They curse at that, muttering to each other. Why strung so tight? What’s been going on out here?
“You can’t expect us to believe you came all this way on foot—and alone—”
“Yet here I am.”
They confer among themselves for a moment. The sentry from the hillside grumbles, “We should just take him to see Luther.”
“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” I agree.
“First we find out what he’s carrying,” says Eight O’Clock. “We don’t want an invisible suicide bomber walking into the Homeplace.”
I don’t like the sound of that—them touching the pods or thinking I’m some kind of rebel, like those Patriots back before D-Day. Margo doesn’t want anybody but Luther and Daiyna touching the incubation units. Not this crew, that’s for sure.
“Listen.” I hold out a hand. They watch my shadow on the baked earth. “What I’ve got here, it’s meant for Luther. Sensitive cargo—”
The two behind me close in, shouting orders and kicking where they assume the backs of my legs should be. One boot makes contact, and I groan, tipping sideways with sudden pain shooting through my hamstring. I try to make them understand I’m no threat, that what I’m carrying isn’t dangerous in any way. It’s fragile and has to be handled with care. The hillside sentry fires his rifle into the air, a short burst to silence me.
“You shut your mouth and do as you’re told. I don’t care who you are or why you’re here. We’re taking whatever you’re carrying. Got it?”
I nod, biting my lip. Margo sure didn’t prepare me for such a hostile welcome. The mutos are one thing; I know what to expect with them. But this?
One of the men shoulders his weapon and reaches out a tentative hand toward me, gloved fingers grasping through the air. Judging by the shadow and the angle of the sun, he eventually makes contact, his hand landing heavily on my shoulder and throwing me forward a bit.
“What the hell?” The other two sentries jump back a step, seeing something they can’t quite believe.
“What?” The sentry with his hand on me frowns, unsure of himself all of a sudden. His buddies curse a string of foul obscenities. “What is it?”
“They can’t see you,” I tell him. “You’re like me now.”
He jerks his hand back and reappears, darting glances from his buddies to his own torso.
“I’ll be damned,” says the hillside sentry. He whistles, shaking his head slowly.
“If I didn’t just see that with my own two eyes…” Eight O’Clock trails off.
“What are you talking about?”
“You vanished, man. Into thin air, soon as you touched him.”
“What? No, I could see my—”
“I can see myself just fine,” I explain. “It’s other folks, everybody else, who thinks I’m the invisible man.”
“What did we tell you? Shut the hell up!” Hillside jams the butt of his rifle into what he thinks is my throat. I flinch to avoid having an eyeball ruptured.
“I’m not touching him again. What if I don’t come back the next time?”
“You think it’s catching?” snickers Eight O’Clock.
“How the hell should I know?”
He curses, keeping his distance. They argue among themselves for a bit, but in the end, it’s decided that I’ll remove both of the objects from my person myself, and I’ll set them on the ground in front of Hillside. I explain that, as soon as these objects leave my grasp, they will become visible. They nod mutely.
I make one more attempt at convincing them to summon Luther, but they’ll have none of it, threatening to break my nose instead. I’ve got to calm them down. I can’t have men like this, all amped up and prone to violence, welcoming these little ones into the world. But what other choice do I have?
Carefully, I unbuckle the incubation pod strapped to my chest and place it on the cracked earth. My hands linger on the chamber door. Inside, through a liquid haze of artificial amniotic fluid, the female floats contentedly, eyes closed, thumb tucked away in lips that have yet to utter their first cry of alarm.
“Step back,” says Hillside, watching my shadow. “Don’t you try anything.”
They’re so sure it’s a bomb. What will they think when they see this tiny angel?
I do as I’m told. I withdraw my hands from the canister and step back, waiting for the inevitable confusion to ensue, the questions. Namely, why is Eden sending babies out into the barren wasteland?
What happens next isn’t even on my radar.
“What the hell?” says Hillside.
“You said we’d be able to see—” says Eight O’Clock.
“Why can’t we?” says the third sentry.
