Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1) (54 page)

Metal clattered and rolled followed by a distant moan from the man in white. The giant’s head whipped around at the eerie high-pitched voice as if he had been slapped; fury returned. With great care, he left her seated on the edge of the awful chair and jumped over a railing, falling out of sight with a deathly snarl.

A cry of primal rage, the sound of crushed flesh; the man in white screamed.

Althea lowered herself to the floor, disgusted by contact with such an evil object. As blood spattered the pipes by the railing, the shouts weakened to gurgles amid the repeating dull clank of cybernetic blades driven through flesh to the ground. She felt a life depart, but the raging and pounding did not stop. In fact, the oaf’s vengeful howls gained intensity. Not wanting to see what had happened below, she ran for the hallway.

Lost in feral panic, Althea darted over the painful grated floor, down a short corridor, and jumped onto a ladder which led out from this horrible place. She climbed as though molten lava rose beneath her, flying up towards the circle of daylight beckoning from above.

lthea sat in the comforting dark of the small metal room that shielded her from the horrible world just outside its thin walls. Trembling fingers massaged the soreness and metal fragments from the soles of her feet as her frenetic dash replayed itself in her memory. As terror faded from her mind, she squeezed herself into the corner of her sleeping-box and trembled until exhaustion overtook her fear.

A metal creak and blast of light tore her out of sleep. She flipped over with her arms crossed in front of her face. The shriek she let off made Whisk jump backwards and drop the lid. It slammed, shaking the entire container. Her mind took several seconds to compensate for abrupt consciousness, and she realized where she was, and whom she had seen. Althea pushed the hatch open until it caught on the locking nub and stayed up like a canopy.

Whisk chuckled. “Rough night? Here, ‘ave a snort.”

He handed her a small metal bottle. She took a sip of liquid fire. Her face turned red. She gasped, and gave him an accusing stare. Coughing followed a fit of gagging and watery eyes.

“Takes bit o’ gettin’ used to. ‘Ave another hit if yas want.”

She shook her head, handing the flask back to him as she tried to regain the ability to breathe.

“More fer me, then.” He took a good swig, reacting no different than if he’d had a pull of water. “There’s food.”

Althea patted herself down, and rummaged through the moldy blankets. She had lost the burger card. Resigning herself never to know what this stuff tasted like fresh, she followed Whisk to the pile of trash poured out at the center of their community. Along the way, she idly picked at the inch-long scar in the center of her tank top. Rather than at the pain it caused, Althea grew angry with the man in white for damaging Karina’s gift. By the time they reached the center of the Bumwallow, thoughts of her sister had brought tears.

The residents sifted through the mound. They selected items of interest before wandering off to their “houses” when they had taken their fill. Althea crawled through the pile, scarfing down the errant strip of fried potato or half-eaten nugget of synthesized chicken. One of the bums poked her in the back with something pointy. She spun around, and he poked her in the tummy with a clear plastic box. Inside, was a half-length turkey sub, evidently discarded by someone who noticed it a whole two days past its sell date.

“Uppity fuckers.” He wheezed a chuckle through a gap in his teeth. “Actual vat-meat, and they didn’t even open it. Here, kid, you take it.”

“Thank you.” She clung to it, hugged him, and scampered off to her container for the feast.

Althea indulged in the surprising bounty and thought about the dog man from the gas station and the way Father had shown up at the house when she got scared. She pondered Anita and Mike, and wondered if she could call them the same way. To them, she had only a vague connection, not like the emotional link she had with Father or Karina. Then again, she did not have much of a bond with the dog man, and he had heard her.

Screaming bums made her look up. Dozens of rag-clad men ran to the left, away from the ladder and down the drainage run. Heavy clanking stomps approached her space. She poked her head out, spotting the oaf following the trail of dirty footprints she had left behind.

The surge of happiness he threw off when he saw her prevented her from running. She kept a tight grip on the rim of the container as he shambled over, unable to stop trembling at the sight of him. His finger blades slid back into their housings with a rapid flurry of loud snaps, and he stooped to pat her atop the head with tenderness she never expected.

Swallowing hard, she forced a tenuous smile. “Hi.”

