"Roll onto your side, Strongman," she says quietly.
He obeys, metal parts clunking against the floor. The snores subside.
"That's new." I unwrap my head covering and shrug out of my outer layers, reaching up to place them on the top bunk. "You two?"
She smiles shyly at me. "Three years now. Luther married us. He performed the ceremony, I mean."
"People still do that?" I try not to laugh. "Get married?"
"We did. It took a while for us to realize we loved each other. That we were good for each other. We shared so much… And knowing that, across the ocean, we have ten children growing up inside Eurasia—"
"So this is it." I have my 9mm in hand, and I nod toward the one she has tucked in her belt. "Two semiautomatics and a cyborg. That's how we're getting out of here."
She blinks at the sudden shift in conversation, her metal eyes expressionless. "You think we should fight them."
"We're slaves otherwise, working off however much that crane was worth."
She shakes her head. "You don't owe them anything, Daiyna."
"You do?"
"I told Samson to hijack that truck. We've never tried it before. There was just so much in the trailer, and we couldn't fit it all in my jeep." Her brow furrows. "Now we have nothing. No haul. No jeep. And Mayor Tullson will expect us to work indentured. You're right about that." She slides out of her bunk and places her hand on my arm. "But you can leave. You don't have to suffer because of our mistake."
I don't intend to. But I'll be taking them with me. I just haven't figured out how. Maybe we work for Tullson tomorrow—hell, maybe for a couple days, if they feed us well. Then once we've lulled him and his crew into a false sense of…
Shechara said something, and I missed it. "What?"
"He misses you. He said so, more than once."
I don't have to ask who she's talking about. "When was that?"
"A while ago. After we got rid of all the daemons. He was working with Milton and Sergeant Bishop. They were planning to contact the UW—"
"Idiots," I mutter. Before I realize it, the flask is in my hand, and I've downed a burning gulp of whiskey. I catch Shechara staring at me. "Want some?" There isn't much left, but I'm willing to share. Stack's saloon will be open in the morning. Maybe I'll trade a few bullets for a fresh supply.
Shechara shakes her head, her long hair swaying. "Three and a half years is a long time, Daiyna. What have you been doing out there?"
I cap the flask and set it on my bunk. "Getting by. Doing what I have to."
"We heard about the bounty…"
I laugh—then shoot a glance at Samson. He's still dead to the world.
"Nothing wakes him up short of a kick to the ribs." She smiles with affection.
"You really love him."
She nods without reservation. "I do." Then she pauses. "Luther's worried about you—"
"I don't want to talk about Luther." It stings too much to remember how I hurt him. And recalling his boundless optimism is enough to make me gag. "How about we plan our escape?"
She squeezes my arm before sliding back into her bunk and laying her head down on the pillow. She closes those incredible cybernetic eyes. "You plan your escape, Daiyna. If you're gone when I wake up, I won't blame you."
I frown. There's no way I'm leaving without her. And if she thinks she's going to sleep through any sort of escape I attempt, then she doesn't know me very well.
Time changes people. So does time apart.
Up on my bunk, I'm closest to the light, so I reach out for the pull-chain. But I pause to watch Samson for a moment, then Shechara. Both of them sound asleep. Married? Hard to imagine, but I guess this is reality. I just have to accept it.
Why aren't they still with Luther and Milton on the coast? Maybe gathering supplies is the work they've been assigned. After what happened to the Homeplace, Luther and his people lost all of their stores: food, water, weapons. I'm sure they've had to scramble and scavenge ever since.
Welcome to life in the Wastes.
So Samson and Shechara were supposed to load up their jeep and then what? Drive all the way back to the coast and divvy it up? Makes no sense. Why head this far inland?
The raiders could have already hit every stockpile west of here. They could be systematically sweeping inland from the coastline, scouring every city ruin and bunker along the way, hauling everything back to their ships on the Pacific. If I remember my geography correctly, their return voyage would take them south, then through the Panama Canal, and onward across the Atlantic to Eurasia.
