Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3)
Page 47
Now I sit bound to an unforgiving steel chair in one of the bare rooms that was used for interrogating and dismembering sand freaks last year. Yet it doesn’t seem like that much time has passed. This is the same room where I fitted Samson with his artificial arms and legs...after the gruesome amputations Perch performed during the interrogation process.
“Where’d he take ’em?” Perch demands for the umpteenth time, slugging me across the face with his brick of a fist.
My head whips to the side and I spit blood, see it splatter across the cold floor, feel it ooze thick and warm down my cheek. My daily beating. I’m almost numb to it by this point, but the blows still have a way of stinging, bringing me out of my thoughts.
He grabs a fistful of my hair and jerks my head back. Perspiration stands out on his upper lip and glistens across his flushed brow.
“You’ll tell me. Oh yeah, one of these days. Once I start taking pieces of you.” He chuckles. “Willard doesn’t want me to go that far, and I’m sure you don’t either. But we’re getting awful close to a turning point, darlin’. Real close.”
I close my eyes and focus on an image from my youth: a mighty torrent of rushing water cascading off the side of a cliff, down into a deep lagoon below. I project this scene into Perch’s subconscious mind.
He releases me abruptly.
“I-uh—” There’s a look of bewildered discomfort on his broad face. “I’ll be back. You sit tight and think about how you’re gonna start answering my questions.”
He leaves the room, sliding the door shut behind him with a bang. I hope he fails to reach the restroom in time.
Alone now, I reach out to the young ones with my thoughts, closing the gap of endless barren kilometers between us.
Where are you?
I sense they are out in the open and on the move. There is an urgency to Tucker’s movements, stronger than before. Is he drawing close to their destination? Or is he once again being pursued? Willard called off the dogs when a sandstorm cleared all traces of Tucker’s tracks. It would have to be the wild mutos now who caught Tucker’s scent and are tracking him through the day or night—I cannot determine which, trapped in this room. His plan was to travel only by cover of darkness, but perhaps the mutos are making that difficult for him. If it is daylight, and if his shadow is plain to see, they will close in on him easily. Gun him down and devour him, as well as the young ones he carries.
I have to banish the images from my mind. These are my own fears, nothing more. There is no reason to assume such things. Tucker’s pulse is elevated; I can sense the neonates take notice of this, but he might be picking up the pace for no other reason than to reach Luther’s people before another encounter with the wild mutos.
Be at peace, little ones, I project my thoughts. Soon you will be safe.
Then it will be time to rescue the remaining fetuses housed deep in Eden’s core. As long as Luther and the others are courageous enough to return for the sakes of these innocents—
The door slams open, and Perch enters with Jamison on his heels.
“No more games!” Perch slaps me hard, streaking the blood across my face. “Keep your damn mind tricks to yourself!”
I wince, feeling the inside of my swollen cheek with my tongue. “You didn’t have to go, after all?”
Jamison chuckles. “He ran over to the urinal like he was going to explode. Took him a while to realize it was all in his head.”
“Bitch!” Perch brings back his fist to strike me again, but Jamison steps in the way with a frown.
“Enough. We’ve tried it your way. Willard wants results.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Let me give it a shot. A little good cop routine might be all she needs.”
“You do realize I’m sitting right here,” I say, “hearing every word.”
Jamison shrugs. “We can’t keep our thoughts from you. So why bother?”
“She’s not talkin’. Maybe once she starts losin’ her fingers and toes, then she’ll have something to say.”
“Fine.” Jamison extends his arm toward the door. “Give me five minutes. If I can’t get her to tell me anything, then come back in here and do your thing. I just hope you get Willard’s permission before you start taking her apart. For your sake.”
Cursing under his breath, Perch stalks out of the room. Jamison shuts the door behind him and lingers there a moment before turning to face me.
“I understand why you did it,” he says.
I keep my gaze on the floor, on the pattern made by my own blood spattered across the concrete.
“You know I was never a fan of Willard’s plans. They’re human lives, after all. Not bargaining chips.” He presses his fingertips together, brings them to his chin. “But to put them in even greater danger, that’s beyond negligent, Margo. It’s insane. The mutos out there won’t think twice about gobbling them up as an afternoon snack!”
I shake my head, just enough for him to notice, careful not to add to the excruciating pain slicing through my skull. “They’re fine.”
“And you know this how, exactly? Are you...in some kind of communication with Tucker? Are you people able to do that—speak telepathically?”
I cough, spitting out more blood. “I never said he had anything to do with it.”
“He goes missing the same day we find two of the incubation chambers empty. It’s easy to put two and two together here.”
“I don’t know where he is. He is not my concern. As far as Willard knows, two of the neonates unfortunately did not develop to term. I found them expired that morning, and I disposed of the remains in one of the trash incinerators. I was about to inform Willard, but then Tucker didn’t return from scavenging. I assumed Willard wouldn’t want all that bad news on the same day, so I waited to tell him about it.”
