Jump Zone: Cleo Falls

by Snow, Wylie

  Cleo clamped down her back teeth, knowing what had to be done. To a Wolverine Clan warrior, even a third class one, stomping on a man’s balls was a low and desperate move. She didn’t want to do this, she really didn’t, but Bangers fought dirty. With a huff, Cleo drove her heel into his man business and jumped back.

  The Banger let out a keening wail, dropped his vice-grip on Libra’s neck, and folded into a fetal position. Libra crawled off him and fell to the ground a few feet away, coughing and clawing at his throat as if the Banger still had hold.

  Cleo scooped up the backpack and dug out the knife, thinking she might never let it go. It felt good in her palm, like it belonged. She looked down at the pathetic, stinking Banger and shuddered.

  She quickly emptied the satchel of all the Nutripacks.

  Libra looked at her with confusion. “What are you doing?” he rasped, sounding like he’d swallowed broken glass.

  “Just what it looks like,” she replied, throwing the Nutripacks onto the ground next to the writhing Banger. “Hey,” she shouted over his moans. “Add water. You hear me? Not from the Dead Lake. Use river water.” She raised her voice. “River water. You understand?”

  “But that’s all our food!” Libra rasped, “You can’t—”

  She cut Libra off with a single sideways eye-cut. A combination of fear, relief, and physical exertion, topped with a heaping dose of sexual frustration, made Cleo pissy as a rabid badger. She was glad he got that from her look.

  She toed the Banger with her foot. He looked up at her through slitted eyes. “It is food,” she said, over pronouncing each syllable. She mimed the action of eating. “Num-num, good food. Make you strong.”

  The Banger grunted.

  “Go back and get your friend and don’t even think of following us.” Cleo poked the tip of the knife into his neck, just enough to draw a bead of blood. “Do. Not. Follow. Get it?”

  She thought of offering a hand to Libra, but at the last moment, stepped over him, pausing only to growl, “In case there’s any further confusion, that is a savage. Get it?”

  Taking for granted that Libra would follow, Cleo took off at a jog. She led them a fair distance down the path before slowing to ensure the Bangers didn’t tail. The forest was silent except for the rain. Cleo was glad of it. It helped wash away the grimy feeling of disgust, the stench, and eased her headache. She felt uncharitable for hating Bangers, especially in the predicament she’d put herself in, but she couldn’t help herself. Bangers weren’t any more responsible for their actions than a wild animal, but because they were human, they were held accountable; loathed, shunned, and generally avoided, though it was that same humanistic need to survive that kept them alive.

  Murder of humans was murder, no matter how brain-fried the subject, whereas killing an aggressive polar grizzly, an animal respected for its fierceness, was not. How could that be logical?

  “Why did you give him all of our food?” Libra asked. She’d forgotten he was there, a safe ten feet behind her.

  She turned around and walked backward. Ugly red welts marred his beautiful neck. She pivoted, unable to meet his eyes after what happened between them. Ashamed for what she’d done to the Banger.

  “That’s all he wanted from us,” she said over her shoulder. “They were hungry.”

  “And we won’t be?” His voice was still raspy. Probably would be for a few days. “Those Nutripacks are the only thing separating us from becoming like them.”

  She laughed at the absurdity. “We’ll cope.”

  He caught up to her but kept to the far side of the path, leaving a few feet between them. Everything had changed since this morning when she woke up in his arms. What were they now? How were they supposed to relate? Friends, enemies, travel companions, almost-lovers, and now fighting partners. How did she talk to him, how should she act, how in hell could she stay in control?

  Libra seemed just as disoriented, keeping his head slightly bowed as he walked.

  They continued the journey in silence, the rain turning into a light shower before giving way to a brightening sky.

  “Thanks,” Libra said awhile later. “Guess we’re even in the life-saving department.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I don’t get it,” he said after a few more minutes. “How come you’re so different from those other Taigans?”

  “Other Taigans? You mean the Bangers?” she looked at him from the corner of her eye, could see how conflicted, how puzzled he appeared. He couldn’t think…

  Cleo ground to a halt in mid-step. “Those aren’t my people, Libra. Those aren’t Taigans. They’re Bangers. Did you think— Oh for the love of ducks, no, no, and no.”

  Libra’s eyebrows came together, clearly unable to process her denial.

  “Bangers wander the Taiga, usually alone—in fact, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen them in pairs,” she said, glancing back. “They don’t have the mental acuity for socialization or know better than to drink from the Dead Lakes. They’re violent, aggressive, and singular-minded when it comes to food.”

  “Are there a lot of them?” he asked.

  “No, not really. Scattered around here and there. I haven’t encountered one in ages, and they generally stay far away from the villages. Even when we do run into them, we just give them space and avoid confrontation. Don’t you have people like that in Gomeda?”

  He shrugged. “We certainly have individuals who can’t cope with life, sure. But we institutionalize them and try to fix them.”

  “Oh.” Cleo wasn’t sure how to respond. Was he implying the Bangers could be fixed?

