Chapter 3: A Single Bullet

Besides Papa and Old Man Ambrose, I don’t know any of these transgressors. We stand like statues, most gripping the railing as Lord Solomon’s airship descends. I study their faces—hard as desert stone, hiding secrets I wish I could read. These aren’t ordinary criminals. Take the woman beside me, the only other female here. She’s no tight-laced housewife—tattoos writhe across her nut-brown skin, and a scar pulls one side of her mouth into a permanent, unnerving grin.

I wonder what landed her here. Murder? Theft from Solomon himself? Her eyes catch mine, hard with an effortless, almost instinctive glare—and I look away.

Though I might not know them, I’m sure some know me. Double proths are rare in Coghaven, and mine tend to draw attention. If not for the mechanized legs themselves, then for the ever-changing artwork adorning their plates. At least I’ve always been careful to hide their true capabilities. Papa made sure of that—no one could ever know about my abilities.

Not that reputation means anything here, I think grimly as the airship’s engines wind down. In the Dread Wastes, only physical prowess and pure, remorseless brutality matter.

The ship shudders to a halt, hovering just above the sunbaked earth. I turn away as gusts of sand billow upward, but still manage to inhale a mouthful of grit. Papa pats my back as I cough.

“Stay close,” he mutters. “And stick to what we talked about.”

I nod, wiping sand from my eyes as Atwood shoves a gangly transgressor down the ramp.

“Let’s go!” he roars, motioning us forward. “Move it! Everyone out!”

I steal glances at the others as we shuffle forward. None look as afraid as I feel—though they must be hiding it too. Hidden in the press of our sweating, stinking bodies, Papa finds my hand and squeezes. A ghost of a smile crosses my face. It will end well, I promise myself. It must end well.

Old Man Ambrose and another transgressor—a short, plump man who’s been red-faced and sweating for the past hour—are the only others with leg proths. Had them, rather. Now they hobble down the ramp, arms windmilling for balance. I feel a surge of gratitude for still having both my legs. It might mean the difference between death and survival.

The ship jolts suddenly, listing to one side just as the first transgressor reaches the scorched sand. Ambrose and the plump man, only halfway down, lose their footing and tumble into a tangled heap. The rest of us yelp and clutch the railing.

Laughter ripples along the balcony above as the ship steadies itself. Teeth clenched, I glare at the Royals lounging there, sipping their kiju, waiting for their entertainment to begin. I hate them all. Entitled, self-righteous plugtails who think life’s a game and Plebs their pawns. If Atwood’s blunderbuss wasn’t trained on us, I’d be up there in a heartbeat, drowning them in their precious kiju.

“Keep moving!” Atwood bellows, shoving another transgressor forward. “Solomon’s mercy, we don’t have all day!”

Grabbing Papa’s hand, I jump from the airship. The sand burns hotter than expected, searing my palms. Cursing, I stagger upright and pull Papa away as the ship lurches again. Behind us, the remaining transgressors either jump or fall into the scorching earth.

“Remember,” Atwood shouts, brandishing his blunderbuss, “if anyone moves before I give the signal, I put a bullet in his head!” His grin widens. “Or her head, for y’two gentle-ladies.”

I glower at him as the ship lifts away, but Papa’s nudge reminds me there are more pressing concerns than hating Royals. Right. This is the Dread Wastes—eat or be eaten.

Papa hurries to help Old Man Ambrose up, and together we back away from the others. I study our potential adversaries as we retreat.

Except for one hulking bruiser standing over twenty hands high, they’re all average size—which still means bigger than me. Not that it matters. I could outrun any of them, probably defeat them hand-to-hand too. But I won’t. Fighting means revealing my enhanced proths, and that would earn me a chest full of protector bullets. Besides, I refuse to dance for their entertainment.

Still, knowing who I’m up against matters. By the time the airship leaves, half of us will be dead. The survivors might come after us. I need to be ready.

The bruiser is clearly the most dangerous. His jaw’s like a brick, fists look capable of beating a baldagaar bloody. But it’s more than that. His eyes carry enough cockiness for ten men—and not empty arrogance either. He’s fought before, knows what he’s doing.