“What have you done?” Hillside demands.
Their voices merge as one, and they advance on me with weapons at the ready. I stare at the pod and frown. It’s no longer in contact with any portion of my body. It should be completely visible to them now. That’s how this works!
“Wait. You’re telling me you can’t see it?” I say.
“Quit playing games. Turn it off—whatever invisible shield you’ve got protecting that thing.”
I shake my head, extending open hands. “I have no idea why you can’t see it.” Are they trying to pull one over on me? Why? “I touch something, it disappears as long as I’m in contact with it. I let go, and it’s visible again. This has never happened before...”
“You saying there’s something wrong with our eyesight?” Eight O’Clock says.
Hillside scowls at the pod’s shadow. Then he draws back his boot and gives it a solid kick. The metallic thud rings loud enough to cover my horrified gasp.
“Don’t do that again.” My voice is low and steady. The status lights on the pod continue to blink at regular intervals. The little one’s vital signs remain normal. Sure, the canister was designed to withstand getting jostled around a bit, but I don’t want to see its limits tested.
Hillside aims his rifle at the pod’s shadow. The muzzle stares through the transparent chamber door, right into the face of the little female. “Turn off the shield.”
“You don’t understand—!” I plead with them.
The female’s eyes open. Instantly, the incubation pod becomes visible to the three sentries. Dumbstruck, they freeze in place, goggles transfixed on the chamber door. One by one, they shoulder their weapons in slow motion, as if they’re mesmerized, in some sort of trance. Boots shuffling through the dust, they gather around the canister like it’s a holy shrine, and they’re pilgrims. But they haven’t known until this moment what it was they’ve been seeking.
“It’s a—” Hillside says, his tense frame relaxing.
“Yeah. It sure is,” says Eight O’Clock.
“I’ll be damned,” the third sentry says, shaking his head. “There’s a baby in there.”
“You don’t say.” Hillside chuckles and gives his buddy a shove. His goggles glance at me. “So, you’re carrying a couple of newborns?”
“Unborns,” I correct. I remain kneeling in the dust. “They’ve yet to breathe anything but that oxygenated fluid in there.”
“Eden’s sending us babies now.” Eight O’Clock curses in disbelief. “Can’t say I ever saw that coming.”
“It’s precious cargo I’ve got here, no doubt about it. Both pods, they’re meant to be taken straight to Luther.” I gesture with my shadow hand. “Mind if I get up now?”
“Go ahead.” Hillside points in my general direction. “Take off the other one. We’ll make sure Luther gets them both, safe and sound.”
I hesitate, fingering the strap buckled across my chest. After carrying these little ones for the past few weeks, it’s safe to say I’ve grown attached to them—both physically and emotionally. In my mind, this isn’t how I envisioned the end of my journey. Handing them over to complete strangers?
I imagined walking right up to Luther and Daiyna and the others and saying something like, “Hey, remember me?” Then I’d hand over the l
ittle ones in their canisters. And maybe I’d say, “I guess this is what you get when you go mixing gametes around in test tubes.” Something like that, a bit of humor to go with what was sure to be a whole lot of surprise.
I never planned to stick around for their artificial births. But I wanted to be there for the introductions.
“C’mon, take it off.” Hillside motions with his hand for me to speed things up. The rifle remains slung back on his shoulder—for now. “We can’t be out in the open here much longer. Daemons might catch a whiff of us.”
He means the mutos. Reaching over my shoulder to steady the incubation pod, I unfasten the strap and carefully remove the canister. “I can carry this one,” I offer, reluctant to let it go. “Wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“Set it down beside the first one.” Hillside’s goggles stare at me without expression.
Biting my lip, I nod and obey the sentry’s command, cursing myself inwardly as I do so. This isn’t right. It’s not what Margo would’ve wanted.
“That’s it? Just the two?” Eight O’Clock says.
I nod, placing the male’s pod on the ground next to the female’s. For a moment, it seems like she’s looking up at me with some kind of warning in her eyes. But that can’t be possible. A newborn isn’t able to focus on much, so how could an unborn register anything visually through all that fluid?
