His jaw dropped. Marco instinctively took a step back.
“Jesus.”
It was so faint, so easy to miss. But, he saw it now. He heard it too. A belly that moved just slightly with each shallow breath. Hardly even there at all.
“He should’ve bled out,” Marco said.
“He should have.”
“You shot him three times. I saw it. A human being can’t survive that. No way.”
Justine scoffed, nodding towards the body, towards that fang curling just behind his blue lips.
“He look human to you?”
8
-THE HORN OF AFRICA-
-Marco-
TWO GUNS ON THE COUNTER. Neither sat a holster. The black gun—with only a single bullet left in the chamber—looked so meager compared to its oversized counterpart. Johnny U was beside it, loud and large and shining silver. The two sat at different angles, not quite touching but almost in an embrace. Kindred spirits, despite being as different as their masters. One owned by a weakling who’d hit nothing but air, one by the most dangerous killer alive.
He crossed his arms, back to the wall, staring forward.
Marco lifted a hand to pick at his wounded cheek, where he wore the same stale yellow bandage. She’d asked him a dozen times to change it. Marco halted, letting his hand hover over it. He wanted to itch so damn bad. Wanted to scratch and scratch until his fingers hit bone and half his face was ground up beyond recognition.
“Did you sleep okay?” Justine had appeared in the doorway.
Not a wink.
“Mm hmm.”
He scratched his chin. His beard was coming in again. Still patchy in some places, but certainly better than last time.
She eyed him closely.
“What?”
“This is a mistake,” he said.
“No. It’s smart.”
“You don’t know him like I do. He’s dangerous.”
She glanced over to where Marco was staring.
“Doesn’t look so bad to me.”
The crown prince of the Bloodline had seen better days. He sat upon a wooden throne, tethered down by rope and blankets and nearly two rolls of duct tape. His head hung forward, neck slack, but his bindings were so tight that the rest of him couldn’t help but sit slightly upright. Some hair had grown on his cheeks as well, but it was even more meager than Marco’s attempt at a beard. Just some peachfuzz and a teenage moustache. No wonder he’d tried so hard to remain clean shaven. His long black hair hung in his eyes as he dipped forever forward, same as those weeping willows outside Jacob Crowe’s estate.
From what they could tell, he was comatose. His breathing remained at the same steady pace, eyes pulled tightly shut. He’d been lucky his jersey had already been red, because it seemed to have soaked up half the blood in his body. Three bullets had gone through him: hitting his shoulder, hip and—the sweet spot—left breast. Marco had assumed that Justine’s mad spray must’ve nicked a major organ. If not that, then the blood loss surely should have done him in by now. He looked like he’d been dipped in red wine up to his neck. Bloodied in the way of a movie monster. Yet still he drew breath.
It didn’t seem possible.
“Look,” Marco said, with a swallow, “the Bloodline will kill us either way if they find us.”
“We’ll see,” Justine said. “I’d like to leave myself a bargaining chip, just in case.”
He glanced at the two guns.
“We should do him now. And be done with it.”
“We’ll do it when we leave. One more night here, and then we’ll make for the border. You can do it yourself if you want to.”
Marco swallowed.
“Or…or I’ll do it,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“So, I just let you do all the dirty work.”
“Don’t be an ass. You saved my life. You’ve done plenty.” She stepped inside. “Let’s grab something to eat. Do you need help with that bandage?”
“Nah. I got it.” He glared at Knox. “I don’t wanna eat in front of him.”
“Let’s eat in the living room, then.”
“I…also don’t want to let him out of my sight.”
“He’s not going anywhere, I promise,” she said. She saw in his face that it made no difference. “Fine,” she sighed. “Suit yourself.”
