Raid

by K. S. Merbeth

  And I helped him. How many times did I save his life? Risk my life for his? How many times did I propel him toward this very moment?

  Jedediah frowns at the woman who interrupted him.

  “Sh, I’m talking right now,” he says in a hushed whisper, waving his hand to silence her, and then grins again. “Anyway, welcome to the western wastes, I guess. What a shitfest, right?” He spreads his hands wide, inviting commentary now, and earns a few chuckles from his crew.

  It’s ridiculous, how they pander to him. I don’t understand. What power does this small, ridiculous man have over a crew of the best raiders in the wastes? I’m barely aware of the next couple minutes of Jedediah’s speech; I spend it watching him, studying his face and the faces of his crew. By the time he finishes, and his crew cheers for him, I feel like I’m even further from understanding him than when I started out.

  “So,” Jedediah says in a conversational tone, turning in a circle and looking at his crew. “We’re all reunited, then. Good. I think there’s just one more thing to address before we all have a well-earned rest.” He un-holsters his gun and spins it around his hand. “Which one of you had the bright idea of pretending to be me?”

  Silence falls. Jedediah looks from one face to another, and everyone avoids his gaze. He frowns at the lack of an answer, and raises his hands wide open, gun dangling haphazardly from his fingers like he’s forgotten he’s still holding it. Everyone’s eyes are trained on that weapon, my own included.

  “C’mon guys, it’s a simple question,” he says. “All the towns said Jedediah Johnson was coming through with his crew. Clearly, one of you was claiming to be me.” No one responds. Jedediah sighs, lowering his hands to his sides. He twirls his gun around one finger, looking down at his shoes. He stays like that for a long few moments, his expression pensive, and then his head jerks up. “Oh, I see. You guys think I’m going to be mad, is that it?” He laughs, a little too loudly, and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not mad, guys. I mean, I get it. You couldn’t exactly admit that I was missing, right? Would really fuck up our reputation. So instead someone had to step up, make it look like we had everything under control, right? And it worked! It totally worked.”

  I stay quiet as I watch the scene unfold, moving only my eyes to take in the lowered heads and overly stiff statures of Jedediah’s crew, so at odds with their leader’s smooth and casual movements. I have the distinct impression that everyone knows something I don’t.

  Finally, someone steps forward, separating himself from the rest of the crew. He’s a thick-necked man with his face almost entirely concealed by his hair. I’ve seen him before, I realize. He’s the other tax collector I saw, way back in Sunrise.

  “Er, boss,” he says, brushing hair out of his eyes, only to have it fall back into place the moment he lowers his hand.

  “Yes, Mop?”

  The man cocks his head to one side.

  “Boss?” he says uncertainly. “My name is—”

  “I know, I know,” Jedediah says, waving his words aside. “We’re doing nicknames now. That’s what they do out here in the west. Isn’t it cool?”

  “Oh,” the newly deemed Mop says, brushing hair out of his eyes and frowning. “Do I have to be Mop?”

  “What’s wrong with Mop?”

  “Well, it’s just—” he starts, and then halts abruptly as Jedediah stops spinning his gun. The weapon falls perfectly into place in his palm, and he taps it against the side of his leg. Mop swallows. “Never mind,” he says.

  “Anyway, what were you saying?” Jedediah asks, smiling.

  “It was Frank that did it.” He pauses and licks his lip. “We thought no one would take us seriously if they knew our leader got ’imself kidnapped an’ such. So, uh, Frank decided to say he was you.”

  “Oh? Frank?” Jedediah turns, scans his gathered crew, and points with his gun. A few people step aside to avoid the end of the barrel, but one steps forward. It’s the huge, quiet-voiced man from before, the one who I initially mistook for Jedediah. He’s as stoic as before, his shoulders braced and his face stone-like. “Is this true?” Jedediah asks, leaning his head back and squinting up at the big man. Frank lets out a long sigh, and slowly nods. Jedediah scratches his head, frowns, and glances at Mop.

  “But Frank hardly talks.”

