Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2)

by Noah Fregger

  It was flat and relatively barren, save for some bags, rifles, handguns and ammunition. She spotted the weapons instantly, bringing her own into play again.

  Considering she must have spent the past couple weeks simply fighting for survival, it seemed she’d done exceptionally well for herself. She no longer wore the early attire she’d been delivered in. The female hybrid discarded those for a black tank top and khaki capris–even acquiring a pair of lace-less Converse shoes, not to mention the gun that was pointed at him.

  Should Mohammad survive the encounter, he’d remain genuinely impressed.

  Her hair was as black as the night sky, her skin a softened shade of red; and her clothes worn and saturated with the orange dust of oxygenated metal. Her eyes were intense and piercing–truly deadly in her stare, but not in her weapon. The pistol’s chamber, ajar near her wrist, indicated a very empty magazine within.

  “I should have known better,” Mohammad sighed, side-stepping until the hybrid stood between him and his ordnance. “There. You’re in control.” Mohammad lowered himself and opened a bag at his feet, inside he retrieved an aluminum can. “Food.” He peeled back the lid, its contents becoming instantly detectable by sense of smell, and held it out to her; he only wished she’d find it as delectable as he did.

  “I have lots,” Mohammad said. “A whole stockpile. Don’t be shy.”

  The gun wavered as she stepped forward, leaning toward the can. Mohammad pulled the lid free as she took it from him and hung her nose over its opening.

  Good, Mohammad thought. Very good.

  He bent slowly and pulled out his own can, sitting casually as he retrieved spoons for both him and his new guest. Stirring the can for a moment, he then took a bite, exaggerating the amazement of its taste. But it seemed to be working.

  Lowering her weapon, she took her utensil and did the same. After devouring its contents and using the spoon to scrape off as much sauce as she could, Mohammad gave her another.

  “Thought you’d like it.” He smiled. “Nothin’ like some good ol’ room-temp SpaghettiO’s.”

  The girl dropped the first can and was on to the second, peeling off its lid just as he’d done.

  “Mohammad,” he reintroduced himself, this time able to press a hand to his chest. “My name is Mohammad.”

  She looked at him, licking the sauce from her lips. “What about you?” he asked. “You have a name?”

  She swallowed hard, pressing her hand to her chest, and mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “A demon,” she said.

  “The hell you are!” Mohammad huffed, startling the girl a bit. He returned his voice to a comforting level. “You don’t have a name, then? I can give you one.”

  She looked at him.

  “Let’s see … the first word that came to mind when I saw you on the roof … well, maybe the first word isn’t such a good idea, but the second word, the second word was radiant.” He pointed to his eyes. “They’re beautiful.”

  She continued to stare at him.

  “So, from radiant, I’ll call you … Radia.”

  She stuck out her hand, demanding a third serving of SpaghettiO’s.

  He handed her another. “Mohammad,” he introduced himself for the fourth and final time. “Radia.” He pointed at her. “Mohammad and Radia.”

  And, at last, she nodded in understanding.

  “Good,” Mohammad spread out his arms. “And welcome to my home.”

  He smiled, hoping to win one in return. But no such luck. The hybrid was far too busy shoveling the canned pasta into her mouth to care much for his hospitality.

  “You must be thirsty,” he realized, turning to retrieve one of his juice packs; but when he returned, it was offered to only air.

  The third aluminum can, rolling slowly, dropped down off the nest, skipping and clanking some fifteen feet below.

  Friggin’ ninja.

  The sound of her footsteps could faintly be heard; he’d already had trouble placing her whereabouts. She’d headed for the boiler room, then off toward the corrugator, from then on he hadn’t a clue. “Good night, Radia,” he whispered. “Don’t slit my throat just yet please.”

  Mohammad would have trouble sleeping tonight, that much was certain; and he was going to leave his LED lantern on until morning. It’s claimed the thing could stay lit for some hundred thousand hours–something crazy like that–so he wasn’t too worried about it. But whether or not he’d live to see another hundred thousand hours, that was something else entirely.

  With just enough moonlight trickling in through its fabricated canopy, she ventured into the building’s darkness. Its inside was much larger than she had expected, plenty of space for her to explore, and plenty of places for her to hide.

  He’d reacted with such hostility at her name, Adeamyn. It must be something terrible. A new emotion had flooded her during that moment, one she’d never felt before and one she’d rather not feel again–like her face was the warmest part of her body. But she had a new name now, something about her eyes the pale-one had said.

  Raydea.

  She liked it–it suited her somehow.

  Every discernible exit had been blocked by these gigantic, auburn cylinders, the same cylinders on which balanced the pale-one’s feasting and weapons area. The roof, she believed, must be the only way in or out of this place.

  She listened as the pale-one shut the door to the top of the building. He had a name as well.

  Mohamyd.

  He was darker than most other pale-ones–his skin, the color of the structure she’d slept on beneath the last risen sun. He seemed capable of emitting happiness without killing, seemed genuinely pleased to hand her the cylinders filled with food. But he was still a pale-one, no matter the differences; surely they were all the same at their core.