~
At sundown he finally did eat. It was an odd feeling, playing house like this with her. The girl seemed at ease in a way that he couldn’t comprehend. He’d never been at ease, least of all around a pretty girl. It should’ve been bliss, finally having someone to talk to. Instead all he could feel was dread. She seemed to respect and maybe even like him. It had the potential to grow into something real, he knew, if only because he didn’t have any competition, save for the off-chance that Zeke the Dollface was still alive. There wasn’t much warmth when she spoke of him, though. Something had gone bad at the end for them. She was seeking answers more than she was seeking Zeke.
“What do you miss the most?”
He chanced a cigarette out on the deck, positioning himself so he was within clear view of Knox, who had yet to even flinch.
“Food, I think,” he said. “I was never a big eater, but there’s some Italian dishes I miss. Or pizza, in New Haven. You?”
“Vacations. I went on a cruise once, with my mom and my stepdad. It wasn’t great. He complained the whole time. But, like, the weeks leading up to it were so exciting. I miss having stuff to look forward to. Marking my calendar. I also miss doing dumb teenage shit, like taking a bottle up to the cemetery. Or going for joyrides. Rolling up the windows and smoking weed in the backseat.”
“Mailbox baseball.”
“Yes! See, I never got to do that!” she said. “What’s it like?”
Marco shrugged and hit his cigarette.
“Never did it. You had a better high school experience than me, sounds like.”
“Aw, were you a nerd, Marco? Getting shoved into lockers and stuff?”
He forced a smile, shaking his head. The sun was cresting the horizon. His heart sank with it. One last night.
He let out an audible sigh, arms hanging over the rail. She stood beside him, in the same pose.
“I bet this is why you were bullied,” she said.
“What?”
“That look. Like your dog just died. Ever since we left the mansion you’ve had that look.”
“I can’t help how I look.”
“You seemed so excited in that safe room. When we were at our most fucked. Now that’s it’s over and the plan worked, it’s like you’re bummed out somehow. It’s backwards.”
“I’m just tired.”
“If you’re anxious, don’t be. Garland’s a ghost town, and we have plenty of bullets.”
“I’m not anxious. I’m tired.”
“Sorry, you just…you look stiff.”
“That’s just me.”
He dropped his cigarette and snuffed it out under his heel. Marco paced inside, but she pursued, following him into the living room.
“Marco.”
He scratched the back of his neck, turning.
“Yeah.”
“We need to be on the same page if we’re gonna survive. I’ll lead the way…I want to lead the way, but I need to know you’re with me. And ready to be strong.”
“I don’t want to go to Garland.”
“There is nowhere else. We can make it. Trust me. We’re going to make it.”
“You don’t fucking understand,” he said, rubbing his eyes. He stepped aside, but she followed, staying in line with him.
“So, make me understand. We need to figure this out, now. Not out there. Here.” She pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him. “Hey! Talk to me!”
“Fine!” He ran his hands over his scalp, pacing. He halted, turning back to her. “Do you wanna know what scares me the most? Huh? It’s not getting caught. Not really. What scares me is that I’ll have to keep on running. For years and ye
ars. Decades, even. For the rest of my natural life. I’m terrified that I’ll never know safety again. I’ll be like…like a gazelle in the Horn of Africa. The hunted, forever.”
For a moment she stood with her jaw open, unable to find the words. He dropped his eyes again. When she spoke she wasn’t angry. She tried to console him, then she tried to reason with him. He could see it in the way she gestured her hands, but she may as well have been on mute. Her words were just words. And behind her, a shadow was looming. Marco watched as it grew, towering and black, threatening to consume the entire room, the entire house, the entire world. And in that shadow stood a little girl all in black, who he hadn’t seen in days. Not since he’d drawn that pistol. He thought he’d vanquished her forever. Yet there she was, a perfect totem to his fears. My sigil, my idol.
My God.
~
The moon had risen and it was Justine’s shift for sleep. He bid her goodnight and went out onto the porch for a cigarette. Something had been eating at him all day, itching at some perverse corner of his mind. He took a long drag and exhaled, staring out at the water.
He decided then and there that he was going to kill Knox.
