Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1) (35 page)

“Thank you for the drink.”

Tumbleweed nodded. “S’okay, kid. Look’d like ya needed it.”

Althea stopped at the concrete stairs out of the place, and lifted her foot toward the first step. Standing crane-like on one leg, she stared at the grey block which seemed to fade toward and away from her, making her wobble back. Her second attempt drew more laughs, and a cheer. After a glance back at the crowd, she defeated the obstacle with an all-fours crawl and sprawled on the ground outside with closed eyes to enjoy the warm breeze.

Straight lines were elusive things as she tottered past a row of buildings that, judging by the signs, had once been shops now repurposed into homes. The townies glanced at her drunken gait, some laughing and others coming over to check on her.

Four buildings later, a voice called out, “Girl.”

An ancient man sat on the porch steps of a run-down white building, staring at her with a look of intense curiosity. Drawn to him, she staggered until one hand on the wall arrested her sway. Hand over hand along the bricks, she crept until she was near enough to talk, and looked at him. He waved at her to come closer. She blinked at a rugged face, wrinkled and brown with age and weather. Trying not to trip over her own feet as she approached, she loped forward until her hip touched his leg. He reached out to hold her hand, straining to get a good look at her face.

“I think you’re the one.” His voice, dry and deep, covered her in the fragrance of smoke.

She tilted her head, not saying anything.

“Yes, you are.” Stringy white hair shook with a series of coughs. “The last time I saw those eyes, you were just a baby.”

Althea sank onto the steps, and tugged at his arm. Querq spun less after she sat down. “You knew my parents?”

He looked up and away at the sky, squinting at the clouds, leaving Althea wondering how so much hair could grow inside someone’s nose. “Your mother, but I only saw her for a few hours. She was running from someone. Strange men with strange weapons.”

Focusing on him, Althea looked into his thoughts. The face of a young woman with pale skin and blonde hair, wild with fear, filled his view. Her sky-blue jumpsuit was smudged and ripped, but still looked like nothing a person from the Badlands would have. Strange tan blankets with a repeating geometric pattern too precise for human hands to produce shrouded an infant in her arms.

Her voice blurred in his memories. Men were after her. They wanted to kill her to take the child away. Within the bundled cloth, two points of intense blue light shone. The sight shocked Althea out of the vision, leaving the lingering memory of her mother’s voice begging this man to save her child’s life.

Face frozen in astonished sorrow, quiet tears streaked her cheek as she stared at him. He had been talking the whole time, though she saw the images his words attempted to describe. This man felt himself too old to take care of an infant, and had left her with a young couple in a small, peaceful village.

She stared down past the twisted tatters of leather covering her lap at the dirt. That entire settlement at the side of the turquoise lake had been wiped out because of her. The wrong man saw her mend a wounded stranger. All she had wanted to do was help someone who was hurt, and he killed everyone to get her. Althea’s gaze lifted away from the ground, to the giggles of distant children down the street. No, a greedy man with a cart wiped it out―not her.

The elder was astonished to see her after all these years, but had no idea what had become of her mother. She ran off the same day she arrived in an attempt to draw her pursuers away from her daughter.

A blonde woman alone in the Badlands; Althea felt sick to think it would have been a kindness if the strange men had found her―all they would have done was kill her.

lack strands wavered through a square of dull blue-purple, the only color in the room. Althea lay on her side, staring at the window through the skirt she left draped over the back of a chair. The chill air had made the nightgown more appealing; velvety and warm, even if it made her feel vulnerable because she could not run or climb. The little sanctum she shared with Karina felt safe; she wondered if Querq would as well.

The scent of chorizo washed over her from behind, upon Karina’s breath. Her sister had passed out right away, but Althea was not yet accustomed to sleeping on something so soft. She did not complain; she grinned, imagining Father saying to give it time. Dirt or a scrap of blanket over a hard floor would help her drift off, but she remained where she was for her sister’s sake.

“What’s wrong?” Karina’s drowsy voice startled her. “You’re not still drunk are you? You’re lucky Father didn’t notice.”

Althea nudged her head deeper into the pillow. “I met a man who knew my mother. She’s probably dead now.”

Karina kissed on the back of her head. “I can’t imagine not knowing…”

“I’m sorry.” Althea flicked at the covers with her toe.

The response sounded less tired. “Why?”

“For making you remember your mother’s dead.”

