Read The Deadly Nightshade Online
Authors: Justine Ashford
It takes us two weeks and six towns to find a gun and ammo shop, and even then we can’t be sure it hasn’t already been raided. Luckily for us, we discover upon further inspection that although most of the ammunition and a decent amount of guns and knives have already been looted, there are a few hunting rifles left, as well as a handful of revolvers and one heavy duty pump-action shotgun. I allow Connor to get a feel for the rifles and revolvers while I admire the shotgun. It is a huge, intimidating weapon, probably with a pretty decent kick, but my God it sure is beautiful. I’ve always wanted one of these babies, and if I don’t take her then someone else undoubtedly will. Surely she would be better off in my hands than theirs . . . Then again, chances are I’ll never get to use her—firing a weapon this loud would basically be a death sentence—and it wouldn’t make sense to carry extra weight for nothing. Sighing, I put the beauty back where I found her and try to forget our electric connection.
After some deliberation, Connor chooses a rifle and a Smith and Wesson magnum to call his own. We then find him a holster for the revolver and a sling for the rifle, as well as some ammunition for both. Satisfied with our haul, we leave the store and get on the road again.
After some debate, we decide to try raiding the area for canned food, since all we have been eating recently is fresh game and berries, which can get a little boring after a while. Of course, scavenging stores means there is a chance we will run into other people, possibly even gangs, but with our new set of weapons I don’t think we will have much of a problem.
As we walk through the little town in search of a supermarket or food store to search, I happen to catch some movement in the distance, but it is too far to see clearly.
“Connor,” I whisper, giving him a nudge. “Use your scope to check out what’s going on over there.”
He does as he is told, focusing his rifle on whatever it is that seems to be moving toward us. After a moment, he turns to me and says, “It’s a woman. She’s armed—got a gun and a knife on her hip. Doesn’t look friendly.”
“Just one woman?” I ask. One lone woman isn’t a problem, but if there are more people with her we might be in danger.
“Looks like it. What should we do?”
“Hide and wait for her to pass. Come on, let’s go before she sees us—if she hasn’t already.”
We conceal ourselves behind the corner of a building, peering around every so often to see if the woman has diverted from her path, but she continues to make her way straight toward us. I have no doubt she will attack if she sees us; this woman obviously isn’t here to make friends, and neither are we. Before long I can hear her heavy footsteps echoing as she draws closer, unaware of our presence.
She is only a few feet away from us now, and I can finally see her clearly. She is probably one of the bulkiest women I have ever seen, with thick thighs, bulging arms, a veiny neck, and shoulders reminiscent of a linebacker’s. A maroon headscarf partially covers her wavy black hair, which is cropped short, and the parts of her dark skin that are exposed are almost completely covered with tattoos. I wait for her to walk past, praying she won’t decide to turn her head, but something causes her to come to a sudden stop, as if she somehow senses us hiding there. Knowing something is about to go very wrong, I reach to draw my katanas, but the noise of the blade scraping against the sheathe spooks her and she turns toward us. She reaches for her gun, but I dart from our hiding place and tackle her before she has a chance to draw, sending us both crashing to the ground.
Shrieking, the woman rakes my face with her nails, hooking them into my cheeks and digging in with all the force she can muster. I cry out as the pain of her jagged claws embedding themselves in my skin becomes almost too much for me to bear, but luckily Connor manages to grab her by her arms and pin her down before she can do any significant damage. It takes both of us to hold her. Eventually, when I am sure we have a good grip on her, I am able to draw one of my handguns and press its muzzle against the underside of her chin. Realizing she is caught, the woman stops fighting.
“What do you want?” she hisses. “Go ahead, assholes, take my stuff and run. My people will track you down within the hour.”
I turn to Connor. “Kill her,” I order.
He looks up at me, horrified. “
What?
What do you mean ‘kill her?’ ”
“Well we can’t let her go. You heard what she just said. She and whoever else she’s got with her will come for us if we do. It’s her or us, Connor. Now’s your chance to prove yourself.”
He stares at me with agony in his eyes, then turns to look at the woman, whose cold gaze betrays not even a hint of fear. He knows I’m right. He knows he has to do it. His hand trembles uncontrollably as he forces her off the ground into a kneeling position, removes his revolver from its holster, and points it at the back of her head.
