The cafeteria door wheezed shut behind me, its hydraulic sigh drowned by Hank's roar. "DRUCILLA!" His boots pounded linoleum, the Confederate belt buckle jangling like a hellhound's collar.
I darted past the dumpsters, Ms. Rodriguez's card slicing my palm as I clutched it. The social worker's number blurred—*205-555-0912*—as sweat dripped onto the ink. *Call. Don't call. Call—*
Tyler's motorcycle growled behind the gymnasium, its headlight cutting through the honeysuckle-choked chain-link. He revved the engine, eyes glinting beneath his Braves cap. "Told you I'd be here!"
"Why?" I hissed, scrambling onto the pegs. The seat burned through my jeans, hotter than Louise's iron.
He smirked, nodding at Hank's silhouette storming across the football field. "Ain't your type?"
The card fluttered to the gravel. Tyler kicked it under the bike, grease-stained sneaker grinding the numbers into sludge. "Trust me, Drakes. I know backroads Hank can't follow."
*Trust.* The word curdled in my throat. But the Silverado's headlights speared the parking lot, Louise's scream riding the wind: *"GOD'LL PUNISH YOU, GIRL!"*
I wrapped my arms around Tyler's waist, his leather jacket reeking of Marlboros and his brother's cologne. *This smells wrong. All wrong.*
"Hold tight!" He gunned the throttle.
We fishtailed onto County Road 12, kudzu strangling the pines into skeletal sentinels. Tyler's laugh bounced off the asphalt. "Told you I'd save your ass!"
*Save.* The lie hung between us, flimsy as the *Jesus Saves* billboard we passed—its letters bullet-riddled, the 'J' dangling by a rusted nail.
The motorcycle's engine snarled, its vibrations a false comfort as we fled deeper down the pine tree and kudzu littered roads. Tyler's hands lingered on my hips, his fingers digging in like he wanted to leave bruises that mattered. "Hold tight, Drakes," he shouted over the wind, breath reeking of Juul pods and betrayal.
I didn't. My palms hovered over the gas tank. The chain-link fence blurred as we roared past Hank's Silverado—still idling, still hungry, its bumper sticker (*"Proud Parent of an Honor Roll Student"*) peeling in the afternoon heat.
The days blurred—*603 left, or was it 602?*
Tyler took the back roads, asphalt bleeding into kudzu-choked backwoods. Spanish moss hung like nooses from the pines, and for a heartbeat, I imagined Louise swinging from them. The bike stank of weed and bad decisions, but the wind clawing at my hoodie almost felt like freedom. *Almost*.
The BP station's flickering sign emerged through the pines, its neon *$3.49* staining the asphalt bloody. Tyler's grip tightened on my hips—a claim, not a comfort. I'd traded Hank's belt for a different cage, and the Alabama Pines watched, laughing.
"Almost there, Drakes," he shouted over the engine, veering onto a dirt road that ribboned into the swamp. Spanish moss clawed at my face, damp and rotting. Somewhere in the muck, bullfrogs croaked a funeral dirge.
The Greyhound sign flashed once—*Birmingham: 3:15 PM*—before sputtering out. Tyler chuckled, the sound slithering down my spine. "Don't worry, baby. We ain't goin' nowhere *civilized*."
My stomach dropped. The road ahead narrowed, kudzu swallowing the sky. *Hank's hunting cabin—two miles south.* The math clicked: Tyler's brother's bike, Louise's Bible-Bud Light grin on his phone, the missing $83 from her tampon box.
*He's the bait. I'm the trade.*
"Pull over."
"What?" Tyler shouted, throttle revving.
I slammed my heel into his shin. "I said pull the fuck over!"
The bike skidded into the BP station lot, gravel spraying like shrapnel. Tyler yanked off his helmet, cursing. "The hell's wrong with you? You spazzing?" His voice cracked, the way it did when his brother caught him stealing Xanax. Sweat gleamed on his upper lip, the same way it had when he'd watched Hank drag me through the school parking lot.
I tumbled off, palms shredding on crushed shells. The Greyhound sign flickered again, its resurrection a taunt. *Run. Now.*
Tyler lunged, his Braves cap tumbling to reveal the fresh scratch on his neck—Louise's signature. "You really think some bus'll save you?" He spat, backing me toward the swamp. "Hank's got five bills on your head. Five. Hundred. Dollars."
