The Benders (2 page)

Clay nods. “Won’t kill if I don’t have to, but I ain’t makin’ promises.” He looks up at me, serious. “Get ready.”

When dark has crouched down on the land, we crawl on our bellies over the rocky dirt hilltop with our blades tight in our fists. My heart’s flailing around in my chest like a lizard caught in a snare. I glance at Clay and he gives me a nod.

“If things go south, run for Ethan and hightail it west. I’ll come for you.”

Not if you’re dead
, I think, but nod. “I don’t need to say be careful—”

“Ri,” he says, brushing his knuckles down my cheek. “I’d never leave you.” Then he’s crouching up, ready. “Let’s go.”

Down below, the fire has burned to flickering embers and the shadows are thick. The one under the blanket hasn’t moved. The man sits at his place by the fire, but his head has drooped into his chest. Asleep, hopefully.

Clay glances at the scene, then nods once.

We creep down the hill as stealthily as possible. My pulse jumps into my throat as I step over the scrub grass and rocks. One false move and Clay and I’ll both be leaking. Beside me, Clay follows my lead—arms out like a tightrope walker, eyes and ears alert. Above, the moon is nearly full and provides enough light to navigate. Every sound strikes my ears like the
thwack
of a gong—my boots crunching on a twig, my breath loud in my throat, a stirring of wings as bats flit off in the distance. I can’t look anywhere but at the man hunched over the fire. As we approach, he looks bigger, more filled out than I’d thought. His boots are new and polished, a hard feat out here in the bush. His cowboy hat is pulled low over his eyes and shades his face, which makes me nervous. The closer I get, the better I can make out his thick beard and the scar parting the hair on his left cheek. I study his hands laced together over his paunch. Will we have to kill him? Will these be his last dreams?

We make it to the bottom of the basin and circle closer. Clay motions for me to go at the one under the blanket like we planned. I’m to sneak up behind the mound and wait until Clay jumps on the larger one. Then I’ll pin down whoever’s under there and keep him still while Clay ties up the larger one. It seems like a simple enough plan, but we got no idea who’s under the blanket. I picture a man who cracks my skull with one blow or a roiling cluster of snakes that spill out to bite me. Suppressing these ridiculous images, I tiptoe over to the blanket and crouch behind it.

The smell of the sputtering campfire thickens the air, but another scent lingers too, the smell of unwashed bodies, a heady stink that rises up from beneath the mound that’s three feet from where I crouch. There’s definitely a human under there. But what kind?

My eyes flit up as Clay tiptoes around the fire to the sleeping man. Clay’s a skilled tracker and talented fighter, but stealth has never been his strong suit. He’s used to charging in, guns blazing, no need for quiet. Yet he does well enough, sidestepping a scraggly bush and slipping over a rock pile without disturbing a single stone. My heart pounds in my chest, as he nears the sleeping man. Five more steps. Four. My body tenses as I watch Clay take the last two steps, approaching the man from behind. He extends one hand out for a headlock while the other, his uninjured hand, holds his knife. Slowly, very slowly, he reaches his arms around the sleeping man’s shoulders.

I hold my breath.

The sleeping man jumps up, a move so lightning quick there’s no way he’s been asleep at all. His hand shoots out and grabs Clay’s wrist. His elbow lashes back like the strike of a snake, smashing into Clay’s jaw with a pop.

“Clay!” I shout, starting for him, forgetting the figure under the blanket. The blanket before me begins to rise. I pounce on it. Inside someone
oomphs
and lies still again. My target pinned, I look back to Clay.

They’re squared off, holding onto each other’s wrists like wrestlers locked in combat. Gritting his teeth and flexing his arms, Clay presses against the trader. The trader strains against Clay, his yellow teeth flashing in a grimace as he tries to force Clay’s arms back. Clay’s injured hand sags, but his good hand drives the knife toward the trader’s throat. Eyes widening, the trader watches the knife inch toward him.

I bite my lip. I know I need to keep whoever it is underneath me out of the fight, but judging from how little he’s moving, there’s not much chance of him being a threat. But maybe he’s bluffing. Maybe he’ll spring up once I’ve eased off him and cut my throat. I stay put and watch the awful fight, my chest a bundles of nerves.

