Shechara hears me grumble aloud as I squeeze my head with both hands. "What is it? Do you need us to stop?"
"I need something to drink," I groan.
Rehana stands on the running board on my side of the jeep and holds onto the roll bar. That's how it looks, anyway. It's all a matter of perception and supernaturally manifested memories. The good news: Willard has disappeared for the moment.
"You're putting them in danger, going back there," she says.
"I'm keeping them from danger." I shake my head and close my eyes.
"Who, Daiyna?" Shechara says, holding me close. She sounds worried.
Probably because I'm talking to myself like a crazy person.
"You're running away," Mother Lairen says. "As soon as it looked like Samson would take you back to Luther, you immediately offered to fight Cain. And if that wasn't enough of a death wish, now you're escorting these cannibals to Eden. To die."
"They deserve it," I mutter.
"She's not well," Shechara tells Samson. "We should stop."
"No, I'm fine." I give her a nod and try to ignore my spirit-friends for the moment. "We need to keep going." Make up as much ground as we can in daylight, then squeeze the batteries' juice dry after dark.
We should be passing my derelict jeep soon. After that, it'll be another fifty kilometers to Eden. Doubtful we'll run into any bounty hunters along the way. The Wastelanders on their grinding bikes are a force to be reckoned with, enough to scare away any Edenites with delusions of grit.
"This is about revenge." The Rehana-spirit faces me. "Whether you admit it or not. You've found a dozen unpredictable marauders, and you want to sic them on Perch and his men. Because payback is a real bitch."
"You can keep your hands clean," Mother Lairen echoes. Always a joy when the spirits tag-team up against me. "You won't be doing the actual killing yourself."
I smile beneath my head covering and keep my mouth shut. This isn't about revenge. I'm leading the Wastelanders to a better life, one they've never experienced. Once they take residence in Eden, enjoying all of its modern conveniences, they'll give up their marauding ways. If they don't get along with the Edenites, and if there happens to be some bloodshed, well, that's really none of my concern.
I'm not running away. I plan to join Shechara and Samson wherever they go after this. If it's back to Luther and the others, then so be it. I'm not afraid of him.
"You're afraid of who you are with him," Rehana suggests, and I don't like the sound of that at all. "You love him, but you can't bear to be around him. You're afraid you won't have anything left to offer. And you don't know how to talk to him about your children—"
"That's enough!" My voice is sharp. Both Shechara and Samson look at me. Cain stops grunting.
Just because they share my DNA—and Luther's—doesn't make them my children. Margo assembled them in a laboratory. They grew and developed inside man-made incubation chambers, surrounded by artificial amniotic fluid. Nothing about them is natural.
I'm fine never seeing them again. They gave me the creeps.
"You may be able to lie to yourself, but you can't lie to us," Rehana says. "You may never be able to have children naturally, after what happened to you in Eden. But you have ten children living across the sea. And if Luther is successful in finding a way into Eurasia to locate them, he will need you by his side."
I'm sure Luther is doing just fine without me. I don't know who he's surrounding himself with these days—obviously not Shechara and Samson. I have no idea who survived Cain's missile attack on the Homeplace. But without me around, at least he doesn't have to be constantly reminded of the deaths I caused during my Eden rampage. And I don't have to see the disappointment in his eyes when he looks at me.
When he sees what I've become.
"You can find yourself again, Daiyna." Rehana leans toward me. "Isolation has not been good for you."
As much as I've longed for solitude, I haven't been alone. These spirits haven't given me a moment's peace lately. They've driven me nuts.
For a long while, they didn't appear to me at all. Back when I burned with a thirst for vengeance, when my only waking—and sometimes dreaming—thoughts were of killing Willard and Perch and obliterating Eden. Darkness festered inside me then, driving a wedge between me and others in the Homeplace who didn't share my hatred.
Luther was one of them. Things between us weren't good for a while before I left the group. Finding out we had biological children didn't magically bring us closer together. Unlike Shechara and Samson, we drifted even further apart, until the unspoken wall between us was insurmountable.