The numbers flashed through my mind—205-555-0912—burnt into my memory. Across the street, the Greyhound sign flickered—*Birmingham: 3:15 PM*. One tank of gas vs. one phone call. The social worker's numbers slithered in my skull: *$83 to freedom. $3.49 per gallon.*
The Silverado's growl cut through the pines.
A twig snapped in the thicket.
Dragon emerged, silhouetted by the dying sun, a crowbar dangling from his scarred hand. "You picked the wrong girl, pendejo (idiot)."
Tyler scrambled for the bike. Dragon's crowbar arced, sparking against the fuel tank. Gasoline hissed, the stench clawing at my sinuses.
Tyler paled. "This ain't your business, ese (dude)"
Dragon's crowbar traced the motorcycle's throttle. "You know what I do to rats who set traps on my routes?" He leaned in, the Spanish sharpening his whisper into a scalpel. "Los quemo." (I burn them.)
Tyler's Adam's apple bobbed. "Was just a ride, man—"
"A ride to where?" Dragon's boot crushed Tyler's phone screen—bright with Louise's contact photo: her holding a Bible and a Bud Light. "Your aunt's trailer? Hank's hunting cabin?"
Headlights speared the kudzu, the vines recoiling like a nest of rattlers stirred from sleep. Somewhere in the swamp's black throat, a coyote howled—three jagged notes that hung in the air like barbed wire.
Hank's Silverado lurched into the clearing, Freddy grinning shotgun with a hunting rifle propped out the window. The Confederate flag decal gleamed fresh, its stars sharpened to blade points.
"Well, ain't this cozy?" Freddy drawled, racking the rifle. "Family reunion."
Hank killed the engine. The belt buckle's click-clack harmonized with his boots crunching gravel. Louise's "World's Best Mom" mug steamed in his hand, the tea bag string dangling like a noose.
Dragon stepped between me and the truck, crowbar raised. "She's not leaving with you, el cabrón! (asshole)!"
Hank sipped his tea. "That right?"
Freddy's rifle swung toward Dragon. "How 'bout we—"
Dragon moved faster than a cottonmouth strike. The crowbar cracked Freddy's wrist, the rifle clattering into the swamp. Freddy crumpled, cradling his hand. "Son of a bitch!
Hank sighed, setting down his mug. "Shoulda stayed in your lane, amigo."
The Silverado's passenger door creaked—a bare foot dangling over the edge, toenails chipped and bloody.
She stepped into the moonlight, barefoot and smiling, Hank's belt coiled around her fist like a lover's ribbon. "Time to come home, baby girl."
Dragon tensed, crowbar hovering.
Louise tilted her head, studying him like a butcher sizing up a stray dog. "You're new. Let me guess—foster kid? Juvie rat? Or just another hero with a death wish?" She flicked the belt, its buckle glinting. "Either way, you'll regret sticking your nose in my business."
Dragon's grip tightened on the crowbar, knuckles whitening. Louise's smile sharpened—a butcher eyeing meat.
"Oh, I'll find out who you are," she purred, stepping closer. "Who your people are. Where you sleep." Her voice dropped, venomous. "I'll find who you love and grind them into trailer-park dust."
A muscle twitched in Dragon's jaw—the only tell.
Louise seized the moment. "Drucilla. Now."
Louise's lighter hovered—one spark and Dragon's blood would fuel the flames. Better a live hostage than a dead martyr.
The Greyhound sign flickered one last time—*Birmingham: DEPARTED*—as I climbed into the Silverado.
Louise patted my cheek, her wedding band icy. "Smart girl."
Through the mud-smeared window, I watched Dragon kneel in the gasoline, Hank's boot on his neck. Freddy aimed his cracked iPhone camera, grinning through missing teeth.
"Smile for the 'Gram, ese!"
The last thing I saw: Dragon's eyes, black and burning, as Louise's lighter arced through the dark.
*602 days left.*
The Silverado lurched forward, Louise's laughter harmonizing with Hank's radio static. I pressed my forehead to the glass, whispering the only prayer I knew: 'Burn them all.'