I pull the chain, and instantly everything is pitch black. Outside, the sounds of Stack's loyal residents putting out the fire continue. Funny they didn't expect us to lend a hand. Probably because the work Tullson has in store for us tomorrow will be the more back-breaking variety. Or the unsavory. I don't even want to guess what it might entail.
I lie back on my bunk and close my eyes. Open or closed, the average human wouldn't be able to see a hand in front of one's face in here. But I've got this special night-vision ability. So if I want to stop counting the furrows in the steel ceiling and think things through, my eyes have to be shut.
If Samson and Shechara are on their own, just looking out for themselves, and if there's nothing worth scavenging west of here, it makes sense that our paths would cross eventually. After gunning down Willard, I kept to myself, covering the range between Sectors 30 and 35. I didn't return to the Homeplace with everybody else. I couldn't.
Not after causing that mess in Eden.
While Luther and the others were topside handing over the incubation units to Bishop's people, I was underground, chasing down Perch. I wanted to end him the same way I'd ended his boss—by emptying an entire clip into his torso and head.
Perch always struck me as a witless neanderthal who got off on hurting people. He never seemed to have much going on between the ears, besides hate and a loathsome personality. So imagine how surprised I was when he succeeded in trapping me inside. Sealing off the exits, he turned the hunter into prey. Once he showed the Eden Guard what I'd done to Captain Willard, they came after me frothing with vengeance and would have killed me, had Milton and Samson not intervened.
It was a bloodbath.
Our people and Eden's paid a high price for my revenge, but Perch survived. We managed to make it out of there, suffering multiple casualties as the men of Eden fired endless rounds after our retreat. They refused to follow us outside, so once we made it topside, we were relatively safe. Only seven of us. Down from more than twenty.
Because of me. The darkness inside. My hate.
Good people died that day, and I couldn't face those who remained. Like a coward, I ran off through the ruins and hid until Milton's flyovers eventually ended and Luther's voice calling out my name faded away beneath the howling wind.
Shechara says he misses me. But Luther misses who I used to be. His ally. His friend. This person I am now? I barely recognize her anymore.
Maybe I miss me, too.
I pour the last drops from the flask down my throat and savor the smoky burn. Outside, the commotion settles as the flames go out. Inside, from beyond the flimsy partition-walls, low thuds of footsteps and the murmur of conversation seeps through cracks along the floor and ceiling. Nothing I can't sleep through.
Is this your doing? I ask the Rehana-spirit, wherever she is. Doubtful that she'll make an appearance in this cargo container. Her kind isn't able to move through human-made materials. If the floor was covered in dust or dirt, that would be a different matter. Did you bring us together?
I want to stay with Shechara, and yes, even Samson, but part of me knows I can't. If they stick with me, I'll put them in danger. There's the bounty on my head to contend with as well as the intangible sense that I've been cursed with bad luck. Tonight's as good an example as any: under house arrest with a guard standing right outside the door.
An ear-splitting explosion interrupts my thoughts as the shippi
ng container reverberates. The bunk bed sways and slams back against the wall. Screams pierce the night outside, cut short by yet another blast.
The dark interior of the container glows with a ghostly blue aura in my special night-vision. I launch myself from the bunk and land between Samson's metal legs as both he and Shechara sit up and blink at me. She can see in the dark as well as I can with those eye implants, and Samson shares my gift from the spirits.
A siren wails. Mandatory evacuation.
"Under attack," Samson states the obvious.
"The UW?" Shechara asks.
No way to know. "This is our ticket out of here. We take one of their vehicles, and we don't look back."
Samson and Shechara glance at each other and nod grimly. Maybe they don't like the idea of running away. Or stealing. Too bad. They're riding with me now.
I kick open the door to find our guard has abandoned her post. Not surprising. Outside, fresh fire lights up the night as dark figures run in every direction. Screams and automatic weapons fire compete with the wailing siren. Dirt bikes rip to and fro, grinding and chugging, kicking up dust in their wakes.
