Machine-Gun Girls

by Aaron Michael Ritchey

  “So, Wren’s hurting, like you. She thinks her family hates her, and in some ways, we do. Wren’s bad. It’s hard to love someone who’s bad. But Pilate can. You know he can. Pilate can love anyone, whether they deserve it or not.”

  “Even me,” Petal’s eyes filled with tears.

  Both Pilate and I held her while she wept. It wasn’t that awful, tortured sorrow, but a healing sound.

  Pilate whispered to me, “She’s going to make it. This might be the one chance she has of getting clean, and it’s all thanks to you. Thank you.”

  I laid my head on him, on Petal, and let myself give into the Holy Spirit binding us together.

  Yes, it’s a hard, old world, and sometimes it feels like God is more of a jailer than a savior, and Jesus is a lie, and death will be our only reward. But all of us together, we can be Jesus to one another. All of us together, that’s God. And it’s good. Life is good, even for all the trouble.

  I had to cling to that idea ’cause out there in the darkness, though we didn’t know it, the Psycho Princess was watching us.

  Chapter Nine

  The trauma of our age is unprecedented. A generation of women returned home from the Sino-American war only to face the Sterility Epidemic. The hysteria of the New Morality movement capitalizes upon this trauma as does the marketing campaigns of the ARK. Once again, the souls of women are under siege.

  —Dr. Anna M. Colton, PhD

  Professor of Sociology, Princeton University

  April 14, 2056, on the First Anniversary of the landing of the U.S.S. Exodus

  (i)

  FOR SEVEN DAYS I MOVED us slowly across the Wyoming border. Prairie dogs kissed each other on top of their dirt mounds when the coyotes weren’t chasing them down. Purple thistle puffballs hung over cacti flowering in meadows of green grass and gray sage. Magpies and turkey vultures owned the sky.

  The plains got drier and drier—more sage, less grass—and summer heat threatened to come early. Considering how hot it was, I missed my dress. Nice thing about a dress, you could wave it around your legs and fan your under bits to keep things cool. With jeans? Not so much.

  The heat made our cattle thirsty. Lucky for us, the Moby brought more water. Sketchy also supplied Aunt Bea’s chuck wagon with flour, sugar, beans, and freeze-dried fruits and vegetables. Funny, in order to load up the trailer, we had to move around machine guns, ammo, and grenades—a testament to what our cattle drive had become. In a way, it was far more of a military operation than a cattle drive.

  After making sure we were stocked, Sketchy and her crew lifted off to look for more water and to scout. So far, they hadn’t seen any sign of the Psycho Princess or the Wind River people. Finally, we had days and nights of just normal cattle driving. No one shot at us. How nice.

  My wounds were healing, and I stopped taking the pain meds.

  On the afternoon of the ninth day since leaving the Scheutz’s ranch, I got called up to the front, where Allie Chambers and Kasey Romero were guiding our cows down a dirt road, narrowed by grasses and time. Didn’t take long to see what concerned them.

  A two-by-six board had been fixed crosswise to a telephone pole about three meters off the ground. A boy hung on the homemade crucifix—wooly ropes tied his torso to the pole and spikes nailed his wrists and feet to the wood. I spurred Bob D forward, fearing it was Micaiah.

  If it was my boy, the sight of his cold body would break me, and I’d wind up like Petal or Wren or even Sharlotte, wandering in the wilderness.

  On my horse, I came up even to his chest. I gazed into his face. Even wizened from decay and the elements, I could tell it wasn’t Micaiah. His face was too narrow, and his clothes were different. A maroon down jacket covered him to his jeans, and he wore athletic shoes, not the nightclub cowboy boots I hated. I wasn’t sure how long the corpse had hung there, but long enough that the stench of dead flesh wasn’t stifling. Still, a mist of awful stink hung around him. Dried blood crumbled black against the gray skin. His mouth pulled down into a gray, grim frown. His eye sockets stared empty. Black wounds from bird beaks dotted his brow and cheeks.

  The Psycho Princess had made a serial-killer sculpture out of the poor boy, whoever he was. I’d heard stories of boys kidnapped from Mexico, forced to march through the Juniper. In my heart, I prayed extra hard for Micaiah.