The trader lurches forward, attempting to throw Clay off balance. Clay stumbles, knees banging into a boulder, but doesn’t lose his grip. The knife hovers inches from the trader’s throat. Suddenly, the trader drops one knee, slipping sideways, flinging Clay forward over the boulder, into the dust, and onto his back. The knife goes flying into the dirt. The trader lurches for the gun at his feet.

“Clay!” I shout, jumping up. I tear toward the trader, who draws up his shotgun, his finger searching for the trigger. The dying fire lights up the man’s beard, his furrowed brow, the snarl on his face as he aims the barrel at Clay’s chest. Clay, in the dust, is climbing to his feet, one hand out as if he could catch the bullet that’s about to hollow him. I sprint toward the trader as fast as my body will allow.

In the last second before the gun goes off, my eyes dart to Clay’s face and watch his eyes go wide as he realizes he’s about to be shot. I open my mouth to scream. I won’t make—

The gun clicks, but there’s no boom, no recoil. The man stares at the gun in his hands, shocked. Clay, too, stares at the barrel. A misfire.

I jump, diving into the trader’s back. My body slams into his, jarring every inch of me. My chest smashes into his shoulder, my knee into his leg, my jaw snapping with a hollow
pop
. We both go down hard and my wind is knocked away. I can’t see the trader or his shotgun. I can’t breathe. Something moves beneath me. The trader. He’s trying to find his gun. Slowly, head spinning, I lift my eyes.

A blur of movement to my right. Clay. He tackles the trader pinned under my legs and we’re all one big pile of arms and legs and fists. I manage to roll away and scramble to my feet. On the ground, Clay’s on his knees, punching and kicking. The trader lies in a fetal position, trying in vain to protect his face, his innards.

“Stop,” I shout as he lands more blows. “Clay, stop!”

He stops mid-punch and looks up at me. His face is red and dirt-caked. Anger crinkles the corners of his eyes, but drains away as he stares up into my face. He nods once and pins the trader. He spits blood and says, “Get some rope.”

As I’m circling around the fire, I remember the figure under the blanket. When I run over, he’s still there and hasn’t moved a muscle. Now that we’ve got the other one subdued, I prod the blanket with my toe.

“Don’t make a move,” I say. “We got your buddy pinned. If you go along easy, we won’t have to hurt ya.”

The figure under the blanket doesn’t move. Curiosity digging at me, I slowly draw the blanket back.

A cap of short brown hair appears first, then small hands and thin wrists bound with rope. That explains why he didn’t help fight. This person’s too small to be a man, so I think boy, and yet there’s a feminine quality to the arms and wrists that suggests girl. I draw the blanket back all the way.

Hands slowly pull away from a frightened face, wide brown eyes alert and fearful, a slender ski-slope nose and full lips. Girl or boy? Or neither? An asexual bender, neither male nor female, but some mutation of both.

I crouch in front of the figure and meet her (his?) gaze. Those giant, animal eyes watch my every move.

“It’s okay,” I say. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”

The bender says nothing, just watches me. She’s pretty enough, but I can tell there are male qualities about her that she plays up—baggy clothes, short hair, dirt smudged around her chin and cheeks to look like a swatch of stubble. The same tricks I pull.

“Did he hurt you?” I ask, pointing to the trader pinned under Clay.

Again no answer. Her eyes dart from me to where her captor lies face-down on the ground.

I look at the rope lashed violently around her red wrists. When I reach for them, she pulls away. “I’m going to untie you. Your hands first, okay? Then I’ll come back for your feet in a minute.”

This time when I reach for her wrists she only flinches, but doesn’t pull away. I dig out knots with my fingers, trying hard not to hurt her peeled skin. Looks like she’s been tied up for a while.

“Riley?” Clay calls from across the fire. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Getting the rope!” I call. He seemed open minded about benders when he thought I was one, but with his adrenaline pumping from the fight, he might need a minute to clear his head.

I walk the rope around the fire to Clay. He lashes the trader’s hands together behind his back. “What you got over there?” he asks, as he’s tying knots.

“He’s got a captive. Pretty roughed up.”

Clay stops lashing and frowns. “Boy or girl?”

“Hard to say,” I lie. I haven’t seen proof, but I’d bet dollars to donuts it’s a bender.

Clay sniffs and continues tying. “Let me finish up here and then we’ll have a look.”

“What we gonna do with him?” I ask, looking over the trader. Clay’s punches have pounded a sturdy man in his forties into a trembling wreck. Blood meanders through his beard. He’s limp as Clay binds his wrists.

