H124 glanced around, wondering where Byron had gone to. “Okay, okay,” she heard his voice saying. He pushed through the onlookers, back toward the car. “Look all you want, but don’t touch. Where’s Firehawk?”
The skinny man spoke up. “Still gone.”
“Damn.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” the man asked Byron.
“Never mind,” Byron said curtly, then opened the passenger door. He grabbed her arm and pulled her out, his fingers gripping her like a wrench
“Fresh meat?” asked the woman.
“Not quite,” said Byron, dragging H124 past them. “Stick with me,” he told her under his breath.
As they walked away from the crowd growing around the car, he called back, “If Firehawk comes back, somebody get me.” He pushed her through a cluster of tents and lean-tos, makeshift shelters set up against the few remaining walls of whatever long-forgotten town this was.
She wrenched her arm from his grip. “Where are we going?”
“To my tent. I’ve got to keep you safe until Firehawk gets back. If I’m right, you’re going to be crucial to our plan. You’re just what we were waiting for.”
She shook her head. “I don’t see how . . .” She met his gaze firmly. “I can’t help you with your plan. I have more vital things to do. Please try to understand.” It felt strange for her to beg, but at this point, short of running away into the night to be killed by night stalkers or trying to fight the Badlanders to get back to her car, she didn’t have many options. If he didn’t listen to her, she’d have to wait for a chance when she was left alone, to somehow sneak back to her car.
“This is important too,” was all he said, then pointed in the direction of his tent. “C’mon.”
She walked a few more paces with him before she stopped. “Who’s Firehawk?”
“He’s the leader of another Badlander group. We work together sometimes.”
“Is he a better listener?”
Byron managed a smile. “Maybe. I’m sure he’ll hear your story and instantly give you a methane car and send you on your way.”
“I have to try,” she said. “I want to talk to him.”
“Well, he’s not here.” He placed a hand on her back, hurrying her along as three cruel-looking Badlanders came up to them. Their clothes hung in rags, stitched together and torn. Hatred wafted off them. Two men had facial tattoos, abstract designs that curled around their eyes. The men hadn’t shaved in weeks, and the woman’s eyes were so narrowed and shrewd that she gave H124 the chills.
“What do you want?” asked Byron.
“Come to see our deliverer,” growled one of the men, and the others laughed.
“Word gets around.” Byron pulled H124 closer to him. “So you’ve seen her. Now we’re passing by.”
He pulled her along once more. She glanced at them as they passed, catching their sneers. What had made these people like this?
“Don’t look at them,” Byron whispered. “Just keep moving.” As they walked through the encampment, she memorized every turn and step back to her car.
They got to his tent, a run-down collection of tarps slung over a rusted metal frame. He pulled a flap aside and pushed her in. A large cot stood in one corner, and a workbench cluttered with tools and devices she didn’t recognize took up space at the back. A solitary leaning stool stood before it. In another corner stood a chipped washbasin and some ragged towels.
“Home, sweet home. At least for the last couple months.” He grabbed some rope off the workbench. “Turn around.”
She stared back at him. “No way.”
“Do it.”
He turned her around, grabbing her arms and binding them together. She thought of striking out and running. But with all of them out there, still active and awake, she wouldn’t last long. Her best bet was to wait until everyone was sleeping and sneak out then.
He moved her to a metal pole in the center of the tent and tied her to it, then bound her feet together. Begrudgingly she let him, hoping he would hurry up and go to sleep. She didn’t say anything else, just sat in silence as he slung her bag next to the washbasin, then splashed water on his face. With an exhausted sigh, he collapsed onto his cot. “Sorry about the accommodations,” he said, peering back at her.
She didn’t respond. She didn’t even ask what was next, what would happen tomorrow, because she didn’t plan on being around.
Readjusting his position, he put one hand over his face, and in a few minutes, she could hear the soft sounds of his breathing. He was asleep.
Outside was a different story. She could hear people shouting, taunting each other, sounds of fights, and then something made such a loud bang that she jumped and hit her head on the pole. It woke Byron. “Just a gun,” he told her, then turned and went back to sleep.
She had no idea what a gun was, nor could she see the purpose in a device that made such a loud noise. She sat listening, working the ropes that bound her hands. He hadn’t tied them very tight, probably counting on her fear to keep her in the tent. She managed to get one hand free, then twisted it around to loosen the rope on the other one. She listened to his even breathing, heard him murmur in a dream.
Things started to quiet down outside. She still heard the occasional shout, and another gun exploded in the night. She got up into a crouch, straining against the ropes, forcing them to loosen. Every few minutes she paused, listening to the sounds of Byron sleeping. He stirred once, talking in his sleep, then shouted out loud, sitting straight up. “Damn,” he said in the dark. “You still here?”
She felt lucky this had happened before she left. “Unfortunately.”
“Good.”
Then she heard him roll over, and a few minutes later, the soft
