The Deadly Nightshade

by Justine Ashford

  “Let’s go again,” I say as he pushes himself off the ground and brushes the dirt from his jacket.

  “I can’t. I—I need to catch my breath,” he groans. “Please, Nightshade, give me a minute to rest.”

  “Again!” I shout, urging him to get up.

  “Just one minute, please. One minute. That’s all I need.”

  “Do you think someone out there is going to give you a minute to catch your breath? Do you think they’re going to wait for you to be ready to fight? No, they’re going to kill you when you’re weak and you can’t defend yourself, which is why we’re going to keep going. Now get up!”

  Grumbling, he grudgingly prepares for my attack, but this time I decide to try something different and give him the first move. When he realizes I am waiting for him, he lunges at me with a furious grunt, grabbing hold of my waist and going straight for the tackle, but I twist and push him down and it is he who goes crashing to the ground. Before he has time to come at me again, I place my foot against his throat and press down, choking him. He struggles to remove my boot from his windpipe, but the feeling of suffocation is too much for him. He taps on my leg three times in surrender, prompting me to release the pressure.

  “What was your mistake there?” I ask as he gasps violently to fill his lungs with the air my foot deprived him of.

  “Not having a windpipe made of steel?” he croaks.

  “Your mistake was that you got angry. Passion has no place in a fight, Connor. Emotions make you stupid and being stupid gets you killed. Come on, we’re going again.”

  “Well how do you expect me not to get angry?” he snaps. “I mean, I’ve spent the last half hour being thrown around without a break. Just give me a few minutes to breathe, okay?”

  “Do you really think other people are going to give you a break? Let me tell you something, Connor: they’re not. Nobody gave me a break. The man who killed my father didn’t care that I was only fifteen years old. He tried to strangle me to death, and he probably would’ve done it, too, if I hadn’t known how to fight back. It’s kill or be killed out there, so you better learn to control your anger before we’re faced with some real danger. And believe me, it’s coming.” I think back to those other hunters’ snares and the food we accidentally stole. We haven’t run into them yet, and we probably never will, but people kill for much less these days. “Again, Connor. And this time try to control yourself.”

  He gets up and wipes the sweat from his reddened face, his chest heaving with pent-up rage. I have never seen him like this. I’ve grown so used to calm, laid-back Connor that angry Connor is a bit of a shock.

  Feeling generous, I allow him a minute to relax, and soon his color is back to normal and he seems to have regained a bit of his composure. But I know what I need to do, and he is going to hate me for it.

  We both prepare to spar again, and again I give him the first move. Connor paces back and forth, looking me up and down as if trying to pinpoint my weakness, but before he can attack, I hiss a single word: Alex.

  “What did you say?”

  “That was your brother’s name, wasn’t it? The one who shot himself?”

  Realizing what I am doing, Connor clenches his jaw. “Don’t,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “He thought you were going to go with him, didn’t he? You abandoned him,” I jeer. “He couldn’t take it anymore and he thought he was finally going to be at peace. And you were supposed to join him, but you couldn’t do it, could you?”

  “Shut up, Nightshade,” he says, his face flushing. “Stop. I mean it.”

  “You were his brother, you were supposed to go with him.” I continue relentlessly, feeding on his growing anger. “But instead he’s gone and you’re not because you were too afraid to pull the trigger. If you couldn’t save him, the least you could’ve done was make sure he wasn’t alone in death.”

  “Stop. Don’t say that. Don’t,” he hisses, his watery eyes narrowing to slits.

  “Does it hurt, knowing you couldn’t save him? I mean, you must’ve seen the signs—you were with him twenty-four hours a day, for God’s sake. You had to have realized something was wrong, but you did nothing. I bet he cried out to you for help in a thousand different ways. It’s your fault Alex is dead, Connor. You could have stopped him, but you were too stupid to realize.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” he screams.

