Читать книгу Reborn - Vin Ph.D. Jackson - Страница 16

LaRoche was squatting at the mouth of the crystal canyon. Mireille was off somewhere. Foraging, she'd said. She seemed to have been gone for ages and he wished she'd hurry up. There was no sign of scavengers, not yet, but it was too much to ask that the war had been won in the first skirmish. When they did come again, he wasn't sure he could repeat his earlier performance.

Not that courage was failing: he'd never had it to start with. Just some irrepressible urge to survive. It had welled up inside accompanied by a voice, sometimes very clear; at others, just a whisper. Familiar, like a ghost from a past, that had retreated behind a thick fog. It kept reminding him of his duty, especially to himself. He had to live, it said, because if he died, so would the future and he had no right to be that selfish. So, he'd fought, mainly to stay alive, figuring he could sort out the airy-fairy ulterior motives later.

While Mireille had been gone, he'd tried, but, although the voice hadn't entirely deserted him, it had become even more distant and oblique. It seemed to be staggering through his subconscious like a drunk, bumping into things, stimulating responses he'd never instituted. One time, he'd felt a sudden urge to make love and Mireille's image had popped into his head. The thought had embarrassed him. The voice said: "What are you - some kind of fag?" His conscience, maybe? He'd have liked to think so, but he had a feeling it was more than that - like there was another person in his head. What was wrong with him? Was he going mad?

Hugging his knees to his chest, he tried thinking of something pleasant, but his memories only related to this place and the scavengers; nothing before. And all he really knew about himself was his name, one he'd thought up in a moment of panic - a meaningless label on an empty box.

Mireille made it back. By this time, a light ground mist had rolled in to carpet the area. Definitely spooky. LaRoche was growing up out of it like a fungus, hunched over and dozing. Just as well scavengers were apparently stupid. She threw down the bundle she was carrying, exploding the mist and frightened the shit out of him. He began scrambling around for his weapon in panic. Then he saw who it was and tried to snarl resentfully. "You took your time."

"I stopped for a pee, alright?" She lobbed a swollen water-bag none-too-gently on his lap. "Tastes like puke, so don't drink too much at once."

He was leaning over, rummaging through the pile of material. "Is this the best you could do?" He held up a blood-stained shirt. "My God! You've been robbing the dead!"

"What was I supposed to do? K-Mart was shut."

"But they're filthy!"

"Jesus Christ! We needed clothes, I got us clothes." She scanned the area. "Hurry up and get dressed. I'll stand watch."

LaRoche continued picking through the garments, sneering in disgust. He flinched, slapped at his arm, brought the hand in front of him to examine the creature pinched between finger and thumb. "Fleas! These rags are alive with them!"

"For Christ's sake!" She snatched a leather coat from the top of the pile, began fumbling her way into it. Then dragged on a pair of woollen trousers and hide boots. All had seen better days, none of them the inside of a laundromat. "There!" She stooped, collected up her weapons, glared at him. "If I can put up with it, so can you."

"It's unhealthy," LaRoche continued. "We could catch something."

"Like what? AIDS? Clap?" She was aware of tickling in her pubic region. Something crawling through the hairs. Crabs? "Don't be such a wimp." The itching increased - more of the little sods - but there was no way she was going to let him see her scratching. She shuffled a few paces and turned her back. "Get your skates on. I want out of here before those bastards come back."

She hoped she sounded confident, in total control. At least LaRoche seemed to think so. It was as well he couldn't see past the aggressive, hard-nosed exterior. Beneath the facade she was having problems.

It was the voice in her head: bloody Richard; too persistent to simply write him off as imagination. So, what was he? Her alter ego, she guessed. Did LaRoche have one? At the moment he was probably too screwed up to even notice.

Richard had been doing his best to dump her in the same funny-farm. He said he was in hospital, at death's door, in case she was interested. The least she could do was show a little consideration and stop trying to get herself killed. Didn't she realise she was part of him? What happened to her directly affected his wellbeing! And another thing - aside from any sense of responsibility she ought to feel for him, there was the moral aspect. Killing was wrong. Didn't she know that? After what she'd done, didn't she feel the slightest bit dirty?

