***
We're perfectly civil to each other, but the coldness underneath has not changed. Miranda seems to sense that we can't allow our petty differences to make everyone else feel bad, so she's been nothing but polite to me. I think I preferred when she was snapping.
"You're sure this is entirely necessary?" she asks as we walk toward the Rustler, Oscar between us.
I nod. This is the third time she's asked, and I'm trying very hard not to say something I will regret.
"We have to eat, right?" says Oscar, sparing me.
Miranda just nods, staring straight ahead as we continue our journey.
The Rustler's not very full, and there's no game. Taylor is at a table in the back with two men I don't know. Lloyd and Sumter sit at the game table alone. Maybe they're waiting for the opportunity to win some money as well, but when they see me, they shift uneasily in their seats. I wave them off and walk to the bar. Miranda and I sit on stools there, and Oscar stands by us, crossing his arms as he turns toward the barroom.
Arthur Adner is behind the bar. When he sees me, he pulls out a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey. I shake my head at him, but he fills the glass and sets it down in front of me anyway. "On the house."
Frowning, I down the drink, then twist around and sit with my back to the bar. I scan the faces gathered here, wondering if there's any money to be had. Things are getting worse. Soon, there will only be rats to eat. We need to leave this place. No question. But we're not fit to travel. Miranda's still weak, and though Jonas is recovering quickly now, he can barely walk across the room. Even if Jonas could make the journey, I don't think Apollon will be able to travel for some time. Perhaps we could make a litter to carry him on, but that would slow us down and make us all easy targets on the roads. Put us all in greater danger. The only other option is to leave Apollon behind. Leave him with his wound to fester or die slowly of starvation. I won't do that, and I don't think the others would either.
I consider all this as the burn from the whiskey is still making its way down to the pit of my stomach. Now, with it, is a hollow, semi-nauseous feeling. We have to stay. That means something has to change. We can't go on like this, scraping life from the ground with our broken fingernails. That leaves very little in the way of choices.
My eyes flit to Taylor, who is talking jovially. He looks well-fed, and in contrast, even Sumter is looking a little lean. Strange, because I doubt there's any shortage of bodies to butcher. Maybe he's afraid of the sicknesses that have been passed around amongst the poorest Outposters. I snuff air through my nose and focus on Taylor again, pondering the possibilities. Even Matthew's men will eventually suffer this fate, if things continue as they're going. I have no idea what kind of plan Matt has, if any, to restore our food supply and keep us all from starving to death. Considering how expendable most of us are to him, I'm not sure I want to know. Working for Matthew comes along with other unpleasant possibilities, too. I'm only considering it because my options are few. Few, but not solitary. There's another option. I'll talk with Jonas and Apollon before I make my decision.
I'm about to swing my feet onto the floor when I notice Coyote Dan in a corner, head bent over with Sarah, the girl who wanted to knife me. Her hand is still a mound of wrapped bandages, resting on the table as she talks. I wonder if she'll ever use it properly again. Since I don't exactly feel sorry for her, I discard the automatic pity and make my way to their table. When I show up beside her, she looks angry at first, then her eyes go wide. She goes quiet.
"What's going on?" I kick an empty chair out and join them.
Sarah shakes her head and abandons her seat in a flash, leaving with only a quick look of alarm.
Dan shrugs it off in his normal easy manner, and grins at me. "What's up with you, darlin'?"
I level my eyes at him, leaning in. "I asked first."
He looks mildly amused, and a bit annoyed. He tilts his head back and regards me through half-lidded eyes. "Better you don't know," he drawls, "what with your allegiances and all."
I raise my eyebrows at him, jerking my chin downward. "Allegiances?"
His glance flits sideways to the table where Taylor sits, then back to me. That's enough.
"Look," I say, my voice quiet, but edged, "my only allegiances are to my family. To staying alive. So if you have some sort of information, share it, and maybe someday I'll return the favor."
He watches me for a moment, then sighs. He leans toward the table. "I'll tell you what she said," he concedes, "but don't take it like the words are mine. I was just listening. Got it?"
I nod, resting my elbows on the table.
He hesitates again, looking off across the bar. Sarah is gone now. She must have left as soon as she fled our table.
"She said," Coyote Dan begins carefully, "that it's getting harder and harder to survive."
I frown. "Really."
His eyes narrow a touch. As he continues, his words still come out slowly, evenly measured. "She's not very happy about the way things are being handled. Thinks, maybe, we're being let die and nobody's too worried about changing it."
