Raid

by K. S. Merbeth

  “I’ve got mostly rumors and word of mouth to go by, but all the news from the west says he’s either a good guy, or doing a damn good job of pretending to be.” He shrugs. “At the very least, you can be confident that you’ll get paid.”

  I nod, folding my arms over my chest.

  “So. Heading west,” I say. “I’m going to need a map, gasoline, some basic supplies.”

  “I’ve got whatever you need,” Alex says. “But what will you trade?”

  I can see his greedy little eyes light up, probably already imagining one of my precious guns hanging on his wall. The mere thought makes me sick to my stomach, and anyway, my guns and ammo are essentials. You never know how much you’re going to need for a trip like this, especially since I’m going to be traveling through the crazy-ass western wastes.

  Unfortunately, though, I only have one other thing to give him.

  VII

  Across the Wastes

  The truck is a liability, I tell myself as I hand the keys over to Alex. Anyone looking for me could recognize it, and such a nice vehicle sticks out like a sore thumb in the wastes. I push away memories of years spent behind that wheel, of nights spent sleeping in the backseat, and instead focus on the stash of goods I’m getting in return: a map to Saint, water and canned food, some gasoline, and a new vehicle.

  The car I’m downgrading to is a small, shoddy thing, its chipped brown paint barely distinguishable from the rust. It looks like it won’t make it five miles, but Alex swears up and down that it will get me where I need to go. I’m not too keen on trusting people, but I don’t have much of a choice here. So I transfer my stuff from the truck bed to the trunk of the new car—water, food, bandages, and all of my guns and ammo. Grabbing the last armful of goods, I give my truck a pat on the hood, the only sentimental gesture I allow myself. After I dump the goods into the trunk and slam it shut, I head back inside.

  Jedediah is lying on the floor where I left him, now resting on his side and snoring loudly. He looks way more comfortable than he has any right to be. I resist the urge to kick him again, find a spot against the wall for myself, and doze off.

  I catch a few hours of sleep on Alex’s floor, just enough to keep me going, and wake up automatically at the crack of dawn. I re-gag a still-mostly-asleep Jedediah with my handkerchief, drag him out to the passenger seat of the new car, and start it up.

  The engine comes to life with a pitiful whine, and the entire vehicle shakes and shudders and rattles like it’s going to come apart at any second. Wind whistles through a crack in the window, and the interior smells faintly of piss. But despite all appearances, the thing does run. So, with a wave at Alex’s guard, I take to the road.

  The first few hours pass without incident. I’m enjoying the feeling of being on the open road, and reveling in the knowledge that every mile of wasteland is a mile between me and Jedediah’s crew. I know that I’m heading into lands full of their own danger. Surely though, it’ll be different for me. I’m a bounty hunter. A professional. I’ve spent my whole life killing raiders. There may be more of them in the west, but they can’t be any worse than they are here.

  For the start of the ride, Jedediah dozes in his seat, head resting against the window. When he finally wakes up, I have a sinking feeling that my peaceful morning is about to be over. He soon proves me right. He starts with some muffled noises and squirming in his seat, which is easy enough to disregard. Then he progresses to kicking the windshield, which I can’t afford to ignore. Sighing, I turn sharply—throwing him half out of his seat—and pull over. I get out, march over to his side, and yank his door open. He tumbles into the dirt.

  “What’s your problem?” I ask, placing a boot on his chest. He lets out a string of words that are entirely unintelligible through the gag. I grimace and grudgingly remove the handkerchief from his mouth.

  Jedediah stretches his jaw, licks his lips, and clears his throat.

  “I’d like,” he says in a raspy voice, “a drink of water.”

  I roll my eyes, removing my boot from his chest.

  “That’s it?” I ask. I thought he had finally realized his life was in danger, and intended to do something about it, but this is much better. I leave him in the dirt and grab my canteen from the trunk. Luckily I have a few big jugs of water left—I would never be stupid enough to travel the wastes without them—so I don’t have to be too frugal.

