Shechara grabs my arm, her eyes staring in the direction where all the carousing was going on—until a moment ago.
I see five of them. Garbed in body armor and helmets that reflect moonlight like polished obsidian, assault rifles at the ready as they step heel to toe without making a sound.
Converging on our location.
19 Samson
5 Years After All-Clear
I should've been more careful.
Stepping into the tent must have triggered a silent alarm. Not because these east coast raiders find dirt valuable. There's a lot of equipment in here, most of it unidentifiable. Besides the tables, scales, and sifting trays, it's hard to tell what I'm looking at. But these people treasure it enough to send over a squad of armed gunmen to make my acquaintance.
Pivoting to face them, I hold my rifle across my chest and smile. "Good evening. Quite the setup you've got here. Let me guess: prepping for the biggest sandcastle challenge of the century?"
The lead raider barks out the usual commands to drop my weapon, get on my knees, interlock my fingers—
"What the hell?" He's noticed that I'm not exactly human. Not all of me, anyway.
It takes some work, but I manage to keep my confident smile in place as Shechara and Daiyna are escorted into the tent to kneel beside me. Both are armed, as I am—we won't be relinquishing our guns until they ask nicely. But we don't go for our weapons. Not with so many muzzles staring us in the face.
"Get a load of this!" The raider half-turns toward his squad, all four of whom face us with their weapons aimed at our heads. "We've got a couple escapees from Dome 6, looks like." He gestures at Shechara and me. "What about you?" He tilts his head toward Daiyna. "Got any mechanical parts we can't see?"
She flips him off, and he chuckles.
Figures move in the distance—raiders disturbed from their slumber staggering out into the night to see what's up. It isn't long before this side of the encampment stirs to life, all twenty-odd of them gathering around to take a look at the three oddities in the dirt processing tent.
"They're not wearing masks," one of the raiders observes. Seeing how he's the only other one to speak, I'm thinking he might be second in command.
"Noticed that," says their leader.
Uncanny how quiet they are, just staring from behind their black face shields. Even with the rifles trained on us, these raiders seem more curious than confrontational. Unlike others we've crossed paths with over the years. At least this bunch hasn't shot at us or threatened to pull off my arms and legs. A mark in their favor.
"Are you mutants?" the leader asks with an ironic edge to his tone.
"They're all gone, haven't you heard?" I nod toward my companions. "We helped get rid of them. When was that, three years ago?"
Shechara nods. Daiyna glares daggers up at the lead raider who's shaking his head slowly now.
"Not sure what you're breathing. The atmospheric O2 is just about depleted. Not enough plant life survived D-Day."
I shrug. "Haven't seen a tree for five years." Any growing thing, for that matter.
"If they're from Dome 6, they might have mechanical lungs or something," raider number two suggests.
"No, they're not from Eurasia." The leader slings his rifle over his shoulder and motions for the others to do the same. Which they do, without pause. Just like that, the tension of the moment eases up some. "You're from out west, aren't you?"
I nod. "What gave it away?"
"Hot damn. Five thousand klicks!" He lets out a low whistle that's slightly distorted through his helmet's external speaker. "You must be on some kind of mission."
"Dirt enthusiasts. We heard you've got the best stuff out here. Had to see for ourselves." I raise my voice so the raiders at the back of the pack can hear me, "Didn't mean to wake you."
Immovable, they stare back like a wall of statues.
I lower my arms slowly, keeping my eyes fixed on the leader. "Mind if we…" I move to rise.
"Go ahead."
We get to our feet without any sudden movements, and the raiders hold their positions. It's a silent faceoff, but oddly enough, I don't get the sense there's any impending violence. Word from their western counterparts must not have traveled this far. Apparently, no warning's been issued to be on the lookout for a large cyborg and his two beautiful traveling companions.
"So what is all this?" I keep the conversational tone that's been working so well and incline my head toward the tables and tech set up behind me.
