Armageddon's Children (41 page)

When he went down, it happened all at once. He was savaging still another leg, searching for still another weakness, when the creature’s jaws finally got a solid hold on him and clamped down viciously. Snarling and snapping, Cheney twisted furiously. Slippery with his own blood, he broke free, but the effort sent him tumbling all the way across the room where he slammed against the wall and went down in a heap. Gasping for air, his flanks heaving and his legs scrambling for purchase on the concrete flooring, he struggled in vain to rise. Blood welled up from the wounds caused by the insect’s jaws, and Cheney snapped at them furiously, as if in terrible pain.

The centipede advanced toward him, jaws wide.

Owl turned quickly to Sparrow. “Take Squirrel and get out of here. Get as far away as possible. Try to find Hawk and warn him.”

She knew she had just pronounced a death sentence on herself, but she also knew that Sparrow could not get her to safety in time. Sparrow would be lucky if she managed to escape with Squirrel, and that was the best they could hope for.

“Sparrow!” she hissed when the other failed to respond.

But Sparrow was staring straight ahead at the centipede, her hands tightening about the handle of the prod, her lips compressing into a tight line. Owl realized suddenly what she was going to do.
No!
she tried to say, but the word caught in her throat.

Sparrow stepped in front of her, a shield against the thing approaching, and brought up the prod.

BY THE TIME
Sparrow was five years old, she already knew that she was expected to grow up to be like her mother. It wasn’t just that everyone hoped for it; it was that they talked as if it were an inarguable certainty and the completion of her transformation awaited only her achieving maturity. Physically, she was already a miniature version of her mother, with the same lanky body, big hands, mop of straw-colored hair, crooked smile, and fierce blue eyes that could pin you to the wall when they were angry. She even walked like her mother, a sort of saunter that suggested great confidence and a readiness and willingness to act.

She liked being thought of this way, as the daughter who would one day become her mother. Her mother, after all, was a legend. Her mother was a furious fighter and canny leader. Her mother was a warrior. Growing up to be like her was what any little girl would wish for.

But her mother never spoke to her of any of this. Her mother did not seem to have these expectations for her—or if she did, she kept them to herself. Her mother did not once tell her that hers was the path that Sparrow must necessarily follow. Her mother only told her that she must be her own person and find her own way in the world. What she would give her were the skills and the training that would let her survive. But her heart would have to tell her where she was meant to go.

Sparrow wasn’t certain if she believed this or not. What she knew is that she adored her mother. She did not know who her father was; he had been gone before she was born and no one ever spoke of him. Her mother was the seminal figure in her life, and everything she was or hoped to be was a product of that relationship. She thought about her father, but only rarely and never with more than passing interest. She thought about her mother all the time.

Her mother was as good as her word. She trained Sparrow to fight—to attack and to defend. She worked her until Sparrow was ready to drop, but Sparrow never complained. She was a good student, and soon she had mastered the exercises her mother had given her to do. Her dedication was complete. She was not yet big enough to be effective, but she knew she would grow and when she did, she would be ready. She trained every day that her mother was not away, and she practiced on her own when her mother was gone. She was determined to be the best; she was set on making her mother proud.

They lived in the mountains, high up on the slopes in a fortified camp that her mother had established years before Sparrow was born. It was from there that her mother led her raiding parties on the slave pens and the slavers that terrorized everyone. Most of the villages surrounding were small and poorly defended—easy prey for the ravers and the madmen. The larger compounds, the safe ones, were in the cities, miles away from where she lived. Her mother didn’t trust them. Her mother believed in freedom and independence; she placed her trust in speed and mobility. Her camp was settled on a cliff shelf accessible only by a series of narrow trails that no one but those who followed her knew about and which could be easily defended. The shelf was fronted by a sheer cliff wall and backed by heavy forest leading up to the impassable slopes of the mountain behind it. It was a good location; it had kept them safe for a long time.

But, as it so often happened in the postapocalypse, their success caused resentment, resentment turned to treachery, and treachery gave them away. Word of their existence spread; vivid descriptions of their raids on the slave camps and the slavers traveled far and wide. Eventually, their enemies began to hunt for them in earnest, and found out where they were. Then one among their number grew jealous and betrayed them. It was a foolish act, one born of anger and poor judgment and not of deliberate intention to cause harm. But the result was the same. The slavers found the path leading in and a way to get past the guards and laid their plans carefully.

They came at night, when most were sleeping. They advanced in silence until they had overcome the guards, and then they charged in screaming and firing their automatic weapons. They were on a mission of destruction, and they were ruthless in their efforts to carry it out. They killed everyone they came upon—men, women, and children—making no effort to take prisoners or to distinguish those who resisted from those who tried to surrender. There were dozens of them, all heavily armed, fed by chemicals or their own peculiar madness, and without a single drop of remorse to give them pause.

