by Rose Francis
Ilsa smiled shyly, glanced down at Christine’s impossibly tough, dirty, bare feet, and touched one with her own. She moved experimentally, and the mattress gave in a pleasant enough way. The bed’s wheels squeaked softly, and she ran a hand on the metal rail experimentally. “You know…we probably won’t see a bed like this for a long time. If ever.”
“Guess we could even take our clothes off,” said Christine. She met Ilsa’s eyes, a spark of playfulness in her own.
They moved closer together. Ilsa nestled her head against Christine’s shoulder for a moment. “I love you,” she whispered, less offhandedly this time.
Christine traced a hand over her ribs, over her wide, fragile belly and the life within. “I really love you too,” she replied. “But I think you’re wearing too much.”
“Better fix it,” said Ilsa, smiling softly.
* * *
At breakfast the next day—more beans, these ones green—the lights shut off. Ilsa grabbed Christine's arm in a panic. “Man-catchers?” she asked.
Tyson shook his head. “Fuel,” he said. “Told you we were about tapped. Still, try to remember this is here. Our next boss would be well served salvaging this.” He walked to the rear of the cafeteria, which had a sliding glass door built into the wall. He squinted through it. “All clear,” he said. “But that's probably a good sign we ought to be moving along.”
They packed up their things, and struck out. Ilsa glanced back at the building regretfully, as though a fleeting desire to drag the huge bed behind them passing through her. Christine saw the look and grinned.
They made good time the next day, and rested inside the oddly sculpted booths of a 'retro' burger joint.
* * *
The day after that, they moved slower, but found a barn to bed down. It wasn't as comfortable as the hospital, or even the burger place, but Tyson was able to make a small fire out of the scattered brush. He looked over their supplies, and before he could put a good spin to his expression Christine noticed it. “What's wrong?”
“We're moving slower than I thought we would.” He couldn't stop himself from glancing at Ilsa.
Ilsa opened her mouth to defend herself, but instead held her stomach tightly, protectively. Christine put her arms around Ilsa and glared at him.
“I didn't mean anything by it. But it means we're further from the port than I hoped. And we're burning through supplies faster than I thought. Think I forgot to factor in sleeping—since we have to use air when we're out, too. Ilsa's going to be on her last full filter. And with the cannisters all tapped, she's going to burn through it by tomorrow afternoon. On the bright side, after that, we won't have to wear the uncomfortable masks.”
“On the bad, her baby's going to be exposed to this shit.”
“She can still wear the cannisters and filters. They won't be as effective, but it's better than nothing. Just not good enough to keep the both of them from a contact high.”
It was around midday that Christine became convinced that a bird was following them. She tried not to focus on it; if it wanted to attack, it would have attacked already. It was probably just in her head. But its eyes were eerily intelligent, and every so often, she swore it muttered a critique of her navigation. It dropped feathers behind her occasionally, like a reminder of her failure to change. Tyson was clearly tired, too tired to direct them, and besides—where were they going? Did any of them even know the way to the port from here? Tyson wanted to think he did. But flying over things looked a hell of a lot different than on foot.
A low hum startled her from her musings.
“Do you see that?” Ilsa pointed above the trees at the end of the row. In the distance, a scavenger ship was touching down. Even at that distance, they could see the markings on the hull, and knew it wasn’t the Mercury.
“We probably have enough cannisters, filters and supplies to barter for passage,” Tyson said
“What if it's a man-catcher?” Ilsa asked.
“Ship's too big. Man-catchers have to operate little one-man ships. No way one could afford something as big as the Mercury. But we can make it. It’s a brisk walk, but it’s our best shot. Who knows the next time someone will sweep this area, especially when word gets out Coronetto's combed thoroughly through?” Tyson started forward without so much as a glance at the girls. Christine grabbed his arm to challenge him, to demand he think things through more, but Ilsa pulled her hand down and held it. Christine sighed and started forward.