"Classified," he says, still with an edge of humor. "Illegal is more like it. And in high demand."
"Dirt?" I just don't get it.
"Dust."
Shechara touches my arm. "You ship it to Eurasia," she says, her eyes rotating as they focus on each of the stations set up around us, cataloging each gadget and its purpose as only she can, "after it's been sifted, collected, concentrated. Packaged for distribution."
He shifts his stance. Impressed. "You see more than the average person."
"Aren't they afraid of infection? The people who use it?" she clarifies.
"What?" I'm completely lost, but she squeezes my arm gently. She's steering the conversation now, and she wants me to trust her. Can do.
"The effects are only temporary," he replies, "as long as the filtered air is pure. No lasting damage, no genetic transformation. We ran a whole battery of tests years ago to be sure. No way we'd still be in business, otherwise."
"How long have you been in operation?" Shechara probes, her voice quiet and curious.
"A couple months after All-Clear..." He glances at his second-in-command, who nods. "That's when the fluke happened."
"The fluke," I echo.
He chuckles, looking at his fellow raider. "Go on. Show them."
The other guy shrugs and steps past me, making his way toward one of the tables and picking up a small vial. He holds it between a gloved thumb and index finger. Then he pops the cap and attaches it to a valve at the bottom of his helmet, under his chin. His sudden inhalation vibrates through the external speaker, loud and clear. When he holds up the vial again, it's empty.
"So you just…" Okay. The situation is becoming clearer—and completely bizarre.
Aren't these UW people terrified of becoming infected? Isn't that why they wear these protective suits and breathe their own O2? From their point of view, our continent is a contaminated wasteland. Why would they intentionally put themselves in danger?
"Wait for it," says the leader.
His second-in-command stands still for a few moments as if digesting the dust. Then he sets down the vial and steps toward his fellow raiders, who clear a path for him. He ambles toward the shoreline, where the waves crash and slide up the wet sand, then recede like ink. He glances back and gives us a thumbs up.
Then he launches himself into the air. The raiders hoot and holler as he lands with a splash a hundred meters out to sea.
"A new record!" the leader cheers, and they all applaud.
I look at Shechara, then at Daiyna, who puts into words what all three of us are thinking, "What the hell is this?"
The raider out in the water sinks below the surface and doesn't reappear as the breakers roll in. The raiders on shore watch expectantly. So do we.
Thirty seconds pass before he explodes out of the ocean like a missile, soaring high overhead, his figure a ghostly blue form against the black sky in my night-vision. He plummets to the ground and lands in a crouch on the exact sandy spot where he first took off, his armored suit dripping with seawater.
The other raiders gather around to slap him on the back, congratulating him on his extraordinary feat. Made possible by inhaling a bit of demon dust, as Arthur Willard used to call it.
Just when I think I've seen everything on this messed-up continent. The idea of un-gifted UW types snorting a little dirt in order to perform superhuman tricks? Never crossed my mind. How do they avoid the infection they've always been so afraid of? Why don't their abilities last
? Sifted, collected... and packaged for distribution—that's what Shechara said.
"Oh hell no," I growl, and the raiders turn as one to stare at me again. "You mean to tell me people in Eurasia snort this stuff to...show off for each other at parties?"
The leader chuckles. "That's about the shape of it. The wealthy and powerful always need something to battle their boredom." He takes a step toward me with his gloved hand outstretched, and I have to fight the reflex to deck him. "Alan Reinhart. Commander of the Dust Squad."
I reach forward, and he clasps my metal hand in a solid grip.
"Samson," I introduce myself without much in the way of gusto. This whole situation has me taken aback a bit.
He goes down the line, shaking hands with Shechara and Daiyna next. They introduce themselves as well, equally guarded.
"First names only, eh? You people do have your quirks," Reinhart says. He notices that Daiyna hasn't relinquished her grip on his hand.
