Page 6 of Gunslinger Girl
Morning dew still clung to the grass as Pity gingerly climbed the back steps. At the door she paused, senses straining for the sound of her father’s voice, his footsteps, his presence. When it opened suddenly, she jumped, but it was only Henry.
“You can come on in. Daddy’s gone.” He clutched a mug of coffee. “And pissed, with dirty gear to boot. I suspect you got one last good thumping when he gets back.”
“You gonna pretend you care?” Pity pushed past him into the kitchen. From the table, Billy gave her an oatmeal-specked grin. “You swallow whatever you’re about to say, Billy Scupps. I ain’t in the mood!”
The smile faded. Pity stared him down as he struggled for a retort—Billy had never been particularly quick—but in the end he scowled and went back to his breakfast.
“Where have you been?” said Henry, as if he didn’t know the answer.
“Finn’s.”
“She must be heartbroken.” Billy shoveled another spoonful into his mouth. “Did she cry when you told her?”
Pity was halfway to the table before she stopped herself. Upending the bowl onto Billy’s head would mean he’d have to wash. Get rid of them, she thought, just get rid of them.
“You know what your problem is?” Henry came up behind her, so close that icy wariness rippled over her skin. “You got too much fight in you. Think you’d know better by now.” He went over to Billy and slapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late.”
Billy sneered at Pity as he and Henry grabbed their rifles and disappeared out the door.
The instant they were gone, a keen impatience shivered through her. It was sheer will that forced her to sit at the table and wait a few minutes in case they came back. On the wall, a small display screen—one of the few luxuries her father allowed—quietly broadcast the daily news update. Pity stared at the front door, paying only passing attention to the coverage: a new trade pact signed with the African Unification, the narrowing field of the upcoming presidential election. Above the display screen, the hands of the clock crept forward at an agonizing pace.
At last, she couldn’t wait any longer.
Their plan was simple: head for the Trans-Rail, keeping away from the main roads, and pick it up a few stops past where anyone might be looking for them. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she went upstairs, dug out her mother’s old pack, and filled it with clothes, her meager stash of currency, and her good knife. Downstairs, she packed a week’s worth of food and water purification tablets.
After that, there was only one task left, one thing she couldn’t leave behind.
Well, two.
Her heartbeat turned from a dull throb to a pounding drum as she fingered the cutting tool in her pocket.
It’s now or never.
She went back upstairs. This time she entered her father’s room, pushing the door open with the tips of her fingers. It creaked like a coffin lid. A long chest sat tucked between the bed and the wall. She wrapped her hand around its steel padlock, hesitating.
After this, there was no turning back. Even if she chickened out and managed to replace the lock, she knew her father would somehow realize what she’d done.
She flicked a switch, and the cutting tool flared to life. A moment later, the lock banged to the floor. On the top shelf of the chest was one of her father’s spare rifles, which she placed on the floorboards beside her. They would need it, but it wasn’t what she was after. She continued searching until she found the box, buried at the very bottom.
Hands trembling, she placed it on her lap.
Inside, on a bed of red velvet, lay two shining revolvers. Modeled after guns from a time long gone, their chased metal barrels gleamed, contrasting with the black ebony grips inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl. Only six shots each but deadly accurate.
A lump formed in her throat. The last time she saw these weapons her mother had still been alive. When she picked one up, it was as familiar as pulling on a pair of old boots. The guns had been a gift to her mother from the remnants of the United Patriot Front, who had fielded the fiercest guerrilla fighters in living memory but lost the war anyway. They were also the only things her mother had brought with her to the 87th, save the clothes on her back.
And Pity had no intention of leaving them behind.
She pulled out an old gun belt and wrapped them in it before grabbing the rifle and as much ammo as she could carry. Then she bundled the whole lot in a blanket, not bothering to close the gun chest. She wanted her father to have no doubts about what had happened when he arrived home. The bedroom door she made sure to shut, though; letting her brothers make the discovery would be a waste of a good surprise.
At the back door, she took one last glance around the kitchen, trying to muster a happy memory, one good thought to attach to the house she’d spent her entire life in. The specter of her mother surfaced, bringing a holiday dinner to the table. She smiled down at Pity, eyes bigger and browner in memory than in real life as she placed a bowl of mashed potatoes in front of her daughter. Pity had reached for them. Years later, she could still feel the grind of bones in her wrist as her father grabbed it.
“You will wait for grace,” he had said.
Pity picked up her pack and strode out the door.
“Aw c’mon, Rawley.” Finn flashed the smile she saved for when she was getting what she wanted, come hell or high water. “We’re not going far. Just a little ride and a picnic to celebrate her maiden voyage.”
Rawley stuck a finger under his hat and scratched. “I don’t know. Lester say it was all right?”
