Pretty Vicious is a short story set in the post-apocalyptic Wastelanders universe, about a young woman on the run in a lawless, post-nuclear America. In a lawless, post-nuclear wasteland, Dolly lives in relative comfort working as a prostitute. She's got food and shelter, which is more than most have, but she wants to step out of the frying pan and into the fire, to break free and risk life on her own in the wastes. She escapes with a gun, a knife, and the clothes on her back. She has no knowledge of how to survive in the outside world, but anything will be better than the half-numb life she's leading. But Dolly soon learns she'll have to become as vicious as the wastes around her if she is to make her way alone in the darkness. "A full throttle, sand-in-your-eyes, no holds barred ride through a Mad Max-style wasteland." -- Delilah S. Dawson on Bite
Release date:
December 12, 2017
Publisher:
Orbit
Print pages:
33
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They take my gun but not my knife. The knife stays tucked away in its makeshift sheath beneath my shirt, pressed tightly against my skin. One knife versus six faces forming a half circle around me and six pairs of hands clutching rusty weapons. The closest man hangs his crowbar on his belt and starts to tie my wrists in front of me, but I don’t look at him or the one who steals my flask and takes a long, greedy gulp.
Instead, I watch the one who discards his iron pipe in favor of my gun. I hate the sight of his grubby fingers touching it. That gun is the most important thing I have. The other girls risked everything to steal it for me. My eyes follow the weapon, my chest tightening, but I don’t let my face betray anything. I know how men are; fear and anger feed them. I learned a long time ago to hide the things I don’t want to share—and with these people, I’ll share nothing.
“What are we gonna do with her?” asks the one woman of the group, looking at me with hard, calculating eyes. At least she doesn’t leer like the men.
“She’s pretty,” says a man with limp, oily hair, doing more than enough leering to make up for his companion. “Gotta be good for somethin’.”
“Could eat her,” a scrawny man says.
“No,” says the woman. “We sell her. Maybe to the Queen?”
My stomach rolls. The Queen doesn’t buy women, I think, but I keep my mouth shut.
“Not gonna bargain, little lady? Beg? Most of ’em do,” says the man tying my wrists. I scrutinize his face, the peeling skin and sunspots, the sunken eyes and narrow nose. He’s a raider, like all of them, the kind who reeks of violence. I could try to negotiate with them—tell them about the valuables I smuggled out in my belongings, promise the Queen’s gratitude if I’m kept safe, even offer up my body if I’m desperate enough—but I know these kinds of people. Raiders don’t negotiate. They take what they want and burn the rest.
Luckily for me, this raider is also a fool. He hasn’t even noticed that I’ve braced my wrists so the binds won’t be tight enough. He’s a fool, and that’s why I’m not afraid.
“Nothing to say?” The man looks at his companions and chuckles. “Think she’s mute or somethin’?” he asks, and looks back at me.
I take a deep breath and imagine what his face will look like when my knife punctures a cheek or an eye. I say nothing as the man gives a final tug to secure the rope, and I don’t fight as he pulls me along. I only turn my eyes skyward, shut them against the sun, and sigh.
It was dangerous to head into the wastes alone. I knew this when I left. Everyone told me, again and agai. . .
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