"Screw you," she moaned under her breath. Why should she feel dirty? She'd actually enjoyed it! The fear, the danger, the victory. And the killing. Especially that. Able to spare a life, or snuff it out with a single blow - that was the power civilisation had stolen from the majority of the human race. For a few precious minutes there, she'd taken some of it back. Anyway, what had he expected her to do - just lay down and die?

He seemed to go quiet. Didn't have an answer to that one, she supposed. She used the cease-fire to check out LaRoche. He was easing himself into a pair of breeches, attempting to keep the filthy material away from that cut on his leg. His concern annoyed her. "For Christ's sake! Are you going to take all day?"

LaRoche didn't look at her. "I need medical attention. This is a very deep cut."

"What do you want, a sympathy card? Call 911."

"There's no need to be facetious."

"There's every need, you dumb prick. Look, either put the bloody pants on or leave them off. I don't give a fuck. But if you're not ready in thirty seconds I'm leaving without you!"

The amazing power of an ultimatum. In two minutes LaRoche was dressed and they were padding cautiously across the open area towards the edge of the clearing. As they approached a gap in the surrounding vegetation Mireille tensed to be ready for an ambush. LaRoche was looking back at the rocks, wishing he'd never left them.

There was no attack. No sign of life. The narrow track wound off into the countryside and what they could see of it was deserted. She gazed into the distance - sparse, low-lying scrub as far as the eye could see. Petrified, by the looks of it. "Welcome to the Deadlands, campers."

LaRoche stared vacantly. Dismally. "Why are you so chipper?"

"Chipper!" she jeered. "What kind of a word is that? You a dictionary in your former life, were you?" She laughed.

"I don't know what I was," he mumbled sulkily, "I only know I don't like surprises and this place seems to be full of them. I have to assume you don't share my opinion because you're obviously enjoying yourself."

She was, wasn't she? Like a devotee of the supernatural who'd just discovered there really was a twilight zone. Like she'd stepped into it and been immediately rejuvenated. "Bet your balls I am! Jesus, LaRoche, it's not that bad. Chill out. Go with the flow."

"Why? So that I can turn into a savage like you?"

What annoyed her more than his complaining was the fact that he was right. She couldn't believe she'd let her self-control slip that far. "I'm trying to stay alive, just like you." She turned back, wounded and resentful. "I seem to recall you weren't exactly the pacifist back there, so don't start lecturing me on morals. We're only doing what the old guy said. No rules, remember?"

LaRoche was gazing despondently. "Except those we make ourselves." He frowned, thought deeply for a moment, then shook his head.

"What?"

He blinked, looked vaguely at Mireille as if he expected to find the answers on her face. But there was only impatience and condescension. "You wouldn't understand."

She let out a defeated sigh. "I'm sorry I even tried. You're a lost cause, LaRoche. Do what you fucking like." She spun on her heel and began stomping off, hesitating after a few paces to look reproachfully over her shoulder. LaRoche was weird. He was turning on the spot, gazing about as if this was all totally new and he'd just arrived. Completing the 360, he saw her and it confused him. Mireille took it for embarrassment because she'd caught him behaving like a wally. She gave up on him and started walking again.

He was suddenly running after her. "Don't go! I've just had a...." He paused to frown. "I've seen something amazing!"

He seemed genuine, but how could she tell? Maybe he was simply trying to con his way back into favour again. "I'm listening. Make it good."

That stumped him. "I-I can't remember.... For a moment it was so clear, the reason for all this, for me...." He was suddenly filled with inexplicable wonder and was looking up into the sky, saying: "Yes! It's happening! I can feel it!"

Mireille wasn't the least impressed. "I'm really glad for you. Now, are you coming, or not?"

His eyes closed and he drank in the air slowly. Bliss. She thought maybe he'd died on his feet. He didn't move, wasn't breathing as far as she could tell. A hefty slap across the face was what he needed. Instead, she reached out and caught hold of his arm.

Then she was wishing she hadn't!