Sparrow woke to the sounds of weapons fire, and then her mother was beside her, snatching her up and bearing her from their shelter and into the eye of the maelstrom. Without speaking a word and without slowing, her mother carried her through the camp—past the dead and dying, past the fires burning everywhere, past shadowy forms that flitted through the night like ghosts. Sharp bursts of gunfire rose all around, and Sparrow closed her eyes and prayed for it to stop. She was terrified; she wanted to cry, but she would not let herself.

Then they were huddled together in the darkness, and her mother was kneeling in front of her, their faces only inches away. Her mother wore a backpack and carried her Parkhan Spray. “I need to have my hands free to use my weapon. Stay close to me. I will not leave you behind, no matter what.” She paused. “I love you, little one.”

A moment later she was back on her feet, holding the big, black-barreled Spray in front of her, swinging it about and yelling at Sparrow to run. Together they raced across a short stretch of open ground between two of the burning shelters, her mother firing the Spray in short bursts at the dark forms that rushed toward her. Sparrow heard the hiss and whine of bullets as they flew past her head and saw the muzzle flashes of the enemy weapons in the shadows. The sounds were terrifying, and she ran as if she were on fire and only the rush of the wind could extinguish the flames.

They reached the woods behind the camp, the weapons fire tracking them all the way, and suddenly, just as they passed into the trees, she felt a fiery sting on her arm and another on her leg. She heard her mother grunt and saw her falter, then straighten and continue on. Biting her tongue against the pain of her wounds, she followed. They ran deep into the trees, away from the carnage of their home, the sounds of death slowly receding behind them as darkness and shadows closed about.

They ran a long way after that before her mother slowed, and by then they were deep into the woods and climbing the slope behind them into the mountains. Her mother glanced back at her, saw that she was holding her injured arm, and stopped at once to take a look. As she did so, Sparrow saw that the whole front of her mother’s shirt was wet and slick with blood.

“Mama, you’re hurt!” she whispered, reaching for her.

Her mother intercepted her hands and held her away. “No, there’s nothing wrong,” she said quickly. “Are you all right? Can you walk?” Sparrow nodded. “Then we have to keep going.”

They climbed high into the mountains, and soon all they could see of the camp was a fiery dot burning out of the blackness below. But the sounds of the killing were still audible, shrill and terrible, and Sparrow was forced to listen. She knew what was happening. All of her friends, all those people she had grown up with, were gone. Only she and her mother and perhaps a handful of others had escaped. Tears flooded her eyes with the realization that she would never see her friends again. She wiped at the dampness and tried not to let her mother see.

It was only an hour or two before dawn when her mother finally allowed them to stop. They had come through a pass and were on the other side of the mountain, and the camp and its horrors were left behind. They sat together on a grassy berm that provided them with shelter, facing west across a plain dark with night and a sky filled with stars. Her mother had abandoned the Spray sometime back, but she still wore her backpack. She stripped it off now and pulled out clothes and boots for Sparrow to change into. She was breathing heavily, and the blood from her wounds coated both the front and back of her shirt. She seemed unaware of it as she watched Sparrow change out of her nightdress, but her eyes were filled with pain.

“We’ll rest here until morning, little one,” she said. “Then we will walk west to the ocean. It will take a couple of days, but we will go slowly and carefully and watch out for danger.” She reached into her pack and pulled out a flechette handgun. “This will be yours until we reach our destination. Don’t use it unless you are in real danger.”

Sparrow listened and nodded, not knowing how to reply. Finally, she said, “You have to stop the bleeding, Mama. You have to bandage yourself so it will stop.”

Her mother smiled and reached for her hand, pulling her down beside her. “I need to rest a little while first. You should rest, too. We have a long walk ahead of us. Can you make that walk? Are you strong enough to walk all the way to the ocean?”

Sparrow nodded, staring into her mother’s clear eyes. “I can walk anywhere you want me to, Mama.”

Her mother squeezed her hands. “Then everything will be all right.” She sighed heavily. “I have to rest now. I’m very tired. Don’t forget, little one. I love you. I will always love you.”

She lay back against the wall of the berm, and her face was pale and drawn in the starlight. Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed. Sparrow lay down next to her, pressing close, still holding her hand. She looked over at her mother’s face and thought how much she loved her in turn. She told herself that she would be strong for her mother and would not complain. She would do whatever her mother wanted her to do.

Moments later, she fell asleep.

When she woke, it was morning. The stars had gone and taken her mother with them.

“
SPARROW!
”
OWL HISSED
.

But Sparrow didn’t hear her. She was remembering her last night with her mother. Almost five years had passed, yet it might as well have been yesterday. She would never forget what her mother had done for her—how she had carried her from the killing ground of the camp, entrusted her with a weapon to protect herself, told her where to go to find safety, and given her a chance at life. It was all her mother had been able to do for her at the end, but it was enough.

I will grow up to be like my mother,
Sparrow had promised herself afterward.
I will make her proud.

The words recalled themselves now as she stepped in front of Owl, holding the prod at port arms, her finger on the charging trigger. She would have preferred the flechette her mother had given her or the big Parkhan Spray, but both were long since gone. The prod would have to do.

“Sparrow!” Owl pleaded a second time. “Get out of here!”