Free Vagabond by J.D. Brewer Page A

towards him and him running towards me, I was nearly even with him when I landed. We left the train behind us and darted into the woods. The running was hindered by fallen logs, but at least it was day time and we could see. That also meant they could too.  
    “What happened?” I gasped as I pumped my legs faster and faster.  
    “I knocked the man out.”
    “You what ?”
    “Fought them off. Punched the guy. He was slumped over when I jumped. The girl was trying to slap him awake. They wanted my jacket.”  
    I stopped running. There was a girl. That’s who pushed me from the shadows of the car. She wouldn’t come after us alone if Roderigo was knocked out, and that meant, by the time Roderigo came to, they’d be a distance away. But knocked out? Who was this kid?  
    Then I saw the pack on his back— the pack that had not been there before. “You stole it?”
    “They tried to steal from me,” he reminded me.  
    I glared. “Yes. And there are too many rules you don’t know about for you to play cowboy. A pack is not something they’ll just let slide. They’ll be back for it. Next time, don’t butt in. Let me talk, and when I say tuck and roll… Tuck. And. Roll. You idiot.”  
    The boy’s nostrils flared. “I wasn’t playing cowboy.”  
    “Really? Really? That’s the sentence you’re hanging onto? You could have gotten us both killed back there!” I shoved him on his shoulders with both of my hands, hitting him with each sentence. I wanted it all to sink in. I wanted him to know he didn’t know anything.  
    It only made Flea laugh as he stumbled back. “You came back for me,” he taunted.  
    “I shouldn’t have.” I grabbed the strap of his pack and yanked it off him.  
    “But you did. I think I’m growing on you. I think—“
    “Shut. It.” I unzipped the pack to take inventory. A bit of clothing. A half-full water bladder. A full canteen. Tobacco in a round canister. Peanut butter and jerky. Whiskey—two bottles— more whiskey than food. A water purifier. A jetpack-mini stove/lighter. A sleeping bag.   There was a pouch with money, and I pocketed that. The tent was gone. I wondered if he’d traded it for the whiskey.  
    I came across some documents. They were folded into a small square with a stamp that said Prometheus in the middle. I was about to unfold them when Flea interrupted.  
    “Pretty awesome, huh?”
    “Awesome? They may have left us be if you hadn’t taken the pack. Are you really that dense?” This kid was really crawling under my skin. I shuffled the things back into their correct place, forgetting to open the documents in my frustration. “We should keep trekking. We may run into trouble— after all, you sure do tend to get me into a lot of it.”  
    “I’m sor—“
    “Sorries are worth nothing out here.”  
    “I’m sorr—“
    “Now you need to stick with me for a bit in case they come back. I’m not the most intimidating on my own.”
      He laughed and rubbed his jaw. “I wouldn’t say that Knuckles.”  
    “Knuckles?”
    “Flea?”
    “Okay.” It was better than him knowing my real name in case he got caught one day.  
    Flea put on the pack and tightened the straps. He did it fluidly, like he’d done it a million times before.  
    We stayed in the forest, far enough from the tracks to remain out of sight, but near enough to reach a train if we heard one. Hours passed and so did silence. It slid off us like comfort and solidarity, and before long, our already shortened day turned to dusk, and dusk ushered in night. It was a different kind of night than the one before, because clouds littered the sky and blotched out the stars and moon. It was too dark to stay in the trees, so we continued on the tracks since the planks were easier to judge with our feet than haphazard roots. I wasn’t ready to quit for the day. I wanted to cover as much ground as possible to put distance between myself and the many scenes of Flea’s crimes.