  I’m not entirely sure what the west will bring, or how long it will last, but I’m as prepared as possible. Alex said it would take about two days of travel to get to Saint’s tower, but that’s assuming I don’t hit any major obstacles along the way, like angry townies, or raiders, or crazies. But whatever comes along, I’ll be ready. I have enough food and water for more than a week, and plenty of ammo to mow down anyone who gets in my way.

  I take a swig of water before walking over to Jedediah and pressing the container to his lips. He takes several big, greedy gulps, and I tear the canteen away.

  “A little more?” he asks, licking the remnants off his lips.

  “That’s more than enough to last you the whole day,” I say, screwing the top onto the canteen and tossing it into my seat. Clearly, this guy has grown accustomed to a life of luxury. He might’ve once been a raider, but he’s had goods hand delivered to him for years now. Guess he’s forgotten what it’s like to be out in the wastes.

  I move to place the gag back in his mouth, but he ducks aside. I smack him upside the head and try to gag him again, but he shifts the other way. I sigh. “Oh, come on,” I say. “Don’t tell me you decided to be difficult now.”

  “Is the gag really necessary?” he asks, his neck craned to keep his face as far from me as possible. “It’s gonna be a long ride. We can talk!”

  “I have no desire to talk to you.”

  “I’d be a lot happier without the gag,” he says.

  “I don’t c—”

  “And a lot more likely to continue cooperating,” he adds. When I scrutinize him, he smiles.

  I suppose a drive with Jedediah occasionally speaking would be much better than a drive with him trying to escape. I could always tie him up and throw him in the back, but I’d rather keep him in my sight. He may be mostly acting like a cheeky little shit, but I’m not going to underestimate him. There’s a mad genius in there, somewhere beneath the smiles and the sass. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, but at least I can keep an eye on him.

  “Fine,” I say. “But I won’t hesitate to knock your ass out again. Got it?”

  “Crystal clear.”

  Jedediah seems content to look out the window and hum under his breath, occasionally asking a question, which I respond to with short, clipped answers while keeping my eyes on the road. He stretches himself out in his seat, putting his shoes up on the dashboard and leaning his seat back, getting about as comfortable as a man with his wrists bound in front of him can get.

  “My crew didn’t kill your father or something, did they?” he asks, after staring out the window for a while.

  “What?” I ask, startled by the question.

  “Brother? Sister? Mother? Oh, jeez, I really hope we didn’t kill your mom. That would be awkward,” he says. He pauses while I struggle to process what he’s asking me. “… Husband?”

  “No,” I lie, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  “Do you even have a husband to kill? Er … that came out wrong. Ignore everything after ‘husband.’” He pauses, but continues after I open my mouth and shut it again. “Or wife. Life partner? Anything like—”

  “That’s really none of your business,” I say once I’ve finally gathered myself. I catch myself grinding my jaw and force myself to stop. I can’t let him get to me.

  “Right. Anyway. Very relieved to hear that I haven’t killed anyone close to you,” he says, looking out the window again. “We get a few of those every so often, showing up at the Wormwood mansion. Lots of yelling and tears. ‘You killed my mother! Prepare to die!’ Etcete
ra. Very dramatic.”

  “I think that comes with the territory,” I say dryly.

  “What territory?”

  “Being a complete fucking psychopath.”

  “Hey now,” he says, in a voice like I’ve offended him terribly. “You kill people too.”

  My back stiffens at the gratingly familiar words. I’ve seen the way townies look at me, heard the things they say. Sometimes it seems like they don’t think I’m any better than the people I’m killing. And they have no idea how many people I choose not to kill—how many I’d really like to, if not for my personal rules.

  “It’s different,” I say eventually.

  “How so?”

  “I only kill assholes like you,” I say. For a moment I flash back to words my old sheriff once said about me—She’s a weapon. We’ve just got to make sure she’s pointed in the right direction. But, like I did back then, I tell myself that’s not an issue. I know the difference between good people and bad.

  “Ah,” he says. “So it’s okay as long as they’re a worse person than you are?” He says it almost teasingly. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

  “I’m not going to discuss morals with a cannibalistic tyrant,” I say. That shuts him up, giving me several seconds of blissful silence. Then he starts mumbling under his breath.