“Not with the gun!” I shout. “Do you want to wake up the whole damn neighborhood? Use the knife or the machete or something.”
Shaking even harder now, he puts the gun back in its holster, draws Angelica’s knife, and places it against the woman’s throat. She remains unaffected. He holds it there for a minute, pressing it harder and harder against her skin, but never hard enough to draw blood. Then, with a groan, he removes the blade from her neck and smacks his hand against his forehead, shaking his head.
“I can’t—I can’t do it, Nightshade. I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?” I yell. “Connor, you don’t have a—” Before I can say the word “choice,” I feel a hand twist my wrist and force my gun from my grip. It clatters to the ground a few feet away, out of my reach, and I too am thrown down. The woman pins me with one hand and draws her knife with the other, but I kick her off of me before she has a chance to stab. Connor attempts to come to my aid, but before he can grab her she is back on top of me, thrusting her knife at my head with a wild cry. Between our struggling and her blinding fury, each jab misses its target and I am able to grab the side of her head and bash her face against the pavement one, two, three times until she stops struggling.
Coughing, the woman spits out a mouthful of blood and bares her scarlet-stained teeth at me. I struggle to my feet, pulling her back into a kneeling position, draw one of my katanas, and rest it against her shoulder. Scratched and bruised and bleeding, I turn to face Connor, who looks at me shamefacedly.
“You see?” I shout, spit flying from my mouth. “
This
is what happens when you don’t kill these monsters. It’s
you
or
them
, Connor, and personally I prefer to live.”
I swing my sword and a shower of blood spatters the ground as the woman’s head rolls away from her body. Her face still holds that stoic, cold expression, but now it is cold with death. The rest of her slumps to the ground in front of me, pouring a river of blood onto my boots. I turn to Connor, who wears an expression of utter horror, one hand covering his mouth and the other clutching his stomach, as if the scene is so gruesome he might vomit. What a waste of a meal that would be.
I walk toward him, bloody katana still in hand, and grab the front of his shirt in my fist, pulling him close so he can see the disapproval etched into every line on my face. Still trembling, he attempts to avoid looking me directly in the eyes, but I continue staring at him until he reluctantly meets my gaze.
“You weren’t meant for this world,” I growl.
With that, I push him to the ground, wipe the blood from my boots, place my katana back in its sheathe, and continue on my way.
“Nightshade, wait up!”
I ignore Connor as he runs to catch up with me. He calls my name again and again, begging me to slow my pace, but I maintain my brisk stride until he finally gets close enough to grab hold of my forearm. With a grunt, I twist my arm and push him off of me, sending him stumbling backwards.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks timidly as he regains his footing, as if he doesn’t already know the answer.
I pull a broken piece of nail from one of the bloody grooves in my cheeks, flick it at him, turn around, and continue walking.
“Nightshade, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t do it.”
“You think that’s what this is about? You
could’ve
killed her, Connor, but you didn’t, and you put my life in danger because of it. I almost died—do you realize that? I almost died because
you
couldn’t follow simple instructions. But you know what? I guess it’s my own fault. I should have expected it from you.”
“Hey!” he shouts, nostrils and temper both flaring. “You need to stop treating me like an idiot, alright? I’m not stupid, Nightshade, and I’m not heartless either. You know, maybe you can take someone’s life and not feel guilty about it, but I can’t. I’m not like you. And I don’t want to be like you. I’m not going to throw away my morals just to survive.”
“You think I’ve lost my morals?” I laugh. “I have morals. I don’t kill unless my safety is threatened—that’s the rule—and guess what: that woman would’ve killed us if we had let her live. You think you’re so good and righteous just because you’ve never taken a life, but the world has changed, Connor, and you’ve got to start changing with it.”
“Like you’ve let it change you? Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’ll take death over becoming a killing machine that can lop off a woman’s head with a damn smile on her face.”
“I wasn’t smiling,” I hiss. “And yeah, maybe the world has changed me a little, but not completely. There’s always been a part of me that was like this, ever since I was born. It’s called being a survivor at all costs, even at the price of the life of a worthless woman like that.”
