Chapter 9 Rest Duty
Rest Duty
By the time they reached the freeway Cass’s heartrate was where it should be.
The rest of her was breathing deeply, a layer of cold sweat greasing her skin, hands shaking so hard she could barely hold a travel cup full of grape-flavored electrolyte drink.
Trille cleared the table, and though she longed for a burrito her stomach was a snake-pit and the most she could manage was nibbles of a protein bar and steady sips, knowing her biochemistry was wonky because the drink tasted heavenly instead of downright nasty.
“It got cold,” she repeated, dully. “Frost on my helmet. I got knocked off the bike.” The entire chase was receding, memory far less sharp and colorful than dreams or scenarios.
“There were only two?” Trille was great at gentle questions; both animals and owners had no doubt appreciated his bedside manner. “And the one did something to a bunch of those dog bogeys?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t see—maybe it was the meds?
Everything went white.” No, yellow. Gold.
She blinked, trying to decide what details were important.
The RV hummed its familiar creak-whooshing song, movement meaning safety.
“But I could sort of look at the same time, like that weird radar I’ve got.
He did something to at least half a dozen of those tentacle dogs, or he had some kind of special ammo.
The other guy had a sword.” She couldn’t help repeating that bit, as if that was the detail which would force everything to make sense.
It certainly got Apoc’s attention, even all the way up at the steering wheel. “What kind? Straight, curved?”
“Straight. A real hunk of metal.” She took another gulp of cold purple-tinted liquid, wrinkling her nose even as her body’s starved, dehydrated tissues demanded more. “They yelled at me to wait. But I managed to start the bike and got the hell out of there.”
“Good call.” Trille glanced at the inside of his wrist, checking his old-fashioned Timex. “Let’s take your vitals again.”
“Sure.” She itched all over, and pretty soon she’d have to get to the cramped bathroom at the back of the bus. At least she hadn’t peed herself with fear, one small silver lining in very dark clouds. “Maybe I should’ve waited. We could use a few more hands.”
“Can’t pay or feed ’em. They probably got their own problems.” Bern had the CB under the dash turned on; its familiar crackle also managed to soothe her nerves. “How’s she looking, Trille?”
The resultant pause was full of usual noises—engine-hum, tires shushing dry pavement, a rattle of dishes trapped under the sink cover, waiting to be washed when someone had a minute.
Cass held still, enjoying the fact of her heart now calmly ticking along, her lungs able to soak up deep breaths without burning-rubber smoke or exhaust, the outright luxury of sitting in one place.
I’d kill for a bath. Just a nice long, hot soak. When was the last time she’d had anything other than a hurried shower? These days she was lucky if the water wasn’t freezing. “I want to clean up,” she heard herself say, softly, as if someone had argued.
“She’s all right,” Trille finally weighed in, loosening the pressure cuff from her left arm. “But like I said, no more meds for a couple days. Her system can’t handle much more of this.”
“Just downers, then.” Cass’s objection was immediate, though she couldn’t outright glare at the medic. He might read the exhaustion on her face and lengthen her recovery time. “I’ve got to run at least two scenarios for the bank, if I got enough intel from recon.”
“We can barely afford the next campground, man.” Apoc triggered the blinker. The RV swayed gently as he changed lanes. “Sooner we hit, the better.”
“No.” Trille shook his head, wheat-colored hair brushing against the collar of a rumpled plaid button-up. For once, his chin had set stubbornly, and he scowled past her at the front of the RV. “I’m not disbursing any more drugs. I have a duty to my patient.”
Cass sucked on the travel cup’s straw, her cheeks hollowing. All at once her stomach had decided to go with the program instead of tying itself in more useless knots, and that might be a short-term blessing.
Bernadotte let out a gusty sigh. “Let’s figure out if we’re being clocked by bogeys first.” Tiny clicks—he was on a laptop, probably confirming reservations at their backup site while a burble of local police scanner activity ticked through an earbud tucked in one side of his head. “Get fed and get to bed, Cass.”
I’m trying. She stared at the hastily wiped tabletop as Trille stowed the last few bits of medical paraphernalia.
A nagging sense of forgetting something fought with the cottony fuzz filling her skull now that the danger was well and truly past. Her arm itched unmercifully near poke-sites, and the electrolyte drink couldn’t get rid of the nasty taste in her mouth. “I can’t feel anything.”
Nothing but that infuriating suspicion she was missing a vital clue. But going over and over the entire thing wouldn’t help, she’d spewed every detail at her team multiple times. There was a point of diminishing returns in any briefing.
“You’re our early warning system,” Bern pointed out. “So you’re on rest duty until further notice. If we have to, we’ll do some penny-ante shit before knocking another bank, and that’s final.”
“Yessir.” She didn’t mean to sound snide, but Apoc snorted and a thin gleam of amusement showed in Trille’s hazel eyes.
He helped her to the bathroom after she’d ingested all the nourishment she could manage, though she firmly shut him outside the door and peed in glorious peace, her kidneys dumping fear-cargo as the RV rattled and hummed.
At least she wasn’t traveling alone. Trille had the bed ready as soon as her bladder was done unloading; Cass didn’t even brush her teeth. She tried to set an intention for a scenario before she dropped off, but it didn’t work.
