He had looked so ghostly, standing precariously in the rain and calling to us, his brown hair plastered to his face. And young. So young.
The King doesn’t comment, but his hand tightens on the wheel. There is a ripple of color and bumps on the dark skin of his forearm. The effects of his mutations are often the only indication of his emotions. His skin reacts like that of an octopus.
“We pulled him out with a rope tied to our truck,” I continue. He was so weak that all he could do was tie the rope around his waist and let himself be pulled out. “He begged us to get his family’s bodies out, too. We couldn’t; it was too dangerous. From that day on, I never let him out of my sight for long.”
Until today.
“We’ll reach him soon,” says Alastair.
“I know.” We have to. “I need to sleep,” I say, dropping my head on the headrest and closing my eyes.
“Thank you for sharing this story with me,” he says.
“Use it well.”
“Or you might push me over a bridge?”
I smile faintly, my eyes still closed. “You’re a mutant; it wouldn’t be enough to hurt you. I would need to push you from the top of one of the Baggers, at least.”
Alastair laughs quietly.
I realize that it might be the most words we have ever exchanged.
Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep.
I’m woken up by Alastair’s hand on my shoulder and his deep voice saying my name. “Stellan.”
I’m immediately wide awake. The truck has stopped. There is a fallen tree in the middle of the road, blocking the way. Usually, when there is something on the road in the middle of nowhere, it hasn’t arrived on its own. I grab for the shotgun on the middle seat, the one I pulled out of my bag earlier.
“Stay in the truck,” the King says. “I can move the tree on my own.”
He relays the order on the radio to the mercenaries behind us.
It’s certainly a trap, but we need to be on our way. In the wastelands, if you want to get somewhere, you have to be ready to get your hands dirty and hold your own.
Alastair gets out of the truck, freeing the handgun on his belt. It’s a beautiful weapon, with a wooden grip and a real silver lining. He’s not wearing his coat. He walks to the fallen tree with not a care in the world.
Shots ring in the night and a bullet takes him right in the chest, followed by a second one. Alastair stays on his feet. I swear and get out of the car, shotgun raised. Another bullet hits the truck just behind me.
“Stellan!” he bellows in warning.
I duck back into the truck just as he pulls his handgun out and starts shooting in the dark.
From the screams that echo in the night, he’s reaching his targets. More gunshots light up the darkness in flashes, but Alastair is not slowed one bit. Soon, his magazine is empty, and he runs out of the truck’s headlights and out of sight.
“Fuck,” I whisper, running after him.
The other two stay in their vehicle. He’s our king. Aren’t we supposed to have his back, mutant or not?
I pull my flashlight out and follow the trail of blue blood. He’s not losing that much, considering the number of bullet wounds he received.
I find him standing over three male bodies.
“Highwaymen,” he tells me, kicking one corpse to roll him on his back. There is a red square sewn into his jacket. “Jude and his mutant might have cut the head, but the wastelands are still crawling with them.”
But without proper leadership, they’re reduced to common bandits.
“Are you okay?” I ask, aiming the flashlight at him. He has a few bullet holes in his white shirt, leaking blue blood.
