Defender

by G X Todd

  The man said nothing, and Lacey felt herself grow more and more despairing with every mile that passed.

  CHAPTER 7

  Pilgrim didn’t stop for anything the girl pointed out, and she didn’t comment when he sped past in silence.

  They passed no other oncoming traffic, although they did come across an old guy on a bicycle travelling in the same direction, pedalling arthritically yet determinedly. Pilgrim had geared down to match the old coot’s speed, glancing over to ask if he was doing OK. The guy never once acknowledged them, his bloodshot and rheumy eyes fixed on some unseen goal in the distance.

  ‘That’s the fella I saw two days ago!’ the girl shouted near to Pilgrim’s ear. ‘He didn’t speak to me then, either. God, look at his head.’

  The poor man’s bald head was glowing red, blisters already forming, filled with fluid. It must have hurt like hellfire, but the old guy gave no indication of discomfort, his bony knees slowly rising and falling, rising and falling, with each rotation of the bicycle’s wheels.

  Pilgrim pulled away from the cyclist and opened up the throttle, wanting to leave the man far behind.

  The girl was quiet after that, not even directing his attention towards the handful of buzzards that were circling a crater a hundred yards out in the sparse brush. The black bodies took turns swooping low and vanishing into the pit before flapping skywards again. He didn’t want to know what was laid out down there, but it didn’t stop Voice from conjecturing on the matter.

  Probably a recent suicide grave. Or maybe a bunch of murdered folk who got found out they heard a little voice like moi. Sun sucked all the moisture from the bodies, et voilà! A stockpile of ready-made jerky for the wildlife.

  Pilgrim shut him out.

  They silently chased after their lengthening shadow as the sun looped its way to the west, lighting their backs with a dwindling fire and leaving their faces in dimness. The sky took on a deep pink tinge with streaks of deep orange, as if a war waged beyond the horizon.

  In the back of Pilgrim’s head Voice sang in a low, eerily sweet voice. Your stories are so old you just tend to keep them. Long winding road, you’ve got a secret but you won’t share it.

  There had been signs for a Route 83 motel for the last ten miles. Normally, Pilgrim might have chosen to continue riding for a while as the sun set and the gloom gathered to full darkness, but he felt a need to get off the road today. A feeling in his gut. Or a case of the cold and squirmies, as Voice sometimes called them. Either way, he took the marked exit and leaned into the curve of the exit ramp, the asphalt humming smoothly beneath the bike’s wheels, the rushing air pushing back his hair and combing through its strands with invisible fingers.

  Big, open land, you hold the weight of the air in your hand.

  Once they left the open highway, the roads became steadily worse. There were abandoned cars, hoods propped open and engines sporting gaping holes where parts had been removed. Trucks without wheels, doors flung wide and the interiors covered in dust and home to a collection of detritus. Pilgrim had to reduce his speed considerably in order to weave and navigate around the relics. The few cars which had been abandoned on grass verges had now been claimed by the verdantly smothering vines of kudzu spilling down from nearby trees. The plant had anchored itself to undercarriages and axles, crept up the cars’ fenders and latched on to doorframes, crawling through broken windows to twine throughout the cars’ innards, fusing around steering wheels, levers, pedals, until each vehicle resembled a leafy, slumbering beast.

  He didn’t brake for the traffic lights – they had been extinguished and dead for a long time – and turned on to the main street. It didn’t consist of much more than ten or twelve stores, a two-pump gas station and a small town-hall-type building. Halfway down the main strip hung the motel’s welcome sign. A twenty-foot gap in between the store fronts led to its parking lot; the main office was just off to the left as they pulled through. The parking lot opened up into a square courtyard lined with twelve rooms, each with a designated space in front for a car to park. A lone sedan, beige, nondescript, had been slotted into a bay on their left. Bashed up and unloved, it might have been parked there for years or days, it was impossible to tell.

  When he pulled to a stop and killed the engine, the girl’s first muffled words were, ‘We’re staying here?’

  He twisted to look back at her, tugging down his neckerchief. ‘Yeah. Why?’

