The road is still dark, but not too dark to see, the wastes tinged with the bluish light of almost-dawn. I relax as I drive, expecting a good few hours of nothingness before we hit the western towns and the day really begins.
That peace is quickly ruined as I see something on the horizon. I slow down, squinting at the column of smoke. My stomach clenches at the thought of fire, but I force myself to move closer. It soon becomes clear that it’s not a wildfire, or a burning town, but a small, personal blaze. A campfire. No one in their right mind sets a campfire, unless they’re fully confident that they can kill anyone who sees it, so I’m wary as I approach. I kill the engine and roll to a stop a good distance away, make sure Jedediah is still asleep, and rustle through my bag in the backseat. I fish out a pair of binoculars and study the camp.
There are two figures by the fire. One is stretched out on the ground, likely sleeping. The other is sitting upright, but looks relaxed, not fully alert. I watch them for several long moments, trying to gauge who they are and what they want—and then I spot their vehicle parked nearby. A rusty old truck, that was once green from the look of it. Not black, like the ones Jedediah’s raiders drive.
This must be the vehicle that was following me. Very few people have reason to travel on these open roads, the stretch of nothingness between Jedediah’s lands and the wild towns in the west. It’s rare that anyone has the means or a strong enough reason to travel from one to the other, and there’s absolutely nothing of interest in between. The only reason for somebody to be out here is if they’re on the run, or looking for someone … and I have a sneaking suspicion that these people are looking for me. But if they’re not working for Jedediah, why are they after me?
Now is a good opportunity to find out.
I check on Jedediah again—still sleeping—and gather my weapons. My brain is already forming a plan of attack, the old instinct bubbling up: Kill. The thought rises to a clamor as I load my guns, making sure my trusty pistol is full of ammo, slinging a rifle over my back, and grabbing an extra pistol just in case.
There are only two of them, not expecting trouble. They must still think they’re following me, and won’t expect me to come from behind. It would be easy to kill them both, no matter how prepared they think they are. But it’s not that simple. I have rules, rules that set me apart from the people I hunt.
My ma and I made them together when I was ten. I had killed five and a half people by that time, and the “half” was the reason the rules came to be. He was a man who came to town half-dead, begging for water. I couldn’t decide if he looked like a raider or not in the sorry state he was in, but he was a stranger looking to take what was ours, so I opted for caution. I beat his head in with a cast-iron pot we used to make stew. When my ma asked why I did that, I said, “I didn’t have my gun on me.”
That night, when they thought I was asleep, I overheard her talking with the sheriff when he stopped by to visit.
“She’s a little girl,” my mom said.
“She’s not just a little girl,” the sheriff said. “She’s a weapon. We’ve just got to make sure she’s pointed in the right direction.”
That miffed me more than anything—the idea that I didn’t know who to kill and who not to kill. Of course I knew. I didn’t kill the sheriff when he shouted at me for eating too much, or old lady Brenda when she pinched my cheeks, though I couldn’t say the idea hadn’t occurred to me once or twice. I only killed the bad people. Raiders. Men and women who made a living preying on townies like us, who would come into town waving big guns and take whatever food and water they could find. That’s what made me a hero. Everyone in town said so.
The next day, my ma sat me down with a pencil and dirty scrap of napkin and said, “Let’s make a list.”
I was never much good at reading and writing, but I was excited to practice back then, so it seemed like a good exercise. I asked what kind of list it would be, and my ma said it was a “No-Kill List.” A list of people I would never kill, she explained. Even though I was good at killing people, and I never seemed to feel too bad about it, there had to be some people I didn’t want to kill ever, right?
Right. I wrote “Ma” immediately. Under it I wrote “Pa.” But, after a moment’s thought, I erased that one.
“What’d you do that for?” Ma asked, her smile growing strained.
“Well,” I said. “I’d never want to kill Pa, but I think I might, if I had to. If it was you or him, or me or him, I’d probably have to do it.”
