The Deadly Nightshade

by Justine Ashford

  “Nightshade, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t do it.”

  “You think that’s what this is about? You could’ve killed her, Connor, but you didn’t, and you put my life in danger because of it. I almost died—do you realize that? I almost died because you couldn’t follow simple instructions. But you know what? I guess it’s my own fault. I should have expected it from you.”

  “Hey!” he shouts, nostrils and temper both flaring. “You need to stop treating me like an idiot, alright? I’m not stupid, Nightshade, and I’m not heartless either. You know, maybe you can take someone’s life and not feel guilty about it, but I can’t. I’m not like you. And I don’t want to be like you. I’m not going to throw away my morals just to survive.”

  “You think I’ve lost my morals?” I laugh. “I have morals. I don’t kill unless my safety is threatened—that’s the rule—and guess what: that woman would’ve killed us if we had let her live. You think you’re so good and righteous just because you’ve never taken a life, but the world has changed, Connor, and you’ve got to start changing with it.”

  “Like you’ve let it change you? Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’ll take death over becoming a killing machine that can lop off a woman’s head with a damn smile on her face.”

  “I wasn’t smiling,” I hiss. “And yeah, maybe the world has changed me a little, but not completely. There’s always been a part of me that was like this, ever since I was born. It’s called being a survivor at all costs, even at the price of the life of a worthless woman like that.”

  Connor shakes his head. “No, Nightshade, I don’t believe that.” His tone is much milder now; most of the fire in it has died out, though a spark still remains. “I don’t believe you were always like this, and I think you have the potential to change. I think you can feel pity and anger and love and all the other things you repress, and I think you can care about people. I mean, you didn’t kill me or leave me to die, even though we both know you easily could have. I think you—”

  “Whoa, whoa, hold up now. Are you implying I care about you?” I laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Connor’s eyes dart to the ground. “I don’t get why you find that so funny,” he mumbles. “I care about you.”

  Upon hearing these words, I stop laughing. I care about you. Those four simple words strike something akin to fear into my heart. They are dangerous. He doesn’t know their weight, their significance. He can’t possibly mean them.

  But what if he does?

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “Why not?” he asks. “What’s so bad about having someone care?”

  “Because the last person who cared about me was my father, and look where he is now. He died protecting me because he cared. It was my fault.” My voice begins to shake and I fight to control it. It is the first time I have ever said those final four words out loud, although I have always known them to be true. If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t put myself in danger trying to save him, my father would still be alive today. I am responsible for his death. It was my fault.

  “No, I don’t think it was your fault,” he says. “Your dad knew what he was doing when he saved you. He knew the cost. But sometimes the people we love are worth dying for, because a life without them would be no life at all.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why I can’t afford to care about anybody. The last person I loved made me promise to survive at any and all costs. I have to stick to that promise. I owe him that much.”

  Connor opens his mouth to speak, but changes his mind and says nothing. A part of me almost wishes I could care for him, because I think he needs somebody to, but it just isn’t possible. I cannot afford to feel, not for him, not for anyone. And I hope he will learn to not care for me either.

  Chapter 22

  For the next few days, barely a word passes between Connor and me. This time I am glad for the wedge that has been driven between us; in a way, I feel as though this wall of silence is exactly what we need. I know now the mistake I made—I allowed myself to get too close to him, and he mistook that for feeling. What bothers me is that eventually I probably would have done the same.

  Although we do not speak to each other, he remains by my side constantly, as if afraid I am going to attempt to leave him behind again. We hunt, gather, scavenge, eat, and sleep side by side, but we rarely even look at one another. In a way, things seem to have reverted back to the way they were before, but maybe that’s a good thing.

