Читать книгу Reborn - Vin Ph.D. Jackson - Страница 24

Light was fading. Perhaps night was approaching, if such a time existed in this place. There was no sun to set, but despite this the temperature had dropped considerably and was still falling. A cooling breeze had whispered in without notice at first, but was now intensifying by the minute. A buzz tingled over the goose-flesh on Mireille's bare arms and she shivered. Her choice of the sleeveless jerkin obviously wasn't a good one.

LaRoche noticed, but chivalry wasn't on his agenda. He closed the front panels of his coat against the chill and smiled quietly to himself - planning was everything. It would get him what he deserved with a minimum of effort. Someone else could do the donkey-work. Like Mireille. She was certainly conscientious - taut as a bowstring, anticipating an ambush at every turn. Unnecessary now, as it happened. He was feeling benevolent for some reason and said: "Forget the scavengers: they'll be scuttling off to their holes by now. We'd be better employed looking for shards."

His casual lack of concern annoyed her. Plus this air of superiority he'd adopted. Like she was always dumb and he was suddenly smart! How did he know what scavengers did of an evening? And what the hell were shards? She put both questions to him. He stared at her as if he couldn't figure where she was coming from. Then his head was shaking despondently and he was walking again, grumbling: "Just accept that one of us has a brain that's functional. In the meantime, find some shards, or we'll be stuck out here in the open."

She stumbled along behind, growled at his back: "Maybe you hadn't noticed, but open's all we've got!"

LaRoche ignored the negativity and strode on. He seemed to know what he was doing, exactly where he was going. Couldn't, of course. They were both new to all of this. Yet, along with his obnoxious attitude, he seemed to have acquired a certain amount of uncanny knowledge. Like the shards: according to him they were crystalline formations, which marked a source of food, water and shelter. He was surprised she didn't know that.

She stopped him. "The point is, how do you know? Who told you?"

From his frown and vacant stare, it was obvious he had no idea. Then he was fobbing off the question. "Women don't have a monopoly on intuition." He turned into the wind, tasted it, wiped dust from his lips. "Keep looking. There isn't much time."

Though he refused to elucidate, she could see some sense in his theory, misguided or not. The wind had picked up considerably and was starting to drive sand and dust before it. They needed shelter. If he could find it for them, she supposed LaRoche's smug arrogance was a small price to pay.

The sky was a deep pink directly above deepening to almost purple on the horizon. Night was definitely closing in and there was still no sign of the formations LaRoche was looking for. As a consequence, his confidence seemed to be waning. "I didn't think they'd be so hard to find," he moaned dismally.

"Better dig out your prophet's handbook again. Maybe speed-reading wasn't the answer."

He stopped and scowled moodily. "I didn't ask for this, Mireille! Being chosen is a heavy responsibility."

"Oh, spare me!" She caught a mouthful of sand and spat. Then turned her back to the wind. "Who picked you from the pile of shit, God?"

"Maybe She did!" The words were out before he could stop them. He averted his gaze.

"She?" When he refused to respond, Mireille tried pushing. "How do you know God's a she? Don't tell me you've had a visitation!"

He'd said too much already. "My beliefs are none of your concern." He turned and began wandering off into the storm, paused long enough to add: "Goodbye, Mireille. It's been an enlightening experience."

Mireille called after him, was about to follow when a strong squall hit, blasting her with sand. By the time she could see again, there was no sign of him. She could just hear his voice ululating on the wind. A desperate plea, a name. But not hers. "Karen," he kept calling. "Speak to me...."

His voice was drowned by a sudden roar as the wind intensified. She sank to her knees, head down, uttering her own prayer to someone she felt could maybe help her. But she couldn't even recall where the name Richard came from.