Inferno Girls

by Aaron Michael Ritchey

  Pilate nodded. “Water and then surgery.”

  “And quick,” Wren threw in.

  ’Cause the ARK soldiers would come gunning for us, maybe even send in the Severins. According to Micaiah, Severins were the next generation of bioengineered super soldiers brewed up in ARK vats. He’d said the Vixxes were bad, but the Severins were far worse.

  After seeing the FBI notices, and from Micaiah’s comments about the California airbases, I had no doubt Tibbs Hoyt had contacts in the U.S. military. They’d know where we’d blasted through the fence. Finding us would take some time, but they had zeppelins and advanced gunships, though the gunships would need electricity for the blue-fire propulsion engines to work. The two Johnny blimps we’d seen, on the other hand, could cross into the Juniper without a problem. Even if they didn’t see our tracks, it wouldn’t be long before they set their sights on the Fish Springs National Wildlife Refuge.

  We didn’t have much time. There had to be water. Had to be.

  I limped off to check the trucks surrounding the bus. There was no water, nothing worth salvaging, and every vehicle had run off regular gasoline, which needs a continual spark to work. And the gas was thirty years old, though it might still be okay.

  In the Juniper, we all had a special place in our hearts for Olive Rowley, an American chemical engineer who had worked for British Petroleum. God bless her and the limeys at BP. In the 2020s, as the world’s fossil fuels disappeared, Rowley had found a way to treat gas and diesel with a preservative. I remember Mama asking every time we ran across a derelict diesel vehicle, Girls, is it full of limey juice or stink water? You could tell by the smell.

  Years had passed since the vehicles last worked. Dust darkened the windows of the trucks, and rodents had taken up residence. Any road that might’ve cut through the landscape nature had taken over and covered it with greasewood.

  I left the trucks and watched Micaiah jog south carrying the plastic jug from Sharlotte’s saddlebags.

  Wren ran north.

  I limped eastward toward a merciless sun. I found more hot springs puking salt and minerals from holes in the world. I tried each one with my LifeStraw but had to spit out the water ’cause of the salt. Soon the insides of my mouth felt raw.

  How could Pilate keep his faith? Mine had left me, and I felt the horror of our situation keenly. On the run, hunted, dying of thirst, and then there was the task of Sharlotte’s leg to consider.

  Hurry. We had to hurry, yet all I could see around me was the salt grasses, sage, and greasewood.

  More pelicans floated down to the south. Water. Had to be water there. I changed course, grimacing at the pain, but keeping my feet moving in a half-skip; my thirst overruled my complaining ankle.

  The white birds flapped again into the air and I saw why.

  Micaiah waved me over from reeds greening the desert ground. The soil was changing under my boots, turning from the salt crust to crumbling gray soil.

  He pulled me through the reeds, and I fell into a pond vibrant with algae, not the hellish boil we’d seen before. In fact, the water felt cool around my legs. A fence of barbed wire disappeared down the horizon to my right—it would’ve marked the boundary of the wildlife refuge. A few signs hung from the posts, but I didn’t pause to read them. I dropped down to my knees and drank from the pond through the LifeStraw.

  “Easy, Cavatica,” he whispered. “Don’t drink too much too fast or you’ll get sick.”

  I stopped myself and then leaned forward until my face and hair sank beneath the surface. Heaven, so much heaven in that little pond of murky water.

  Micaiah joined me, and we drifted for a second through the water. He’d already filled the plastic jug.

  I took more long sips through the LifeStraw and then climbed out, loving how chill and wet I felt. The water filled me with strength.

  Good. I’d need it.

  (iii)

  Micaiah climbed out of the pond and lifted the barbed wire for me. I went under it and held the wire for him. He curled himself under the barbs then stood straight. Even after running for weeks on end and walking all night, he looked good, rosy-cheeked and excited. It wasn’t fair, but more than that, it was troubling after seeing the Vixx sisters heal.

  “In the end, I followed the birds to the water,” Micaiah said.

  “You’re a smart one, all right,” I said. Should’ve ended it there, but I couldn’t. “Micaiah, you’re eventually going to tell me the truth about yourself, aren’t you?”

