XOM-B by Jeremy Robinson

Author:Jeremy Robinson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

28.

“Stay here,” Heap says, motioning to the pine needle–covered forest floor. “I want to see what’s ahead.”

We’ve been walking for seventy minutes. The cycle, having bludgeoned its way through countless undead and two roadblocks, not to mention completing a leap back across the river, had performed admirably. But it had endured more abuse than it, or any vehicle short of a tank, was designed to handle. The hood was caved in, crushing the electronics hidden inside, and the front repulse disc had sustained irreparable damage. So we started walking, a slow mode of travel made sluggish by Heap’s insistence that we pause every twenty minutes so that he could scout ahead. “Better that I discover an ambush on my own,” he said. But we’re all keenly aware that the undead can come from any direction, which is why Heap adds, “Keep watch. If I do not return in three minutes, head—”

“I know what to do,” I assure him. During the first thirty minutes of hiking, we came up with a backup plan in the event that we are unable to find the radio transmission’s source. Head due east. Find a boat. Escape to an island two miles off the coast, the coordinates to which he had me memorize. It’s a temporary solution, but we both agree that the undead will eventually rot and die for good. Survival might simply be a case of finding a secluded spot to outlast them.

Not that I would follow this plan. I have no intention of abandoning Heap, Mohr or even Sir. But Heap doesn’t need to know that. He and Mohr have kept plenty of secrets from me, so I feel little guilt about keeping one of my own.

“Go ahead,” I tell him. “We’ll be fine.”

Without another word, Heap stomps up the pine tree–laden hillside. Branches break, saplings bend away from him and the ground compresses beneath his feet. It’s a good thing the undead lack intelligence or we would be easily tracked. Heap’s armor was built for protection and power, not for stealth or subtlety.

When I turn back, a flash of panic momentarily grips me, like hands around my neck. Luscious is gone. But then I spot her toes and find her sitting on the ground, leaning against a tall pine. She hasn’t said much since we left the city.

I crouch down next to her, pressing my hand into the soft earth for balance. I’m momentarily distracted by the textures beneath my fingers. The crispy layer of dried pine needles gives way to soft decay and then cool, damp soil—the sweat of the earth.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Fine,” she says, showing no trace of emotion beyond stunned silence. When I raise my eyebrows at her, she adds, “I’m not hurt.”

“But are you okay?” I ask again.

“I already told you—”

“Not your body,” I say. “The you that is not your body.”

She laughs, but it’s a mocking sound, not humor. “You think we have souls now? That when we die, our spirits simply float free of our bodies and live with God?”

“I don’t know what God is,” I say.

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