Pretty Vicious

by K. S. Merbeth

  Pretty Vicious

  K. S. Merbeth

  orbitbooks.net

  orbitshortfiction.com

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Kristyn Merbeth

  Excerpt from Bite copyright © 2016 by Kristyn Merbeth

  Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio

  Cover art by Shutterstock

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First eBook Edition: December 2017

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  ISBN: 978-0-316-48293-6

  E3-20171027-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Begin Reading

  By K. S. Merbeth

  A Preview of Bite

  About Orbit Short Fiction

  Orbit Newsletter

  They take my gun but not my knife. The knife stays tucked away in its makeshift sheath beneath my shirt, pressed tightly against my skin. One knife versus six faces forming a half circle around me and six pairs of hands clutching rusty weapons. The closest man hangs his crowbar on his belt and starts to tie my wrists in front of me, but I don’t look at him or the one who steals my flask and takes a long, greedy gulp.

  Instead, I watch the one who discards his iron pipe in favor of my gun. I hate the sight of his grubby fingers touching it. That gun is the most important thing I have. The other girls risked everything to steal it for me. My eyes follow the weapon, my chest tightening, but I don’t let my face betray anything. I know how men are; fear and anger feed them. I learned a long time ago to hide the things I don’t want to share—and with these people, I’ll share nothing.

  “What are we gonna do with her?” asks the one woman of the group, looking at me with hard, calculating eyes. At least she doesn’t leer like the men.

  “She’s pretty,” says a man with limp, oily hair, doing more than enough leering to make up for his companion. “Gotta be good for somethin’.”

  “Could eat her,” a scrawny man says.

  “No,” says the woman. “We sell her. Maybe to the Queen?”

  My stomach rolls. The Queen doesn’t buy women, I think, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “Not gonna bargain, little lady? Beg? Most of ’em do,” says the man tying my wrists. I scrutinize his face, the peeling skin and sunspots, the sunken eyes and narrow nose. He’s a raider, like all of them, the kind who reeks of violence. I could try to negotiate with them—tell them about the valuables I smuggled out in my belongings, promise the Queen’s gratitude if I’m kept safe, even offer up my body if I’m desperate enough—but I know these kinds of people. Raiders don’t negotiate. They take what they want and burn the rest.

  Luckily for me, this raider is also a fool. He hasn’t even noticed that I’ve braced my wrists so the binds won’t be tight enough. He’s a fool, and that’s why I’m not afraid.

  “Nothing to say?” The man looks at his companions and chuckles. “Think she’s mute or somethin’?” he asks, and looks back at me.

  I take a deep breath and imagine what his face will look like when my knife punctures a cheek or an eye. I say nothing as the man gives a final tug to secure the rope, and I don’t fight as he pulls me along. I only turn my eyes skyward, shut them against the sun, and sigh.

  It was dangerous to head into the wastes alone. I knew this when I left. Everyone told me, again and again, as if I didn’t realize how insane the idea was. As if I didn’t know that the wastes were full of nothing but sand and heat and violence, so immense and empty that you could travel for days and be lucky to see a single rusty car or bomb-ravaged building. I wanted to tell them that no amount of years spent with a soft bed and a full belly could make me forget what it was like to be starving and sun-blistered and alone out there.

  I knew it better than any of them. Most of the other girls came from bomb shelters, towns, walled-off little pockets of humanity. Only I had lived in the open wastelands: sleeping in the dirt, scavenging and stealing, living like an animal. I had watched the people around me fall like flies and hoped I would get to the bodies first so I could scoop up whatever was left. It isn’t something you forget.

  But telling that to the other girls would just make it harder for them to understand why I was leaving. So all I said was I have to go, and I can’t be here anymore, over and over again, until they stopped asking why. After that, I started finding gifts under my pillow every night: scraps of food wrapped in napkins, a ragged leather bag, a metal flask, a gun. I marveled at the last one, cradling it in my hands like I was afraid I would break it. We weren’t allowed to have guns in the palace; someone had to have stolen it from the Queen’s armory or one of her guests. Either option was nearly impossible to pull off and a grievous betrayal of the woman who kept us under her roof. Not as dangerous as what I was planning to do, but close enough. And one of the girls had done it for me, to help me, even as she tried to talk me out of going.

  That made me decide it was time. I couldn’t drag it out further and let the other girls risk more for me. I had to go. I didn’t say anything, but I think they sensed it. Yesterday Ruby took my hand, her eyes wet. If anyone can survive out there, it’s you, she said. I’m not going to stop you, but don’t go yet. She promised the other girls would smuggle more rations, steal more weapons, bribe some travelers passing through to escort me to the closest town.

  So I agreed: one more week to prepare. I left this morning before anyone else awoke.

  After sneaking past the many guards who patrolled the hallways, I looked back at the palace in all its towering, crumbling glory. I remembered how my breath caught the first time I saw it, how my heart surged when I heard the roar of the river running through the valley behind it. I had wondered how such a thing still managed to stand after the bombs. It was beautiful. It was a promise of a safety I didn’t think still existed in the world. For a long time, that safety was all I wanted and needed.

