by Lyndsay Ely
“There’s more to worry about than my father.”
“Sure,” said Finn. “Those deer we saw a few miles back looked like the menacing sort.”
“There’s no harm in being careful.” She did another sweep.
Her initial elation was receding, leaving her unable to shake the itch of pursuit. They had left the main road almost immediately, the Ranger taking on the grassland with faultless mechanical grace. Here and there they had passed the skeletons of structures, the cracked remnants of old roads, but mainly the terrain had been flat, repetitive. At dusk they had made camp near a line of trees following a stream.
“Let’s go to Columbia first,” Pity said, changing the subject. “Just to see it. My mother used to say she’d take me there someday.”
“Really? I’m surprised she’d want to go anywhere near Columbia.” Finn tossed the wrench back into her bag. “Given who some people think she was.”
“Stop it. There’s no secret there. Everyone knew she was a sniper, and if she hadn’t been fertile they would have strung her up with the Patriots they tried for war crimes. Anything else is old gossip.”
“Gossip or not,” said Finn, “some folks swear she was a Reaper.”
“They say that about anyone who is a half decent shot.”
“And you think she would have told you if she was part of the deadliest, most hunted squad of assassins in the war?”
“Yes.” Pity lowered the rifle. “I do.”
Did you kill people?
Pity didn’t remember if it was the first time she had asked the question, but it was the time that stuck in her mind. The war had been over for a decade by then yet as ever present as the harvest, visible in scars and missing limbs and endless, haunted stares.
To her credit, her mother had replied honestly. Yes.
How many?
Enough. At first, Pity hadn’t thought she’d say more. Her mother had been quiet about the war, saying little more than she had guarded supply depots until near the end, when the conflict had crested to such ferocity that fighting was unavoidable.
I tried not to kill anyone who didn’t need it, her mother had continued, words sober, shared at a time when she still held the advantage in her battle with the drink. But when an entire battle came down to a moment—to when taking one life might turn the tide and save a hundred—well… that’s when a decision needs to be made.
“By all accounts, the Reapers were vicious, unrestrained,” Pity said to Finn. “My mother was a lot of things, but she wasn’t that kind of killer.”
Finn shrugged. “Columbia it is.”
Pity raised the rifle again and sighted the empty bean can she had set up two hundred yards off. Its contents simmered over the fire next to her.
“What?” said Finn.
“What do you mean ‘what’?”
“Something is still bothering you.”
Pity steadied the rifle. “It’s nothing.”
“Liar. You tell me.”
She sighed. “What currency we’ve got between us isn’t going to last long. We’ve got no contacts and no official transfers. There’s always need for a good mechanic, but what am I gonna do? I kept house and worked in the dairy sometimes. There are no cows to milk in the cities.”
“I’m no expert,” Finn said, “but that doesn’t look like a cow’s udder in your hands.”
The bean can floated in the crosshairs. “There are no walls to walk in the cities. And I’m not joining the military. That doesn’t leave too many options.”
Finn rolled her eyes. “Serendipity Scupps, whatever you find can’t be much worse than what you left behind, right? So stop worrying and—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What?”
“Scupps. I don’t ever want to hear that name again.” She thought for a moment. “My mother’s name was Jones. I can get a new name along with a new life, can’t I?”
Finn gave an approving nod. “I suppose you can. Serendipity Jones… Can’t say I hate it.”
Pity repeated the name in her head as she tightened her finger on the trigger. Briefly, it was almost like her mother stood behind her, as she’d done years ago.
Inhale, aim. Exhale, shoot.
She pulled the trigger. The can flew off the rock and disappeared in the grass.
The world turned from light to dark as they ate. Stars appeared, and when the chill settled in, they huddled back-to-back beneath blankets, staring at the endless pinpricks of light.
“Pretty,” said Finn.
“Mmm-hmm.” Beneath Pity’s pillow was the hard, comforting outline of her mother’s guns.
