Moonlit Retribution

Chapter Twenty-One

Soon, the old Victorian house looms on the horizon and, once again, my stomach clenches with nerves, and my arms and legs twitch because I’m so anxious. A group of armed men has gathered around the cellar doors, as well as the front porch, milling about like worker ants. This shouldn’t be the case. We aren’t as reclusive as Rigs people, but we don’t make big outings in such large groups. There must be over fifteen men out and about--almost half of our entire population. All carrying weapons.

My muscles tense and quiver as nervous adrenaline spikes through my blood stream. Mella eyes me in half worry, half irritation. “Just let me do the talking,” she says stonily. “We’ll keep the trailer in the woods for now. They don’t need to know about it. So long as we let Nolan know, he’ll take care of it.”

I snap my eyes to hers, suddenly overwrought with the foreboding sense that this is the end. “What if they hurt Lurk for this?” I ask stupidly, feeling like a child.

Cocking her brow, she says oddly, “Lurk? Who’s--”

“I mean Nolan!” I hiss quietly. Some of the men have turned their attention to our part of the woods, and even though we’re shrouded in dense vegetation, we aren’t far enough from them that they can’t hear us if they’re listening closely. Which they probably are.

“They wouldn’t have any reason to kill him,” she says hesitantly. Measuring her words, it sounds like. “We’re the ones out here in the thick of things while he’s away in the lab, unaware of our intentions.”

“But what if they peg him with a guilt-by-association type thing? If either of us makes contact with him, he’s guilty.” I realize that my nervousness is both irritating and irrational, but there is no stopping my hysterics once I’m this submerged in them. It used to drive my mom insane.

“We’ll figure it out, alright?” she snaps, not unlike my mother. “Now stop whining and let me think.”

I turn away, watching as the group seems to face the woods in one movement and scan them. They quietly discuss something in a tone that’s out of my hearing range.

Mella is also aware of their doings. Turning to me, she says, “Follow my lead.”

I feel like pointing out that I’ve heard that line about 200 times in movies and it never works out well for the characters, but she’s already flouncing through the bushes with a business-like air. I quickly follow, not wanting to face a line of firearms by myself, right at her heels as we break through the vegetation and enter the overgrown plot of land.

Guns of all forms snap to our figures, but no one shoots. This is either to conserve ammunition for something that’s actually dangerous, or because they don’t know what we have done yet.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Mella greets crisply. A few of the guys lower their weapons at Mella’s imposing tone, but most keep them at the ready.

“Where’s Andy?” a burly guy says brusquely. He’s got tangled blonde hair and what looks like chicken pox scars on his cheeks. The features are distinctive enough that I recognize him, but I don’t know his name. Something like Elliot, maybe.

“I assume you are aware of the death of one of our companions. Andy and Antonio had gone to retrieve the body, and I came along to examine the traps.”

I want to stop her, because it seems like she’s giving out more information than the man had asked for. It sounds suspicious, even to me. Discreetly, I poke her side to get her attention, but she continues on.

“They asked us to go back just so we wouldn’t have to watch. Honestly,” she scoffs, “you would think the man would realize by now that I’ve seen more blood and guts than he has.