"Daiyna?" Samson glances into the rearview. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah," I lie.
"Spirit problems?"
"You could say that."
Cain grunts in a frenzy, struggling against his bonds, jerking his head against his restraints like he wants to turn toward me but can't.
"Gaia has abandoned him." Mother Lairen clucks her tongue. "The poor wretch."
"What are they telling you?" Shechara rubs my arm.
"Nothing new," I mutter.
"He's lost without her," Mother Lairen continues, shaking her head at Cain with a combination of disgust and pity. "His missile strikes are shots in the dark. He hopes to recapture her favor with these blind attempts at appeasement."
As long as he's killing people, the evil spirits are perfectly content with him shooting blindly. As far as I can tell, their only desire is to eliminate the human remnant from the face of the earth. Turn us against each other, let us wipe ourselves out. Then, once the Wastes are cleared of human refuse, will they move on to Eurasia? I'm sure they're already trying to worm their way into that last bastion of humankind.
But if it's anything like Eden, composed entirely of human-made materials, they'll have a tough time getting inside that sealed biosphere. They move through the dust, through the air. Maybe if they convince the UW raiders to ship back a few tons of dirt—
"Trouble," Shechara murmurs, her mechatronic eyes twitching as they zoom to focus on an indistinct shape appearing over the eastern horizon.
"What do you see?" I strain but can't make it out.
"Raiders," she says, "driving a big rig this way."
"Deja vu." Samson chuckles without much mirth. "We should get out of their way." He turns the steering wheel hand over hand, aiming toward an outcropping of rock. "With any luck, they haven't spotted us yet."
I'm sure they haven't. But the Wastelanders are another matter entirely. Whooping and screaming, they gun their bikes and bolt full-speed toward the tractor-trailer in the distance.
"Guess they don't wait for orders from their queen," Samson observes.
I watch them go while Cain lets out a staccato of gagged laughter.
"Standing orders." I assume. "Pillage and scavenge."
"They seriously have no fear." Shechara watches them approach the tractor-trailer while Samson pulls our jeep behind the looming rock formation and cuts the engine.
"We'll wait it out here." He remains behind the wheel. "See what's left when the dust settles."
"You've changed." I remember a Samson who wasn't nearly this cautious.
He turns toward me. "Marriage will do that, I suppose."
Shechara rests her hand on his metal arm. Such an unexpected couple. I still have trouble believing what I'm seeing.
"How did it happen?" Not sure I phrased that correctly. "Or when…?"
"Not long after the missile strike on the Homeplace." Samson glances at Cain, who has gone strangely silent again. "We lost a lot of good people. Many of them from Shiptown." He pauses, probably hoping that will sink into Cain's addled brain. "Ten of us were away when it happened, and Milton got back first. Sorted through the rubble at superspeed for survivors. He found five."
From fifty strong when I left them, to fifteen. Luther must have been beside himself. All he's ever wanted was to unite the survivors of this wasteland, and for our numbers to g
row as more recruits entered the fold.
"We could've been there when it happened." Samson covers Shechara's hand gently with his own, metal glinting under the sun. "Life's transience made a big impression on us."
Shechara nods. "We decided to spend however many days we had left as husband and wife. Best decision I've ever made."
"Your options were limited." Samson sounds like he's smiling.
"So were yours," she counters.
Maybe they are perfect for each other. But I for one never saw it coming. Guess a lot can change when you're faced with a massacre or few. You cling to those you hold dear.
Or you make your own path with your spirit-friends and a flask brimming with whatever whiskey you can find.
"They're not slowing down," Shechara says, peering around the rock formation to keep an eye on the approaching truck.
The sound of weapons fire pops in the distance.
"The raiders or the Wastelanders?" I strain to see, but it's still too far.
"Both."
Cain's grunting again, adamant about something. Too bad we don't care.
"Two of the Wastelanders have been shot," Shechara reports. "Their bikes and bodies crushed under the rig."
