Remnants 13 - Survival (2 page)

— not even a reliance on contact lens solution.

Well. No need to worry about
that
anymore. He wasn’t “four eyes” any longer. In fact, he wasn’t even sure how long he’d be “two eyes.”

“I — am — evolving!” Charlie sang to himself in a theatrical mezzo-soprano.

‘ Why are you so happy?”
Duncan asked in grumpy mindvoice.
“Suddenly we’ve got insect-o-vision and it won’t turn off. Ask me, that’s not very evolved.”

Charlie ignored Duncan. A matter of principle.

He didn’t like having Duncan whining in his head. He didn’t like having Duncan in his head, period. Let Amelia and Duncan play with their mindvoices. Charlie wasn’t interested. If he had something to say, he’d open his mouth and say it. At least, as long as he had a mouth.

Besides, he was busy studying Yago’s cells. Amelia was handling Yago. Slowly revealing his new station in life, letting him down easy. That left Charlie free to stare. Charlie wasn’t sure which was more enticing — studying a single cell in all of its gorgeous detail or pulling back for a wide shot of the entire glorious collection.

Those cells could stop his thirst and control the pounding in his head. Turns out, turning into some nameless creature wasn’t all fun and games. He was getting bigger and more complex by the minute — which Amelia assured him was a good thing. But his cells couldn’t divide fast enough to keep up with demand. Eventually his body would reach equilibrium. But until then — things were mighty uncomfortable.

Charlie subtly shifted closer to Yago. Maybe if he was fast, he could get to him before Amelia noticed. Once the cells were absorbed, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

“Not yet,”
came Amelia’s voice in his head. She sounded amused, even loving,
“Soon, but
not yet.
We
need him for now.”

Charlie thought some very unkind things about Amelia — she shouldn’t be able to hear what he was
thinking!
That wasn’t
moral,
that wasn’t
right.
Then he remembered that she could hear even
that.

“Our time is coming,” Amelia said. She sounded so smug, Yago wanted to laugh in her face.

The Troika — that’s what the other Remnants called Amelia, Charlie, and Duncan — liked to brag about how they were evolving into “higher beings.”

Whatever Maybe they were. So far, Yago wasn’t impressed. Duncan and Charlie looked like zombies with their vacant stares. Even worse, they looked fat. Bloated. Not pretty. Like they were retaining water, maybe. And Amelia — well, Yago refused to think about what was happening with her tongue.

“Our evolution is picking up speed,” Amelia stated serenely.

“Hey, great,” Yago said with a roll of his eyes so subtle Amelia probably didn’t even notice it. “I’m happy for you. Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“Actually, I was just getting to that,” Amelia said smoothly.

Yago raised one eyebrow. Amelia knew him well enough to understand she’d have to pay for any favor he granted her He pretended to be indifferent. But, actually, he was eagerly considering what he could get out of the deal. He wouldn’t negotiate for food — Amelia had already promised him that and he intended to hold her to her promise.

But what about Tate? Someone had to go after her, track her down, and — deal with her.

Yago preferred to stay as far away from the Mouth as possible. That was just common sense.

He’d tell Amelia to send one of her flunkies. Let Duncan or Charlie risk their lives. Yago’s was too precious.

“How can I help?” Yago asked graciously. He would be dignified about this. Let Amelia keep her pride.

“You will bring all of the living creatures on board to us,” Amelia said calmly. “You see, as we evolve, we’re getting bigger. More — dense. We require additional material in the form of living cells.”

“What?” Yago snorted, unable to believe what he was hearing. Forget about the freaky-monster stuff. Amelia actually had the audacity to give him orders? “You want me to go round up the Meanies and Riders?” he demanded rudely. “If you need more cells, then why don’t —”

Yago didn’t finish the sentence because he suddenly found himself on the floor, unable to breathe. Amelia was right in his face, hovering over him, eyes wild. How had she gotten so close so fast? Yago hadn’t even seen her move.

Yago gasped, or tried to. No air entered his lungs. None escaped. Something — something was squeezing. Crushing his Adam’s apple. His hands went to his throat.

