I tug on the cord at my wrist. It’s tight, but if I have time to work on it, I could probably wiggle it loose. I pull until my skin’s raw, but I’m nowhere close to free.

Then a truck, welded together from pieces of others, chugs toward us. In its wake are two skinny tan horses, with a rider each. I count my adversaries—two in the cab, two on horseback. Four men. Even with free hands, my odds aren’t good against four armed men. I work on the twine at my wrists as the men jump out, slam doors, or sling their legs over their horses.

The Riders are the strangest group of men I’ve ever seen. They’re clad in animal-hide loincloths and shapeless moccasins. They have dark brown braids adorned with feathers or with bones coiling down their backs. Their arms, chests and faces are streaked with stripes of ashy gray, brown and dried blood in alternating patterns. A phrase flashes through my head—war paint—though I’ve no idea where it came from. The two on horseback could be twins, though one’s taller than the other. One Rider, emerging from the truck, has a thin bone—a coyote rib perhaps—shoved through his nostrils. Another wears a necklace of white squares. The closer he strides, the more sure I am they’re human teeth.

In contrast to their basic dress, they could be an armory ad. The squat leader with a small belly sagging over his loincloth has an antique shotgun slung over his bare back. The second man, with a network of slashing scars running the length of his chest, carries a bulky semi-automatic rifle in his bear-like hands. I haven’t seen one of those in a long time. The twins each hold wooden spears.

They’re men gone wild. One of the primitive cultures that slunk off into the desert and stayed there with their sick religions and rituals. Some believe in human sacrifice, but not before raping and torturing their victims as much as they like. My eyes trace over the fine points of their spears, the necklace of teeth that are too small to be adult. I pull furiously at my bonds until my skin shreds.

The Riders approach warily, sniffing the air, heads cocked, like a pack of animals ready to attack at any sudden movement. I half expect them to curl their lips up and growl. The leader lets his eyes slip over Ethan and I. Luckily my chest is still covered.

“I’ve got a girl,” Bennett says, nearly jumping up and down with glee.

Every eye turns to me. I try to shrink into my surroundings and focus on freeing my hands. My wrists are raw now, bleeding.

The leader sniffs toward me, as if he could pick up my scent. He turns to Bennett, his voice rolling out slowly, like he hasn’t used it in a while. “The Good Mother frowns on lies.” He glares at Bennett. His eyes trace over the delicate face of my baby brother. His lips curl up. “We’ll take the boy.” He waves his hand dismissively at me. “Bender, you keep. Bender’s pleas do not appease the Good Mother.”