Page 36 of Mayflower

That gives me enough time to sneak through the back door into the house.

And face-to-face with another guard.

I punch his wide-eyed face before he has a chance to say a word. Another punch in his throat, and his breathing is cut off. A bullet-shot syringe goes into action. It’s dark in the back hall that leads to a long corridor with rooms on each side. So, I drag the body into the shadow in the corner and move on.

The house is lavish but old. There are weapons everywhere—a rifle leaning against the wall, a stack of guns on a bureau.

A door to one dim room is slightly ajar. The light inside comes from multiple computers, illuminating a young guy typing something.

He deserves a syringe just for being here. So, he gets a stab. When his body slumps in the chair, I check out the screens. There are dozens of small windows from camera surveillance in town. I pull the computer cords out, and the screens go black.

Fuck you.

I silently step back into the hallway.

Music comes from the next room. A female squeal comes from a slightly ajar door. I peek in. On a couch, a guy is fucking a girl from behind, his hand fisting her hair, pushing her face into the pillow. He yanks her head up, and she pleads for him to stop, crying, but he shoves her face down again, his hips viciously snapping into her. The sight of his bare ass is something I won’t be able to unsee for a while.

Motherfucker.

When we first started calling the Ashland dwellers Savages, some of the locals were pissed. We heard angry rumors. But what else do you call people who rob and rape and leave children for dead?

I take fast steps toward him and grab a spare pillow.

“Hey!” I draw his attention.

He turns, but before he can say anything, I press the pillow to his face, point the gun at it, and shoot. The gun silencer echoes with a dull bang. He starts falling down onto the girl.

She whimpers and starts pushing him away, shaking and thrashing in disgust.

“Shhh.” I press my forefinger to my mouth. “Quiet. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She kicks the dead guy away, her leg smeared with his blood, and fumbles with her skirt, covering herself up. But her face is angry more than upset. Only then do I notice that she can’t be more than twenty, makeup running down her cheeks, arms bruised and cut up.

“Do you know a guy named Skiba?”

She stares at me with a hostile snarl and quickly wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.

“Guy named Skiba?” I repeat softly. She might be having post-traumatic shock.

But she nods.

“Yeah?” I ask. “Is he in the house?”

She nods then motions with her eyes somewhere deeper in the house.

“Do you know how many men are in the house?”

She swallows. “Maybe ten. Twenty? Many went to the port.” Her voice is super-young and snappy, her dark curly hair a mess.

“For what?”

“Shootout, what else?”

“You’ll stay quiet, yeah?”

She nods.

“I suggest you leave.”

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