So, not UW raiders. Marauders have hit Stack.
"Wastelanders." Samson curses as he steps outside, scowling at the mayhem.
They're well-armed. At least three of the shipping containers-turned-makeshift buildings lie in smoking ruin, pulverized by the same sort of missile that took out the raiders' big rig. Same telltale craters in the earth surrounding each impact zone.
A dirt bike skids around the corner adjacent to us, and the rider cackles behind his ridiculous skull-mask and feathers, heading straight for us. He revs his motor as he raises the assault rifle slung over his shoulder and shrieks, "Half your load or half your woman!"
Samson steps past Shechara and me to meet the marauder head-on. The cyborg's arms pivot as he walks, transforming from metal hands to lethal blades.
"Find us a ride," he rumbles. "I'll catch up."
Shechara lurches forward, drawing her semiautomatic as if planning to join him. But I grab hold of her and swing her around the corner. I keep her ahead of me and glance over my shoulder just as the marauder releases a burst of automatic fire. The rounds ricochet off Samson's blade-arms with sparks of light. A split-second later, the riderless bike slams into the wall of the shipping container with a gong-like clang. The rider hangs suspended and stares wide-eyed through his mask, feet dangling in the air, his chest skewered on Samson's arm.
But he's not dead.
"How many?" Samson demands.
The marauder wheezes, his head drooping.
"How many of you are there?" Samson gives him a shake that makes him cry out.
"Enough," the rider manages. "More than enough." Then he laughs. Because he's insane. "Had a feeling I'd see you again." Blood bubbles out of his mouth and drools down his chin.
Samson drops him to the ground and pivots one blade back into a metal-fingered hand. He grabs the marauder's rifle and staggers after me.
"Let's move." I keep a hold on Shechara and draw my 9mm. Samson's shadow covers us both as we head for a darker, quieter corner of Stack, currently devoid of flames, screams, or gunfire.
"Head on a swivel," Samson says, doing his best to keep his voice low. With our night-vision, it will be impossible for anyone to sneak up on us—as long as we're paying attention to our surroundings. Not looking at the empty saloon and thinking this would be a great opportunity to break inside and take a few liters of whiskey—
"There." Samson points out a row of parked vehicles belonging to the Stackers. The four-door solar jeep looks promising, as long as the battery is charged enough to get us the hell out of here.
We pick up our pace, jogging toward the jeep while keeping to the shadows. Samson climbs behind the wheel and pops the hood for me to take a look underneath. The battery's in good shape, and according to the meter, it should hold enough juice to carry us a hundred kilometers.
I close the hood and lean on it, popping it quietly into place. Then I leap into the backseat behind Shechara. Samson slides one of his metal digits into the ignition and manages to start it up on the first try. He's a handy guy to have around.
We roll out, tires crunching across sand and gravel, the electric engine's low hum barely audible beneath the clashing sounds we leave behind. Samson takes us between two shipping containers, slow and steady, hoping not to draw any unwanted attention.
Wide-open space lies ahead where we'll stand out against the barren terrain. Fingers crossed the marauders will be too busy to notice.
"We could fight," Shechara says out of the blue, her voice near a whisper.
Samson shakes his head. "Doesn't feel right, leaving in the middle of it."
"Shut up and drive," I mutter. "It'll feel right being alive this time tomorrow." Should we be so lucky.
"Stack has never looked for any trouble," Shechara continues. "We brought it on them."
"You didn't have anything to do with this," I counter, about to lose my patience.
"We ran into a couple Wastelanders on our way here," Samson admits. "They followed us, most likely. Hell, they might've been responsible for firing that first missile and destroying the raiders' rig."
That makes no sense at all. Who would want to see all those supplies go up in flames?
"Fire and judgment!" a sudden voice screams. The path ahead is now obstructed by the figure of a large, muscular man sporting a flamethrower. He releases a spurt of liquid fire into the air and laughs, his voice ragged and guttural. "You think you can escape my wrath?"
