"It's my fault, I know. Sorry."
"It's nobody's fault," Eric said. "Forget it."
Season sighed. "It's this damn wound. I know it slowed us down for the past few days. Now they're even farther ahead, aren't they?"
"A couple days. Three at most." Eric leaned back into the shade using his pack as a pillow, "We'll catch up." They sat around resting from their night's march. Molly was already asleep, for once not even bothering to complain about her blisters. Rydell lay next to her, his head propped on his hand while he read a sun-faded copy of Newsweek they'd found the day before in an abandoned VW bug.
Tracy was fussing over Season's wound. Two days ago Season had gotten a sudden fever, chills, nausea, and they had lost half a day's travel. Eric hadn't complained or acted sullen. He'd merely made camp and treated her symptoms, even joked with her a little. Everyone noticed the change in him. Sure, he was just as determined as ever to rescue his family, to kill Fallows. But he was also kinder, compassionate, more the way he used to be before Jennifer's murder and the kidnapping.
Eric tilted his Australian bush hat over his eyes, felt the stares of the others as they tried to figure him out. He knew he was acting differently toward them and he knew why. Tracy had been right. He had become Dirk Fallows, and in that way Fallows had already killed him. Had already won. Eric couldn't allow that. There had to be a greater purpose to survival than just… existing. Essence precedes existence. That's what Annie would tell him now, had told him several times in the past few months. "Our survival has to stand for something, Eric," she'd say. "Something more than a testament to our ruthlessness and cleverness. Bugs can claim that." They'd argued good-naturedly about it, mostly for the fun of it, he'd thought then. But now he could see how important it really was to Annie. He couldn't even remember his arguments now, or if he could, they seemed silly, cynical. Tracy had been right, he couldn't go to her now as just another version of Fallows. If he did, he didn't deserve her. That's what Big Bill Tenderwolf would have said.
He heard Tracy's voice. "Rydell, would you cover guard duty for me while I search for the ladies' room?"
"Sure thing, Trace."
"Take your bow," Eric reminded her without opening his eyes.
"Got it, Coach."
Eric dozed, his mind drifting like a curl of smoke among giant photographs. Annie in the bathtub. Timmy concentrating on a chess move. Jennifer wobbling on her skates. Then he turned a corner and the photos were more sinister. Annie screaming for help. Timmy crying.
Jennifer, her throat red and grinning, a mockery of her lifeless lips, Philip and Tag, their bodies covered with hundreds of arrows like porcupines. Fallows, floating above it all on a magic carpet, a silk turban on his head, laughing. There was one other photograph, turned at an angle away from the light. Eric strained to make out the face, but couldn't. He knew only that it was Cruz, the man who'd murdered Jenny, who'd cut her throat. He edged closer. Closer. Turned the corner.
"Eric! Come quick!"
Tracy's cries, like a sharp slap, brought him swiftly to consciousness. He was on his feet and running, the loaded crossbow in his hand, before she'd finished calling. Behind him he heard the others following. He didn't wait.
Eric's feet kicked up puffs of sand as he ran, nimbly dodging brush and rocks as he sprinted ahead. He was still twenty feet away when he saw Tracy dragging something out from behind a clump of mesquite trees. He stopped, gaped with shock.
"Holy shit," Season said, running up behind him.
"It's like Twilight Zone," Molly said.
"I was just about to drop my drawers and relieve a nagging bladder," Tracy explained, "when I spotted this hiding nearby." She gave another yank.
They had never seen anything like it.
The girl lay on the ground, struggling to pull her arm free from Tracy's grasp. Her free hand clawed at the dirt for leverage, her bare feet dug in for resistance. When that didn't work she just made her body limp, heavy.
"I could use a hand," Tracy said, but everyone just stood there and stared.
