Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (3 page)

Too bad things hardly ever go as planned.

The skylights within the plant had gone purple, after purple they would bring in the blackness of night. With a gun on his hip and a shovel on his back, the rifleman made his way to the roof and down the side of the building, leaving the rope waiting for his return. The long and wispy shadows of twilight stretched far across the shipping area, his own shadow carving the asphalt a great deal ahead of him.

The girl still lay on the ground as the rifleman, for a moment, thought he saw her breathing; but drawing near, the only movement he witnessed was a breeze through her hair and the scurry of red-faced felines.

“Get!” he commanded, but they were already gone.

Standing over her, the rifleman knew what he’d come to do, but far from relished in the need to do so. Taking both her cold wrists, he lifted her torso and started to drag her across the pavement. The sound of her sliding flesh made him feel sick, so he tried to imagine dragging something else–but when nothing else came to mind, he was relieved to reach the dirt. The sound of her body there was not nearly as unsettling.

Gently, the rifleman laid her down and removed the shovel from his back. The earth, soft beneath his boots, would be easily pierced. He could have this done in an hour–maybe just a tad more.

The rifleman worked vigorously into the night, creating a cavity large enough to fit the woman. In no way was it six feet deep, but it would have to do. He lifted her, trying to ignore the lulling of her head and the matted firmness of her hair, before placing her inside.

Following a much-needed moment of reflection, the rifleman climbed out and stuck the shovel back into the earth. “I’m sorry.” He
emptied
the
soil
on
top
of her.
“
It was foolish for them to leave you here.” He dropped the second shovel-full. “You’ll never know love … ” The third. “Or kindness.”

He placed the shovel upright in the dirt and put his weight upon it. “All you know is fear … and hatred.” The rifleman sighed heavily. “And you deserve more.”

Several golden orbs appeared from beneath the tarps of forgotten machinery, each pair fixing on the rifleman as he spoke–the hungry eyes of wild felines.

“And you’ll not be food for anything but the earth, I have seen to that,” he said, more to the cats than to her. “My name is Mohammad, Child, and I have given you the only kindness you’ll never know.”

A
deamyn had her ear pressed to the ungainly thing for the entirety of the risen sun. Peeling off her cover, she arched her back and allowed her muscles the quivering stretch they so desired.

She’d survived to see another night.

Many pale-ones had passed earlier in the day, followed by the sounds of their weapons and the screams of her kind; and with it, another member of her family gone. Why do the pale-ones only emit happiness at the deaths of her own?

Folding her blanket neatly, Adeamyn inserted it into her bag as she crossed the monstrous and hollowed structure; and stepping softly as she moved, she climbed down from the previous day’s safety.

She hadn’t a proper name–none that she knew–but this was always on the tongues of pale-ones, the closest thing she had to a name.

Thriving in moonlight, Adeamyn found her blessing in the blackness, her edge in this world. Her senses were better than theirs. She was not blinded by night, as they were, but heightened by it. Adeamyn, therefore, moved only in darkness; for as long as she could avoid the eyes of the pale-ones, she’d live to see just one more sunset.

Hunger and thirst tugging heavily at her, she dipped her hand inside the bag and withdrew a single piece of salty meat. Saliva pouring readily, Adeamyn placed it in her mouth and squeezed the juices through her teeth.

She’d stolen this bag off a large pale-one as, weapon in hand, he slept, oblivious. In that bag she’d found the blanket, two neatly-sealed portions of the salty meat, and a container for storing water. But something else lingered within as well, its hefty metal pressing against her back as she escaped with her life. In it, beneath the softness of the blanket, was another of their blackish weapons.

Adeamyn had seen them use it before, but wasn’t entirely sure how the thing worked.

Point and kill, seemed easy enough.