Jamison approaches me. “You may be the only mind-reader in this room, Margo. But I recognize a load of crap when I hear it. And so does Willard. He knows you removed Tucker’s collar. Again.”
I glare up at him through the sweat-drenched clumps of my bedraggled hair. “Send Perch back in here and let him have at it. Because that’s all you’re getting from me.”
“You don’t seem to realize that I’m on your side. Go ahead, read my thoughts and see if I’m wrong. I’m not lying to you.” He pauses. “We want the same thing, you and me: to see these babies grow and develop into fully functioning adults. The first generation of humankind to be born in captivity.”
He is speaking the truth, as he sees it. But he and I do not want the same thing. I want the young ones to live out in the open with their own people, their parents. Not here in Eden’s sterile subterranean depths.
Jamison sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly. “Listen, we don’t have to play games. You know where Tucker took them. It’s obvious.” He watches me. “To Luther and the others. You know where they are.”
I almost smirk. “I don’t.”
But someone else does—a spirit of the earth.
“The dogs followed Tucker’s tracks as far as they could, south out of the city ruins. But they veered west before that sandstorm kicked in. We had to call the dogs back.”
“I’m sure it had nothing to do with them almost being out of range by that point.”
“That too. The collars aren’t a perfect solution. Not yet, anyway.”
I shake my head slowly. “Even if I knew where Tucker was, you wouldn’t be able to bring him back. You can’t go after him on the surface. Willard has you all so paranoid about the demon dust that—”
“The main thing on Willard’s mind right now is whether he’ll need to reinforce our defenses. He’s got a feeling that if Luther and company decide to come back for their children, they won’t be alone.” He watches me. “Is there some enclave of sand freaks out there we should know about? Is that where Tucker’s going?”
I look him in the eye. “Bring Perch back.” I won’t tell him anything.
“Do you plan to replace me?” Unlikely.
“You misunderstand, Margo. Willard isn’t concerned about them anymore. They could all shrivel up and die in their incubation chambers for all he cares. All he wants is to get off this continent. When the UW arrives, he plans to barter the lives of those fetuses for his safe passage. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll strip the soldiers of their hazard suits at gunpoint and take their chopper. He won’t think twice about abandoning those infants.”
Willard is insane. I’ve known this for some time. “The warships patrolling the coast would shoot him down.”
“Don’t underestimate him. I’m sure he has some kind of contingency plan.” He nods, gesturing lamely toward the door. “When Perch returns, he will hurt you. At that point, there will be nothing I can do for you. While he’s cutting off your fingers one knuckle at a time, I want you to think back to this moment. When you shut down the only man in Eden willing to help you.”
I close my eyes, imagining myself under Perch’s knife. But I can also imagine the chambers in the nursery neglected, the neonates abandoned when they need me most.
Jamison spoke the truth regarding Willard. All that matters to him now is self-preservation. Escape. And which is more dangerous: a man fighting for a cause, or one fighting for his own survival?
Jamison turns away and approaches the door.
“Wait,” I stop him. He half-turns toward me. “I need to bring them into this world—such that it is. I cannot allow them to be forgotten.”
“Then give me something. I guarantee you’ll be back in the nursery within the hour.” He winces a little at the condition of my face, no doubt swollen and multi-colored. “After we get you cleaned up. Wouldn’t want you to frighten those little guys.”
“If you are truly on my side in this...then tell me exactly what Willard wants to know.”
He nods. “Your get-out-of-jail-free card should be worth this much: Where is Tucker going? Do you know the exact location—longitude, latitude?”
“No.” I frown. It is the truth.
“Is he going to find Luther and the others? To tell them about their children?”
I hesitate. How long has it been? Weeks now, brought here for daily questioning and beatings, then released to the nursery to continue my work. Every day, I’ve denied knowledge about Tucker’s MIA status. But now?
Have they finally broken me? Or is it the fear that this time, they won’t allow me to return to the little ones unless I give them what they want?
“Yes,” I admit. Closing my eyes, I see with an evolving inner sight I can no more understand than explain, that Tucker has slowed to a walking pace. It may be the dead of night, but light shines from above. A full moon?
“Are you able to communicate with him?”
“No.” As much as I wish I could, it is impossible.
“But he took them due west, as far as you know.”
I nod. “Will that be enough to get me out of here?” I meet Jamison’s gaze as he mulls it over.
“Enough to keep Perch’s bloodthirsty paws off you, at any rate. I’ll go to Willard myself and tell him what you told me. Just sit tight for now. He may want to come up here and question you himself.”
Won’t that be a treat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He offers a sad excuse for a smile and exits the room, sliding the door shut and locking it behind him. Not much of a deterrent to Perch if he’s determined to get in here, but it’s the thought that counts. Perhaps Jamison really has my best interest at heart. If not, I will know soon enough.
There are voices, faint murmurs as through the wall. But it can’t be coming from next door; these rooms are soundproof, intentionally so. Willard didn’t want the rest of Eden to hear the screams of the sand freaks as they were experimented on.