  He charges at me, and again I try to dodge him, but this time he grabs me in a death grip and flings me to the ground. I land on my back with a thud, the wind knocked out of me, and manage to quickly kick his feet out from under him in retaliation, sending him crashing down beside me. Not missing a beat, he grabs hold of one of my legs and yanks me toward him. The two of us begin to grapple, twisting and tumbling in a violent heap, each trying to hold the other down. I elbow him in the face a few times, hoping the blows will stun him into submission, but each strike I land only makes him angrier. Pushing my elbow away with a furious screech, he grabs me by the throat with both hands and bashes my head against the ground. I struggle to get free of his grasp, but he removes his hands from my neck and uses them to pin my arms down. I writhe and squirm and fight against him, but as desperately as I thrash I find myself unable to escape his iron hold. Finally realizing I am beat, I allow myself to go limp.

  Connor’s entire body trembles as he stares down at me with wild eyes almost as crazed as the ones of the man who murdered my father, a string of saliva hanging from his bottom lip and the veins in his neck and forehead bulging. His fingernails have begun to dig painfully into my skin, and his grip on my arms continues to grow tighter with each passing second. For a moment we just stare at each other, both of us wondering what he is about to do.

  Connor releases me, still shaking, but no longer with rage. It takes me a while to wrap my mind around what just happened. I don’t understand. He won. All that anger and he won. It doesn’t make sense. Connor turns to look at me with fear in his eyes, not of me or of what I might do to him in retaliation, but of himself and what he is capable of.

  “You got lucky that time,” I choke out as I try to regain my breath. “Really lucky. But, I’ll admit, you’re improving. Good work.”

  His expression changes from one of fear to surprise to pride in a matter of seconds. I watch as a small smile spreads across his face, pleased to see the return of the Connor I am used to. Rising to his feet, he offers a hand to help me up, and I take it gratefully.

  After we have brushed the dirt from our hair and clothes, the two of us decide we have done enough sparring tonight and settle down for some much needed rest.

  Chapter 19

  Connor and I wake up the following day at dawn as usual and begin our normal routine. While I cook up a breakfast of roasted raccoon on a stick, he boils some water from the stream nearby and fills our bottles with it. We eat and drink our fill, and when we are finished I stomp out our pathetic fire and scatter the burnt kindling as best as I can so as not to leave a trail. When that is done, we leave our makeshift camp behind and begin our search for our next meal.

  We both remain quiet as we walk, unsure of what to say to each other after yesterday’s events. It is only after an hour or so of uncomfortable silence passes that Connor finally speaks.

  “Are you mad at me?” he asks.

  “What, for getting angry? No, Connor, of course not. I provoked you to get that exact reaction. I wanted to see how far I could push you before you snapped.” Then, realizing how heartless this sounds, I add, “I hope you know I didn’t mean anything I said. It was just meant to make you mad.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  He nods. “Of course.”

  For the second time today, a long silence interrupts our conversation. A week ago I would have killed to get the kid to shut up for once, but now I would do just about anything to get him to talk to me. What I said, what I did yesterday was a dick move. A huge dick move. Maybe the epitome of dick moves. If the roles
had been reversed and he had told me my father’s death was my fault—which, if we’re going to be honest with ourselves, it was—I probably would’ve cut the guy in half. I’m beginning to think all these years of being alone have really impacted my social skills.

  I turn to look at Connor, hoping maybe I’ll find the right words to shatter the wall of silence between us, when I notice he is studying the handgun that rests on my left hip with particular interest. “Hey, Nightshade, do you think I could have one of your guns?” he asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, I mean, do you really need two? I feel like it would be good for me to have one, you know, for protection.”

  I suppose he does have a point. After all, if I were him I wouldn’t want to rely on just the little knife and the machete I allowed him to hold onto for my survival. It makes sense for him to have his own gun.

  “Look, Connor, I can’t give you either of these. One is mine and one belonged to my dad. But we could try to find you one of your own, if you want. Do you even know how to shoot?”