"Eleven to go." Mother Lairen wrinkles her non-corporeal lip at me. "Admit it. You don't mind if they die."
Honestly? No. I don't. They're an untrustworthy bunch of cannibals, and their fashion sense is the worst. My main goal is to keep them away from Shechara and the parts of Samson that are still human.
"Nobody told them to go up against a truck full of raiders," Rehana counters. "They're out of their minds."
"Daiyna knew something like this would happen. If not against the Edenites, then these UW raiders. Either way, it whittles down the number of marauders, makes them more manageable." Mother Lairen stares unblinking at me. "Isn't that right?"
"Half a klick away now." Shechara gazes off into the distance. "The Wastelanders are firing at the cab. There's blood on the windshield, but the truck is driving straight."
"Do you let it play out, or do you lend a hand?" Mother Lairen raises an eyebrow. "And whom do you help? The cannibals or the people under attack—the people from that glass city where your children are growing up?"
She wants me to react. But I refuse to give her the satisfaction. Besides, Shechara has seen enough Crazy Daiyna for one day. So I grip my 9mm and wait beneath the sun's oppressive heat, putting the voices of the spirits and Cain's barking out of my mind. Focusing all my attention on the approaching gunshots and roar of the truck's engine.
I give Shechara a pat on the shoulder and a nod, letting her know I can see what's happening now. The number of bikers is down from thirteen to ten, swarming around the big rig and firing their rifles with no apparent attack pattern. None of them have attempted to jump onto the trailer's shipping container; they're content with flanking the vehicle, trading fire, and vaulting their dirt bikes off the rugged terrain and into the air at untimed intervals. A few idiots pass in front of the truck's menacing grill, as if their airborne presence will slow it down.
It's clear to anybody with eyes that the raiders are perfectly fine running over anything in their path.
Then all at once, as if the same thought has occurred to every Wastelander simultaneously, they turn their weapons on the truck's tires, blowing them out one by one. The rig lurches side to side awkwardly, pitching over one way and then the other like a lumbering giant whose ankles have given out. The driver fights the steering wheel and brakes, but it's too late. The tractor-trailer is out of control and careening off the beaten path, plowing through dust and dirt, shoveling it up into the air and smothering the grill and windshield.
Heading straight for us.
I slap Samson's shoulder. "Hey, you might want to—"
"On it." He revs up the jeep and floors the accelerator, swerving out of the way in a tight U-turn, leaving those boulders for the semi to slam into.
Which it does, smashing against the rocks with deafening force. Dust explodes upward and outward, obscuring the impact zone, as broken pieces of granite tumble across the ground. The Wastelanders pull up on their chugging bikes and surround the crash site.
"We haven't eaten them!" one calls out, looking my way. Like he's expecting me to be proud of him.
I give him a thumbs-up. Might as well humor the freak.
All ten of them kill their motors and dismount, their weapons trained on the truck. None of them are watching the back of the trailer. That becomes a problem when the rear door on the shipping container swings open, and half a dozen well-armed UW raiders hop out, firing at will.
I throw myself over Shechara, holding her down. Samson raises his metal arms to shield himself. Cain grunts in a frenzy, cringing in his seat.
But the raiders aren't shooting at us. They've targeted the bikers, and in less than five seconds, the number of Wastelanders is down to three. Those left alive have their hands in the air and their weapons on the ground.
The raiders close in, hunched over their assault rifles, black armor gleaming in the sunlight. Their environmental suits are barely recognizable as such, nothing like that bulky monstrosity Sergeant Bishop was forced to wear a few years ago. These next-gen suits are sleek and form-fitting. The raiders move with ease, their tinted helmets sealed tight against the contaminated air.
Half of them split off and aim their weapons our way. "Get out of the vehicle!" one orders, his helmet's external speaker cranked up so we can hear him clearly.
Shechara and I tuck our semiautomatics under our tunics and step out. Samson leaves his rifle behind, his metal arms raised and gleaming under the desert sun.
"Him too!" the raider barks, referring to Cain.
