“You better keep him down this time,” Pretty Boy says through clenched teeth, his eye already starting to swell from our last attempt. Turns out, Wolf instinctively lashes out when it hurts. Either that, or he just likes hitting Pretty Boy, even when he’s trying to dig a bullet out of him. Hard to say.
I focus on holding Wolf’s arms down. Trying to, at least, my skinny arms wrapped around his muscular ones.
“Okay, got him,” I say. Wolf flexes his arms and chuckles. Pretty Boy looks nervous.
“Seriously, Wolf,” he warns, “if you hit me again, I’m done.”
“Shut up. You’re done when I say you’re done.”
“Well, you’ll be stuck with a bullet in you until you let me do my job!”
Wolf sighs and nods grudgingly.
“Yeah. Fine. Get to it already.”
Pretty Boy bites his lip and raises the knife again. I look away as he moves it toward Wolf’s wounded shoulder. The knife is the sharpest, thinnest one we have, and it’s been sanitized with alcohol, but it’s sure as hell no medical tool, and Pretty Boy is no doctor.
Still, I guess it’s the best we can manage.
“Hold him tight,” Pretty Boy tells me. I squeeze my eyes shut and clutch Wolf’s arms as tightly as I can, putting all of my strength into keeping them pinned.
Wolf doesn’t scream when the knife goes in, but his whole body goes rigid. His muscles bulge with the tension, straining against mine, although he doesn’t pull free this time. I hold on tightly, wary of what he’ll do the second he gets a chance.
“Fuck,” Wolf says. “Fucking shit God damn hurry up, Pretty Boy!”
“Almost got it,” he says. “Try to relax.”
“You’re digging around in my shoulder with a fucking knife,” Wolf snarls. “Tell me to relax one more time, and I’ll—”
He cuts off with a low grunt. A jolt goes through his body, and his arms tremble.
“Got it,” Pretty Boy says.
Wolf hisses in a breath and lets it out in a long sigh. The tension drains out of him along with the air.
“You can let go now, Kid,” he says after a pause. I release him and scoot back, worried he’s going to hit me.
Instead he cracks his neck and stretches his arms, careful not to jostle his shoulder too badly. Once I’m convinced he doesn’t intend on punching me, I turn to Pretty Boy. He’s holding up a small bullet, its silver surface coated with blood.
“That’s it?” I ask. “It’s so small!”
“You ever been shot, Kid?” Wolf asks. I shake my head. “Damn right you haven’t. So shut up. And where the hell are my bandages, Pretty Boy?”
“Do I at least get a thank-you?”
“So now you want me to thank you for letting you knife me? Finish your job, idiot.”
Pretty Boy grabs the bottle of alcohol and douses Wolf’s shoulder without warning. Wolf lets out a shout before clamping his mouth shut to stifle the noise. The sharp smell of alcohol reminds me of vomiting and other unpleasant things.
When I glance at Pretty Boy, I see the corner of his mouth tugging upward. Wolf notices it as well. Intermingled blood and alcohol drip from his arm.
He punches Pretty Boy in the jaw, the blow hitting hard enough to wipe the smirk off his face and twist his head to the side. I don’t feel sorry for him at all.
“Stop looking so fucking happy!” Wolf yells.
“Lay off, Wolf,” Tank rumbles from up front. He doesn’t turn away from the road, but his voice is loud enough to carry back to us.
Wolf looks rather miffed about being scolded. Nonetheless, he pulls back from Pretty Boy and drops his still-raised fist.
“Now bandage this. I’m leaking all over the place.”
Pretty Boy cradles his face, staying back.
“I told you if you hit me one more time—”
“Oh, stop whining and get—”
I grab the first aid kit and pull out the gauze myself, half because I want them to stop arguing and half because Wolf’s still-bleeding shoulder is making me nauseous. I wrap the wound as best as I can with my clumsy hands. Wolf stubbornly sets his jaw and doesn’t say anything.
“Is that all right?” I ask when I’m finished. It looks like a mess, but at least it’s bandaged.
