Raid

by K. S. Merbeth

  The townsman turns red. He looks back and forth between me and Jedediah, who is no longer smiling and has assumed a guarded, unreadable expression. The sheriff clears his throat, scratches the back of his head.

  “Well,” he says. “Of course we’ve heard about Jedediah Johnson. Matter of fact, we’ve been hearing a lot about him lately. Just got news on the radio this morning that he’s headed this way from the east.” He points his thumb in a direction I’m fairly certain is north, and continues. “Him ’n’ his crew just wiped a town called Lefton off the map. Says they’re coming to get back one of their crewmates who was stolen.”

  We both turn to look at Jedediah—or whoever the hell he really is. He hesitates, looking back and forth between the two of us, and smiles nervously.

  “Well, this is awkward,” he says.

  I slowly lean back, tapping one hand across my arm. I stare at Not-Jedediah, and then at the floor, and then at the sheriff.

  “Give us a few minutes alone,” I say.

  “Or not,” Not-Jedediah says quickly.

  “Sure,” the townsman says, ignoring Not-Jedediah. He leaps to his feet, looking more than eager to get away from this conversation. He glances back at us as he shuts the door behind him, leaving just me and Not-Jedediah in the cramped room.

  I stay silent for a long moment, which turns into several moments, which turns into minutes. Jedediah says nothing, either, though he keeps opening and closing his mouth like he desperately wants to. After a long deliberation, I sigh, crack my neck, and shove one leg of my pants up above my ankle. Strapped there is my favorite knife, a long, sharp, cruel thing I reserve for especially personal kills. I slide it out of its sheath, let the pant leg fall back down, and toss the knife from hand to hand while staring at the ceiling. My gaze slides to Jedediah, whose eyes are following the movements of the knife.

  “Er, so,” he says, clearing his throat, “clearly we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  “Not really,” I say. I rise to my feet and move over to where he sits. He scoots frantically away, moving until he bashes into a wooden box. He tries to stand, but can’t quite manage to do it with his hands tied together. I stand above him, looking down.

  I don’t even feel angry. The usual hot rage is missing. I just feel … cold. Purposeful.

  “So you’re not Jedediah Johnson,” I say slowly.

  “You know, technically, I never said I was,” he says, his eyes flicking from the knife to my face. Whatever he sees in the latter, he doesn’t like it. A drop of sweat paints a line through the dust on his forehead. “You just kind of assumed—”

  I crouch down and grab him by the shirt with one hand, the other bringing my knife up to his face. He freezes.

  “Tell me who you really are,” I say, deadly calm. “And the story better make sense, if you want to keep this.” I press the blade against the back of his ear, just enough for him to feel the edge. He sucks in a sharp breath, though he has the good sense not to squirm.

  “Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay, okay. Well. My name is actually Jedediah Johnson.” I apply more pressure, enough to draw a thin line of blood, and he squeaks and shuts his eyes tightly. “T-the Second, that is!”

  I pause and draw the knife back, frowning.

  “What?” I ask.

  He peeks one eye open.

  “Well, they usually call me Jed,” he says. “Jed the Second.”

  I don’t like the sound of that at all.

  “So the real Jedediah Johnson is …”

  “Good ol’ Dad,” he says, forcing a weak smile. I stare at him as the words sink in. The son of Jedediah Johnson. I have the son of Jedediah Johnson in my possession. It sounds ridiculous. I’ve never heard so much as a rumor that Jedediah even has a son … but then again, it would be in his best interest to keep that hidden, wouldn’t it? A son would be a weakness. A vulnerability.

  Of course Jedediah would hide his son’s existence. And of course he would keep him in a plush room in his headquarters, with an escape tunnel. And of course his son wouldn’t look much like a hardened raider, and of course he would be a crazy little fucker …

  The more I think about it, the more it clicks into place. Everything lines up with this explanation … and it all points to me being in some very, very deep shit right now.

