Chapter 33
33
Cyn watched everyone pack into cars and trucks, and all the vehicles had their roofs ripped off so the bigger beasters could fit their heads. Honestly, she was half expecting these vehicles to groan and die. They had to be over their weight limit. The tops of wings projected above the roofs as well as some horns. The fuel was going run out within a day but that was all they needed to negotiate this large roadway to the edge, where a covered bridge should let them travel across to the next quarter.
She counted them off. In the blue car behind this red one she stood beside were Locke, Kiko, Maura—she was dosed with a sedative and tied up so the Lure wouldn’t grab her—and lastly, Vargr. She didn’t expect him to come near her. He was still treating her as if she had a deadly infectious disease. She couldn’t really blame him, not entirely. Tom had been from Mercantor Quarter, and the small population there meant he and Vargr would’ve known each other well.
Friends, maybe? So, she’d killed a friend of his who was also a good man. Fucking bummer. Her gut twisted in self-disgust, but she controlled it. These were bad times. Bad things happened.
Her speculative examination of Vargr’s wing tips drifted lower, past the dividing line of the car’s roof where she was jolted to a stop by his eyes. He watched her, and such a mean stare. Her heart squeezed in, and she floundered into those memories of him caressing her gently and not-so-gently, of holding her in that shower while fucking her with water pouring over them. She wrenched away her gaze.
What will be will be. She would get him happy with her again, somehow. She had to.
God, she had to.
Then she continued with her observations of the convoy.
Twenty or so beasters she didn’t recognize were in two black trucks at the rear—most sat in the open back trays. They’d made the fat tires squeeze down and look ready to pop.
Willow, Rutger, and Mads Thresher, the wing-soldier judge, were in this car with her.
Not that long ago Mads and Willow had been ready to sentence her to death. This fast transition seemed surreal. Maybe they had easily cast off their previous attitudes to her, but she was floundering. Cyn rubbed her forehead and sighed.
What was this world she’d been reborn into that death was a minor matter? Everything that once was here in a neat pile had been blown away, or blown to smithereens, or just was not what it should be. This was a new and very odd world of darkness and despair. This road-trip to find out what she once had been, what she now was, and well… everything to do with Maelstrom , it made her feel lost.
Lost, yes, that was her. She frowned at her own bewilderment.
For starters, she needed to talk to Mads and Willow, and clear the air. Not here and now though, around a campfire, or a burning pile of banknotes, as such fires often were.
“Time to go,” Willow said softly, and she opened the front passenger-side door.
Cyn walked around the trunk to get to the other side and discovered someone had used white paint to write across the back.
TO MORDOR AND BEYOND
Below it in smaller capitals was:
JUST MARRIED
She smirked. Humor was the perfect answer to her moodiness.
Apparently, everyone in the group was bondmated to another beaster, or to her, though Locke and Kiko were not attached to anyone. No humans were included except for Maura, and she had a past that tied in with the Maelstrom project in a roundabout way. It was the only solution, considering the long journey and the enforced long absence from Worshipper Quarter. Any bondmated humans would have reverted to being Lure zombies if left un-fucked for that long. She eyed Willow and Mads and was convinced those two were a pair. Maybe even a recent hook-up, considering the writing?
Toother was sitting on his haunches, his soft fur making him look like a stuffed toy blown up to elephantine proportions. He waited patiently, and Willow thought he’d be happy running alongside the vehicle. If he ran out of puff, maybe he’d catch up?
Mo, where was Little Mo? Ah, clinging to the roof.
She slid in beside Rutger on the back seat and slammed the door. The sound of a car engine turning over was sweet and weirdly reminiscent of the past. As with most of her memories of happenings, of anal sex even, and ohmigod at that, she knew she’d heard it before, or done it, or whatever, but could not recall the exact circumstances.
A bummer considering knowing all about anal was likely a self-preservation thing when it came to getting fucked there by this ginormous beaster. She followed the curves of his beautiful blue horns upward. They stuck out above, far past where the car roof should be.
The car lurched forward then stalled. Mads’s stark white thatch of hair jolted forward, back and her ribs protested the jolt.
