“Stompie, I…” But there was nothing to say.
“They took everything in the shop. Ransacked the place. And left me here to rot. Nobody’s been back since. But I managed to open the storeroom, been living off scraps and insects. Tried just starving myself to death, but that’s no way for a man to go.”
Connor saw him looking at his gun. He didn’t need to ask. Connor nodded. Stompie smiled silent thanks.
“There’s petrol in the storeroom. Biltong on the top shelf that I couldn’t reach.” He laughed, but it turned into a hacking cough. “You any idea how frustrating that is? Lying a few feet away from all the food I could ever need, but not being able…?”
Connor glanced inside the storeroom. The lower shelves were empty, cardboard boxes ripped open and strewn across the floor. Behind the door he found two jerry cans of petrol.
When he stepped back out into the shop, Stompie closed his eyes and nodded.
The sound of the shot echoed loud in the confined space.
Connor grabbed the petrol cans and scuttled back towards the door, keeping low and using what little cover he could find. Sure enough, two drones floated around the bike, buzzing quietly as if planning their next move. No human presence that he could see. But they couldn’t be far behind.
He shot the drones out of the air and sprinted for the bike. Opened the petrol cap and poured in as much as he could before tossing the half-empty can and strapping the full one to the back of the seat.
Then he jumped on and roared out of the petrol station, a plan finally forming in the back of his mind.
He was done reacting. Done running. Done hiding. It was time to remind them what happened when you kicked a beehive.
But first, he would find a quiet spot to read the letter that had destroyed his quiet life of isolation.
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