Westbind

CASSETTE # 37 

[Click.]

[A shuffle, maybe clothing.]

[The buzz of cicadas.]

[A breath of a sigh.]

Well, we’re westbindin’. And think maybe I’m fallin’ in love. And that’s like two problems out of five total.

In a world like this one–hell, in a life like this one, fallin’ is a dangerous game. On the road, swervin’ between the broken and bloody bits left behind of what once was, stop too long and you’ll get caught, either by tech gone bad or people gone worse, and I still don’t know if a bullet or the gun itself is a worse way to go anymore–fallin’ makes you slow. Makes you distracted. Gives you a weak point others can press like a bruise. And I know better. I’m a grown woman at twenty-five, I’ve seen what this world still hangin’ on by a thread has to offer, and I know it’s nothin’ much more than a bag on your shoulder and a gun in your hand. 

Ruthie’s changed it all, and she knows it too. And I know my job, and I need to get my head on straight again. 

It’s hot here in Independence, this time of year. I’m usually up roundin’ the tip of York, just like you taught me, Mama, chasin’ the summer jobs when robbers get bolder and Adders sliding out of their waterin’ holes in need of trackin’ down, when the local fare get desperate enough to turn to the likes of me. But Ruthie was goin’ westbind, so so am I. Her old truck attracts too much attention to go too far too fast, but we made it here to Independence before end of week.

I know, Mama, okay? I know.

But you didn’t see her, pullin’ into town with that crooked smile. She’s like a quiet flame, something untouched and untouchable, out of a story, I swear. I never knew someone like that, who talked about the old days before everything went wrong, someone not scared of other people or the leftover tech from days past rustin’ in fields. It’s like I can’t help it, like she’s more interestin’ than anyone, just from the way she speaks. She talks about it with wonder, with open gaping eyes achin’ to know the world and the people in it, like how you used to. I think maybe you’d have liked her, even though she’s a religious sort, a cross hangin’ perfect round her neck. 

She doesn’t know how to dress for the road, but, God, these thin church dresses, fallin’ down her shoulders, hittin’ above her calves. Who takes time on their appearance nowadays, especially on the road? She wears these delicate, pretty things, smells soft, I can’t explain it, and it’s nothin’ like no one I know. It’s the kind of soft you wanna sink your teeth into, her smooth wrist or the thin curve of her neck, just to see the impressions left behind. 

She’s so different, Ruthie. She doesn’t know the road, doesn’t have any idea about this new world, her head stuck in stories of the old one. She told me a whole tale the other day for an hour, weavin’ between dead trucks and holes in pavement, about spaceships, about how we went to the stars and how wonderful that was, all while glancin’ at me every five seconds, hands half-on half-off the wheel. But I’ll say, she ain’t completely useless. Her smile’s gotten us into places I never had. I bet she could talk us into an Adder den, right in with those so-called thieves and outlaws, just with that charm. Trustin’s so hard to come by nowadays; what those lawmen of the time before the Retreat hadn’t ruined, the bad tech demolished. She tells stories ‘bout it the way you did, when people flocked to cities and lived piled on top of each other, before the tech soured and everyone ran back away from each other, before what she calls superstition and what I call sense wormed its way into our brains. 

Take Independence for example. Good hard-workin’ folk, keepin’ their heads down, they look away when a bountier like me rolls into town, except those kids that stare with wide eyes. But the second we rolled in yesterday, Ruthie walked right up to each of them, asked after their troubles, flirted with their sons and daughters, danced with their children in the dirt road. She’d make a good bountier, if she had the stomach for it.

I showed Ruthie the waystation–she didn’t know about them, which makes me wonder about her again. So I explained, bounty hunters and travelers have a system of safehouses and taverns, what we call ways, and brought her into Independence’s. You remember, that big ole restaurant with Maisie runnin’ the bar, dark and dim with half the tables always backed off in a corner, like every time you walk in a fight just ended.