  “It’s that Psycho Princess,” Kasey said, sweaty and pale. “This is what she does to boys. Crazy. Makes me think we might try the mountains instead of trying to make it through her territory.”

  I had to disagree. “Trying to cross the Colorado Rockies this time of year would be just as dangerous. We barely survived the one blizzard that hit us, but up in those hills, spring can bury you in snow. There’s a reason the pioneers took the Oregon Trail. Best place to cross the Rockies is in Wyoming.” I went on and on. Easier to talk about our route than about the dead boy.

  “You’re right,” Kasey said. “Still, makes me want to run like hell. I won’t, though, and I’ll fight if it comes to it.”

  Allie nodded. They were both tough Juniper women. However, I knew if Crete saw the body, she’d go nuts again. For our morale’s sake, I made the command decision to hide the body.

  Allie made the sign of the cross, then kissed her fingers. I had always liked that quiet, Irish girl. Now I liked her even more since she showed herself to be old-fashioned Catholic.

  I forced Bob D up to the telephone pole. He wanted nothing to do with that body and amen to that. But I took hold of my shakti and used my Betty knife to saw through the ropes. The corpse wasn’t heavy enough on its own to pull through the nails. Grinding my teeth, I touched his cold, leathery flesh. His jacket fell open. Inside, a note was pinned into his skin.

  I tore it loose. It was a page from a children’s coloring book with a horse galloping across a meadow, colored in with some skill, but words written in heavy black marker ruined the picture. I read it aloud.

  Dear Weller Family,

  We know what you are doing. We know where you are going. We know Father Pilate is with you. His death will usher in a new age for the Juniper. Women only! We will not cling to men. We will not embrace our oppressors. Women only!

  Surrender Pilate to us and we will allow you to continue. Bring him here to this cross at sundown or we will come for you. Defy us and we will kill your cattle. We will kill your horses. We will take you away and you will become Madelines even as we are Madelines.

  The choice is yours.

  The Women of Magdala.

  P.S. We’ve been watching you. We can see you.

  My hands started to shake. I stuffed the note into my pocket.

  Allie and Kasey stood in their stirrups, scanning the horizon for any sign of the Psycho Princess and her cracked-crazy soldiers. Even if their snipers were terrible, they could still pick us off at five hundred meters, and we wouldn’t see them at all.

  We needed to get out of there, get back to our people, but I couldn’t leave the boy up on the cross.

  I went to throw my lariat around the body but then stopped myself. What if the body was booby-trapped? What if, when we pulled him off, we triggered some kind of tripwire connected to landmines around us?

  I’d pray for him, but that was about all I could do. Every flicker of sage seemed malevolent. I wheeled my horse around to run.

  An instant later, a gunshot echoed across the plains. Bob D reared. Something wet struck my face. That good horse wouldn’t freak from just the noise. Most likely, he’d been hit.

  Mad thoughts of running and hiding swept through my mind, but I had to get control of Bob D first, who was bucking as hard as my heart.

  I got him quiet and looked for bullet wounds. Couldn’t see any blood on him, but my jeans were soaked. Had I been hit and not felt it? I’d heard stories of people shot right through the chest, not feeling a thing, until they pitched forward dead.

  Then I saw it. Swinging from a leather strap, my metal canteen had burst open showing ragged metal edges. The sniper hadn’
t been aiming at me, but at Bob D. The water had splashed my face and drenched my jeans.

  I shouted at Kasey and Allie. “You girls find Wren and Pilate. I’ll lead them off.” I didn’t need spurs for Bob D. He was smart enough to know it was time to run and run hard.

  Kasey and Allie drove their ponies over the plain back south toward where the chuck wagon would be, and I galloped west, toward a hogback littered with boulders. I had no idea if I was going in the right direction, but the ridge offered the only cover.

  I kept low, reins in one hand, a fancy AZ3 assault rifle in the other. I had stuffed three M67 anti-personnel fragmentation grenades into Bob D’s saddlebags that morning. I wasn’t sure I could use any of the weapons, but I was grateful to be armed.