  “Fuck,” I say. I sit back on my heels. With his ear no longer at my knife’s mercy, Jed relaxes and sits up.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I can imagine this is a bit of a sticky situation for you now.”

  “Sticky situation” is an understatement. Not only do I not have my hands on Jedediah Johnson, nor any hope of using him to start a new, better life for myself, but now I’m stranded in the western wastes with someone useless, worthless, and yet very dangerous on my hands. Nobody’s going to be impressed by me capturing Jedediah’s son, especially since the world doesn’t know he exists. And now I’ve got the real Jedediah Johnson, who is surely incredibly pissed off, coming for me. Not to mention the fact I went on a wild-goose chase into this godforsaken area of the wastes, and I was never going to get anything out of it in the first place, because this piece of shit isn’t the bounty I thought I had.

  I’ve taken all the risk, and I’m not getting any goddamn reward.

  “You let me believe you were your father this whole time,” I say in a low, seething voice. “You wasted my time, you risked your life … Why?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” he says, his eyes wide and earnest. “When you first showed up, I thought you’d probably shoot me if you didn’t think I was worth something. And then, once we got all the way out here, I was sure you would shoot me if you found out I wasn’t who you thought I was, so …” He shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t want to get shot.”

  “So you said nothing,” I say. “You said nothing and let me come all the way out to this godforsaken hellhole for nothing. And now I’m going to die out here, for nothing.” My voice gradually rises. I stand and grab him by the collar, dragging him up with me. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?”

  “Well,” he says hesitantly, like he hasn’t fully figured out where the sentence is going yet. His eyes dart around the room. “As far as I can tell, I’ve led us on a journey together that has actually, thus far, been pretty—” He cuts off as I shove him against the wall. “Well, it’s n-not the worst thing that’s ever happened, right?” he says, forcing a half smile. “We’ve had some good times, some good conversations—”

  My knife is at his throat in an instant. He tilts his head away from it, wincing.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he says. His eyes search my face, find it hard and cold. His chest starts to heave a little harder. “Look, I know—” I pull the knife back, raising it, and he flinches, real fear in his eyes for once. “Look, I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I’m not worth anything, but you don’t have to—” He cuts off in a yelp, squeezing his eyes shut as I bring the knife down.

  He stays with his body braced for a couple seconds, and then slowly opens his eyes and looks down at the severed ropes in a pile at his feet. He looks from them, to the knife, to me, to his chafed-raw but now freed wrists, and flexes his hands wonderingly.

  “Oh,” he says. “Well. This is a nice turn of events.” He looks up at me and smiles, immediately back to his old self. “All right,” he says cheerfully as I place my knife back in its sheath. “Now that we’ve established you’re not going to kill me, step two is probably—”

  My fist catches him right in the nose, hard, with a sound like I may have broken it. The back of his head smacks the wall behind him, and he gasps sharply. He pauses, his head leaning back, and raises a hand to wipe at the trickle of blood from his nose.

  “Um,” he says, his voice coming out thick. He wipes his bloody hand on his shirt. “Okay. Right. Should have expected that. Anyway, moving on to step three: We make up and figure out what to do next.”

  I give him a disgusted look. I can’t believe, after everything that’s happened,
he’s expecting us to just make up, as he says.

  “No,” I say. “This is step three.” I grab him by the collar again and pull him out the door. He protests all the way down the hall and through the building full of townies; they all turn to stare at us as we pass by. I ignore them, and drag Jed right out of the building, down the street, and to the outskirts of town. I shove him ahead of me, and he stumbles and falls to the ground on his side. I stay where I am while he struggles in the dust. He rolls onto his back and looks up at me, his expression almost hurt.

  “You’re free to go,” I say, and turn away. No point in dragging this situation out further. I need to talk to the townsfolk and figure out what the hell I’m going to do about this situation. I only make it a few steps before I hear Jed scrambling to his feet and following me.

  “Wait, wait,” he says, running to catch up and falling into step beside me. “That’s it? You’re just going to let me go?”

