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I lean on a burned-out cop car.
“My dad taught me to use guns.”
She says, “My daddy used to take my brothers hunting. Did you hunt with Daddy?”
“Sort of. He took me into the woods and tried to shoot me.”
She pats my arm.
“Families are complicated. I could have been a better mama and wife myself,” she says wistfully.
Now I wonder which knives she used on the rest of her family.
“You’re doing all right now, Doris.”
“That’s sweet of you. Will you be all right if I leave you here? I want to check on Barbora.”
“I’m fine. Go and tell her I’m sorry.”
“I will. Take care.”
Even half dead and bleeding into the dirt, the havoc is busy. Anyone with two legs is looting what they can from the Legionnaire vehicles. Food. Guns. Ammo. Water. They had their own fuel truck. It’s shot up, but didn’t burn. The camp mechanics and a group of townie conscripts push it to our fuel truck to top it off.
I look around to the flatbeds, hoping they’re trashed. That would kill this asshole crusade quick. But I spot the tarp in the distance. It’s dusty, but there isn’t a single bullet hole.
Cherry totters over, still playing the frail oracle. She pokes me in the side with a finger. I slap her hand away.
“You really are hard to kill, Mr. Pitts,” she rasps.
“It’s just us, Cherry. You can drop the feeble act.”
She leans against the car with me and lowers her respirator.
“I told the Magistrate not to stop here,” she says in her normal voice.
“So your oracle act is real, then.”
“I told you.”
“Yeah, but I never believe anything you tell me.”
“We should go behind the trucks and fuck. It might be our last chance.”
“Don’t start that stuff now.”
She pouts.
“You’re never fun anymore. Every time I see you you’re shot or stabbed or something.”
“It’s inconvenient for me, too.”
She gets in front of me.
“Jimmy, seriously. You can’t die. No one else is going to look out for me out here.”
I rub the spot where she poked me.
“Relax. I’m not dying anytime soon. The one time was plenty.”
