Borderlands: Gunsight (16 page)

The little girl was gaping at Brick, too. But then her mouth quivered into a tentative smile. “Not chasing a dog, silly. I’m running from those men on the trucks.”

Mordecai turned the flashlight on her wrists—he saw they were both contused, slightly bleeding. “Looks like they had you handcuffed to something. I guess they didn’t make the cuffs tight enough and you pulled out of ’em. Am I right?”

She nodded mutely at him.

“And you ran to the nearest thing you saw—this big chunk of rock. What’s your name?”

“Feena.”

“Feena, I’m Mordecai, this is Brick.”

“Who’s that?” She pointed at Bloodwing, who perched sleepily on his shoulder.

“That’s Bloodwing. She’s my . . . pet.”

“What does she eat?”

“She eats . . . well she doesn’t eat little girls.”

“Do
you
?”

“Me? No.”

“Tyno told me that it could be more dangerous out here
than in the truck. He said watch out for Tunnel Rat people. He said they eat anybody. Are you . . . ?”

“He was right, those people are dangerous. We’re not Tunnel Rats. We’re Vault Hunters. On a mission.”

“You’re Vault Hunters? Are you going to find a Vault?”

“Not that kind of vault. I’d like to find somebody’s vault though, and get it open.”

Brick said, “You hungry, kid?”

Once more Mordecai was astonished.

The little girl once more nodded mutely.

“I’ll get her some food,” Brick rumbled, leaving the top of the outcropping.

“Yeah, you do that,” Mordecai murmured, looking at the little girl.

“Is he coming back?” Feena asked

Mordecai could tell by the way she was talking that she was hoping that Brick would come back. Weirdly, Feena seemed to trust Brick more than she did Mordecai.

“Yes he is, Feena. What are we going to do with you? We can’t give you back to slavers . . . That what they are?”

She shrugged. “First we were taken away by people who had a lot of those things that fly overhead, those Buzzard things.”

“Huh. Boss Jasper’s men?”

“I heard someone say that name ‘Jasper.’ Then those guys working for that Jasper, they got killed by these men. And these other men are taking us to Reamus. They said they’re Reamus Reamers and we better do what they say.”

“Reamers, huh? They say anything else?”

“They said, stop crying or I’ll cut out your tongue.”

“Oh.”

Brick rejoined them, huffing a little, carrying a package of self-heating food. He set it up for the little girl and she ate the food hungrily with her fingers, not caring that it was too hot.

“Brick—that bunch that had Feena here . . . They work for Reamus. They hijacked a convoy belonging to Jasper. First Jasper’s people robbed her town, then they got robbed by Reamus. He took their prisoners and whatever else they got. That’s the kind of thing that got Jasper worked up about taking Reamus down.”

Brick nodded expressionlessly, watching the girl.

“Tyno said he was going to let me go,” said Feena, sucking juice off her fingers. “But then just when he was going to take me back to our settlement, and he was arguing with his boss, well right then the Reamus people came and they shot a lot of the first robbers . . .”

Mordecai stared at her. “
Tyno?
You said that before . . . Why do I know that name . . .” He remembered, then. “Tyno Ripper?”

“Yes, that’s his name . . .”

“I see. I know his dad. Well, well. And Tyno Ripper was going to let you go . . .”

“Tyno, he’s the only nice one. He got mad when the Reamers threatened to cut my tongue out and he tried to hit those guys but they knocked him out with their gun.” She made a gesture imitating someone hitting a man with a gun butt.

“But he’s still alive . . .”

“He was when I got away.”

“Okay. You got family in those trucks?”

She frowned. Shrugged. Then reluctantly said, “Yes. One. My uncle Weeble.”

Mordecai looked at Brick. He was already picking up the
rocket launcher. He said, “I’ll use this, and that Bandit outrider.”

Mordecai was interested in hitting the caravan—maybe for a different reason than Brick. Mordecai’s thought was that the caravan, taken over, could be used to get entry into Tumessa . . .

“Brick!” Mordecai called, as Brick climbed down from the outcropping. “Let’s try to keep at least two of those trucks intact. And remember—there’s prisoners! We gotta separate them out from the . . .”

But Brick had disappeared behind the rocks.

Mordecai sighed. “Come on, kid. I’ll introduce you to a nice little robot. You can hang out with him till we get back. Wait in the camp and he’ll play games with you. You teach him the games. If he talks in a woman’s voice, just ignore him.”