When he grinned, blood ran out of his mouth. The fright of his presence receded, allowing her to notice a number of bullet holes. He fell on his butt right outside her door, grinning like a lost puppy after finding its way home. She crawled out of the container and walked around him. He had been shot in the back, in the side, and several dents gave away where he had taken a few to the arm.

She stared into his mechanical eye, bewildered at how a beast that once wanted nothing more than to smash the little pretty thing sat here happy to see her. She crouched, balancing on the balls of her feet, and put a hand into the bushy hair spread over his chest. Althea peered into his mind, finding his thoughts focused on her face. Her scream of deathly fear still rattled around at the back of his consciousness; all he wanted was for her never to make such a sound again. The more she looked into the images and feelings that glimmered within him, the more she came to understand what had happened.

Her abject terror at coming close to death had stamped a permanent emotional imprint on his brain; his greatest want was to protect her. She bit her lip, uncertain if she should feel bad about doing that to him; after all, he had been a monster, but was this any different than a slave?

Yes. I saved him. He would have hurt people if he didn’t die. This is better.

Mending him took a while. She sat cross-legged at his side, easing bullets out of him one at a time. His bulk was so thick even the modern firearms which had passed right through Dean had lodged in his muscles. The presence of thin fibrous metal between skin and muscle likely had something to do with that as well. One by one, she coaxed projectiles out of him. They were heavier, longer, and pointier than any bullets she had seen before. Althea was used to removing lumps of metal that resembled stomped-on mushrooms, but these were still pointy and evil. She dismissed them as “city bullets” and tossed them away. When she had gotten the last of them, she pondered removing the foreign things in his body, but this man had far more than the dog, and it was much less haphazard. Besides, both arms from fingertip into the shoulder were completely metal. She could not leave him helpless.

Althea settled for mending the gunshot damage and slumped to the side to rest. The big man’s adoration had grown stronger. Perhaps her telempathic imprint had just been a starting point, and this was genuine? She stared at him with more questions than she could answer, debating the justification of altering a man’s entire personality, even if it had once been evil.

The bums came back with crude weapons made of old furniture and lamps. Seeing Althea sitting in his lap made them exchange glances and relax. Most went back to their food; Whisk and Grey Tatters approached but kept a safe distance.

“Wot’s that then?” Whisk pointed.

“He followed me here. Is it okay if he stays?”

A peal of thunder rippled through the smog. Whisk looked up. “Aye, but we’z bout ta get peed on. Best git inside.”

She crawled into her container and gazed out over the Bumwallow as the rain came. Pooling water carried off the lighter bits of trash and ushered grime into the piss-grate. The oaf was too big for her container. He sat dutifully outside, ignoring the deluge with one great metal arm reached inside, to which she clung.

“Do you have a name?”

He looked at her. In his thoughts, the man in white screamed, calling him “stupid oaf,” and other things that sounded worse.

“I’m Althea. Thank you for saving me.”

He grinned.

She traced a fingertip over the grooves of his arm, through interlocking plates, down to his fist resting on the ground between her feet. Althea frowned at her legs. Once again, she was a filthy thing, far removed from the taste of normality she had enjoyed for a short while in Querq. Her eyes welled up thinking of the fork and the face Karina had made when she had grabbed the enchilada with her hands. The memory of her sister’s fingers washing her hair brought full-on sobs.

The big man moaned, leaning in to pat her on the head. She looked up at him, sniffling; his expression asked why she was crying.

“I miss my family. All I can remember my whole life is being taken. I was too scared to make people leave me alone. I don’t want to be taken anymore.” She held back the tears and got angry. “I’m sick of being kidnapped. I just want to go home.”

He tapped himself on the chest and pointed out into the world. He wanted to help her find them.

She smiled, hugging the rigid metal arm. “I know what to do.”

Crawling to the edge of the container, she looked through the falling grey for Whisk. When she spotted him, she sent her voice into his mind.

Whisk? Can you please find Flatline?

He yelped and collapsed amid the heap of trash he carried. Sitting up, he whirled around looking for the source of the voice.

Althea giggled.
I’m over here.

Whisk shot her an alarmed stare and blinked. She waved. He scratched his head until the disorientation faded, and set about re-gathering his dropped treasure with shaking hands.

Flatline could find Beard, Beard could get her back home, and her new friend would protect her on the way.