Only the feeling of missing a clue remained, following her down into unconsciousness. Almost, she realized dimly, as if she was being watched.
* * *
The sense of dislocation from waking up in late afternoon never got better.
The RV hot and still, the subliminal hum of a different campground enclosing a summer afternoon, daylight pressing against shades and tightly drawn curtains.
Surfacing to find herself unmoored and drifting was indeed getting to be the norm, but that didn’t make it more comfortable.
A quick splash or two of cold water at the kitchenette sink, scrubbing herself down with a chilly washrag—at least the guys would knock before entering, as was SOP when she was sleeping off a recon or other fun and games—and she worked her way into the jeans and T-shirt Trille had thoughtfully left folded on the counter for her, clean panties bundled up inside as if radioactive.
They really went all-out to give her whatever privacy they could; any guy who acted differently was effectively frozen out or didn’t last long.
The overlap between treating Cass like meat and too dumb to take orders from a weird girl was pretty near a hundred percent.
Trille or Apoc had left her in-camp sneakers near the door. She hadn’t even heard them parking or pitching tents, though if anything had gone wrong her cursed sensitivity would wake her.
Or so Cass hoped.
Yawning and running fingers through her hair, she wrestled with the door one-handed and winced at a flood of cheerful sunshine.
It was almost evening, in fact, golden glow bearing reddish undertones sneaking through firs and broadleaf maples, casting long shadows over the site.
A burst of fresh warm breeze drove home how stale the RV’s interior smelled—she’d open the windows after she rustled up some coffee.
There was the tu-tone red and white pickup, sitting in its usual place.
The differences between this campground and the last were merely cosmetic; Bern was at a slightly different-shaped picnic table with Grik and Steve, all three leaning in, conversing low and intent.
Probably planning, since he wore his second-favorite Hawaiian shirt.
And there was Apoc, in a camo-green tank top and jeans, both marred with swipes of oil and grease as he frowned at the Ducati, which was propped on its kickstand and didn’t look that much worse for wear.
But something could be lurking in the engine, you never knew. Complex machinery got weird with bogeys around, and sometimes Cass suspected she was a factor as well.
Trille was at the permanent concrete and iron barbecue, intent on what had to be dinner since Apoc had clearly traded galley duty in order to deal with the bike. The medic glanced up, clocked her, and immediately reached for the battered silver percolator.
It was nice to be anticipated. An uneasy chill walked with leisurely little insect feet down her back as she hopped from the RV’s step, taking in the site.
Big trees, thick brush, a well-tended gravel driveway curving to grant privacy.
The woods resounded with birdsong and a hum that spoke of other humans getting ready for their own suppers, as well as woodsmoke and the good strong smell of cooking meat.
“How’s your head?” Trille poured a generous ration of caffeine into a speckled enamel camping mug. Cass finished studying the site, accepted the cup, and tried not to wrinkle her nose at the lack of creamer.
Soldiers didn’t need that luxury. “Stuffy.” She glanced over the preparations; looked like beans and cornbread, with a little precious bacon for flavor. Her nape crawled. “Is this a KOA or…”
“Private campground. Boss says we’re here legit, it’s all good.” Still, there was a line between Trille’s sandy eyebrows. “And don’t ask for a bump or a flop. I mean it, nothing for at least forty-eight hours. I don’t like that I had to adeno you last night.”
I don’t like it either. “Point taken,” she said, mildly, and blew over the coffee. Her back simply would not stop crawling, but there was no chill as if bogeys were nearby. If anything, she was a little too warm. “Uh, Trille—”
“You’re not sweet-talking your way around me on this one, Cass. Don’t try.” He jabbed at the fire; the skillet cornbread would have that savor only outside cooking could give. “Sooner or later your heart’s gonna blow a gasket or you’ll get a brain bleed. Or worse.”
“I know.” She was looking at a short lifespan anyway, what with all the bogeys around. They’d almost had her last night; the two other hunters… what kind of ammo were they carrying? And a sword, with what looked like a glowing blade? Or had that been hallucination on her part?
Cass was used to weird, but this took some kind of cake. Of course, nobody started bogey-hunting if they were well-adjusted and had any other choice.
The crawling down her back turned to tingles. Was it detox? A side effect of the chemical cocktails used to make her talents behave, or something else?
“Good.” Trille was almost scowling, a change from his usual calm optimism.
He fiddled critically with the pot of beans with his favorite wooden spoon, the one with a slightly warped handle, then set it aside and started messing with the fire.
“And if Bern starts pushing I’ll tell him the same damn thing, so—”
“Trille.” Cass stiffened, staring past him at the gravel drive. Bars of honeyed sunlight slanted through high branches, dust and small insects floating or darting within. “Incoming.”
“What?” He turned, squinting, and stiffened, jamming the stick he was using for fire-poking fully into the concrete pit. “Oh, shit.”
Two man-shaped shadows strolled through bars of sun and shade, and one had a streak of grey at his right temple, flushing and silvering as the light changed.
Both moved with catlike fluidity, despite the flapping of torn clothing—and the one with the white stripe, tall and angular, also had something jutting up over his right shoulder.
A long, narrow metallic object; at first she thought it was a gun-muzzle despite the shape being all wrong.
No. It was a swordhilt, and boiling-hot coffee sloshed as Cass’s hand trembled.
They were heading right into camp.