ONE

The Mojave Desert, near a town called Goodsprings

June 20th

01:36

Waking up to a darkness, darker still than the surrounding night. Wrists held together, by ropes, or what feels like ropes. Aching knees from a kneeling position. Aching head from a heavy blow.

How did I get here?

Still kneeled, the sound of something scraping the earth… a shovel? Unable to see, something covering the head. Forced to rely on hearing. A click, followed by the noise of flint striking steel… a zippo lighter? Sound of lips blowing out smoke and lighter being flicked closed confirm it. Trying to move, but dizzy and nauseous.

"Our little birdie's waking up." A voice. Cruel and evil.

Again the sound of cigarette smoke being blown out. Then another voice. Less hard and rugged. More cultivated, sounding smooth and suave. "Take the bag off."

"Be easier if we do it like this," the cruel voice said.

"I'm callin' the shots here," the other voice replied. "Maybe you Khans don't look people in the eye when they do 'em in, but I got more class and respect than that. Take the bag off."

Sound of feet moving closer. Pulling sensation as the bag gets pulled off.

Even though it was night time, the girl still had to blink against what little light there was. Three people stood in front of her. One bearded, scruffy-looking, and leaning on a shovel. The one with the cruel voice. The second was female, with dark skin and hair shaven into two parallel mohawks, standing out sideways on her head. She held the bag that had covered the girl's head loosely by her side, as if ashamed to be holding it. Both of them wore sleeveless leather jackets with the emblem of a raging, helmeted skull proudly displayed on them.

The third was the owner of the more cultured voice. It matched his appearance: clean-shaven, well-groomed, hair neatly combed into a side-split. He slid his lighter back into the breast pocket of his black-and-white checkered suit and took another drag from his cigarette. The smoke reflected the glare of the two battery-powered halogen lights.

"Heya, kiddo."

The bearded man grinned and added his own, "Hi there girl." The woman said nothing, looking away.

What the Hell was going on here?

The man in the checkered suit sighed, long and dramatically, as if carrying a heavy burden. "I hate to have to do this to you, kiddo, but that thing you were carryin'… I had to have it, no matter the cost."

What had she been carrying? A small box, right. Didn't weigh much. She hadn't looked what was in it, she never did. Being a courier meant being trusted with other people's items and she never violated that trust. But what could possibly have been so important? Her mind was hazy, she couldn't even remember who'd hired her.

From his other jacket pocket, the man in the checkered suit produced a small, shiny object. A coin? She tried to make out what it was, but it was too far away, and her vision was still blurring and doubling from the blow to her head. Her head and knees throbbed, one from being hit hard, the other from her weight resting on them. She tried to shift, but found she was tied to something immovable – her fingertips told her it was made of stone, whatever it was.

"It's a poker chip, in case you're having trouble making it out from down there," the man explained. "But not just any poker chip. This thing, this little platinum chip, is going to change the entire world."

He dropped the chip back into his jacket pocket and held out his hand toward the female standing next to him.

"Do we really have to do this?" the woman asked. It was the first time she'd spoken. She had a strange accent, one the girl on the ground couldn't immediately place. "She's like, what, sixteen? Just a kid. Isn't there any other way?"

"Fraid not, pussycat," the man in the checkered suit replied, sounding genuinely sad.

"I just think we should – "

"I paid you enough," he insisted, more sternly now. "This has to be done. Bit too late in the game for a bleedin' heart."

Resigned, the woman gave him what he'd asked for. The heart of the girl on the ground raced as she saw it, its form instantly clearing her head and shaking her out of her dizziness. Determined, the man's fingers took hold of the grip of the pistol.

Struggling for words, the girl on the ground could stammer no more than, "Hey wh… I didn't… I haven't…"

The man nodded solemnly. "I know. Believe me, it ain't nothing personal. This is strictly business. I'm sure you're a good kid, and I hate to have to do this, but it's a case of wrong place, wrong time."

"Listen, I – "

He shook his head. "No talkin'. Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

The barrel of the pistol was pointed at her, a black hole eager and greedy to swallow her. The girl's heart beat like mad, her throat completely dry, tears blurring her vision. Her bladder felt like it was going to empty itself then and there. Her eyes briefly went to the female with the mohawks, but she again looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

"Don't start crying on me, girl," the man with the pistol said gently. "Hang tough, be brave, alright?"

Without realizing why, she did as she was told, setting her jaw and breathing furiously through her nose, facing her executioner and his weapon, her tears making streaks in the dirt of her face, but no longer clouding her eyes. She was going to die here, only two days after her sixteenth birthday, shot for a package she didn't even know the importance of. She'd never know why, or what she'd done to deserve this. This man was not going to come back on his decision. Nothing she could say or do would make him change his mind. His eyes confirmed it – he was going to kill her, and all she had left, the only thing she still had control over, was her own bravery. Her lip trembled and her entire body shook, but she kept her eyes fixed on his.

"Atta girl," he said. "You're a trooper. Wish we'd met under different circumstances. Hell, we even could have been friends. Hat's off to you." He tipped an imaginary hat with his other hand.

"Goodbye, unknown unlucky wasteland girl."

There was a bang, and then no more.