"You've met others from the west?" She keeps her voice low and even. A dangerous tone, coming from her.
"We have. It's been a couple years…" He trails off, then palms the portion of his helmet where his forehead might be. "Of course. You're looking for them. Luther, Jim, Victoria and the kids—"
"What did you do to them?" she grates out.
"Daiyna," Shechara cautions.
Reinhart doesn't try to pull his hand free. He seems to understand the situation and sees no reason to aggravate Daiyna further.
"They're alive and well. Aboard the Argonaus—Captain Mutegi insisted. They've been part of the crew for a while now. Maybe a dozen voyages so far?" He turns to his second.
The guy with the temporary jumping skills nods. "We carry shipments to Eurasia every three months."
Daiyna hasn't let go. "You're saying they work with you. Transporting this...dirt?"
Reinhart chuckles. "It's our specialty." He squares his shoulders. "There are other teams in charge of scavenge, up and down the coast. They sort through the ruins, see what's worth taking, and load it onto those freighters. Once they're ready to ship out, it takes us about a month to travel to Eurasia and back." He pauses, leaning toward her. "Captain Mutegi is working on a way to get your friends into Dome 10, located on the banks of the Mediterranean. It'll take some time, but he'll see it through. He figured making them crew would be the first step in that direction. They're hard workers."
"We'd like to see them," Shechara says with an eye on Daiyna, gauging her reaction.
"Of course," Reinhart says. "They told us others might be joining them. But like I said, that was years ago. I think they'll be real happy to see you."
Daiyna releases Reinhart's hand but continues to stare at him without much in the way of an expression. He orders his second and a couple other raiders to ready a skiff.
"Make that two." He turns toward me. "You might need your own."
"Fair enough." I wouldn't want to be the cause of any sinkage.
Reinhart orders everybody else back to their bunks, and they turn an about-face without a word between them. Weird bunch. Or maybe just well-trained and disciplined. They seem to respect their commander. So far, I can see why.
As he oversees the three in charge of getting the skiffs ready to ship out, Shechara and Daiyna flank me. Together, we walk toward the water.
"Can you believe this?" Daiyna whispers, her hand resting on the semiautomatic tucked into her belt.
"None of it," I mutter, "but it's happening anyway."
"They let us keep our guns," Shechara observes. "If he were lying, I doubt he would have."
"I've got a feeling he's telling the truth," I reply. "I'm just having a hard time believing it."
"If our people have been crew aboard the Argonaus all this time, and if they've been waiting for us to join them, then why didn't Milton fly back west and tell us about it?" Daiyna shakes her head. "It doesn't make any sense. Reinhart is hiding something."
"You don't think we should board that ship?" Shechara says.
"We need to be very careful," Daiyna replies.
"Agreed." I clear my throat as we approach the raiders waiting for us in the lapping surf.
Shechara and Daiyna climb into the skiff with a raider already at the helm. As I step into the second boat, it quickly becomes clear the small vessel has reached its load capacity. Reinhart asks if I've had much experience piloting watercraft.
"I'll manage." Since All-Clear, I've taught myself how to drive jeeps, a tractor-trailer, and, just recently, a dirt bike. Now I can add a skiff to the list.
A second raider climbs into the first boat. She'll take mine back to shore once we reach the Argonaus. Reinhart gives us a salute and turns away, probably returning to his bunk.
"Thanks," I call after him. He halts, pivoting to face me. "This isn't what we were expecting."
Any sort of kindness from strangers seems alien, or like something from another life. Back when times were simpler, before D-Day.
He nods. "You've been through a few levels of hell, I imagine. This is the least we could do. Hope you enjoy a warm reunion with your friends." He marches away up the shore.
The lead boat takes off, cutting through the low, rolling surf. I follow, keeping a light grip on the helm. The wheel, like the rest of this boat, seems awful flimsy. But it does its job, carrying my bulk across the water to the gunmetal grey warship sitting half a klick out. As we approach, a pair of sentries on night watch converge on the starboard side, right where we're headed. They wear the same armored suits as the raiders and keep their rifles at rest.