•  •  •

Mordecai started the outrunner as Bloodwing flapped down to roost on his shoulder. They had to hurry to catch up with Brick.

The big Vault Hunter had already driven off in the outrider, heading in a beeline to intersect the small caravan of trucks. The Reamus Reamers passed the outcropping and were still headed toward Tumessa.

Mordecai jammed after Brick in the outrunner, trying to raise him on the ECHO. “Brick? You there? Don’t just blow up those trucks! We need ’em!” And he didn’t want to have to give all his med hypos to a bunch of crippled prisoners. But he knew he would if he had to. Maybe Daphne was right, maybe he was too softhearted.

Brick fired a shell from the outrider and Mordecai breathlessly watched. The shell exploded just in front of the lead
truck. The truck hit the blast crater, fishtailed in the smoke, and turned over on its side. The other two trucks had to skid to a stop to avoid hitting it.

“Now we’re up to our necks in this mess,” Mordecai said. Bloodwing made a sound of agreement. “This is gonna take some precision shooting, to separate out the bad from the good.” He glanced at Bloodwing. “Hit the air, girl. See what you can do, but don’t get shot down.”

Bloodwing squawked and leapt into the air, flapping rapidly upward.

Men were spilling out of the trucks, some of them firing at Brick, who was driving around to the far side of the fallen truck. Brick’s outrider pulled up short—Mordecai couldn’t see what he was doing after that.

The sun was higher now, bringing little warmth with it, but casting long shadows across the tundra from the stopped vehicles and the urgent men around them.

Mordecai drove around behind the third truck—bullets whistled close overhead as Reamers fired at him; assault rifle rounds thunked into the armor of the outrunner.

Mordecai swung around out of their line of fire, pulling up in the spot that looked like it had the most cover, which was provided by the parked trucks themselves. He jumped out of the outrunner, assault rifle in hand, and had to use it almost before his feet touched the ground. Two men were coming at him from the back of the truck, clearly Reamus’s bunch. One of them was a hulking bare-chested Bruiser Psycho, scalp bisected with a high, thin Mohawk. The goggled Bruiser was firing a rocket launcher at him. The shell went high, but Mordecai’s return fire didn’t. He sent three bullets in a tight pattern into the Bruiser’s head. Blood splashed over
the Mohawk and the Bruiser staggered back, flailing and falling.

The other Reamer was a tall, skinny thug with black teeth; he was firing an Eridian rifle and Mordecai felt a burn on his right cheek from the nearness of the energy pulse.

Should’ve gotten my shield working . . .

The skinny thug had a glowing shield—but Mordecai knew a trick shot for this situation.

The Reamer went to one knee to steady his aim and Mordecai used that moment to aim, too, very carefully. He fired a single round from the assault rifle and it went where he sent it: right into the muzzle and down the barrel of the Eridian rifle. The gun exploded, most of its force going backward under the man’s shield.

The thug screamed and then exploded into flaming hunks of flesh that flew and hissed down like fireworks. Mordecai sidestepped to avoid the man’s head as it fell, trailing smoke, close by.

Mordecai was already running, getting close to the truck. He heard shots from the front of the stymied caravan and the bellows of men arguing, then someone giving an order: “Stop being cowards! Get over there! Rush him!”

They weren’t talking about Mordecai. He glanced back from the rear corner of the truck and saw men charging toward the fallen vehicle where Brick was firing a rifle across the overturned cab.

The four men, firing their weapons, raced toward Brick, howling as they came—and Brick ducked out of sight.

He’d left his rifle atop the truck, was running now—so Mordecai figured—to come around the other side as the Reamers charged toward the place they’d last seen him . . .

Despite his massiveness, Brick could move amazingly fast when he wanted to. He came thundering like a runaway train up behind the men charging him. Suddenly he ducked down and grabbed a Reamer by the ankles. He pulled the man off his feet and spun him—the thug screeching—in a hard circle, like swinging a chain mace, slamming the man’s head into the startled face of the Reamer turning toward him. That face vanished in a welter of blood and smashed bone.

The third man, though, had a bead on Brick’s own face with a powerful-looking rifle.

But Mordecai was already firing at the Reamer’s torso. He wasn’t sure he could hit him in the head from this distance. The thug’s shield held against Mordecai’s bullets, but the Reamer was knocked off balance and the shield didn’t help him against Brick’s massive fists. Brick closed with the man, slamming the Reamer’s head from his shoulders.