  I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. I take my eyes off the road to glance over, and find him with a deeply thoughtful expression.

  “What are you muttering about?”

  “Tyrannical cannibal,” he says, answering overly quickly, like he’s been waiting impatiently for me to ask. “You should’ve gone with that over ‘cannibalistic tyrant.’ Sounds a lot better, doesn’t it? Tyrannical cannibal. Rolls nicely off the tongue.”

  I sigh. Whatever goes on in that fucked-up brain of his, clearly nothing I say is going to get past the layer of crazy. Not that it matters; he’ll be dead soon, and I’ll be a hero, and these pointless conversations will fade from my mind.

  I stay silent while he repeats “tyrannical cannibal” to himself several more times, in varying tones and pitches, before finally shutting up.

  I shoot down his further attempts at conversation, and we drive through the day in silence, aside from the rattling of the car and Jedediah’s humming, which comes and goes every couple of minutes. At first, we pass by a town every few hours, which makes it easy to check our progress on the map. These are all the towns under Jedediah’s reign, and he perks up at the sight of each one, loudly announcing its name as if I wouldn’t know. “That’s Sunrise!” “Buzzard’s Beak!” “Last Stand!” He’s like a little kid seeing his first meal in a week. Then again, I guess the towns are pretty much meals to the man who demands a tithe from each one.

  As we get farther out, the sky gets darker, and the towns get sparser, and Jedediah gets even more excited to see each new one.

  “Hey, there’s Old Creek!” he says happily as he sees the latest one—one of the last before we hit the somewhat official border of the eastern wastes, the end of the area claimed by Jedediah and his crew. “There was never a creek there. I don’t know why they named it that.”

  The name sends an immediate and involuntary shudder through my body. I don’t need to look to know what I’ll find, but I do it anyway. There’s no town—not anymore. Just the husks of old buildings, melted and blackened by the fire that scorched the place to the ground almost five years ago. As with most tragedies, there was one name whispered in the aftermath. Unlike others, this one I don’t need to rely on rumors to know about.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level as a wave of revulsion rises inside me. “Right now.” He looks at me, eyebrows rising as if surprised by the reaction. I turn to glare at him, and in doing so, show the left side of my face again. His eyes land on the burns, and he pauses.

  “Oh,” he says.

  One of my hands automatically moves from the wheel to my gun, and for a moment I can clearly imagine pulling it out and putting a bullet between Jedediah’s eyes. Or maybe in his knees first—something slow and painful, something I could really relish.

  But no. I can’t. Killing him now would get me nothing; personal satisfaction isn’t good enough.

  I take a deep breath and slowly remove my hand from the gun, forcing myself to tear my eyes away from the man nonchalantly talking about the town he burned to the ground. At least he has the good sense to be quiet now, watching the burnt remains of Old Creek fade into the distance.

  When I look away from him and glance at the mirror to my side, I notice it: a cloud of dust on the horizon. Behind us, and gaining fast. I squint at the rearview mirror, watch it getting closer. It could be a dust storm … a very fast, very deliberately moving dust storm. But I know it’s not.

  We’re being followed.

  “What’s that?” Jedediah asks, noticing the approaching cloud at about the same time I do. My pulse rising, I press harder on the pedal. It coaxes a little more speed out of this shitty car, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

  “Shut up,” I say. “Stay low.” I don’t check to see if he’s obeying, too busy glancing between the road ahead and the road behind. I can’t see the vehicle clearly enough yet. Is it Jedediah’s crew behind me, on my trail already? But how? Surely they couldn’t have already determined that I left the area and headed this way. Unless Alex sold me out …

  I grit my teeth and keep driving.

  “Bet you’re missing your truck right about now,” Jedediah says.

  “Shut. Up.”

  I press the pedal to the floor. The car shudders violently, rattling every bone in my body, and chugs along at a slightly faster rate. It’s enough to pull ahead for just a few moments, so our pursuer disappears from sight. And I see something else that sparks an idea: a heap of junk alongside the road, what looks to be the remains of two cars after a wreck.

