The Deadly Nightshade (11 page)

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 wouldn’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.

“Connor, pick up your gun,” I command.

He does as told, drawing his revolver shakily and pointing it in the general direction of the gang, as if not sure which member to target.

Roman seems surprisingly unalarmed by this act of hostility. Instead, he appears fascinated by the weapon that hangs at Connor’s side. The smile on his face vanishes, replaced by an expression of deep contemplation. I don’t like this look.

“That’s a beautiful machete ya got there,” he murmurs.

Connor glances from the weapon to the leader. “Oh, uh, thanks.”

“Very unique—black blade, hooked end, little silver engravin’ near the grip. That’s gotta be a pretty rare weapon. I doubt ya could find another around these parts.” He pauses to shift his gaze to Connor’s face, but when he looks up his black eyes are hardened. “My brother had one just like it.”

Holy shit.
That face! I knew I recognized that face! I’ve seen it before—not the same face, exactly—but without the long black hair and white scars. An image of The Leader from the gang who attacked me nearly three months ago flashes through my mind.
His brother.
So it hadn’t been a gang after all, only a faction of one, and these men and women here must be the rest of it. Dear God, no, this can’t be happening.

I look at Connor and determine by his alarmed expression that he has come to the same realization I have. He shifts his weight uneasily and quickly drops his gaze, as if afraid even looking at Roman will give him away. But it’s too late. We’re already screwed.

“Where’d ya get it?” asks Roman in a voice that is barely more than a whisper, his cold, unflinching stare remaining fixed on Connor.

“I, uh, found it,” he gulps, his face reddening.

Roman snorts. “I really, really doubt that, boy. Now I’m gonna ask you again.
Where did ya get that machete?”

Connor’s mouth opens and his lips move in a pattern that looks like words, but no sound comes out. He looks timidly at the gang leader, trying to voice a lie he cannot think of.

“Where?”
Roman bellows, his voice reverberating off the surrounding buildings.

I am so focused on this enraged man that I almost do not notice the movement to my left. I turn my head in time to catch Missy quickly raise her rifle and point it at Connor. Without a second of hesitation, I pull the trigger of my left handgun and hit her right between the eyes. As her lifeless body falls to the ground, I become aware that I have just unleashed hell upon us.

Taking advantage of my distraction, Roman grabs my right wrist and points my gun toward the sky. I turn the other one on him, but he uses his free hand to smack it away before I can shoot, sending it clattering to the ground. As we struggle, shots ring out all around us, but I can’t be sure who is firing, who has been hit, or who has been killed. Roman fights to get the gun out of my hand, twisting and bending my arm to loosen my grip. Knowing I’ll never make it out of this fight alive if I don’t break free of his hold soon, I act quickly, drawing one of the knives from my belt with my free hand and thrusting it into his forearm. He releases me with a cry and I take the opportunity to put two bullets in his chest before he can draw his own weapon. Groaning in agony, he collapses.

With Roman down, I turn to look at the chaos that surrounds me. Connor is still standing, firing wildly in the direction of the remaining three gang members. Only the two men remain on their feet—the surviving woman lies on the ground, clutching her chest with one hand and shooting with the other. As one of the standing men changes his target from Connor to me, I discharge four bullets from my gun, killing him instantly.

“Kill them!” shouts Roman, his hands pressed against his wounds as he tries to stop the bleeding.

I could probably finish them, I really think I could, but what about Connor? What if he gets killed before I can put a bullet in each of their skulls? No, it isn’t worth it. We need to go.

“Run, Connor!” I shout as I pick up my other gun from the ground. “Zigzag! They’ll miss!”

We set off running, changing direction every now and then to make it harder for them to hit us. We are halfway down the street when Connor emits a cry and I watch a spurt of blood fly from his leg. He stumbles but does not fall, pushing through the pain to try to keep up with me. For the first time since I met him, Connor begins to lag behind—not by much, but enough for me to know the wound is severe—but he fights to keep moving because stopping means dying. At the first opportunity, we turn down a side street and out of the danger zone, but still we keep running. We run until we have left that miserable town far behind, and even then we do not stop.             

Chapter 24

We’ve made it less than a mile when Connor emits a groan and falls, curling up into a ball and clutching his leg in agony. I stop and watch as he attempts to stand, but he cringes and retracts the wounded leg every time he tries to put any kind of weight on it. We aren’t far away enough to stop now.

“Get up, Connor. We need to move. You have to get up.”

He bites down hard on his lip and makes another attempt, but his leg gives out and he collapses with a cry. Looking up at me with sad eyes, he shakes his head ruefully. The adrenaline that allowed him to run with the injury in the first place is fading. He can’t go on like this.

Maybe Connor can’t keep running, but I can. Staying here with him would be senseless; he has to know that. Even if I were to help him, what then? We would move at half the pace I could alone, and that might be the difference between life and death.