  “Yeah, well, he only really said ‘I’m Jedediah Johnson’ a couple times, and that seemed to convince people.”

  Jedediah looks at Frank.

  Frank clears his throat. “I’m Jedediah Johnson,” he says in his quiet, gravelly voice, staring straight ahead.

  “That is pretty convincing,” Jedediah says, nodding to himself. He puts his hands on his hips and chews his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Well, if anyone was gonna step up and pretend to be me, I’m glad it was a big, handsome guy like you.” He reaches up to clap Frank on the shoulder, and then gasps with sudden excitement. “Oh, I’ve got it! Tiny! I’ll call you Tiny. It’s ironic, see? What do you think?”

  Frank grunts and shrugs, which Jedediah apparently takes as a sign of agreement, because he gives the man another excited fist-bump, his hand tiny next to the raider’s giant fist. Mop, meanwhile, seems progressively more bewildered.

  “You’re really not mad? ’Cause usually, when you say ‘I’m not mad, guys’”—he does a rather poor and high-pitched imitation of Jedediah’s voice—“it actually means you’re really mad …”

  “Oh? So you thought I was going to punish Tiny?” Jedediah asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well,” Mop says, trying again in vain to push hair out of his face. “I thought for sure you would punish somebody…”

  “Quite right,” Jedediah says, and shoots Mop in the head.

  His body teeters for a moment, topples backward, and lands in the dust with a heavy thud.

  The rest of the crew step aside to avoid the fallen body, but otherwise show no reaction—no anger, no horror, not even the barest hint of surprise. Aside from my sharp intake of breath, there’s total silence. Jedediah sweeps his eyes over his crew, nods to himself, and resumes twirling his gun.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, “but, well, you know how it is. Gotta punish somebody, y’know, and it can’t be Tiny. He’s my biggest and most favorite crew member. Everyone on board with this?” When Jedediah looks around, his crew mumbles quiet assent. Apparently deciding that’s not good enough, he whirls abruptly and points his gun at one particular man. “Yes, Eyepatch?”

  At the end of his gun is a scrawny man donning—surprise, surprise—an eyepatch over his left eye. The man gulps and stands up straighter, his visible eye bulging.

  “Right, boss!” he shouts in Jedediah’s face. Jedediah blinks rapidly.

  “Woah, ’Patch,” he says. “Relax, buddy.” He chuckles, and then turns back around. When his back turns, Eyepatch lets his shoulders slump, releasing a gust of breath like a balloon deflating.

  “Well, I’m glad we’re all on the same page,” Jedediah says. “And now …” He splits into a broad grin, putting his gun away and holding his hands up. “Let’s celebrate!”

  While the raiders celebrate, I sit locked in a basement.

  The room is dark and musty, with no windows and a single door, at the top of a set of stairs in the corner. There’s no furniture, nothing at all except dust and cobwebs. I already spent a solid thirty minutes shouting and hammering at the door with my fists. Now I sit winded and defeated in the corner, listening to the sounds of revelry above. Despite the bumpy initial reunion, the crew does seem genuinely happy to have their leader back—or else they’ve grown exceptionally good at faking it for him. And Jed seems happy to be back with them as well. I hear his voice occasionally, cheering and celebrating, cutting through the other noise to reach my ears.

  But “Jed” is wrong, I remind myself. It’s Jedediah. Jedediah Johnson. The infamous shark, the ruthless dictator. The stranger.

  The deception sits heavily in the pit of my stomach. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to beli
eve everything he told me, to grow to trust him, maybe even like him. I traveled with him. I put a gun in his hand and expected him to watch my back. I spent a cold night pressed against him. I imagined a future with us together; I let myself believe that he could be the home I was looking for.

  The all-encompassing shock has finally left my body, and in its wake, my emotions roil and churn every time I think about it. Anger. Disgust. Disappointment.

  Hurt.

  It’s been a long time since I felt that one. A long time since I let anyone get close enough to hurt me.

  I curl my hands into fists and dig my nails into my palms. I force myself to take long, slow breaths, and focus on the rise and fall of my chest until I have myself under control again.