Twenty-Two
After four hours of walking, Ilsa began to wish she’d let Christine confront Tyson. Her ankles ached. The sensations of pain blended together into a symphony of stabbing, grating, and itching. A pain of an entirely different kind hit her, a feeling she hadn’t felt since Benito’s power touched her child. She tensed and tried to talk herself out of panicking.
* * *
Ilsa’s eyes flicked excitedly from side to side, and Christine realized her filter was done, she was exposed to the air. Ilsa’s eyes widened, and at first Christine thought it was simply a Hal.
“No, no no no,” Ilsa gasped out, one hand flying to her distended stomach. “It’s too early for this.”
Christine tried to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but her hand missed as Ilsa doubled over. “What’s wrong, love?” Tyson turned around, his brows pulling together as he saw Ilsa’s posture.
Her eyes were huge with fear. “Contractions.”
“Breathe through it, come on, breathe with me.” Christine cast a worried look at Tyson.
“It shouldn’t… it shouldn’t start this soon,” Ilsa rasped, barely able to enunciate the words as tears started.
“I know, but if we rest here, we’ll miss that ship. Contractions go on forever, and walking may help take your mind off it.” Tyson met Christine’s eyes. She'd heard stories of pregnant women walking to take their mind of contractions, but Ilsa didn't seem capable of moving. She was torn between sympathy for Ilsa and a keen sense of obligation towards protecting Tyson’s life. He hadn’t had to let them flee, let alone come with them. How could she risk his chance at getting off-surface, too? All three of them knew they’d been lucky to make it this far. Gambling on their chance to make it the rest of the way to port without air filtration was insane. And, some dark corner of Christine's mind reminded her that he could well turn violent when balked. She sighed.
“It won’t hurt her. My sister worked a ten-hour shift while she labored, left the factory, and delivered the baby in her own home two hours after that.” Tyson smiled, but it wasn't quite reassuring.
Ilsa moaned sharply, a yelp like a wounded rat. Christine tried not to see her as a rat, inhaled a little more clean air to keep a Hal from starting.
“Come on, love. Let me take your pack.” Christine struggled to settle the pack on her shoulder, and offered her arm to Ilsa. She tried not to focus on the rattle of Ilsa’s breath, and the way Ilsa’s stomach twitched against her arm when Ilsa moved too fast and stepped on her heel.
Ilsa shivered and stepped away from her. Christine pressed forward, assumed she could apologize for flinching later, and let her have some space. Hopefully they’d be able to get somewhere safe soon.
* * *
Ilsa collapsed onto her knees. She swore the child was trying to tear its way out of her. She felt little hands pressing the inside of her stomach, grabbing fistfuls of her innards and rending them. She wondered whether Benito had empowered the child with super brawn. The voices around her cheered it on, like bystanders at a brawl. Muscles twisted like they were dancing with each other.
Wetness poured between her legs, and she swore she was about to faint. She tried to tell herself that the fluid pouring out of her wasn’t really blood, only a Hal, and she prayed it would turn green or violet, or a more reassuring color. The baby kicked, and she ripped the mask off long enough to throw up. Christine was at her side in a moment, helping her to sit. But sitting only made it worse. Ilsa felt an incredible pressure inside her, as though somebod
y were trying to insert the baby manually, rather than planting a seed that would develop. She hurried to stand. Pain shot through her spine, and she swore the child was trying to unmoor itself from her ribcage. She sat down again in a hurry.
The voices hooted and catcalled her. They drowned out Christine and Tyson’s voices.
“We have to get her on her feet,” Tyson said violently.
“Fucking try it,” Christine snapped savagely, pointing the pry end of her staff at his midsection.
“Shit,” he said. “I just meant if we don't, we'll miss the boat. And Spirits know this one was a miracle. There isn't going to be another—and we're probably screwed if we miss it.”
“Then go,” Christine said coldly.
