As they ride closer, I get a better look. One’s tall and slim, wearing a plaid shirt and a baseball cap with Red Sox written on it. He has red hair. His skin is pale with red splotches. His eyes are narrow and bright and pale in color, almost like copper. He’s holding a hand gun with a large magazine, probably has four times the shots I do. The other man is shorter, stocky. His nose is bulbous, like an onion, and one of his ears is mashed up so it looks like cauliflower. He’s got bushy, brown hair, and there’s a ratty, uneven growth of a beard to match. His eyes are rounder, more kind somehow, and greenish in the morning light. They’re both fairly clean. I wonder if they’re part of another community around here, but I find that doubtful because we would have heard of another group so close to us. They aren’t your normal bandits, who are dirty as hell, and have a vacant emptiness in their eyes. These guys have something, they are a part of something. I don’t know if that makes them more or less dangerous.
I try to keep my hands from straying near to my gun. Better they think I don’t have one. It’s not easy.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the short, stocky one says, his pistol pointed at me. They ride closer.
The slim one stops a dozen feet away and leans forward in his saddle. “What’re you tied up for?”
I’m confused for a second before I realize that he’s talking to Eric. I think fast.
“He doesn’t talk,” I say. The two look at me.
“Unh,” Eric says. They look at Eric and then back at me.
“Except for that,” I add quickly. “He’s simple in the head,” I explain. The two study us for a second. Gradually I see them relax. Their guns are still pointed our way, but with less resolve, less tension. I continue, seeing an opportunity I don’t want to go to waste. “I found him this way. They took his eyes out.” I point toward Eric’s bandaged head.
The taller one frowns. “Who?” he asks.
I shrug. “Some bandits, I guess,” I say. “I found him like this. Bandaged him up the best I could.”
They both look at Eric with pity. At least that’s what I’m hoping.
“What’s the rope for?” the short one asks. There’s still suspicion in his voice.
“He wanders off,” I answer. “He’s not right in the head.”
“Where’re you coming from?” It’s the short one asking again. The tall one has his eyes on me too. They both seem to be satisfied with my story about Eric.
“West,” I say. “I used to be with Good Prince Billy.”
“Why’d you leave her?” The tall one asks this question. They both seem to recognize the name. I wonder immediately if it was a good idea to use it.
I shrug. “I had some stuff to trade.”
“You come all this way alone?” asks the short one gruffly, his eyes kind glancing him around him.
“I’m what’s left,” I say simply.
The two look at each other. “Lots of goddamn bandits around,” the short one says.
They seem to relax. Their eyes stop their focus on me and wander to the trees and over the lake. Then the short one with the onion nose looks back at me. His eyes search me up and down, but without menace. Like he’s sizing me up as a person, not as a threat. He puts away his gun then, and the taller one does the same.
“My name’s Sidney,” he says. “This is Boston.”
The tall one touches the visor of his baseball cap. “Nice to meet you.”
“We’re here from the United States of America,” he says.
“President Barber himself,” Boston adds.
Sidney gives him an impatient glance, but then turns back to me. “We’ve come here looking for people to help rebuild our nation.”
“And keep it safe from Gearheads,” Boston says.
“That too.” Sidney nods. “That too.”
The war.
I forgot all about the war.
49
We aren’t exactly prisoners. We aren’t exactly free either. Eric and I are walking back along the road we just came, headed back to the Homestead. The only good part of meeting Boston and Sidney, besides the fact that they didn’t just shoot us down in the road, is that obviously they haven’t heard of the return of the Worm. That means that either it just happened in the Homestead or that it hasn’t come any farther. It’s good information. The bad part is that I can’t think of a good reason to refuse to join them. I can’t do anything suspicious. We look too damn pathetic to refuse help. So here we are, walking back the way we came while I think of a way to shake them.
Boston is ahead of us and Sidney is behind, walking their horses as slow as they can go. For some reason, Eric has lost his stride and he’s back to plodding. The two are still watching us. Their guns aren’t out and they haven’t searched us for weapons, but it’s obvious I don’t have much choice but to join them. War has made them suspicious of people. Well, even more suspicious. No one trusts anyone out here. No one who lives very long.
“There’s a community around here somewhere. I guess it’s built on a hill. You’ll be safer there, trust me,” Boston tells me, turning slightly to face me. “It’s dangerous out here, especially with the Gearheads around.” What can I do? I can’t say we want to go walking off into the wilderness to trade with squirrels and raccoons. I can’t tell him that the most dangerous place for me is the place they’re taking me. It’s like a death sentence for Eric. And if they kill Eric, my life will be over. I can only join them until I can slip away or think of something.
“Well, I haven’t seen any Gearheads,” I say. I’m hoping to talk them into letting us move on alone by ourselves.
Sidney makes a gruff sound behind me. “They’re around.”
Something in his tone. Maybe he’s worried that we are Gearheads. Spies or something. Like them? Is that what they’re doing? Are they spies for the Stars? I want to ask some questions to get more information, something I can use to get free of them, but I ask myself, what do spies want? Information. The more questions I ask, the more suspicious they’ll become. So I do what I’ve done most of my life. Keep my mouth shut.
With every step, we are closer to the Homestead. I feel a sense of doom. I know in the end, I will have to pull my gun. It will have to be at the desperate end. These two seem like hardened soldiers. They’ve been trained. They’ve seen battle. All I did was shoot someone with a shotgun once, and it nearly broke my shoulder. Pulling my gun has to be the last resort. It almost certainly means that I will die, and Eric soon afterward. But what’s the difference if we die out here or back at the Homestead?
Boston slows his horse to ride next to me.
“I wish we had some horses for you two,” he says. His orange eyes glimmer down at me.
I shrug. “He doesn’t ride,” I say, jerking my head toward Eric. “He just falls off.”
Boston looks back at Eric who is plodding ahead as usual.
“And he doesn’t move faster than that, I take it?” he asks.
I shake my head.
Boston studies me for a moment. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. I try to figure out what he’s studying me for. There’s a certain look, a way that a man has when his intentions aren’t decent. I’m looking for that. Maybe he sucks a tooth or licks his lips or lets his eyes rake at me, up and down. I don’t think I’m much to look at, but that’s never stopped men before, especially out here. I’m not stupid. I have to watch myself.