  I swerve off the road, drawing a startled yelp out of Jedediah, and drive right up alongside the metal carcasses. I kill the engine and yank Jedediah down with me.

  Without the grumbling of the engine and the rattling of the car’s frame, it’s very quiet. I sit, silent, listening. I hold my breath as I hear the vehicle approaching, wondering if the ploy will work. It’s a gamble: a gamble that whoever is following me will be looking for my big truck rather than this shitty car, and a gamble that this piece of junk will pass off as a literal piece of junk.

  The roar of the engine becomes nearly overwhelming, until I’m sure our pursuer is about to smash into us. My hand seeks the handle of my gun, and I grip it tightly, my eyes fixed on the window though I can see nothing outside. Then comes the blinding shine of headlights, growing brighter and brighter and then—gone. Past us.

  I let out a long, slow breath as the roar of the vehicle recedes. Once the sound is completely gone I sit up, releasing my gun.

  “Phew,” Jedediah says, struggling to sit up himself. “That was a close one, huh? Who do you think it was?”

  Ignoring him, I drum my fingers on the wheel. I could keep driving, but I’d run the risk of encountering whomever that was again, and it’s definitely not worth the risk of using headlights in the dark now that I know we’re not alone out here. Better to stop now, catch a few hours of sleep. Hopefully, by then, that car will be long gone.

  Sleeping with a prisoner in tow is a new experience for me. I never hang on to a mark longer than necessary. Usually I’d keep working right through the night, but the journey ahead is too long for that. Which brings up a new issue: what to do with Jedediah overnight.

  I could leave him in the passenger seat, but that would run the risk of him escaping his binds and killing me in my sleep. I could throw him outside, but he might try to run. We’re in the awkward no-man’s-land between the eastern and western towns, so there’s nothing but empty wastes for miles all around, but he hasn’t shown much of a sense of self-preservation so far. So, I can’t let him kill me or get himself killed. That leaves only one option.
>
  After a lot of squirming and pleading, Jedediah is safely tied, gagged, blindfolded, and stuffed into the trunk. I made sure to tie him up even more tightly than before, wrists and arms and ankles, just to make sure he doesn’t get any bright ideas. I move my gun bag from the trunk to the backseat to make doubly sure. After I lock him in, there’s some jostling and bumping for about ten minutes, but finally he quiets down. I curl up in the backseat, taking my gun out of its holster and cradling it against my chest.

  It’s unsettling, knowing that an infamous killer will be just a few yards away while I sleep. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not afraid, I tell myself. Jedediah Johnson may be a different breed, but he’s still a raider, and I’m not afraid of raiders.

  VIII

  Poachers

  A sound wakes me before dawn. My gun is in my hand before I even open my eyes. I swing it one way and then the other, searching for the source of the mysterious thumping, and then realize it’s coming from the trunk. Right—Jedediah. Not danger, just an inconvenience. I sigh, placing my gun back in its holster, and rub my eyes. I could’ve used another hour of sleep, but I’m awake now, so I might as well get an early start.

  It’s tempting to leave Jedediah in the trunk, where I don’t have to deal with the constant stream of shit coming out of his mouth, but I’m sure he’ll find some way to get free or injure himself if I continue to leave him unsupervised. In fact, it’s possible that he’s already done so, so I take out my gun again as I head to the trunk. But Jedediah is still tied up neatly, and looking very unhappy about having spent the night crammed into the small space. I check to make sure the ropes on his wrists haven’t loosened, and drag him up to the front seat. I remove the gag to give him a quick drink of water, and put it back again despite his protests.

  “Give me an hour to wake up,” I say. “If you behave yourself, I’ll take the gag out then.”

  He nods—surprisingly agreeable, but given the dark rings under his eyes, he’s probably just too tired to put up much resistance. Pleased with that, I get into my seat and start driving. Jedediah soon nods off, his head lolling against the back of the seat. I resist the petty urge to make him less comfortable, reminding myself that him sleeping means I get peace and quiet.