Cured (6 page)

My spine goes rigid. “Wait.
Wyoming
? We never said anything about—” The cowboy glares at me and I swallow the rest of my sentence.

The cowboy's eyes narrow, and he looks back at Bowen, at the shorter patch of hair over his left ear. “Who told you I know anything about Wyoming, militiaman?”

Bowen's jaw pulses a few times before he says, “You're Randall Flint. You're the man who sells the map to Wyoming. I've been researching you for a while now.”

The cowboy laughs. “Been researching me, have you? So you think you know all about me? Because you're taking an awful big risk traveling with a woman.” My heart starts to race, but he looks at Fo.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Bowen growls.

“I'm just saying, if anything happens to you, I don't think a woman, a kid, and an unarmed mental patient are going to be able to make it on their own out here.”

I don't see Bowen move, but somehow his rifle is off his back and aimed at the cowboy's chest. The cowboy puts his hands up, still holding my gun, and leans back against the red vinyl booth. “Whoa, boy. I was just trying to make a point. You could have been walking into a trap. The raiders are even more desperate than normal for women. Have you heard the latest news?”

“What news?” I speak without thinking.

“The raiders' women escaped seven days ago. Every last one of them. And with the wall open, and people protected, they haven't been able to catch any more. They're getting restless and desperate, and that makes them more violent, especially Hastings.”

“Who is Hastings?” Bowen asks.

“The worst one of them all. He's got the shortest fuse. And
he's the one in charge. You've got to be more careful with her.” He nods at Fo. “Don't trust anyone beyond this point. You never know when you're being swindled. Now, if you'd oblige me and lower your gun, I'll give you what you want.”

Bowen doesn't move. “Give me what I want and then I'll put the gun away—after we've all four of us walked out of here. I'll pay you, too. Four ounces for the information, if my sources are right.”

The cowboy smiles and holds out his hand. Bowen nods toward Fo without taking his eyes from the man, and Fo opens her fanny pack and removes a small jar filled with liquid gold. Honey—a food product that is priceless because it is so rare.

“Four ounces of honey.” She places it on the edge of the table. “How can you tell I'm a girl?” she adds.

The cowboy takes a slow, long look at her, and his eyes light up. “The way you move. Smooth as cream. Don't swing your hips when you walk. Now . . .” He takes the jar and opens it, dipping a filthy, callused finger into the contents. When he pulls his finger out, a long trail of sticky gold streams off it, making my mouth water. Careful not to spill a single drop, the cowboy touches his finger to his tongue and nods. “That's good. Payment accepted. But before I give you the goods, I have a warning. Have you heard of Sirens?” He screws the lid back onto the honey and wraps his grizzled hand around it.

“Sirens, like on a police car?” Bowen asks.

“No,” I say. I have heard stories about Sirens, told by the raiders my dad worked on. “They're like the Sirens in
The Odyssey
,” I say. Jonah nods. Bowen's and Fiona's faces remain blank, so I
elaborate. “The Sirens would sing to ships and seduce the sailors into coming close, but when the ships got too close, they would be dashed on the rocks and everyone would drown.”

The cowboy nods. “Yep.” He pushes up the brim of his cowboy hat with the barrel of my gun. “The kid's got knowledge. Beware the Sirens—seemingly normal, healthy people who will try to tempt you from the path I've marked for you. They'll tell you all sorts of lies to lure you to your death. All sorts of lies to keep you from Wyoming. They whisper about hidden colonies of people and unending food supplies. Don't believe them. Don't listen to them. Don't associate with them.”

“How will we recognize them?” I ask.

“That's the hard part. I don't know who they are or what they look like, but they'll be after you. So be aware. And watch out for wolves, too. You ever heard about the wolves?” The cowboy looks right at me.

“They came down from Yellowstone when things changed and are infesting the mountains,” I say.