So it has to be—
I shut my eyes and focus on the link I share with the two unborn children Tucker carries. That is where the voices originated. It’s like listening to a conversation while being submerged in a pool of water—the artificial amniotic fluid in the incubation pods. I can’t hear exact words or phrases, only the tone of each voice, and I recognize Tucker’s. I sense strong emotions, but it is unclear whether they belong to the speakers or to the two little ones who are listening.
How is this possible? I am floating far beyond the realms of science now, for this ability—much like my recent adeptness at telepathy—defies every scientific principle I know.
Regardless, Tucker seems to have met someone capable of speech, wherever he is. That rules out the mutos, too deformed to do anything but gargle, grunt, and ooze that foul-smelling yellow fluid that coats every facial orifice. It has to be Luther or one of his people. Either that, or the UW troops have already landed, and Tucker has inadvertently reached some kind of military checkpoint. There is no way for me to know.
If only I could hear what the voices are saying. How can I tell the little ones to focus their abilities on understanding what’s said? I can receive information from them, but it is unclear whether I am able to send it. And even if I can, how would fetuses have any way of understanding adult speech?
The female spoke to me before.
Down in the nursery, in the incubation chamber, she and I shared an interchange of thoughts. Telepathy.
That’s it.
If I tell the little ones, mind-to-mind via this incomprehensible metaphysical link we share, not to focus on the words themselves but instead on the thoughts behind the words—
I blow out a short sigh and settle into the uncomfortable chair. I clear my mind, close my eyes, do what I can to ignore the aches and pains from my latest beating.
I won’t know whether this is possible until I try.
Jamison or Perch—or even Willard—will return at any moment. If I am going to make this attempt at communication, it has to be now, while I am still coherent enough to keep my thoughts clear.
I know your minds, little ones.
But is that truly the case? It was only the female before, daughter of Daiyna and Luther, with whom I shared the momentary link. Where are we going? the little one’s mind asked. Home, I projected the thought back to her. Am I perceiving Tucker’s journey through her mind alone? If so, I should focus on directing my thoughts to the female now.
We share this special link between us, and it does not matter how far away from me you have gone. I feel your presence as though you never left me.
I wait in the silence, not expecting anything in return but hoping for some kind of signal, some change in our telepathic link that will let me know the transmission has been received. Either the little one hears my thoughts, or I am talking to myself inside my own head.
Who is there with you? I ask.
I feel a sudden shiver, a tremble—not from cold or fear, but from newly awakened awareness, a soul stirring from a deep sleep.
Where are we? asks the mind of the little one, the female, curious but not afraid. Where are you?
I start forward, jerking against my restraints. The sensation is strong, an energy pressing into my own consciousness through this metaphysical conduit. Are you in danger? I want to ask. But what do these young ones know of danger? They have been sealed inside chambers from the moment of their conception and now are contained in those portable incubation pods strapped to Tucker; their environment would be no different. They know nothing of the outside world: its fears, pains, and horrors.
You are with our friend, Tucker. He is taking you home—
Home? But we are already here.
I nod, keeping my eyes closed. I can understand why she would think that. Yes. And he is taking you to—
How to explain? The little ones have parents that are not even aware of their existence.
/> There are others here, in addition to Tucker, the young female’s thoughts come through.
Again I nod, taking a quick breath to steady my nerves. How many? Can you see—? I stop myself.
See?
Too late. I take a moment to berate my own foolishness for using a word unknown to the little one. It describes a sense she cannot understand.
Yes. It is what you are doing now. You see Tucker. You know he is there with you. I pause. Can you see the others as well?
Another trembling sensation courses through the link we share. I strain to remain present, in the moment.
Yes, but they do not see me.
And do they see Tucker?
Yes. They rumble at him.
I understand this approximation, a word that holds meaning for an unborn consciousness trapped in amniotic fluid. The others with Tucker now, rumbling at him, are speaking to him. They can see him in the same way I can see this little one: they are able to communicate with one another. But no one present is able to share a telepathic link; no one else is able to communicate with her in the same way I can.
Tucker may have arrived at Luther’s camp. From what I remember, there wasn’t anyone in his group who shared my special mutation and its abilities. This little one and I could be the only two of our kind.
Can you—? I want to ask her to read their thoughts, these people who rumble at Tucker. But how can I explain thoughts? Or even a mind? Better to stick with what is working already: approximations. They cannot see you the way I can, these others that are with Tucker. But can you see them?
Yes.
This is good, very good. And can you see the—? Words? What are they to a neonate? Can you see what is behind the rumbling? The thoughts behind their words?
I hope my meaning comes through clear enough.
They are not content.
My head jerks back; my eyes twitch beneath their lids. This is a new presence now linked to my mind, one that has been silent up to this point: the male, son of Shechara and Samson.
Not content, I echo his thought.
They are agitated. Unhappy.
Such a vocabulary. But is he truly using words to communicate with me? Or is it my mind, translating whatever synaptic signals they transmit into words I can comprehend? Agitated and unhappy—are these the feelings of a male child ready to be released from an incubation chamber, emotions he can easily understand?