There were some folks millin’ about when we got into that hazy old place, more than I woulda liked. Ruthie charmed up Maisie in a minute, I swear, leanin’ one elbow on the wood bar and twirlin’ a finger round a lock of her hair, askin’ the old lady all about the goss ‘round town. That’s when Maisie raised her brows at me–gave me this look like she’s with you, really? And said the sheriff might have a job for me, if I wanted, noddin’ to a man at one of the tables. That is, if the other one hadn’t gotten to him already, she said with a sour look.

So that’s how I learn Daugherty’s here, too, ‘ronically. You know that man can’t keep his hands off business and hips that ain’t his. Maisie may not love me, but she certainly don’t like him. He was smokin’ in a back corner, a hazy cloud of nothin’ but gray and brown, trackin’ me and Ruthie walkin’ in like he wasn’t surprised at all to see us, like we were nothin’ but prey to him. Ruthie didn’t notice him, but I sure did. That man, got that whole tall, dark, and handsome thing goin’ on that trips up a lady, like he’s a cowboy in one of your stories, Mama. I know you used to work with him sometimes, but I never liked him, don’t know how you did it. Something about how dark his eyes are always bothered me, his clean-shaved jaw sharp from too much care--who has the time anyway, with the life we lead as bountiers? 

Before I could say anythin’, Ruthie was already sittin’ down at the sheriff’s table, askin’ after his sorrows, offerin’ him a drink, soft eyes and a frown on her face that told you she understood. His name is Jackson now, I don’t know if you knew him. Kind of handsome, in that way you like, large and strong–I don’t know what you see, I swear, but you’d have leaned in and waggled your eyes, I know it. He was clean enough and respectable enough, but did give Ruthie a once-over. Don’t know if it was a bad one or a confused one, but I didn’t like it. He made peace by buyin’ us liqueur, then sat us down to tell us about the job.

A swarm, he said. Before I could say anythin’, he told the whole story: dead and dyin’ livestock out on all their farms, they’ve been trackin’ it from afar but worried it’ll grow brave enough to come after people. I told him better pray. I’m guessin’ the swarm could only find the cows, only smell their blood and not the people’s, and it was only a matter of time these folks’d find a body.

When I refused–I do what you taught me, always: stick to the flesh and blood and let those robots rot away, never come close to any bad tech. I said no, better pray, that’s all you have left.

That’s when Ruthie aimed those eyes my way, big and bright. “You’re kidding. We can’t just leave them to this.”

She said it like a question, but it wasn’t one to me. “Nothin’ we can do, if that swarm’s already that close. It’s already done. Packin’ up and leavin’ is your best bet.”

Ruthie brushed her hair out of her eyes–it’s thin, and blonde, cascades down her shoulders in waves. “These people can’t all just pack up and leave their homes,” she said, and the sheriff nodded, pleadin’ eyes the both of them.

“Why not?” I said. “We’ve all done it before. Come on, what exactly do you think my gun is gonna do ‘gainst a swarm? I’m good, but no one’s that good.”

And then, the nerve of this girl, she huffed and turned to Jackson and said, “I never said anything about your gun, Sloane, that’s not the solution to every problem. There’s gotta be a way to deal with it, and the thing you should know about me, Mr. Jackson, is that I’m very good in a bind.”

She waggled her eyebrows at him, then shot me a look that said, what’re you gonna do about it? Like she knew exactly what I was gonna do about it, which made this flush of anger catch in my chest. 

So now I’m stuck helpin’ this town, because Ruthie will just get them all killed alone.

She roped the whole town into that building back there behind me. I don’t know if you can hear the music, Mama--it’s not good--but Ruthie declared it a party, not a hideout, so the folk of Independence had somethin’ to keep them busy while we dealt with the swarm. And some light in all this dark, I guess. 

I stayed in the shadows and watched her ‘cross the old town hall of Independence, riled up like those old videos of weddings you’d showed me once, and she’d gathered up young Betty–no more than 5 or 6 years old–so gently, cradlin’ the child with a hand on the back of her head for protection while she spun the girl ‘round, mouth agape in laughter. No one laughs like that anymore, but she does. The lace on her dress pulled back up over her elbows, exposing these thin, limber arms that never done a hard days work in their life, pale with criss-cross old scars I hadn’t wanted to ask after, her long hair curlin’ over lithe shoulders, nothin’ but silk for armor, so thin I’m basically touchin’ her skin when I pat her shoulder, grab her arm. I mean, she’s right there, Mama. Right there.

