When the Dark Wins

“The fuck is going on?” the enforcer hollered.

Her eyes popped open when August’s voice came back, raised over engine noise. “Pirates. Pretty sure,” he said. “Probably think we got fuel.”

“Sshhit!”

Other people were coming? Buckeye wriggled, testing the bonds at her ankles. Deals could be m

ade with thieves. If they took out the enforcers.

“I need you up top,” August yelled. “Keep ‘em off our ass. We’re fucking close already, they’ll turn back.”

“Christ.” The other man sounded about as sour as could be on that idea.

“Wayland! Get the fuck up there!”

What in The Vice would make pirates turn away?

More swearing and now grunting as the no-longer-anonymous Wayland either ascended through some opening in the top of the cargo box, or climbed through a window into the cab. She’d never seen more than a darkened square cave in the middle of the night; her assumptions were all she had.

In seconds, another series of cracks assaulted the air. The last two snapped loud and metallic, from the sound of it punching through the roll-up door.

Yes! Yes! Fucking take ‘em down!

August seemed to be aiming for every huge rock and fissure in the ground. The truck canted to one side, and Buckeye’s stomach dropped at the idea of flipping on their side, momentum throwing all those bodies against metal, against each other. No limbs free to brace for impact.

From overhead, a sizzle.

BOOM.

The truck careened.

“Fucking drive! Go! Go!” Wayland’s muffled call came from above the cab.

“I am going! Pay attention!”

What kind of goddamn firepower did they have on this thing? Every one of her muscles clenched tight. Teeth bit into her gag. If she hadn’t already pissed herself in her sleep, it would have happened right then anyway. This shit was why people didn’t drive off into the unpopulated parts of the VT. Where the fuck were they going?

Another rattle of bullets. At least four more struck the cargo box. For the first time, Buckeye was grateful to be lying on the floor.

Then a crash.

Outside, behind them. A rending screech of metal. No more shots.

“Keep going!” Wayland’s voice was closer, but not in the back with the debtors. In the cab again then?

“Who hit ‘em?” August said.

“Fucking vores, man.”

“Fffuuck.”

“Better them than us.”

Buckeye shuddered in the dark. There were reasons she stayed near what counted as civilization in the The Vice. Crossing into those barren stretches of no water, no food … People were made out of meat, too. Just ask the vores.

“One driver,” said August. “I’m still gonna need you in the back.”

“Yeah, let’s just get there already. Fucking alive.”