  Sliding her tongue across her teeth, she could still taste the food from before–those circular solids mixed with that thick, reddish liquid. It made her knees weak just thinking about it. He must have more, the way he was handing it over so carelessly–must have bags upon bags of it.

  There were so many structures within the building, so many machines, she couldn’t begin to fathom the reason behind it all; but she seldom searched for the reason in things. What mattered was that they were there and whether or not they could assist her survival. Most everything there could provide her cover, and that was a good thing. She could tuck herself in places Mohamyd would never find. Here, where there was only one pale-one for her to worry about, she’d felt safer than she’d ever felt before.

  Raydea, she thought, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. My name is Raydea.

  4

  Friend

  Morning came as it always did, making its presence known through slivers of sunshine. They entered in through the many skylights, illuminating the factory enough for Mohammad to make his way to the maintenance shop.

  Positioned all the way at the other end of the plant, Mohammad whistled and hummed the entire walk over. He didn’t want the hybrid to think he was looking for her, so he tried to act as casual as possible, also letting her know that he was up and about.

  The maintenance shop was still littered with old tools and devices. Mohammad ran his hand along a dusty lathe as he passed it, making his way to the stairs leading up to the mezzanine. There he’d found a sign that always had a way of making him chuckle. It read:

  “Krylon, pliers, and gears, oh my!”

  He had an idea–albeit a crazy idea. But he was curious if it might work.

  The mezzanine, like the nest, was at a vantage point high enough to overlook the building’s entire floor. Packed with rows of belts, gears, and bearings, it served as a cluttered stash of future parts.

  Mohammad pulled out a stool, retrieved a large fabric case, and took a seat. It’s been said that music soothes the savage beast, even a myth of a man whom, with but his voice and instrument, won his way through Hades.

  From the case, Mohammad un
covered his six-string guitar; but it had been awhile since his last rendition. Taking a minute to tune it by ear, he slid the pic across the strings. They all resonated in perfect, pleasant harmony. Readying his fingers, he struck up a tune–one he’d learned years ago.

  Now for the vocals.

  He hadn’t time to warm up, and it was ages since he’d had an audience outside these old, converting machines. Still, he cleared his throat, said a prayer, and gave it a whirl:

  “The man I buried … had a heart of stone. Left him there in the bright light, out on a dirt road.”

  His voice was raspier than he liked, but it worked well, gave it sort of a … country rhythm.

  “The day you saved me, from shadow and shame … old thing’s gone, got a new song, got a new name.”

  There was no way she couldn’t hear him; the still factory air would carry his tune clear across the plant–impossible to fall upon deaf ears.

  “Burnin’ like a wild fire, kickin’ up flames. A brand new man in the wasteland, singin’ about grace.”

  C’mon, Radia. Come see what’s making the music.

  “Gonna jump the fences ‘til the world is free. But I won’t make a move ‘til you move in me.”

  Mohammad watched as a pair of reddish fingertips gripped the railing before Radia flung herself up onto the mezzanine to stand before him. Without a bag on her shoulder or a gun in her hand, she stood there, curiosity present in the way she stared at him.

  Mohammad continued to strum the instrument, allowing her time to watch his fingers travel the neck of the guitar.

  “Good morning, Radia.”

  He’d caught her fascination; it was grafted, undivided, to the instrument.

  He stopped playing and held it out to her. “Wanna try?”

  She shook her head.

  “Very well.” Mohammad shrugged, zipping the guitar up again. “Maybe next time.”

  He rose to his feet, stashing the instrument, before reaching into his pocket. “You know one of the benefits to this place?”

  She looked at him, uneasy.

  He pulled out a chocolate bar, still crisp within its untorn wrapping. “Vending machines.”

  He handed it to her and walked toward the stairs leading up to the roof. “Now let’s catch some breakfast.”

  She followed him up, staying just a stride or two behind. Mohammad hoped they were walking toward a bonding exercise. He could see them already, perched there like some suicidal cult.

  The heaven’s gate pigeons.

  In hopes of luring the hybrid back onto the roof, he’d placed a pair of rifles just outside the nest hatch. He picked one up–slowly–placed it on the ducting, and pointed to the pigeons beneath the cyclone. “Food,” he said, bringing the tips of his fingers to his lips.

  She nodded, watching him.

  He took aim, and as usual, caught the left-most bird; it disappeared in a poof of whitish feathers. He pointed to the extra rifle. “You try, Radia.”

  She looked down at it, then back up at him.

  “Go on.”

  She picked it up, placing it on the ducting as he’d done.

  “Good”

  He showed her how to grip the weapon with his own, holding the butt firmly beneath his right shoulder as she did the same. He drew a set of crosshairs on the ducting, placing a stick-figure bird at its center.

  “Through the scope and squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it … watch.” He showed her again, another pigeon in the corrugated scrap.

  Radia, visibly hesitant to take her eyes off Mohammad, managed a few moments of steadfast concentration and bagged herself a bird on the first try.

  “Yes!” Mohammad exclaimed. “Excellent!” He pointed to the cyclone. “Again.”

  And again she got one.

  “Again.”

  Again.

  “Simply amazing.”

