Page 35 of Mayflower

12

RAVEN

The whole block before the building I intend to infiltrate is teeming with life. Bonfires are burning. Lights are lit up in buildings. Safari jeeps, trucks, and quads are scattered around—Butcher must’ve confiscated every vehicle in this town for his gang.

Men are everywhere. Drinking. Smoking. Fighting. Grilling food. Music is blasting from a speaker. They spit on the ground, smash bottles against the nearby buildings, shoot guns for fun like they own this town. Lowlifes—they are trashing and destroying what they own. It’s a sign of a broken society.

I still in the shadows, my back against the cold side of some house, gun in my hand as I take in the street and every man on it. I have a baseball hat on and a dark bandana over my mouth. I look like them. I will act like them, too. I could probably stroll past them without notice. But I won’t do that. There’s a better way. They are drunk. They are careless. And—that’s the universal truth for the under-the-influence pack mentality—they are always ready for a fight, one of those mindless, void-of-calculation brawls, the violent reflex that often spins out of control.

I pick up an empty beer bottle off the ground and flick my eyes to the second-floor balcony across the street. A guy is smoking there, a bottle in his hand. An AK hangs around his neck, resting on his beer belly. Always a toxic combo—booze, guns, violence.

Perfect.

I shouldn’t miss. Better not miss. I hold my breath, swing my arm, and toss the bottle at him.

One sure thing about humans is that their behavior is predictable.

The bottle hits the guy. What does he do? He is a thug, so naturally, he blurts, “Da fuck?” and fires a gun in the air.

His buddies downstairs jump off their trucks and benches and turn to him.

Radios start beeping. The thug on the balcony answers one of them, looks down over the railing, and shouts, “Knock it off before I smash your teeth in!”

The guys on the street below him laugh and relax.

But that’s not a childish trick I just pulled off. It’s a sign for Shepherd and his men.

A blast rocks the town several blocks away from me. A bright orange flash illuminates the air behind the buildings. The plan works as it’s supposed to—the stupid guards all haul into their vehicles and, hooting, take off in that direction.

I skip across the street unnoticed and walk between the buildings.

What I am about to do is a mass killing. But the men who chose to side with Butcher deserve it. They committed multiple crimes. They killed. They raped. Like my former foster parent, they created fucked up “demands.” I think of the little girls in Candy’s bunker, hiding from those men, and nothing—no fucking law in the world—can justify forgiving them.

So, I will get rid of as many of them as possible. Zion unlocked my capacity for violence. It’s not meaningless. It’s protection.

Roses are red. Violets are blue. So are bruises. So is the paralyzing agent in my bullet syringes.

A guy with a rifle across his back is taking a piss in the alley between the buildings. Silently, like a panther, I approach from behind, choke him out with my arm around his neck, and press one of the bullets to his neck vein. Several jerks and the guy’s limp body silently goes down onto the floor.

Another two guards are chatting at the corner. “Hey,” I say approaching. Face punch. The other guy gets an elbow cut and presses his hands to his face as he falls to his knees. I press the bullet to the other guy’s neck. Down. I do the same to the other. One more down.

My wound throbs sharply from the physical strain, but it feels good to be back in action.

There are several guys by the doors to the two-story mansion, the “headquarters.” They are more aware, not drinking but chatting quietly.

I crouch around the building. There must be a back door.

Sure enough, a group of three thugs lounges in the backyard. Two girls are with them. Young, maybe in their twenties-thirties.

Fuck.

The girls laugh as they sit on the men’s laps, and those might be Candy’s girls. I can’t afford collateral damage.

But Shepherd was smart. Gotta give credit to street mentality. I crouch behind the bushes to the far-end corner of the backyard and look for a straight shot between the trees on the opposite side of the yard. Firecrackers sure come handy. I light one and throw it as far as possible to the other side of the backyard, behind the trees. Then light another and do the same.

They go off with a loud crack.

“What the fuck?” comes a snap from one of the guys. The other two push the girls roughly off their laps, and all three jump off their seats and start walking to the back of the backyard, guns in their hands.

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