Busted Flush

Momma? thought Avender.

Ave, my darling! Give me a kiss.

Momma, he thought, I don’t feel very well.

Niobe’s heart felt like it had been punctured with an icicle.

No. No, no, no no no no no. Not now.

Avender popped out of his egg. The boy was slender and beautiful, covered in fine golden hair, though missing one hand. He took a step toward his mother. “Mom,” he said. “I lo—” It trailed off into a gurgle. He toppled over, clutched his stomach, then melted.

His sister Agatha also drew the Black Queen.

Niobe was still crying beside the puddles when Drake returned.

West Texas was the platonic ideal of hot, arid desolation. No people, no cars, just scrubland and dirt. It felt downright post-apocalyptic. Which, given what Niobe had seen of Pyote, wasn’t so far from the truth.

They’d been walking since before midnight. A band of pink on the eastern horizon limned the gray sky; sunrise in the offing. The nascent day felt bright as noon to Niobe’s dark-adapted eyes. When she stumbled over a snag of sagebrush or a dry streambed, it was from exhaustion.

They walked through a field, parallel to the highway but roughly fifty yards away, so that they wouldn’t be seen. Not that it mattered—they hadn’t seen a car all night.

Water sloshed in the near-empty bottle when she went to take a swig. Dawn twisted through the thin plastic, forming a little hourglass-shaped spot of light on Niobe’s blouse. Two swigs left, at most.

She called ahead to where Drake trudged through the field. “Here. Finish off the water.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down.

“Hey, Drake. I’m talking to you.”

The only sound from Drake was the scraping of his tennis shoes on hard-packed soil as he stepped around a creosote bush.

Niobe raised her voice. “You could have the courtesy to pretend to listen. I’m trying to help you, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Drake was becoming increasingly sullen. He’d withdrawn into himself again. They hadn’t spoken about it, but clearly the Black Queen clutch had demolished his hopes.

Hers, too. She’d keep Drake alive as long as she could, though without help that wouldn’t be long at all. In the meantime a little cooperation would have been nice. Maybe even a “thanks” now and then.

The bitterness receded as quickly as it had washed over her, leaving in its wake a profound shame. She hoped it was exhaustion making her feel this way. Resentful. Irritable. Or maybe she wasn’t as maternal as she liked to think.

She picked up her pace, drew even with Drake after a few strides. “Drink this,” she said, holding the bottle under his nose.

“Yeah. Okay.” She studied him while he unscrewed the cap and drained the bottle. His sunburn didn’t appear to be getting any worse. They’d swiped a tube of aloe vera lotion and some SPF 45 sunscreen from the farmhouse.

Something twinkled on the horizon. Then it disappeared. Then a flash and another twinkle. It came from where the highway receded into the distance.

“Car coming,” she said.

Drake shrugged. He tossed the empty bottle aside. He knew better than that—they might be able to refill their bottles, if they got lucky. He was giving up; the decision manifested in countless little gestures, actions, evasions.

She examined the glint on the horizon. For all she knew, it was a cop or state trooper. But this death march was killing them just as surely as SCARE would. Sleeping in ditches all day, walking all night . . . It had to stop.

The car was closer now, a rapidly growing blob of red and silver visible through the haze. It was still the only car in either direction.

“Stay here,” she said. “Keep yourself hidden.”

Niobe took a deep breath, then half jogged across the field to the middle of the two-lane highway. Her ankle screamed in pain, but she ignored it as best she could. She stopped, facing the oncoming car.

Drake hunched down behind a bush. He called, “What are you doing?”

“We need a ride.” The white-noise hiss of tires on asphalt reached her ears. Niobe swallowed, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “Stay hidden, Drake.”

She could see it more clearly now. A rounded, burgundy-colored thing bearing down on her. No lights on top, though with Niobe’s luck it would probably turn out to be an unmarked cop car. Or SCARE.

Niobe raised her arms, palms out, toward the approaching vehicle. The car’s shape became apparent in the rapidly closing distance. She recognized it from television commercials she’d seen back at BICC. A gas/electric hybrid. That makes sense, I guess. The question was whether or not the driver could see her.

The car didn’t slow down. She waved her arms.

Closer. Louder. Niobe clenched her eyes shut when she could hear the whine of the engine.

The road noise lessened, the engine relaxed. Niobe cracked one eye open. The car was rolling to a halt.