Next threatening are two men who look like brothers. Not big, but their squat frames hold a dangerous strength I want to avoid. They laugh and jostle each other, picking themselves up. Fighting together, they’ll be lethal.

And they will fight together. Their grins and familiar rough-housing show their closeness. They won’t turn on each other. That makes them a serious threat.

Then there’s the narrow-faced man with furtive eyes—tall but lanky. He’ll go down quick in a fistfight, but those intelligent eyes mark him as a survivor. He’ll last longer than most expect.

The rest seem unremarkable. Some are strong, others born bullies, but they’re not killers. Not yet.

The airship glides a short distance away and hovers. Following Atwood’s warning, all thirteen of us stand frozen as the wind whips our hair, mocking the tension.

Four tankards and four weapons tumble from the ship’s railing. Through the heat waves, I make out three rusty foot-long blades and one mean-looking wooden mallet. I glance at Papa and Ambrose, remembering our agreement. No fighting for supplies. It would be suicide, especially for Ambrose with his missing leg.

Papa nods reassuringly, but sweat beads on his forehead. Just the heat? No. He’s afraid too—probably more for me than himself.

“Transgressors!” Atwood calls from the deck. “You know the rules! When I fire a shot, the game is on! Do whatever is necessary to ensure your survival. Nothing is illegal. Do you understand me? You each have the water pouch Lord Solomon gave you, extravagantly merciful as always.”

I clutch my pouch tighter, scowling. Let the Wastes swallow Solomon and his thrice-blasted mercy. When I return to Eden and expose his frauds, he’ll be the one begging for mercy.

“Other than your water pouches,” Atwood continues, “these weapons and tankards are your only aid!” He gestures to the items below. “They separate life from death out here, so take what you can! Remember, the death of others means your survival! Forget mercy—let it stay with Lord Solomon in Eden! In the Dread Wastes, mercy does not exist!” His words slice through the shimmering air like knife blades. “So fight! Fight like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do—because for most of you, it is!”

The Royals cheer, thumping chests and clapping. My hatred resurges, boiling through my veins in time with my heartbeat. I wish they were down here. I wish it was them I could kill, not these strangers.

Fear among the transgressors bubbles over into aggression. They jostle and shove, fighting for position. One shot from Atwood’s weapon will start the slaughter, and they know every step matters. One step ahead could mean the difference between gripping a blade or bleeding into the sand.

Every instinct screams at me to shoulder my way forward, to prepare to fight instead of run. But no—we have an agreement, Papa, Old Man Ambrose, and me. If I fight, either I die or they do. Hissing under my breath with fear and nervousness—but mostly irritation—I hold my ground.

Moving slowly to avoid attention, Papa and I help Ambrose further from the crowd. No one else retreats; they’re all fixated on the supplies. The Royals will get their show, I suppose.

“One last thing!” Atwood stands at a gap in the railing, holding his blunderbuss overhead like some sacred relic. “For the last citizen left standing here below the ship, Lord Solomon has declared one final mercy: this blunderbuss, with a single bullet in the chamber! To whomever this goes, use it as you see fit. But remember, you only have one bullet. So, choose wisely. You can take down one of your fellow transgressors here and now.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “You can save it for a baldagaar—or save it for yourself.”

His bloodthirsty smile sweeps across the wasteland. To the north, a ragged line of mountains rises from the undulating heat waves. In all other directions, there’s nothing but shimmering sand and rock, desolate valleys, and the white line of the horizon wavering between.

Atwood lowers his voice. “In a few days, you may be begging for a swift and painless end.”

In a few days, I mutter behind closed lips, Lord Solomon may be begging for a swift and painless end.

One of the Royals steps forward, raising a jewel-encrusted goblet that twinkles in the sunlight. “To Lord Solomon the Merciful!”

The others clamor over one another, thrusting their goblets skyward. “To Lord Solomon the Merciful! May his mercy endure forever!”

Their chant shatters with the blast of Atwood’s blunderbuss firing into the sky.