Once Clay’s done with the last knot, he stands and peers at his handiwork. “Not sure what to do. If it were me, I’d probably finish it off quick, but—”

I open my mouth to protest and he cuts me off.

“But it’s not just me. It’s
you
and me. And you say no killin’, so there’s no killin’.” Clay sighs. “The stuff I do for you.”

I lean in and kiss his cheek. “I’m worth it.”

Clay nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

We walk back around the fire to where the bender is furiously digging at the rope around her ankles. With bloodied fingernails, she scrapes at knots like a raccoon clawing out of a cage.

Clay leans back, taking her in. “A girl?” he asks, turning to me.

Leaning close, I whisper in his ear. “A bender, I think. Be nice to her. The bastard over there’s been rough.”

“I’m nice,” Clay mutters, playing hurt at my comment. He walks to where the bender sits in the dirt and crouches before her.

She stops digging at the rope and looks at him like any moment he might attack her. I walk over and crouch beside him to show we’re both good guys.

“Howdy,” Clay says, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “Looks like you’ve had a rough go as of late.”

She says nothing. Her dirty face hardens.

Clay tries again. “We ain’t like him.” Clay points to the bound man. “We don’t kidnap.”

Her eyes go to me. “Bender?” she asks.

I look at Clay and back at her. Answering truthfully would reveal the secret of my gender and that’s very dangerous. “Yeah. You?”

She doesn’t answer at first, just blinks at me and then shifts her eyes to Clay. Finally, she gives a curt nod with her eyes to the dirt.

“What’s your name?” I ask, shifting to sit in the dirt beside her.

“Nada,” she says quietly. Her dirty hands clasp her knees and her shoulders slump. When she’s not angry, she looks down right pathetic.

“Nada’s a nice name,” I say, elbowing Clay who’s staring now. He nods heavily.

“Yep, nice. You been with him long?” he asks, pointing back to the man moaning in the dirt.

She shakes her head. “He caught me ’bout fifty miles from here at an old well. He was taking me back.”

“Back where?” Clay asks.

Nada’s eyes shoot up and her expression tightens. She looks as though she’s already said too much.

I try another tactic. “You got family?”

She shakes her head, still looking wary. Then she points at her bound feet and her eyes meet mine.

“Oh. Right.” I lean down to untie the knots, but Clay’s hand on mine stops me.

“Can I have a word?” he asks, tugging on my arm.

I shoot him a curious look. “Just a minute,” I say to Nada. I follow Clay up the hill a ways and out of earshot.

“What?” I ask, watching Nada by the fire. Once we’re gone she starts digging at the rope again.

“I don’t know, Ri. She might run off and tell people about you.” Clay crosses his hands over his chest and sighs.

“Who’s she gonna tell?” I ask. “She’s as much on the run as I am.”

“Not if she suspects you’re a girl. A bender might be worth a month’s wages. You…” He pauses and looks me over like he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re worth a lifetime’s pay to the right buyer.” He bites his lip. “Like my mother.”

I blow out my breath, considering. “Nada thinks I’m a bender like her.”

“How d’you know what she thinks?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “How do you know she won’t squeal the minute she gets picked up again? ‘I got a better prize right down the road. Follow me.’ People’ll throw you to the wolves, Ri.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I ask, feeling heat creep up my neck. I hate when he acts like I don’t know how the world works. He’s the one who grew up privileged, safe behind town walls with every luxury in the world. I clench my fists and stare at Nada, chewing on the bonds that hold her feet together. “We can’t just leave her.”

“We can’t take her with us,” Clay says, his fingers tracing the handle of his revolver. “We ain’t got enough supplies.”

“Well, we can’t kill her,” I say, angry.

Clay shoots me a look and puts a finger to his lips to tell me I’ve been too loud. We both look down the hill. The bender’s stopped digging at her rope and is sucking on bloody fingers. God, she looks so pathetic.

“We gotta free her. I can’t live with myself if we do anything else.”

“Let’s think on it,” Clay says, walking up the ridge. “I’ll go get Ethan. You stay here and keep an eye on things.”

Slowly, I walk back down into the ring of firelight. As the bender watches, I throw a couple scraggly logs on the blaze. Then I sit heavily beside her and sigh.

“You should get out of here,” Nada whispers.

I look over. Her bottom lip has been busted and healing into a dark crease. Old bruises dot one cheek.