  Bob D’s lithe body stretched into a sprint, his hooves throwing dust and dirt and clumps of brush as we thundered away. I didn’t know if the sniper took more shots at Bob D and me—couldn’t hear anything above the sound of the pounding horse.

  At the cluster of boulders, I stepped out of the saddle and rolled across ground coming within millimeters of a prickly-pear cactus that would’ve gored my hands bloody.

  Sunshine cooked the dust, the rocks, everything. Sweat dribbled off my nose and tickled my neck.

  Bob shook himself, whinnied, prolly still smarting from the sniper’s bullet striking the canteen. He let out his bladder in a stink of yellow spray. I couldn’t let him finish and had to pull him by the reins even as he relieved himself. I got us behind the fat, chalky boulders, so we both had cover, then readied my assault rifle. I hoped the sniper recognized me as the leader and let Allie and Kasey get away.

  I peeked around the boulder. A bullet tore into the rock—stung my face with pebbles and blinded me with rock dust. I was pinned down. Every one of my heartbeats exploded in my ears.

  I didn’t have Pilate or Wren to help me. I was alone, hot, near to panicking. But I knew if I allowed the fear to take me, I’d die. So I closed my eyes, couldn’t see anything anyway, and let my tears clean my eyeballs. I prayed. I thought of Mama. Took a deep breath, inhaling the smells of dusty rock, gunpowder, and Bob D’s sweaty stench.

  Rocks shifted in a rattling tumble of shale pieces scratching across hardscrabble. I blinked out the last of the dust. Above me, behind other cream-colored boulders, something pink swept about. It seemed to be a bright pink dress, but who would be walking around in such an outfit?

  A woman came into view, staring at me not five meters away. Her bright diamond jewelry sparkled in the noonday sun—necklaces, bracelets, and rings. She was hatless, and her skin had been blasted to the color of autumn leaves long dead. In her hand was an MG21, a Sino assault rifle, like the ones June Mai Angel issued to her troops.

  But this woman in the dress wasn’t one of June Mai’s soldier girls. Far from it.

  No, I knew who she was. Tech had told me when we talked about Peeperz’s scar. She mentioned the Psycho Princess, or one of her soldiers, might be walking around in a bad bridesmaid’s dress from some terrible wedding.

  The woman spoke to me. “Hello, my friend. I’m Madeline. From one woman to another, I welcome you to my lands.”

  She leveled her rifle right, and I found myself staring down the barrel. Not much of a welcome, if you ask me.

  (ii)

  Both Bob D and I watched the woman in the pink dress—both of us stood frozen. Bob was close enough that I could’ve grabbed his reins and put him between me and the woman, but I’d already gotten two horses killed by hiding behind them, poor Mary B and Lambchop. I wouldn’t sacrifice another.

  The woman, Madeline, might kill my horse, but she wouldn’t kill me. She’d take me back to Magdala, where, rumor had it, the Psycho Princess had her headquarters. There, she’d brainwash me into joining her.

  “Hi,” I said. The AZ3 hung from my shoulder, but I wouldn’t have time to bring it around.

  “We’ve been watching you. You found our note. You know.” Her hair fell in harsh, brown-colored curls, a shade lighter than her skin. Lord, her hair had been curled recently. In the Juniper, we had Marcel Maxims, pinchers you heated to get yourself curls. Not that I ever used one nor did any of my sisters. That was a monumental waste of time.

  “So, you’re Madeline. What’s your last name?” I asked. Didn’t know what else to do but make polite conversation.

  “We are all Madeline.” Her lips twisted into a smirk. “You probably call us the Psycho Princess, but we are Madeline, women of Magdala. We have transcended individuality, and you will, too. You will be Madeline with us, a sister in our great family. It’s good you are young. It will take some time for the balance of the world to be restored, and we need the years you have in front of you.”

  I listened to her words but couldn’t decipher the crazy. I needed a way out and quick. The sniper lay behind me, the woman in pink in front, and every second counted.

  She kept the rifle on me, but drew a fancy, sparkly purse from around her back to hold against her middle. “We saw you at the Scheutz ranch. We saw those soldiers. We saw your boy. He escaped us for a time, but we found him. We have him.”