Something was wrapped around his neck. He clawed at it, desperate to pry it loose, wanting air. What the — it felt like a moist, bumpy snake — oh, god, it was Amelia’s tongue! That’s why she was hovering over him! Yago’s head swam with dizziness and disgust.

His lungs burned. He tried to control himself, tried to think, tried to act like a man….

He kicked, but his legs flailed uselessly, connecting with nothing. He shoved at Amelia’s shoulders. She didn’t budge.

He gasped. Nothing.

Gasped. Not working…

His vision was narrowing, blackness creeping up at the edges. He felt his legs start to relax.

Then the blackness receded. Amelia sat back, and Yago was assaulted by the sight of her tongue oozily slipping back into her mouth like an overgrown snail retreating into its shell.

“Will you help us?” Amelia asked sweetly.

Yago didn’t reply. He stared up at her, breathing in deep, rasping breaths and massaging his bruised throat. Breathing was still difficult. It hurt — she’d done something to him, damaged him somehow. Turned him into another freak.

“Do it,” Amelia said less kindly, “or you’ll be the first to be absorbed.”

Yago nodded numbly. Now he really wanted a soda.

Tate walked until her mind quieted and stopped circling around and around her worries —

were the Remnants who were abandoned on Earth dead? Was Yago about to attack her? How would she survive without food or water?

She kept walking until the sound of her footsteps made her whimper with aggravation and the doubts crowded back in. She was alone! Her friends had to be dead by now! She would be dead, too, soon.

Her legs were tired. Her big toe pushed through the top of one of her ragged gym shoes. The nail on that toe ached. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Her eventual confrontation with Amelia or Yago or Charlie or Duncan played in her mind like a bad horror movie.

The Troika was dangerous.

Violent.

Ruthless.

Charlie had destroyed Kubrick by turning himself into some sort of freaky porcupine with deadly needle quills. She didn’t want to die the way Kubrick had died….

And Amelia … Tate would never forget the sight of Amelia turning into a seething collection of pus and bacteria and filth caustic enough to melt a Blue Meanie into nothingness.

Tate had never seen Duncan. She didn’t know if he was a killer. If he had mutations. But considering the company he was keeping, she definitely had her suspicions.

Tate told herself she should be scared, but she wasn’t really frightened. What she felt was —

numb.

She kept walking, all the time uncomfortably aware that if Amelia was hiding in one of the computer pits, she would be able to see her coming from a long way off.

Well, too bad. She couldn’t sneak up on Amelia when she didn’t even know where Amelia was. Or what she was.

Tate walked on. She couldn’t think of anything else to do. She was completely unprepared for a fight — or even for a long walk. She had no water. No food. No weapons. No plan. She wasn’t clear on what she was going to do if and when she managed to find Amelia or figure out who was controlling Mother. She had no idea how to pilot the ship. No clue of how to once again locate Earth in the inky expanse of space.

Under different circumstances, the walk might have been boring. There wasn’t much to see.

Up above was the massive glass ceiling. When Tate had seen it last, the enormous space had been filled with an environment Mother had created for the savage two-headed Riders.

Copper-colored water. An occasional island. Trees with too-pliant trunks and branches. An otherworldly landscape, but beautiful in its way.

Now the world above was as dry, barren, and sad as a fishbowl after all of the fishies are gone. Tate wondered if any of the Riders were still alive. Somehow that seemed hard to imagine. The ship was so silent, so still that it was easier to believe she was entirely alone.

The ship felt like a tomb. The only sounds she could hear were a low hum of the hull vibrating as the ship slipped through space — that, and her own footsteps.

Tate plodded on, suddenly wondering if Amelia and Yago weren’t coming after her because they were dead, too. Now Tate felt her first quivers of fear Maybe she was the last human alive in the universe.

Hours later, Tate finally reached the corner of the ship. She squatted on the hard metallic floor and pressed her aching back against the riveted seam where the ceiling came down and met the floor.

She stared out over the vast, utterly still basement. And she began to cry.