  He shrugs. “I used to go to this outdoor shooting range with my family sometimes—you know, before all of this happened. I was pretty decent with a rifle. I figure a handgun can’t be much different.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d be surprised.”

  “So what’s it like?” he asks softly, as if afraid to know the answer. “To kill a person, I mean.”

  I think for a moment, wondering if there is some way I can put the answer as gently as he asked the question, but there is no delicate way to respond. “It’s just like killing animals, really; it’s necessary for survival. The only difference is that the animals are usually innocent.”

  Connor sighs. “I don’t know if I could ever do it.”

  “It seems a lot worse than it is,” I say. “But when it’s your life or theirs, you won’t have a problem. Trust me, you’ll get used to it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure I want to.”

  Chapter 20

  It takes us two weeks and six towns to find a gun and ammo shop, and even then we can’t be sure it hasn’t already been raided. Luckily for us, we discover upon further inspection that although most of the ammunition and a decent amount of guns and knives have already been looted, there are a few hunting rifles left, as well as a handful of revolvers and one heavy duty pump-action shotgun. I allow Connor to get a feel for the rifles and revolvers while I admire the shotgun. It is a huge, intimidating weapon, probably with a pretty decent kick, but my God it sure is beautiful. I’ve always wanted one of these babies, and if I don’t take her then someone else undoubtedly will. Surely she would be better off in my hands than theirs . . . Then again, chances are I’ll never get to use her—firing a weapon this loud would basically be a death sentence—and it wouldn’t make sense to carry extra weight for nothing. Sighing, I put the beauty back where I found her and try to forget our electric connection.

  After some deliberation, Connor chooses a rifle and a Smith and Wesson magnum to call his own. We then find him a holster for the revolver and a sling for the rifle, as well as some ammunition for both. Satisfied with our haul, we leave the store and get on the road again.

  After some debate, we decide to try raiding the area for canned food, since all we have been eating recently is fresh game and berries, which can get a little boring after a while. Of course, scavenging stores means there is a chance we will run into other people, possibly even gangs, but with our new set of weapons I don’t think we will have much of a problem.

  As we walk through the little town in search of a supermarket or food store to search, I happen to catch some movement in the distance, but it is too far to see clearly.

  “Connor,” I whisper, giving him a nudge. “Use your scope to check out what’s going on over there.”

  He does as he is told, focusing his rifle on whatever it is that seems to be moving toward us. After a moment, he turns to me and says, “It’s a woman. She’s armed—got a gun and a knife on her hip. Doesn’t look friendly.”

  “Just one woman?” I ask. One lone woman isn’t a problem, but if there are more people with her we might be in danger.

  “Looks like it. What should we do?”

  “Hide and wait for her to pass. Come on, let’s go before she sees us—if she hasn’t already.”

  We conceal ourselves behind the corner of a building, peering around every so often to see if the woman has diverted from her path, but she continues to make her way straight toward us. I have no doubt she will attack if she sees us; this woman obviously isn’t here to make friends, and neither are we. Before long I can hear her heavy footsteps echoing as she draws closer, unaware of our presence.

  She is only a few feet away from us now, and I can finally see her clearly. She is probably one of the bulkiest women I have ever seen, with thick thighs, bulging arms, a veiny neck, and shoulders reminiscent of a linebacker’s. A maroon headscarf partially covers her wavy black hair, which is cropped short, and the parts of her dark skin that are exposed are almost completely covered with tattoos. I wait for her to walk past, praying she won’t decide to turn her head, but something causes her to come to a sudden stop, as if she somehow senses us hiding there. Knowing something is about to go very wrong, I reach to draw my katanas, but the noise of the blade scraping against the sheathe spooks her and she turns toward us. She reaches for her gun, but I dart from our hiding place and tackle her before she has a chance to draw, sending us both crashing to the ground.