I stand up and lean on the jeep's roll bar, my 9mm aimed at the lunatic's head. "Let us pass, we'll let you live."
Another laugh and flaming spurt. If he keeps showing off like this, maybe he'll exhaust his supply and not have enough to set us ablaze.
"I have seen the very fires of hell, woman," he growls. "You think a little gun frightens me?"
"How about three?" Samson holds the assault rifle he took off that marauder, and Shechara aims her semiautomatic. "Walk away, pal. Go find somebody else to creep out."
Silence from the dark figure. The flamethrower holds its peace.
"I recognize that voice…" the oversized marauder says at length. "Luther's...bodyguard?"
Samson flicks the headlights on, then off. The marauder flinches and staggers back, blinded for a moment. Samson slams his metal foot onto the accelerator, and the jeep tears away from Stack as fast as it can go, kicking up a screen of dust in our wake.
No one follows us. Not yet, anyway.
"You saw him, right?" Samson rumbles, like he wants to gauge his own sanity.
Of course I saw him. Not someone I've ever wanted to see again or thought I would, not after those UW hoverplanes rained fire outside Eden.
In the glare of the headlights, his face was a mangled mess of scarred facial tissue, the type of damage reserved for third-degree burn victims. His eyes were wild with hate. But that was him. No doubt about it.
"Cain."
8 Sera
22 Years After All-Clear
I grab Erik by the shoulder and spin him around as we reach the sunlit lobby of the cube complex. Fortunately, the area is vacant, so no one is there to see an unarmed law enforcer following an overly armed citizen.
"You can't walk out onto the street like that," I tell him.
"Want one?" He offers an assault rifle he took from the security clones.
I grab it, if only to disarm him by fifty percent. "What are you planning to do?"
He shrugs. "Get you someplace safe."
"I don't need you to protect me."
"Didn't you hear? They're rounding up the Twenty. That's us."
I shake my head. "Just a precautionary measure. There's no reason to be upset by it." If my augments were working, I'd be able to tell how elevated his pulse and adrenaline levels are. But even without them, I can clearly see he's amped. "Once things settle down, we'll be able to return to our daily lives."
"Drop your weapon."
He halts and does a slow about-face like he's unsure what he'll find behind him. "You can't be serious." He blinks at me, standing there with my rifle trained on his chest.
"I'm taking you to HQ, Erik. Place that rifle on the floor, and then take three steps back. Hands behind your head. Interlock your fingers."
Twenty meters beyond him, outside the clear glass doors, disorder has claimed the street. Speeding automobiles swerve around pedestrians running and screaming. Half of them are armed: enforcers as well as citizens who don't look like they're from Dome 1. They're...filthy. The enforcers are chasing them, shockers out in the open. The grimy citizens turn mid-stride and fire their weapons over their shoulders.
Live ammunition. Actual bullets.
The front doors to the complex shatter, raining shards of glass across the tiled floor. Erik hits the ground in a prone position with his rifle aimed at the street. He looks like he's had some weapons training. Maybe in one of his acting classes.
I took the same position a split-second before he did.
"I recommend finding an alternate route, Enforcer Chen," he advises. "It's a war zone out there."
"Are those…?" I can't believe they're here, in Dome 1, causing such a grievous disturbance. "Patriots?"
"That'd be my guess." He keeps his eyes on the scene outside. "I doubt the security clones came here on foot." He glances over his shoulder at me. "Can you pilot an aerocar?"
With active augments, I'd be able to figure it out. Maybe even without them. I've seen Drasko do it often enough. How difficult can it be?
"We're going to the roof." I make it sound like it's my idea as I get to my feet and keep my weapon on him. "After you set down that rifle."
He glances toward the smashed front doors like he's considering making a run for it. Joining the mayhem with his compatriots—if he is, in fact, one of the insurgents. I wasn't able to find out earlier. The arrival of the chancellor's security personnel interrupted my telepathic investigation.
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 89