  She slid her sunglasses on to the top of her head like a headband, pushing the loose strands of her hair back and pinning them into place. It left her forehead smooth and bare, apart from the dirt and grime that had streaked across her unprotected brow. He was reminded again of how young she was.

  She pulled her scarf down to free her mouth. ‘It’s just we can stay anyplace we want, and you’ve picked a cheap motel?’

  ‘Right,’ he said, without explaining further. ‘You getting off anytime soon? I want to stretch my legs.’

  ‘Oh. Sure.’

  Her dismount was as inelegant as her mount, but at least she was off the bike in a matter of seconds and didn’t keep him waiting.

  The cat leapt to the ground and skulked off, no doubt annoyed at having been kept prisoner on the gas tank for so long.

  Pilgrim stiffly climbed off the bike and stood massaging the small of his back, arching his spine until he heard it crack back into place. He crouched down to stretch out his thigh muscles before rising to his full height, his head slowly swivelling as he took in the place. He lazily rolled his shoulders, his eyes skipping over each window and door, resting for a few extra moments on the solitary car parked in front of the room marked number 8. He was done with his stretches by the time his gaze passed over the girl (who had already shucked off the pack and was grimacing and rubbing her shoulders) and came to a halt on the motel office.

  ‘Let’s see if there are any vacancies,’ he said.

  He removed his shades as he strode towards reception, his eyes roaming restlessly, making little saccadic movements as he peered in through the large glass windows.

  The tinkling bell over the door had barely had a chance to chime before he was drawing his gun and thumbing back the hammer, the muzzle pointed over the counter.

  The girl’s hushed voice came from directly behind him.

  ‘What’s—’

  He held up a hand to silence her, nodding to the peg board fastened to the back wall where all the room keys hung. The key for number 8 was swinging in its place, the slight pendulum motion conspicuous in the otherwise still room.

  Pilgrim leaned to one side, trying to get a look through the open doorway behind the counter. He glimpsed an arm and a hand coming up to level at him. It was holding something that looked like a slingshot.

  Something flashed past him, sharply nipping the edge of his ear, and thunked into the wall behind him.

  Cursing, Pilgrim ducked, and yanked the girl down with him. She hissed in pain and pulled her arm away, already bringing her rifle up and shouldering it, aiming towards the counter.

  ‘Hold fire!’ Pilgrim called out. ‘We’re not a threat! Take it easy.’ He trained his own gun on the doorway. Being so low, he could only see a foot or so at the top. The ceiling in the room beyond was yellowing and cracking, parts of the paint having broken free, leaving greyish, mottled plaster underneath.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The voice sounded brittle, full of panic, and female.

  ‘We just stopped for a room. That’s all.’

  There was a long pause. Then: ‘For real? You want a room?’

  Pilgrim nudged the girl in her side and nodded towards the back room, indicating she should answer.

  She rolled her eyes but turned away and raised her voice. ‘That’s right. My travelling companion here thought it’d be a swell idea to stop off at a cheap motel – you know, instead of simply finding a nice, big, old, empty house to camp out in.’

  There was a rustle of movement. The woman’s voice was now a little close
r and a lot less panicked. ‘I’m gonna come out, OK? Don’t . . . do nothing, OK?’

  ‘We won’t,’ Pilgrim said, although he didn’t lower his gun.

  A thatch of tangled hair came into view first, and then the woman stepped around the edge of the counter. Young – no older than twenty-five – she looked like she could do with a damn good wash. The front of her shirt was splotched with stains, as if she had eaten a fair few meals since its last laundering. She held what he had first thought to be a slingshot but could now see was a small homemade crossbow pointed down at the floor and off to one side.

  Lowering his gun, Pilgrim carefully stood, making no quick movements, and slid it back into its holster. The girl stood up beside him but kept her rifle centred on the woman’s chest.

  ‘Hey,’ Pilgrim murmured to the girl, gesturing for her to lower the gun.

  She kept the tangle-haired stranger sighted for a few extra seconds, probably to get her point across, and finally relaxed her stance.

  ‘Hey, man, I’m real sorry about that.’ The filthy woman winced as she gestured towards Pilgrim’s head. ‘Wasn’t sure if you were with a gang or something. Can’t be too careful.’