“Good enough,” Wolf says tersely. I know better than to expect a thanks. As Wolf rises to move up to the passenger seat, he smacks me on the side of the head. I look up at him, wondering what I did wrong this time, but instead he grins at me. It looks about as close to affectionate as Wolf can get. I smile back.
“Wake me up when we’re getting close,” Wolf says, slumping down in the passenger seat. I silently agree and curl up in my own seat for a nap.
I wake up to a hand shaking me and an unfamiliar face.
I let out a nervous shriek and lash out, smacking the face away as hard as I can. He recoils immediately, letting out a curse, and only then do I realize it’s Pretty Boy.
Suffice to say, he’s not looking so pretty right now. He has a black eye, a split and bloody lip, and his jaw is red and puffy—not to mention the fresh mark from my slap. Wolf’s punches really did a number on him.
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!” I say.
“What the hell was that for?”
“I just … didn’t recognize you for a second!”
Wolf is cackling in the front of the jeep. Pretty Boy’s shocked expression gradually changes to an indignant one.
“It’s that bad?” he asks.
“No, well, it’s not …” I scramble, trying to think of something nice to say before remembering I have no reason to be nice to him. “Yeah, you look awful.”
He rubs at the swollen part of his jaw, looking miffed.
“Told you it was a good enough disguise,” Wolf says, turning around to give us a thumbs-up.
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean you certainly don’t look pretty, so that means—”
Wolf cuts me off with a burst of wild laughter, and Pretty Boy looks even more affronted.
“So it means it’s a good disguise,” I say.
He shoots me a cold look and I stifle a smile.
“Anyway, we’re almost there,” Wolf says, “so we’re workin’ out our disguises and the bullshit we’re gonna tell the townies.”
“We’re a trade caravan,” Pretty Boy explains without looking at me. “We fought off a group of raiders on the way over, which is why we’re so banged up.”
I nod. Sounds easy enough.
“And where’s your disguise, Wolf?” I ask.
“I don’t need one.”
“Like hell. Everyone knows what you look like,” Pretty Boy says. “You need something.”
“I ain’t wearing no wig or anything.”
“Then you at least need a messed-up face like me.”
“No!”
“Wolf, it’s one or the other.” Pretty Boy grins at the idea. Wolf grits his teeth.
“Fine, then. The face.”
Pretty Boy leans forward eagerly, but Wolf shoves him away.
“I ain’t giving you the satisfaction. Kid, you do it.”
I stare at him.
“You want me to … hit you?”
“Yeah.”
“In the face?”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other. I clench one fist and stare at it, trying to imagine hitting Wolf. I can’t even conjure up a mental picture of that. It seems absurd.
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“I can,” Pretty Boy says.
“Shut your mouth. Kid, man the hell up.”
I grit my teeth and nod. Balling up both fists, I try to conjure up anger against Wolf. I draw back a fist, start to swing … and stop a few inches from his face.
“I can’t,” I confess, letting my hands drop to my sides.
“God damn it, Kid.”
“What the hell are you guys doing?” Tank asks, turning away from the road to look at us.
“Beating Wolf up so no one w
ill recognize him,” Pretty Boy says smugly.
“You guys are idiots. Nobody pays attention to Wolf’s face, it’s the hair and the goggles people will know him by.”
We all pause to mull that over.
“What do you mean, nobody pays attention to my face?” Wolf asks. Tank doesn’t answer, watching the road again. “What the hell is wrong with my face?” He turns to me and grins frighteningly with his full set of crooked, yellowing teeth.
I gulp.
“Umm. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with your face.”
“Damn straight.”
“Well, you heard Tank. You have to wear a wig,” Pretty Boy says.
“No.”
“Or cut it.”
“No!”
“Wolf, if you blow our cover because—”
“I’m in charge here, I’ll blow our cover if I want to!” Wolf says. Pretty Boy gives him an incredulous look. Eventually Wolf sighs, resigned, and turns to me.
“You still got your old shirt?”
“Umm … yeah?” I dig in my pack and pull it out, presenting the dust-colored fabric to him.