She was hungry. Thirsty. Tired beyond belief. Her chest throbbed with loneliness. She felt guilty and disappointed that she hadn’t come up with a better plan to help her friends.

It was too late to help them now.

She had to admit that.

She had to face the fact that she had failed them. She had to face the fact that there was literally nobody left in the universe who wished her well or wanted her to survive.

She wished — she wished she had stayed on Earth with her dog, Lily, in her apartment, five hundred years ago. Stayed at home when the Rock hit.

Tate let herself drift.

Sometimes she dozed off. That was nice. She looked forward to sleeping, to the release.

When she was awake, she sat against the same wall and studied the horizon of the basement and tried to ignore the hunger clawing at her belly.

She told herself she was staying still to conserve her limited physical resources. Already the waistband on her pants felt loose. She was losing weight. Probably dehydration. Staying put made sense. Why waste energy chasing down Amelia now? Nobody was waiting for her to save them.

Sure, there were other factors at work. She knew that.

She was too depressed to move.

And besides, there was nowhere to go.

Tate picked at the hem of her frayed jeans and waited for something to happen.

WHY WAS SHE STILL ALIVE?

Yago was coming.

Tate watched him approach slowly, her eyes narrowed down to slits. A tiny dot on the horizon, but definitely Yago. She could make out the white shirt, greenish hair. She recognized his stride.

Easy and careful and menacing all at once.

He was alone. Interesting.

Tate dozed. When she woke, Yago was closer. She could see he didn’t look too good. His head was too small — no, his neck was too big. Also interesting. A puzzle. She’d always liked doing puzzles.

Another stretch of time passed. Yago continued walking toward her, and now Tate could see the bruises stretching from his collarbone up over his chin. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Tate said out loud. She was surprised to hear how raspy her own voice sounded. How long had she gone without water? She had no way of counting time. A day? Two?

Tate amused herself watching Yago. She didn’t move. Not even when one of his cruddy-looking sneakers touched her knee.

“Come with me,” Yago said. He spoke in a half-dead monotone. He was missing a patch of hair over his right ear As Tate watched, his hand went up automatically. He yanked a few greenish-brown hairs out by their roots and let them drift to the floor. This was not a sign of mental health.

“What happened to your throat?”

“Come on,” Yago repeated dully.

“Amelia do that?” Tate could see the fléchette gun sticking out of the pocket of Yago’s jeans. She wondered why he hadn’t drawn it. Maybe he’d forgotten he had it. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

“I said, come
on!’

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Tate said calmly. “I like it —”

Yago leaned over and moved his face toward hers until their noses were nearly touching. Stared into her eyes.

Then, with one fluid movement, Yago grabbed her arm and started pulling her up. He grunted, yanking Tate up onto her knees. Now he was starting to tick her off.

She tried to give him a shove. The effort sent her stumbling. Her knees buckled. She was weak. Her legs wouldn’t support her. She fell awkwardly onto one knee, Yago snarled like a rabid dog. He pulled out the fléchette gun.

Tate put up her hands. She halfheartedly tried to reach whatever it was inside her that turned her into the Mouth. From somewhere in her memory came the sound of a link ringing, ringing, ringing …

Something connected with her skull. She saw a burst of red light and then nothing.

A secretive
shush-shushing.
Tate’s brain played pictures for her, trying to make sense of the sound….

She was in study hall with her heavy chemistry textbook on her knees. Yvonne Flattery and Susan Nichols were whispering in the row behind her —

Shush-shush
…

She was moving cautiously through a Rider swamp, the wind whistling through the weird bending trees —

Shush-shush…

She was on a camping trip with the Camp Fire Girls. She could see herself sleeping peacefully, a fire dancing around the brave circle of tents. The fire spreading slowly through the dry grasses until her nylon tent went up with a soft
woof\
Her sleeping bag was afiame, and her arm —

Her arm was on fire!

Tate’s eyes popped open and she found herself lying on her back, watching the glassy ceiling of the basement pass overhead. Yago was dragging her across the basement by her arm. The shushing sounds were her clothes dragging over the floor.

“Stop,” she muttered feebly. Then, louder, more urgently —
“Stop!”