The canister materializes as I withdraw my hands. I stand over the two little ones, my shadow falling across them both.
“Better check him.” Eight O’Clock nods at the third sentry. “Pat him down.”
“I’m not going anywhere near him. You check.”
“Coward.”
“Hey, there’s more than enough weird abilities going around lately. The last thing I need is to pick up another one. Invisibility? No thanks!”
“So you do think it’s catching.” Eight O’Clock laughs.
With an impatient curse, Hillside levels his rifle with my midsection. “Move away from the pods. Keep your hands up.”
I frown as I take a tentative step back. My heart thuds hard at the sight of the weapon and the two incubation canisters lying exposed, out in the open. I’m still close enough to throw myself on top of them if shots start flying. I’d do anything to keep them safe, even if it means sacrificing myself.
I didn’t realize that until just now.
“Check him. We don’t want any surprises.” Hillside gestures at the third sentry, who seems to know better than to argue with him. A pecking order is obviously in effect.
I raise my arms. “I’m not your enemy. I’ve tried to make that clear.”
“I recommend you shut it for the time being,” the sentry mutters, slapping at the air around me until he makes contact.
“Hot damn!” Eight O’Clock hoots. “There he goes again!”
Just like before, the sentry vanishes as soon as he comes into contact with my jumpsuit-clad body.
“What’s it feel like to be the invisible man?” he hisses into my ear as he smacks my arms and torso in a rushed manner. “Hidden from the world?”
I shake my head. “I’m kind of used to it by this point. But you don’t have to be afraid, son. If it was catching, you’d have already gotten it by now. That’s how it works, seems to me. You take a big gulp of this air—”
“I’m not afraid,” he whispers. Then loud and clear: “Well, look here!” He tugs a 9mm semiautomatic from my belt and steps back, reappearing in an instant.
Eight O’Clock aims his rifle at me. “He’s been armed this whole time.”
“Just a precaution, boys,” I do my best to reassure them. “You can’t blame me. There’s plenty of mutos—daemons all around these parts.”
“That’s all you found?” Hillside’s tone sounds oddly flat.
The third sentry shrugs and nods, checking the clip. Then he flinches as Hillside pulls the trigger on his rifle. The shot explodes, hitting me in the chest and throwing me over backward like I’ve been kicked by a horse.
“What the hell?” shouts the third sentry, goggles splattered with my blood.
“Pick them up.” Hillside points at the incubation pods and shoulders his weapon, climbing up the hill toward his deserted post. “We’re going to the Homeplace.”
Without a word, Eight O’Clock follows orders, shouldering his weapon and stooping to retrieve the canister. The third sentry remains rooted, 9mm gripped in one hand, his spattered goggles darting from my shadow to Hillside’s retreating form.
“We’re just gonna leave him?”
“Get the other one,” Eight O’Clock grunts, hefting the male’s incubation pod to his chest, bearing the burden like an unwieldy sack of potatoes. Amniotic fluid sloshes around inside as he nearly loses his grip.
“We can’t do this!”
Mid-stride, Hillside says over his shoulder, “Look east. Then tell me what we can’t do.”
The third sentry turns to find a billowing dust cloud on the horizon. It can mean only one thing.
“They followed his tracks,” Eight O’Clock says hoarsely. “He’s led them straight to us!”
Halfway up the steep incline, Hillside says, “They’ll smell his blood before they smell us. He’ll buy us some time. But we need to pick up the pace, boys.”
Eight O’Clock doesn’t need to be told twice. Clutching the pod to his chest, he scales the shifting sand on the hillside at full tilt, his legs a blur of speed.
I watch him go and nod to myself. They are indeed gifted, just as I supposed.
“Damn bastard,” the third sentry mutters, giving my shadow another glance before stooping to retrieve the female’s canister.
I cough and clutch at the bleeding hole in the right side of my chest. At close range, the high-powered rifle should have killed me. But the round went straight through, only taking enough flesh and bone to leave a bloody mess.