  Pilgrim reached up and was surprised when his fingers found the tackiness at the tip of his ear, the split in the cartilage seeping fresh blood.

  ‘It’s fine. It’s just a nick.’ He pulled his hand away to look at the red stain on his fingertips.

  The woman gave a funny huffing laugh. ‘A Nik gave you a nick.’

  Pilgrim frowned.

  The woman stopped laughing. ‘Uh, Nikki. My name’s Nikki.’ And she transferred the crossbow to her left hand and offered her right.

  Slanting the girl a look as he reached for the hand Nikki proffered, Pilgrim said, ‘You can call me Boy Scout.’

  The girl beside him snorted. ‘Right. And you can call me Lacey, ’cause that’s my name.’

  Lacey, Voice said. Suits her.

  Pilgrim was about to agree but was struck so hard in the back of the head he never got the chance.

  CHAPTER 8

  Lacey flinched at the hollow thwack that came from the Boy Scout’s head. He staggered, folding inward, bending over at the waist, legs buckling at the knees. As he went down his head bowed forward, as if he were greeting the floor on his way to meet it. It was a slow toppling – he was a tall guy and had a long way to fall – yet Lacey had no time to try to catch him. The whole reception office, windows and all, seemed to shake when he hit the ground.

  She had half reached a hand down to him when she was grabbed roughly from behind, two arms winding around her and pinning her arms to her sides. She cried out and doggedly held on to her rifle. Strained to raise it. Couldn’t. She struggled to break free, but it was as if she were bound by strips of iron. Kicking back as hard as she could, the heel of her boot connected solidly with her captor’s shin and she felt a bright flare of pleasure when there was a male grunt of pain.

  ‘Let go!’ she yelled.

  Nikki rushed forward and snatched the rifle out of her hand.

  ‘You bitch!’ Lacey kicked out at her, but she danced out of range. Lacey reversed her kick and drove her heel back into her captor’s shin again, eliciting a second pained grunt.

  Lacey swung her leg up for a third kick.

  ‘Get her feet, for fuck’s sake!’

  The rifle clattered on to the counter and Nikki leapt forward and caught Lacey’s boot, then ducked down and grabbed her other, flailing foot. She was lifted bodily off the ground.

  ‘What’re you doing? Hey!’ Lacey frantically tried to catch a glimpse of the Boy Scout, but he was crumpled up on the floor and hadn’t moved.

  They shuffled with her around the counter.

  ‘No!’ Lacey wrenched upwards, trying to twist her way out of their hold, but their hands clamped down on her, grips cruel. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A screamer,’ Nikki said happily. ‘My favourite.’

  ‘Let me go! Help!’ Lacey directed her shouts at the Boy Scout, but there would be no help coming from him.

  Oh my God, he’s dead. How can he be dead? This can’t be happening! I shouldn’t have left the farmhouse! I was an idiot to leave! I should have stayed and taken my chances!

  ‘Hurry it up,’ the man said, his breath hot on her head. ‘He might wake up.’

  Wake up? He’s not dead? A burst of something – hope, happiness, relief? – had Lacey redoubling her efforts to squirm free.

  ‘Stop struggling or I’ll snap your neck.’

  Lacey stopped. She tried to calm her breathing, her racing heart, but they were out of her control. She concentrated on taking one breath at a time, panic close to overwhelming her, to drowning out that small, rational voice telling her to keep calm, take it easy, she’ll be OK. She breathed through her nose, which was a mistake, because her captors’ odour made her gag. How could they smell so bad? And it wasn’t just stale sweat and unwashed bodies and filth; there was something more. Lacey glanced down at the woman’s hands, locked around her ankles. Dirt was embedded under her nails.

  Not dirt, she told herself, her body stiffening. Blood.

  They entered a corridor, and the smell only got worse. She fought her rising urge to vomit. Between them, they carried her to a door at the far end. Nikki went backwards, shouldering it open, and a dimly lit set of stairs led downward, a faint pool of light spilling across the floor at the bottom. Nikki started down and, with each step, Lacey’s terror grew, as if she could hear a den of rattlesnakes stirring under the treads, their warning rustles growing louder the further they descended.