  “Where do they come from?”

  “I don’t know. They just…are.” That’s what her father had told her once when she was very young. She never thought to question him and accepted them as part of the threat, like alphacats, polar grizzlies, and everything else scary and unexplainable.

  “Why do you call them Bangers?”

  “It’s how they eat. They catch small animals—squirrels, mice, rabbits if they’re lucky—and pound the carcass with a rock until it’s pulp. Then they slit the skin and drink…well, I think you can figure out the rest. You could see for yourself that they don’t have the dental capacity for chewing tough meat. Or the mental capacity to care.”

  Libra winkled his nose. “That is the vilest thing I have ever heard. Just…disgusting. They don’t even cook it first?”

  Cleo shook her head. “Bangers and fire don’t mix.”

  Libra put his hand over his stomach. “I don’t even care that you gave away my food. I can’t see my appetite returning for weeks. Maybe months.”

  “It is kind of gross.” Cleo laughed and met his gaze. Their kiss came rushing back into memory, the way his mouth moved across her lips and neck, so vivid, she felt heat rush into her cheeks and a pull of longing in her abdomen that made her shiver. She averted her eyes, embarrassed.

  “You must be freezing,” he said, misunderstanding. “I’ve got some dry clothes in my pack. You can take your pick.”

  “Why don’t you find something for me.”

  While Libra rummaged, Cleo was struck by another shiver, complete with goose bumps, and realized she really was chilly, especially now that they’d stopped jogging. The rain had kicked the temperature down to an uncomfortable level. They’d been lucky with the weather ‘til now, but September nights could drop the mercury into low double digits and Cleo had no intention, after surviving drowning, a hungry alpha-cat attack, and a pair of thieving Bangers, of succumbing to pneumonia.

  “These will have to do for now,” Libra said, tossing her a ribbed sleeveless shirt and pair of black thermal leggings. “My apologies for the wifebeater, but it’s the only thing I have that’s both dry and clean. The pants are some kind of special material that I’m suppo
sed to wear under my clothes if it gets cold, so they should warm you up.” Libra turned his back to give her privacy and peeled off his wet shirt. “Tell me when you’re done.”

  “These are perfect, thanks.” She lingered a moment to gawp at his physique. She’d almost forgotten how marvelous his back was; broad with well-defined muscles across his shoulder blades. Definitely not a malnourished desk jockey. “Why are wives beaten for these flimsy little tops?”

  He chuckled, low and chesty, the damage to his vocal chords only enhancing the sexiness of his rumble. “It’s just an expression.”

  “We’ll have to find some dry wood to make a fire tonight,” she said, fighting with the swollen laces of her halter and wishing she’d chosen a different outfit at the start of her journey, like the practical woven-thread tunic that was at the bottom of the river with the rest of her things. “Oh, for the love of wet cows.”

  “That’s a new one. What’s wrong?”

  “Ever try to peel off drippy animal hide?”

  “Need help?”

  Yes. “No, but this could take awhile.”

  The rumble again, heavy with implication, struck her midsection like a ball of fire.

  “Hey, when we were back there, you told the Banger you killed his friend,” Libra said. “But later you told him to share the food.”

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “How could he share with a dead guy?”

  “Ghosts get hungry too,” Cleo joked.

  Libra remained silent.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “You don’t really believe I killed that Banger, do you?”

  Silence. Stillness. He remained focused in the other direction.

  “Libra?”

  “I don’t know. Did you?”

  “No!” Cleo pulled so hard on the leather cord, it snapped. “Damn it.” She pulled the laces through and tugged the wet garment off her body with a huff. “How could you even think such a thing?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing about this territory is what I thought. Everything’s a surprise. Especially you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.”

  “How could I be a surprise? You didn’t know I existed until a few days ago.”

  “I don’t mean you as an individual, but you as a girl from a tribe in the Taiga. I expected you people to be more like…them. Bangers.”

  She wished she could see his face, read his expression, his body language. Words alone gave no hints as to how to interpret these revelations. “But that’s ridiculous. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Talk, stories, personal accounts. I think Gomedans have a load of misconceptions about the tribal way of life.”

  “Clearly,” she huffed, discarding her wet leather for the comfy leggings. She rolled the waistband over a few times so they wouldn’t drop off her hips. “But for the record, I’ve never killed another human being, not even a Banger.” Cleo turned. “There hasn’t been a murder in my clan since the day I was born,” she said, unable to cover the malice in her voice. “Hope that convinces you we’re not some kind of animals.”

  Libra spun round to face her. “I wasn’t implying—”

  “Yes, you were. Did,” she said matter-of-factly. “Many times.”

  “No, I wasn’t. It’s just that…” Libra blew out a breath and shrugged. “The way you had him in that strangle hold, then how you took down the other one… how was I supposed to… I mean, I’ve never seen a girl fight like that.”

  “Well, let’s get this out in the open, then. I’m a Wolverine Clan warrior, third-class. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “I never said that!”

