She winces at his slowness, wonders if speech is the only thing he lacks as he plods, donkey-like under the lash of her voice, gathering the tools to save her life. She directs him to what she would call ‘the good stuff’, medical supplies that have been transformed into relics since the Overseer’s arrival.
All business, she stabs herself with a needle, eyes popping open with artificial alertness.
‘Okay, stranger, the first thing we’ve got to do is clean out the wound. Those amateurs were using cheap-assed shrapnel guns, which is about the only reason I’m still talking. There’s a hand scanner and a pair of tweezers you can use. Don’t waste the battery, we don’t have any spares.’
His hands fumble about the job, hesitant, and Lil’s patience rapidly vanishes. ‘Just stop, please! Scav’s teeth, I’ve got more chance of saving myself! Just pick up that mirror and hold it like I tell you, okay?’
The Vagrant nods, lips pressed together.
‘All you have to do is keep it steady.’
Chemicals silence the pain in her side and she works quickly, no time left for squeamishness. Jagged bits of metal clink as they’re dropped into the dish, shy at first, they allow themselves to come free with growing eagerness. She takes a handful of Skyn, slathering grey jelly all over the wound. Instantly it adheres, staunching the blood and darkening in approximation of Lil’s muddy skin.
‘There, that wasn’t so bad,’ she says, as much to herself as anyone else. ‘Nothing I can’t do with enough drugs and medtech. These corpses used to work for the Overseer, so we’d better not hang around. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m damn sure it’s your fault.’
She jabs a finger at the Vagrant, who leans against the tent pole. He peers at her. Slowly his eyes close.
‘Hey, are you …?’
Before she can finish, the Vagrant slides down the pole and topples over.
‘… Oh, that’s just great!’
The wound is small and clean. She assumes he has passed out through shock rather than blood loss.
Lil has seen a lot of bodies in her life, each with a story to tell, most depressingly similar.
On this body a few things catch her eye. The man bears the blade of a Seraph Knight, which immediately marks him out as a fugitive, yet his hands are callused as much through labour as combat. She turns them over to find smooth skin, the little hairs recently burned away. She notes his tongue is still intact.
Carefully, she removes the bullet. It has gone deep and released its payload but there are no spider web signs of skin degeneration. Amazed, she probes further until she sees the Burrowmaw’s inert tail, tucked under his rib. Snagging it on a tiny hook, Lil works it out with slow, steady pressure, till finally the mouth sac comes loose. The little creature smokes in her hand; something has cooked it from the inside.
It joins the shrapnel in the dish.
The suns rise together, dividing the sky like a god’s standard. Lil and the Vagrant step cautiously into the daylight. Ventris remains where he fell, face down in the dust opposite Lil’s door. His boots have not.
Sounds of fighting are heard from the fields. News of the Overseer’s death has spread quickly and people are keen to take advantage of the spoils before a replacement arrives. The goat wishes to join them, spitting out fabric fingertips in anticipation of greater prizes. Again the Vagrant holds firm to her leash but the goat senses weakness and pulls, rewarded with feet sliding in the dust.
The Vagrant regains his balance, grits his teeth but Lil puts a hand on his arm.
‘She’s got a point, we all need to eat. If we’re going to have a chance out there we’ll need supplies and goods to trade. There’s a fortune to be had in the fields.’
He glances to her hand and back to her face.
‘What? You got a problem with me touching your arm? A few hours ago I had my hands inside your guts; it doesn’t get more personal than that.’
The Vagrant shakes his head, places his hand over hers. She pulls free quickly, drawing her gun as she runs towards the shouting.
‘Look sharp, stranger, we got about three hours before the stims wear off!’
They run towards the field’s perimeter, watched by those that have chosen to hide, the innumerable weak.
‘Looks like we’re not the first!’ shouts Lil, voice full of excitement and chemicals. She points to the fence where it bends low, forming half of a barbed smile. The gap is spanned by a living bridge; guards who could not stem the greed-tide are spitted together, forming a carpet. Many boot-prints mark their writhing backs.
The Vagrant turns away.
He cuts a new path through the fence with his sword, impassive. The wire springs apart, making loose spirals by their feet. They watch as two opposing armies form clumps of fighting in the chaos; on one side guards, on the other workers. Neither has a uniform, both are desperate. Only the dead appear united, their faction already the largest. The battle is scrappy, motivated by greed not bravery. The brave have already fallen, piles of them still protecting their more cautious peers.
There is space between the clumps of fighters. With uncharacteristic energy, the goat finds an unspoiled patch and begins to gorge. Lil and the Vagrant fill sacks with precious fruit, loading them onto the goat. Rough movements and battle sounds wake the baby who voices its distress.
The Vagrant works faster.
Pendulous between the pipes that arch above the fields swings the Unborn, lulled in its slumber by the song of the dying. About its shell the air quivers but does not tear.
Emerging from the grasses at speed three men approach the laden goat, armed with sharp metal and hate. The lead man only just stops in time. A pistol presses into the skin of his forehead.
‘I’ll give you people one chance to back off,’ Lil says, ‘then I start shooting.’
Quick looks are exchanged, between themselves, at the woman, at her gun. A decision is reached and the men are gone.
The Vagrant nods, the hint of a hint of a smile on his face.
‘There ain’t nothing to smile about here you idiot!’ Lil shouts. ‘We’d better be gone before they’re back in force.’
Carefully they pick their way across the fields. Bodies lie all around, racing for death. They cry for help, for mercy, for their mothers. The baby just cries.
Eyes locked on the horizon, the Vagrant walks onwards. The goat fights him along the way, sometimes winning a bite of the yellowing grasses, sometimes bowing to the leash. Progress is slow, the ground is boggy and full of debris but, grudgingly, the far edge of the field comes into view.
People have gathered in front of the gate, clustered like a flock around a man who moves with the swagger of power. His muscles are drug fed and firm, his rifle steady in his hands. Blue cables run from the gun to his backpack, fizzing with potential.
‘Hold there!’ he shouts in a voice rough with living.
Lil’s pistol stares back at the rifle, neither blinks. ‘Looks like you’re moving up in the world, Kell.’
‘Well damn, is that you, Lil? I’d heard you got blown up with your house!’
‘Nope, still here.’
Kell laughs, the sound echoed eerily by his companions. ‘For now maybe. Seems you been taking what’s mine.’
‘Listen, this doesn’t have to turn ugly, just let us go and we’ll be no more bother to you.’
‘Maybe,’ replies the man, rubbing his stubble with a nailless finger. ‘Or maybe you could entertain us a little first, then