As for the meat, allowing herself only two pieces per night, she was already reaching the bottom of her second bag. Adeamyn, rationing herself more strictly, would be taking only one on this night; but the hint of salt had been on her tongue long before the taste of dried meat. Death was in the air, pungent and close; its unique, metallic quality quite obvious, even from her bed of rusted steel.

With the world draped in night, Adeamyn still kept to deeper shadow, walking the underside of the machine until she reached a clearing. There, where death was most palpable, she emerged cautiously. The horizon itself became lightly crowded, giving way to the rolling hills in the distance–the night sky meeting them at their peaks. Perhaps, by the next few sunrises, she could reach them, away from the structures and into the region sparsely speckled with trees.

Granted, there would be far less cover, pitting it against her current logic for survival, but something told her the pale-ones didn’t exist out there. And if that much were true, there would be no need for cover any longer. But those hills were still far, and Adeamyn couldn’t allow herself to become lost to them just yet.

The place she currently entered was racked with pockets of dust and debris, surrounded by stacks of dismantled and discarded machines. Some, scaling higher than others, reached nearly half the height of the building to her left. Adeamyn crossed the clearing, in search of the one that had fallen earlier.

Her body must be here ... somewhere
. Adeamyn would find them, if she could, if it was safe, and place her hand upon their cold skin–as if in death it were still somehow comforting.
Be delivered
, she would think,
to a place where no pale-one can ever harm you again.

The stench of the girl was well-present as Adeamyn traveled through the clearing, becoming stronger as she moved. Finding an array of nocturnal creatures engaged in an ominous lapping of tongues, they’d collectively gathered at the rim of a dark puddle. With the moon glistening across the liquid’s muddled surface, the creatures scattered as Adeamyn came to examine it.

She died right here, spilling out, and was moved … recently.

She then heard something within the darkness; and like the animals of night, Adeamyn took to nearest shelter.

And there, beyond the hardened ground of the clearing, she found a single pale-one; and in his arms–loose legged, head bent badly at the neck–dangled the source of death in the air. Hers were the screams Adeamyn heard early in the day, followed by the rejoicing of pale-ones.

Adeamyn watched him, his hands on the girl, and hated him with a growing fire in her chest. Was there no rest for the dead? Was there no end at all?

But it was with an air of sadness that the pale-one placed her into the earth; and in doing this, no visible joy formed his features. There was only … regret.

Adeamyn joined the numerous nocturnal creatures in wide-eyed study of this occurrence, when the pale-one, raising his voice, appeared to address her. Collapsing to shadow, she hid herself again. Had he seen her? The pale-one continued to talk, his voice soft and steady … but he wasn’t talking to Adeamyn … no … he was talking to someone else. She peered again in his direction. He was talking … to the girl in the earth.

This pale-one, she realized, out of some form of respect, had come out this night … to care for her body.

M
ohammad pressed the back end of the shovel against the earth, leveling it the best he could. “Rest now,” he said. “Rest.”

Scraping the soil from his boots and fastening the shovel to his back, he made his way across the shipping yard and to the rope he’d left suspended. Taking it in both hands, he began his climb to the factory’s roof. It took him longer to bury the girl than he’d anticipated. The muscles in his hands and arms were showing the common symptoms of fatigue. His trip to the top wasn’t quite as easy as times past. Throwing his leg over, he slid onto the roof and allowed himself a minute to recover before pulling the rope up again.

He turned to begin his walk to the nest hatch when he’d found a woman standing before him. Brilliant beneath the moonlight, her eyes appeared to be glowing, her features reminiscent–the ghost of the girl he’d just buried. But her beauty and radiance alone did not hinder the fear he’d felt, standing at the end of her extended pistol.

A hybrid was on his roof.

A hybrid was on his roof … pointing a gun at him.

Mohammad raised his hands, a common reaction when presented with a firearm, and tried to ease the tension with an awkward introduction. “My name is Mohammad,” he spoke slowly. “I mean you no harm.”

She squinted at him, shaking her head.

“Mohammad,” he repeated. “Friend.”

