“There’s only me.”
“Sure, sure.” Conrad checked the wall clock. “Is he usually this late?”
Her lips quivered. She was trying to fight off a smile.
“Ah. Confident.”
“What happened to your hand?” she asked.
He looked down at it, a palm heavily wrapped in gauze. Conrad glanced up. Now it was his turn to smile.
“A friend of mine gave me this, the first time we met. I…well, I guess it was his version of a handshake.”
“Some friend.”
“Yeah, I guess I know how to pick em.” Again he stood and walked to the window. Nothing. He returned to his seat. “At least my friends are punctual. I’m gonna make a pot of coffee. You want some?”
~
They stayed up until daybreak. They ate. They played cards. He taught her setback and she helped him brush up on crazy eights. The dreaded killer with the nasty scar decided not to make an appearance. Eventually, Justine softened enough for him to glean some information out of her. Conrad had presumed correctly: she had been with Zeke. However, the q-zone’s most legendary killer had vanished just over a week ago. He’d dropped Justine at the steps of some rich caretaker, with the promise that he’d return.
Justine hadn’t taken him at his word. She’d sought him out.
But, Zeke was nowhere to be found. So, after seven days of searching, Justine had offered herself up as bait, in the hopes that Zeke would swoop in and save her, just like old times. It was a flimsy, reckless plan, which Conrad supposed was befitting a teenage girl.
Just to play it safe, they stayed up all night. When the sun finally rose, Conrad had thrown back three cups of Joe and suffered a surprising number of losses at setback. The girl was a quick learner.
“I didn’t peg you for having the Jack there. It was a mistake on my part.”
“Well,” she replied, shuffling. “Play better.”
He cracked a smile. Justine dealt, three cards each, then another three each. Conrad passed the bid—the deck was ice cold for him right then—and Justine bid two in diamonds.
“Four, please,” Conrad said. He held his cards in his left hand, keeping the injured right one by his side.
“Dealer takes three,” she said, dealing out the cards. She led with the ace, of course. Conrad had lucked out and drawn two trump, but they were both trash. He’d need to play defense and protect his lone meaningful card—the deuce of diamonds—hoping to sneak it in at some point. Maybe he could use it to scoop some points for game as well and…
Outside, in the distance, came a revving engine. A motorcycle.
The cards slipped from Conrad’s hand.
“You need to hide,” he said. “Now.”
~
Ten minutes later, the Kid waltzed through the front door. And there sat Nathan Conrad, in his usual chair, with his back to the wall. Playing solitaire.
Immediately, the Kid sized up the room, as he did with every one he walked into, lips ever curled into a half-smile. This one was always looking for a fight, always looking to dance around an opponent, embarrass him, and then escape without a scratch. His fraternal twin pistols clinked at his hips as he walked, those Colts: silver and shined up so they’d damn near glint in the sun.
“This what you do when I’m not around?” the Kid asked. “Fuck. Your life seems boring.”
“Hello to you too.”
“How’s the hand?”
Conrad glanced up from his game, scowled at the Kid, and then looked down again.
“You gonna sit or what?”
“Chill out, Nate. I’m getting around to it.”
Nate. He’d always hated that name.
The Kid checked his teeth in the hallway mirror, then sauntered into the kitchen. The Kid flipped the chair opposite Conrad around and then mounted it, arms dangling off the front. He pushed his white sunglasses up into his hair.
“Your symptoms?”
“Same as before. Maybe twice a week I have one of those flare ups where the Pulse goes wild. Other than that, it’s pain beneath the surface. Wrists, back, gums. Gums are the worst. Some nights I feel like I’m growing fangs.”
“Fangs might look good on you. It’d at least give you a little more edge than whatever…this is,” the Kid said, making a waxing motion with his hand over Conrad’s form.
“You sure know how to charm me.”
“It’s a gift.”
“That can’t be all,” Conrad said. He’d still hardly looked up from his cards. The start of the game had been promising, but two of the aces had yet to appear, and his deck was growing thin. “I’ve never known you to roll out of bed before noon.”
