Free Valknut: The Binding by Marie Loughin Page A

boxcar. Lennie slid down next to him. She resisted the
urge to wipe her grimy hands on her jeans, though her clothes were
already dusty and a streak of black grease ran across her white
t-shirt. She needed a bath, or at least a public restroom where she
could wash in the sink. Maybe that tattoo would wash off with a
little soap, too.
    They started down the alley between the two
trains, Junkyard with a pack on his back and Jim carrying a duffle
bag held together with duct tape. The thick smell of diesel and
rust hung in the air, taking the shine off the morning sun. Lennie
shivered and wished she had kept the jean jacket a while
longer.
    They followed a long line of maroon boxcars
just like the one had they traveled in. When Lennie looked back,
she could only find their car because the doors were closed on all
the rest. Jim wandered a crooked path behind them, bending to
examine every bit of trash with a hopeful look on his face.
    As they reached the tail end of the train,
they came to a half dozen decrepit gray hoppers. Amoeboid patches
of rust had eaten through much of the paint on their sides and
graffiti covered the rest—obscenities, tags, and faded hobo
signatures. A sporadic hiss drifted toward them as they approached
the last car. The sound was familiar, but Lennie couldn’t place it
among the usual train yard noises. Junkyard slowed and glanced back
at Jim, who had found an old sweatshirt two cars back and was
shoving it into his bag. Without speaking, Junkyard signaled Lennie
to stay behind him and rounded the back end of the train. Lennie
turned the corner after him and almost plowed into his back.
    “Hey, what—” she began. Junkyard waved her to
silence, but it was too late. A young man turned from the hopper, a
can of spray paint in one hand and a rag smudged red and yellow in
the other. Lean and taut, like a whip ready to crack, he watched
them through slitted eyes.
    Junkyard eased his pack to the ground and
held a hand out, palm down. “ Ése , man. Wazzup?” He spoke in
a relaxed voice, but Lennie felt heat pour off his back.
    The “man” was just a kid in his late teens,
though anger had already chiseled hard lines into his face. He wore
a white tank shirt that glowed against his cinnamon skin and showed
off a tattoo of happy-sad theater masks on his upper arm.
Blood-crusted stitches closed a four-inch gash on the other arm. He
tossed the paint can to the ground and tucked the rag into his back
pocket, where it hung like a mottled tail.
    “ De dónde eres, gabacho? ” he said,
openly hostile. “You gotta show me your card.”
    Junkyard shook his head slowly and let his
hands drop to his sides. Metal glinted from his palm, hidden from
the gangbanger. Lennie realized with a chill that he held a
switchblade knife.
    The kid stepped closer. “You walk the
Brotherhood’s  barrio , man. You and
the  güerita —” Lennie flinched as his gaze scraped
across her face, “—you want to ride the trains, you got to pay the
dues.”
    “Sorry,  amigo . We’re tapped out,”
Junkyard said in an amiable voice. “Can’t you let it go, this
once?”
    Lennie was close enough to feel an almost
indiscernible shift in Junkyard’s balance. His thumb rubbed the
handle of the knife. Eyes wide, she fumbled at the pepper spray
hanging from her belt loop, trying to release it without attracting
the kid’s attention. She didn’t like where this was going. Not at
all.
    Especially when the kid pulled a gun from the
pocket of his baggy jeans and leveled it at Junkyard’s chest.
    “You sorry?” he said in a low, tense voice.
“Too bad. I’m sorry, too.”
    Lennie’s head swam and the gun seemed to
swell to cannon size. The gangbanger saw her fear. His lips curled
in a half-smile. He raised the weapon and looked down its barrel at
her face. “How ’bout I do the  chica ,
first.  Si ?”
    Junkyard flicked the knife open. Lennie’s
breath caught, certain he was about to get himself shot. And her,
too. She