  I can’t believe I was this fucking stupid. I thought my situation was bad before, stranded out in these hellish western lands, surrounded by raiders. Now I’ve ended up in an even worse one: held hostage by a crazy dictator who I had almost started to believe was my friend.

  I know I should be spending my time productively, trying to think of a plan, a way to escape, but it’s too hard. I’m too exhausted, body and mind. It’s hard enough to keep my thoughts from spiraling into despair. I don’t even raise my head as I hear the door open. Only when footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs do I look up and see Jedediah.

  He drops to a crouch a few feet in front of me, and places a folded blanket and a metal canteen on the floor.

  “Got you some water,” he says, pushing it toward me.

  I kick the canteen, sending it skidding back across the floor to hit his foot. He slowly slides it back toward me.

  “I know you’re upset, but you do need to drink,” he says. When I still don’t move to touch it, he shrugs. “Well. I’ll leave it here. And the blanket, in case it gets cold down here.” He scrutinizes me, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft. “I thought about keeping you in a car, but I know places like this make you feel safe.”

  The memory of that conversation, of the personal things I shared with him, sends a fresh burst of humiliation and hatred through me. I kick the canteen again, this time sending it flying across the room with a clang of metal. Jedediah rocks back on his heels, looking at the fallen canteen for a long few moments before turning back to me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I really do mean it. Things got out of hand.”

  “Out of hand,” I repeat.

  “Well, yeah,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “I mean, coming out here was part of the plan, but I didn’t expect things with Saint to happen quite like they did, and Tiny pretending to be me required some serious improvising, and … well. You know how these things are. Or maybe you don’t. I suppose you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  I stay quiet for a few moments, my anger stewing, until what he said hits me.

  “What do you mean, part of the plan?”

  “Surely you didn’t think I’d end up all the way out here by accident,” he says, half-smiling. “Give me some credit, Clem. Haven’t you heard I’m a genius?”

  I say nothing, too busy fighting back an urge to punch him. I may have hit him several times, but that was before; before I was at his mercy, before I saw him murder one of his own men for no good reason. Now I really have no clue who the man is front of me is, or what he’s capable of doing. Jedediah glances at my clenched fists, one eyebrow rising as if he’s curious to see whether I’ll do it. After a few moments pass, he stands up, brushing himself off.

  “Well,” he says. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it later. I have to get back to my party.” He walks backward toward the stairs, still keeping his eyes on me. “I would invite you, but I’m afraid that might be a little awkward for everyone involved. I’m sure you understand. Don’t worry. They’ll come around eventually.” Before I can even begin to decipher what that means, he waves at me, turns, and climbs the stairs. Without looking back again, he’s gone, leaving me even more confused than before.

  XXIV

  The Grand Plan

  I wake to the sound of the door slamming. I scramble up, pressing my back against the wall and facing the stairs. I was on the verge of giving up yesterday, but now, after a night’s rest—albeit a shitty one spent on a cold floor—I’m feeling a little differently about the situation. I’m more than ready to launch myself at Jedediah the moment he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

  But the man coming toward me isn’t Jedediah. It’s Frank—or Tiny, or whatever his name is now. He pauses as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, regarding me warily. I stare back at him. After a moment, he swings his gaze to the blanket Jedediah gave me, sitting folded and unused in the middle of the floor. His eyebrows rise slightly, though his face remains otherwise expressionless. He walks over to the canteen, lifts it up, and shakes it to judge the amount of water inside. Finding it full, he shakes his head and mutters under his breath.

  He gives me another long, searching look, picks up both the blanket and canteen, and walks over to me. I stay perfectly still as he draws near, my fists clenched. Unlike Jedediah, this man would have no problem beating me down in a fight. But he makes no aggressive moves toward me. Instead, he sets down both blanket and canteen in a slow and almost gentle way, then turns and leaves.

  When the door shuts again, I grab the canteen and pull it toward me. I open it, take a good sniff, swirl it around and sniff it again. It smells like water, and a quick taste reveals nothing out of the ordinary. It tastes like nice, clean, bottled water.

