Bloodlands Page 4

  Gabriel had stopped petting Chaplin, and the dog didn’t ask for more this time. “You really don’t go out of your home much?”

  “Not if I don’t have to. They know I listen in on them, though.” Sometimes my neighbors even addressed me, asking me to join them, but that had to be just a civil habit left over from the days my dad used to socialize with the locals. “We respect each other’s privacy enough to keep a distance when it’s required.”

  Saying it out loud, I realized how cold I seemed, but that was the state of things everywhere, not just here. Neighbors who lived close but never much communicated.

  “How do you sustain yourself if you don’t go out?” Gabriel asked.

  I stuck to safe answers. “I’m able to do my own water mining. I also use a hydroponics system to farm enough grub for me and Chaplin, and we supplement that by trading for more supplies with the others on a leave-it-by-my-door basis. There’s not much out there for vegetation anymore.” Quite a few old herbivores had died off because of that. “We make it just fine, though. And if there’s a threat?” I gestured toward my wall, where the archaic collection of guns, knives, projectiles, and chains hung in a dare for him to ask more intrusive questions.

  Hardly getting the hint, he said, “Where’d you gather all that?”

  “Salvaged from abandoned materials round these parts. As I said, we make it just fine.”

  He grinned, like he respected my defensiveness. “So this Stamp . . . ?”

  “Why, Mr. Gabriel,” I said, “what happened to your need for sleep?” He’d just been trying to avoid conversation, hadn’t he? Something had sure changed that.

  “My unguent works its wonders.” He ruffled Chaplin’s fur, smiled at me again, then squeezed his eyes in pain, lifting a hand to the cuts near his mouth.

  But his gesture struck me all wrong. Now it seemed like Gabriel was acting, like he was belatedly faking his hurt.

  Yet . . . that smile of his. It heated my belly again, and that heat slipped right down to my center, tightening into an ache I felt most mornings when I woke up to realize there’d be no way to fully satisfy the brutal longings of the night.

  A mixture of anger, confusion, fear stretched me, but I lowered my arms, pressed them against my stomach.

  Better. Still, this stranger was making me awful uncomfortable.

  “I don’t get it,” I finally said. “A bit ago, you were bleeding like there was no tomorrow. And now . . .”

  He’d gone stiff, his eyes shuttered to emptiness.

  “Now I’m wildly improved.”

  “The gel healed you that fast? What’s in it?”

  “Trade secret. But I might be persuaded to share because of your kindness. In fact, I feel compelled to offer more.”

  At the innuendo, my body flared up and the ache between my legs intensified, sharpened.

  Panic really flooded me this time, overtaking my self-control. And, damn it, did I ever need some, because control balanced the world, inside and out.

  Gabriel must’ve realized that he’d crossed a line with me, because he raised his hands in a mild type of surrender. “Listen, I wasn’t getting fresh. I’m only thinking that maybe you’d like an extra hand around to chase off this Stamp and his guys for the time being. You do me a kindness, and I return it. That’s how things should work.”

  I looked at my wall of weapons and then back at him. “I’ve already got good company.”

  “I see that. And I had years of wildlife hunting with my dad before the Second Amendment was struck down. Hunting made me good at using most of what you’ve got.”

  “All the same, Mr. Gabriel, no thank you.”

  “Hey, I couldn’t sleep well if I left you in such straits. . . .”

  “Your sleep isn’t my concern. Chaplin, c’mere.” I patted my thigh, hoping my dog wan’t so taken by the stranger that he’d refuse me.

  But when Chaplin trotted over—just after one last glance at Gabriel—I hugged him. Hugged him hard.

  My voice was muffled by fur. “You can convalesce here as you require. But after sufficient time, you and your miracle gel will have to walk.”

  “Then I’ll just get my rest, miss.”

  Jay-sus. It’d do no good for him to be “miss”-ing me all the time. “The name’s Mariah. You might as well call me that. But don’t think it’s an invitation to stay.”

