Apocalypsis 03 - Exodus

get a better look when the sound of sliding gravel distracted me. I turned in time to see the black muzzle of a gun pointed at my face. I followed it up to the hand holding it and then to the arm leading to the face. It was a guy, one of the slavedrivers if I wasn’t mistaken, about fifteen years old with sparse patches of hair playing at being a beard on his face.
    I took Winky’s hand and squeezed it hard twice before doing a pushup and standing with my back to the car.
    “You too,” he said, gesturing with his gun at Winky.
    She stood, glancing at me nervously.
    “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll shoot you both if either one of you does anything I don’t like.”
    I was too busy praying that none of our friends would come after us right now to think of anything to say. Winky also wisely kept quiet.
    “Come with me,” he said, backing up a few steps and waving the gun to our right, telling us to move around the car and join the slavedrivers at the tree.
    “Well, that went well,” mumbled Winky under her breath. We were walking in front of the guy with the gun, taking the smallest steps possible, trying to prolong our journey and work out a plan.
    “What are we gonna do?” I whispered.
    “Kick ass,” Winky said quietly.
    “Stop talking!” said the guy behind us. “Just walk!”
    I put my hands up in a surrender position while looking over my shoulder. “What’s your name?”
    “None of your business,” he said, trying to sound tough.
    “Mine’s Bryn. This is Winky.”
    “Shut up, I don’t care.”
    “Where are you guys from?” I asked.
    The guy walked quickly to close the gap between us, jabbing me hard in the spine with his gun. “Shut up, or I’m going to shoot you in the fucking head!”
    I pressed my lips together, trying to control the panic that wanted to well up and take over my mind. I had to stay clear, keep it together. My plan to humanize us to this guy so he’d have a harder time killing us wasn’t working. We were nearly to the tree now, so I put my plan-making on hold. I had to focus on being ready to make a move whenever the opportunity presented itself. I snuck a glance at Winky and she nodded once, just enough for me to see it. She’s ready too. Time to kick some slavedriver butts.
    As we approached, one of the other guys stood immediately. The other two were sleeping, their backs to us.
    “Look who I found creeping around up on the road.”
    I looked at the kids who were all tied together. Two of them were staring at us open-mouthed. The other was sleeping and even the talking wasn’t waking her up. They were all girls, which had been hard to see from a distance because their hair had been chopped off to what might have been shoulder-length if it hadn’t been so full of knots. They were dirty, bone-thin, and their clothes were ragged to the point of being almost useless. I compared them to the slavedrivers who all looked well-fed and clothed in newish stuff, and it made me furious.
    “Who the hell is this?” said the smaller guy, taking a few steps until he was just feet away from us.
    “How the hell do I know? They were hiding behind that car up there.”
    “Were they alone?”
    “They’re all I saw.”
    The guy stepped closer to us, eyeing us carefully. He looked at Winky and jerked his chin up at her. “You one of them indian kids?”
    “No.”
    “You sure look indian to me,” he said.
    “I’m not from India.”
    If she had just come right out and said he was an ignorant ass, it couldn’t have been more clear what she thought of him.
    “Ha, ha, that’s fuckin’ funny. You know what I meant, bitch.” He stepped over and slapped her hard in the face. “Answer my question and don’t be a smartass about it. Are you one-a-them indian kids or not?”
    “Like I said, I’m not …”
    He slapped her again before she could get the rest of the sentence out. “I can do this all damn day if you want.”
    “Don’t!” yelled one of the slave girls.
    He whipped around and pointed at her. “Shut. The fuck. Up! I told you before! No one wants to hear your shit!” He turned back to us. “So. Are you? Or are you not? One of those indian bitches?”
    “She is,” I said hurriedly. “She an indian. A Native American from north of here. Near Orlando. We’re both from there.”
    “You ain’t no indian,” he said, scoffing at me.
    “No, I’m not.” And neither is she, douchebag. I kept my thoughts to myself, my mind racing, trying to figure out