Damn my wanderin’ eye.

‘Course that’s when Daugherty saunters up to me, tries to make conversation, offers me a smoke–I didn’t take it, Mama, quit your yappin’. Said he’s chasin’ game thisaway, asked me if we were westbind and how me and Ruthie found business together anyway. Told him as much of the truth as he needs: she picked me up outside Damascus, we’re headin’ the same way, safety in numbers, ain’t that what they say? He didn’t believe me, leaned lazy against the wall, his eyes trackin’ Ruthie in the crowd and it was like I felt my hide raise, my back bristle.

God, what would you think of me now, Mama? 

Five minutes past, there lingerin’ in the back of the Independence hall with Daugherty, the candles burnin’ low, the fiddle whinin’ under an unpracticed hand, drowned out by Ruthie with the kids, leadin’ them in a strange wild dance, distractin’ them from the horror lurkin’ on the edge of town. Feelin’ downright defensive, pissed that Daugherty would dare look her way. 

You probably woulda told me to be careful. Too much hope like too much sugar, sickly and turns the stomach easy, wasn’t that it?

I told him--Daugherty--I said stay outta my game, I stay outta yours. But all he did was lean in and told me to do it or he will. Then he walked off into that crowd, the folk partin’ for him as if he were a wild boar, takin’ that musk of his with him–it’s like a cloud followin’ him, disgustin’, Mama. I wonder if it was the church who hired him, too.

Ruthie’d twirled her way to me right after, hair half-braided, eyes wild. “Old friend?” She’d asked.

I told her he was just an old flame, just to see what her eyes would do, but she wasn’t fazed.

We gotta get out of here, quick. I hate lingerin’ anywhere, let alone a town like this, with so many people that could get caught in some kind of crossfire. Let alone near Daugherty. We got a plan for the swarm, one half-step above dumb, might actually work. We burn those fuckers to the ground and get on westbind, to this city Ruthie won’t shut up about on the coast that’s a miracle, that’s a safe haven, that her man is waitin’ for her in.

In one or two pieces, hopefully.

Wish us luck, Mama. 

[Click.]

CASSETTE # 33

[Click.]

[Empty silence, then a voice, a whisper.]

Hey, Mama. Think I might be in a mess.

It’s a Tuesday, I think. You’ll never believe it, but I’m in a car. And not a dead one, left behind ages ago, where you and I’d curl up in the back of just to hide out in for the night. This one’s still warm from the engine runnin’.

It’s an old one. Ruthie claims her daddy told her it was from 1970 thereabouts, but I don’t know if I believe that. I got too distracted to ask from the look on her face when she mentioned her daddy, wonderin’ if that’s who she’s runnin’ from, what’s got someone like her so spooked to take to the road. If she’s runnin’ from him for real or in the way I’m runnin’ from you, sorta. 

But the car–it doesn’t even have a screen on the dash, just some knobs and buttons for a long-dead AC unit. Ruthie calls her Lisa, told me some story about how they used to name cars after women. She doesn’t understand my hesitation. The truck was built long before the Cloud existed, before everything made of metal were connected to each other with a hivemind, before the Retreat when the bad code meant for the nanobots spread like disease to everything else.

So logically, I know it can’t wake up, can’t try to kill us. Doesn’t mean I gotta like it. But it’s still loud, a big target for tech and man alike. Every bandit within ten miles will hear us comin’. Ruthie looked at me like that, though, like she knows she can. Big eyes with a pout of her blush lips, sinful, I swear. 

“You’ll get yourself killed,” I said.

“Well, that’s why I picked you up, right?” She smiled, teeth showin’. “Gonna protect me?”

Don’t know, have I ever seen a runnin’ one before? You’d know. I just remember as they are now, the ones lyin’ on the roads like graves, abandoned and rottin’, danger lurkin’--never knowin’ which could still be connected to the Cloud and would burst on ready to kill you. 