It seemed reasonable to me, so I smiled and handed back the paper with only one name, but my ma seemed concerned. So, she tore up the list and proposed a new plan: We would make rules about killing, just to make sure I didn’t kill the wrong people by accident. I would only kill for necessity, and for profit.
It took me a lot of time, and one very big mistake, to realize why the rules were so important. After that, I vowed to never break them again.
Which is why, despite all my instincts screaming at me to do so, I don’t ram my car into the camp, or snipe them from a distance, or charge in with my guns blazing. Instead, I approach the camp with the intention to talk.
Of course, I approach it as quietly and stealthily as possible, because getting shot on sight isn’t conducive to having a decent conversation. And I’m not a goddamn idiot, so I still pull out my two pistols as I approach, keeping one leveled at each of their heads. By the time they notice me, I have them at my mercy.
And I realize, upon getting a better look, that I know exactly who these people are.
There are a lot of off folks in my line of work. Loners, weirdos, probably even a few psychopaths. I have no delusions about it, I know I’m definitely at home among them. But these two … these two are top-of-the-line freaks.
Cat and Bird. I’m sure at one point they must’ve had real names, but that’s all anyone calls them anymore. Cat is tall and willowy, her skin so dark it’s nearly black, her hair twisted into tight braids. She has stiff-as-a-board posture, a proud tilt to her chin. Despite a slender build, there’s nothing delicate about her; she’s all hard angles and lean muscle. Even in the act of standing up when she notices me, each movement is precise and controlled and deliberate, no energy or time wasted. She seems almost normal at first glance—pretty, even—until she smiles, displaying a pair of canines sharpened into points. From what I’ve heard, she likes to use them.
Bird, on the other hand, does some ungainly flailing and scrambling in the dust before climbing to her feet. She stands stone-still, except for a twitch every few seconds—first a tremble up her arm, then an odd jolt of her head, then a shift in her foot, like a bug is jumping around beneath her skin. Her body is wrapped in cloth, layers and layers of it stacked on top of one another and sewn together haphazardly, with flaps and scraps of fabric hanging off and fluttering around her. The top layer is a tattered, hooded brown cloak. Her patched-together outfit is all in shades of gray and brown, with an occasional deep red stain. She never seems to take off a layer, even when it’s filthy or torn. Instead, she just sews up the tears and throws on more clothes to cover it. She wears dirty gloves, at least two scarves wrapped tightly around her neck, and a pair of oversized, bright red rain boots.
But the truly strange thing about her outfit is the mask. It’s a gas mask, black and too big for her body. She peers at me now through the darkly tinted goggles, her head jerking one way and then the other.
Of all the people for me to run into, it had to be these creepy motherfuckers. Not only are the two unsettling, but their reputation is questionable at best … even among bounty hunters, which says a lot. Worse than that, we have history.
“Don’t touch those guns,” I say.
Cat meets my gaze steadily.
“Hi, Clementine,” she says, staying very still. Out of the corner of my eye I see Bird shift. I turn to her, and she freezes, one hand halfway to a knife strapped to her leg. She jerks her head toward Cat, as if seeking guidance, jerks it back toward me, a
nd flutters a hand at me in an awkward wave.
“Hands up,” I say, and she immediately throws them skyward, her fingers twitching one by one. I keep my eye on her for a few seconds before slowly turning back to Cat. She meets my eyes and runs a tongue across her sharpened teeth.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask. Normally, seeing two fellow bounty hunters wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. “Friendly” would be a stretch, but it’s not like we’re trying to kill each other … without reason.
“Nice to see you too,” Cat says. “You’re not still mad, are you?”
“No,” I say flatly. If I was still mad, I would’ve gunned them down the moment I recognized them.
“Good,” Cat says. “Because that was all a terribly unfortunate accident.”
“Accident,” Bird repeats in her muffled, high-pitched voice, mask bobbing up and down in a nod.
