Thorn hides behind me.
“Why are you trespassing?” says the guy’s sidekick, whose orange hair explodes over his mask like a lit pyre. His voice is a higher, more tentative. These guys are huge but judging by their voices, they may only be a couple of years older than me. Hard to tell under their suits.
Armonk steps forward and past them, onto the tarp-covered porch. “I’m here to see Nevada Pilgrim.”
A moment of surprised silence hangs in the air as the three guys pause to consider this. I guess they weren’t expecting Armonk to know the proprietress’ name.
The biggest guy’s mouth settles into in a sneer as he hops onto the porch and swings around to face Armonk. His burn suit is stretched tightly over his meaty torso and his square jaw underscores unfriendly hazel eyes set far apart. He sways his club in front of him. “No further. What do you need to see Ms. Pilgrim about?”
“I don’t have to answer any questions,” Armonk hisses.
“She’s not expecting visitors. You answer to me.”
Armonk starts walking toward the inside door.
“Hold it right there!” orders a third guy, tall and wearing a nose ring, the same green burn suit, with his blond hair cut short. Armonk continues walking.
To which the meaty guy smacks Armonk hard on the shoulder with the club. Armonk flinches though he manages another step. The guy whacks him harder this time, on the back.
“Stop that, you creep!” I yell, to which the blond, nose-ringed guy clamps a wide hand over my mouth and holds me there.
Armonk draws an arrow so fast I don’t see it coming from the quiver. He aims for the guy’s veined neck. The arrow tip pulses in mid-air to his heartbeat. “Let me pass,” he says slowly, determined.
The phalanx of guys lets him by, but Armonk only gets four more steps toward the front door before the brute with the club jumps on him, tearing the bow and arrow from Armonk’s hands and hurling it to the ground. Then he proceeds to box Armonk’s head like it’s a flimsy practice dummy. The red-haired guy is the only one who doesn’t participate. He has a pained look on his face, as he watches blood spray from Armonk’s nose. Even so, this guy is body-blocking Armonk’s entrance to the compound.
I wriggle free of the tall cretin and yell, “What is wrong with you people?” I’m ready to jump in the fray, but the font door opens and a woman bursts past the guy who’s playing blockade. She has wispy hair the color of morning sun. It’s tinged with green ends and she has the same leaf patterns on her cheeks as Armonk. Are they from the same tribe or what?
“Blane, stop right now!” she commands. She’s older than us, but not by a whole lot—maybe twenty-seven? Her safari style pants and shirt are all made from the same honeycombed iguana cloth as Armonk’s suit. Do they get it from the same fabricator? From her high-cuffed boots to the flimsy scarf around her neck, she’s coated in fine dust.
Blane, the overgrown bully, sneaks one more punch to Armonk’s already bloodied face. Armonk careens backwards. Behind me, Thorn clutches my cloak even harder. Poor kid, he’s terrified.
“They trespassed,” Blane claims. “They refuse to say what their business is.”
“Liar!” Armonk lowers his mask, leans over the porch edge and spits blood into the sand.
Nevada—I guess that’s who this is—helps Armonk to his feet, because his leg prosthetic has slipped and is hanging sideways. I see now, it’s way too short for him, and he’s tried to compensate by gluing a mismatched extension to the top of the leg.
He straightens it and clamps it back on as if he’s used to doing this. I feel so badly for him, even though he’s a stranger. Even though he had an arrow aimed at my face not even fifteen minutes ago.
The woman stares at Armonk with curious green eyes. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Armonk, from Black Hills Sector,” he rasps. His tongue makes bulges in his cheek as it works inside his mouth, probably exploring for cuts.
“Armonk, from Black Hills Sector,” mimics one of the overgrown louts behind Nevada. She whirls around.
“Another word from any of you and it’ll be three times the chores.” That does the trick. Impressive, a woman calling the shots even though these guys tower over her! This would never happen back at our compound where the women obey the men, or else. Nevada’s attention turns back to Armonk. “Who are you again?”
“Rain’s son,” he says simply, as if that’s enough.
Nevada lets out a cry. She rushes forward and hugs Armonk. His blood smears onto her chameleon-fabric shirt but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She holds him out at arm’s length to look at him again, this time grinning. “Rain’s son, wow. You’ve grown into a handsome man.”