Ship Breaker (Ship Breaker #1)(41)
Nailer considered. “Don’t only have to go overland.”
“Can’t sail it. Your old man would know a skiff was missing and be after you in no time.”
“I’m not thinking about a skiff.”
Pima stared at him. “Blood and rust.” She shook her head. “No way. You remember Reni? You remember what he looked like afterward? There wasn’t anything left of him. Just meat pieces.”
“He was drunk. We won’t be.”
Pima shook her head. “It’s crazy. You just got your shoulder pulled back together and you want to wreck it again?”
“What are you talking about?” Nita asked.
Nailer didn’t answer her directly. It was possible. It was just possible. “You a good runner, Lucky Girl?” He looked her over. “You got soft skin, but you got any muscles under your skirts? You fast?”
“She’s too soft,” Pima said.
Nita looked at him fiercely. “I can run. I took first in the hundred meter at Saint Andrew’s.”
Nailer smiled at Pima. “Well, then, if Saint Andrew says she can run, then she must be pretty fast.”
Pima shook her head and made a small prayer to the Fates. “Swanks run on funny little tracks against other swanks. They don’t run for their life. They don’t know how.”
“She says she can run.” Nailer shrugged. “I say we let Fates judge.”
Pima glanced at the girl. “You better be as fast as you say, ’cause you only get one chance.”
Nita didn’t blink. “I ran out of chances a long time ago. It’s all Fates now.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to the club, Lucky Girl.” Pima grinned and shook her head. “Welcome to the damn club.”
14
Running or not, they needed to get away from their captors. In whispered conference they made a plan and settled in to wait. It was a fight for Nailer to stay awake. Even though he’d been out for three days, he was still having a hard time keeping his eyes open. The breezes in the trees and the warmth of the night made him sleepy. He put his head down, telling himself he would keep watch. Instead, he slept, woke, and slept again.
Blue Eyes, alert and wide-awake, switched to Tool, who simply sat and stared. Every time Nailer peeked between slitted lids there was Tool, staring back at him with his yellow dog’s eyes, patient as a statue. Finally, Tool stood down to Moby. The skinny bald man settled himself comfortably against a stump and started drinking. He was half reclined and it wasn’t long before he had drunk himself back into his deep slumber, trusting in the shackles and the sleeping forms of young people for his sense of security.
Nailer lay awake, waiting. Glad to still be unrestrained. Even if he wasn’t one of this adult crew, he was one of his father’s and so he had some trust. Between association with his father and their own memories of him as a feverish invalid, he had some wiggle room. He wasn’t a risk in their minds, just a skinny light crew kid recovering from sickness. That was all to the good.
The problem was that Blue Eyes had the keys to the girls’ shackles, and she scared the hell out of him. Nobody who got in with the Life Cult was good news. Novices were always looking for new recruits. And they were always hungry for sacrifices.
As soon as Moby was snoring, Nailer began easing toward where he had seen Blue Eyes bed down. He went slowly, as slowly as any child who has learned to steal at an early age, whose best chance of survival is in silence and remaining unnoticed.
He gripped his duct knife with sweaty fingers, his hand slick with fear. There was no way to search Blue Eyes and find the keys without waking her. The knife felt small and useless in his palm, a toy. This was a necessary thing, but he didn’t have to like it. It wasn’t as if he felt guilty. He didn’t. Blue Eyes had done worse in her time and would do worse in the future. He had seen her torture people who held back on quota, or who fell behind on loans. He had seen her take off a man’s hand for stealing from Lucky Strike, and then watched the man bleed out under her cool blue gaze. And who knew how many beach rats she’d drugged and collected into the mysteries of her church? She was hard and deadly and Nailer had no doubt that if his father asked her to do it, she would kill him and Pima and Lucky Girl, and sleep well afterward.
He didn’t feel guilty.
And yet still, as he stole close, his heart pounded in his chest and the blood thudded in his ears like beach drums. It was the sort of killing that his father would accomplish with quick efficiency. Richard Lopez understood the qualities of kill or be killed intimately, the zero-sum calculations that said it was better to be alive than dead, and he would not have hesitated to take advantage of a sleeping opponent.
Quick and fast, Nailer told himself. Across the throat and be done.
A few years before, his father had made him kill a goat, to show him the method of the knife, to show how a blade pierced flesh and snagged on tendons. Nailer remembered his dad crouching over him, wrapping his fist around Nailer’s own. The goat had lain on its side, legs bound, its sides heaving up and down like a bellows, breath whistling through its nostrils as it sucked its last air. His dad had guided Nailer’s hand, setting the knife against the goat’s jugular.
“Press hard,” he’d said.
And Nailer did as he was told.
Nailer parted the ferns. Blue Eyes lay before him, her breathing gentle. In sleep, her features were smooth, unbitten by the smolder of violence that lurked there otherwise. Her mouth was open. She lay on her belly, arms tucked under her and held close against the relative cool of the night. Nailer said a prayer to the Fates. Her neck wasn’t as exposed as he had hoped. He needed to strike fast. She needed to die immediately.