I took
care of him.’
‘Get in. Quickly.’
Ben stepped past Fin who shut and deadbolted the door behind them. From her armchair where she was cradling the child Missy looked up. ‘What’s happening?’ she whispered, obvious anger lining her voice.
Fin knelt beside her and brushed hair from the baby’s forehead. ‘Ben’s gonna stay the night. Milford’s not safe for him right now.’
Missy stared daggers at Ben. ‘Of course! He’s got his hooks in you for the North job. Why shouldn’t he take the last night I have with you too.’
‘This ain’t how I wanted it either,’ Ben said. ‘I brought you some venison. It’s fresh.’
‘How very thoughtful of you.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm as she rose from the chair with the baby tucked in her arms. ‘We’re going to sleep. Finley, you can show your guest to the couch.’
Missy swept out of the room, trailing tension behind her as she went. Fin watched her leave, then turned to Ben. ‘She wasn’t happy that I said I’d do the job. No matter how many times I tell her it’s nothin’ but a quick snatch’n’grab, she still won’t buy it.’
Ben considered telling Fin to forget about the job, that it wasn’t worth putting his life at risk, but his own desire to see Jen and Timothy, even for just a few minutes, kept him quiet. It might be his only chance to see Timothy, his last chance to convince Jen to return with him. He felt ashamed for putting his own needs ahead of his friend’s and guiltily covered his mouth with his hand.
‘We’ll be back no later’n two days,’ he eventually said, trying to make his voice sound reassuring. ‘Remember, you get half my haul.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
Fin showed Ben the couch that was to be his bed for the night. It was old and worn, and looked like something that had been picked up off the side of the road, but he couldn’t complain. It was better than the sleeping bag he had used back at his mobile home.
‘Sorry about Missy,’ Fin said, taking the plastic bag full of venison from Ben. ‘She’ll be appreciative when we get back. She’s just nervous is all.’
With a bath towel for a blanket, Ben lay on the couch long after Fin left him, unable to sleep. Was he anxious about sneaking into the North, or was he nervous about seeing Jen and Timothy? If the Paranats caught him and Fin, it would be straight to the Playground where they’d both be strung up in the stocks and either be killed, or given a severe beating and dragged back to the other side of the Wall, left to die along the highway.
Ben wrapped the bath towel tightly around his body, keeping his slowly drooping eyes fixed on the black window. He’d give Jen everything he had, if only she would come back with him. Anything she wanted he would get her, just as long as he wasn’t alone anymore.
4
The next morning, Ben sat in Fin’s dune buggy spinning the chamber of the dead man’s six-shooter; he had decided it would be the only weapon he took to the North.
The night had passed quickly once he’d finally fell asleep. Even though he couldn’t have had more than five hours of sleep, he woken feeling energized and excited, and most of his anxiety had fled.
Fin, freshly shaven and washed, kissed Missy goodbye at the foot of the steps. She cradled their baby in one arm and draped her other arm over Fin’s shoulder, kissing his neck, whispering things into his ear. Be safes and I love yous, Ben thought. Fin kissed the baby on the forehead and tickled her belly. Her high-pitched laughter traveled all the way to the dune buggy.
Then Fin picked up his messenger bag, dropped the strap over one shoulder, and made his way down the path. Behind him, Missy called out, ‘Take care of yourself.’
He turned round and walked backwards. ‘I will,’ he shouted. The baby was bobbing up and down in her arms, wide-eyed and pale, grasping at invisible things with its chubby hands.
Fin slid in beside Ben and tossed his bag into the backseat. ‘Let’s get this done,’ he said, slipping the pistol into the center console.
As Fin pulled away from the house, he waved longingly at Missy, who waved back and had the baby wave too.
………
They hid the dune buggy in the woods bordering the highway, sixty miles south of the Wall. While Fin heaved his messenger bag from the backseat and stepped out into the wood’s cool air, Ben ran to the highway to see if the buggy could be spotted by any passersby. Satisfied with its hiding place, he walked back to Fin who tapped his foot nervously in the undergrowth. Ben sat on the hood of the dune buggy and had a drink of water. His lack of anxiety during these jobs surprised even him sometimes. He attributed it to his upbringing in the orphanage: if they had been sneaking out of the dormitory at night, he’d had to learn to ignore the possibility of a sound beating and stay calm. Any time he’d been caught, he’d refused to give the nuns and headmaster the satisfaction of hearing him yelp. With every swing off the paddle, his mind had wandered to some far away land full of dragons and spaceships and cars speeding around racetracks. It was as if he’d been unwittingly training for his future life as a smuggler.