  Shrieking, the woman rakes my face with her nails, hooking them into my cheeks and digging in with all the force she can muster. I cry out as the pain of her jagged claws embedding themselves in my skin becomes almost too much for me to bear, but luckily Connor manages to grab her by her arms and pin her down before she can do any significant damage. It takes both of us to hold her. Eventually, when I am sure we have a good grip on her, I am able to draw one of my handguns and press its muzzle against the underside of her chin. Realizing she is caught, the woman stops fighting.

  “What do you want?” she hisses. “Go ahead, assholes, take my stuff and run. My people will track you down within the hour.”

  I turn to Connor. “Kill her,” I order.

  He looks up at me, horrified. “What? What do you mean ‘kill her?’ ”

  “Well we can’t let her go. You heard what she just said. She and whoever else she’s got with her will come for us if we do. It’s her or us, Connor. Now’s your chance to prove yourself.”

  He stares at me with agony in his eyes, then turns to look at the woman, whose cold gaze betrays not even a hint of fear. He knows I’m right. He knows he has to do it. His hand trembles uncontrollably as he forces her off the ground into a kneeling position, removes his revolver from its holster, and points it at the back of her head.

  “Not with the gun!” I shout. “Do you want to wake up the whole damn neighborhood? Use the knife or the machete or something.”

  Shaking even harder now, he puts the gun back in its holster, draws Angelica’s knife, and places it against the woman’s throat. She remains unaffected. He holds it there for a minute, pressing it harder and harder against her skin, but never hard enough to draw blood. Then, with a groan, he removes the blade from her neck and smacks his hand against his forehead, shaking his head.

  “I can’t—I can’t do it, Nightshade. I can’t.”

  “What do you mean you can’t?” I yell. “Connor, you don’t have a—” Before I can say the word “choice,” I feel a hand twist my wrist and force my gun from my grip. It clatters to the ground a few feet away, out of my reach, and I too am thrown down. The woman pins me with one hand and draws her knife with the other, but I kick her off of me before she has a chance to stab. Connor attempts to come to my aid, but before he can grab her she is back on top of me, thrusting her knife at my head with a wild cry. Between our struggling and her blinding fury, each jab misses its target and I am able to grab the side of her head and bash her face against the pav
ement one, two, three times until she stops struggling.

  Coughing, the woman spits out a mouthful of blood and bares her scarlet-stained teeth at me. I struggle to my feet, pulling her back into a kneeling position, draw one of my katanas, and rest it against her shoulder. Scratched and bruised and bleeding, I turn to face Connor, who looks at me shamefacedly.

  “You see?” I shout, spit flying from my mouth. “This is what happens when you don’t kill these monsters. It’s you or them, Connor, and personally I prefer to live.”

  I swing my sword and a shower of blood spatters the ground as the woman’s head rolls away from her body. Her face still holds that stoic, cold expression, but now it is cold with death. The rest of her slumps to the ground in front of me, pouring a river of blood onto my boots. I turn to Connor, who wears an expression of utter horror, one hand covering his mouth and the other clutching his stomach, as if the scene is so gruesome he might vomit. What a waste of a meal that would be.

  I walk toward him, bloody katana still in hand, and grab the front of his shirt in my fist, pulling him close so he can see the disapproval etched into every line on my face. Still trembling, he attempts to avoid looking me directly in the eyes, but I continue staring at him until he reluctantly meets my gaze.

  “You weren’t meant for this world,” I growl.

  With that, I push him to the ground, wipe the blood from my boots, place my katana back in its sheathe, and continue on my way.

  Chapter 21

  “Nightshade, wait up!”

  I ignore Connor as he runs to catch up with me. He calls my name again and again, begging me to slow my pace, but I maintain my brisk stride until he finally gets close enough to grab hold of my forearm. With a grunt, I twist my arm and push him off of me, sending him stumbling backwards.

  “Are you mad at me?” he asks timidly as he regains his footing, as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

  I pull a broken piece of nail from one of the bloody grooves in my cheeks, flick it at him, turn around, and continue walking.