Father and I have thirty-seven rehearsed contingency plans, everything ranging from wild dog attacks to flash floods to the (extremely) unlikely event that some psycho somewhere found out how to launch and detonate a nuclear missile. Noise outside the RV is something we’ve had to deal with before; nine times out of ten it’s animals sniffing around, but once in a while it’s a human, and they’re unpredictable at the best of times.
Our movements are fluid and practiced as we get into position. Father glides silently up the top-hatch ladder, holding his rifle by the stock. I get the shotgun from under the bed and press myself flat against the wall next to the door.
Father’s custom ‘periscope’ allows him to monitor the outside from just below the hatch. His cameras feed into a screen he has jury-rigged to the ladder.
One man, he signals. Armed. Wait.
Father opens the hatch painstakingly slowly. He greases it regularly but it still groans once in a while. Thankfully, it does not this time. He lifts himself out of the hatch, preparing to get the jump on the man and force him to throw down his weapon.
Except the latch in front of me turns and suddenly the door is swinging outward. I make a clicking sound, slightly masked by the creaking door, but Father doesn’t seem to hear it. I freeze in place, gripping my gun tightly and holding my breath.
A boot enters first: black, worn, work-boot style, caked with mud and dirt. The man that follows is younger than I expect, probably no older than twenty. His muss of sandy-blonde hair is mostly hidden under a dark toque and his cheeks and chin have a dusting of pale stubble. He’s startlingly good-looking, in fact, and as I try to remain invisible against the wall I find myself hoping we don’t have to kill him. I’m betting his Winchester is loaded.
“The fuck is all this?” he whispers as he gazes around at our abode. His accent is funny and I have to stifle a giggle.
Focus, Regan¸ I think. Check his gear.
He’s surprisingly bundled up, given the mild weather. I see no signs of Kevlar or other armour, but he does have a backpack and a large hunting knife at his belt.
He walks right by me, straight for the CDs I left on my bed.
“Hey!” I blurt out. Shit. As he wheels around I panic, dropping to the floor and kicking his legs out from under him. He falls softly upon the mattress, but I cringe as I hear an unwelcomed crunch of plastic from beneath him. He’s startled, either by the sound or from me tripping him, and his gun goes off.
Whoops, I think. I check my vitals. No holes. It looks like he poked a hole in the ceiling.
“Dad?” I shout as I kick the rifle out of the man’s hands. “Don’t fucking move!” I bark, aiming my shotgun barrel at his midsection. “And get off my CDs!”
“Which one?” he asks urgently. “Don’t move or get off your CDs?”
“Ugh, just get on the floor and put your hands behind your head.”
“Oh fuck, don’t kill me,” he pleads as he follows my instructions. He begins to sob and I suddenly find him less attractive.
“Regan?” Father comes down the ladder to discover that I already have the situation in hand. “Are you ok?”
“I’ve got this, dad.”
“Where’s his gun?”
“Over there,” the guy points to the shelves.
“Don’t you move a muscle,” Father tells him as he picks up the Winchester. “That hole you put in my roof was inches away from being a hole in my dick.” He inspects the weapon. “Except that you need to take better care of your weapons, kid. What kind of amateur scavenger bullshit is this?”
“I’m not a scavenger,” he insists. I lower my shotgun and he relaxes a little, bringing an arm down to wipe tears from his eyes. “I’m a hunter.”
“You’re not likely to find a lot of deer in an RV,” Father quips.
“Sorry. I heard strange sounds. Thought I should investigate.”
“Say ‘sorry’ again,” I tell him.
“I really am sorry, I didn’t know that…”
I giggle. Father shoots me a warning glare.
“What?” the guy asks.
“You say ‘sorry’ weird…I thought it was funny.”
“Any more of you around here?” Father asks. He’s lowered his guard but I can tell he’s still got an eye trained on our captive. He walks over to the crates and grabs his cleaning supplies.
The guy fixes Father with a wary stare. “Where are you from?”
“Nowhere close to here.” Father checks the rifle chamber to ensure it is empty, then begins cleaning the weapon.
“So you’re…not with the League?”
“What’s the League?” Father doesn’t look up from his work.
The man glances at me, looking for a reaction, perhaps, but I shrug.
“You really don’t know about the League?” he decides to sit up. I have my gun pointed to the floor but I refuse to let my guard down completely. He still has the knife.
“Is it a group I should be worried about?”
“Yes. We’ve been fighting them for years.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” I ask.
“The Kawitzen Tribe.”
Father and I glance at each other. This time we both shrug.
“Does your tribe…trade?” I venture.
“Of course we do.”
“Regan,” Father says, a tone of warning present in his voice.
“What?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
Father glances at the man on the floor. “This is not the time to discuss such things.”
“Fine,” I say. I look at our guest. “Would you excuse us for a minute, please? Oh, and don’t touch anything if you want to live. Especially my CDs. And you probably shouldn’t sneak off if you want your rifle back.” I glare at Father and signal the words cockpit, talk, please.
Father is the master of the long-suffering sigh. He follows me to the cab of the RV.
“Tell me, dad, what’s the point of scavenging if we don’t trade with anyone?”
“Knowledge and survival. Besides, we do trade.”
“But never anywhere new.” I throw up my hands. “Never with anyone who could possibly benefit from our knowledge about survival.”
“I’m not getting involved in local warfare, Regan.”
“Nobody’s asking you to!”
He slumps into the driver’s seat and presses a finger and thumb to his temple. “There’s no need to yell.”
“Who cares? That guy probably already thinks we’re crazy.”
“Good. Then we can return to the mainland before we run into trouble here.”
“Ugh.” I stare out the window at the fallen-over power lines snaking across the road. “Have you ever considered the fact that I like meeting new people?”
Father is silent for a moment. “I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry you’re stuck on the road with me. When we get back to Novamerica you can…”
“Don’t be stupid,” I interrupt. “I don’t want to stay anywhere. I just…want you to put your trust in strangers once in a while.”
“You can’t trust anybody, Regan. Not even yourself.”
“Very philosophical, dad. Maybe that’s true, but once in a while, maybe it’s enough to trust that someone else isn’t out to kill you.”
“Fine, Regan. We’ll go trade with his tribe.”
I beam at him, but the smile is short-lived. When I glance back to the rear of the RV, the stranger is nowhere to be found.
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