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Gasping, she pulls off her monitor ring. The pulsing light fades as it leaves her finger. A moment later it sails through the air, narrowly missing the Vagrant’s ear, as do the curses that follow.
Small eyes glance between the two. Sensing a problem, the baby joins its strength to the ruckus, easily matching the woman’s despair.
The Vagrant blinks, wipes perspiration from his forehead and looks anew at the scene before him. At his attention, the baby wriggles, shameless and gory.
‘Welcome back!’ snaps Lil. ‘Now here’s what you have to do if you don’t want me to kill you …’
She winces at his slowness, wonders if speech is the only thing he lacks as he plods, donkey-like under the lash of her voice, gathering the tools to save her life. She directs him to what she would call ‘the good stuff’, medical supplies that have been transformed into relics since the Overseer’s arrival.
All business, she stabs herself with a needle, eyes popping open with artificial alertness.
‘Okay, stranger, the first thing we’ve got to do is clean out the wound. Those amateurs were using cheap-assed shrapnel guns, which is about the only reason I’m still talking. There’s a hand scanner and a pair of tweezers you can use. Don’t waste the battery, we don’t have any spares.’
His hands fumble about the job, hesitant, and Lil’s patience rapidly vanishes. ‘Just stop, please! Scav’s teeth, I’ve got more chance of saving myself! Just pick up that mirror and hold it like I tell you, okay?’
The Vagrant nods, lips pressed together.
‘All you have to do is keep it steady.’
Chemicals silence the pain in her side and she works quickly, no time left for squeamishness. Jagged bits of metal clink as they’re dropped into the dish, shy at first, they allow themselves to come free with growing eagerness. She takes a handful of Skyn, slathering grey jelly all over the wound. Instantly it adheres, staunching the blood and darkening in approximation of Lil’s muddy skin.
‘There, that wasn’t so bad,’ she says, as much to herself as anyone else. ‘Nothing I can’t do with enough drugs and medtech. These corpses used to work for the Overseer, so we’d better not hang around. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m damn sure it’s your fault.’
She jabs a finger at the Vagrant, who leans against the tent pole. He peers at her. Slowly his eyes close.
‘Hey, are you …?’
Before she can finish, the Vagrant slides down the pole and topples over.
‘… Oh, that’s just great!’
The wound is small and clean. She assumes he has passed out through shock rather than blood loss.
Lil has seen a lot of bodies in her life, each with a story to tell, most depressingly similar.
On this body a few things catch her eye. The man bears the blade of a Seraph Knight, which immediately marks him out as a fugitive, yet his hands are callused as much through labour as combat. She turns them over to find smooth skin, the little hairs recently burned away. She notes his tongue is still intact.
Carefully, she removes the bullet. It has gone deep and released its payload but there are no spider web signs of skin degeneration. Amazed, she probes further until she sees the Burrowmaw’s inert tail, tucked under his rib. Snagging it on a tiny hook, Lil works it out with slow, steady pressure, till finally the mouth sac comes loose. The little creature smokes in her hand; something has cooked it from the inside.
It joins the shrapnel in the dish.
The suns rise together, dividing the sky like a god’s standard. Lil and the Vagrant step cautiously into the daylight. Ventris remains where he fell, face down in the dust opposite Lil’s door. His boots have not.
Sounds of fighting are heard from the fields. News of the Overseer’s death has spread quickly and people are keen to take advantage of the spoils before a replacement arrives. The goat wishes to join them, spitting out fabric fingertips in anticipation of greater prizes. Again the Vagrant holds firm to her leash but the goat senses weakness and pulls, rewarded with feet sliding in the dust.
The Vagrant regains his balance, grits his teeth but Lil puts a hand on his arm.
‘She’s got a point, we all need to eat. If we’re going to have a chance out there we’ll need supplies and goods to trade. There’s a fortune to be had in the fields.’
He glances to her hand and back to her face.
‘What? You got a problem with me touching your arm? A few hours ago I had my hands inside your guts; it doesn’t get more personal than that.’
The Vagrant shakes his head, places his hand over hers. She pulls free quickly, drawing her gun as she runs towards the shouting.
‘Look sharp, stranger, we got about three hours before the stims wear off!’
They run towards the field’s perimeter, watched by those that have chosen to hide, the innumerable weak.
‘Looks like we’re not the first!’ shouts Lil, voice full of excitement and chemicals. She points to the fence where it bends low, forming half of a barbed smile. The gap is spanned by a living bridge; guards who could not stem the greed-tide are spitted together, forming a carpet. Many boot-prints mark their writhing backs.
