by Katie French
I hold my breath.
The sleeping man jumps up, a move so lightning quick there’s no way he’s been asleep at all. His hand shoots out and grabs Clay’s wrist. His elbow lashes back like the strike of a snake, smashing into Clay’s jaw with a pop.
“Clay!” I shout, starting for him, forgetting the figure under the blanket. The blanket before me begins to rise. I pounce on it. Inside someone oomphs and lies still again. My target pinned, I look back to Clay.
They’re squared off, holding onto each other’s wrists like wrestlers locked in combat. Gritting his teeth and flexing his arms, Clay presses against the trader. The trader strains against Clay, his yellow teeth flashing in a grimace as he tries to force Clay’s arms back. Clay’s injured hand sags, but his good hand drives the knife toward the trader’s throat. Eyes widening, the trader watches the knife inch toward him.
I bite my lip. I know I need to keep whoever it is underneath me out of the fight, but judging from how little he’s moving, there’s not much chance of him being a threat. But maybe he’s bluffing. Maybe he’ll spring up once I’ve eased off him and cut my throat. I stay put and watch the awful fight, my chest a bundle of nerves.
The trader lurches forward, attempting to throw Clay off balance. Clay stumbles, knees banging into a boulder, but doesn’t lose his grip. The knife hovers inches from the trader’s throat. Suddenly, the trader drops one knee, slipping sideways, flinging Clay forward over the boulder, into the dust, and onto his back. The knife goes flying into the dirt. The trader lurches for the gun at his feet.
“Clay!” I shout, jumping up. I tear toward the trader, who draws up his shotgun, his finger searching for the trigger. The dying fire lights up the man’s beard, his furrowed brow, the snarl on his face as he aims the barrel at Clay’s chest. Clay, in the dust, is climbing to his feet, one hand out as if he could catch the bullet that’s about to hollow him. I sprint toward the trader as fast as my body will allow.
In the last second before the gun goes off, my eyes dart to Clay’s face and watch his eyes go wide as he realizes he’s about to be shot. I open my mouth to scream. I won’t make—
The gun clicks, but there’s no boom, no recoil. The man stares at the gun in his hands, shocked. Clay, too, stares at the barrel. A misfire.
I jump, diving into the trader’s back. My body slams into his, jarring every inch of me. My chest smashes into his shoulder, my knee into his leg, my jaw snapping with a hollow pop. We both go down hard and my wind is knocked away. I can’t see the trader or his shotgun. I can’t breathe. Something moves beneath me. The trader. He’s trying to find his gun. Slowly, head spinning, I lift my eyes.
A blur of movement to my right. Clay. He tackles the trader pinned under my legs and we’re all one big pile of arms and legs and fists. I manage to roll away and scramble to my feet. On the ground, Clay’s on his knees, punching and kicking. The trader lies in a fetal position, trying in vain to protect his face, his innards.
“Stop,” I shout as he lands more blows. “Clay, stop!”
He stops mid-punch and looks up at me. His face is red and dirt-caked. Anger crinkles the corners of his eyes, but drains away as he stares up into my face. He nods once and pins the trader. He spits blood and says, “Get some rope.”
As I’m circling around the fire, I remember the figure under the blanket. When I run over, he’s still there and hasn’t moved a muscle. Now that we’ve got the other one subdued, I prod the blanket with my toe.
“Don’t make a move,” I say. “We got your buddy pinned. If you go along easy, we won’t have to hurt ya.”
The figure under the blanket doesn’t move. Curiosity digging at me, I slowly draw the blanket back.
A cap of short brown hair appears first, then small hands and thin wrists bound with rope. That explains why he didn’t help fight. This person’s too small to be a man, so I think boy, and yet there’s a feminine quality to the arms and wrists that suggests girl. I draw the blanket back all the way.
Hands slowly pull away from a frightened face, wide brown eyes alert and fearful, a slender ski-slope nose and full lips. Girl or boy? Or neither? An asexual bender, neither male nor female, but some mutation of both.