  My lips went numb. My breath went away. Micaiah. They had Micaiah. All conscious thought swirled away, and I felt my knees buckle.

  She noted my reaction and nodded. “Yes. The boy. He’s with us, but we want Pilate.”

  If they had Micaiah, he was surely dead. However, she was using the present tense. It sounded like he was still alive, but how could that be?

  She continued. “Pilate has been sinning against the Goddess for years in the Juniper, and we can’t evolve if we don’t cleanse the world of males. All men must die.”

  I took in a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. I couldn’t get stupid or I’d get dead. I cocked my ears, to listen for any sign of the sniper or any other troops coming from behind. All I heard was the tick of the heat in the brush and the whisper of the dress around the Madeline.

  “How does that work exactly?” I asked. “If you kill all the boys, humans can’t survive to evolve. You need new generations for natural selection to work. And it’ll take a mighty long time to grow new plumbing.”

  She laughed condescendingly. “Of course you think that. Most people do, but most people are wrong. The world has been dominated by the males for millennia, and what has that brought us? War, rape, the Salem witch trials, hatred, and fear. Without males, the world will know peace, and we will find a way to continue on. We don’t need males. We are women. We are the source of life. We must have faith that our cells will change. We will find new ways. You don’t believe this now, but you will once you become a Madeline.”

  Madness. She and all of her kind were insane, clearly, wearing costume jewelry and girly ’strogen costumes as if that made them women who could procreate on their own. For a second, I thought back to science class where we’d studied frogs who could switch gender. Yeah, that was possible, but humans were a little more complex than amphibians. Usually.

  The woman dug into the purse and threw bright stainless steel handcuffs into the dirt. “Put those on and come with me. We have you. As for your people, the deal stands. If they take Pilate to the cross, we will let them go. If they don’t, we will either do two things: our snipers will either plague them with bullets, day after day, until they beg us to take him; or we will attack them all at once. We’ve done both over the years. Both have proved effective.”

  Either guerrilla warfare or a straight-up fight. Sure. That’s how the Viet Cong beat us in the Vietnam War.

  Behind me, coming closer, I heard horses storming across the plain. It was now or never. Already, it might be too late.

  Next to the handcuffs, in the dirt, Bob D’s reins slithered like a serpent.

  Sweat slipped into my eyes, and in that microsecond, a memory plunked itself into my brain from my days in Cleveland, watching all kinds of video with my best friend Anju Rawat. In all those old westerns videos, when the hero got in a bind, they always did the same thing, and I ho
ped I could be as fast and my aim as true.

  “Guess you got me.” I bent down, as if to grab the handcuffs. “But I have to know one thing. Is that boy you grabbed still alive?”

  I wanted to wait for an answer, I needed to know, but I was out of time. Instead of the handcuffs, I grabbed a handful of powdery dirt.

  The Madeline opened her mouth to answer but instead got a face full of dust. She let out a yell as the fine grains dashed into her eyes, and in that second, I hauled up Bob D’s reins and pulled him over. I plucked two grenades out of his saddlebags at the same time I stuck a boot in a stirrup and hauled myself aloft into the saddle. I charged off, going south.

  Behind me, I heard her yell, “Deliver Pilate to us by sunset or we’ll come for you. At midnight when the Goddess is the strongest, we will come for you, your women, and for Pilate! Pilate must die!”

  Galloping across the plains, Bob D and I were sniper-bait, but I had a plan. I pulled a pin on one of the grenades and threw it as far as I could behind me. Those M67 grenades have a wounding radius of fifteen meters. I didn’t throw it to kill, only so the explosion could set them on edge and to blur their vision. The explosion sent a cloud of dust into the air.

  I flung another one behind me, trying to get more distance this time, and a second explosion threw up more dirt.

  Then everything else was lost in the speed of the horse. I didn’t want to chance tumbling off the saddle trying to get the third grenade, and besides, Bob D could gallop at about forty-eight kilometers an hour, which translated to around eight hundred meters a minute.

  A minute and a half later I was out of sniper range.

  In the end, though, they didn’t want to kill me. They wanted me alive so I could become a Madeline.

  But did they want Pilate bad enough to kill us all?