by Katie French
If he hurt her…
I aim my gun and square my shoulders.
His head slips back before I can get a clean shot.
Pressin’ the gun to my chest, I breathe in and out slowly, makin’ no sound. Ain’t no sense in rushin’. The quick and the dead ain’t always polar opposites. Sometimes, the quick are just as dead.
Long minutes pass. I hear him shift uncomfortably. He’s convincin’ himself there was no one in the hallway. That it was only a rockslide or a rat. Soon, he’ll give up the waitin’.
Sure enough, his head peeks around the pillar again. Just a glimpse before he pops his skull back behind cover. He’s testin’ the waters. In a minute, he’ll do more than dip a toe in.
“Clay?” calls a voice from the open doorway. “Where are you?” Betsy calls, pokin’ her head in the open blast doors. The red emergency lights make her cheeks ruddy.
She’s a perfect target. A sittin’ duck.
Pillar man thinks so, too. He leans around his hidin’ place and aims at her.
I pull my trigger.
My shot catches him in the chest, though a little higher than I wanted. Blood spurts in a red fountain as the bullet rips through his flesh. He yelps, graspin’ at a wound he wasn’t expectin’. But the shot ain’t clean. He’s wounded bad, sure. But not bad enough. He whirls toward me, tryin’ to suss out where the shot came from, but I’m tucked back in my corner again, safe from his vantage point.
But Betsy ain’t safe. The fool girl crouched into a ball when the shot went off, but she didn’t take cover. She stands like a cow before slaughter, holding her ears and tremblin’.
“Get down!” I yell at her.
A bullet smashes into the wall inches from my head. Bits of concrete pepper my face and neck. I pull back tight.
“I’ll kill her!” he shouts. “I’ll blow the top of her head off and watch her brains ooze out. You can watch, too!”
Betsy sobs and trembles. She doesn’t even have the sense to get out of the way.
“You think I care?” I say, keepin’ my voice level. The less he thinks I care about her, the better her chances are.
“You do care or you wouldn’t’ve shouted at her to get down!”
He sounds mad now, insane. His wound hurts like a bitch, I know. He’s over there wantin’ me to hurt like he’s hurtin’. With all that blood he’s losin’, he’s gettin’ desperate. “I swear to Christ I’ll shoot her in the guts!”
He fires, strikin’ the ground near Betsy’s feet. She screams and runs around like a headless chicken.
“Next go her knees!” he screams.
“Fine!” I shout. “What do you want?”
“You come out and toss me your gun. Then I’ll let you two go.”
Lies. He’ll shoot me in the guts. Betsy, too. What kind of gunslinger would I be if I watched him shoot a woman to bits while I hide in a corner?
“I’m comin’.” I walk out, my gun aimed harmlessly at the ceilin’ and my hands up. From behind his pillar, the top of his buzzed haircut peeks out and then tucks back in.
“Clay, don’t,” Betsy sniffles.
I take another step toward the room’s center, my eyes on his pillar about fifteen feet away.
“Toss your gun!” he yells.
“Sure, sure,” I say. “But first, do I got your word you’ll let us go?”
“Right,” he says, his voice dry. “Now toss it.”
I crouch down, the gun in my hand. Going slow. Slow. I focus on the solidness of the gun in my hand, the steady beat of my heart. My eyes are locked on the spot where his head will appear.
The fuzz on the top of his head appears from behind the pillar. Then his eyes.
I wait.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yells. “Toss it.”
“I want you to let the girl go first. Let her run off, and then I’ll toss it.”
His hand appears, wavin’ the gun wildly. “I don’t have time for this! Toss the gun or I blow her guts out.”
Blood runs down his wrist and drips from his fingers.
“You won’t blow her guts out,” I say coldly. “You’re chicken.”
“What did you say?” he asks, his voice as cold as mine. The shriek is gone. Replacin’ it is the cold steel of pride.
From my crouch, the gun still in my lowered fist, I smile a little. “I said you’re chickenshit. You can’t shoot a woman. You’ll shit your pants before you can pull the trigger.”