The girl wore a magnificent flowing gown, red satin that draped in swirling folds. It plunged daringly down between her small teenage breasts, revealing bruises and teeth marks across her chest. Her face was caked with heavy makeup, clumsily applied lipstick and rouge, smeared eyeshadow and mascara. But most shocking of all was her hair. She didn't have any. Her head was shaved bald.
"Who are you?" Eric asked.
"I already asked her that," Tracy said. "She won't talk."
"Poor kid," Rydell said.
"Poor kid, nothing," Tracy said. "She jumped me and tried to take the crossbow."
"N-n-no," the girl rasped.
"Let her be," Eric said, motioning for Tracy to step back. "Give her room. Season, run back and get a canteen."
"Right."
Eric turned to the girl. "Want some water?"
The girl looked at each of them suspiciously, the cornered rabbit preparing to fight its way to freedom or death. Her eyes were hateful, surrounded with dark circles. There were sores on her face and arms, torn blisters on her feet, a long scab on top of her head where the razor had slipped. Bones poked at sharp angles through the damaged skin. Her face, thin from lack of food, looked like a Halloween skull.
Season nudged Eric with the canteen. "Here."
Eric walked slowly toward the frightened girl, the canteen held at arm's length. "Water. Help yourself."
She stared steadily at him, not moving. He set the canteen on the ground ten feet in front of her, then backed away. When he had returned to the others, she climbed to her feet and raced for the canteen, limping as she ran. Eric noticed the recent cut on the back of her leg above the foot. Smooth and clean, as if made with a knife.
The girl grabbed the canteen with both hands, fumbling the cap off and guzzling it down with such desperation, much of it spilled down her neck soaking her clothes.
"That's a two or three hundred dollar gown," Tracy said. "Six months ago I'd have done almost anything to own it."
"Where'd she get it?" Molly asked. "She can't be more than sixteen, seventeen tops."
Rydell nodded. "What's important is what's she doing out here wearing it? And what happened to her hair?"
"And who cut the Achilles' tendon in her leg to cripple her?" Eric added.
"Jesus," Season frowned.
The girl finished drinking, wiped her mouth with her wrist, and hungrily clutched the canteen to her chest. Her eyes remained distrustful as she hobbled backwards a step or two.
Eric walked toward her.
"N-n-no!" she screamed, shaking her head wildly. Her shrill shrieks pierced the hot air like stabbing icicles. She stumbled backwards, screaming and shaking her head.
The sudden thunder of galloping horses drowned out her cries as three riders stormed into sight. They were still a couple hundred yards away when Eric spotted them.
"Weapons," Eric snapped, and everyone lifted their bows, armed and ready, toward the approaching riders.
The girl saw them coming too and her screams became even louder, more hysterical. She dropped to the ground again, arms flailing, legs churning like a beetle on its back struggling to flip itself over.
The three horsemen rode into camp enshrouded by clouds of yellow dust. There was nothing friendly about their appearance.
The lead rider rode clumsily, his back erect like a parody of an English foxhunter. He was short, though thick chested, and the stirrups hung a couple inches too low for him, causing his feet to slip out. But there was nothing comical about him. His face was mean, the mouth a lipless gash behind a dusty, black beard. Under his left eye, a tattoo of three tears dripped down his cheek.
"I'd lower those weapons, Jack," he warned Eric. "Unless you're looking for trouble."
"We're not looking for trouble," Eric said, keeping his weapon aimed at the man's chest.
The man squinted angrily at Eric. He wore a battered cowboy hat, fancy snakeskin boots, jeans, a big silver buckle, and a denim vest over his bare chest. The thick, curly, black hair on his chest and arms was matted with sweat. Strapped to his hip was a Western-style holster with a 9mm Smith amp; Wesson Model 59 jammed awkwardly into it. His hands rested on the saddle pommel, only inches from the gun.
Eric noticed that the other two riders carried an assortment of knives, but no guns. Not that they needed any. The S amp;W packed a fourteen-shot staggered column clip and could fire semi-automatic. Enough to kill everybody here, even with an arrow or two in him.