Finn shifted, turning over so that she spoke to the back of Pity’s neck. “When we get to the cities… we’re gonna be okay, y’know? We’ll figure it out together.”
Pity turned as well. The fire had burned so low that Finn was hardly more than a darker piece of the night, but Pity could sense the weight of her and pick the faint scent of machine oil out of the air. “I’m sorry to fuss. I know we will. Like you said, can’t be any worse than what we left behind, right?”
“Right. G’night.”
“’Night.” Pity pulled the blanket tighter and pushed her fearful thoughts away. They didn’t matter, not right then. Because as she felt Finn’s warmth beside her, listened to her friend’s breaths grow slower and more rhythmic with sleep, she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so hopeful.
Icy water tickled Pity’s ankles as she dipped the mouth of the canteen into the stream. The midmorning sun warmed her shoulders and danced across the ripples as a faint breeze sent the leaves whispering. Earlier, she had woken to a sunrise that felt unfamiliar, like a sight she had never seen before. It had taken her a while to figure out why.
Pity closed her eyes. This is what it is, she thought, to be outside the cage.
This was what it felt like to be free.
A twig cracked.
She opened her eyes and spun, drawing her gun in the same movement.
Downstream, a turkey strutted out of the brush. It took a few jagged steps, stopped, and considered Pity.
She considered it right back.
“You’d make a good meal, Mr. Turkey.” She aimed for the loose red flesh of the bird’s neck. “But Finn’s probably done packing camp by now, and I don’t feel like taking the time to dress you.” She slid the gun back into her holster.
On the shore, she pulled on her boots and started up the steep bank of the stream. The thick undergrowth tugged at her clothes as she navigated it, retracing her steps until she reached where the trees thinned.
Mid-step, she froze.
Something was different.
When Pity left the camp, Finn had been whistling a cheerful tune that didn’t quite match the song it was supposed to be. Now that sound was gone, replaced by one she knew too well: engines.
Motorcycles. She dropped the canteens and ducked into the brush. More than one.
Was it possible? Could her father have found them already? No, he wouldn’t be back at the commune yet. Had Rawley raised the alarm, then? Her throat tightened, but it still didn’t ring true—she and Finn had taken a wandering route, and the Ranger left hardly more trail than a bobcat.
She inched forward through the brush, a single thought pounding in time with her heart.
Finn.
By the time she reached the edge of the tree line, another distinct rumble could be heard. Fifty paces away, beyond where the Ranger sat, a truck rattled up to join the two motorcycles that flanked their camp. A man jumped from its cab and joined the dismounted riders. Beside the remains of the fire, Finn stood, stiff-backed. She took a few cautious paces backward as the men approached.
Trembling, Pity cursed silently. Her rifle leaned against the side of the Ranger.
“Mornin’!” one of the men called out, his voice carrying to where Pity hid.
She inspected the trio. They were young but with a coarse, dirty look to them, the kind of rough that didn
’t wash off. Not commune workers, then, and she didn’t see any CONA patches on their clothing. All three were armed, the riders with handguns on their belts. As for the truck driver, Pity didn’t see a gun, but strapped across his chest were half a dozen grenades. She eyed the truck.
Metal scraps. Wiring. A pile of mismatched tires.
Scroungers.
They could be looking to trade, she told herself. Being armed didn’t mean anything out here. But she remained crouched as Finn responded to the greeting, her words too faint to make out.
The men looked at one another. One pointed at the rifle and said something. Finn started for the gun, but he put himself between her and it, a split-wound grin on his face.
Pity’s heart slid into her stomach. Her free hand drew. Scroungers, maybe, but something about them was old-milk sour. She gauged the distance between her and the men, cursing herself again for leaving the rifle behind. With it, she could have sent warning shots at the intruders—or worse maybe, if they refused to take the hint. But this far away, and with three against one, her pistols were a chancy proposition at best.
What do I do?
If she broke cover now, they’d be on her in an instant. And for all that she would have joined the commune’s defenses in a heartbeat, she had only ever shot at targets, never a live human. Her palms began to sweat as the sick sensation in her gut spread.