So when I heard it, round a mile behind me in the flats of what was Ohio I reckon once upon a time, long dead stretches of farmland to our right and left, nothing but me on this dirt path, I was shocked. The truck kicked up dust behind, my hand tightened on the rifle slung over my back, just in case it was some sorta tech I didn’t know or bandits lookin’ to settle a score or dumb kids lookin’ for their first kill. 

It was her–this Ruthie, who slowed the truck next to me, gas cans full in its back, which I thought was a stupid move but maybe the least stupid out of all the stupid in driving a real car across ‘land. She wore a white silky dress that day, like one in those old mags you showed me in that empty town outsida Florida, a cap on her head and no weapons in sight, and I wondered at my luck, at how easy this would be.

She tossed her head and asked me where I was headin’.

“Westbind,” I said, hand on my gun.

Then she smiled somethin’ wild. “Me too,” she said. “Want a lift?”

And that’s when I knew that it wouldn’t be so easy.

[A beat, a deep quiet silence of night.]

On the road today she drove, weaving between the abandoned cars on the road, one hand on the wheel the other brushing through her hair, her legs showin’ skin under her dress, talkin’ loud and reckless over the sound of the engine with little regard for any eyes that could be on us. She was askin’ what I was doin’ on the road, and I had to explain to her what a bountier was, can you believe? I said bountiers are bounty hunters, go town to town on day jobs, tradin’ work as hired hands for a bed and a safe place to stay, a meal maybe. I asked her, I said, how have you not heard of bountiers? Surely whatever small town you crawled out of had need of someone to hunt people down, scare away bandits, take somethin’ ‘cross the land to someone in another place. 

Ruthie gave an odd little laugh, said where she’s from doesn’t really welcome outsiders all that well. Then her eyes lit up and she asked if I’m like a superhero, like do I stop bad tech and keep families safe? Save the world one town at a time? I laughed, I couldn’t help it, but she was dead serious. Huffed at my laughter, said it wasn’t so crazy, that somebody should do it.

I told her our rule: you see any bad tech, you run the opposite direction, immediately. That’s not our job, and if anyone tries to hire you to deal with ‘em, you tell ‘em to go to hell.

She seemed disappointed at that, I think, little downturned frown. It didn’t last too long, when the road opened up flat and free, and she sped up, boot down on the pedal, wind brushin’ through our hair, tanglin’ them–her blonde, mine brown, mixin’ in together. She smiled and I laughed at the look on her face and tried to keep it together. 

[The sound of rustling, like pages turning. The voice mutters something, more shuffling. Then, quieter.]

I know what I’m doin’, Mama. Dancin’ a fine line, but I’ve played two jobs at once before. We’ll go west, get her where she needs to get to, and then two birds, one stone. 

Goodnight, Mama.

[Click.]

CASSETTE # 13

[Click.]

[An echo, an empty space. The voice, young and bright, comes through between sounds of feet shuffling and footsteps, like someone walking through a vast expanse.]

I thought of another one, Mama.

Do you remember the first swarm we saw together?

I was still on your back, strapped on your shoulders, way early on. I remember you had that shotgun, the beautiful sawed-off you got down in Metairie on that job where the lady asked you to hunt down her fiancé. We were up somewhere in Appalachia; you were hired to get, what, someone’s son back from bandits? Was it that one, or the Repos, those old horrid factory machines tearing up the path from Jonesborough to Pidgeon Forge, when that group of ministers asked you to clear their way? 

Whatever, that valley. I remember the trees most of all, bright autumn flashes, and you and me were the only livin’ things in a hundred miles, felt like. The old rest stop nestled in between two mountains, and the swarm grew big, east over our backs. Tiny little nanobots, flyin’ faster than anythin’, right towards us.

You froze like an animal downwind, the bots flockin’ and darkenin’ the sky like birds, and your eyes darted to the cut, the smallest of cuts, on my tiny hand, where blood was leakin’ out. First time I heard that incessant chirpin’ they make, that chitterin’ sound as they grew near, tiny little mites of death hungry for blood, the smallest machines that never stopped. 