  He stiffened and turned away. Wrong way to ask it, worse timing, but my head wasn’t working. “You said the Vixxes were your aunts. Are you like them?” I asked.

  He didn’t respond.

  “You’re going to tell me the truth, right?” The bracelet he’d made me itched on my wet wrist.

  Instead of an answer, he said, “We found water, but we’re too close to the border. We either have to make a run for California or go east. Not sure which is worse. But first, Sharlotte. I’m sorry.”

  “No!” I erupted. Didn’t mean to, but part of me was getting ready, gathering up my shakti for the awful thing we were going to have to do. “Not another sorry. Unless you want to apologize for keeping secrets, then you have my blessing.”

  He turned back to me. His lips tightened into a white line before he spoke. “I’m afraid to tell you what I really am. Things are so tense, and if you knew the truth ... I’m afraid of what you’d do.”

  “We’re all afraid, Micaiah. All of us. But you keeping secrets is jackercrap.” I paused. “Excuse my language.”

  He nodded. Just a nod. What was that supposed to mean?

  I tried to get a hold on my anger, but it bucked my attempts like a wild stallion. “Before, on the train, I asked if you could be honest with me, and you’d said you’d try. Well, it seems to me you’re not trying very hard.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not. If you were sorry, you’d tell me everything, but you won’t. So quit saying words you don’t mean.”

  We lapsed into silence. My emotions twisted in a jumble inside me—love for him, frustration, wonder at why he was so reluctant to tell us the truth. We were risking my sister’s life to save him. We deserved the truth, every crumb of it.

  “Let’s just go,” I muttered.

  We took off, Micaiah running in front of me with the jug while I limped after him. Then my ankle crumbled under me.

  I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. My body, my legs, my arms wouldn’t let me. I started crawling across the ground toward the bus.

  Micaiah turned and saw me. He jogged back, and I slapped his hand away. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Really?” He didn’t laugh, but he prolly should’ve.

  I laughed, though. He was right. I needed his help. Besides, crawling was not a very dignified way to heroically save the day, though Mama always said, “Better to crawl forward than run back.”

  It wouldn’t be the last time I’d crawl forward. Not hardly. I was Abigail Weller’s daughter, body, mind, and spirit, and Mama was right about that. Better to crawl forward than run back. I imagine they’ll put that on my tombstone when the time comes.

  (iv)

  Micaiah helped me gimp back to the bus. It was easy to find in the flat wasteland.

  The sun had bleached everything bone white: the bus, the trucks, the salt ground. Old rusted metal and the foul salty marsh water stank up the shade. But I could still smell Sharlotte’s wound.

  Pilate had found an old blue bucket he’d filled with boiling water. Across the top lay the saw and Sharlotte’s Betty knife, as sterilized as he could get them. The operating room was ready.

  Pilate drank from the jug using the LifeStraw. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Faith never tasted so good.”

  I took another turn, as did Micaiah. In minutes flat, we’d drank most of it but left some for Wren. Then we got to work.

  Pilate helped me strap Sharlotte down to the seat in case she woke up, God forbid.<
br />
  My throat kept closing as I knelt to pull the straps tight. Pebbles of dread loaded my stomach. It was stinking hot under the bus roof, even in the shade, but we couldn’t wait for cooler air. Every second Sharlotte stayed connected to her damaged leg, the worse her chances got.

  “Maybe we should wait. There has to be a ranger station or some kind of research facility,” Micaiah said to anyone listening. “There might be pain medication and antibiotics that were left behind.”

  “We have to do it now,” Pilate snipped.

  “But what if—” Micaiah started.

  I snapped. “There is no ‘what if.’ We either do it now or she dies.” Sweat burned my eyes.

  “We’ll need the sewing kit,” Pilate said. “And we’ll need to make an incision first to avoid damaging the skin. I’ll need a flap to close the wound.”

  “I know,” I said, though I didn’t. Not really.

  Micaiah took the sewing kit out of the saddlebags and tossed it to him, but Pilate dropped it.

  We all were moving too fast, talking too loud, getting nasty, our stink swamping up the mottled shade under the bus.

  Wren came charging back and saw us getting ready.

