Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Tonight, it’s not so quiet though. I hear the distant, cranking sound of a motorcycle long before it arrives, and the sound’s almost offensive in the peaceful night. I clutch my baseball bat —my best friend now that my gun is gone—and move silently to the window of my gas station. There’s no gas—and I’ve posted signs to that effect, but I figured someone would come check anyhow. I know I would, if it was me.
Sure enough, a motorcycle roars up, and then another. My heart drops when I see it’s a full fleet of motorcycles, because that can only mean one thing. Nomads. Nomads don’t live in one of the forts. They’re lawless, outlaws who can’t obey the simple rules of After society. They’re usually dicks, take what they want, and that includes women. This means I’m in danger if they find I’m here. Fuck. Not what I wanted. I think of the store down the road, where Sasha’s sitting cozy with her dragon. I wish I was there with them. Sasha’s offered, but I never felt comfortable. I regret it now.
I watch through the grimy, dark window as one of the men leaps off his bike and moves to the gas pump. He pulls the nozzle free and sniffs it, then squeezes the trigger. Nothing comes out, of course. It’s dry, just like my fucking sign says. Dumbass. But he jiggles the handle again, then inspects the pump and calls something out to his buddies, waiting to refuel their bikes. I peer at them, trying to count. There are at least seven bikes, with tandem riders—fourteen people. I see a van, too. Fuck. I clutch my bat tighter, my pulse racing with alarm. They haven’t looked in here, but if they do, they’ll see me. There’s not much left in this old gas station—no food, just a bunch of empty, trashed shelves that I’ve pushed to the side to make room for my bedding. I can hide, of course, but the moment they see my bedroll, they’ll know someone’s here.
I watch, alert, as one of the bikers moves to the side of the gas station, probably to test the emergency shut-off. It’s not going to help things though. I did the same when I got here. This place is dry as a bone.
I brace myself when someone comes toward the door. I’ve got it chained shut on the inside—I’m not a dumbass—and I clench my teeth, waiting as they try the handle. A moment later, someone else approaches, and they throw a rock through the glass door, shattering it.
Fuck.
I rise up in my corner, clutching my bat. Ready to attack. The man reaches through, tugs on the chains to undo them, and then tosses them to the floor. Another guy pushes the door open and strolls in, wearing a baseball cap. His stance is so familiar I can hardly believe what I’m looking at—
Until he turns and sees me at the same moment I see him.
“Boyd?” I say, shocked.
His eyes widen, and I realize it’s him all right—I’d recognize that heavy brow anywhere, not to mention the unshaven, straggly beard and the wide face. When he grins, I see the one broken tooth that always gapes out, a reminder that there’s no dental care in the After. It’s my brother, all right.
I don’t know if I’m relieved or terrified.
“The fuck? Emma? What are you doing here?” My brother’s look is openly skeptical.
“Squatting, dumbass. What’s it look like I’m doing?”
He breaks out into a grin. “Fuckin’ hell, I thought you were heading to Fort Orleans.”
“Changed my mind.” I don’t point out that I lied to him. Boyd’s got a sensitive ego. “Was going to check out Fort Dallas, but word is that they’re not the friendliest, so I thought I’d hang on my own for a while.”
“Well, you ain’t alone no more,” my brother says, grinning. “You’re with my crew now.” He gestures at the fleet of bikes behind him. “Me and the boys will take care of you.”
That’s kind of what I’m afraid of, especially since my brother’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. But he’s the devil I know, so I beam at him as if this is a relief. “Great.”
Bregaste cajita de pollo, as my dad used to say. Boyd fucked me over once and I won’t forget.
I’ve never been extremely close to my brother, Boyd. He’s a lot like my dad in all the bad ways, and my dad beat my mom on a regular basis when we were kids. Both Mom and Dad died in the Rift, when the dragons first descended, and that left me and Boyd to fend for ourselves. Boyd was fourteen and I was twelve, so we hitched along with other survivors and tried to make a living in Fort Tulsa. Unfortunately, that place was a real shithole run by the worst kinds of scum. When I was sixteen, my brother got us booted because he sold me in a card game to an old toothless fucker, and I responded by beating the shit out of the guy with my bat. That didn’t go over well with the locals, and we ended up having to run out of the city.