Battery City Rebels: Part One

The sun was still high in the sky when she left. The rays beating down on the scarred planet scorched the broken cement and left ripples of heat along the horizon. Her legs ached. Her chest felt as if it had been ripped apart from the center and opened wide for the whole world to see. Blood had caked to her chin, leaving a trail flaking down to the front of her shirt. The heat was playing tricks on her mind. Making the world seem shaky and out of focus. Route Guano was bare and desolate. She didn’t know how long she’d been walking or if she’d ever get to where she was going. The desert was cruel, and it would claim her one way or another. It always did.

She’d run out of water two miles ago. The heat had softened the rubber soles of her tan boots, and she wasn’t sure how much longer they would last. She wanted to take them off. To feel the breeze for just a moment. But there was no breeze. Instead, the air felt still and smothering. Even her bare legs felt as though they were wrapped in a blanket of heat and sweat. The sun left blisters on her skin. It hurt to move, but she didn’t slow.

It was a quiet day. Quiet enough that she almost thought she imagined the sound at first. It was a distant, far-off rumble like the engine of an outdated vehicle. Had this been any other day, she might have tried to hide or immediately reached for the weapon, the hot metal strapped to her back. She was tired, hungry, and thirsty. And wandering out into the desert to become buzzard food was more and more tempting by the second. But she kept going. She had to try, at least. Either the car would pass, or it would stop, and she’d have to dig around for whatever fight she had left in her.

The music was loud enough to tell her that they weren’t Draculoids. It was too fast, loud, and angry. So when the rusted old Trans-Am pulled to a stop beside her, she didn’t know what kind of fight she’d have. At least the Dracs would have made clean work of her. She was too tainted. Too dirty for them to want to play with. Usually. But there were some who were depraved enough to try anway.

So when the car slowed, she sighed heavily and reached over her back. She had the shotgun pointed at the driver’s side window before they even came to a complete stop. The man on the other end of the barrel stared at her from behind a yellow mask. Worn to disguise his eyes and face from the cameras left hidden throughout the desert. There were four people in the car. All were keeping their identities hidden from her. None of them moved, save for the gentle breeze. Not strong enough to cool the air but just enough to flip the man’s fiery red hair into his face.

“Retro machinery,” the driver said. She tried to talk, choked at first from hours in the desert with no water and no need to use her voice.

“It was my father’s,” she explained, fighting through the dryness in her throat. “It’s done a fair share of ghosting.”

He reached for something on the floor of the car. She tensed, and her finger inched closer to the trigger. But when he sat back up, he was holding a metal bottle. He tossed it out of the window, and it rolled to her feet. She didn’t want to seem desperate, but she could guess what was inside. And she didn’t care about them anymore. Now she wasn’t just fighting to stay alive. But to keep herself from going for that water and drowning herself in it.

“You look thirsty,” he said. She didn’t say thank you. So he gave her a quick nod, putting his hands back on the steering wheel. “Later, Tumbleweed.”

Then he hit the gas, and the car peeled away. She waited until it faded into the warping heat before reaching for the bottle. The water was warm and tasted stagnant, but she drank half the bottle before being strong enough to force herself to stop. It had obviously been in their car for a few days. But she would have drunk anything at that point. It was liquid, and that was all that was important. She screwed the cap back on and slid the bottle into the single leather pouch attached to her leg. It held her handgun and the few explosives she could get her hands on before being run out of the church she called home.

She kept walking all afternoon. The water was gone by the time the sun reached the western horizon, blinding her vision. Her legs ached, and her feet were wet with either sweat or blood. She couldn’t tell which. Days in the desert were murderously hot, and the nights were frigid and freezing. She didn’t think she’d last the night. The moment the sun slipped behind Battery City, the chill crept up from the darkness. She welcomed it at first, but the temperature continued to drop as the sky darkened. And when the last glimmer of sunlight left the sky, she took a sidestep into the dirt and collapsed.

She wasn’t sure how long she slept. Maybe it was only a few hours. It could have been a few days. She woke when someone rolled her over onto her back. Her eyes stayed shut. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly which feeling was the most dominant; thirst, hunger, or just the heat radiating from her burned skin. Someone forced her mouth open before it flooded with water. And she woke instantly. She coughed and sputtered until someone grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her onto her side. She coughed a few more times before the water could make it down her parched throat.

“Easy,” the voice said, comforting as he patted her back.

“We shouldn’t have left her out here,” someone else spoke. Another male. She was too vulnerable. But far too gone to fight them.

“She didn’t seem willing to get in the car,” another replied. Three of them now. That was even worse than two.

“She doesn’t have a choice now. Wrap her in the blanket and get her in the backseat. If we leave her here, she’ll be dead by morning.”

She was enveloped in a big scratchy blanket moments later. It smelled like cigarettes and dust, and the scent of the desert that seemed to linger in everything. Then strong arms wrapped around her body and lifted her from the dirt. She held onto them. She’d given up now. It was life or death; even though she was vulnerable, she had a better chance with them than without them.

“Don’t hurt me,” she whispered anyway. The man’s voice rumbled in her ear when he responded.

“We won’t. You have my word,” he said. But words meant nothing anymore.

The men maneuvered her into the car, and she settled in the back against the stranger’s chest. Her fingers stretched out from beneath the scratchy fabric and laced in the collar of his shirt.

“Where is he?” she whispered.

“Where is who?”

The engine caught, and the car began to move forward. Loud. Old. Fast.

“My father.”

“You were alone.”

“He’ll be worried.”

“Get some sleep. We’ll find him in the morning.”

She didn’t respond. Her fingers went slack as the car gently rocked her to sleep. She was far too gone even to fear them.