  Having found very few supplies in the last town we came across, I decide we should keep looking until we find more, and I break the silence between us to communicate this. It isn’t long before we find a town to raid, part of it charred and burned to the ground, but for the most part intact. Knowing it is likely there are other people here, we scout the place out from a distance. Connor uses the scope on his rifle to check for movement, but nothing stirs. After deciding it is safe, we begin our search and soon discover a large grocery store standing conveniently in the middle of this ghost town. Its windows are shattered—a clear indication that it has already been looted—but that doesn’t necessarily mean there is no food to be found inside, so I draw my swords and signal to Connor to prepare himself. Instead of following my lead, he hesitates.

  “Did you see that bookstore down there?” he asks, pointing a few stores down to a small building with a sign on the front made to look like an open book and the words “Reading Terminal” inscribed on its surface. “Think maybe we could check it out?”

  A firm “No” is my only reply, not because I’m being spiteful, but because I can’t see why he would want to search an old bookstore anyway. You can’t eat a book, and it’s not like we have lots of leisure time to sit down and read. That was a luxury I was only able to afford when my father was alive.

  “But it’s the first bookstore I’ve seen in years. Can’t we just look for a little while? It’s not like there’s anyone else—”

  “No,” I repeat.

  He opens his mouth to protest, but evidently decides there is no point in arguing with me and closes it. We enter the grocery store with our weapons drawn, our feet crunching on the broken bits of window glass as we walk. After doing a quick sweep of the building, I determine there is no one else here and we are safe to collect what supplies we can muster. I turn around to instruct Connor to place as much food in his rucksack as he feels fit to carry, but he is no longer behind me. The sound of hurried footsteps crunching on glass sounds from the entrance and I let out a long sigh. Fine, he can go look at books if he wants to, but if he thinks he’s getting any of this food then he’s out of his mind. The rule since day one has been that he has to pull his own weight, and right now he isn’t, so he can go hungry for all I care. I hope those stacks of paper are worth it for him.

  When I have collected as many cans as I can fit in my bag, I check to see if Connor has returned, but find no sign of him. He must still be in the bookstore. I don’t really feel like going to get him, but I don’t want to wait around for him either. Maybe I should just go. Maybe it’s better if I do. Maybe our time together has run its course and this is the smartest move for me to make. Maybe it’s time to leave Connor behind.

  Picking up my rucksack, I sling the straps over my shoulders and head for the door. I am about to walk out of the store into the open street when the sight of something moving nearby catches my attention. Realizing I could be seen, I throw my back against the door, draw my handguns, and peek around to get a closer look. Walking straight toward the building is a group of five, each of them armed with a rifle in their hands and a knife at their hip. They move with a confident swagger that implies they are dangerous and well aware of it, like predators who have never known any other place in life than the pinnacle of the food chain. I size them up to determine if I can take them. The group—no, the gang—is comprised of two women and three men, all of them older and larger than I am. If they didn’t have the guns I might have a good chance in a fight, but seeing as they do I�
�d probably only be able to kill one or two before getting my head blown off. No, attacking them probably isn’t my best option.

  But it looks as though I don’t have much of a choice, seeing as they’re coming straight at me. Crap, alright, new plan—strike as soon as they round the corner; if I ambush them quickly enough I might be able to take them all out before they have a chance to take a shot at me. I tighten my grip on my guns as I prepare for the attack, waiting for the crunch of glass under feet.

  “Nightshade!”

  Connor’s panicked call rings through the desolate ghost town, and, hearing it, the gang turns on their heels and abandons the store altogether. When I am sure they are gone, I poke my head out the door and am practically paralyzed by what I see. Connor runs out of the bookstore, shouting my name wildly to draw the gang’s attention. It works—they bound toward him and he tries to flee, but one of them manages to catch him before he can get very far. I watch as four out of the five of them form a cage of bodies around him, laughing and hollering as they pass him back and forth between them, finding pleasure in this new sport they have invented. When jostling him around becomes a bore, they throw him in the dirt, pushing him back down every time he attempts to rise to his feet. Too distracted by their little game, they do not notice me slip out of the store.

  “Hey!” barks the fifth member, who until now has taken his sweet time catching up to the others. Could this be the leader? “Come on, now, leave him alone!”

