Days passed until Mirko took his first careful steps, either leaning on Uno or using a crutch he had found in the medical bay. Uno was putting on weight and the duster had to admit he’d been useful.

  Something, however, had to change, and soon. Uno still seemed interested in learning new words, but he had learned to crack locks without Mirko’s help. The ship was running out of edible food, and Mirko had already had to resort to bribing his companion with the first couple protein bars hidden under his mattress.

  Most importantly, the Nordrun cartel’s search for the missing ship was long overdue. It was likely a matter of hours, not days by now. The choice then, would be putting himself at their mercy, hope von Raschenburg had a use for him before he was tortured to death, or to make a run into the wilds, wounded and with only a feral slayer for company.

  He pushed himself up, leaned on his crutch and stared out the window. Glancing up for silhouettes in the grey sky, listening for the approach of rotating fan blades. But instead, he caught a glimpse of movement in the treeline.

  “More slayers?” he asked himself, feeling the dull pain shooting through his leg.

  Four drein riders emerged from the woods. Randuur nomads in dusty coats and scarves. They rode around the wreckage in a slow trot until they were satisfied the surroundings were clear. Two of them dismounted, rifles drawn as they made their way towards the inside.

  Moments later, a small wagon drawn by two drein appeared, barely making it through the thick underbrush, led by a small, hunchbacked driver.

  ”Prey… kill… adrenaline, soft flesh, excitement…”

  Those familiar whispers filled Mirko’s mind, a knot of excitement forming in his stomach, as if waiting for a lover’s arrival. And as always, he fought against it, weighing his options. He could surprise one, maybe both the slayers in the Siegfried if he was lucky. But what then?

  Trying to trick the Randuur was too much of a risk. He didn’t recognize the tribe, which meant he had no way of knowing if they were the kind to trust strangers. And he considered something else. The Randuur were wearing scarves, not masks. That meant their journey was a short one. A camp had to exist, nearby at that, with more nomads.

  That’s when Mirko realized the biggest problem in his plan, regardless of all the variables he tried to plug into his unquiet mind: Uno would not be capable of reason when he caught on to their unexpected visitors.

  The mad duster swore, grabbed his coat and mask, letting it hang around his neck. Limping along on one foot and the crutch, he made his way to the canteen where he last saw Uno. He heard distant metallic groans and Randuur swearing.

  He pushed open the metal door and saw Uno inside. The slayer had climbed up on top of the bar, his tongue between the void left by his missing front teeth, eyes narrowed as he tried to pick open a locked cupboard above with a hairpin taken from one of the dead passengers. Just as Mirko walked in, the lock snapped open. And Uno looked back at him, a proud smile on his gaunt face.

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  “Uno,” Mirko said, doing his best to shout and whisper at the same time, “Listen, we need to slip out of here, quick as we can. Whatever you hear, don’t look, just keep going…”

  Uno tilted his head, confused. He took a can of pickled meal-kelp from the cupboard and held it up for Mirko. “Fo-ood?” he said in that strange, throaty voice of his.

  “No, not food, we-”

  Footsteps were getting closer. Randuur shouting. They heard something. And Uno dropped the can. His eyes widened, bony fingers clenching into fists, so hard his chewed up nails nearly broke the dry skin of his palms. He leaned forward, ready to lurch.

  All thoughts gone apart from the instinct to kill.

  “Uno, no!” Mirko said, grabbing the slayer’s shoulders and holding him back with all his might. The malnourished creature should have been no match for him. But his sheer ferocity, the hint of fever still burning in Mirko’s blood, made the duster tumble to the ground.

  He barely managed to grab Uno’s ankle before the slayer could slip away, screeching and screaming like a real monster, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He turned back to Mirko, clawing at his face, biting his arm to try and get free.

  “Shit Uno,” Mirko hissed, reaching for the stolen Zaykov in his holster, “Sorry buddy… looks like we’re going with plan B.”

  One clean shot to the head, echoing through the metallic halls of the ship’s hull. Uno went limp, dead in a second. Mirko holstered his gun and fastened his dust mask. He pushed his back to the bar, breathing in and out. Doing his best to make his hands shake.

  Five seconds later, there were two rifles pointed at Mirko: one held by a tall man and another by a woman with an athletic build, barely visible under her grey coat. Mirko thought perhaps Harper had joined the Randuur, but this one was shorter, her hair too dark. The duster raised his hands and exhaled.

  “Easy… I’m a duster,” he said, “Do you speak English? Deutsch?”

  “English is fine,” the man said, neither of the Randuur lowering the rifles.

  “Oh, thank God…” Mirko said, keeping his hands up, “Sorry, it’s just… been a hell of a week, let me tell you. Fucking slayer almost got me, you believe that?”

  “Don’t think yourself out of the woods yet, duster,” the woman said and kicked Mirko’s leg, “What happened to your leg?”

  “Ah fuck,” Mirko groaned in pain, grabbing his thigh. For a moment, he considered if he could draw the Zaykov fast enough to drop them both. He certainly wanted to. But he had come too far to risk it now. “Fucking… long story…”

  “We have time,” the woman said, pressing her rifle to Mirko’s forehead.

  “Look, my crew left me for dead,” Mirko said, back pressed to the bar, “Took a bullet to the thigh from a slayer when we came to check this place out and they left me here. Been stuck here for days, it’s a miracle I survived.”

  “And where’s your crew now, duster?” the man asked, resting the butt of his rifle against the ground.

  “I don’t know… Fifty-fifty chance they’re still licking their wounds at the closest village or went back to New Helsinki.”

  More footsteps approached from behind. One of the Randuur left outside ran up to the pair, explaining something in that strange language of theirs. The woman growled and pressed her rifle firmly against Mirko’s head, finger sliding onto the trigger. The duster thought he heard the distant roar of fan-blades approaching.

  “Cartel’s on the way, duster…”

  “Stop, Carin,” the man next to her said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “We take him with us. Want to hear him out.”