Page 9 of Gunslinger Girl
Finn gave an approving nod. “I suppose you can. Serendipity Jones… Can’t say I hate it.”
Pity repeated the name in her head as she tightened her finger on the trigger. Briefly, it was almost like her mother stood behind her, as she’d done years ago.
Inhale, aim. Exhale, shoot.
She pulled the trigger. The can flew off the rock and disappeared in the grass.
The world turned from light to dark as they ate. Stars appeared, and when the chill settled in, they huddled back-to-back beneath blankets, staring at the endless pinpricks of light.
“Pretty,” said Finn.
“Mmm-hmm.” Beneath Pity’s pillow was the hard, comforting outline of her mother’s guns.
Finn shifted, turning over so that she spoke to the back of Pity’s neck. “When we get to the cities… we’re gonna be okay, y’know? We’ll figure it out together.”
Pity turned as well. The fire had burned so low that Finn was hardly more than a darker piece of the night, but Pity could sense the weight of her and pick the faint scent of machine oil out of the air. “I’m sorry to fuss. I know we will. Like you said, can’t be any worse than what we left behind, right?”
“Right. G’night.”
“’Night.” Pity pulled the blanket tighter and pushed her fearful thoughts away. They didn’t matter, not right then. Because as she felt Finn’s warmth beside her, listened to her friend’s breaths grow slower and more rhythmic with sleep, she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so hopeful.
Icy water tickled Pity’s ankles as she dipped the mouth of the canteen into the stream. The midmorning sun warmed her shoulders and danced across the ripples as a faint breeze sent the leaves whispering. Earlier, she had woken to a sunrise that felt unfamiliar, like a sight she had never seen before. It had taken her a while to figure out why.
Pity closed her eyes. This is what it is, she thought, to be outside the cage.
This was what it felt like to be free.
A twig cracked.
She opened her eyes and spun, drawing her gun in the same movement.
Downstream, a turkey strutted out of the brush. It took a few jagged steps, stopped, and considered Pity.
She considered it right back.
“You’d make a good meal, Mr. Turkey.” She aimed for the loose red flesh of the bird’s neck. “But Finn’s probably done packing camp by now, and I don’t feel like taking the time to dress you.” She slid the gun back into her holster.
On the shore, she pulled on her boots and started up the steep bank of the stream. The thick undergrowth tugged at her clothes as she navigated it, retracing her steps until she reached where the trees thinned.
Mid-step, she froze.
Something was different.
When Pity left the camp, Finn had been whistling a cheerful tune that didn’t quite match the song it was supposed to be. Now that sound was gone, replaced by one she knew too well: engines.
Motorcycles. She dropped the canteens and ducked into the brush. More than one.
Was it possible? Could her father have found them already? No, he wouldn’t be back at the commune yet. Had Rawley raised the alarm, then? Her throat tightened, but it still didn’t ring true—she and Finn had taken a wandering route, and the Ranger left hardly more trail than a bobcat.
She inched forward through the brush, a single thought pounding in time with her heart.
Finn.
By the time she reached the edge of the tree line, another distinct rumble could be heard. Fifty paces away, beyond where the Ranger sat, a truck rattled up to join the two motorcycles that flanked their camp. A man jumped from its cab and joined the dismounted riders. Beside the remains of the fire, Finn stood, stiff-backed. She took a few cautious paces backward as the men approached.
Trembling, Pity cursed silently. Her rifle leaned against the side of the Ranger.
“Mornin’!” one of the men called out, his voice carrying to where Pity hid.