“Oh, Jesus, not here,” I remember you said, breathless with fear, “Not again, not again.”

I wonder now…you’d seen them before? You never told me, but you recognized them. And not just from the stories, the whispers in each town, what that old woman Marigold at the bountier safehouse in Ohio would ramble on about, that story of seein’ the swarm over the Miss. I never asked you about that. You never talked about the days before the end, and it felt like I couldn’t ask, what with how that line between your brow would pop up, furrowed and deep, and your mouth would turn down at any mention of it. 

But you had so many secrets, lived a full life before the world ended, and another before I came along, and you’d seen swarms up close before, you knew what to do about them. I wonder about those lives a lot. Who were you before the Retreat, before society collapsed? Did you have a job at a desk, work in an office? Did you grab coffee in the mornin’s, drive to work? Did you meet my father then, or not until after? Why did you become a bountier, why not settle down like most folks, keep safe? What made you choose to stay on your feet, move town to town, never stoppin’ in this new life, even after I came along? It wasn’t the best, you know, growin’ up on the road, and you knew that. You’d tell me to practice my numbers in workbooks, get smart and strong, while stashed in the back of old factories and empty buildings, always pause to make a joke, make sure I was smilin’. But then at the same time you were so sure on your feet, confidant with a pistol and a rifle, never took anyone’s shit, toughest bountier I knew. I mean, who were you, Mama? 

You had so many secrets, and now I’ll never know ‘em. I feel like, like I’m just goin’ around the country, pickin’ them all up like wildflowers. Tryin’ to keep them close to me as possible now you’re gone.

Anyway. The swarm, that first time. Closest I’ve been to one, the only time I’ve seen the bots up close, and I was, what, five, that time? Watching it swoop and bay, as you took off runnin’ and duckin’ beneath the destroyed gas station. You closed us off as quick as a shot, pushin’ the shelves over the exits, just us in a little hole in the floor, a basement half-caved in. The swarm pelleted the roof and tried its toughest to get to us, fresh meat. You swung me off your back, shotgun still cradled to your chest, and you told me all about how they thought they were helpin’ while you wrapped up the cut on my finger.

“They don’t know any better,” you’d whispered, and I still remember the sound like hail all around us. “One little thing went wrong in their code back when they were built, and now they think dyin’ is healin’. They were supposed to help us, to stitch together skin, but their base code got all mixed up. And then it was uploaded to the Cloud, and now every piece of tech that could talk to the Cloud got that bad code, and so they think their job, their job that was meant to be helpin’, is to kill anything of flesh and blood. Tearin’ it apart instead of puttin’ it back together. They can sense any spilled blood from up to a mile, and they’ll come runnin’. Then people got scared, and when people get scared they close off, barring their doors and battening down hatches, and everything we made, everything we built, was gone quick as a flash.”

“One tiny thing, and suddenly the world wasn’t the same. We lost everything we had from a mistake, from trusting we knew what we were doing with those things. Don’t make the same one, baby girl.”

This feels stupid, every time. Here I am, talkin’ to nothin’, to a machine, even. I know you used to do it too, so I know, objectively and all, it’s too old of tech to try to kill me with kindness. It was pieced together before the idea of the Cloud existed so it’s impossible it could have that bad code. But it still makes me shiver a little, the spine of this old recorder’s cold metal like it could worm its way into my brain in my sleep. I know, I know. “But it helps, Sloane! You’re on the road, this job, and it’s hard and you gotta stay sane somehow!” I got you. I guess it is nice, since it’s just me now.

But I think about that moment a lot these days, I guess. You and me, the tech tearin’ down around us, but you and me, all the same.

I don’t know.

[Click.]

CASSETTE # 39

[Click.]

[Heavy breathing, like someone’s run five miles.]

[A door creaks open and shut, and then the voice, once more.]

I was right. That plan was fuckin’ stupid.

[A breath, a sniff. Footsteps, then quiet.]