  But the others are too engaged in their sadistic game to heed his order. They continue to push and shove and throw my friend, not a single one of them even bothering to acknowledge their man. Clearly not used to being ignored, he stalks toward them, his large hands balled into fists.

  “I said, leave him alone!” he shouts, grabbing one of his male companions by the shoulders and throwing him to the ground. The others, seeing this, stop what they are doing immediately and sheepishly drop their gazes as he shoots them each a disapproving glare. Yep, definitely the leader.

  “What the hell is wrong with you assholes? He’s just a kid!” He turns to Connor, who has begun to visibly tremble. “You alright, kid?”

  Connor sits there in the dirt, his mouth agape but no words escaping from it. Eventually, he manages an infinitesimal nod.

  “Aw, look at him,” says one of the women. “All alone out here. Poor thing.”

  “Don’t assume he’s on his own, Missy. That’s a stupid assumption to make,” growls the leader. Then, addressing Connor again, he asks in a much gentler tone, “Are ya alone, kid?”

  Connor nods. “Y-yes,” he squeaks. His eyes fix on me momentarily, then dart away.

  “Ya sure, boy? You wouldn’t be lyin’ to me, would ya?”

  “N-no,” Connor stammers.

  “Well you were shoutin’ someone’s name just now, weren’t ya? Tell me, who is this ‘Nightshade?’ ”

  “That would be me.” I press the muzzle of the gun in my right hand against the back of his head and point the one in my left at Missy, who stands closest to me. The others raise their rifles, but the leader puts his hand up in a gesture signaling them to relax. They exchange unsure glances with each other, but prompted by another gesture from their leader, they lower their weapons.

  “Get up, Connor,” I order. He scurries to his feet, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a sigh of relief.

  “Why don’t ya lower that gun, sweetheart?” says the leader. “Let’s not do somethin’ we’re gonna regret. Put it down.”

  “Not a chance,” I growl.

  “Come on, now, there’s no need for violence,” he purrs. “I think there’s been a bit of a miscommunication here, so why don’t we all relax and discuss this matter? I think we can have a civilized conversation without killin’ each other, don’t you?”

  Chapter 23

  “Not a chance,” I repeat.

  I keep my guns raised despite this man’s bullshit offer of civility. How stupid does he think I am? I have no doubt as soon as I were to drop my weapons he and his gang would spring into murder mode.

  “Listen, I’m gonna turn around so we can talk, got me? You can keep your gun pointed at me if it makes ya feel comfortable.”

  The gang leader turns slowly so that I can see his face. It is a long, narrow, weasel-like face with beady black eyes and a smile that begs trust. Two white scars, one above his eye and the other near his mouth, are a stark contrast to his dark complexion. There is something familiar about this man, about his features, but I am sure I have never encountered him in my life. If I had met him before today he sure as shit wouldn’t be standing here now.

  “Damn, kid, what happened to your face?” he asks, his own face contorting into a sympathetic grimace. I had all but forgotten about the scratches. “Ya better take care of those or you’re gonna end up lookin’ like me.” He laughs, but seeing that I am not amused, he clears his throat and continues, “Name’s Roman. It’s very nice to meet ya, Nightshade.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real pleasure,” I retort.

  “Listen, kid, I can promise you we meant your friend here no harm.”

  “Really? Because that’s not what it looked like to me.” Then, turning to Connor, I ask, “Connor, did you feel like these people intended to hurt you in any way?”

  “As a matter of fact, Nightshade, I did,” he says, stepping out of the circle to take his place beside me.

  “Nah, you two’ve got it all wrong. Sure, these assholes might’ve tossed him around a bit for a laugh,” he says, turning to glare at the others in his group, “but I put a stop to it. Believe me, we’re not here to bother a couple of kids like you two. Ya see, we’re actually lookin’ for another group that we’ve been trackin’ for the past few days. You kids oughta be on the lookout—these guys are no joke. We started after ‘em when our hunters told us they had stolen from some of our traps. We tracked ‘em a few miles and sent a runner out to see if she could spot ‘em, ya know, just to see how many we were up against. Well, we ended up findin’ that runner with her head cut off a few miles back.”

