I’m in a sea of writhing bodies. I find myself pulled and pushed, choked by the reek of blood and sweat. Hands tug at my clothes, my hair, my skin. Nails like claws drag across my arms and leave bloody trails. I open my mouth to scream, but can’t even hear it through the noise around me. It’s a huge pack of crazies, at least a couple dozen from what I can see.
I use my bony elbows to jab around me. It’s enough to grant me open air. I try to run, but a leg catches me in the knees and sends me tumbling. My face hits the dirt. The mob cackles as they drag me back.
Fists and feet pummel me, but never steel. They don’t want to kill me yet, they just want to play with me. The thought is not reassuring.
I notice a flash of Dolly’s blue hair amid the chaos and fight my way in her direction. I shove my way through the crowd until she’s within sight, and struggle to stay there as the mob surges around me.
“Pretty, pretty,” a man says, leering at her. He runs a hand down the front of her shirt and tugs, ripping the fabric. Dolly’s eyes flash dangerously.
A second later, a knife is buried deep into the man’s eye. He screams and Dolly yanks it back out, slashing at others nearby. The man stumbles into the crowd and they laugh at him, shove him to the dirt, excited by the sight of his blood. Several jump on the weakened man, tearing into him with knives and teeth.
I try to move closer to Dolly, but someone grabs me by the hair and yanks me back. Another hand clamps on to my arm and pulls me in the opposite direction. A vicious tug-of-war ensues. They tug me one way and then the other until it feels like I’m going to be ripped in half. Finally the hand on my head loses its grip, pulling out some hair in the process, and I stumble forward. The hand releases me, and I fall to my knees. Dolly is gone. I’m surrounded by grinning, mad faces.
A creature barely recognizable as a woman crouches next to me, serrated knife in hand. I stop struggling as she lightly presses the tip of the blade against my wrist. The steel ghosts its way up my arm and neck while I cringe. She rests the flat of it against my face.
“Eyes or tongue?” she asks, breath reeking of rotten meat.
“Um, neither, please,” I squeak out, trying to breathe as little as possible.
She smiles too wide, showing a nearly toothless mouth.
“Tongue it is,” she says. She shoves her free hand into my mouth, and I choke on the taste of blood and dirt. Before she can grab my tongue, I bite down as hard as I can. My teeth break the skin and she screeches wildly. She yanks her hand back and the knife swings down toward me.
I catch her wrist with my free hand with the knife just inches from my face. We strain, unmoving, neither of us strong enough to overpower the other. The woman is stick-thin, but her anger and savagery lend her strength. The knife inches closer to my face; soon it’s just a centimeter away from my nose.
I wrench my other hand free just in time. With her knife about to sink into my skin, I instinctively jut my hand out to stop it. The steel cuts deep into my palm, and pain shoots all the way up to my elbow. I force her back, she yanks the knife away with a snarl—and the blade catches my little finger, slicing it clean off.
I stare at the stump where my finger used to be as blood begins to gush out. Luckily the woman with the knife is just as distracted as I am, though by something else: Tank charging into the fray. With his hands tied behind his back, he barrels into the crowd, knocking people down left and right. He goes down quickly but takes several others with him, crushing them beneath his weight.
I take advantage of the distraction and scramble to my feet, holding my injured hand against me and shoving people aside as I make my way back to the truck.
Wolf and Pretty Boy are in the crowd as well. They’re still tied back-to-back. Wolf seems intent on following Tank’s lead and rushing into the mob, while Pretty Boy is trying to run in the opposite direction. They lurch back and forth, neither of them able to get anywhere.
I force my way through the mob of crazies, weaving between them and darting under their legs. Everyone is distracted enough by the others that I can slip by and reach the truck. I pull myself into the back, panting, and crouch beside the boxes. My hand has gone numb, but blood is still spurting. And my finger… my finger is gone. Where my pinky used to be is just a bloody stub. I stare at it, wiggling my other fingers. It’s strange, as though I can feel it still there, but it’s gone.
And the others are still out in that awful mob. I have to do something. I refuse to run away and hide like Pretty Boy would. But what can I do? My knife is gone. I have nothing.