“Watch me!” The man steps out from behind the pillar. His face is ghastly white and his shirt is stained red. When his eyebrows angle down and his lips pull back from his teeth, he looks like a dog about to bite. His finger curls around the trigger as he points the gun at Betsy’s heart.
From the ground, I aim and pull faster than you can say lightnin’. Before he can turn his head my way, his gun blasts out of his hand and clatters to the floor.
There’s a beat before the man realizes his hand is hit. He stares at the bone and mangled flesh, eyes bugged out like he can’t quite believe.
He opens his mouth to scream, and I fire again. He falls backward and disappears into the dark.
Once the ringin’ in my ears subsides, I hear Betsy’s shrieks from the doorway. She’s makin’ a aaaiieee, aaaiieee sound like a tortured rabbit.
I walk over and clamp a hand on her mouth. “Shut up,” I say. “You didn’t listen, and you almost got us both killed. You gonna listen now?”
She nods beneath my hand. I pull it away. Her face is a map of blotchy islands in a sea of tears. “Go back where I told you. Stay with Ethan. Don’t make me tell you again.”
She runs through the door and outside.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
A sound from the back of the dark room brings my gun in that direction. I freeze, listening again, but there’s nothing. I can’t assume everyone in here is dead, but I don’t got time to find every red-necked gunman or wounded undergrounder in the place. I need Riley.
Still, it feels like someone’s watchin’ me.
There’s no time. I pick a dark hallway and run down it, picturin’ Riley’s face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Riley
I stare across the dormitory, not really believing my eyes. “Bran, is that you?”
He smirks, but he still hasn’t lowered his gun. “Aye. Takes more’n a few critters to end ol’ Bran.”
I look him over, trying to see signs of the creatures’ attack, but I find none. There’s not a scratch on him. In fact, he looks healthier and cleaner than I last saw him, with a trim beard, combed hair pulled back in a low ponytail, and a clean T-shirt that shows off his blue, swirling tattoos. For an old man, he looks pretty imposing with his gun aimed at my chest. “What happened to you?” I ask.
Beside me, Corra warily looks at him.
Bran tips an imaginary hat to Corra. “We’ve been watching you fer a while, Dr. Washington. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
Corra stares openmouthed. “Last I heard, you were taken. What are you doing back in my compound?”
Bran shows a row of yellow teeth. “Doesn’t look like it’s yours anymore. Under new management, so to speak. Caught ya with your panties down, did they? No matter. We don’t care who owns the compound. All we want is the bugger under your shirt, Riley.”
This is madness. I start to raise my gun, but Bran takes a step forward. “Drop yer guns! I swear to the mother Mary I’ll fill ya full a lead. Drop ’em!”
“Okay, okay,” I say, lowering my gun. Inside my shirt, Peanut yips and shifts around.
Bran’s face lights up as he peers at the lump under my shirt. “Kick over the guns and then hand over the critter.”
I stoop, set the gun on the ground, and kick it to him. It slides across the concrete floor and lodges somewhere under a bunk. Corra does the same. I put a protective arm around Peanut. “You have the guns. Now leave us be.”
Bran walks forward, his gun still trained on us. “Gonna need the critt
er. Killin’ you is just part and parcel of the job. Sorry. Them’s my marchin’ orders.”
“So, this was all just a ruse? Who do you work for?” I ask, stalling for time. Maybe Dennis will find us, however unlikely that is.
“I work for the land o’ the free, the home of the brave. The only place left in this shite world governed by a democracy. And they’ve taken an interest in your experiment, Washington. They’d like to see for themselves. And I make my wages delivering what they want. I thought you had them at Kirtland. I was shocked to hear the beasties were here.”
Corra’s jaw trembles with rage as she answers Bran. “The Free Colonies?”
Bran nods.
“If they’re so free and brave, why send a coward like you?” she hisses. “Why take innocent lives?”
“We didn’t blow up your dome. That was some other muckshits. Seems like you’ve got a lot of enemies.”
With tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, Corra straightens her shoulders. “I’ll make a thousand enemies before I give up my work. That”—she points to Peanut under my shirt—“may be the only chance humanity has left. I’ll die before I’ll let you take it.”