  As much as I want to reject Jedediah’s hospitality, I can’t take revenge if I end up dead of dehydration. I swallow my pride along with the water.

  As I rest and drink over the day, life gradually returns to my body—and with life, the will to fight.

  Later in the day, Jedediah comes for another visit, this time bringing a can of beans. I can smell meat cooking outside, but he didn’t bring any. A gesture intended to show that he knows me, I assume, just like the bomb shelter thing. But if he thinks he’s going to trick me into trusting him again, he’s dead wrong.

  I stay in the corner and bristle silently as he sets the opened can in front of me and sits, cross-legged, a few feet away. After a few minutes of silent standoff, the smell of food becomes too tempting. I reach out and grab the can, dragging it over to me. It’s warm, and I eat it quickly, while still keeping one eye on Jedediah. He watches me, one hand propping his chin up.

  When I’m done eating, I slam the emptied can down on the floor and stare at him. He maintains eye contact, and the corner of his mouth curls up, like he thinks we’re playing some sort of game. And maybe we are, from his perspective. Either way, I’m tired of the silence and the waiting.

  “You planned all of this?” I ask in disbelief. My voice comes out rusty from disuse, and I clear my throat. “Me taking you, ending up all the way out here.” He says nothing, just waits, and I grind my teeth. “How the fuck did you—” I start, and then stop. Everyone has always said that Jedediah Johnson is a genius … and there’s a question much more important than how he did it. “Why?”

  “Ooh, man, I’ve been so excited to explain this,” he says, his eyes lighting up. He leans forward, clasping his hands together. “Well, as you know, I had a pretty sweet setup back in Wormwood. Nice mansion, lots of towns to give me whatever I needed, plenty of guards, etcetera, etcetera. But, after a while of that, it actually got rather boring. Who would’ve thought?”

  I study his face, sure that he must be joking, but he looks earnest.

  “You got bored,” I say flatly. “Bored with … what? Having enough food and water and men to not have to worry about anything? Most people would kill for that.”

  “Well, yeah,” he says, shrugging. “It was nice for a while, but I wanted more.”

  And there’s the truth of it. He can claim boredom all he wants, but in that more, and in his eyes, is the real reason: hunger. Hunger on a scale more grand than I could even imagine.

  “When I heard what things were
like out in the west,” he continues, “I thought it sounded perfect. Total lawlessness, and so many little towns in need of my guidance … But my crew disagreed. They liked things the way they were, didn’t want to risk it all. So I thought to myself: ‘Hmm, how can I get them to follow me across the wastes?’”

  “You can’t be serious,” I say.

  “Yes,” he says, looking immensely satisfied with himself. “That’s where you came into play.”

  I stare at him. I knew Jedediah Johnson was evil, I knew he was some kind of mad genius, but I never would have expected him to be completely batshit insane. And as he spews out this fucking ridiculous plan, he’s smiling at me like we’re two friends sharing an inside joke. He doesn’t say anything else, clearly waiting for my reaction.

  “You’re out of your fucking mind,” I say.

  His smile fades, and is replaced with an expression of puzzlement and hurt. His confusion baffles me. Did he really expect me to say something different? Apparently so, judging from the wounded-puppy look he’s giving me. I guess he truly, honestly thought I would be … what, pleased? Impressed?

  “But we talked about this,” he says. “When I said the eastern wastes are better than the west, you didn’t argue.”

  “I didn’t argue that maybe life was better for the townies there,” I say, loath even to admit that. “Doesn’t mean I think you’re anything less than a power-hungry, maniacal piece of shit.”

  Jedediah sighs and sits back on his heels. He’s quiet for a couple minutes.

  “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “you and I are really quite similar when you think about it.”

  My eyebrows shoot up despite my determination not to show a reaction.

  “In the end, we both want to make the world a better place,” he says. He’s very serious now, all of the gleeful triumph from before leaving his voice. He speaks more slowly than usual, like he’s puzzling the words out as he says them. “And we both know violence is the way to do it.”