  “You’re useless to me now,” I say. “And I only kill when I have to.” I speed up, but he stays beside me, chewing his bottom lip.

  “Why can’t I stay with you?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused. I stop walking and turn to face him. He has the good sense to back out of punching range. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

  “Go back to your daddy and his crew, dipshit. Or die out in the wastes somewhere. I don’t care.” I whirl around and start walking again. No footsteps follow me, and for one blissful moment I think I’ve lost him. But soon enough he follows again, clinging to my heels like a stray dog hoping for scraps.

  “How will I get back to the east?” he asks plaintively.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” I say. “Or you won’t, and you’ll die. Once again: I. Do. Not. Care.”

  “But Clementine, I—”

  I pivot to face him again and shove him, hard. He stumbles, barely stops himself from falling, and looks at me with wide eyes.

  “Listen up, you fucking dumbass,” I say. “I’m trying very hard to be nice right now.” My voice is low, anger simmering just under its surface. “And trying very, very hard to forget that you are the reason I’m stranded out in the middle of butt-fucking nowhere, with no car, caught up in a townie-raider war that will probably get me killed. I would suggest getting out of here before I decide to stop trying, and make an exception to my kill-only-for-profit rule.”

  He’s still looking at me with confused-puppy eyes, making no move to walk away. I growl under my breath and whip my gun out of its holster, pointing it right between his eyes.

  “What exactly is hard to understand about this?” I ask, my voice rising. I don’t know what it is about this guy that pushes my buttons so hard. Maybe the fact that he can’t understand I’m trying to do him a goddamn favor and let him get out of here before shit hits the fan, when by all rights I should be putting a bullet in his head. “I’m done dealing with you, I’m done being responsible for you, I’m done looking at that stupid goddamn look on your face. Just get out of here, Jed. Fucking go.”

  Even with a gun in his face, he still just stands there looking at me with that pathetic, dumb-ass expression. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at this point; the man clearly has no sense of self-preservation. The idea of pulling the trigger becomes more and more tempting. After a few seconds, I force myself to lower the barrel. When I walk away this time, Jed doesn’t follow.

  Back inside, I find the sheriff talking to his people. I must’ve missed some kind of inspiring speech, because people are smiling and clapping all of a sudden, and he’s saying something about defending their home and putting up a fight when no one expects them to. My mood only further sours. I stand apart from the townies, leaning against the wall, and grind my teeth as I watch the sheriff deal out weapons and rations. Townsfolk smile and thank him as they get their share.

  Don’t these people realize that they don’t have a chance? Do they really think these weapons will do anything for them when the raiders get here, or that rationing the food and water will make any difference? As if they need to save it … As if any of them will be alive to use it past tomorrow. This level of delusion is pitiful, and the sheriff’s cheeriness is only making it worse.

  I wait until the sheriff is alone, his people sated, before approaching him. As soon as he sees me coming, he jerks his head at the back room, and I follow him there.

  “Surprised you aren’t long gone,” he says.

  Me too, to be honest. But I’m not going to leave without attempting to get the reality of this situation through the man’s thick skull.

  “You’re going to get your people killed,” I say bluntly. He regards me silently, with no visible reaction. “I’m being straight up with you because you seem like a decent man,” I continue. “You and your people will die here. You have no chance. You’d be lucky to handle one raider crew, let alone a dozen of them.”

  The sheriff doesn’t look surprised at what I say, or defiant, or anything much at all. Instead he just looks weary. Out of the view of his people, he seems suddenly deflated, the shadows around his eyes darker, his shoulders slumping.

  “You think I don’t know that?” he asks. “You think I honestly believe we’re going to win this fight?” He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not an idiot. But what else am I supposed to do?”

  “Run,” I say. “Now’s not the time for pride, or sentiment about this place, or whatever the fuck is holding you here. Just run.”

  He shakes his head again.

