I had to nearly trot to keep up with Teresa as she made her way down the main boulevard to the stable. Even when I told her the son of God had given me this mission, she seemed more focused on the fact that there were children to be saved. Thankfully she knows even a dumbass like me wouldn’t make up the part about the kids.

She beats her fist on the wooden door of the stable office.

“You probably could just knock like a normal person,” I offer.

She looks down the street without acknowledging me. A moment later, the stablemaster timidly pulls the curtain to the side and peers out at us.

“I need my ride,” Teresa growls.

“Good morning!” I call over her shoulder. “She’s still practicing her knocking!”

The man quickly disappears from sight and can be heard rummaging around inside. Teresa takes the opportunity to spin around and get right up in my face. She breaths a mix of coffee and refried beans right over my nose.

“Hey,” she barks. “This is on you. You came and got me, okay? So cut it out and act like you actually care. I’m not dealing with your crap in the middle of saving these kids. I can’t do both. Got it?”

Before I can respond, the man rolls up the overhead door nearby. Teresa ducks under it before its all the way up so that by the time I’m inside she has her dirtbike picked up and turned around. She pushes some notes into the man’s hands haphazardly and walks the bike out into the morning sun.

“South road,” she says. It’s not really a question. She kicks the bike to life.

“Follow it south out of town,” I echo, as I climb on the back. “We’re lookin’ for a bus – and maybe a convoy.”

I shift my scabbard across my chest, so the handle of my blade isn’t wedged between us. I tie my dust rag around my face and Teresa tears off down the street. It’s still too early for anyone to really care about the dust cloud, but we’re probably waking this whole end of town. We had to scrap the muffler a while back to make fuel money. Hopefully we’re not needing to sneak up on this bus.

Less than ten miles out, we roll up on the convoy. They’re pulled off and trying to fix a tire or something. The men that are struggling with the bus’s wheel look up when we round the corner. It occurs to me that they shouldn’t suspect us of anything, but as soon as Teresa cuts the bike’s engine, I can hear muffled cries coming from inside the bus. It immediately lights a fire in me.

“Get a flat?” I yell dumbly through my dust rag.

“Yeah,” one of them yells back. “We’ve got it. We’re good.”

He’s got the sweetest southern accent. I continue walking up anyway. I’m not really sure what Teresa’s doing, but something has compelled me to move toward these three and engage.

“Oh, gosh, that’s a bad one!” I announce as I point to the tire. “The wheels on the bus aren’t goin’ round and round like that!”

From here, I can see that all three of these guys have revolvers stuffed sloppily in their pants. I see two more large silhouettes moving on the bus, barking orders. The whimpering is pretty clear from here.

“Kids, amiright?” I say. “They’ll complain about anything.”

“Look, pal, we’re all good here,” says the one bent over the tire. “Why don’t you get back on your bike and keep moving.”

I follow his pointed finger beyond the bus and see they have two little dune buggies parked in front. I can also see Teresa has sneaked around and is cutting the battery cables to both. Girl after my own heart.

“I don’t mean no trouble,” I say, suddenly with a bit of a southern accent of my own.

I must have laid it on too thick, because he stands up, takes a step toward me, and puts a hand on his piece. Behind him, Teresa sneaks onto the bus, but stays down in the little stairwell entrance. I’m vaguely aware that my southern gentleman is thumping my chest with his finger while saying something about ruining my day. For the briefest moment, I close my eyes, say an honest-to-goodness prayer, and release it to God with a deep exhale.

In a flash, I pop my beau in the chest with both hands and send him backward. He yanks out his six-shooter and starts moving it upward. I step to the right while unsheathing my blade and bring it down right at the mid length of his forearm. His wrist, hand, and gun fall to the dusty road while I plant my foot hard in his sidekick’s forbidden temple. He has his gun pulled too, but I’m able to help him point it at the third stooge’s knee and squeeze out two rounds. I take the gun completely in my own hands and put one more bullet into number three’s shooting hand.

The kids’ screaming seems to have helped with the chaos and distraction. By the time I rush onto the bus, Teresa is just about done turning her second target’s face to the same consistency as her refried beans. I keep that one to myself. She pulls out a spare rag to wipe the blood from her punching chain, and I pull down my dust rag to settle the kids. A couple of the girls are still crying.

“Its okay,” I say. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but I swear we’re here to rescue you.”

“Why didn’t you bring guns?” a very red-headed little boy asks loudly. “They all have guns.”

I sheath my blade and give him the best matter-of-fact face I can muster.

“’Cause a blade doesn’t run outta bullets, kid.” I quip back. “Now, line up behind Mother Teresa here. We’re gonna get you gone.”

Matt Hebert is an engineer and self-published author. His dopamine-fueled creative pursuits have spanned from chicken keeping, sand sculpture, acting, and public speaking, but writing is nearest and dearest to his heart. He lives in Bellevue with his wife and two daughters. You can find him on Instagram at @jerkofalltradeshebert or email him at matt.hebert.books@gmail.com