He’d been juggling the pros and cons almost since the moment he’d seen the body. A little blood on his hands also might earn him some respect from Justine, which was sorely needed. He raised a hand, ready to scratch at the band-aid that covered half his face. Right. There was also a matter of settling scores.
This was the way scavengers were supposed to think, weren’t they? If anyone had treated Leon or Knox the way he’d been treated, reprisal was a guarantee. So he’d break the seal. Kill an unarmed man and join the rest of the quarantine zone. Become one of them, because that’s what it was going to take from here on out. The prospect of it terrified him, the idea of that bleak, bloody future. Yet here he was. He put out his cigarette, thinking of Conrad’s words.
In the q-zone, you aren’t anybody until you kill someone famous.
It was about time he got to work on a legend of his own.
~
Inside, he hovered at the bottom of the stairs, listening. Not a peep from Justine’s room. He took a deep breath and then limped out into the kitchen. The light of the moon peered in from the window, painting half the room in shadow. He left the lights off. Marco approached the counter opposite Knox. A whole room away. Two guns on the counter. He grabbed the black one. The Beretta.
He approached the slumped over figure, slowly, as if afraid that the near-dead scavenger might leap up and bite him. Knox was bound, head hanging low, hair in his eyes. Behind him, he could feel that Shelby was watching, just barely peeking her head around the corner to look on with that one good eye. Marco ignored her and continued forward. He raised the pistol, pulling back the hammer, and aimed for the crown of Knox’s head. Out the window, a second pair of eyes was watching, and Marco knew them as well. The burly Aryan was lurking in the shadows, body likely still mangled from those machinegun shells that had chewed him to pieces.
“Hey, friend,” Marco said. “Come to pay your last respects?”
Dead ahead, the corpse that was Knox coughed.
Marco stopped in his tracks. He held the weapon in two shaky hands. Had he misheard? Had he imagined it? He took a step closer. Then another. Knox again coughed. This time, his head bobbed ever so slightly.
“Jesus,” Marco said aloud.
A voice came from it. Faint, throaty, it spat a single word, laced with venom.
“Stray.”
Marco was almost close enough to touch him. He kept his gun up and at the ready.
“Gonna…ghost me in my sleep?” the voice was drawling, slow. Hardly more than a whisper. “Sounds…sounds about par…for the course.”
Knox tilted his head backwards. It fell onto the back of the chair, as if he couldn’t keep it level. As if his neck were made of rubber. His eyes remained closed. He licked his lips.
“I’m…I’m awake now. Still…got the guts?”
He opened his eyes, ever so slightly.
“And with that gun. Fucking…idiot.”
The man was utterly broken, beyond fucked, and yet still here he was smiling.
“Shut up.”
“Shut me up…Stray. Or are you…too scared of that…too? I’m afraid to be…to be a gazelle in Africa! I’m afraid to run! Well…plan to continue running…pansy.”
“You were listening?”
Again, that cocky smirk. Even bound and at gun point, he’d found a way to get one over on him.
“Of course.” Knox licked his cracked blue lips. He took a moment to breathe before speaking again, as if it was taking great effort to expel every word. “And I hear…hear you’ve off to look for…Zeke. That’s smart.”
“I never said it was.”
“But…that’s the plan. …Ain’t it?”
Marco made no reply.
“That’s what I thought,” Knox continued. “You…you really think he’s not gonna…ex you out the moment he sees you…with his girl? From what I heard, the dude’s…very territorial.”
“The fuck do you know?”
“Heh. So…if you’re keeping score at home…that means that Zeke wants your ass. The Deadeyes…think you’re with us…so they want your ass. And you know the Bloodline wants your ass.” Knox shook his head, eyes fluttering open and closed. “All these powerful enemies…and no friends to speak of.”
There was silence a moment, as Knox gathered his strength.
“Though…if you really wanted to stop…to stop running, it could be done. Immunity…from the Bloodline. Safe haven…at the Armory. You know the sway…I have there. All I’d have to do…is ask. That is, if I had a reason to.”