  “Did my savagery shock you?”

  “What? No!” he said. Libra turned on his heel and walked a few steps. He pushed his hands through his wet hair before pivoting abruptly and marching back to where she stood.

  She stood her ground, hands on hips, shoulders back, and chin up, ready to face whatever bullshit misconception he had. Perhaps she’d flatten his ass to the ground for good measure.

  “Fact is…” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He reached up to remove a leaf from her hair then scanned her face, his gaze lingering on her mouth. “Fact is…” He brushed his thumb across her mouth, making Cleo’s breath catch. His eyes locked on hers and his voice seemed to take on an even raspier tone. “I was completely turned on.”

  Nineteen

  Turned on.

  Did he really say that? Cleo wondered if her cheeks were as bright as they felt.

  “We’d better get moving.” Her voice sounded disembodied as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

  Turned on. By her fighting.

  She was damn proud of her skills, but the guys in her tribe either challenged her or avoided her. Group A had the cocky I’ll-show-her-who’s-boss mentality, then went away bitter, tails between their legs, when she put them in their place. Group B were the opposite—completely intimidated, scared to ask her to go walking with them, terrified when caught staring.

  Now the urbanite went and added a new category, Group C—turned on.

  For the love of all things… Damn, she couldn’t come up with an appropriate ending to that one, but at least she felt a little better about letting him take up so much of her headspace. At least he appreciated her kick-assness. She might even forgive him for that other shit.

  He cut into her reverie. “Can we make it to the post tonight?”

  Cleo glanced at the dimming sky. “Not a chance. There’s not much daylight left. But it’s all pretty easy from here. Once we hit the grid line, we’ll go south until we get to the Dead Lake.”

  Cleo bent to pick up a broken branch, snapping away the few skinny twigs protruding from the sides. It made a perfect walking stick, and she was a little sore. “I know a good spot to stop for the night. From there, it’s only another couple hours to the Trading Post. If we get up with the sun, we can make it in time for breakfast. And believe me when I tell you Miss Valentina makes bread that will make your mouth water. Oh, and fresh bacon! I can practically smell it. Don’t you love the smell of thick applewood-smoked bacon, frying in the skillet?”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she caught him staring at her backside like it was a side of bacon. “Did you even hear what I said?”

  “What? Oh, sorry. Bacon. Never had it.”

  “You’ve never had bacon? You poor, deprived soul!”

  “Yeah, well, there aren’t an abundance of farm animals wandering around Gomeda.”

  “So, besides Nutrishit, what’s on a typical menu?”

  “Ha! Nutrishit…because I’ve never heard that one before,” he derided. “We get the occasional fruits and vegetables from the hydroponic farms; whatever the Ministry of Food and Agriculture deems there’s an overage of. For instance, if they have an inventory excess of tomatoes, they’re sold in open market, albeit at an exorbitant price.”

  “What do you mean excess? What happens to the original inventory?”

  “It goes to the NutriCorp. Oh, don’t give me that icky face, please. Nutrifood is made up of some real food, you know. It’s not all chemicals. At least nobody has to bang it with a rock,” he said with a shudder. “But realize that they have eleven million mouths to feed on a limited supply, so they hydroponically grow perfect specimens that NutriCorp then uses to mass produce balanced meals for everyone, so even folks that can’t afford to supplement their diets with fresh ingredients… Well, at least they’re getting some kind of nutrition.”

  “Like the Stone Soup fable?”

  “Yes, exactly. Except there’s not quite enough of the good stuff, so they do have to bulk it up with fillers and such.”

  “It’s the ‘and such’ I’d be worried about.”

  “Yeah
well, there are nutrition issues in Gomeda,” he said quietly. “I can’t deny that. But people aren’t starving anymore, not like they did after the collapse, but some do suffer from certain…deficiencies. Lots of disease still lingers about, far too much chronic illness affects the young, the poor, et cetera. I guess healthy is a relative term for us.”

  She craved to ask him about his past, about his life in the city, but bit her tongue. It was sure to lead to comparisons, then to a Gomeda versus Taiga competition, and though part of her still itched for a fight, she didn’t like how Libra’s face tightened up when they argued. She wanted the warm-fuzzy feeling to come back to their conversation. She wanted that half-smile that made her insides feel squishy.

  “You don’t look too deprived.” Cleo reached out to give his upper arm a squeeze. “Or feel too deprived.”

  “All the better to save young damsels who throw themselves over waterfalls,” he said, flashing his half-smile.

  “But seriously, how…” she let the question trail off, unsure of how to word it.

  “How come I’m the picture of health?”

  Cleo nodded thinking “picture of health” barely described his toned physique.

  “I was born healthy.” He sighed as if it were a burden. “And was lucky to have access to potable water, vitamins, and a fully stocked food consolidator.”

  “But no bacon.”

  “Alas, no bacon.”

  Cleo gave her head a slow dramatic shake. “That is just so wrong. Don’t think I could survive without bacon. Or want to. I’d probably throw myself over a waterfall.”