Connor shakes his head. “No, Nightshade, I don’t believe that.” His tone is much milder now; most of the fire in it has died out, though a spark still remains. “I don’t believe you were always like this, and I think you have the potential to change. I think you
can
feel pity and anger and love and all the other things you repress, and I think you
can
care about people. I mean, you didn’t kill me or leave me to die, even though we both know you easily could have. I think you—”
“Whoa, whoa, hold up now. Are you implying I
care
about you?” I laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
Connor’s eyes dart to the ground. “I don’t get why you find that so funny,” he mumbles. “
I
care about
you
.”
Upon hearing these words, I stop laughing.
I care about you.
Those four simple words strike something akin to fear into my heart. They are dangerous. He doesn’t know their weight, their significance. He can’t possibly mean them.
But what if he does?
“Don’t,” I say.
“Why not?” he asks. “What’s so bad about having someone care?”
“Because the last person who cared about me was my father, and look where he is now. He died protecting me because he cared. It was my fault.” My voice begins to shake and I fight to control it. It is the first time I have ever said those final four words out loud, although I have always known them to be true. If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t put myself in danger trying to save him, my father would still be alive today. I am responsible for his death.
It was my fault.
“No, I don’t think it was your fault,” he says. “Your dad knew what he was doing when he saved you. He knew the cost. But sometimes the people we love are worth dying for, because a life without them would be no life at all.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I can’t afford to care about anybody. The last person I loved made me promise to survive at any and all costs. I have to stick to that promise. I owe him that much.”
Connor opens his mouth to speak, but changes his mind and says nothing. A part of me almost wishes I
could
care for him, because I think he needs
somebody
to, but it just isn’t possible. I cannot afford to feel, not for him, not for anyone. And I hope he will learn to not care for me either.
For the next few days, barely a word passes between Connor and me. This time I am glad for the wedge that has been driven between us; in a way, I feel as though this wall of silence is exactly what we need. I know now the mistake I made—I allowed myself to get too close to him, and he mistook that for feeling. What bothers me is that eventually I probably would have done the same.
Although we do not speak to each other, he remains by my side constantly, as if afraid I am going to attempt to leave him behind again. We hunt, gather, scavenge, eat, and sleep side by side, but we rarely even look at one another. In a way, things seem to have reverted back to the way they were before, but maybe that’s a good thing.
Having found very few supplies in the last town we came across, I decide we should keep looking until we find more, and I break the silence between us to communicate this. It isn’t long before we find a town to raid, part of it charred and burned to the ground, but for the most part intact. Knowing it is likely there are other people here, we scout the place out from a distance. Connor uses the scope on his rifle to check for movement, but nothing stirs. After deciding it is safe, we begin our search and soon discover a large grocery store standing conveniently in the middle of this ghost town. Its windows are shattered—a clear indication that it has already been looted—but that doesn’t necessarily mean there is no food to be found inside, so I draw my swords and signal to Connor to prepare himself. Instead of following my lead, he hesitates.
“Did you see that bookstore down there?” he asks, pointing a few stores down to a small building with a sign on the front made to look like an open book and the words “Reading Terminal” inscribed on its surface. “Think maybe we could check it out?”
A firm “No” is my only reply, not because I’m being spiteful, but because I can’t see why he would want to search an old bookstore anyway. You can’t eat a book, and it’s not like we have lots of leisure time to sit down and read. That was a luxury I was only able to afford when my father was alive.
“But it’s the first bookstore I’ve seen in years. Can’t we just look for a little while? It’s not like there’s anyone else—”
“No,” I repeat.
He opens his mouth to protest, but evidently decides there is no point in arguing with me and closes it. We enter the grocery store with our weapons drawn, our feet crunching on the broken bits of window glass as we walk. After doing a quick sweep of the building, I determine there is no one else here and we are safe to collect what supplies we can muster. I turn around to instruct Connor to place as much food in his rucksack as he feels fit to carry, but he is no longer behind me. The sound of hurried footsteps crunching on glass sounds from the entrance and I let out a long sigh. Fine, he can go look at books if he wants to, but if he thinks he’s getting any of this food then he’s out of his mind. The rule since day one has been that he has to pull his own weight, and right now he isn’t, so he can go hungry for all I care. I hope those stacks of paper are worth it for him.