******
***DRAGON'S POV***
Her face pressed to the glass, pale as a ghost, mouth shaping words I didn't need to hear. *Burn them all.* The Silverado's taillights vanished into the swamp fog, but those three syllables hung in the air like smoke.
Louise's lighter clicked.
A crow cawed—once, twice—from the skeletal pines.
I moved before the flame touched gasoline. Hank's boot slipped off my neck as I rolled, swamp water filling my mouth—mud, blood, and the sour tang of Tyler's fear. Freddy lunged with his good hand, the one I hadn't broken yet.
*Mistake.*
My crowbar hesitated mid-swing when remembering Dru's lips quivering—*'Burn them all.'* For a heartbeat, the storm in my eyes softened before the rage consumed me. The metal found his temple as I finished the swing. He dropped like a sack of wet cement. Tyler scrambled backward, eyes wild, but the kudzu had already wrapped around his ankles. Vines slithered up his legs, hungry.
"P-please—"
The crowbar sang.
Hank's pistol barked before I heard the click of the safety. Fire ripped through my ribs, the bullet carving a groove along bone. I tasted copper, felt the kudzu roots stirring beneath me—alive, angry.
*Not today, viejo (old man).*
He fired again. Missed. The swamp swallowed the shot. A crow dive-bombed Hank's face, talons raking his eyes.
"Goddamn sumbitch…"
I was on him before the curse finished, crowbar against his throat, his Confederate buckle digging into my knee.
"Where's she taking her?" I snarled.
Hank spat in my face. "Hell if I know. Louise handles the—"
The crowbar slipped.
*Crack.*
His head lolled, eyes fixed on the moss-draped pines. The pistol tumbled into the muck.
Silence.
Then the kudzu began to move. It twitched—a puppeteer's jerk—before coiling around Tyler's throat, thorns biting into flesh. Freddy screamed as leaves sutured his wounds, crude stitches for an offering. Hank's belt buckle glinted one last time before the swamp swallowed him whole, bubbles rising like wet chuckles. Crows circled overhead, their cries sharp as blades. One landed on Tyler's chest, pecking at the gold chain he'd stolen from Brady. Another watched me, head tilted, before fluttering to the handlebars of the bike.
The swamp belched up a guttural yipping. Three coyotes slunk from the kudzu, ribs pressing against mange-peeled hides. Their eyes burned amber, too human in the half-light. The leader limped, its left foreleg bent like a question mark etched in bone—a broken compass needle pointing nowhere good. Mamá had warned me about these: the kind Mamá called 'crossroads hounds', shaped by the land's hunger.
They descended on what the vines hadn't claimed. Tyler's fingers, still twitching. Freddy's gold molar. The alpha clamped its jaws around Hank's Confederate buckle, the metal screeching as it warped. No ordinary scavengers. These were the debt collectors for something older than sin, chewing through lies and debris alike.
*Nature's cleanup crew?*
I pressed a hand to my ribs. Warm. Wet. The kudzu hissed—sounding like a curse. A sound like Mama's old kettle boiling over—the kind that meant trouble. Emerald tendrils wove a burial shroud, payment for tonight's interrupted deal.
*Burn them all*, she'd said.
But the swamp had its own way of cleaning up.
I limped to the motorcycle, gasoline sloshing in the tank. The lighter felt heavy in my palm—Louise's parting gift. I flicked a spark from it.
The crow on the bike cawed, red eyes reflecting the dying light. A demand. A warning. The three-legged coyote's growl drowned the crow's cry—a territorial rumble. Even hell had hierarchies. It watched me mount the bike, Hank's blood streaking its muzzle. It didn't snarl. Didn't flee. Just stared, as Mamá had at the crossroads altar years ago, whispering, *"The old gods here ride wild things, mijo. Things that outlast, that know how to survive."*
I tossed the flaming Zippo into the weeds. The coyote snapped it mid-air, ember dying in its gullet. A promise I couldn't grasp right now.
Whispers on the wind curled around my ear, *A toll paid. A path opened.*
The engine roared to life. The crow took flight, leading the way down the mud-choked road. Somewhere ahead, the Silverado's tracks cut through the mire like scars.
*602 days left, gatita (kitten).*
I'd make them count.
The coyote's howl echoed—not a question, but a promise.
A promise we'd both pay for, one way or another.
******