  “I understand, Mariah.” He sank down to his blankets and closed his eyes, his lips spread in a bruised grin.

  Not trusting him an inch, I sat on the couch and faced our guest, my hand near my holster. Then, since I had nothing to occupy myself for the coming hours, I ended up just watching him: taking in his wounded features, his . . . lure. Yeah, that was what it was. I couldn’t not watch the stranger.

  Little by little, I even allowed myself to open fully to him, to be saturated with him. All the while, my blood heated, simmering until every pop was agony.

  It wasn’t until Chaplin nuzzled my hand that I got hold of myself. Then, in control once again, I continued my vigil, counting the moments until Gabriel would thankfully leave.

  4

  Mariah

  Just after dawn broke on the visz bank, I gave up on guarding against Gabriel, who was still resting, and got to work farther belowground. I left Chaplin lying next to him, but I wondered if my dog was too taken by our guest to sentinel properly.

  Hoping he’d be as ferocious as Intel Dogs could be, I retreated to my living area, where I dressed in work garb and strapped on my helmet, which featured a lightweight solar-battery lamp that Dad had once contrived. I left Chaplin to do his thing while I went to work. I had no other choice, because there were too many things to see to, like mining water down below the dwelling, culling enough food for today’s meals, and molding more ammunition for my revolvers just in case Stamp saw fit to bother us even after Gabriel had chased away his man last night.

  After one last look at Chaplin nestled all content and happy at Gabriel’s relaxed side, I headed for the north tunnel’s door, went through it, and switched on my headlamp as I turned round to ease the door shut.

  The light showcased the wooden barrier I’d handmade out of a salvaged billboard from an old highway. On it, the faded sign of a crucifix stood at an angle, rays of light emanating from its glory. GO WITH THE ANGELS, it said, right above a church address that had long since been torn asunder, just like most religions before organizations of personality had replaced them: Web leaders, saviors of society, pop culture idols that substituted for spirituality.

  All that remained of this church’s address was CALIF.

  And then a tear, right down the side, cutting off the name of a state that pretty much no longer existed.

  I turned my back on the sign, but that didn’t quite do the trick. Most days I could look at that crucifix and derive a sad bit of optimism from it, reminded that there were people who’d once believed in something they thought was pure. It made me g w there had to be more waiting for me in the future than things that’d been ripped and nearly shredded. But today, after Gabriel’s bloodied arrival, that crucifix only reminded me of screams, red, agonizing gashes, my mom and brother red-soaked and reaching blindly for life as Dad opened fire on the burglars, spraying bullets over his loved ones in the process, too.

  Unsteadily, I picked up one of the waterpacks that sat near a table made out of an old fruit crate. While sliding the straps over my shoulders, I caught sight of myself in a mirror that canted over the table, something I avoided doing as much as possible because it was too hard to see how much I’d changed.

  But now . . . now I did look, averting my helmet so as not to shine the light directly into the mirror. My red hair was slicked back from my underground-pale face, making me too stark, too hard. On my skin, I searched for any sign of scars, although I knew none would be there.

  I shrugged one shoulder, as if using it to hide the cleared skin on my neck. I could still feel the scars, old and new, itching just beneath the surface.
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br />   The light flashed in the mirror at me, a reminder that I was lollygagging, and I turned from the image, the woman I didn’t know anymore—the true stranger—and descended the stairs, the ominous drip of water tapping and echoing against the rock below. My helmet’s lamp provided a fuzzy glow, creating dancing fingers of shadow. The lower I went, the cooler the air became. That was why I liked it down here; outside during the day, I would’ve needed cool-modifiers to stay healthy. Here, hidden away, I had everything a person might need.

  Actually, we did get occasional rainfall in the New Badlands, and that resulted in the area holding just enough water for survival, although who knew how long things would last for the Badlanders and the wildlife, most of which consisted of mutant animals that had come out after the changes because they were better able to survive than the old species in these conditions. But, for the time being, me and the others depended on pumping liquid from aquifers, where water collected in porous layers of underground rock. My dad, even after losing his faith in the science that had employed and sustained him, had devised a hand-pump system, as well as the camouflaged solar panels that provided what little electricity we required.