  I shift my gaze to look at Connor. His face mirrors my own surprise.

  “I’m tellin’ ya,” he says, his voice taking on a degree of heat, “those damned gangs are a plague. Fuckin’ murderous bastards, some of ‘em. They’re the reason we’re even out here in the first place, shufflin’ along like fuckin’ nomads all the livelong day. It’s like every new place we settle they’re there, the fuckin’ vermin. And it’s not like we bother anybody! Hell, we’ve kept our eyes down and our noses clean as long as we’ve been able, just mindin’ our own business, tryin’ to stay alive. But it seems like ya can’t even do that anymore, not when everythin’s a damn war, not when ya can’t even find a safe place to settle down without all the resources dryin’ up or these bastards drivin’ ya out.” He clears his throat, and with that the fire in his voice is expelled. “But I’m gettin’ off topic.

  “Now, I’m a simple guy,” he continues in a much milder tone. “I care about one thing and one thing only: the wellbein’ of my people. They chose me as their leader, alright, which means it’s my responsibility to protect ‘em and give ‘em the best life I can. Now I coulda excused the stealin’—I really coulda—but, as you can probably imagine, findin’ our Miranda like that made things personal. So we followed their trail through here and that’s when we ran into the boy. We didn’t wanna hurt him, just ask him if he had seen the people we were lookin’ for. I told you—nothin’ more than a little misunderstandin’.” He pauses for a moment as if an idea has suddenly occurred to him. “Hey,” he says, “you two haven’t spotted a group out here recently, have ya? They probably got about five or six men, heavily armed. If you kids could help us out we’d sure be incredibly grateful. I don’t have much to give ya in terms of a reward or anything, ‘cept maybe a couple cans of soup, if that sounds alright.”

  These people have been tracking us this entire time, but they have no idea they’ve found us. Of course they woul
dn’t expect two teenagers to be capable of the offense we’ve committed—only gangs steal from other gangs, not kids like us. The idea is almost laughable, but the situation does not call for humor.

  “I’m sorry, but we haven’t seen anybody,” Connor lies, his voice not even shaking this time.

  Roman sighs. “Damn, that’s too bad. Well, thanks anyway, I guess. Listen, you guys should watch your backs out in these parts, understand? I’d hate to see what happened to our Miranda happen to a couple of kids.” Again, that pensive look returns to his face. “Hey,” he says after a moment’s thought, “any chance you kids are lookin’ for a group to call your own? Not that you two don’t seem to be doin’ alright for yourselves already, but there’s strength in numbers, ya know. Plus, there’s no application fee.” He chuckles, amused by his own joke.

  At this point I can’t even tell if the guy is serious, but regardless, joining the gang of the woman I killed wasn’t exactly on my to-do list today. “No thanks,” I reply. “This is kind of a two man group.”

  “Eh, what can ya do?” he says with a shrug. Then, looking up at the sky with a frown, he turns to address the other members of his gang. “Hey, we oughta get going. We’re burnin’ daylight here and I don’t want the trail to get cold.”

  I laugh, keeping the gun pointed straight at the space between his eyes. “So that’s it, then? We all just put our guns down, shake hands, and part as unlikely friends? That’s what you expect me to believe?”

  Roman smiles. “Listen, honey, we don’t want nothin’ to do with ya. I understand you’re a bit defensive and all—and I don’t blame ya; you’ve got a right to be—but we’ve got better things to do than bully a couple of teens. Now do everyone a favor and put those things away so we can all get on with our lives.”

  By now I can see the rest of them shifting their weight in anticipation, as if unable to contain themselves with all this tension in the air. Although their guns are no longer raised, each of them still has a finger on the trigger. It wouldn’t take much for this whole thing to go south, not much at all.