I can’t stop thinkin’ about it. Her, there in the church, beggin’ with bloody hands. 

‘Sloane, please, God, please.’ She kept sayin’ my name and her God’s, sayin’ she sinned, but either askin’ or prayin’, I couldn’t figure out which, not to die. 

A little nasty part of me thought it interesting she didn’t mention Thomas. Jealous of a man I don’t even know, ain’t that pathetic. This lover she talked on and on about, the one waiting for her west. 

‘Course, there was also Daugherty, dead on the floor.

I don’t even know what happened, Mama. I hear you callin’ me a liar from the grave, but I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t know he was dumb enough to follow us, when he knew we were chasin’ the swarm.

[A sigh.]

I’m gettin’ ahead of myself. Here’s what happened.

The plan was to go up to the old church at the edge of town, unused and abandoned, and draw the swarm in with our blood. One cut would do, if there was a swarm close enough by to pick up on it, close enough their sensors could find and target blood’s cosmic makeup, as you’d put it. Once the bots came, we’d burn the place to the ground with the gas from the back of Ruthie’s truck. 

‘Course I was out grabbin’ the last of the cans when Daugherty made his move. By the time I was lookin’ in the church window, the stained glass warpin’ the image like that kaleidoscope you showed me in Harper’s Ferry in that old kid’s room, his gun was already level with her head. I couldn’t hear ‘em, wasn’t sure what exactly he was sayin’, but I saw Ruthie’s face, palms raised, tears trackin’ down her cheeks. 

A cold steel feelin’ fell like a curtain in my gut. You always said you hoped you’d raised me to know what had to be done and to do it. I hope that I do.

I stepped in with my pistol trained on Daugherty, and I tried to get him to understand, it wasn’t the time. That’s the problem when two get hired for the same job, it gets all muddled.

There was this flash in his eyes. I think he and I both knew I’m the quicker shot. He was tryin’ to tell me it wasn’t personal, his game wasn’t with me, it was just Ruthie he was hired to kill. Leave him to it, then take down the swarm, move on. I wasn’t interested. You ain’t killin’ her, and we have a job to do, I said, and we were stickin’ to that, and he’d leave now and stay out of it.

He got angry–men always do, I never know how they do this job. He was spittin’, sayin’ Ruthie was nothin’ I wanted to mess with, could threaten our whole lives, should be put down like a dog, that I didn’t know the half of it. I know more than he thought, I think.

We were sloppy, the both of us. We’d taken our eyes off her, and she launched herself like somethin’ outta hell, like some demon unknown, hands grapplin’ his gun. A shot rung out wild, and I heard the fire before I saw it, before the force from it threw me back. I was slow, too slow, head knocked and bleedin’ from my brow, my vision blurrin’, and, head shakin’, I stood and I saw it. I didn’t know a person, just like you and me, could look like that. Ruthie looked like somethin’ else, like somethin’ dark and twisted, her broken gaze, his blood splattered across her face and crawlin’ up her wrists. I wondered once again where she came from, what turned her into someone capable of doin’ a thing like that, of killin’ a man with her bare hands. I’ve done wrong before, I’ve shot men, but never…nothin’ like this, nothin’ like I enjoyed it, reveled in it. 

Ruthie stood and saw me, ‘cross the fire then catchin’. My eyes locked on hers, blue and wet. 

A part of me will stay there forever.

But that second, the stained glass shattered on our left, and there was the swarm. Driven by its code til the end, the bots flew in the window above the alter, singin’ their chitterin’ cicada song. They circled the fire and dove, straight down into Daugherty’s body with this….this horrible squish. The swarm bots’—

[A hitch of breath, a swallow.]

I’ve seen swarms, off in the distance, miles back, but we would always run the other way. I’ve heard the stories, from those old folks remembering the last days before the world ended, how the swarms and the other tech erupted from buildings, wiped out towns. I’ve seen the aftermath of when one rolls through a ghost town, like that place in ole Mississippi, the mangled corpses of any leftover livestock, the empty, torn-apart remains of squirrels and foxes and hounds after the bots have done their savin’, less like corpses and more like piles of rotted bones.