  She grabbed the nearly empty jug and used her own LifeStraw to drink the rest. “Where did you find the water?” she asked.

  “South of us,” Micaiah said, pointing. “About a kilometer.”

  Without pausing, Wren sprinted from the bus, jug in hand.

  “Dammit, Wren! You don’t get to leave this time!” I yelled it before I could stop myself. Yelling wouldn’t do a thing to stop her. Not her. Not ever.

  My shouting woke up Sharlotte. She took one look at the saw and shrieked.

  God had left us, and only the Devil remained.

  We were going to have to cut my sister up conscious.

  Chapter Four

  Ain’t no sun no more

  And the world is dark and done

  But maybe we can be starlight for one another

  Maybe we can be one

  — Missy Lewis

  (i)

  “NO! GOD, PLEASE, NO!” Sharlotte’s screams echoed off the roof of the bus. Birds flapped off into a colorless sky, a washed-out white in the hellish heat.

  I held Sharlotte’s Betty knife; Pilate must’ve handed it to me. Not sure why he chose me to do it. Maybe ’cause he knew I’d butchered before. I’d chopped the heads off chickens. I’d butchered more cows and pigs than I could count. I’d killed horses I’d loved ’cause sometimes there was no fixing them. Sometimes the death couldn’t be wiped away. But for every death there came a birth, and that was ranch life.

  Micaiah took the bucket and splashed hot spring water onto the mashed muscle and splintered bone of Sharlotte’s left leg. She howled.

  I choked back a sob. Revulsion and despair raged an inferno in me, but I couldn’t cry. I needed my eyes clear.

  Sharlotte wrenched against the straps and busted loose. Micaiah and Pilate grabbed her and held her down again. “No,” she whimpered. “Please don’t hurt me. Please, stop.”

  Pilate shushed her, like she was a baby.

  Before I knew it, I was shouting. “We gotta do this, Sharlotte. This isn’t a death! This is a birth!”

  I screamed it out ’cause the turmoil inside me needed me to yell, so I kept yelling. “Remember when that snotty cow Betty Butter got born? It was a fight, and yeah, her mama died, but Betty Butter got to live. Just like you’re gonna live! You understand, Shar? You understand?”

  She didn’t. She bellowed again in terror.

  I kept telling myself it was going to be a birth. We had to cut off the death so she could live again.

  Pilate and Micaiah latched onto Sharlotte and held her leg, the skin like burned sausage, turned to black as the flesh went necrotic.

  My jaws clamped shut; my lips pulled into a growl. I grabbed her thigh to steady it more. Doubt tempted me to pause, but I couldn’t allow it even a whimper. We either did this, however badly, or we buried Sharlotte. I used the Betty knife to cut into the skin below the knee so she’d have the joint when we found her a prosthetic leg. The knife couldn’t have been sharper, but then this was my sister Sharlotte—she took good care of everything she owned. Like Mama taught us.

  I cut around her leg and through the flesh at an angle so we’d have the extra skin to sew her stump closed.

  Sharlotte flailed against Pilate and Micaiah. I thought for a minute the pain would knock her out, but still she struggled. Both boys pushed down on her.

  I dropped the Betty knife into the dirt. I snatched the saw out of the bucket. I brought it down into the incision I’d made. I sawed. The jagged teeth ripped through muscle, gushing blood, and still I sawed. Through her skin, through her flesh, through her bone.

  Memories of Mama whispered into my ear, telling me to use the entire length of teeth on the saw, letting it do the work for me. Memories of me and her cutting branches by the woodshed. Never would’ve thought such lessons would help me at such a time. Never would’ve thought that in a million years.

  I sawed. Gore sprayed my face.

  I sawed and took my sister’s leg ’cause I loved her more than I loved my own fear and screaming heart.

  The dead meat slapped onto the ground. I flung the handsaw beside it, and then I let the tears stream down my face.

  Sharlotte’s howls continued. She’d turned pure animal—blanched white and sweat-drenched and writhing in pain.

  But she was going to live. I wouldn’t let her die. Never. Never. Never.

  On my knees, I pulled her face into mine. “You’re gonna be okay now, Sharlotte. You’re gonna be okay. You saved us. And we saved you right back.”