My heart sinks as I hear the crazies approach, their loud and barely human voices signaling their arrival. The crazies don’t even speak properly, only using guttural noises and broken phrases to communicate. I hear “the small one” and “blood” and “kill” as they approach. Everything else is unintelligible, but none of it sounds pretty. I squeeze between two boxes, trying to hide without losing my view of the outside. Three of them are approaching. Luckily, none of them are armed; unluckily, they could easily kill me bare-handed. Desperate, I grab some cans of food out of a box, cradling them in one arm and poising to throw with my uninjured hand. As soon as one of the men climbs into the truck, I send a metal can flying at him.
It sails right past his head. He looks surprised, then cackles madly. The next can catches him right in the teeth and sends him stumbling backward. He falls.
Not waiting for the next one, I take my ammo and run, jumping out of the truck and past them. I stagger precariously for a few steps before catching my balance, and take a look behind me at the three men. They stare at me. I throw a can at them, catching one in the shoulder, and take off running. Shouts and howls follow me.
I run as fast as my scrawny legs can move. My path loops around the perimeter of the truck, marked with an occasional pause to launch a can of food behind me. I run around the truck once, twice, three times, gasping for breath and wondering how I haven’t been caught yet—and a man steps into my vision, growling like a dog. I skid to a stop, turn in the other direction, and collide with one of the guys who were chasing me. I stumble and fall. The remaining cans spill from my hands.
One of the men grabs at me, but I dodge his grip and roll sideways—and keep rolling, until I reach the truck. Not the most graceful exit, but it’ll do. I tumble under and crawl into the darkness, panting for breath.
I’m not alone down here. For one moment I expect it to be Pretty Boy hiding again. Instead I find one of the guards. It’s the one who was shot, and apparently he isn’t quite dead yet. He raises his head, eyes dull, and points a gun in my direction, but it’s halfhearted. After a moment he lets his head and weapon fall again, and sighs wearily. His head droops back, as if he exhaled the last of his energy.
I crawl closer and ensure his eyes are closed. When he doesn’t respond, I snatch the gun out of his hand. His eyes flutter open and he looks at me again, but does nothing.
I retreat, half-dragging the gun. It’s a huge, heavy assault rifle, not at all like my handgun. When I crawl out from beneath the truck, I try to hold it like I know how to use it.
The three crazies from before are still there, waiting. One of them grins at the sight of me.
“Gun?” he says, jerking closer. “Ha. Ha, ha. Too big for the little boy.”
“As if,” I say, trying to sound confident. I pull the trigger.
Bullets spray wildly, mostly hitting sand as I stumble from the recoil. Somehow, miraculously, I manage to hit the man. He falls with a snarl, blood streaming from multiple bullet holes.
I try to keep my tough face on despite the growing pain in my injured hand. My hand and the gun are slick with blood. Breathing heavily, I point the barrel at the other two slack-jawed crazies. They take off running. I give chase, blood pumping, giddy to be the hunter for once.
I stop as I spot the huge mob of crazies. I could point the gun into the crowd and go wild, maybe mow down every last one of them, but the thought makes me queasy. And with my luck I’d probably gun down my friends, too.
“All right!” I yell, trying to make my small voice carry over the noise. It doesn’t work. “All right!” I try once more, still to no avail. Frustrated, I raise the gun and fire into the air.
This captures their attention. The crowd quiets down, hungry eyes on me.
“I just want my friends,” I say, “please.”
The crazies jeer and hiss. Someone throws a bottle that narrowly misses me.
“Dolly?” I search the mob for signs of her shocking blue hair. “Dolly!”
She shoves her way out of the crowd. She’s limping, blood running down her leg, with her clothes torn and her hair in wild disarray. She’s still clutching my knife.
“Are you okay?” I ask, although clearly neither of us is. She silently hands my knife back. I wipe it off, put it back into my boot, and place the gun into her more capable hands. For a moment she stares at it, looking even more dazed and distant than usual. She slowly looks back at the mob of crazies. Some of them are circling closer to us now that I haven’t opened fire immediately. A frightening look comes over Dolly.
“Wait,” I say. “We need to make sure the others are—”
The burst of gunfire is shockingly loud. I drop to my knees and clap my hands over my ears. A mess of blood and horrible screaming follows. The mob falls one after another. They don’t even attempt escape. Some of them lunge at us; they drop like flies. Bodies pile up. After a few seconds, I squeeze my eyes shut.