But Daugherty was a person, not an animal. And it was right in front of me, this time. Right there.

Look, I didn’t have any love lost on Daugherty, but the swarm bot teeth rippin’ and tearin’, sinew and flesh, rabid dogs in the shape of miniscule robots, digging into the skin of him, fixing him the only way they thought they knew…that’s not goin’ from my mind anytime soon.

[A pause.]

Ruthie was runnin’ my way, and her voice shook me out of it, tellin’ me to run, the smoke thickenin’ the air within seconds. 

I saw her ‘cross the flames, backin’ up, for a runnin’ start, but I didn’t see the rest. I took off to the door, below the steeple. Glass shattered again, left and right, as more and more bots broke in. I dove between them–still could barely see mind you–and ran through the double doors, just as the steeple shook horrendous, a weak beam catchin’ aflame above.

The bottom of the steeple collapsed, makin’ the whole thing lean to one side, no doubt ready to bury under itself. I could hear the bugs, the real bugs outside, and started coughin’. I had no idea the smoke had crawled into my lungs.

And there we were: me on one side of the door, Ruthie on the other, tears like rivers down her beautiful face, one hand reached out through the beams, no longer dark and monster-like but woman once more.

I heard you then. Clear as day.

“Don’t make the same one, baby girl.”

She started beggin’, hittin’ her knees, and I truly wasn’t sure if she was asking me or her God. She begged for forgiveness, for salvation, offerin’ up her sin, admitted she knew something inside her was wrong, promised she’d fix it, said please please please. It would have made everything all the easier if I didn’t believe her, if I thought she was just one of them evil people I’ve ran into before who just liked killin’, who just enjoyed the thrill of it and didn’t care for consequences, but I really, really did. 

I grabbed her hand and pulled her free, the steeple toppling over behind us taking Daugherty and the bots to hell.

I made a choice, Mama. I know you wouldn’t have agreed, but you’re not here. So.

We got on the road a day or so ago. Headin’ west, toward the Miss. It’s a dumb thing to do, westbind. Everyone knows the further west you go, the worse the stories get, the more tech there is wanderin’ about, ready to kill. You remember the stories the other bountiers would tell, the old joke: west of the Miss, you’re missing your sense. But Ruthie sat me down at the bar in Independence, twisting fingers between her hands, and asked to officially hire me to take her west to where Thomas was waitin’.

Things went back mostly normal with the two of us, although now I can see it, just a little. Whatever’s lurkin’ under her skin, this darkness that seems so unlike her most of the time. Now that I saw it once it’s like I see it everywhere. I wonder what you’d think, Mama. Would you say we’re nothin’ like them? Or would you raise that brow of yours at me and say we can have somethin’ wrong in our code too, same as the bots? 

But she’s doin’ a good job of it, Ruthie–actin’ like it didn’t happen, like I believe her. A part of me could, when she brushes a hand against my thigh climbin’ into the truck, when she bites her lip and smiles at me. A part of me really wants her to make me forget about the rest of it, superimpose another picture, make a new memory of her sayin’ please like that, safe on a bed instead of on her knees in a burnin’ church, to wipe that from my mind. 

I’m almost there. She could convince anyone of anythin’, I swear. Anyone who hadn’t seen her eyes when her hands beat a man to death.

We drove on, onward westbind, in that car of hers, and every time I look over at her drivin’, wind in her hair, at her bright and vicious laugh, I say I’ll do the real job I was hired for first thing tomorrow. 

I’ll kill her then.

But not today. Not with the wind tanglin’ webs of her blonde strains, not until I’ve pulled every secret from those blush pink lips, not with the west laid out in front of us like a feast readied on the table.

Sorry, Mama.

[Click.]

***

K. E. Pleshinger is an emerging science-fiction, horror, and fantasy writer. She studied Creative Writing and Digital Media Production at Ashland University and received her MFA in Television Writing and Producing from Chapman University. K. E. is currently based in Los Angeles where she works in entertainment, daydreams about stories, and lives with her cat, Book.