“Thanks,” he says, and rips it in half. I stare, heart sinking as I realize I’m now trapped in this dress. I press my knobby knees closer together and try to fight back self-consciousness. I watch as he tears the shirt apart and wraps the ragged remains around his head, tucking his dreadlocks beneath it. Soon his head is cocooned, with only his eyes, mouth, and a few slivers of dirty face peeking through.
“How do I look?” he asks, and smiles. The effect is disturbing.
“Scary enough to reduce children to tears,” Pretty Boy says dryly.
“Good, that’s what I always aim for.”
“What about Tank?” I ask.
“I’m not that easy to disguise. I’ll just lie low and hope for the best,” Tank says. “Heads up, here’s the town.”
It’s a small, barely inhabited place, all crumbling buildings and crudely done repairs. Three surprisingly tall buildings stick up among the humble little squats. They’re towers of garbage, with car doors and wire mesh and other scrap metal filling the holes. The mere fact they’re still standing seems to defy some law of the universe, and they look ready to topple at any second. Heaps of scrap metal and old, rusty cars decorate the town. As Tank winds between them to get inside, I stare up at the towers apprehensively. Several heads peek out from different heights on the buildings. Just the thought of being up there makes my knees quake.
“Remember,” Wolf says as the jeep stops in the center of town, “don’t call each other by the usual names.”
I glance around and notice at least three guns pointed at us from the tower windows. I gulp.
“What do we call each other, then?” I ask in a whisper.
“Huh,” Wolf says. “I didn’t think of that.”
But it’s too late to solidify our plans, because we’re already here and the townies are approaching. They crawl out of every nook and cranny, emerging from rusty cars and shady corners and the three towering buildings.
“Just wing it, Kid,” Wolf says, noticing my apprehension. He smiles at me, eyes glinting between folds of fabric. “And don’t fuck it up.”
XXI
Towers
Townies swarm our jeep like flies on a carcass. We’re surrounded in minutes. Men, women, and children alike arrive to greet us. They don’t seem afraid, not even of Wolf and his wrapped-up head, or big ol’ Tank with his scary face on. It’s almost strange how friendly they are. Some hold up little trinkets and trash-treasures, hoping to trade. I guess the towns this close to the Queen are more peaceful, less wary of outsiders.
Then again, maybe they’re just well protected. I’m all too aware of the snipers up in those towers, as much as I’m trying not to stare at them. Instead I stare at the crowd. The amount of them is intimidating, no matter how friendly they seem.
A little girl with a dirty face holds something up toward me: a pocket watch on a rusty chain, its surface cracked. I reach out to take it, but Wolf slaps my hand away.
“No, no, no,” he says. “Don’t take anything. Then they’ll want something in return.”
“Oh,” I say sheepishly. I give an apologetic smile to the girl, who blinks up at me with wide eyes. She offers the watch to Wolf instead, but he shakes his head. She sticks it out farther, insistent. The other townies are pressing in closer, too, all trying to speak at once in an indecipherable flood of noise.
All of the sound and motion surrounding me suddenly reminds me of the mob of crazies. Nervousness hits me in a flash, and a jolt of pain goes through my missing finger. I shrink back closer to Pretty Boy and swallow hard, telling myself that these are friendly townies, not madmen. But their smiling faces now look like bared teeth, and I feel like they could turn on us in an instant and—
A hand lands on my shoulder and I jump. I turn to face Pretty Boy.
“It’s okay,” he says. His face looks softer than usual, his head tilted in an annoyingly charming way, but I’m not going to fall for his bullshit.
“I’m fine,” I say, and brush the hand off. Still, I keep my distance from the townies leaning over the jeep’s sides.
“Hello, hello, hello,” a very loud voice booms out. The townies abruptly stop talking and all turn in the same direction. I swivel around to do the same. They’re looking at a pile of old, run-down vehicles nearby, stacked three cars high. On top is a man, only his silhouette visible against the sun. He jumps down from car to car in a series of loud crashes. When he stops a few yards away from our jeep, I realize that he’s actually quite tiny. The height and his loud voice created an illusion of greatness.
The voice was an illusion, too, I see, as he lowers a megaphone.