“Maybe I’m on an all-nighter.”
“Could be.”
“You look like you could use some sleep yourself.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted, half paying attention.
“Mother knows about you.”
Conrad froze, suddenly. He set down the deck and looked up.
“Why the fuck would you-”
“Chill, man. There’s nothing I could’ve done. It was like…like she knew already. You don’t know her, man. She’s spooky like that. But, anyway, she wants you.”
“Already been married once.”
“No, fuck stick. Like for the Bloodline. She wants you to earn the brand. You’re gonna need to cap a q-soldier to do it. They’re becoming harder to find, but I figure we can set a forest fire or something, lure some of em out, and then mow a few down. Bring her three helmets instead of one, show the boys at the Armory you really aren’t one to fuck with.”
“And then what?”
“Well, I figured we can drag another bed to the basement level. You can shack up with me and Leon. Some of the boys can move your stuff from here. Maybe we’ll get you some new clothes, so you can look the part and not like some model for Ranch Hand Illustrated.”
“And what if I don’t want it?”
“Like…you can keep your clothes. But, it’d be way cooler if-”
“No. What if I don’t want any of it?”
The Kid was silent a moment.
“Nate, this ain’t a request. You know the ultimatum. Don’t let your pride get in the way of this.”
“Pride,” Conrad sneered. “You don’t know me at all, do you?”
The Kid stared at him, mouth agape. He shook his head.
“You don’t know what you’re saying. There’s been sightings. The Maiden is out there, and Mother’s put me in charge of finding her. I could use your help. You’re smart, and you know this town better than me.”
“What happens when you find her?”
“The fuck do you think happens? I put her down. Mother’s predicted it. This is the gun that kills the Maiden, she said.” The Kid tapped the pistol on his hip. “This gun here, it’s gonna make me immortal. I’m gonna save the world.”
“Killing a defenseless girl. Heroic.”
“She’s not defenseless. Last I heard, she was running with Zeke. Not to mention that the bitch is carrying a supervirus that’ll infect the whole damn planet. You ask me, I think she’s the fucking antichrist.”
Conrad placed down the deck of playing cards.
“Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“Show me the gun you’re going to kill her with.”
The Kid remained still for a moment. He licked his lips and then reached for the holstered gun at his right hip. He drew it, the big Colt six-shooter, and then placed it on the tabletop between them. Conrad grabbed it.
He glanced up once at the Kid as he turned it over in his hands. The Kid had inscribed a name into the barrel of each of his guns.
“The .45, the smaller, newer one, I call Luck. That one in your hands, he’s the business gun. I call him Johnny U.”
“The business gun,” Conrad repeated.
He ran a hand along the Kid’s darling pistol. The weapon had a good weight to it. Sleek but curvy, glinting in the right light. Beautiful and dead
ly, like a femme fatale.
“Which one bit me last time?” Conrad asked.
“Luck. You wouldn’t have a hand if I’d shot you with Johnny U.”
He felt the weight of the gun in his hand.
“And if I say no? Then what?”
“Mother wants you as her own, or not at all. She knows you’re dangerous.”
“She’ll send some goons?”
“No. She’ll send her best gun. The only one she’s got who’s better than you.”
The Kid’s right shoulder dipped ever so slightly. Beneath the table, Conrad knew that the Kid was positioning his hand beside the other holstered gun. Conrad pulled back the hammer.
“You think you’re fast enough? I’ve already got mine out.”
“When you were in the prime of your life, I was still better than you. I’m a quicker draw, a better shot. There was never a time in your life that you were faster than me, Nate. As talented as you are, you’re outclassed. You’re sitting with a blue chipper.”
In silence, they stared each other down a long moment. Conrad could hear the Kid’s breaths. They watched one another, searching for a micro-motion. The slightest twitch, to send the whole thing into action. The Kid stared, wide-eyed. Regardless of his true feelings, adrenaline had taken over. In that moment, he wanted it.