  Placing the rifles down, they went together to retrieve the pigeons. Radia walked closer this time, almost at his side–a trust, Mohammad believed, beginning to take form. But trust cannot be forced; it must be earned. Mohammad would continue to be patient, although hers was not the only trust to be gained here. A great exercise it was–better than he’d expected.

  Lighting a fire within a corrugated plant is grounds for the Darwin awards; still, it’s something Mohammad did on a daily basis. The cleaning of birds is a messy business, but the flames made quick work of any residual feathers and entrails. He’d built himself a bit of a rotisserie at the center of the factory–a place between machines where he would prepare his morning meals. Lightly lathered in various rubs and spices, he’d simmered the pigeons to golden perfection.

  Radia watched intently, but the lids of her eyes appeared heavy. She must have been up all night, now trying to acclimate herself to Mohammad’s schedule. It seemed she’d made herself a nocturnal creature, surely the reason behind her continued existence. It was rare for the survivors to hunt at night. The hunters were home, warming their beds and guarding their stock. So naturally the sunlit hours would be the most dangerous for her, when the hunting parties were out for sport.

  And what would happen when all the hybrids perished? Mohammad was in no way an advocate for the hunting of hybrids; but once extinct, something equally sinister would be following in its place. Just as history suggests, men, stripped of a common enemy, will turn on themselves. But as long as Mohammad could maintain his castle, it would remain an embassy–poised at the center of destruction.

  He passed Radia her choice of the pigeons, one she’d caught of her own impressive precision. She took it, waiting for Mohammad to take the first bite before sinking her teeth in.

  A peculiar custom, Mohammad thought. Perhaps, in my house, she waits for me to eat first, just as she’d done with the SpaghettiO’s, out of respect, maybe.

  A few days ago, Mohammad would have found the idea of sharing his living space with a hybrid comical, at best; but Radia proved far less skittish than he’d imagined them to be. He wouldn’t be disappointed if she decided to move on, but the notion of her staying for an extended length of time was indeed … thrilling, in a sense.

  And there, sitting within the golden circle of a sun—drenched skylight, the two of them, man and hybrid, feasted together. Radia’s body language was already softening. Although she’d positioned herself with the fire pit between them, this was the first time he’d seen her sit since her arrival. There could be none place safer for her in the entire city. Beneath his care, dare he say, she could thrive.

  Raydea found the taste of the winged animal amazing; which was good, because she’d found no pleasure in killing it. But she would do it again–steal it right off its perch, knowing what awaited her accuracy.

  Mohamyd was pleased with her, showing his teeth in enthused amusement; and that made her feel something. Similar to how she’d felt after stealing that pale-one’s bag right out from under his ugly and angular nose–it was a concoction of both pride and excitement, whirling around within her chest. Her instincts, to this point, had never steered her wrong, even when drawing her onto Mohamyd’s roof. And now those same instincts were telling her that he was not a threat, that his kindness, however impossible, was pure and real.

  She’d walked in the sunlight beside him … and had felt safe there.

  Relieving the animal of all its meat, she cleared her throat and tossed the bones into the fire. “Friend,” she said, mimicking the word he’d used at the death’s end of her weapon.

  His eyes, brown as his skin, grew wide as a smile formed beneath them. “Yes. Friend.”

  She nodded, picking up a second animal. Raydea understood that a spoken agreement had just been established–an: I’ll trust you, if you trust me–and she’d been the one to initiate it. This gave her power. It was a pact. And if a pact is broken, surely there are ramifications. Those hills to which she aspired, they were just as far as they’d been the previous sunrise. She’d settled herself for a time, and found refuge amongst the most unlikely of allies.r />
  Mohamyd was now a Friend. He’d agreed to it. And if he were to come to change his mind … she would be forced to do with him as she’d done with this winged creature.

  He smiled at her, a kind smile.

  She tore one of the wings free of the animal’s body, and smiled back.

  “Friend,” was the only word she spoke that day; still, Mohammad considered it a true triumph. Though Radia wasn’t much for talking, it seemed she enjoyed to listen. So Mohammad spoke as if she understood everything he said.

  He told her of Fiji, about the loved ones he’d lost there, about the falling out he’d had with his older brother and how miniscule their rivalry seemed now.

  “You may very well be the last hybrid,” he told her, “but what luck for you to find the last Fijian.”

  Indeed, that’s where he learned to shoot, back in the forests of Fiji, alongside his big brother, Shorab. Those were the fondest of memories, riding in the back of that green pick-up, hiding the extra pigeons beneath their gear and their laughter after successfully crossing the check point.

  Radia listened, kept eye-contact, and seemed to recognize when Mohammad stopped talking, that it was due to the tears that would come if he hadn’t. Therapeutic it was, to relive his old stories. A great and fruitful life he’d lived–spared even from the burden of material things, for one would only find true happiness without them.

  Sadness was an emotion Radia clearly recognized; she’d overt her green eyes, giving Mohammad a moment, as she appeared to become lost in thought.

  Special thing she was–precious, even. Possibly the greatest gift ever to be given, but how the pride of man had spat back in the faces of their makers.

  “Not only were we stupid enough to kill ourselves once,” Mohammad told her, “but now we’ve done it twice.”