Bloodwing squawked a warning overhead, and Mordecai, reloading as he turned, spun around to fire at the Reamer rushing at him. His bullets caught the man in his open mouth so the thug was jerked backward, the Reamer’s shotgun blast going harmlessly straight up into the air.

Mordecai turned again and saw that the man with the shield who’d been beheaded . . . seemed to be walking anyway. Then Mordecai realized Brick was holding the corpse up so that the dead man’s still-functioning shield could absorb the bullets coming at him.

Mordecai chuckled. “Wish I was strong enough to do that.”

Brick ran at the shooter, coming to grips with him out of Mordecai’s sight, behind the nearest truck. Mordecai heard a single, short, piteous shriek.

Mordecai moved around to look in the open back of the
truck. A group of people were chained up back there. He saw no guards, no one with a gun. Probably a lot of the Reamers had died in the fight with Jasper’s men.

“You got a Tyno Ripper in there?” Mordecai called.

After a moment’s silence, someone called out, “That’d be me.”

“B
ut—what about
Feena
?” asked Larna.

Marcus stared at the girl. “What?” His voice was getting a little hoarse from telling the story.

“Feena. They left her with the robot. Did it kill her?”

“The robot? No. They don’t kill people.”

“I’ve heard of Claptraps killing people.”

“Well, they don’t usually and it didn’t, anyway, Larna. So, like I was saying . . .” Marcus broke off, frowning. “Where’s that tall skinny kid? That boy Skeros?”

“Tell me more about Feena,” Larna said, staring fixedly into the dying embers of the fire. He’d been talking for some hours. The night had worn on, and the fire had worn down.

Two of the boys had gone to sleep. The big-eyed blond boy had stayed awake, clutching his knees and listening, gaping and head cocked, to every word. Marcus pointed at him. “You! Where’d that Skeros go?”

“Um—I don’t know!” the boy protested. “He just got up. Maybe he went to pee.”

“Hmmpf. Maybe. But he’s got to do it where I can keep an eye on him.”

“You want to watch him pee?”

“No, smart aleck! He can stand with his back to me! But—oh, never mind.” He looked at his own robot—which had gone into sleep mode. “Useless hunk of junk. Should’ve been keeping watch.”

For that matter, how had the boy slipped away without Marcus noticing him? Marcus wasn’t sure. Cunning little devil.

Marcus stood up and stalked past the children. He scanned the compound, looking for intruders. He heard a clinking sound from the junk piles at the back, and padded over there, hoping to catch the rascal in the act. Skeros was probably stealing something. Shouldn’t have trusted these damned kids.

He approached the piles of junk, keeping low, glaring around—and seeing no one.

There was a clunking sound from his left—and someone shouted, “Duck!”

Instinctively, Marcus followed the suggestion. A hatchet whistled over his head and stuck in the fence to his right.

He turned, saw the dark silhouette of a man—a man with a triple-fin Mohawk. A Psycho.

And Marcus had come back here without a weapon in his hands. He cursed himself for a fool and sidestepped to the left, just in time to avoid the blast of an Eridian pistol. The pulse flashed by him, lighting up the yard as it passed and searing into the fence.

Someone screamed and then staggered into the thin moonlight. The Psycho was swaying, within reach. He was bare-chested, much tattooed, face hidden in a goggled gas mask. A ragged metal spike was protruding from his belly. Blood ran along the spike and dripped onto the ground.

Skeros stepped out from behind the Psycho. “Good thing you’ve got those old meat skewers back there on the junk pile. Make a good spear.”

“Yeah.”

Marcus nodded approvingly. The boy had skewered the Psycho from behind—with an actual skewer.

The Psycho gurgled, took a step, dropped its Eridian pistol, tried to pull the improvised spear from its belly, and moaned in pain.

Marcus reached out, grabbed the bloody skewer point, and twisted it, saying, “Here, let me help.”

“Don’t,” the Psycho squeaked. “That hurts.”

“Yeah. I thought it would. Listen—why are you in my compound and who sent you? Tell me the truth right now, or I’ll give this thing another really good twist.”

“Urk. Ow.
Don’t!
Flesh-stick sent me!” The Psycho pulled off his mask and dropped it—his face was covered in squiggly tattoos. Blood was seeping from the corners of his mouth. “I’m all bleedy and supposed to be you all bleedy and not me, that’s all backsidedown!”