Rutger slid his arm along the back of the seat and drew her to his side, his voice rumbling directly into her skin. “Don’t be afraid of Mads. I’m told he does have a licence to drive.”
“Hah!” Mads called back. “I’m rusty after five years, and this car’s battery is ready to give up. Kiko and Locke worked on all the engines to try to get them running well but they really need more done.”
“And the fuel isn’t rancid?”
“Rancid?” Cyn sat forward. “It goes off?”
“It does go off. And hell no, Rutger, we wouldn’t doing this if we didn’t have good fuel. We got lucky and found some tanks the government held in reserve. Most of it’s gone by now. We were frivolous in the early days. Remember how we used to explore the quarter in cars, when we could? Now, trekking by foot is better.”
“And sustainable,” Willow chipped in.
It seemed odd to be listening to this amiable chat. Willow had gone from friend at the picnic to judge, and it left her feeling betrayed.
What about Vargr then? He accused me. But I shot him.
Mmm. She didn’t know that answer. It wasn’t me?
The car took off again, more smoothly, going at a fair speed of maybe ten mph. Faster would risk a crash if road conditions had deteriorated. Cyn looked back to check the others were following and they were.
Car travel. Everything that was once taken for granted was now amazing. She’d kill for a cappuccino, or a good hairdresser, she thought, winding a lock of her inky black hair over a finger. She stared at her hand. A spot of thickened and shiny skin on the top of her wrist made her want to pick at it to see why it was there. Darkish red. A mole? Except it looked like a fish scale.
So? Now she was turning into a fish? Oh, okay then, nothing new.
Fuck.
She’d had enough of her weirdness. Wait and see because it might vanish tomorrow, though that was probably a false hope. It’d be there. A week or two of this road-trip and there’d be no more guessing, if Big Daddy was truly a database of Maelstrom . If.
Cyn massaged the back of her neck, letting her head flop back and staring at the above but not really looking at what was left of the ceiling. How many stories down were they? How many were up there above, piled over them? She’d lost count, and she kept massaging her neck and thinking about how no one worried the scraper might one day decide to collapse on them, crumbling like a stack of pancakes made of fairy dust. These buildings wouldn’t last forever without maintenance.
Worrying was for the birds.
With her fingertips she absentmindedly traced a line across the back of her neck. Somewhere, about where she was touching, was a tattoo that spelled out Maelstrom . Why had she been tattooed? It was as if she was owned by the project. Pet Cyn, reporting for duty, sir. Almost every beaster was ex-military, so the odds were good that she was too, despite her porn-girl, octopus ass-tattoo.
Little Mo was still up top, holding onto the cut edges of the metal roof and leaning into the breeze like a dog sticking its head out the window.
Through the dirty windshield, she could see the road was clear of debris and broken-down vehicles. Someone had pushed the defunct ones aside. Of all the roads she’d seen of this size, this one looked almost pristine for these post-apocalyptic times.
“They’ll use a horn signal if they fall behind.” Willow strapped on her seat belt and observed the road ahead before continuing. “I’ve organized this down to sharpening the pencils and shining the car’s pretty bits, so I pray this goes well and that we return safely.”
“We have done our best. Bless this road convoy and every ass on every seat?” Mads said to her.
“Yes. Anything that helps us get there and back.” She pointed at the silver cat leaping forward at the point of the car’s hood. “Look, we can pretend we’re royalty. Who wants to be queen or king?”
“ Trailers for sale or rent…” Mads sang and was rewarded with a groan from Willow. “Heyyy, King of the Road, yeah? Was it by Johnny Cash?”
“Hell, no. Someone else.”
“Who then?”
An argument began that only ended when Rutger said, “Roger Miller.”
She was still thinking about the silver cat because it meant absolutely nothing to her and yet she knew it should mean something. Suddenly, it did.
“This is a Jag?” A British car of heritage and poshness, and she’d not recognized it when she should have, with or without a roof. The silver cat was the Jaguar brand’s hood ornament and had been for a hundred years or more.
Rutger laughed at her question. “Yes. It is.”