The cowboy nods. “That's right. They're half-starved and feed on human flesh, so unless you want to get eaten, avoid the Rockies at all costs. Now, grab one of them atlases by the front door on your way out. Your path is already marked, courtesy of me, Randall Flint. There are water stations roughly every twenty miles, too, so you don't have to leave the marked path to get water from natural sources.” He sets my gun on the table and slides it toward me. “You might need this, Freckles, in case you run into one of them Sirens.”

I reach my hand toward the gun, and the cowboy winks and
smiles. Something flashes in his mouth. I freeze and take a closer look, and my skin crawls as a memory floods my thoughts.

I sat on the front porch, a crocheted wool hat keeping my nearly bald head warm, a rifle resting on my bent knees, and an open book resting on the rifle. The book
, The Odyssey,
was taken from the library by Dean and given to me for my fifteenth birthday two weeks earlier
.

“The least you could do is read some of that out loud, after I went to the trouble of getting it for you,” Dean said, glancing at me. He winked. I smiled and started reading to him
.

He stood in the dead yard, between the dogs, watching the street. My uncle was on the roof. I was immediate backup. Normally we didn't use extra backup, but we were on edge because a group of beasts had passed through the day before
.

I had read a few pages out loud when I heard a rattle and a click. Shutting the book, I looked up. Dean's rifle was on his rigid shoulder, and he stood deathly still. The dogs started barking, yanking on their chains. I jumped to my feet, knocking the book to the ground, and ran to Dean's side. My rifle was on my shoulder before I stopped moving, the crosshairs centered on a man. Something scuffled behind us, and I knew it was Uncle Rob up on the roof
.

“Chest, head, chest,” Dean whispered, reminding me how to most efficiently kill a man. My stomach dropped. I had never killed a human being, and I didn't want to. “And get in the house if it's a beast.”

One thing was for sure. The stranger was too old to be a beast. A bushy handlebar mustache drooped down around his mouth. His gray hair looked wet and was slicked back so his bare, pale forehead gleamed above his suntanned face. But gray hair or not, the way this man walked toward
us, toward three rifles aimed at him, gave me the willies. He didn't slow his pace. Not even a little bit
.

“That's close enough, grampsy,” Dean called when the man was standing in the middle of the road in front of our house. I sighed with relief, waiting for the man to stop, but he didn't. Dean didn't give him another warning. He pulled the trigger. Sparks flew around the man's dusty cowboy boots—boots that finally stopped walking forward
.

“Where's the dentist?” the stranger called
.

“
Why do you need him?” Dean asked
.

“I have a tooth problem.”

“Jack.” Dean's eyes stayed locked on the stranger. “Go wake Dad.”

Clutching my rifle against my chest, I ran into the house. Dad was scheduled to take night watch, so he was getting caught up on sleep. I burst into his room, and he flew out of bed, his prized Glock aimed at me
.

He lowered the gun. “What is it?”

“A man wants to see you. He's out front.”

Dad rushed past me, barefoot, and went out the front door. I followed. The stranger hadn't moved. When he saw Dad, though, he took a step closer. Dad's gun was up in an instant. “That's close enough,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I'm an old man,” the stranger called. “One of my teeth is giving me a real problem and I can feel infection spreading into my face. Will you take a look?” Dad hesitated. The stranger took a step toward us
.

Dean stepped between the stranger and Dad. “Before you come any closer to my father, show me your hands.”

“What's that?” The stranger took two steps closer, his hands dangling at his sides, the toes of his boots nearly even with the edge of the sidewalk
.

“Show us your hands and arms, old man. Now,” Dean said, his voice intense
.

The stranger frowned and stepped up onto the sidewalk, and my hackles bristled
.

“I'm hard of hearing,” he yelled, even though he was a mere five steps away from us. He took another step forward and paused, gaze darting up to the roof before focusing on me. His eyes softened and his mouth quirked up at the edges. He stepped onto the matted-down dead grass of the front yard, and his ankle wobbled and twisted to the side. The old man fell to his hands and knees and cried out in pain
.

