By the Feet of Men
Page 32
On stiff, sensitive legs, Cassady eased himself out of the cab. He allowed his hand to drift over her body, tracing her dents and scratches and lesions until he’d made a full circuit of his rig. He stood back and took in the sight of her. He was ready. Ghazi waited by the hood, chin high and shoulders back but unable to disguise the pain in his eyes.
‘Okay,’ Cassady said. His voice was calm. ‘You’d better saddle up. No need to stand on ceremony.’
Ghazi said nothing. Cassady limped over to where he stood.
‘This is not my calling. My place is here now.’ He pointed at the shifting grey sands. ‘You’re not done with it yet. When you are, we’ll meet again.’
They gripped forearms. ‘I’ll look after her,’ said Ghazi.
‘I know.’
‘Take care of yourself, Cass.’
‘Khoda hafez.’
Ghazi pulled himself into the cab and slammed the door shut. The keening under the hood started and Cassady stepped aside as the great vehicle rolled out of the tunnel and onto the boiling sand that held firm under the tyre tracks. It moved off at a rumble, gradually picking up speed as it headed towards a horizon shimmering with uncertainty and guarded hope. A dark arm emerged from the window, fingers curling into a fist, and Cassady raised his own in response.
A terse wind plucked at his robe and sent grains of dust into the air, and they sounded like faint rain when they peppered the rocks next to him. The scent of the day, burned and withered, filled his lungs and made him giddy, and he shuffled out onto the sand and then faltered, as though unsure whether or not to continue. The sun touched his exposed head, and sweat collected at the nape of his neck, but he did not return to the shade. He carried every long year spent alive in his bones, and he could feel them, heavier than ever, doing their best to weigh him down. But now he carried something else as well. Something that went beyond his beaten flesh and made him look upon the future, his future, with quiet expectation instead of fear.
When she was no more than a dark smudge in the distance, the Old Lady loosed a defiant cry that rolled across the plain. Then she was gone. The former Runner stood at the mouth of the tunnel, his gaze fixed on the point where yellow met blue, and he did not move for some time.
About the Author
Grant Price is a writer and translator. He was born in Plymouth, England, in 1987 and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. By the Feet of Men is his second novel.
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