“Okay.”
Forgetting her past was one thing, but this was a chunk of steeped-in knowledge gone bye-byes for a while, until it had clicked back into place. Shit. She hoped it wasn’t another sign of change, especially not one that said her memory was going backward. Yesterday she’d not been able to remember the word schedule, in spite it being in front of her on a piece of paper.
Willow had written the word. Then there’d been not remembering how to button her shirt the day before that. Super early Alzheimer’s? Nanomachines eating her brain? After a while of going around and around with those thoughts, she snuggled into Rutger and watched the apocalyptic scenery pass by. Walls, walls, dead cars, skeletons, graffiti on a wall about Armageddon, and a few sparrows that zipped by, chirping madly.
If humans went extinct, if the Ghoul Lords left the earth, everything else might flourish again. There was a plus to every bad situation, if you thought really hard.
“We need a name for this motley crew,” Cyn mused. “I vote for the Road-trip Band.”
With a nod, Rutger agreed and rocked her head where she’d rested it on him. “As you wish, princess.” She grinned up at him.
“That’ll do me also,” Mads said loudly, over the engine sounds.
Willow raised her thumb.
“Road-trip Band it is.” Armageddon Crushers was her alt title, but they needed some levity. “Good.”
They reached the bridge by the end of the night and paused there. Daylight hours were coming, so the wisest choice was to wait for night. The roadway entered a dark hole where the last scraper of this quarter ended and the bridge began. Toother had kept pace with the cars, bounding along, his long hair flying. They were all here, disembarking, staring at where they must go next.
The bridge entry bore the marks of some awful disaster—and that scenario was as common as muck in these times. Oh my, a hundred skeletons on my path to adventure? Pffft. That hobbit had it easy with his big spider. Now if this were a functioning Starbucks she’d be a-fucking-mazed.
A massive number of cars were strewn and packed onto the road. Three high in some places. Maybe some giants had played Jenga ? It was an effective barrier and looked as ominous as a packet of corn flakes with weevils pouring out the top. Make that roaches pouring out. Several of those were running along the wall next to Cyn.
She eyed them dubiously, wondering when her stomach and taste buds, and brain, had decided bugs looked edible, even scrumptious.
“Are we eating?” She placed her hand over her middle.
“Sure. Let’s make camp and get some hot food a hundred yards back!” Willow declared. “We’ll have a rotation of guards so we can all get some sleep. Tomorrow, early dusk, we go in there, cross over, and find ourselves in a brand-new quarter.”
The grumbling from many reminded Cyn of what she’d observed before. These beasters had set down roots and hated traveling past their boundaries. Though Vargr had adapted, she had caught him looking wistfully back toward Mercantor Quarter.
Little Mo toddled up on his dinky metal limbs, stopping near the ankles of her new leather boots. She really should see if he wanted that rust polished out or painted over. Blue or purple, hmmm. “Detect anything like stinkers, Mo?”
“No, Miss Cyn. Nothing of that type. Some noises in there match the frequency and rhythm of snoring. I believe you will encounter more beasters inside the bridge.”
“Oh. Okay.” Not so bad then. “Would you like a paint job? The rust is going to spread.”
Little Mo looked taken aback, somehow, limbs rising then halting, dead still.
“I could rustle up some sandpaper and nail polish, Cyn.” Mads winked at her.
“You could?”
“Not mine, of course.” He grinned. Then he showed her his nails, and these were actually retractable claws, which was news to her—she’d not realized. He had skulls and flowers and all sorts of patterns on the claws. “Willow’s doing. Blue, red, black? I have white too.”
“Uhhh. What say you?” She eyed Mo. “Though purple would look good. Any purple available?”
“Sure.”
“I will accept purple. Also red or black also, please. If I may.”
Was it her imagination or were Mo’s speech patterns changing? “Done.”
Mo totally demanded a ladybug pattern because he was more than a bit spidery as he was now. Camouflage should be dark though. Black spots on purple. Yes, that would be it. She could do this tonight. Sleeping had become arduous anyway, ever since the day she killed the Ghoul Lord.