Tyson looked at the ship. Ilsa followed his gaze vaguely. It was so close she could practically feel its cool, processed air on her skin. The world started to slide away, swirling and twisting menacingly. The chorus of voices yelped at her as the ship turned into a rat.
Tyson’s voice came faintly, muffled as if there were walls between them. Then he looked back to Christine, and a nearly unconscious Ilsa. “We have to get her inside. We can't do this out here.”
“The ship,” Ilsa said weakly, losing consciousness.
* * *
She came to in a room without light. Her mask was off, and her head hurt.
Christine entered the room, leaving the door ajar so they could have the last light of the sun. Ilsa could see the cloud and the dusty ground beneath it, the particles tinting the sky improbable, subtle shades. She was laying on the countertop of a tiny gas station. “My baby?” she asked.
“Right where you left it,” Christine said, smiling.
“It was false labor.” Tyson added.
“You're sure?” she asked.
“When we got you someplace safe,” she gestured to the walls around Ilsa, “I crawled up there to look. Well, Tyson helped tell me what to look for. No dilation. Not the way I imagined getting into your pants, but I'll have you know I was a perfect gentlewoman. I mean, if I'd had a marker I might have written, 'Christine was here,' just so everyone knows I've staked my claim. But everything is as I found it.”
“Do you think it's okay?” she asked, touching her belly.
“Yeah. There's a whole other kind of contractions than the ones that mean a baby's about to stroll out of your womb. These were them. But if they're this bad, that means the baby's getting close. We've got a few weeks, is all.”
“It's too soon.”
“Tell that to your little kicker down there.”
Tyson entered behind Christine.
“The ship?” Ilsa asked.
“Gone,” he said.
Christine turned abruptly. “We going to be okay?” she asked, stepping between Tyson and Ilsa.
“I pushed her. A pregnant woman, and that I even got to a point where I thought about leaving her...even if you pushed that thought into my head, I didn't reject it out of hand. I don't know if we get out of this alive. But I do know how I want to live while I can—not like I was. We're good. And I'm sorry.”
“It's okay,” Christine said, and her voice softened. “I know the feeling. It wasn't so long ago I kept thinking I was going to have to cut the umbilical cord, yet here we are. She grows on you.”
“So do cancers,” Tyson said.
“Yeah, but she's got a cuter smile than most cancers.” Ilsa smiled. “Though she should probably hide it back under her mask, unless we want the baby to come out screwy.”
She handed Ilsa back her mask, and the girl dutifully put it back on, then turned back towards Tyson. “You think we should head out again?” she asked.
“I think this place may not be great, but it's shelter, and we've already got it open. And we don't know what kind of shape Ilsa's in. No. We'll rest, now. We can head out at dawn. You two can take the other side of the counter, I'll prop myself up here. That way I can watch the door.”
Christine helped Ilsa slide off the counter and onto the floor. They organized their packs to rest on. Christine slid off her mask and kissed her way along Ilsa's face, where the mask met her skin. Ilsa moaned, and the sound echoed loudly in the mask. “Think I might just want to rest,” she said.
“I'm offended you think I was going to do anything more than rest,” Christine teased her, and nuzzled her bare forehead against Ilsa's neck. They fell asleep in each others' arms.
* * *
Tyson woke them at first light by shaking on their ankles. “Phwew,” he said.
“Hmm?” Christine said, stirring. She pushed her mask back down.
“I heard the moaning last night. I tried just talking the both of you awake, but you were soundly out. I was worried when I came back here I was going to find a pile of naked girls.”
“And that would be a problem?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Not necessarily. But I'd put my feelings towards the two of you at 'familial.' It's not the sort of thing I'd want to walk in on, is what I mean.”
“Pull your breeches back up,” Christine said to Ilsa, who was still asleep. “Tyson's already seen too much of your ass.”
The other girl reached around her hips for the supposedly pulled-down pants. “They are up,” she said, sitting.
“And now, so are you. Just in time for us to clear out.”
