The car turns off towards the Refuge, so I reduce my speed, wanting to put more distance between myself and the strangers. They disappear over a ridge and I feel it’s now safe to make the turn myself. I accelerate down the sand-covered road, then up and over the ridge, spotting the Refuge about a half-mile away. I take it slow, checking for any other vehicles or pedestrians making their way to the ramshackle remains of a ranch. The house itself is still standing, but several burnt-out structures lie yards away; wire fencing stands bent and twisted, rusting down to the same color as the sand that surrounds it.
I throttle back, turning off the engine to quiet my approach, and coast the remaining stretch of earth to the entrance. I dismount the motorbike at the rotted out gate and walk the rest of the way, pushing the bike alongside. The car is parked just outside the front door, its occupants nowhere in sight. I don’t feel comfortable leaving the bike exposed, so I push it around behind the house, securing it by two dumpsters. Sweat is pouring down my face after I remove my helmet, so I wipe my brow with the sleeve of my jacket before I strap the helmet to one of the handlebars. Prior to entering the structure, I make one full lap around the building noting the position of the windows and doors.
The structure is only one level, with two windows in the back, three along each side, and two up front on either side of the front door. The only other entrance to the house is at the rear by the dumpsters. The demeanor of the area is unremarkable. The one other functioning building on the property is a barn to the east. The clapboard siding is crumbling and splitting, the roof sagging badly at the back, and all but two windows are missing panes of glass.
I hesitate briefly on the porch, debating whether I’ve made the right choice in doing what Devlan wanted. Drawing in a deep breath, I reach for the doorknob, turning it slowly and gently before stepping over the threshold.
The air inside is stuffy, and fans sway dangerously as they try to circulate the stagnant air through the large room. The interior doesn’t resemble that of a home, as it’s apparent several walls have been removed, some meticulously, others violently. Their jagged remains stand testament to their demise. The hardwood floors are beaten and scratched, flower wallpaper is peeling from the remaining walls. Not much light is entering the room due to the heavy drapes covering the windows. Several couches are pushed up against the far right wall, bunched around a broken table, probably smashed in a fight no one bothered to clean up after. To the left, a long bar runs from one wall to another, and stools in various stages of collapse are positioned along the tarnished brass rail. The wall behind the bar is lined with shelves housing various sized liquor bottles. I scan the room one more time, but don’t see the couple that had driven the car.
“You look lost,” a scratchy voice speaks from behind the bar. The woman the voice belongs to must’ve been stooped below when I first walked in. Her short red hair is streaked with white, her skin is as tan as the wood flooring, and also as worn. Her frame is tall and slender like mine, except for her arms, which are quite a lot more muscular.
“I’m looking for Rena.”
“Well you found her,” the woman says, sweeping her arms at her sides.
I walk over to the bar, leaning against the cracked grain, not daring to sit down on one of the stools. “Devlan sent me.”
Rena scans me up and down before replying, “Did he now?”
I hear a click from behind me.
Moving sideways I side-kick the man standing behind me, grabbing the gun from his hands as he falls, and point it at Rena before either of them can blink. The man lunges for the gun, but I’m too fast and have him back on the floor in seconds; his face contorts in a silent scream as my knife lies cradled against his throat, all the while still aiming the gun at Rena.
She looks down at the man cowering on the floor.
“I like her,” she says to him before reaching below the counter for a glass and filling it with Tequila from a bottle behind her. “All right, sweetheart, you can let Terrance go now, he won’t bother you again.”
I hesitate, but do eventually remove the knife and slowly stand, still keeping the gun on Rena. The man rolls over onto his stomach, gut touching the floorboards. He pushes himself into an upright position and goes through a door at the rear of the room where he must’ve come from.
“You still gonna shoot me, or do you want Devlan’s order?” Rena asks, staring down the barrel of the gun clutched tightly in my hand.
I look at the weapon, noticing it’s not one I’m familiar with, so I place the firearm down on the counter…but not too far out of reach.
“What is it?” I ask, nodding towards the weapon.
“It’s an old .38 caliber Smith and Wesson. Those haven’t been made in well over a century, not since the end of the last revolt one hundred and forty years ago. Terrance found it a few months back. There aren’t any bullets in it. He’d have to make his own but the fucker’s too lazy.” Rena reaches below the counter and brings up a large plastic tumbler. “You thirsty?”
I nod and watch as she fills it up with water.
I down the first offering, then ask for a refill.
I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until Rena offered the drink. As I’m working on my third glass and Rena goes to