But the look in his eyes. I know that look, that self-sacrificing look of martyrdom. As I stare into their sad depths I realize Connor
wants
me to go. He knows he’s done for with a wound like that, a wound that prevents him from even walking on his own, and he knows he can’t hold me back. He
wants
me to abandon him and save myself. But when have I ever been one to let Connor have what he wants?

I hold my hand out to him, but he swats it away.

“No, Nightshade,” he protests. “I’ll only slow you down. Just go, I know you want to. Just go.”

“Connor, we don’t have time for this. Do you want to live or not?”

He turns his head to look back at the town, knowing what awaits him if he stays. After a moment’s hesitation, he takes my hand. I help him off the ground, wrapping his arm around my neck so he is able to use me like a crutch and hobble forward on one foot. I was right—we can only move at about half the pace we were moving before, but even slow progress is progress. Besides, all but one of Roman’s people are wounded, and I can handle one lone man if he catches up to us. As long as we keep moving, we should be fine.

“Why didn’t you just go?” he asks after we have put about another half a mile between us and the town. “You could get twice as far without having to drag me around. Why didn’t you just leave me?”

“Why did you save me back there?” I ask in response.

I feel his shoulder shrug against mine. “They were going to ambush you. I couldn’t just sit back and watch that happen. I had to warn you. I had to help.”

“Well don’t ever do it again. I don’t need anyone to save me.”

Connor laughs. “You’re not as invincible as you think you are, Nightshade.”

“Connor, you could have died.”

He shrugs again.

We maintain our pace, something faster than a walk but slower than a jog, for the next few miles, but I can tell Connor is getting tired by the added weight he is placing on me, and I am too. We have barely eaten or drank anything all day; my mouth is dry and cottony from thirst and my stomach churns emptily. But stopping could mean giving what is left of Roman’s wounded gang time to catch up. No, it’s better to struggle onward until nightfall.

Connor groans every now and then and asks to slow the pace or stop to catch his breath, but I keep pushing him. It occurs to me I’ll have to figure out what to do with him soon—with an injury like that, he won’t be able to keep moving like this after today. He needs rest and time to heal, not to mention medical supplies to clean the wound and remove the bullet before it gets infected. The little medical kit in my rucksack doesn’t have those kind of supplies, and it would be impossible to bring him into another town with me to go search for some, which would mean I would have to leave him alone somewhere while I went by myself to find them. If someone were to come across him there, wounded and unable to walk on his own . . . Maybe I should have just left him behind. All I’ve done is bought him some time and doomed myself to have to care for him. While his movement is restricted, so is mine, and movement is the key to survival. Helping Connor and doing the right thing isn’t worth dying for. It was his own stupidity that got him hurt in the first place, not mine—although he
was
trying to save me, but then again who asked him to? It was his own choice, his own mistake, so why should I pay for it? I made a promise to my father to survive, and if that means leaving Connor then that is what I must do.

But how can I just drop him on the ground and say, “Sorry, pal, it’s been fun, but I’ve changed my mind and I think I’m gonna go ahead and save my own ass” after I’ve made all this effort to carry him this far? How can I just leave him here, as defenseless and vulnerable as he is, knowing death readily awaits him? I might as well pull out my sword and drive it through his stomach myself; it would save a hell of a lot of time. To leave him behind would be to kill him, not directly, but in some secondhand way. It would feel like killing him all the same.

“Nightshade, do you see that?” Connor’s voice shakes me from my thoughts, and suddenly I realize I haven’t been paying attention to the road. In the distance, I make out four figures moving in our direction. It is clear they have seen us too, because they approach with their weapons drawn. I place my free hand on my gun, but there’s no point. We’re outnumbered, Connor is injured, and these people will shoot me before I have a chance to draw.

“What do we do?” Connor asks.

“Wait here, see what they want, and hope they don’t kill us.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “This is my fault. If you had just left me behind—”

“Don’t apologize, Connor. It’s not like we can do anything about it now.”

The group stops a few feet away and considers us with suspicion. One of them, a man in his early twenties, addresses me.

“You, take your hand off the weapon. Draw and you die.”

I grudgingly do as told and drop my hand to my side.

“What are you two doing here? Where did you come from?”

I am about to ask him what the hell he wants from us when Connor speaks.

“Please, help us,” he entreats. “We were attacked by a gang a few miles back. I’m shot, I can barely walk. We’re starving and cold and exhausted and we need help. Please.”

I look from Connor to the young man, who exchanges a glance with the others in his party. After a moment, he whispers into the ear of a young blonde maybe a few years older than him. She nods, and with a sigh of resolution he turns back to us.

“I want you to slowly remove all your weapons and hand them to us. And I mean
everything.
We
will
search you, so don’t even think of trying to hide anything.”