“Go on!” Finn spoke loud enough for Pity to hear this time. “Take it and go. I ain’t got anything else worth stealing.” She waved dismissively and set her hands on her hips, back still to Pity.
She knows I’m close. A line of sweat slid from her forehead to the bridge of her nose. Why hasn’t she called for help? She isn’t so much as glancing in this direction.
Realization bloomed in her like a frost.
They think Finn’s alone. They have no idea I’m here.
And Finn was trying to keep it that way.
The grinning rider grabbed the rifle. When Finn took an angry step toward him, the man closest to her drew his handgun. He grabbed her arm and twisted, shoving her to her knees. She went stone-still as he shoved the muzzle against her temple.
“You stay right where you are, now.”
Pity read the words on his lips as much as she heard them. Her muscles screamed to move, but she felt no more mobile than the surrounding trees. A primal direction rooted her, a fear-soaked sense of preservation.
Don’t… Her thoughts were hard to hold on to, the pounding blood in her veins drowning them out. Wait. Think. Don’t toss away what advantage Finn’s bought you.
Now that Finn was partially turned toward the trees, Pity could see her eyes running back and forth over the brush, blank fear painted on her features.
I’m here, Pity thought, jaw aching with desperation to cry out. Finn, I’m here.
An idea struck her. She raised her gun, angling it so that sunlight winked off the silver plating.
I’m here.
Finn locked on the signal. Pity flashed one more time and dropped her arm, before the scroungers could take notice.
“Anything good?” Finn’s guard called to his companions, who had begun rooting through the Ranger.
The driver pulled Finn’s tools from the vehicle and tossed them to the ground. “Nothin’ that’ll buy you the moon, but not bad.” He straightened, a cross air about him. “Finish up and come help, would you? We’re not doin’ all the work this time!”
Finish—
Terror prickling her skin, Pity snapped back to Finn. Her friend stared directly at her.
“For sayin’ you do all the work, you two sure never get your hands dirty!”
Move! The word screamed through Pity’s mind, but her body refused. Every inch of her felt carved from ice. In her hand, the gun she could pick the petals from a daisy with remained half raised, heavy as a concrete block.
Finn’s gaze never left her. But the fear in her eyes was gone, replaced by soft resignation. As Pity watched, her head slid back and forth once, the movement barely perceptible. Her mouth formed a single word.
Run.
Pity ripped her other gun from its holster.
A moment later, a shot cracked the morning into shards.
CHAPTER 4
In a mist of crimson, Finn slumped to the ground.
With a scream like a piece torn from her soul, Pity bolted from the brush, firing three shots in rapid succession and closing half the distance before the scroungers saw her coming. One of the shots took Finn’s killer in the leg, toppling him. The others were lost to the frantic haze.
Taken by surprise, the two unscathed scroungers retreated toward the truck. Pity fired twice more before one turned and shot at her with her own rifle; a bullet whizzed by her ear, another tugged on her jacket. She angled toward the Ranger and threw herself behind it. Blood pounded in her veins. Finn, get to Finn. The thought ricocheted off the inside of her skull, obliterating every rational thought that tried to form.
“Where the hell did she come from?” one of the men yelled. Another cried out in pain.
Pity leaned through the open doors and fired. “Finn!”
More shots answered hers. One dinged off the metal above her head, clear as the chime of a bell.
In an instant, coherence returned. The world’s colors were too bright, the edges of her vision too sharp, but Pity registered that both scroungers had reached the truck, and the third was nearly there, hobbling on his injured leg. Her brief advantage was spent. She was outgunned and pinned behind the Ranger. She looked around. Open ground surrounded her. Her chest tightened.
There was nowhere to go.
“Finn…” she said again, knowing no response was coming.
Too late. Only heartbeats had passed, but Pity was already far, far too late.
“Idiots! I’ll handle her.”