The Vagrant turns away.
He cuts a new path through the fence with his sword, impassive. The wire springs apart, making loose spirals by their feet. They watch as two opposing armies form clumps of fighting in the chaos; on one side guards, on the other workers. Neither has a uniform, both are desperate. Only the dead appear united, their faction already the largest. The battle is scrappy, motivated by greed not bravery. The brave have already fallen, piles of them still protecting their more cautious peers.
There is space between the clumps of fighters. With uncharacteristic energy, the goat finds an unspoiled patch and begins to gorge. Lil and the Vagrant fill sacks with precious fruit, loading them onto the goat. Rough movements and battle sounds wake the baby who voices its distress.
The Vagrant works faster.
Pendulous between the pipes that arch above the fields swings the Unborn, lulled in its slumber by the song of the dying. About its shell the air quivers but does not tear.
Emerging from the grasses at speed three men approach the laden goat, armed with sharp metal and hate. The lead man only just stops in time. A pistol presses into the skin of his forehead.
‘I’ll give you people one chance to back off,’ Lil says, ‘then I start shooting.’
Quick looks are exchanged, between themselves, at the woman, at her gun. A decision is reached and the men are gone.
The Vagrant nods, the hint of a hint of a smile on his face.
‘There ain’t nothing to smile about here you idiot!’ Lil shouts. ‘We’d better be gone before they’re back in force.’
Carefully they pick their way across the fields. Bodies lie all around, racing for death. They cry for help, for mercy, for their mothers. The baby just cries.
Eyes locked on the horizon, the Vagrant walks onwards. The goat fights him along the way, sometimes winning a bite of the yellowing grasses, sometimes bowing to the leash. Progress is slow, the ground is boggy and full of debris but, grudgingly, the far edge of the field comes into view.
People have gathered in front of the gate, clustered like a flock around a man who moves with the swagger of power. His muscles are drug fed and firm, his rifle steady in his hands. Blue cables run from the gun to his backpack, fizzing with potential.
‘Hold there!’ he shouts in a voice rough with living.
Lil’s pistol stares back at the rifle, neither blinks. ‘Looks like you’re moving up in the world, Kell.’
‘Well damn, is that you, Lil? I’d heard you got blown up with your house!’
‘Nope, still here.’
Kell laughs, the sound echoed eerily by his companions. ‘For now maybe. Seems you been taking what’s mine.’
‘Listen, this doesn’t have to turn ugly, just let us go and we’ll be no more bother to you.’
‘Maybe,’ replies the man, rubbing his stubble with a nailless finger. ‘Or maybe you could entertain us a little first, then we let you go.’
‘How about I entertain a hole through your head?’
Tension ripples through the group and weapons twitch in hands.
The Vagrant steps forward, he holds a sack open, displaying its contents, offering.
‘Well now,’ says Kell. ‘Looks like your partner here is feeling a little less confrontational.’
Lil scowls at the Vagrant. ‘It’s the best deal you’re gonna get from us, Kell. We go free and you get goods to trade without risking any more of your men in the field. Deal?’
He makes a show of consideration. ‘Deal!’
Handing the sack over, the Vagrant walks down the narrow path between Kell’s followers, his shoulders brushing those on either side. The goat follows, for once obedient. Lil comes last, she and Kell turn slowly as they pass, neither willing to look away.
Under his coat, the baby kicks and whimpers.
Everything stops, focusing on the foreign sound.
The Vagrant closes his eyes.
Hands grab at his arms and shoulders, the baby’s cries get louder.
‘Well, well,’ Kell crows. ‘Looks like we’ve got a new deal on. You give us—’
The first bullet punches the rifle from his hands, the second goes through his knee. Kell screams reflexively as he falls forward.
Lil’s pistol nestles in behind his ear. ‘Here’s the new deal: Let us go, right now, or I put a new piercing in your brain.’
‘Argh! You’ll die for this you bitch!’
‘Not before you. Tell them to let us go.’
Kell spits on the floor, bites back another wave of pain. ‘Let the bastards go. You hear me, let them go!’
The colony of grimy fingers retreats, and the Vagrant moves forward, reaching the gate.
Lil watches, the time is coming when she’ll have to run for it. There are too many people and too few bullets for her to succeed. She grits her teeth, allowing no time for tears or second thoughts, preparing to take her chance.