  When I reached the bottom, I headed toward a small opening that led to a massive cavern. A network of hand pumps decorated the rock walls opposite a UV-lighted, climate-controlled hydro-garden. Upright tubes stood filled with homemade nutrient fluid, most of the ingredients gathered as a result of trading with the locals. I normally left water from my abundant claim near the common-area tunnel leading to my home, and my neighbors left what I needed in return without face-to-facing—things like seeds, meat, materials they’d salvaged from outside. As a result, my garden gave me items as varied as tomatoes, lettuce, peppers, and even strawberries and melons.

  I prepared myself for some hard labor, not only out of necessity but because . . . hell, I was the first to admit that it often cleansed away my reality. So I spent hours working the pumps, farming as much water as I could directly into my container packs, which I’d use to transfer my booty back home. After that, I’d repeat the process with more packs kept here below.

  When I’d run five packs to the stairs, I returned to get more water, to complete my afternoon until night came round.

  Night, always night. It never failed to arrive, with Stamp and his men, with the bad things lurking out there . . .

  Throwing myself back into the flow of labor, I retreated to a corner of the cavern—a workshop Dad had created. I cleared the area of the chains I’d recently brought out from storage, tucking them in a chest, my throat tight. Then I resumed work.

  Cleansing, wonderful work.

  I shaped revolver ammunition out of the cache of lead my father had come upon once during a salvage trip. He’d found a store of it under the frame of a broken house and, since we’d never had much cause to use weapons before Stamp arrived, the ammunition had lasted. But now I didn’t want to be caught lacking.

  After melting and then molding bullets, I tended my garden, plucking out enough to normally appease me and Chaplin . . . and now our guest, too, I supposed. Then I transferred all but one of my waterpacks upstairs.

  Exhausted, but in a bone-weary way that meant I’d worked a good day and might just sleep like a rock, I strapped on that one last pack and returned to my living space, where Chaplin rested at the foot of Gabriel’s blankets. When the dog saw me, he perked up, lifting his furry brown head and wagging his tail.

  “Hey, boy,” I whispered, bending down and opening my arms right up.

  Chaplin crashed into me, and I grunted at the impact on my overworked body. Still, I held on to my friend. Then my gaze strayed to the sleeping Gabriel. He seemed peaceful, if not still banged up and bandaged.

  When I found myself peering a little too hard at him—I still couldn’t see or hear him breathing, couldn’t hear any other signs of life—I ruffled Chaplin’s fur and scratched his ears, refocusing on my friend.

  “Any trouble up here while I was gone?” I asked.

  Chaplin chuffed and lowered his gaze, scolding me for being so insecure about his abilities to sentinel a man.

  I paused, and he tilted his head, probably wondering if I was going to lay into him with some chiding. But then I attacked him with playful petting instead. Chaplin was right—he’d never let me down, even now.

  The dog pounced on me, dominating until I wrestled him to the floor, where he barked, calling uncle. I backed off, suddenly realizing that I shouldn’t be roughhousing in front of even a snoozing guest.

  I’d been raised better. I could just hear Mom now. How about some etiquette, lady-girl? she would’ve said, smiling and going back to restoring the old dresses that I, so many years ago, had unearthed from abandoned dwellings and brought home, just to see Mom light up. Dad would’ve listened to the exchange and laughed, going back to smoking his pipe and thinking about some brilliant solution for getting the world back to normal.

  I softly clapped my hands for Chaplin to get to his feet, then headed for the water storage unit and completed my daily work by transferring the contents of my packs into the massive contraption. Then I got started on a meal. Earlier, I’d fed my dog and myself a big one consisting of a fat sand-rabbit Chaplin had caught this morning while I’d still been dozing. Gabriel had been out like a burned bulb, so he hadn’t eaten anything yet.