  When I walked away, the palace dominated the horizon for a very long time. Eventually I stopped looking back.

  I thought I was equipped to handle the wastes, at least until I made it to a town. I had all the supplies I needed to survive for a few days, plus a gun, a knife, and a hundred ways to kill a man without the use of either. But, not halfway through the day, I walked between two seemingly abandoned buildings and was surrounded before I could grab my gun. Not even a day, and I’m at the mercy of raiders, my precious supplies in their grimy hands.

  But I can’t waste
my energy on anger. I have to keep my strength. I say nothing, even when the raiders prod and poke and provoke me, even when they start pulling me in the direction I came from, toward the Queen’s palace. The thought of going back makes a lump rise in my throat, but I hide my emotions.

  If they bring me there, the Queen will string up these stupid raiders for treating me like this. Then she’d string me up, too, for my betrayal. I probably deserve it. After everything she did for me, I left without a word. My gut twists with guilt as I remember the dinner she treated me to a few days ago, her attempt to cheer me up after what happened. She rescued me from the wastes, gave me a home, treated me like a daughter, and I stole from her and left.

  But I can’t live another day within those walls. Once, I thought it was enough to be safe. It was worth my body, my soul, everything. It wasn’t until I looked into my daughter’s eyes that I realized life could be worth more than surviving. And it wasn’t until she died that I realized how hollow my life was before, how desperately I needed something beyond safety.

  I suppose that’s why I had to leave: to prove to myself that there was something out there worth living for. I’ll either learn to be free or die that way. No one can take that choice from me, not even these raiders who think they have me trapped and helpless. And so, I’m unafraid.

  We don’t stop until the sun sets. The raiders throw me to the ground like a sack of loot while they build a fire. Nearby, the man who tied me up sifts through my leather bag. He jerks back as his hand touches something, his face wrinkling. A moment later, he pulls out a blue wig and looks at me.

  “What the fuck is this?” he asks, and dumps it on the ground. “What the fuck is any of this?” He upends the bag, sending the contents tumbling into a colorful pile in the dust. I frown, noticing a glint of something that I don’t remember packing—but I look back at the man as he speaks again. “Wigs? Clothes? What the hell do you think you’re gonna do with this shit?”

  I fix him with a flat stare and swallow down fury. For now, I have to be patient.

  “Just proves you’re stupider than we thought,” the man says. “Not only wandering the wastes alone, but this is the shit you bring with you? Not even worth selling.” He lobs a mouthful of thick saliva at my belongings and kicks dirt over them.

  My hands tense in my binds, but I force myself to relax, shoving my emotions into a tight little ball in the corner of my mind. I’m good at keeping them down; this man won’t get a rise out of me. And he’s more of a fool than I thought if he doesn’t see the value of the items I brought. Those are the things that will let me redefine myself. Those are the beginnings of my new life. And he’s a further fool for not looking closely enough to find the food sewn into my pockets and the trinkets taped to the undersides of my wigs.

  If fools like these can survive the wastes, surely I can, too. And so, I’m not afraid.

  At night, the raiders sleep, and I’m left shivering in the dirt. The fire has died down to embers, providing barely enough illumination to see the slumped silhouette of the man on “watch,” fast asleep atop a nearby rock. I’m the one doing the actual watching, my eyes locked on him as I rub my wrists back and forth, loosening the ropes that already aren’t as tight as they should be around my small wrists.

  The ropes are worn and frayed, the knot poorly tied. Soon I’m free, and the raider on the rock is still snoring. As the ropes fall to the sand at my feet I sigh, rolling my shoulders back. I slip a hand under my shirt to find the knife hidden there in a makeshift sheath of cloth and duct tape, and slip it out. The weight feels good in my hand. I run my thumb over the handle and look for the raider who took my gun.

  He’s asleep between two of the others, the pistol tucked into his waistband. It makes my hands itch to see it. But as badly as I want to, it’s too risky to take it back. There’s no way to get close enough without waking up half the camp. I make a silent apology to the girls at the palace who worked so hard to get it for me.

  The man on watch is out cold, his mouth half-open and a string of drool glistening in the dying light of the fire. A crowbar leans against the rock beside him, but if he has a gun, it’s hidden away. Not a threat, and nothing worth taking. I look instead at my belongings, still sitting in a pile on the ground, now coated in a thick layer of dust. My bag sits on top, empty and deflated. I pick it up, shovel my belongings inside as quickly as possible, and slip the bag over my shoulder. Then, I turn my attention back to the sleeping raider.

  I could leave. I could leave them all far behind, be long gone by the time they awoke. But what if he wakes up as I’m leaving? What if he sounds an alarm and they catch me again? I doubt even these idiots will be foolish enough to let me escape twice. Killing him could be my only chance.