I crouch in front of the figure and meet her (his?) gaze. Those giant, animal eyes watch my every move.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”
The bender says nothing, just watches me. She’s pretty enough, but I can tell there are male qualities about her that she plays up—baggy clothes, short hair, dirt smudged around her chin and cheeks to look like a swatch of stubble. The same tricks I pull.
“Did he hurt you?” I ask, pointing to the trader pinned under Clay.
Again no answer. Her eyes dart from me to where her captor lies face-down on the ground.
I look at the rope lashed violently around her red wrists. When I reach for them, she pulls away. “I’m going to untie you. Your hands first, okay? Then I’ll come back for your feet in a minute.”
This time when I reach for her wrists she only flinches, but doesn’t pull away. I dig out knots with my fingers, trying hard not to hurt her peeled skin. Looks like she’s been tied up for a while.
“Riley?” Clay calls from across the fire. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Getting the rope!” I call. He seemed open minded about benders when he thought I was one, but with his adrenaline pumping from the fight, he might need a minute to clear his head.
I walk the rope around the fire to Clay. He lashes the trader’s hands together behind his back. “What you got over there?” he asks, as he’s tying knots.
“He’s got a captive. Pretty roughed up.”
Clay stops lashing and frowns. “Boy or girl?”
“Hard to say,” I lie. I haven’t seen proof, but I’d bet dollars to donuts it’s a bender.
Clay sniffs and continues tying. “Let me finish up here and then we’ll have a look.”
“What we gonna do with him?” I ask, looking over the trader. Clay’s punches have pounded a sturdy man in his forties into a trembling wreck. Blood meanders through his beard. He’s limp as Clay binds his wrists.
Once Clay’s done with the last knot, he stands and peers at his handiwork. “Not sure what to do. If it were me, I’d probably finish it off quick, but—”
I open my mouth to protest and he cuts me off.
“But it’s not just me. It’s you and me. And you say no killin’, so there’s no killin’.” Clay sighs. “The stuff I do for you.”
I lean in and kiss his cheek. “I’m worth it.”
Clay nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
We walk back around the fire to where the bender is furiously digging at the rope around her ankles. With bloodied fingernails, she scrapes at knots like a raccoon clawing out of a cage.
Clay leans back, taking her in. “A girl?” he asks, turning to me.
Leaning close, I whisper in his ear. “A bender, I think. Be nice to her. The bastard over there’s been rough.”
“I’m nice,” Clay mutters, playing hurt at my comment. He walks to where the bender sits in the dirt and crouches before her.
She stops digging at the rope and looks at him like any moment he might attack her. I walk over and crouch beside him to show we’re both good guys.
“Howdy,” Clay says, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “Looks like you’ve had a rough go as of late.”
She says nothing. Her dirty face hardens.
Clay tries again. “We ain’t like him.” Clay points to the bound man. “We don’t kidnap.”
Her eyes go to me. “Bender?” she asks.
I look at Clay and back at her. Answering truthfully would reveal the secret of my gender and that’s very dangerous. “Yeah. You?”
She doesn’t answer at first, just blinks at me and then shifts her eyes to Clay. Finally, she gives a curt nod with her eyes to the dirt.
“What’s your name?” I ask, shifting to sit in the dirt beside her.
“Nada,” she says quietly. Her dirty hands clasp her knees and her shoulders slump. When she’s not angry, she looks down right pathetic.
“Nada’s a nice name,” I say, elbowing Clay who’s staring now. He nods heavily.
“Yep, nice. You been with him long?” he asks, pointing back to the man moaning in the dirt.
She shakes her head. “He caught me ’bout fifty miles from here at an old well. He was taking me back.”
“Back where?” Clay asks.
Nada’s eyes shoot up and her expression tightens. She looks as though she’s already said too much.
I try another tactic. “You got family?”
She shakes her head, still looking wary. Then she points at her bound feet and her eyes meet mine.