Conrad pushed forward the hammer. Cat-quick, the Kid snatched the gun from his grasp and slipped it back into the holster.
“You’re funny,” the Kid said. He shook his head. “Real funny.”
From the other side of the house came the muffled noise of something shifting. Conrad began to speak, hoping the Kid hadn’t noticed.
“Wait. Is someone else here?”
“No. Just us.”
The Kid settled into his chair. His eyes were off to one side, as if he were focused on listening. He looked back at Conrad. Then, suddenly, he twitched forward, as if he meant to leap from his seat. Conrad jumped halfway to his feet.
“Aha! So, there is someone here!” the Kid said, grinning. He shot to his feet. “What, a woman? It is isn’t it? Nate! You dirty dog! I figured someone as miserable as you couldn’t possibly be getting any, but maybe I was wrong. Fuck, man! Sarah would be rolling over in her grave. Knowing you’re out here getting pussy, not a year after…alright fuck, I’m kidding. I’m kidding. So, who is this broad? Where’d you find her? Uh? Let’s bring her out.” The Kid began to walk towards the living room. “Hey! Honey! You got room for one more!”
“Wait…”
“I’m coming your way!”
“Knox!” The name seemed to echo through the house. It stopped the Kid in his tracks. “I’ll think about your offer. Just go, now. This one ain’t for you.”
The Kid glanced towards the other room. He donned his sunglasses again.
“Sleep on it. High noon tomorrow, meet me at the Armory.”
“I need a week.”
“Two days. Be smart, Nate. Or else don’t be here when I get back.”
~
At midday, he was back in the car. Justine was with him. This time, her wrists weren’t bound. She road shotgun, resting her head on a closed fist as she stared out the window. They cruised through the hilly roads of Ridgewood. Conrad slowed the car to a halt. He pulled the journal from his coat pocket, turning to the back jacket. She’d told him the coordinates, and he’d jotted them down.
“On the left,” she said.
“What left?”
“Go off the left side of the road. There’s a gravel path. Through the trees.”
Conrad put the car back in drive.
She was right. It was a bumpy ride, and when they finally popped out into the clearing his car was littered with fallen leaves and wayward branches. He activated the wipers to get them off the windshield. They stopped before a sprawling manor, tucked amongst the trees. To the left of it was a large pond, with four weeping willows along the edges. They seemed to bend at the waist, dipping their dreadlock-like hair into the water. Swampland monsters frozen in time in that fetal pose.
They parked and rounded the car, popping the trunk. Her backpack was inside, recovered from a safe house along the way. She asked him not to follow her down that stairwell to claim whatever she’d left, and he did as he was told. Now, she unzipped her backpack, and had begun to apply makeup to her face and neck. Apparently, Zeke had left her a disguise.
She saved the contact lenses for last. Blood-red, like a carrier.
“How do I look?”
“Diseased,” he replied.
She cracked a smile. They stood face to face, a gentle breeze pushing past them, with the manor as a backdrop.
“You could’ve handed me over to your friend. But, you didn’t.”
“Yeah.” He massaged the outer edges of his injured hand.
“Do you believe what they say? That I caused all this?”
“I don’t have proof for or against it. I don’t think that’s enough reason to sentence you to die.”
“Mm.”
“Do me one favor. Don’t leave the quarantine zone, Justine. Even if you have the chance.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
She lowered her eyes and swallowed hard.
“I won’t.”
~
That night, he couldn’t sleep. He grunted as he stood from his bed, more out of habit than from actual discomfort. Of late, his old aches and pains seemed to have dissipated. Save for his throbbing jaw and injured hand, he felt twenty years old again. Life’s little miracles.
In a white tank top and worn out mint green slippers, he made his way to the kitchen. He’d planned to wait a few hours before making the preparations, but he was here, so, screw it. No time like the present.
He picked a mug and filled it with water, then placed it on the tabletop. His pistol was where he’d left it, duct-taped beneath the table for an occasion just like this. Nathan Conrad wasn’t afraid, not really. It felt better, knowing that she was out there, knowing that at least one of the legends was true. If this truly was his last night on this earth, so be it. But, he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.