Karina was quiet for a minute, and then pulled her tight. “I got a little sister instead of a little brother… I’m happy.”

Althea rolled so they were nose to nose. Karina squinted at the bright glow an inch from her eyes, and squeezed her sister’s hand. Minutes passed in a contest of who would giggle first; Althea lost.

“Hey…” Karina’s voice got sluggish again. “Sometimes I go to the garden and meditate whenever I miss her.”

She felt as tired as Karina sounded. “Meditate?”

“It’s when you clear everything out of your head and try to think about nothing; then the important thing comes to you. I’ve tried it a few times. It makes me feel better, but I still haven’t seen her. Maybe it will work for you since you’re the Prophet.”

Althea gave her a raspberry. Prophet had become a bad word. They both giggled, but swallowed it, not wanting to wake Father.

He deserved his sleep.

“In there?” Althea gawked up at a massive white dome-shaped structure.

Karina held her hand as they strode up the walkway to the door. “Yes. I’ll see you in a few hours; I’m already late to the field.”

After a hug, her sister hurried off.

Althea watched her run out of sight before she turned and walked through a doorway into warm, wet air hanging heavy over a concrete path slick yet rough beneath her feet. A presence here brought back her feral vigilance, and she crept along past old metal tables piled high with boxes and clay pots. The scent and taste of soil entered her throat while fine droplets of mist settled upon her skin. Above her, a patchwork of metal pipes leaked random streams as they carried water to clusters of immense suspended pots from which grew various vegetables.

The cupola blazed with the sun, flooding the area with heat and light through milky triangular panels. At the center of this place stood a grove of trees studded with developing fruit and surrounded by a patch of grass and flowers. The place Karina had talked about, the four trees and the small wooden bench. The curving walkway was laden with warm puddles, slippery with algae in spots and coarse with worn concrete in others. Soon the shade of the trees blocked the oppressive radiance from above, and she sat cross-legged on the ground by a small pond ringed with growing herbs. Resting her palms on her knees, she threw her hair over her shoulder with a nod and closed her eyes.

Thinking about nothing proved harder than it sounded. She fought the nagging distraction of the grass tickling her legs, the sounds of birds above, and the settling of her breakfast.

Karina had said she should breathe. It sounded bizarre at first; everyone breathes. It was the
way
you breathe she meant, slow and rhythmic. In and out, one breath at a time. Althea was sure Karina had missed something in the information she had gotten from the traveler who told her about this “meditation” thing. That was why it had not worked for her, because she did something wrong.

The prey instinct returned; it teased at her spine and sent a shiver through her heart. The placidity of the place ended at the moment chirping birds fell silent. She opened her eyes, breath stalled at the sight of a shadow behind the orange tree. A man stepped out of the folds of a billowing brown coat, lifting his head to peer at her from under the brim of a battered cowboy hat. Skin stretched over his skeleton so taut he resembled a walking drum; sunken eyes glimmered like rubies in their dark sockets and pinned her to the ground.

A frail hand removed his hat as he approached; teeth the color of a decaying bog bared themselves in a sinister grin. Even the trees seemed to want to flee from him.

Althea planted her hands behind her in the grass and uncrossed her legs, pulling her feet under her as she eyed the path. He raised his hand as if to beg a moment, and she hesitated, reversing in a crawl rather than bounding into a run.

“Who are you?” Her fingers clutched the soil with the posture of a threatened jaguar.

Long grey hair danced as he laughed in a voice that resonated through the garden despite its lack of volume. “I am this place.”

She furrowed her brow. “That doesn’t make sense. You’re a man.”

Paper-thin lips parted, flashing his seaweed smile. “I am that which has drawn forth from the enmity of man.”

She remembered Aurora talking about something she called a sentience.

This being had no thoughts she could read, only a radiance of dread. “Why are you here?”

He paced in a circle, gravelly voice doing its best to sound nonthreatening. “Humanity called. I answered.”

Althea trembled as he passed behind her, but refused to look. When he moved into her view, she made eye contact. “What do you do?”

“I keep things as they need to be. I sustain. I feed.”

“You’re a ghost.” She released the soil, folding her hands in her lap.

“Heh.” He laughed again. “I am many ghosts.”

He raised a hand, and her mind flashed with images of war and death. Great machines she had never before imagined streaked through the sky, raining fire down upon the cities of the before-time. The visions lingered on people dying, especially those who could not defend themselves.

“Stop it.” A grimace of revulsion crossed her face.