She peeked back through the doors in time to see the truck driver rip a grenade off his chest strap and pull the pin.
He readied to throw.
With no time to think, Pity sprang to her feet and aimed over the top of Ranger.
Bang!
Bang!
Her shots caught the driver in the shoulder. The grenade slipped from his fingers.
She had just enough time to register the shock on the scroungers’ faces before the air exploded.
The first thing was darkness.
On its heels followed a high-pitched whine and an acrid burning smell. Finally came the pain. It was everywhere, like the whine and the darkness. Her head pounded with it, sending shock waves of nausea through her. She tried to swallow and tasted… dirt? The damp earth lay beneath her, bits of grass poking her in the face.
What…?
She tried to move her legs. A cold stab of panic shot through her when she couldn’t. She tried again and realized that it wasn’t her legs that weren’t obeying—something was pinning them. She lay still instead, skull throbbing with each beat of her heart. The darkness wasn’t night. Something was draped over her. She smelled canvas and wax among the char and scorched oil.
The roof of the Ranger. But before she could fathom why it was on top of her and not on top of the Ranger, she heard another, unmistakable sound.
Footsteps.
Her thoughts slammed into place.
The scroungers.
A moment ago her guns had been in her hands. Now they held nothing. She slid one arm outward. The movement sent a bolt of pain up her side. She cried out.
The footsteps stopped. “Hey!” said a muffled voice. “Someone’s still alive!”
There was no time. Pity shifted her other arm, bracing for agony, but it responded without complaint. She pawed blindly at the ground around her.
“C’mon, over here!” More footsteps.
They were coming.
Her fingers brushed steel. Pity grabbed the pistol, slipping her finger into the trigger and cocking the hammer as the debris pinning her began to shift.
One chance.
Light flooded in, scor
ching her vision. She angled the barrel up as the canvas was lifted and tossed to the side.
She fired.
“Holy shit!” A blurry figure tumbled backward.
The shot had gone wide. As her vision broke apart and came back together, Pity raised the gun again, but a lightning sear of pain shot through her wrist. The gun flew from her grip as it was wrenched to one side. Another silhouette appeared, quickly lost as a gray fog of unconsciousness enveloped her again.
“She’s waking up.”
Her ears still rang. Everything still hurt. And this time Pity couldn’t move at all. Not a finger or a toe. Her eyes cast around helplessly. She was in a room but could see nothing except a metal ceiling above her and a blank wall to her right. A clipped yelp escaped from between her frozen lips.
“Hey, shhhh.” A face appeared in her field of vision: a young man around her age, dressed in filthy clothes. He was milk pale, a feature amplified by his spiked hair dyed oil-slick black. Except for the tips, which were cyan. At least a dozen silver rings and studs pierced his eyebrows, lips, and ears.
Another scrounger?
“Don’t try to move,” he said. “We didn’t know if you had internal injuries, so we gave you a paralytic to be safe.”
A paralytic? Pity took a sharp breath. Where would a scrounger have gotten paralytics?
“You were lucky. A mild concussion, a lot of bruises and scrapes, but you’re alive.”
“Move, Max.” He was replaced by an umber-skinned woman at least a decade his senior. She had a square face and dimpled cheeks, with dark eyes that would have been beautiful had they carried any hint of softness. “I’m going to un-paralyze you now. You are going to behave yourself. If you don’t, I’m going to shoot you in the knee. Blink twice if you understand.”
Pity blinked twice. She felt the prick of a med injector in her neck.
“Try to sit up,” said Max.
“Slowly,” warned the woman.
Pity lifted herself onto one elbow, muscles waking slowly. Her other arm ached like the devil, but she could move it without much effort. She lay on a narrow cot. There was another like it nearby, along with a small seating area built into the wall and a tiny kitchen. The rest of the space was occupied by storage containers of all sizes. There were no windows. A wave of pain radiated through her body. She closed her eyes and leaned over the side of the bed, afraid she would be sick. It was then that she noticed the vibration—a distinct, subtle turbulence.