Playing coy, even half-dead and strapped to a chair.
“Fuck you. You deserve this bullet.”
Knox rolled his eyes, shrugging.
“Fine. Do it then.”
Do it. Shelby’s voice, in his head.
Marco gritted his teeth. He moved closer, so that he stood over the blood-soaked scavenger, pointing the gun downward. He was waiting to see the fear in Knox’s eyes, the desperation that he assumed befell everyone who looked down the barrel of a gun. Do it. The realization that this truly is the end, that it finally is no longer in your control. Do it. All that hubris, finally wiped away.
Instead, Knox just glared up at him, woozy, but straight faced.
“DO IT!”
The little girl screamed the words behind him. He was drenched in sweat, index finger shaking so bad it tapped against the trigger, rapid-fire. He locked his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.
“Immunity,” Knox said, sensing an opening. “And you only gotta do…one thing to earn it.”
“What?” Marco asked.
“You know what.”
~
In front of the bathroom mirror, he finally took off the bandage.
They stood each behind one shoulder, the two specters who haunted him. They looked on with blank faces as he picked at the top of the bandage, which halted just below his eye, Marco caught an edge and peeled slowly downward. Skinny rails of plastic stuck to his skin like the legs of a spider but still he pulled, teeth clenched, accepting the pain.
It tugged at his skin, grasping at chunks of dried blood on the way down. And then finally he was at the bottom, just beside his lip, taking off the last of it to reveal the bloated and bruised half of his face and the sickly yellow knife wound. The terror that was his face wouldn’t last this way forever, he knew, but the cuts were deep. He’d have a scar.
On his cheek, Knox had carved a capital B.
9
-THE SLUG-
-Justine-
SHE’D BEEN BEAUTIFUL ONCE and she was beautiful still. She was her mother’s daughter, always had been, even when she donned that rebellious haircut. Same black hair, same blue eyes. Her father too had rubbed off on her, in his own way. Justine Cady had dad’s nose and his deviant smirk and his penchant for danger and debau
chery disguised as adventure.
That part of her had just been hiding.
Day after day she’d awoken and put on those contact lenses and white, white powder and hid herself from the world. She became an insurgent, an opaque monster without a name or a past or a mind of her own. She was a quiet captive, a mannequin to post in a seat at the other end of the dining room, no more or less valuable than a table setting.
The last time she’d been free—truly free—had been when she’d emerged from the trapdoor and breathed in the cool morning air. She’d had a few hours on her own, in this quiet and wondrous new world, before Zeke stumbled upon her. She had walked the empty streets, scared but excited, and found a library to sit in and read.
That was it. That was the last time she’d truly made a decision for herself, before Zeke came into her life. Before Jacob. Before Benjamin. She was eternally someone else’s problem. Something to be coveted, to be protected, to be used.
She was so sick of being used.
~
Justine washed her face in the mirror, pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail. She’d donned a new ensemble: a black sweater, black jeans and high black boots. Luck sat a holster at her right hip. For once, she didn’t have the urge to scratch thumb holes in her sweater. She didn’t awake dreaming of what would have been: high school sweethearts, late summer nights, beer pong, the pounding pass outside a club she couldn’t get into. She made her face a mask, staring into her own cool blue eyes.
I am strong.
Her hands moved up to her neck. She held them there a moment, still focused on her own reflection. Then, she unclipped her golden necklace and held it out in front of her. Dangling before her eyes was a bullet. The bullet that almost killed her.
She tossed it in the trash.
Justine waltzed out into the kitchen. It was near dawn, and already the black night sky was brightening to a dull grey. These past few days, she and Marco had spent the daylight hours together, but by night they slept in shifts. Usually him first, then her. However, more times than not, she’d find him outside smoking a cigarette or re-reading Conrad’s diary in the living room. The man seemed to never sleep, and he looked it. Zeke would never have tolerated such a foolish act.
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