Bran nods. “Right. Like I said before. Now turn around and kneel. Let’s get this over with.”
Stall, stall, stall. “Wait! How did you get out of the strip mall? We thought you were dead.”
“They attacked me, sure. Tore my damn shirt off and a chunk of me hide, too. But I fought my way out and saw it as my best chance to bugger off.”
“So, you sell yourself to the highest bidder? Don’t really care who you hurt in the process. What about my aunt? How will she feel when she learns you’ve killed her niece?”
Bran’s face tightens. “Ah, Bell. It t’was a shock to see her after all these years. But alas, the rent must get paid, molly. Sorry.”
Trembling with rage, I glare at him. “You’re not one bit sorry.”
He shrugs. “Hand over the critter. Let’s not drag this out.”
I stand stock-still. “Come and get her.”
He growls under his breath and stalks toward me. With one hand, he shoves Corra to her knees. Then he whirls on me, towering in a wall of muscle, stinking of smoke and sweat. My eyes flick from his thick arms, to the veins popping out at his neck, to the blue tattoo curling over his forearm. He pushes the gun into my temple until it hurts. Then he leans in so close his beard tickles my cheek. “Hand. Over. The. Maggot. Or I shoot her”—he nods to Corra— “and you can watch her bleed out.”
My throat constricting, I hold Peanut tight. I can’t hand her over. She’s just a baby. Tears roll down my cheeks. The gun pushes against my temple so hard my head begins to throb. “Don’t do this.”
“Your choice.” Bran turns the gun and points it at Corra.
“Don’t!” I yell.
The door thwacks open. Bran lifts the gun to the figures streaming in. Three grimy men aim back at him, and behind them is a huge, bald man with a latticework of scars around his neck. He pulls in a woman, gripping her by the forearm. My aunt.
“Auntie!” I shout.
Gun barrels move between Bran and me. Behind the wall of men, Auntie gives me a nod. She looks awful—covered in grime and soot, a cut clotted with blood and dirt on her cheek. Her clothes are filthy and torn, and her long braid is flecked with rubble. What in the world happened to her?
The tension is heavy.
Across the room, the big man presses a hand to his scarred throat and speaks in a slow, garbled voice. “Drop… your… weapon.”
Bran shakes his head, the handgun scanning between the three men with guns. They’re a ragtag bunch with dirty clothes, grimy faces, and an assortment of guns. One has a sawed-off shotgun, one has a very old-looking revolver with a long barrel, and the last has one of Corra’s new-age handguns, the same as the one I kicked under a bunk somewhere. If I could get to my gun and find cover, maybe I could get us all out of here. But Auntie’s on the other side of the room and Corra kneels on the floor beside me, stunned.
The bald man with the neck scars speaks again. “Drop… your weapon. Or… we fire.”
Bran curls his lip back in a fierce sneer. “You fire, and I fire. We’ll see who walks away.”
Is this a bluff? If the men take him up on it, we’ll all be dead. Mike can’t want his men shot, but there’s three of them and only one of Bran. I’d be happy if they take each other out, but we’d be caught in the crossfire.
“No one needs to fire,” Corra says, standing up. Her lips tremble with rage. “Mike, you’ve destroyed this place, killed my people. Your work is done, isn’t it?”
A slow smile creeps up Mike’s face. “Now… we’re even,” he says in his raspy voice.
Corra curls her lip. “No. But we will be.”
She lunges for Bran’s gun, her hands fumbling for the trigger. Bran fires, the explosion loud, echoing through the concrete room. On the other side, the men start to fire at us across the dormitory, loud pops, bullets that zing past, blasting behind me and thudding into the wall. A bullet smashes a clock, sending glass shards raining down. Another pings off a bed’s metal railing and one sinks into a mattress, spraying a puff of foam into the air.
Gripping Peanut, I dive sideways.