Ben and Fin had worked together often enough for Ben to know Fin’s idiosyncrasies. During the hours before the start of each job, Fin’s nerves practically exploded, but once he’d worked out these pre-job jitters, he was perfectly calm under pressure. So Ben kept to himself on the hood of the buggy, drinking quietly, while Fin paced, rapping his fingers on his thigh and strumming them against trees, taking huge draws of air and letting them out in small bursts. After ten minutes, Ben checked his watch. ‘Time to go.’
Like clockwork, Fin relaxed, straightened up and tucked his hair behind his ears.
The highway leading north was freshly paved and had strong, black lines slicing through the middle like thick mascara strokes. Ben went to the highway’s edge and held a hand to his eyes, squinting north and south. He checked his watch again. ‘He shoulda been here two minutes ago.’
‘Maybe he’s not comin’.’
Ben noted the tinge of hopefulness in Fin’s voice. For a moment, he regretted bringing him, but then he saw the huge semi-truck hauling down the highway towards them. Excitement replaced regret as he pointed. ‘There’s Willard now.’
The truck pulled off to the side of the highway, its huge tires digging ruts into the grass as it ambled to a slow stop. The driver’s large side-door swung open and a thin man dropped down from the cab. He strode towards Ben, an enormous smile stretched over his weathered, greasy face.
‘Get in here,’ Willard yawped, giving Ben a huge hug. He slapped him on the back and led him to the front of the semi-truck, which was painted blood red and had white fangs curving up the sides around the grill. ‘What d’ya think?’ he asked.
Ben stared at the truck’s new paint job, wondering how much attention it would garner crossing the Wall. Willard had been delivering to the North for years now, though, so his truck was probably commonplace with the Paranats. ‘Eye catching,’ Ben said apprehensively.
‘Nothin’ to worry about there, ol’ buddy. I got foolproof compartments for you and Fin. Used ’em to smuggle leadeye some weeks ago without so much as a peep from security.’
‘Let’s see.’
Willard slid the cargo door up and dragged down the ramp, wedging it into the grass. He led them into the huge back compartment full of gigantic freezers, each letting off its own chilly aura.
Fin opened one of the freezers and found pounds of steak, hamburgers, cheese, and milk. ‘It’s amazing you don’t get hijacked. People would kill for this.’
‘I take security measures.’ Willard rolled one of the freezers into the center of the floor and climbed on top of it. He slid a ceiling panel to the side and pulled it seamlessly back into position. Ben was impressed: even if he had known where to look, it would have been impossible to see the break in the material. ‘This’ll be your new home for the next two hours. It ain’t the comfiest’—Willard shrugged—‘but it’ll do fine for two pirates like yourselves.’
Ben stepped forward, prepared to join him o
n top of the freezer. Willard’s open palm stopped him.
‘Hold up. Let’s lay some ground rules here before we go any further. Once we get past the Wall, you two’re on your own. I don’t want to know what the job is or where you’re headed. There’s a stretcha road between the Wall and the city. I think that’s where you should abandon ship. Until then, you don’t get outta that ceiling. My ass is on the line here too. Big time.’
‘I understand.’
‘What about you, ringo?’ Willard looked at Fin who stood halfway up the ramp.
‘Got it.’
Willard smiled. ‘Then let’s get you two snug as bedbugs in ol’ Willard’s mobile motel.’
………
After some time riding in the cramped ceiling compartment, Ben’s legs fell asleep and his right arm went numb. Fin’s legs, which were longer than Ben’s, were bent crookedly against the wall as he lay on his stomach. He propped his fists under his chin.
Ben wanted to fall asleep, but his uncomfortable position wouldn’t allow it, and in the darkness, he couldn’t see his watch, so there was no way to tell how long they’d been stuck up there. The only sounds were the semi-truck’s broad tires rolling over the newly paved road and their own breathing, which seemed amplified in the crawl space. At least neither of them were claustrophobic; otherwise this would have been a nightmare, Ben thought. Regardless, he still felt himself getting a little tight around the collar.
Fin finally broke the silence. ‘Have you ever been to Northfork?’ His voice drifted eerily in the darkness.
Ben’s mind filled with images of the beautiful fishing town with its quaint cottages and wobbly docks that hung out over the surrounding lake. He and Jen had once stayed the night in one of those cottages while its owners had been away. It’s where Timothy had been conceived.
Our Home is Nowhere (The Borrowed Land, Book 1) Page 2