  “Me and my people have spent less time in this town than we spent walking here,” he says. “We still haven’t recovered from the journey. We’re tired. I’m tired. And we have children, and elderly, and sick. We don’t have the supplies to make it anywhere in time, and even if we did, we’d be run down before getting there.”

  “Leave anyone who can’t travel, then,” I say. It seems obvious to me. “No point in everyone dying. If a few can be saved, then save them.”

  “We’re a community,” he says, gently, like he doesn’t expect me to really understand. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  I wish I didn’t understand, but I do. It stirs up memories of a time when I had a town to call home, and people who I never would’ve left behind. As much as I hate to admit it, I know that’s something worth fighting for, even if it’s stupid to do so. I let out an irritated huff, fold my arms over my chest, and glare at him.

  “So what?” I ask. “You’re just going to give up?”

  “No. I wasn’t completely bullshitting out there. We’re going to make a last stand. We’re gonna take out as many of the bastards as we can, and we’re gonna die with dignity.” He raises his chin, defiant, like he’s daring me to tell him that it’s pointless. It is pointless, but I know that telling him that won’t get me anywhere.

  “You’re lucky if you take out one raider for every three of you,” I grumble. But there’s no real venom behind the words, and the sheriff relaxes.

  “I’m not asking you to stay, lady,” he says.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, with a long sigh. “Tell me what your plan is.”

  XII

  Defense of the Nameless Town

  The sheriff’s plan, as it turns out, is a halfway decent one. We do disagree on some points—he thinks the elderly, children, and anyone else unable to fight should hide, while I think that’s pointless—but ultimately, the man is sharper than I would’ve guessed. He and his people construct a wall at the side of town facing Saint’s former headquarters. There’s plenty of junk lying around town, and the townies drag out all the furniture they have as well. Chairs, beds, all of it—there’s no point in keeping any of this stuff, because if the wall falls, they won’t have much use for it anyway. I spend some time constructing the wall, meanwhile concocting my own plan in my head. After an idea hits me, I grab the first person in my line of sight: a gangly, awkward-looking teenage boy with a tuft of messy hair. He jumps when I grab his arm, and stares at me all wide-eyed and pale faced.

  “You. Wha
t’s your name?” I ask. He looks around wildly, as if I could be talking to someone else, and gulps.

  “Wyatt,” he says, his voice halfway to a whimper.

  “Okay, Wyatt.” I toss him my ammo bag, which he barely manages to catch. “Help me find a good spot to shoot people from.”

  Despite all of his stuttering and blushing and struggling to form a coherent sentence, Wyatt ultimately pulls through. He leads me to the roof of a nearby one-story building to set up. I can already see the mob of raiders on the horizon, approaching slowly, all on foot.

  I recruit townsfolk to help me drag up the junk they can spare. Some splintered boards, a rusty car door, and a couple blankets become my makeshift barricade. I set it up on the edge of the roof and deposit my supplies behind it. The townsfolk ogle my guns and ammo supply, practically drooling at the sight of how much ammunition I have. Luckily they have the common sense not to ask about using any of it. I may be here to help, but I sure as hell am not sacrificing any of my guns in the process. I fought, sweat, and bled for each and every one of them, and there’s no way I’m letting a single piece out of my sight.

  From my spot on the roof, I have a good view of both the townies below and the raiders approaching town. The townies are lined up behind their wall. Every able-bodied man and woman is there, armed with whatever they could find. About half of them have guns—better than I would’ve expected—while the others are using knives, metal pipes, broken bottles, and a variety of other objects that could potentially kill someone. They all look nervous, as they should. But the sheriff, to his credit, is doing his very best to hold it together. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t complain, doesn’t despair, and does his best to keep his people from doing those things too. I can see the way he bolsters their morale. No wonder these people followed him across the wastes to settle here. He could’ve been a great leader, and this place a great town, if not for their shit luck. Maybe I could’ve settled here, if things had been different. Maybe this could’ve been home. The thought makes a lump rise in my throat, and I clear it, trying to focus my thoughts on the fight to come.