Bloodlands (6 page)

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Authors: Christine Cody

BOOK: Bloodlands
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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.
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.”
He’d filled about a third of the waterpacks that had been stored down here. God-all.
“How long have you been at it?” I asked.
Gabriel planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the packs. “Since dusk closed in on the outside viszes.”
After doing the math, I was so stunned that my arm loosened, letting down my revolver to my side. He couldn’t have been working for more than a half hour.
He seemed to understand my bewilderment. “I’ve done my share of manual jobs. Been real good at them, too. Strong as a bull, that’s what my dad used to say back Before . . .”
Gabriel cleared his throat, as if chasing away the pain. He nodded toward the pumps. “I could do well at a job like this.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. “I hope you’re not expecting me to take you on.”
He grinned, wiping a hand over his mouth. “I guess I’m not.”
A beat passed, laden with more than the air’s dank must. Awkward, this lack of knowing what to say.
Finally, I settled on something simple. “Mr. Gabriel, I really do thank you for your endeavors.” Not that I was fully convinced he wasn’t stealing. “But dinner’s ready for you.”
“If you don’t mind, I thought I’d work on through some more.”
His refusal once again surprised me. “Aren’t you still under the weather?”
“Feeling better,” he said. “Work’s good for recovery.”
His comment should’ve made me trust him a little more. In this world, there were mostly two kinds—those who worked because it made them forget, and those who ran and played because it made them forget. The hubs were supposedly full of the latter now—overstimulated hordes that didn’t have the sense of animals.
Gabriel capped off his comment with one more. “Far be it from me to lay about and be waited on, anyway.”
The tough part of me wanted to say,
If you’re feeling so fine, then get out of my home
, but before I could even shape the words, he’d turned away, clearly intent on continuing his labor.
And, without any more fuss, he did just that. I wasn’t sure how to handle that, so I just kept standing. And standing.
While I watched, one thing I saw was that his pace had considerably slowed, as if he knew I was gauging his more efficient work system and wondering how it could possibly trump my own.

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