“Uh-huh.” A terribly unfortunate accident where they stole a mark I had spent three weeks hunting down. While I was cutting through the bounty’s men, they yanked her away and claimed the reward for themselves, later arguing that they just happened to be after the same person. “Now tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”
Silence answers me. I lower my gun to point at Cat’s leg.
“We’re hunting,” she says quickly. “Just like you, right? We’re on the same side.” She grins at me; it’s a grin I don’t like, too wide and toothy, made threatening by her sharpened teeth.
“Why are you following me?” I ask, not buying the bullshit excuse. There’s no reason for them to be hunting this far out. I guess if anyone would be willing to chase bounties west it’d be these two assholes, but my gut tells me there’s something else going on here. Or maybe I am still a little resentful about the last time they stole from me.
“Following you? Like I said, we’re chasing a bounty,” Cat says, with a casual shrug. “He fled this way.”
I eye her, mentally chewing that answer. It’s not completely unreasonable. Sometimes a bounty will run west if they know there’s a price on their head and hunters on their heels. But still …
“Whose bounty?”
“Why should I tell you?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “You’ll just try to steal him.”
“I’d say you’ve got bigger things to worry about right now,” I say, gesturing with my gun. Cat exchanges a long look with Bird, who stares at her silently.
“Fine,” she says. “We’re after Left-Hand. Heard he fled this way.”
“Oh,” I say. “Left-Hand.” I relax, rolling my shoulders back. “Well, that’s a relief. I was almost worried you were going to say something feasible, and I’d have to think a little harder about what to do with you.”
Too bad for her. I saw that name recently—right next to his famous, freshly severed hand on Alex’s shelf. So I know it’s a lie, and I know what a lie means: The only bounty she’s after is the one I’m trying to claim. These two are damn poachers, trying to take my hard-earned reward for Jedediah. I don’t know why Alex told them, or why they thought they could get the best of me, but none of that matters right now.
Cat’s eyes widen, her mouth opening. I shoot before she gets a word out.
The bullet sinks into her leg, and she goes down with a shout. Bird flings herself at me. She slams into me with a surprising amount of force for her small size, and we both hit the dirt, my back slamming against the ground. I lose my hold on one of my guns, and quickly raise the other, but she pins my arm beneath her knee and renders it useless. I grab at her with my free hand, but my fingers come away with a scrap of filthy fabric. I can’t get a good grip, or a good hit, with every inch of her protected by cloth or mask.
Bird grabs the knife off her leg and raises it. She brings it down, and I jerk aside. The blade sinks into the dirt just an inch from my head. She yanks it out and raises it again, and I grab her wrist with my free hand, grappling with her, my hand slipping on rotting cloth. I dig my nails in, trying desperately to get a hold—and when she jerks her hand away, her glove rips.
Bird freezes. She stares down at her hand, at the torn glove and the slivers of pale flesh showing through, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Then she screams. She leaps off me, clutching her wrist like her hand has been severed. She runs across the camp, emitting a loud, high-pitched wail like a siren.
I climb to my feet, pointing my gun at Cat again. She has a gun in hand, but lowers it when she sees me aiming at her. She’s swaying on her injured leg, a sheen of sweat on her forehead.
“Stop,” I say, trying to hide my own shortness of breath. I wait for her to move her hand away from her gun, then turn to Bird. The masked woman is kneeling in the dirt and has produced a roll of duct tape from her bag. As I watch, she wraps the tape around her hand, again and again and again. She continues until her skin is thoroughly hidden, and keeps going, rocking back and forth as she does it.
I return my aim to Cat, keeping my gun trained on her as I move to retrieve my other pistol from the ground. I keep that one pointed at Bird, though she doesn’t even glance up. “In the spirit of respect among bounty hunters, I’m not going to kill you,” I say. “But if you keep following me, you’ll force my hand. Got it?” I look from one to the other. “Got it?” I prompt again, gesturing with both guns. Cat, her teeth bared, nods. Bird clutches her freshly taped-up hand to her chest and trembles.