When I have collected as many cans as I can fit in my bag, I check to see if Connor has returned, but find no sign of him. He must still be in the bookstore. I don’t really feel like going to get him, but I don’t want to wait around for him either. Maybe I should just go. Maybe it’s better if I do. Maybe our time together has run its course and this is the smartest move for me to make. Maybe it’s time to leave Connor behind.
Picking up my rucksack, I sling the straps over my shoulders and head for the door. I am about to walk out of the store into the open street when the sight of something moving nearby catches my attention. Realizing I could be seen, I throw my back against the door, draw my handguns, and peek around to get a closer look. Walking straight toward the building is a group of five, each of them armed with a rifle in their hands and a knife at their hip. They move with a confident swagger that implies they are dangerous and well aware of it, like predators who have never known any other place in life than the pinnacle of the food chain. I size them up to determine if I can take them. The group—no, the gang—is comprised of two women and three men, all of them older and larger than I am. If they didn’t have the guns I might have a good chance in a fight, but seeing as they do I’d probably only be able to kill one or two before getting my head blown off. No, attacking them probably isn’t my best option.
But it looks as though I don’t have much of a choice, seeing as they’re coming straight at me. Crap, alright, new plan—strike as soon as they round the corner; if I ambush them quickly enough I might be able to take them all out before they have a chance to take a shot at me. I tighten my grip on my guns as I prepare for the attack, waiting for the crunch of glass under feet.
“Nightshade!”
Connor’s panicked call rings through the desolate ghost town, and, hearing it, the gang turns on their heels and abandons the store altogether. When I am sure they are gone, I poke my head out the door and am practically paralyzed by what I see. Connor runs out of the bookstore, shouting my name wildly to draw the gang’s attention. It works—they bound toward him and he tries to flee, but one of them manages to catch him before he can get very far. I watch as four out of the five of them form a cage of bodies around him, laughing and hollering as they pass him back and forth between them, finding pleasure in this new sport they have invented. When jostling him around becomes a bore, they throw him in the dirt, pushing him back down every time he attempts to rise to his feet. Too distracted by their little game, they do not notice me slip out of the store.
“Hey!” barks the fifth member, who until now has taken his sweet time catching up to the others. Could this be the leader? “Come on, now, leave him alone!”
But the others are too engaged in their sadistic game to heed his order. They continue to push and shove and throw my friend, not a single one of them even bothering to acknowledge their man. Clearly not used to being ignored, he stalks toward them, his large hands balled into fists.
“I
said
, leave him
alone!”
he shouts, grabbing one of his male companions by the shoulders and throwing him to the ground. The others, seeing this, stop what they are doing immediately and sheepishly drop their gazes as he shoots them each a disapproving glare. Yep, definitely the leader.
“What the hell is wrong with you assholes? He’s just a kid!” He turns to Connor, who has begun to visibly tremble. “You alright, kid?”
Connor sits there in the dirt, his mouth agape but no words escaping from it. Eventually, he manages an infinitesimal nod.
“Aw, look at him,” says one of the women. “All alone out here. Poor thing.”
“Don’t assume he’s on his own, Missy. That’s a stupid assumption to make,” growls the leader. Then, addressing Connor again, he asks in a much gentler tone, “Are ya alone, kid?”
Connor nods. “Y-yes,” he squeaks. His eyes fix on me momentarily, then dart away.
“Ya sure, boy? You wouldn’t be lyin’ to me, would ya?”
“N-no,” Connor stammers.
“Well you were shoutin’ someone’s name just now, weren’t ya? Tell me, who is this ‘Nightshade?’ ”
“That would be me.” I press the muzzle of the gun in my right hand against the back of his head and point the one in my left at Missy, who stands closest to me. The others raise their rifles, but the leader puts his hand up in a gesture signaling them to relax. They exchange unsure glances with each other, but prompted by another gesture from their leader, they lower their weapons.
“Get up, Connor,” I order. He scurries to his feet, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a sigh of relief.
“Why don’t ya lower that gun, sweetheart?” says the leader. “Let’s not do somethin’ we’re gonna regret. Put it down.”
“Not a chance,” I growl.
“Come on, now, there’s no need for violence,” he purrs. “I think there’s been a bit of a miscommunication here, so why don’t we all relax and discuss this matter? I think we can have a civilized conversation without killin’ each other, don’t you?”