When the gunfire dies, it leaves a hollow silence. Dolly is still jamming the trigger, producing dull clicks. I hesitantly open my eyes.
There are bodies everywhere, mounds of them, and messy bodies. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where one ends and another begins. I fight the urge to vomit. There’s no time, because there are still others left, more than I expected.
As the remnants realize we’re out of ammo, they grow bold again. They approach us, grabbing weapons from their fallen comrades. One of them beats two metal bars together, the harsh sound ringing out louder and louder as he draws closer.
“Shit,” I say. Clank.
Dolly holds out a hand. Clank.
“Knife.” Clank.
I hand it over, shakily rising to my feet again.
Clank.
Clank.
Clank.
“Stay close,” Dolly says, and they’re on us.
She slits the first man’s throat before he can touch her. Blood gushes out like a fountain, splattering all over my face. A kick forces the next one back, followed by a swift elbow to one behind her.
The man with the crowbars comes for me, grinning with bloody teeth.
“Dolly!” I squeak as the first crowbar whistles toward my head. I barely duck. Dolly reaches over me and stabs him in the chest before he can use the second. Two men grab her from behind as she yanks it out again. They pull her backward and separate us.
I drop to the ground, grab a crowbar from the dying man, and swing at the nearest pair of legs. With a resounding crack to his knees, he falls. I rise to my feet and flail wildly with my weapon, keeping them at bay. My injured hand is slick with blood and it hurts to clutch the crowbar so tightly, but I ignore it.
I swing at one of the men holding Dolly and he stumbles back, howling. She shakes off the other and we stand back-to-back, both gasping for breath. There’s still a ring of crazies around us. They seem endless, coming one after another.
“Too many,” Dolly says, echoing my own thoughts.
“What do we do?”
“Get the others.” She jerks her head at the pile of bodies.
“And if they’re already dead?”
She shrugs.
Crazies lunge at us from all directions. Dolly darts forward, cutting down one man and breaking through the gap in the closing circle. I run after her, the mob on my heels.
“Tank! Wolf! Pretty Boy!” I yell, frantically searching for any sign of them. Someone groans to my left. As I turn my foot catches on a body. I fall hard, coming face-to-mangled-face with a corpse.
I squeak and sit up again, only to feel my head hit warm flesh. I look up to find a man standing over me with a bloody meat cleaver.
Shit. I spin around and bring up my crowbar. His blade collides with the bar, metal screeching. He pulls the knife back and I scramble away before he can swing again. I crawl over bodies, trying to ignore the wet squish and discomfiting warmth of them. When my hand hits something moving, I recoil in surprise.
The mound of bodies shifts and swells. A familiar face pokes out from the mass.
“Tank!” He doesn’t look good. There’s a gash on his forehead and his torso is covered in knife wounds. At least he’s still conscious, though, and it looks like he wasn’t shot when Dolly went trigger-happy.
“Kid! Get me the fuck out of these ropes!”
“Right, right,” I say, looking around for something sharp. I set my crowbar down in favor of a piece of broken glass. I accidentally grab it with my injured hand and grimace at the immediate sting. I pass it to my other hand and start sawing at Tank’s bindings. My grip on the knife keeps slipping, hands shaking and slick with blood.
“Watch out!” Tank yells before I can finish. I throw myself to the ground and hear something swoosh through the air above my head. Looking up, I see the man with the cleaver has caught up to me. I reach for the crowbar, but he kicks it aside.
As he comes at me again, I dive between his legs and scramble behind him. He whirls around to follow. Behind him, Tank strains at his ropes. After a few seconds of struggle, he breaks free. He grabs the crowbar and looms up behind the unsuspecting man.
Before the crazed man can slash at me with his knife again, Tank grabs his scrawny arm with one hand and twists it. The cleaver falls to the ground. A few cracks and crunches later, the man falls, lifeless. Tank grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Mostly.” My hands are still shaking. I try to steady them. “Are you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“The others…?”