She turns, pointing the pistol at those immediately in front of her. They flinch away and she jumps for the gap, focusing on the goat’s lank tail, still in sight. Her flight is brief, arrested by a chunk of stone that strikes her temple, stunning her. A fist catches her between the shoulders, and Lil falls into the pale grass.
Too late, the Vagrant sees. His hands itch for the sword but they are full already. His foot lifts, wanting to rush to her side, but he cannot put the baby down here, dares not take it back into danger. Head low, he carries on.
A crowd gathers around Lil, boots stamping down.
The tension in the air grows, drawing tighter with each kick. Kell’s people step back. Between them, Lil’s body lies face down in the dirt, a sliver of blood runs from her temple.
Alone, her death would be but a whisper. She is not alone. Many have fallen, each adding weight to a cry that passes beyond mortal ears and into another place, where it demands response.
With a shriek, the air splits above the fields, and something that should not be manifests within its shell. The pipe arches groan with the added weight, until the Unborn’s chain snaps, unleashing its cargo upon the wretches below.
Just once, the Vagrant turns back.
The Unborn’s burst shell rocks back and forth, spurting liquid from many cracks.
Long grasses undulate, a sea of pale yellow, allowing glimpses of the new horror birthing in the field. Where it finds people it consumes them, not the careful possession of its elders but a wild, destructive instinct.
Above it, the air ripples and folds, fighting to close once more.
Most in the fields have been taken by surprise but those further out pause in their petty struggles. Weapons are trained on the new threat, men and women briefly united in their desire to survive. Precious bullets are spent.
Voices fade away, the grass whispers.
Nobody emerges from the field.
In its sheath, the sword begins to hum softly. The Vagrant rests two fingers on the hilt but the noise does not quieten. He walks away, leaving Kendall’s Folly to its fate.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_15258691-7a64-54ce-9a91-ac80352cde34)
Gravel crunches rhythmically underfoot. The suns rush across the sky, manic compared to the broken mountains that inch past. Under their uneven shadows, the Vagrant walks. Their progress is steady.
The baby will not stop crying. It screams beneath his coat, inconsolable. Neither the warm dark under his arm nor the stimulus of the landscape bring consolation.
There is little sustenance in the Blasted Lands, and so sacks of fruit and food are magnets for the lean denizens slipping between the rocks. New breeds appear regularly, half-breeds, quarter-breeds and blends unrecognizable. People have given up naming them. Most are lumped together as food, threat or nuisance.
Eventually steps slow, the group’s previous exertions demand their due: the resting of tired limbs and heavy hearts. The Vagrant squeezes pasha juice into the baby’s down-turned mouth. Even the sweet liquid fails to draw a smile, though the smacking of lips and swallowing is more palatable than the wailing.
As the hours tick by the Vagrant and the baby cling to each other, sometimes stealing snatches of oblivion. While the baby dozes, the Vagrant’s amber eyes twitch.
Something ventures forward from the twilight, hunting. It scampers lightly, alert for danger. Scurry, pause, scurry, pause. Eyes dangle from its head, bouncing with each advance on sinewy threads. Its flickering tongue tastes the air before it storms the last few feet, scaled legs whirling with effort. Blisteringly fast, it seeks a way into the sack, racing up the coarse fabric, an opportunistic thief.
Overhead a shadow moves. Preceded by a spike of white hair, it descends, opening until it blocks the creature’s path; a moving, living cave.
Feet frantically spin in the opposite direction but the creature cannot stop, momentum delivering it straight into the cavernous mouth.
As the suns rise, the goat chews.
A rising wind flicks at their eyes, throwing grit and flecks of moist matter. The Vagrant moves on, arm raised against the clouds of dust that blow past.
Distantly, shapes are visible, seeming to grow out of the ground.
At first the shapes are simply shelter. The Vagrant crouches behind a structure, leaning into boned fabric that gives but takes his weight. Breathing becomes less laboured and he looks around, running his fingers along the edge of the thing he sits by. Coarse plastic is stretched around a frame that juts out of the ground at a forty-degree angle. The external bars are two inches thick, made for burdens. His hand pauses as it reaches the frame’s end; the metal there is flat, edged.
Something has cut through it.
The Vagrant frowns, investigates further. Objects lie just beneath the surface, so badly broken they seem foreign. He tightens his grip on the baby, digging one handed.
Half buried in dirt and tipped on their sides, the waggons from the caravan are not immediately recognizable.