  By the time I whipped up salads and fruit blooms and cooked the rest of the mouthwatering sand-rabbit, dusk had arrived on the outside-view viszes. I carried a metal plate to Gabriel.

  But when I got to his blankets, Chaplin was snoozing away and the stranger was gone, the only thing left of him being discarded coat.

  Pulse jerking, I barely got his full plate to the ground instead of dropping it—food was far too valuable to drop—and reached for the revolver I’d put in my holster earlier. At the same time, I shook Chaplin awake.

  “Where’d he go?” I asked. “You’ve got to keep an eye on him!”

  The dog blinked, his eyes fuzzy. It didn’t take but a second for him to sniff, then train his gaze on the empty makeshift bed.

  “What happened, boy? Come on, don’t tell me you sacked out while on guard.”

  Chaplin made a low whimper—an apology. His expressive face arranged itself in confusion as he got up, then sniffed round for his new buddy.

  “Damn it.” I stood, training my revolver round the room. Had Gabriel been one of Stamp’s guys? Had he been instructed to infiltrate my home by any means necessary, even with a ruse that played on my better instincts?

  Or had he just up and left, as I’d wanted him to do all along?

  I pushed back a rush of odd disappointment at that.

  I heard Chaplin bark for attention, and I whipped round, aimed and ready, only to find my dog near the north underground entrance.

  The billboard door had been left open, its crucifix-postered back to the inside wall.

  “What’s this?” Once there, I realized that an empty waterpack I’d set by the fruit crate table was gone.

  I dashed back to get my helmet from my living area. What was Gabriel up to?

  Chaplin was right behind me as I pointed my revolver down below.

  “You think he’s stealing water?” My voice was near trembling with anger. “You think he’ll be reporting back to Stamp with what he sees down there?”

  Chaplin merely panted, shaking his head a little and posing no theories of his own. With a whimper-grunt, he indicated that I should be careful, that he’d be waiting up here for me.

  “If the cretin comes back upstairs with me chasing his tail,” I said, “get him.”

  Without waiting for a response, I closed the door behind me—but not all the way. Then I descended, hoping Chaplin wouldn’t go and fall asleep again. Not that I thought he would, because he no doubt also felt betrayed by the thought of Gabriel stealing something so valuable from us.

  I crept down the stairs. Instead of hearing the soft call of water, a different sound pulled me forward. The
sound of pumping, fast and smooth.

  What the . . . ?

  I reached the mining area, and what I witnessed made me slowly lower my revolver.

  There Gabriel was, head bandages and all, in the near dark except for a solar-lit lantern he’d filched from the living area. His bag rested a few feet away from him, as if he couldn’t bear to be away from it. His motions were tireless, almost effortless, about ten times faster than I could’ve ever managed.

  And I was pretty hardy, if I said so myself.

  Speechless, I watched him, so strong and capable, dressed in his rough white shirt, which had been rolled up at the sleeves. His trousers molded his long legs, and the vision sent tugs of that awful awareness through me.

  But for a moment—just one taboo moment—I allowed myself to cling to it. Then I thought, Wouldn’t it be something if he really was helping? If he wasn’t going behind my back to steal?

  All of that slid through me, and I must’ve made some barely audible, silly sound, because he abruptly paused, lifting his head. Then he turned all the way round to face me. Heat tore through my body double-force, a lonely, needful blast that made me clutch my revolver tighter.

  I tried to say something, failed, then tried again. “Like I said before, you’re not looking so ill.”

  He wasn’t even sweating, but suddenly his chest was rising and falling, as if he were making himself out to be more tired than he’d first seemed. It was almost as if he were just realizing that he shouldn’t have gotten so damned much done.

  As he lifted an arm in modest greeting, I noticed how the muscles in his forearms strained.

  “Guess I got carried away,” he said. “You were busy in the food prep area, so I figured I’d do some exploring around here. Your system is easy to decipher, easy to work. I even seem to have found a pretty efficient way of speeding things up, pumpwise. Lucky I’ve done some water farming here and there myself, so I thought I’d get down to it and thank you for helping me out at the same time.”