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, scorching 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.

This wasn’t a room… it was a vehicle.

And it was moving.

“Finn!” Her eyes flew open. “Where’s Finn?”

The woman stepped away, crossing her arms as she leaned against a counter littered with bandages and a portable medical scanner. A row of metal cabinets with coded locks ran above her head. “Was Finn one of those bodies back there? Because they’re right where we left them.”

“Geez, Olivia!” Max perched on the edge of the bed beside her. What she had taken for filth on his clothing were actually streaks and splatters of paint, in all colors. “We saw the smoke. What happened?”

“Finn and I… we…” Pity grasped for the words. “Scroungers attacked our camp. They… they killed…” The room wavered as her lungs emptied. She fell back onto the bed. No. The word beat in her head, worse than the pain. No, no, no. “They killed her and… and you just left her there?”

Max’s brow furled. “There was nothing we could—”

“Did you bury her? Did you do anything?”

“She was dead,” said Olivia.

“You just left her there!” Pity shot up again, oblivious to her injuries, only to have Max push her back down.

“We had to,” he pressed. “It was dangerous to linger, and you were hurt.”

She shoved him away, searching for something to say but finding nothing.

Too late. A scream built in her chest, unable to go anywhere. She was right there, and you just watched them—

The thought refused to finish.

“It’s not all bad,” Olivia said. “These survived.” Pity looked over to see her dangling the gun belt in one hand and brandishing a revolver in the other. “They’re awfully nice.”

Pity’s cheeks burned with anger. “Those are mine! Give them to me!”

“Not a chance.” Olivia stashed the weapons in a cabinet above her head. When she closed it, the touch pad flashed red. Locked.

“They belong to me.”

“And I say they’re good payment for saving your life.”

She glared at Olivia, who glared right back and let a hand fall to her side. Strapped to her hip was a leather whip, coiled in a tight circle. Pity recalled the pain from before and looked at her wrist. Ringing it was a wide bruise.

Max sighed. “Olivia, please…”

“We don’t know her from Adam, Max. And she tried to kill you.”

“I didn’t—” Pity began, but the vehicle’s vibrations suddenly tapered off and ceased.

A moment later a door opened at the front of the compartment. A massive, densely muscled man ducked through it, carrying a rifle.

“My turn to drive?” said Olivia.

He shook his bald, round head. Other than a thin strip of dark hair on his chin, he was clean-shaven. “Time to swap out the fuel cell. How’s our guest?”

Olivia swatted a hand. “She’s fine.”

“Is that true, miss?” His voice was deep but smooth.

Pity grimaced. “No.”

“Of course not.” When he approached the bed and reached out a huge, flat hand, she eyed it warily but shook it. “Santino Quintano,” he said. “Santino, por favor. And you are?”

“We hadn’t gotten there yet,” said Max.

“Serendipity.” Her voice was as hollow as an old bone. “Jones. Everyone calls me Pity.”

“Pity,” Santino continued, “you were very lucky today. We can drop you at the next outpost or commune we pass. They will have real medical facilities and—”

“No!” she cried. “I mean, I can’t…” She hesitated, thoughts tangling. Finn… her guns… The pounding in her head intensified. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. When she looked up again, everyone was staring at her.

“Hmm.” Santino tipped his head. “Judging by your clothes, I’d guess you’re off a commune?”

She nodded.

“And where were you headed?”

“East.”

“Just east?”

“Yeah.” She cooled her tone. “Just east.”

Olivia snickered. “Runaways. Cute. Did you think you were going to stroll into Columbia and find the streets paved with gold and all the prosperity you could carry? You would have been lucky to find a bed to rent in the lower slums. What were you thinking?”

“We were thinking”—her voice cracked—“that we had to get away from where we were.” No, she thought. I needed to get away. Pity swallowed at the lump that had formed in her throat. “It doesn’t matter. But I… can’t go back there.”

“Comprendo, chiquita,” said Santino. “But you can’t come with us.”

“Why not?” balked Max, getting to his feet.

“Max—”

“She’s hurt and alone, with nothing. Her friend is dead and she says she can’t go home. So why can’t she come with us?”

“I do have something,” Pity interjected. “I’ve got my guns.”

Olivia snickered. “Hon, you ain’t even got that.”

“If she’s a good shot,” Max pressed, “Beau might take her on. He’s always complaining about the lack of—”

“Max,” Santino warned. “We have a job to finish.”

“The job’s done,” he countered.

“The package still needs to be delivered.”

“And it will be, whether she’s with us or not,” said Max.

“What makes you think a girl like her is going to want to go where we’re going?” Olivia said.

“Why?” Pity spat, irritated at being pecked over like a bit of corn by crows. “Where are you going?”

“End of the world.” One side of Max’s mouth turned up proudly. “We’re headed for Cessation.”