The Kid was going to have to earn it.
So, he practiced. He threw over a dozen full cups of water and drew his pistol, making it more succinct each time. When he was satisfied, he made himself a meal worthy of his predicament. Steak. He hadn’t had steak in ages. He thawed it in water and cooked himself a rib-eye for the first time in ages. Medium-rare. He ate the whole thing in one sitting. No side of potatoes, no A1 steak sauce. Just meat. When he was through, he sat back in his seat and was unable to hold back a belch. It made him laugh.
After that, on his recliner in the living room, Conrad did the old newspaper crosswords. He’d done as best as he could to erase the ones he’d done in pencil, which was all of them, but the smudges remained, giving him little hints. It wasn’t so much a thinking exercise as it was jogging his memory. Each puzzle took two minutes tops. He wrote the letters in without stopping, hardly even bothering to raise his pencil. Then he turned to the sports section.
According to this paper, the Cavaliers had beaten his Knicks, for the seven hundredth straight time. 104-92. LeBron James led all scorers with 35, Kyrie Irving chipped in 26. He imagined the players putting up the exact same stat line, night after night, as they defeated the same opponent in exactly the same fashion. After enough times in a row, it must have felt like the Globetrotters taking on the Generals. That air of inevitability, how no matter how many little runs they’d get on in the second half, no matter how close the score got, it was always going to end the same way. He had a funny thought then. He’d scanned this same box score maybe a hundred times, but he was certain he hadn’t actually seen the game.
In the bathroom, he washed his face and caught his own eye in the mirror, giving that familiar visage of his a long look. As he wiped his face dry, he began to hear that horrible sound. A motorcycle in the distance, like rolling thunder. Knox.
Conrad s
tarted a kettle on the stove and then checked the front window, just as they pulled into view. He’d hoped the Kid would come alone, but it made sense to bring backup. Conrad unlocked the deadbolt, then the knob, and returned to the kitchen table. He sat, suddenly distracted by another toothache. He stuck his index finger into his mouth, and reached back to the area causing him the most pain. What he felt seemed impossible. He’d lost a tooth, two weeks earlier, and now, a replacement had begun to protrude. A jagged thing, needle sharp. He removed his hand from his mouth and lay it flat on the tabletop.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Conrad lowered his eyes. A wave of grief went through him suddenly. It had come out of nowhere, striking him like a slap to the back of the head.
He thought of them: Jean and Sarah. He felt that sting in the pit of his stomach. The one that never truly faded.
“Come in,” he said.
The door peeled open and in they came, the two scavengers, both armed. Knox’s weapons clinking at his hips, those deadly silvers.
“We’re looking for a girl,” the Kid said. “You know the one.”
GUNPLAY
1
-GARLAND-
-Marco-
ROADSIDE, he stared off into the distance. His back was to the car, leaning up against one of the wheels, feet splayed out in front of him. Black plumes of smoke still billowed from the hood. The car was chewed to bits by machinegun fire. It’d been so loud, so violent. Now that the dust had settled, the utter silence felt almost wrong.
Behind him, Leon was slumped over in the driver’s seat, his white shirt almost completely orange from where the blood had seeped through. The red had drained from his body, and so too had it drained from his eyes, revealing a pretty shade of sky blue. His head was turned sideways, against the wheel. When Marco had emerged from his hiding place, it looked like Leon was staring blankly out the window: jaw slack, eyes vacant.
Now that it was over, Marco was probably wearing a similar look.
They were crowded around him, seven or eight of them. Scavengers. They were a more worn, weary version of the Bloodline he’d seen back at the Armory. These were a travelling lot, thin, with dirty fingernails and rotten teeth. He’d looked just like these people until all too recently. These were true travelers of the new world, who knew no safe havens. No sanctuaries. They were kin with him, in a strange way, aside from the fact that they’d just killed his only friend in the world in cold blood.
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