He smiles at us. It’s a slimy smile on a ratlike face.
“Welcome to Towers,” he says.
“These townies,” Wolf mutters under his breath, “always so clever with their names.” I stifle a laugh.
The rat-man notices Wolf speaking and promptly raises the megaphone again.
“We are always very pleased to have visitors,” his voice booms obnoxiously, “especially traders.”
He clicks the megaphone off and lowers it, face still oozing friendliness.
“But you aren’t traders we’re familiar with.” He speaks in a conversational tone, and makes his slow way toward us. “And we are familiar with many traders. Where are you from, strangers?”
“Across the wastes,” Wolf says. The lie comes smoothly and easily. “Things are bad where we came from, real bad, so we decided to find new grounds closer to the Queen.” Wolf mirrors the man’s unnerving grin. “And this Saint guy. Love what he’s trying to do.”
The man squints at him as if trying to decide if he’s joking.
“Saint is a very ambitious man,” he says after a pause, “and I admire his work to make the wastes a safer place.”
“Ain’t working so well this far,” Wolf says. “We got jumped by raiders on the way over. Look what they did to our poor friend’s face, the savages.” He points at Pretty Boy, who looks like he’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes.
“Savage indeed,” the rat-man says, his eyes never leaving Wolf. “It’s a good thing we’re all civilized people here, now isn’t it?”
“Right, right. Now, about that trading business. I assume you’re in charge here?”
“You assume right.”
“Let’s have a chat, then.”
Wolf climbs over the side of the jeep and approaches the man. He gives him an overenthusiastic handshake and the two walk over to the supply truck, talking in low voices. I glance around at the others.
“What are we supposed to do?” I ask.
“Keep an eye on the townies,” Pretty Boy murmurs. I eye the crowd of townsfolk. They’re no longer clustered around our jeep, but are spread out and loitering around, stealing glances at us.
“Keep an eye out for what?”
“Anything suspicious,” he says, and pointe
dly looks upward. I follow his gaze to one of the towers, where a sniper rifle is still aimed in our direction. It’s too far away to tell for sure, but I have a nervous feeling his sights are on my head.
After a few minutes Wolf and the man return, along with Dolly, looking as porcelain as ever in her red wig. It stands out starkly in this dusty town, where almost everything, people included, is in shades of brown or gray.
“Yes, yes, we’ll work something out,” the rat-man is saying. “What are you looking for, exactly?”
“Guns,” Wolf says. “Big guns. And explosives.”
Rat-face’s forehead furrows, and his eyes narrow.
“And why is that, exactly? Surely traders like yourselves—”
“—have a very pressing need for self-defense,” Pretty Boy finishes from beside me. Both heads turn toward him; he smiles. “Not to mention, there’s a high demand for explosives right now.”
“Right,” says Wolf. “Come talk to the man, Tobias, tell ’im all about this high demand.”
Tobias? It takes me a second to remember we have to use fake names. Tobias. Right. Tobias. I try to engrave that in my memory as Pretty Boy goes over to speak to the man.
“With Saint gaining influence and collecting sharks, raiders are getting worried that they’re next. That fear makes them desperate, which makes them more dangerous than ever. People have to fortify …” The words become muffled as he and the townsman turn away from us. Wolf walks over and leans on the side of the jeep.
“All right,” he says. “We’re gonna stay here for the night.”
“Really?” I ask nervously. “You remember what happened in that last town? And the Queen—”
“Ain’t got a choice,” he says. “We’ll smooth over negotiations and get out of here early tomorrow. It’ll be fine. Promise.”
We’re given a room on the fifth floor of a tower, which is high up enough to make me avoid looking out the window at all costs. It’s a cramped room, especially since Wolf insisted all five of us stay together. There’s no furniture aside from three ratty cots on the floor. One is covered with stains that look suspiciously like dried blood, another is littered with cigarette burns, and the third smells like someone died on it and nobody noticed for a few days. Each of them has a blanket in an equally undesirable state, and two have lumpy pillows. Despite their condition, everyone jumps to claim one.
The Wastelanders Page 18