  I move closer, until I’m just a foot away, weighing my choices as I watch him snore. The knife is heavy and hot in my palm. I raise it—and stop. I’ve killed before, but not like this. It’s not so hard to plunge a knife into a man’s eye when his hands are wrapped around your throat. But this … this is different. Even violent men look peaceful when they sleep. After a moment, I sigh, lower the knife, and turn to walk away. As I do, I stumble in the darkness, and a rock skitters across the ground.

  There’s a grunt behind me. My blood runs cold. I turn to see the sleeping man open his eyes and look at me. I dash toward him as he reaches for the crowbar.

  “The prisoner—” he yells, a half second before I slash the blade across his throat. His shout cuts off in a gurgle as hot blood sprays across me, splashing my face, my neck, my torso. I stand still for a moment, taking in a quick gasp of air—but the sound of movement behind me says I was far too late to silence him. I glance back and see all five of the other raiders sitting up and reaching for their weapons.

  I flee into the wastes, clutching my knife, dripping blood. Five pairs of feet follow me, along with a flurry of gunshots. I stumble, panic flaring through me, but the bullets disappear into the night.

  I run.

  Blind and stumbling, I run, chased by the shouts of the raiders on my heels. I don’t dare look back. I run until I leave the light of their campfire behind, and farther, until there’s nothing but darkness all around. Finally, I see something to run toward: light. Another fire. I doubt it will bring safety, but I can’t run for much longer, so I don’t have a choice. I sprint toward the light.

  I stumble and fall, landing on my hands and knees beside the fire. Chest heaving, I raise my head and lock eyes with the lone man sitting cross-legged nearby. He’s lean and filthy, his tan skin covered in dirt and dried blood, his hair twisted into dreadlocks and a pair of goggles resting on his forehead. He holds a can of food, frozen halfway on its path to his mouth.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, and squints at the dark wastelands behind me. “And where the hell did you come from?”

  I scramble to my feet, ready to run again. This man looks like just as much of a madman as the ones chasing me. But before I can take off, my pursuers arrive. The raiders skid to a stop behind me, and I whirl to face them, brandishing my knife. The five of them look from me to the man by the fire.

  “Friend of yours?” the woman asks, smacking her crowbar against the palm of her left hand. “Sorry to break it to ya, but the odds still ain’t in your favor.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” the dreadlocked man says. He gets to his feet, still holding on to his meal. He takes a slurp from the can and continues talking with his mouth full. “I don’t know her, I don’t know you, I don’t know what’s going on, and I really couldn’t give less of a shit. I’ll be on my way now, all right?”

  “Don’t move,” the woman says. But the man ignores her, turning to grab his pack off the ground. He doesn’t even look at the raiders, including the one now raising a gun. My gun. As he straightens up with his bag, a gunshot deafens me. I gasp and squeeze my eyes shut.

  When I open them again, I’m surprised to see the dreadlocked man still standing. His can of food lies in the dirt nearby, oozing beans into
the dust. Blood drips from his hand to mingle with it, but he hardly seems to notice the wound, staring instead at the spilled food. He stares for a long, long moment, his face grim, and heaves a sigh. He raises his head to look at the raiders—and a sudden, wild grin crosses his face, a grin full of rotting teeth and missing spaces.

  “Well,” he says, “now I’m involved.”

  The raider shoots again. But the dreadlocked man is already raising his bag, and the bullet thunks into something solid within it. A moment later, the bag falls, and a shotgun is in his hands.

  His first shot turns the raider’s head into a bloodied crater. There’s a shocked silence as the body topples forward, what’s left of his face hitting the dirt, the gun falling from his limp hand. Then the others launch themselves forward. Three of them descend on the dreadlocked man with war cries. He takes down one with his second shot and swings the barrel of his shotgun at the next before he’s forced to go on the defensive as a knife slashes toward his face. Only the last raider, the woman, thinks to stop beside her dead comrade and reach for the fallen gun.

  My gun.

  I lunge toward her, my knife gripped tightly—and when she whips around to face me with the gun in hand, I drive the blade through her wrist. She screams; the gun falls. I reach for it, but a knee to the stomach sends me stumbling back and gasping for air. I catch myself from falling and rush at her again. We grapple and thrash, a cloud of dust rising around us. I pin her down and rip my knife free from her hand, drawing out a shriek of pain. I silence it by cutting her throat. Once it’s done, I realize in some distant corner of my mind that she’s the first woman I’ve ever killed. Not so different from the others. Panting, I glance around to find my gun and stand with a weapon in each hand.

  The dreadlocked man is embroiled in a fight with the remaining two raiders. He’s down on his knees, blocking their knives with his shotgun. His arms are covered in shallow cuts, and blood drips down his forehead. I take a deep breath, raise my gun, and aim at the mess of entangled limbs and weapons. My hand wavers as I try to find the right target. I hesitate for a moment, closing one eye and trying to steady myself, and pull the trigger.