"You guys get lonely or something?" one of them calls out to our escorts.
The other one nudges him, and he straightens up. Probably catching sight of the two survivors along for the ride. And the cyborg piloting his very own craft.
"Who are they?" The second sentry adjusts his grip on the rifle.
"Friendlies. From out west." The raider steering the first skiff brings it alongside the Argonaus and gestures for a climbing apparatus to be tossed down. One of the sentries on the deck above dumps a black cargo net over the side, and it's long enough to slap the water below. "Commander Reinhart thought Captain Mutegi might like to meet them."
"At this hour?"
I keep an eye on Daiyna. She doesn't need the cargo net. With her gift, she can launch herself right out of the skiff and land on the deck above. Unlike that dust-snorting raider, her ability doesn't fade over time. But so far, there's been no talk of mutants with superhuman talents, which leads me to believe these raiders haven't seen the real deal with their own eyes—only the temporary entertainment-value variety. Hard to believe if Milton's been working aboard the Argonaus. A flying man tends to be something you don't forget, as well as a popular topic of conversation among mere mortals.
Has Milton been hiding his gift? Or is he even here?
Daiyna climbs up the net hand over hand without using any of her supernatural agility. To the raiders and sentries watching, she looks like any other person struggling to ascend a cargo net for the first time. Shechara climbs up behind her. Not sure how I'm going to get up there unless those ropes are stronger than they look.
I wait for Shechara and Daiyna to reach the deck before I start my climb. The last thing I want is to tug the net free, sending all three of us into the murky water.
Scratch that. The last thing I want is for this to be a trap. For there to be no friends on board. For us to be captured and subjected to the sort of subhuman treatment we received in Eden.
I keep an eye on Shechara as she pulls herself onto the deck, and the sentries offer her a hand. Unlike Daiyna, she accepts the help up. They're all armed, but they're not pointing their weapons at each other. Nice for a change.
Maybe everything will be all right. Trust the Creator, Luther would say. But people are a different story. Haven't been able to trust many of them for a long while now.
Slinging the Tavor over my shoulder, I grab hold of the net, giving it a tug to test its streng
th. So far, so good. The ropes sag once I add my full weight to the mix, and I slowly sink toward the water. Climbing quickly, I manage to reach the deck before the whole thing stretches completely out of shape.
The sentries don't bother offering me a hand. They stand frozen like a pair of statues—except for their helmeted heads, black face shields rising as they take in every detail of my mechanical limbs. Their mothers never taught them it's rude to stare.
"Mutegi?" I get them back on track.
"Right. This way." One sentry takes the lead, and we follow. The other one tails us. Smart, but it would have been smarter to take our weapons first. Still not sure why nobody's done that.
The sentries pause outside an unguarded airlock that will take us to the lower decks. They won't be joining us.
We step inside, and the door swings shut behind us, sealing us in. When red lights start flashing along the ceiling, I get the feeling a few contaminants have been detected.
"Please disrobe and set down anything you brought with you," a clinical female voice emanates from an intercom on the airlock's inner door. "Once the door opens, you will enter a decontamination chamber. Do not be alarmed. This is standard procedure for all crewmembers entering the ship from above decks."
Now they'll take our weapons. And our clothes. Should've seen this coming.
We look at each other. Shechara and Daiyna are as pleased as I am about the prospect of leaving this airlock in our birthday suits. Five years ago, I would've given anything to get naked with two gorgeous women. But now one of them's my wife, and so far, she's the only human on the planet who's seen me without a stitch on—where the metal meets the man. Not the most pleasant sight.
I guess Margo saw me in my natural state when she installed my arms and legs, attaching them to the stumps Perch left me with. I have to stuff down a few emotions at the thought of her. She was a good person. Gone too soon.
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 106