I roll the words around in my brain, along with their implications. Matt's not too worried about letting us all die. Is he even doing anything about it? Will he, so long as he has enough to sustain himself? I can't really answer any of these questions. Instead, I form more questions. Like, is it Matt's job to look after the whole Outpost, just because he has the most power? He's not really our leader. He's just someone who knows how to survive... really well. But the more you have, the more you have to lose. I believe he'll fight to maintain what he has. The question is, how many of us are necessary for him to maintain his lifestyle? And how many of us are expendable enough to die? Sarah, it would seem, believes the two answers are weighted in the wrong direction.
I lean in closer. "What does she mean to do about it?"
He shrugs. "She never got that far."
"Dan," I say softly, as my guts twist around themselves. I have this sense that everything is out of control, falling away from me, spinning wildly. Things are bad, but they're about to get worse. We're about to scramble for our lives. I open my mouth to warn him, but he's looking past me, completely still.
As I turn, adrenaline smashes into my brain. Miranda has retreated to a corner, where she presses her back against the wall, eyes wide, body shaking. Back where we sat, Oscar stands by himself, staring defiantly up into Donegan's face. He knows he's little, and he's not crazy, so there's something passive about the way he does it. Something that, even though it challenges Donegan's path to Miranda, makes Oscar's stance a peaceful gesture. One that asks, instead of tells. Donegan does not register this subtlety. He smacks Oscar hard across the face. Oscar crumples, but does not drop to the floor. Donegan has his fist wadded in Oscar's shirt, and hauls him back up, growling out a threat. I cannot discern the words, but the sound, animal and violent, is enough. I'm on my feet and halfway across the room. But Miranda beats me there.
She has her knife drawn. It's about half the size of mine— a slim dagger that's probably more useful for peeling potatoes than getting in a fight. She stands, feet apart, arms thrown out at her sides, one hand in a fist and the other clenching the knife. She bares her teeth at Donegan, her whole body shaking. But this time, it is not fear, but rage. "Let him go right now," she says, "or so help me, the things I will cut off of you that you will never be able to sew back on..."
I like Miranda right now better than I've ever liked her before. But Donegan looks amused. I pace toward him, to the side, drawing my own knife. My eyes are fixed on him. I can't look at Oscar, at his little feet scrambling against the floorboards, trying to get under him. I focus on Donegan, and I'm calm. Calmer than I've ever been. I will not let him hurt Oscar. I will carve his eyes out of his skull before that happens.
Donegan has two of his men with him, who also have their knives
drawn. But when they look at me, they glance at each other behind Donegan. Hesitation. I ignore them. The only thing that matters is getting Oscar free. Once he's free, he can run. Whatever happens after that, happens. There's a moment where we all sense the tension of what's about to occur. Violence about to be unleashed. Donegan's shoulders tighten as he glares at us. My muscles contract, preparing to move, but then, there's someone beside me. There are several people beside me. Donegan pales. His hand, still hanging on to Oscar's shirt, trembles.
I glance to my sides, where Taylor and his two friends have joined us. Coyote Dan is also there. Three of them have knives drawn, but one of Taylor's friends has a pistol pointed at Donegan's head.
Miranda's eyes are wild with anticipation. She licks her lips, waiting for blood.
But I'm not so eager. "Let the boy go," I say firmly, calmly.
Donegan glances nervously at the mob surrounding him.
"Let him go," I say again, "and you'll live."
That's enough. Donegan drops Oscar, who retreats behind us.
I sheathe my knife, grab Miranda by the arm and pull her back. Her eyes dart to me, still wide and crazy.
She shakes her head at me. "No," she protests. It comes out almost a whine. "No."
I fix her with a hard look and continue pulling until she comes with me. I nod to Dan, and Taylor, and his friends, as we make a wide circle around Donegan's men toward the door. Oscar's right behind us. I want to check that he's alright, but I dare not let go of Miranda. We emerge into the sunshine and stride down the sidewalk. "Put your knife away," I growl under my breath as we start to put some distance between ourselves and the Rustler.
Miranda is now staring emptily into space as we walk. She twitches, but puts her knife back in her belt. I glance back at Oscar, who looks alright, but worried. We exchange a look, then I put one arm around Miranda's shoulders and pull her closer, rubbing her upper arm. She looks at me, still spacey and half-startled, but the tiniest smile touches her mouth. I smile back at her— what I want to be a reassuring smile. It feels pretty grim on my face. She surprises me, and laughs. Laughs loudly. I'm thinking she's actually lost it. But she plants her feet there on the sidewalk, and turns to me with a grin.
"I'll never say anything bad about Matthew again," she announces, as though this revelation will bring me great pleasure.
My eyes scan her face, then I nod toward home and we resume walking. I glance around, checking that no one is near us, and I say, quietly, "Good. Then no one will know, if we're not on his side."