I fall hard, hitting the concrete with my shoulder and sliding behind one of the metal bunk beds. Pain flares up my arm and down my ribs, but I force my throbbing body up and crawl as low as I can with Peanut gripping my belly, letting the bunk bed shield me. I have to get to Auntie, but she’s all the way on the other side of the room. I look up and see Mike’s men crouched behind a bunk on the far side. Two are taking turns firing shots at Bran, who is also crouched low somewhere. I can’t see the third shooter. Maybe he’s been hit. I look back and don’t see Corra. Across the room and the rows of bunks, I spy the top of someone’s gray head. There she is. Auntie.
Crawling alongside the bunk, I get to the end of my row and begin scrambling down the hallway between bunks, heading for Auntie. Heading for the men with guns, too, but I don’t think about that. On my hands and knees, no one seems to notice me as they fire back and forth. I crawl past three rows of bunks and look up. One of Mike’s shooters holds a wounded arm. The other is reloading with fumbling fingers. As I watch, Mike steps out from behind his bunk cover and whips one of his knives toward the other end of the room. I hear a muffled cry. Bran might be hit. Is he dead?
When I get to the end of the row and peer under the bottom bunk, I see Auntie. She lies on her belly. When she looks up at me, I signal to her and mouth, Get ready. I’m coming.
As the sound of gunfire dies down, I count to three. Clutching Peanut with one hand, I crouch low and run toward Auntie. I streak into the open, cringing as my body leaves the cover of the bunks. I glance down the aisle to see if Bran is aiming at me, but when I look back, someone stands in my path. One of the gunmen has his eyes locked on me. His gun travels up as his face constricts with the knowledge I’m about to pounce.
Running, I smash my elbow into his arms as he tries to aim. The gun clatters to the floor. Before he has time to block, I drive my palm into his nose. Whirling around, I kick my leg out and knock away his feet. I hear his body thud on the floor as I turn and ready myself to fight the other guard.
Before I can even locate the other guard, a gunshot sounds across the room. The guard in front of me jerks back, one hand snapping to his chest. His dirty, scarred face contorts as the gun falls from his hands. He drops to his knees as blood fills the spaces between his fingers.
When I look back, I see Bran slinking behind his bunk. He used my attack as an opportunity to shoot the guards, but he didn’t fire on me. I don’t have time to think this over because Mike steps into my path. In his hands, he clutches two very long, very sharp knives.
I cover Peanut, crouching down to make her a small target as Mike pulls his arm back, preparing to throw a knife.
Tightening my body, I will it to protect the child trembling beneath my shirt.
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Mike throws the knife, but not at me. I watch it sail through the air, end over end, and bury itself into Bran’s chest.
Bran is stunned, looking down at the handle protruding out of his chest just right of his breastbone. He raises his gun to fire, but can’t seem to get his arm up. His limbs sag, and his grip on the gun loosens. He staggers forward, smashing into the bunk and then rolling to the ground.
Mike watches, smiling as Bran dies. When he’s satisfied Bran isn’t moving, he turns toward me, knife in hand, ready to throw. So when I pull the trigger on the gun in my hand, he looks very surprised.
The bang is loud. The shotgun kicks back hard, jarring me. The scatter of the shot is wide, peppering Mike’s middle, blasting him backward with amazing force.
I shot him. I… killed him.
Trembling, I walk over, the sawed-off shotgun in my numbing hands. On the concrete, Mike stares at me. His eyes flick to me and then back to the ceiling as he twitches and jerks. His hands grip at his stomach, which is a mess of tattered shirt, blood, and gore. I watch his bloody fist grab at his shirt, bunch it between his fingers, and release it again.
I drop the shotgun with a clatter to the concrete as the urge to vomit creeps up my throat.
“Riley,” my auntie croaks, climbing out of her crouch.
“Is it over?” My ears are ringing. The world is spinning. I grip a bunk. “Is it over?” I ask again.
She licks her ash-stained lips. “Darling. It’s never over.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Riley
Auntie sits me down on a bunk and covers me with a blanket. She tells me I’m in shock. I shake my head, push the blanket off, and feel for the lump under my shirt. “Peanut? Are you okay?”
She lifts her head from where it rests on my chest. She’s shaking like a leaf, but there doesn’t appear to be a scratch on her. That tiny face and wide eyes loosen something inside me, like a knot untying. I hug her, fighting tears. “We’re okay. You’re okay.”