“I had a thought last night, when I couldn't sleep,” Tyson said.
“Because of her moaning,” Christine said with a grin.
“Thanks for that,” he said. “But I think we should tie ourselves together.”
“So her moaning made you think of bondage?” Christine asked, grinning wider.
“We're going to be breathing barely filtered cloud out here.”
“So? I went weeks in the Foundation.”
“And out here the chemicals are thicker and heavier. But the real danger of being out here is in wandering off, so stoned you don't know or care where you're going. Eventually you'll starve, dehydrate, or OD. But if we're lashed together, then we all have to go in the same direction. It means so long as one or two of us aren't baked into submission, we'll be able to keep moving in the right general direction.”
Tyson produced some lengths of rope from his duffle. He tied his wrist to Christine, and then started to tie Ilsa's wrist. When he went to tie to Christine's other side, she pulled her hand away.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
“It's not that I don't trust you,” she said. “But if you're the one who freaks out, I think it's going to take both of us to get you back on mission.”
He thought a moment. “That's probably good thinking,” he said, and removed the rope from Ilsa's arm, tying her other to his own—though he needed a little help by the end of it.
* * *
They continued in that fashion for the next several days, stopping at night, and refashioning their bonds in the morning. On the fourth day they stopped at a high school. It had three separate halls, like the prongs of a trident, off a single connective hallway.
Tyson pried an aging lock off a side door to get them inside. He opened the door, then froze as he spotted a figure in the distance behind them. He stared long enough both women followed his gaze to the spot. The air was surprisingly thin; it had been a windless day, and the heavier elements in the cloud had settled nearer to the ground.
Tyson hurried them inside. Ilsa started to ask, “Was that—”
“Man-catcher,” Tyson said. “Fucking hell.”
“You can't be sure,” Ilsa said.
“He was alone, walking the same direction we came from, kitted out like no scavenger I ever seen.”
“What should we do?” she asked.
“He saw us,” Christine said. “Which limits our options.”
“It does?” Ilsa asked.
“Either we fortify this spot, and wait for him. Or we move, and hope we can lose him someplace else.”
“Which might not be much of an option, seeing as the cloud's cover's almost nonexis
tent,” Tyson said. “He has supplies, though.”
“The supplies are secondary,” Christine said. “Blind greed kills.”
“I'm not blind,” he said. “But if we have to face him, is what I'm saying.”
“Have to,” Christine repeated. “But we better make sure we haven't got much of a choice. This school's got multiple doors in and out on all sides.”
“I don't think he's going to make up the difference,” Tyson said. “He was far enough away, that unless he ran all night, there's no way he catches up. If it was me—not that I would be hunting but—if I was, I wouldn't want to catch up to us fully rested, after we've had time to set traps and prep. I'd want to disappear. Won't see him again—not until he's on us.”
“There's the other issue,” Christine said. “We're getting worse. Lack of good air means we're getting more fucked up every day. Maybe tomorrow's the day when we get so sick we can't hack it on our own feet. Maybe this should be our last stand.” She turned towards Ilsa. “What do you think? You're the one of us with the most filtration left. If anybody's got their head on straight, it's you.”
“I don't know that that's true,” she admitted. “I'm scared. More scared than I should be—and I don't think it's just the buzz from the cloud. Just the idea of someone like a man-catcher. I want to stay away from him.”
“And if we can't?”
“I hope we can.”
“Seems like she's cast her vote,” Tyson said. “And for tonight I think I'm with her. No good comes from being in this kind of place. It's too big to watch all the doors, too big to set traps or even things that'll make noise if somebody comes while we're asleep.” His eyes lit up. “Though I think I may have a way to slow him down. Burn the school.”
“What the fuck?” Christine asked. “That's insane. You're dangerously high.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Or maybe he'd have to spend a day shifting through ash, to make sure we weren't in the rubble.”
“That's what I was thinking.”
“Aren't you worried about setting the whole valley ablaze?”