  ‘Take whatever you want,’ Lacey gasped in a rush. ‘Just take it and let me go.’

  Nikki snickered breathlessly. Carrying her was obviously tiring the woman out. Lacey was glad. She hoped the shitbird had an asthma attack and collapsed. ‘Oh, we’ll take what we want, sweetie-pie. Don’t need your permission for it, neither.’

  The temperature dropped noticeably when they reached the bottom. They took her into a room where a lamp lit the space in a sallow glow, jaundiced light filtering over a messy, unmade bed.

  Lacey talked fast. ‘Listen, you don’t need to do this, OK? Please, let’s just talk this out. No one has to do anything. You’re a woman,’ she blurted at Nikki. ‘Why are you hurting me?’

  ‘Aw, I don’t want to hurt you.’ Nikki was looking over her shoulder as she navigated the foot of the bed, but she took the time to send Lacey a sly glance. ‘There’s not so much choice as there used to be, my lovely. Me and my brother got needs, too, you know. And it gets a little boring messing around with each other.’ Nikki grinned over Lacey’s head at the man. ‘Am I right, bro? Variety is the spice of life, right?’

  They dumped her on to the bed, and Lacey scrambled to the other side. Hands caught her and dragged her back. They flipped her, held her down while they wound wire around her wrists. She fought but took a punch to the gut that left her wheezing and curled up. They finished lashing her hands to the bed’s headboard.

  She half-heartedly kicked at the blankets, but quickly stopped when the wire pinched painfully into her wrists. She lay still and panted, eyeing them both.

  Nikki beamed down at her, but the man, who she was seeing properly for the first time, was expressionless. He was big and stocky and stared back at her. Meeting his eyes was difficult, but Lacey didn’t look away, even as her heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest.

  ‘Relax,’ he told her. ‘Enjoy your stay here. Take in the view.’

  There were no windows. They were in the basement.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she said.

  Nikki tutted. ‘Naughty, naughty. We’ll have to sort out that dirty mouth of yours when we get back.’ Her smile was fixed in place – this was a whole lotta fun for her.

  Lacey didn’t bother to answer; she’d tried talking and it had gotten her nowhere. Instead, she watched silently as they left, stubbornly refusing to let her tears fall until their footsteps had faded away to nothi
ng.

  CHAPTER 9

  Pilgrim didn’t open his eyes straight away. He left his head hanging down, his chin on his chest, and tried to come to terms with the grating pain in the back of his skull. It was like having shards of glass scored across his nerve endings – a constant jagged violin-stringed concerto. He also kept his eyes closed because he wanted to gain as much information as he could before revealing he was conscious again.

  He was sitting upright in a chair. It was solid beneath his rump and thighs and back, and had absorbed his body heat while he had been sitting on it. Tensing and carefully flexing his muscles, he leaned imperceptibly to one side. Centred himself. Leaned to the other side. The chair didn’t lean with him, or give at all. At his best guess, he was sitting on an unpadded, well-constructed wooden chair. His forearms were tied to the chair’s arms, and his ankles to the legs. The ties they had used felt like wire. Bound tight, as well. Any sort of struggle or forceful movement and they would saw right into his flesh and cut deep, possibly even to the bone.

  That’s a good thing. Voice’s words echoed down a long, distant tunnel.

  And Pilgrim had to agree. If they had tied him so securely, they surely didn’t intend to kill him anytime soon. They had other plans.

  He was sitting upright because something else had been wound around his middle and chest and passed around the chair back. Duct tape, maybe.

  There was a chemical scent to the air, almost like bleach, and under it a dampness. There was something else, too. A hint of something he had smelled before, which made shivers scurry down his back and gooseflesh pebble his skin.

  Through the filter of his closed eyelids, he discerned a light source of some kind in front of him. It wasn’t a strong light, though. A single bulb?

  Voice gave his version of a shrug. He wasn’t going to be any help here.

  Pilgrim could hear other voices. Outside voices. They came from beyond the walls of the room. Faint. Muffled. He opened his eyes and raised his head.