  I’d been at births before, and there was always a moment when the mother escaped the pain and struggle of birthing a baby, when she looked into the eyes of another woman, and for a moment, the pain and struggle disappeared.

  It was like that right then.

  Normal people might have passed out from the pain, but us Wellers had never been normal. Never would be.

  Pilate said something about using more water to clean the wound and getting the sewing kit ready. Micaiah agreed, and their talk droned away.

  It was like me and Sharlotte were alone. Just the two of us. Only for Sharlotte, there was someone else.

  “Mama?” she said in a little girl’s voice. She was looking over my shoulder, and she was seeing our mother, I had no doubt. I’d only heard the ghostly whisper of memories, but Sharlotte saw her.

  “Yeah, Sharlotte,” I murmured, “Mama’s here. And I’m here. And it’s gonna be okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”

  The blood and hurt was forgotten for a moment as she asked quietly, “Can you sing for me? Can you sing me a church song?”

  I was crying hard, and I could hardly breathe. How could I sing? How could I? But I did. I sang an old song, with my throat closing up, with my heart a strangled little thing inside my chest. I sang, “On Eagle’s Wings.”

  And I had thought God had left us, but no, we weren’t alone. Not hardly. The Devil might have been there, too, but then, that jackerdan is always around. The trick is to learn how to ignore him.

  Micaiah doused the wound with more water while Pilate sewed up the stump.

  “I’ve watched Petal do this,” Pilate said, “but Jesus Harvey Christ, I never thought in a million years I would have to sew someone closed.”

  The pain finally consumed Sharlotte, and she slumped next to me, unconscious again. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for your mercy.

  Not sure how much time passed, but Pilate finished stitching the wound, and Micaiah ripped off his own shirt to bandage the leg. Our work done, we all sat back against the hot metal of the bus.

  Wren ran into the shade. When she saw the scene—the pool of blood, the red flecks on my face, Sharlotte’s damaged body, her severed leg—the jug of water fell from her hands. “I went ... I couldn’t ... I went ...” she sputtered, “I went to get more water. I knew I cou
ldn’t help. I knew—”

  She swallowed hard, and though her eyes were dry, the muscles on her jaw clenched tight. “I climbed up the ridge. I found some buildings. They’re not too far.”

  Her eyes darted furtively in her pale face. I waited for her to tell me what I needed to hear.

  “I’m sorry,” Wren whispered. “I should’ve been here to help. Thank you, Cavvy. Thank you for saving our sister.”

  And I knew we had. We would search every building in the wildlife refuge for antibiotics and pain medication, and even if we came up short, we had food from the saddlebags and fresh water. We’d get through it. Faith, not fear, filled my heart.

  Until the shots rang out. Until the gunfire.

  Wren staggered and went down. Fresh blood soaked her already stained shirt.

  Behind her, Rachel Vixx sprinted toward us through the junked trucks. She fired with both of Wren’s Colt Terminators.

  It was high noon. The running Vixx cast no shadow.

  (ii)

  Wren’s pistols were completely customized with cherrywood grips, extended six-inch barrels, and double-stacked magazines, giving Rachel Vixx thirty ACP hollow-point bullets—fourteen in the magazines and two in the chambers.

  She’d unloaded half her ammo in seconds, taking Wren down, and then aimed at Pilate. He rolled out of the bus and clambered onto a truck’s hood, an AZ3 in his hand. The Vixx adjusted her aim and bullets struck the dirt next to me; I was her next target.

  Micaiah flung himself over me, taking every round. He made pained noises in the back of his throat as the bullets struck him. It was like when we first met, our bodies close, bullets in the air, the smell of him in my nose.

  But unlike before, my rage burned my fear into cinders.

  We had just saved our sister, and I’d be damned if I was going to let Rachel Vixx kill her.

  As long as the bullets didn’t hit Micaiah and Wren in the head or spine, they could heal. The action of the twin pistols clacked open on empty chambers. Before the Vixx could reload, I grabbed the saw off the ground and ran from the bus. Micaiah sprinted straight for the Vixx. He slammed into her and tore one of the Colts away.