"No can do." Samson shakes his head. "If it's all the same, we'd like to turn him over to you."
"Why the hell would we want him?"
"He hijacked one of your trucks yesterday, then decided to blow it up last night. Along with most of Stack," I tell them. "From what I've heard, you had a good deal going with Mayor Tullson. Fifty-fifty split of everything they scavenged, right? Well, that's all shot to hell now, thanks to this guy's inability to keep his missile-launcher in his pants."
Cain has resumed his eerie silence, still as a statue.
"How do we know you had nothing to do with it?" the raider asks.
I nod toward the three remaining Wastelanders. "Ask them. They rode with him."
The bikers nod quickly, pointing at Cain, their voices clambering over each other: "It was him. All his idea. Fire and judgment, he said. Fire and judgment!"
The cab door of the truck swings open with a long creak, and the blood-spattered driver stumbles out looking a little rattled. The raider riding shotgun is dead. For a second or two, the driver doesn't seem to comprehend what's going on. But then her hand rises to point right at us, and she stammers, adamant and building in volume.
"They hijacked my truck!"
"Not good..." Samson mutters.
"It was those two!" She singles out Samson, then Shechara. "Killed one of my men and sent us hiking, the bastards." She laughs, her helmet jerking. "I told you there was no place to run!"
The raiders who already had us in their sights close in now. The leader of the pack barks out orders, and soon we're kneeling on the ground with our hands up. The three Wastelanders get the same treatment. Only Cain is allowed to stay put, his eyes bright, enjoying the show.
I suppose we're his accomplices. In the eyes of the UW, all seven of us are guilty.
"Stupid bitch," Willard says, standing over me with his arms crossed. If he was really there, I'd be in his shadow. "You just can't help getting the people around you killed. Now it's going to be your dear Shechara. All because of you."
I grit my teeth as sudden tears sting my eyes. Fury does that to me sometimes. Good thing my goggles keep them hidden.
"What are you going to do with us?" I demand.
The raiders have all six of us lined up beside the jeep, and
three of them keep the muzzles of their weapons trained on us. The other three have already started unpacking the shipping container, setting crates and boxes of food, fuel, and supplies on the sun-scorched ground. They've collected the Wastelanders' dirt bikes and weapons, lining them up next to the other scavenged goods. A real organized bunch, as far as thieves go.
The driver walks toward me. Unarmed, she steps right up and kicks me in the gut. As I pitch forward, she drops to one knee and holds my head down in the dust.
"We haven't met before," she says, sounding calm for someone with obvious anger issues. "But if you're anything like your friends, then I'm going to enjoy watching you die."
I try to speak, but my words are too muffled by the ground to make much sense. She lets me up just enough to sound coherent.
"If you were going to kill us, you would've done it already."
"Is that so?" She sounds amused.
"You people have rules. You only shot the hostiles shooting at you. The rest of us get this preferential treatment. You're going to radio your superiors, and then you're going to wait here until a truck arrives to pick you up, load all your newfound loot, and take you west for the next Eurasia-bound ship." I pause. "Only I have a better idea."
She curses. But she keeps listening, her hand applying pressure on the back of my head so I know she's still the boss. She can drive my face into the dirt again whenever she sees fit.
"You go to Eden," I advise. "You take everything they've got. They've accumulated some primo stuff over the years. Only the best for those Edenites."
"They're sealed up tighter than—"
"I can get you in."
"Daiyna, don't…" Shechara pleads. The eavesdropper.
"Their leader has a bounty on my head. You show up with me, demand the bounty, that's how you get inside. The rest is up to you."
She lets go of me. I rise to face her but remain on my knees like my friends. I don't want to stand out and get myself shot. These raiders may have their rules, but I'm sure they know how to make murder look like self-defense.
"You have quotas, right? Everything you scavenge is weighed, and once you reach that arbitrary amount set by your superiors—maybe after a month or two on this wasted continent—you're allowed to go home. Back to your dome cities across the sea?"
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 96