"Hell of a situation, Slim," the rider said, a nasty grin stretching his face. "I imagine you don't want to fuck with us and we don't want to fuck with you. That about sum it up?"
"Just about."
"Good. 'Cause I dig this Western shit and all, but I ain't much in the mood to be sucking a bunch of arrows." He stood up in the stirrups, rubbed his buttocks. "I once rode a thousand miles at one sitting on a Barley, man, but ten miles on one of these fucking animals an' my ass feels like I've been dragged butt-end down 101."
"What's your name?" Eric asked.
"Flex."
"What can we do for you, Flex?"
"Looks like you folks found something belongs to us."
"Like what?"
"Like that." He pointed at the girl, scurrying frantically like a crab gone mad in the sun. "It belongs to us."
"You bastards," Tracy spat. "She's a human being, not animals like you."
Flex laughed huskily, his barrel chest shaking. "That broad's got a mouth, huh, Slim?" His two companions also laughed.
Eric smiled, studying the men like a biologist examining a new bacteria never before classified. The leader shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, a nervous tic starting to tug at his tattooed eye. The other two wore identical denim vests with "DEVIL'S DANCERS" stitched across the back over the picture of a grinning skeleton playing a fiddle and sitting astride a motorcycle. However, they didn't share Flex's fascination with Western outfits, remaining true to the plain black motorcycle boots. But from the arrogant looks in their eyes, they did share his taste for violence.
By looking at them, Eric was sure of this: Flex had already made up his mind that he was either going to ride out of here with the girl, or he was going to die trying. And he didn't really care which, Eric was tempted to oblige him, but that gun made the odds bad. Oh, they'd lose all right, but chances were good that they'd take two of Eric's people with them. And he couldn't risk that.
"So what's it gonna be, Slim? Do we have a problem?"
"No," Eric said. "Take her and get going."
"N-no-no!" the girl stuttered, her voice hoarse from screaming.
"We can't let them take her, Eric!" Tracy said, stepping protectively in front of the girl. "For God's sake, look what they've done to her."
"Hey, bitch," one of the other riders sneered.
"Hey, what, asshole?" Tracy said, swinging her crossbow toward his face. The man glared but said nothing.
"She's right, Eric," Rydell said. Molly and Season mumbled agreement. "It isn't right to hand her over."
"Well, pardner?" Flex sighed, looking bored. "We gonna mix it up over this cue ball or what?"
"Take her," Eric repeated.
Flex grinned. "Smart man. No need to shit our guts out in this sandbox for nothing." He nodded at one of his riders, who jumped down from his horse, jerked the girl off the ground, and threw her roughly over the saddle face down. "See how easy it is. Slim. No harm, no foul." He leered at the three women and winked. "Happy trails, pard." With a yank on the reins, he jerked the horse around and the three of them rode off laughing.
Eric turned his back. Didn't see Sarah Roth's pleading eyes as she looked back…
The next ten miles were covered in almost complete silence. No one complained when Eric moved them out immediately after Flex's departure without any rest. They were all anxious to work off the feelings churning inside.
For awhile, Eric walked ahead alone, shunned by the rest of them. Then Tracy joined him, walking silently at his side. He never acknowledged her presence, but she could tell he appreciated the gesture.
The orange sky was leaking into gray-pink as night claimed its few hours. For the past few miles they'd been muttering among themselves, though no one spoke directly to Eric.
They followed a dirt road for a while as Eric bent to the dirt and examined tracks and signs. He didn't tell them what the signs meant. He just walked and they followed.
"Look," Tracy said to him. "A sign up there."
"Where?" Rydell asked.
"There," she pointed. "By the side of the road." She turned to Eric. "Can you read it?"
"We're almost there," Eric said.
Within a couple minutes they were gathered around the base of the metal sign. The background was green, the lettering white. Except where someone had made some changes.