“You’ll look out for them, won’t you? Both of them.” I grimace, falling back to the ground. The grey sky above is all I can see. “They’re in your charge now.” There’s so much more to be said, but I don’t have the strength. Tell Luther and Daiyna there’s plenty more just like ’em back in Eden. You need to get your people together, and you’ve got to go back for them. Because if you don’t, the UW will take them all. “Keep them safe,” is all I manage to say.
The sentry pauses. He weighs the 9mm in his hand and glances at my shadow. Then he tosses the weapon into the dust, hefts the incubation canister to his chest, and starts up the hillside after his companions, scaling the shifting sand with incredible speed and agility.
When the gun landed with a puff of dust at my side, for a split second I considered rolling over, grabbing the weapon, and squeezing off three headshots. That would serve the sentries right for leaving me as muto bait. But with my bleeding wound and all, my aim wouldn’t be the best, and I can’t risk a round accidentally hitting the little ones.
If Hillside was right and the approaching dust cloud signals the arrival of a roving muto pack, then the unborns better get out of here as fast as possible. They appear to be in capable hands.
Capable, but misled. Who gave them standing orders to fire on an unarmed man?
I curse and clench my teeth as a wave of dizziness sweeps over me. Maybe they’re right, leaving me to bleed out like this. It gives them the time they need to put as much distance as possible between them and the mutos. The freaks will sniff out my blood and see my shadow. Invisible or not, I’ll provide the meal they crave. How will they react to seeing their pals disappear once they start digging through my juicy insides? Should be entertaining.
But I have no intention of making things easy for them. I grab the gun and check the clip: eight rounds. Plus another two clips stashed in pockets the sentry failed to check. I need to climb to higher ground, up to that shale outpost. A good vantage point.
I curse my shadow. I curse my blood, staining the hard-packed earth, drooling out of me visibly as soon as it leaves my shoulder.
“S
ome guys never get a break,” I grunt, straining to rise. The sky goes black for a split-second, and I shake my head sharply. I can’t pass out, no matter how bad the pain gets.
No way am I getting eaten in my sleep.
I squeeze the handgun’s grip. Tears sting my eyes. “Sorry, Margo,” I whisper. “I’ve failed you in a big way.”
I sniff, blink until my vision clears. Then I roll onto my side, nearly crying out as I force myself to sit up. My right arm, right shoulder and corresponding chest muscles are absolutely useless. And they hurt like hell. But the pain keeps me conscious, in the moment. No telling how long that will last. Soon I’ll go numb and lose consciousness. Not yet.
I’ve got something else to do first.
I cock the gun and stare at the dust cloud as it approaches, looming larger and more malevolent with every meter it gains. The closer it comes, the clearer I hear the hum of those solar-powered jeeps the cannibal freaks are so fond of. Already I can make out three vehicles, distinct black blurs heading toward me at top speed, following the tracks left by an unlucky invisible man.
I curse again and spit into the dust. I rest the gun on my lap and retrieve the spare clips, keeping them close by. I won’t be going down without a fight. I’ll take as many of their sorry carcasses with me as I can. Hell, maybe every last one of them. Now wouldn’t that be something?
“Come and get it, you rotten bastards.”
9 Cain
18 months after All-Clear
When I dream of Gaia, I see her in white sheer fabric that billows in the sea breeze. She strides barefoot across the ashen sand under a full moon’s light, her long hair tossed playfully by the wind as she casts an inviting glance over her shoulder. She beckons me to follow with eyes that burn into my very soul. I would go wherever she leads me, even to the end of the world.
She glides inland across kilometers of barren earth, into the lowlands and through the valleys, climbing scorched hillsides strewn with rock, covered in shale. She never tires, and neither do I, miraculously, following close and rarely missing a step. Together, mother and son, we climb toward the yawning mouth of a cave where men and women garbed in loose fabric, with black goggles dangling around their necks, have gathered to hear the words of a man I recognize with loathing.
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 50