Guess that’s as good an answer I’m going to get. I back away from the two poachers, keeping my eyes trained on them. Once I’m far enough away, I turn and walk briskly back to my car. I hop in, shut the door, and sigh with satisfaction. Letting people live always makes me feel so benevolent. I pause for a moment, basking in the feeling and listening to Jedediah snore, before starting up the car again.
IX
The Western Wastes
There’s not much to see on the ride, just empty wastelands and a seemingly endless road, the monotony occasionally broken by a broken-down building or car. There are no signs of life in any of them, nor do I see anyone traveling by foot. Jedediah dozes in the passenger seat, still recovering from his night in the trunk. By the end of the day we’re far from Jedediah’s towns, and we should arrive at Saint’s tower sometime tomorrow. Just one more day having to deal with this piece of shit.
Just when I’m starting to get excited about how close we are, we hit a roadblock. I slow as we approach. The road is covered by junk, heaps of trash and twisted metal covering the entire width of it, forming an almost-solid barrier about six feet high. I roll to a stop. These kinds of blocks can easily be traps. With my truck I would ram right through, and hopefully take out a couple waiting raiders in the process, but there’s no way this shitty little car can handle it.
As I’m thinking, the gunfire starts.
Raiders pour out from behind the barrier, three on each side. Only two of them have guns, which they fire wildly at the car; the rest run straight at us, shouting and swinging blunt weapons. I duck my head, slam on the gas, and turn the wheel sharply. The car rams right into two of the approaching raiders, sending one of them rolling over the windshield and crushing the other beneath my tires. The car whines and shudders, but keeps going. I drive out into the wastes, leaving the raiders and their guns behind.
I’m not sure whether this thing is equipped to handle off-roading, but I don’t have a choice. There’s no way to know how much of the road those raiders have claimed as theirs, so it’s best to avoid it. Luckily, the wastes here are flat and empty. The car rumbles along; it’s a bumpy ride, but it holds together, and seems undamaged other than some bullet holes in the windshield.
“Ooh,” Jedediah says, sitting up in the passenger seat with his eyes bright. “What an adventure.”
I suppress a sigh. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with.
Our path is much more difficult to trace without a road to follow on the map. After driving for a couple hours, and taking additional detours to avoid possibly occupied buildings and trash heaps, I find myself uncerta
in of our location. I keep the map stretched out across the dashboard and continue glancing at it, but there are no landmarks to look for. Just flat, empty wastes, nothing but occasional shells of buildings.
After almost an hour of total uncertainty, I see a town on the horizon. I slow down, tracing a finger across the map. Based on our approximate location, there are two options: This town is either Lefton or Bramble. I gnaw my lower lip, considering my options—but really, there aren’t any feasible ones other than stopping. I’ve heard towns around here can be rough, wary, even worse than the east. But I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t handle.
“What’s this?” Jedediah asks when we stop, craning his neck to look out the window one way and then the other, finally focusing on the town ahead. “Are we here?”
I ignore him, shutting off the engine.
“We’re stopping?” he asks. For the first time, something like alarm crosses his face. “Here? A town? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
I’m not. I’ve heard that western towns can be just as dangerous as raider crews. But I need to find out where we are, make sure we’re headed in the right direction.
I get out of the car and move around to grab Jedediah. I’m tempted to throw him into the trunk while I’m in town, but I’ll probably need to get in there for supplies if the townies want to trade. Bringing him along still tied up could lead to some unwanted attention … but I definitely don’t trust him free. I settle for gagging him again, despite his protests. He digs his heels into the dirt, but I’m more than strong enough to drag him along behind me.
“The townies will stone you to death if they know who you are,” I say as we approach. “So I’d suggest laying low.”
At the edge of town, we’re greeted by three men armed with shotguns. I resist the urge to grab my own gun, though my mind is busily calculating how to survive this if it comes to a gunfight. I could always use Jedediah as a meat shield, though that would make the whole trip here pointless. Better to avoid violence, if possible.
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