“Oh. Right.” I lean down to untie the knots, but Clay’s hand on mine stops me.
“Can I have a word?” he asks, tugging on my arm.
I shoot him a curious look. “Just a minute,” I say to Nada. I follow Clay up the hill a ways and out of earshot.
“What?” I ask, watching Nada by the fire. Once we’re gone she starts digging at the rope again.
“I don’t know, Ri. She might run off and tell people about you.” Clay crosses his hands over his chest and sighs.
“Who’s she gonna tell?” I ask. “She’s as much on the run as I am.”
“Not if she suspects you’re a girl. A bender might be worth a month’s wages. You…” He pauses and looks me over like he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re worth a lifetime’s pay to the right buyer.” He bites his lip. “Like my mother.”
I blow out my breath, considering. “Nada thinks I’m a bender like her.”
“How d’you know what she thinks?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “How do you know she won’t squeal the minute she gets picked up again? ‘I got a better prize right down the road. Follow me.’ People’ll throw you to the wolves, Ri.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask, feeling heat creep up my neck. I hate when he acts like I don’t know how the world works. He’s the one who grew up privileged, safe behind town walls with every luxury in the world. I clench my fists and stare at Nada, chewing on the bonds that hold her feet together. “We can’t just leave her.”
“We can’t take her with us,” Clay says, his fingers tracing the handle of his revolver. “We ain’t got enough supplies.”
“Well, we can’t kill her,” I say, angry.
Clay shoots me a look and puts a finger to his lips to tell me I’ve been too loud. We both look down the hill. The bender’s stopped digging at her rope and is sucking on bloody fingers. God, she looks so pathetic.
“We gotta free her. I can’t live with myself if we do anything else.”
“Let’s think on it,” Clay says, walking up the ridge. “I’ll go get Ethan. You stay here and keep an eye on things.”
Slowly, I walk back down into the ring of firelight. As the bender watches, I throw a couple scraggly logs on the blaze. Then I sit heavily beside her and sigh.
“You should get out of here,” Nada whispers.
I look over. Her bottom lip has been busted and healing into a dark crease. Old bruises dot one cheek.
“I’m safe with Clay,” I say, letting my eyes linger up the moonlit ridge. “We take care of each other.”
“No bender is safe. Not with a man.”
I sigh, thinking about how I should explain this without giving away too much. “Clay’s different. He wouldn’t—”
“There’s a bounty.” She stares at me, eyes wide.
“A bounty?”
“It’s big. Big enough that every trader, every wannabe trader, too, is snatching up benders. No place is safe.” She drops her eyes to her dirty jeans. “You should just kill me now.”
“I’m not gonna kill you.” My insides are cold. I don’t like hearing there’s a bounty on benders. That means I’m not safe no matter where I go. Even passing as a bender won’t keep me out of harm’s way anymore.
Beside me, Nada begins sniffling. I try to touch her shoulder, but she shies away and goes back to digging at the bonds around her ankles.
“Here, stop that,” I say, putting my hands on top of hers. Her fingers tremble under mine. This is all too much. I can’t stand the suffering look on this poor bender’s face. I draw out my hunting knife and slip it through the twine. When the rope frays, I look at Nada, my heart pounding.
She looks between me and her free ankles with disbelief.
“If you want, we can try to drive you someplace safe. We’re headed north to a town ther—”
Before I can finish my sentence, Nada springs at me. Her hands slam into my chest, bowling me over into the dirt. I’m so shocked, I don’t even think to fight back when she grabs my knife.
“What’re you doing?” I manage to yell. I reach for her, but she’s quick. She jumps off me and runs around the fire.
I push up and after her, but she has a big head start. She sprints around the campfire toward the shotgun. Maybe she thinks I’m too big to kill with a knife. Instead she’ll shoot me.
I was so stupid.
She skids to her knees beside the man who’s bound and lying face down in the dirt. She must want the keys to his truck. We found it parked behind a butte. But she can’t get his keys and shoot me at the same time. I’m about to pounce when the knife flashes upward. What’s she—
Nada plunges the knife in a slashing arch down into the man’s back, two stabs right where his heart would be. The man twitches and is still.