He points behind me. I turn to see Wolf, Dolly, and Pretty Boy, all thoroughly beaten up but mostly intact. Dolly and Wolf are armed now, and making short work of the remaining crazies. Pretty Boy isn’t helping much, but the other two are doing just fine on their own. The crazies may have numbers and crude weapons, but they’re no match for my friends.
“Looks like we’re okay,” I say.
“We’re lucky it was crazies. Real raiders would’ve sliced us up before we got untied.”
“Looks like the crazies sliced you up pretty good.”
“Eh, nothing serious,” he says nonchalantly. Behind me, I hear a particularly loud thud of impact, followed by a nasty squish. I try not to imagine what’s happening. Tank continues, apparently oblivious. “Shallow cuts, mostly. They were just trying to fuck with us. Thought we were easy prey.”
“Big mistake.”
“Damn right.” He looks down at his torn-up body and grins. “I’ll have some good scars. Think I’ll look scary?”
“You already do!”
He laughs heartily.
“How ’bout you, any good battle wounds?”
“Well, umm…” I hold up my hand and wiggle it, displaying my missing finger.
“Holy shit, Kid!” Tank exclaims, staring.
“It’s pretty ugly, huh?” I stare at it for a second, then let my hand fall to my side. As the thrill of the fight dies off the pain is growing, a throbbing pain that shoots up my whole arm.
“I can’t believe that bitch cut my finger off,” I say.
Tank chuckles and slaps me on the back.
“You’re gonna be fine, Kid.”
He turns to watch Wolf and Dolly at work, his expression unchanging. I do the same, wincing at the brutality in the way they pick off the last of the crazies.
When that’s done Wolf props a baseball bat up like a walking stick and leans against it, breathing heavily.
“All right, guys,” he says loudly.
“You okay, Wolf?” Tank asks as we walk over to them. Dolly moves among the dead, hunting for weapons.
“All right,” Wolf repeats. He looks more disheveled than usual. He’s covered in blood, dripping from his dreadlocks and down the front of his shirt. It’s hard to tell how much of it is his own. He pushes up his goggles and glares at us. “All right. You know what? I am sick of this. I am sick of being pushed around and tied up and all of that shit! Come on, people, we’re supposed to be the bad guys! What the fuck is going on here?”
He casts a furious look around at the lot of us. Nobody speaks. Pretty Boy abruptly bends over and vomits. Wolf shoots him a disapproving glance and continues ranting.
“Well, I’ll tell you what. It ain’t gonna happen again. No fucking way. We are gonna find out who the hell these assholes trying to get us captured are, we are gonna find the fuckers, and we’re gonna kill ’em. You got that?”
“Got it, boss,” Tank says. I give a thumbs-up, and Dolly nods, looking very pleased with a pistol she found. Pretty Boy says nothing.
“Good,” Wolf says. He slides his goggles down and gives the nearest body a kick for emphasis. “Now, are either of those Blackfort guards still breathing?”
Dolly locates one of them crumpled on the ground nearby. He never made it far from the truck. She walks over and kicks him. When he groans, she shoots him.
“No,” she says.
“God damn it, Dolly, I wanted him alive.”
“Oh.”
“Fucking hell, nothing ever goes according to plan.” Wolf sighs and pushes his dirty hair out of his face. He looks genuinely irritated for a moment, but soon breaks into his usual grin. “Fine. We’ll follow the original idea and head to the Queen. Load up the bodies; she’s never opposed to buying some meat.” He gestures to the truck with his bat. “And I get to drive.”
With the tires changed, the bodies sliced up and piled in the back, and my injured hand half-assedly bandaged, we all squeeze into the seats up front. I’m squashed between Tank and the door, with my backpack on my lap—we found it stored in the back with all the other stuff.
Wolf, using the key taken off the dead guard, starts the truck. He grins at the obnoxious rumble of the engine.
“This is a big-ass truck,” he says, looking satisfied. “Almost as good as killing people.”
He slams his heel on the gas and the truck lurches forward, nearly throwing me out of my seat. The tires bump as if going over something heavy, and only then do I recall the guard beneath it. Oops. Probably best not to mention that.
Despite my exhaustion, it’s impossible to sleep with the engine snarling and Wolf driving like a madman. The truck threatens to topple at every sharp turn, which only excites Wolf. I hold on for dear life and stare out the window, watching the wastelands go by.