I didn't think, just acted. Three steps was all it took, though, before my brain overrode my impulse to help the man. But three steps were enough. I was one step beyond where the dogs could reach. Before I could get my rifle up and aimed, the old man was off the ground and leaping at me like a snake striking prey. Hard hands cinched around my head, clutching my forehead and chin. One firm yank and my neck would snap
.

Right before the man grabbed me, I saw his palms. A quarter-size scar had been branded into each
.

The dogs started barking again. Dean yelled something. My uncle had his gun aimed just above my shoulder. Only Dad seemed calm and collected, his gun held loosely in his hand and pointing at the ground. Everything seemed to slow down, like the universe had taken a deep breath and was holding it
.

“What do you want?” Dad asked. The afternoon sun gleamed off his white, sleep-messy hair
.

The man's hands tightened on my chin and forehead, twisting my neck to the side just a bit and pulling my back against the front of his body. “All I want is for you to fix my tooth so I don't die from infection. If you agree
to that, I'll let your son go. But first I want your promise that I will walk away from here alive.”

“Are you a raider?
” Dean asked.

“Why else would I ask you not to kill me?” The old man took his hand from my forehead and held it forward, showing his branded palm. Dean cursed and gritted his teeth
.

“We have helped raiders before.” Dad's fingers twitched on his gun. “There is no need to hold my son's life for ransom.”

“Word is,” the raider said, “that one of my boys came to you for some work a little bit ago, but he never came back.”

I shivered. I knew exactly who the old man was talking about. Dad paled. “He didn't give me a choice. If my patients cooperate, they walk out of here alive—that's a promise. But if they try to steal from me, or harm my family, we have no choice but to kill them. That promise stands for you as well.”

The raider released me, and I fell to my hands and knees at his feet, too weak with fear to move. Air swished across my face, and the raider was on the ground beside me, eyes round with shock, and Dean straddling his chest. Dean shoved the barrel of his rifle into the man's mouth and put his finger on the trigger, his eyes flashing with rage. He looked insane
.

“If you ever—EVER—touch my little brother again, you'll be eating my bullets, old man!” He shoved his gun deeper into the raider's mouth, making him gag and squirm. “Do you understand me?” Dean yelled so loudly that I flinched. The raider gurgled something. “Good. Because I don't feel like blowing your head off in front of him.” He removed his rifle from the man's mouth and then jerked him to his feet
.

“Put this on over your eyes,” Dean said, pulling a red bandana out of his
pocket and chucking it at the man. The raider did what Dean asked. Guided by Dean and Dad, the raider walked into the house
.

A moment later, Josh came outside and helped me to my feet. Face grim, he brushed off my book and handed it to me. I sat down on the front porch and stared at Josh's back as he kept watch. I was too wound up to read
.

Two hours later, the raider was escorted out of the house. On the front porch, he pulled the bandana from his eyes and looked at Dean. “If you ever get bored here,” he said, “come and find me. I'm always looking for boys like you. I can promise you food and women.”

“Get out of here before I break my dad's promise not to hurt you,” Dean growled
.

“Suit yourself.” He winked and smiled at me when he passed, showing me a silver front tooth
.

“You want your gun or not?” the cowboy asks, his silver tooth flashing.

I dart forward and grab the gun. It is warm from his hand. I stare at the cowboy and wonder if he recognizes me. His smile widens to a grin and he shrugs, showing me both of his open palms. They are scarred from one side to the other, with no visible circle brand. But I don't need to see the brands to know the truth: we have just walked into the enemy's hands.

I raise my gun and point it at the cowboy. He smirks and folds his arms over his chest, leaning back against the booth. His boot starts tapping against the floor. “I don't think you got it in you to shoot a man point-blank, Freckles.” I swallow and try to hold my gun steady.

Bowen stands but doesn't lower his rifle. “Fo, get the atlas and make sure it's marked.”

Fo hurries to the display of faded atlases beside the door and takes one, flipping through the pages. “It is marked.”