I skid to a stop a few feet away and stare, the shock freezing me in place. She just…killed him. Bright red blood jets from his back.
I can’t believe it.
Nada runs into the dark like a coyote skittering away into the night.
Chapter 2
Riley
“What the hell, Riley?”
Clay comes barreling toward me with Ethan in tow. He stares at the giant puddle of blood under the dead trader. Then his eyes flick back to the discarded rope that had lashed the bender’s ankles together. “What happened?”
I cringe and dig for the right words. “I couldn’t just leave her tied up.”
“You did this?” Clay asks, tugging a hand through his hair in frustration. “Why?”
“She was scared. She said benders were being rounded up.” I twist my hands together, still digging for answers that don’t come. I shrug. “I felt sorry for her.”
“You felt sorry for her?” Clay asks, throwing his hands in the air. “Feel sorry for us when she comes back with half an army of traders.”
“She won’t do that.” I bite my lip. God, I hope she won’t.
Clay flashes me a look. Ethan comes over and stares at the dead body. I draw my brother to me. I don’t shield his eyes from death any more. God knows he’s seen enough of it, but I can’t help reaching for him.
“How’d he die?” Ethan asks, staring at the man’s blood-soaked shirt. “You kill him?” He looks up at me.
“Hell no,” I say, feeling sick that he would even ask. “The bender did it. She couldn’t wait to kill this bastard. Then she ran off. Didn’t even take the truck keys.”
“Well, kill him she did,” Clay says, crouching down and inspecting the knife wounds. “Right in the heart.” He looks up at me. “You’re lucky she didn’t go after you.”
I say nothing and lift my eyes up at the blanket of stars. Lord knows I’ve made mistakes, but freeing that poor bender sure didn’t feel like one. I only hope I don’t come to regret this. For Ethan’s sake. For Clay’s.
“One thing’s for sure,” Clay says, standing and brushing dirt from the knees of his pants. “We ain’t sleepin’ here tonight. Let’s hope that truck over yonder’s got fuel. We need to put distance between us and your bender friend.”
I roll my eyes, but I know he’s right. Distance is all we’ve ever needed. From every goddamned person on the planet.
The truck’s a beater—a rusted front
grille that’s barely hanging on, pitted doors that groan when you open them, no back or side windows, and a wicked crack through the windshield that makes it difficult to see—but she drives. The tires are full and the gas tank doesn’t echo when you knock on it, so we count ourselves lucky. We pile all the dead man’s supplies into the truck and toss in our own scant belongings. The shotgun is a great find, but even better is the box of twelve cartridges and nearly a full box .22 caliber birdshot. Clay wrinkles his brow at the birdshot. He likes bullets, but I run my hands through the cool metal spears gleefully. Arn used birdshot from time to time. This means hunting in the air. I’d love hawk or crow for dinner. It can’t hurt for defending ourselves, either.
We also score two jugs of water, a pair of boots, a cast-iron pan, a pouch of jerky, and jars of canned peaches, prickly pear, and tomatoes. A good haul. I feel some guilt for the dead trader, but if Nada would rather have killed him than take the truck, he must’ve done awful things to her. He must’ve deserved to die.
We drive through the night and into dawn, Ethan in the middle of the cracked bench seat, Clay driving, and me riding literally shotgun with the dead man’s rifle on my lap. It’s nice to have a loaded gun again. Nothing feels so empty as a hollow chamber. Ethan’s head rests on my shoulder as he sleeps. My eyes are red-rimmed and stinging, but Clay insists on putting at least five hours between us and the bender before he pulls over. The landscape here is flat and brown, with cactus and scraggly brush the main attraction. Sometimes we pass decaying homes or leaning gas stations, long empty and picked over, sliding to rot. My heartbeat always skyrockets when we drive past shells of old buildings. The only thing they hold now are dangers.