The girl pointed to his belt; on it, tucked in its case, was his gun.

“Oh,” he said. Moving slowly, Mohammad loosened his belt, slipped it free and let the weapon fall to his feet. He kicked it away and returned his hands to the air. “Friend,” he said again.

But the girl still seemed unconvinced, keeping him trained with her weapon.

“Food,” he realized. “You must be hungry.”

She did not respond.

“Follow me.” Keeping his hands raised, he walked past her and opened the hatch to his nest. Then, motioning for her to follow, he climbed inside.

The distance from the hatch to the nest was covered by a seven-foot, vertical ladder. Once inside, Mohammad switched on his LED lantern, waiting for the girl to either enter or remain on the roof. Several seconds passed as he stared into the blackness of the open hatch, expecting to see her foot reach the first rung. But the ladder, Mohammed realized, was not necessary. She landed in front of him, leaving herself in a squatting position as she surveyed the nest.

It was flat and relatively barren, save for some bags, rifles, handguns and ammunition. She spotted the weapons instantly, bringing her own into play again.

Considering she must have spent the past couple weeks simply fighting for survival, it seemed she’d done exceptionally well for
herself. She no longer wore the early attire she’d been delivered in. The
female hybrid discarded those for a black tank top and khaki capris–even acquiring a pair of lace-less Converse shoes, not to mention the gun that was pointed at him.

Should Mohammad survive the encounter, he’d remain genuinely impressed.

Her hair was as black as the night sky, her skin a softened shade of red; and her clothes worn and saturated with the orange dust of oxygenated metal. Her eyes were intense and piercing–truly deadly in her stare, but not in her weapon. The pistol’s chamber, ajar near her wrist, indicated a very empty magazine within.

“I should have known better,” Mohammad sighed, side-stepping until the hybrid stood between him and his ordnance. “There. You’re in control.” Mohammad lowered himself and opened a bag at his feet, inside he retrieved an aluminum can. “Food.” He peeled back the lid, its contents becoming instantly detectable by sense of smell, and held it out to her; he only wished she’d find it as delectable as he did.

“I have lots,” Mohammad said. “A whole stockpile. Don’t be shy.”

The gun wavered as she stepped forward, leaning toward the can. Mohammad pulled the lid free as she took it from him and hung her nose over its opening.

Good
, Mohammad thought.
Very good.

He bent slowly and pulled out his own can, sitting casually as he retrieved spoons for both him and his new guest. Stirring the can for a moment, he then took a bite, exaggerating the amazement of its taste. But it seemed to be working.

Lowering her weapon, she took her utensil and did the same. After devouring its contents and using the spoon to scrape off as much sauce as she could, Mohammad gave her another.

“Thought you’d like it.” He smiled. “Nothin’ like some good ol’ room-temp SpaghettiO’s.”

The girl dropped the first can and was on to the second, peeling off its lid just as he’d done.

“Mohammad,” he reintroduced himself, this time able to press a hand to his chest. “My name is Mohammad.”

She looked at him, licking the sauce from her lips. “What about you?” he asked. “You have a name?”

She swallowed hard, pressing her hand to her chest, and mumbled something.

“What?”

“A demon,” she said.

“The hell you are!” Mohammad huffed, startling the girl a bit. He returned his voice to a comforting level. “You don’t have a name, then? I can give you one.”

She looked at him.

“Let’s see … the first word that came to mind when I saw you on the roof … well, maybe the first word isn’t such a good idea, but the second word, the second word was
radiant
.” He pointed to his eyes. “They’re beautiful.”

She continued to stare at him.

“So, from radiant, I’ll call you … Radia.”

She stuck out her hand, demanding a third serving of SpaghettiO’s.

He handed her another. “Mohammad,” he introduced himself for the fourth and final time. “Radia.” He pointed at her. “Mohammad and Radia.”

And, at last, she nodded in understanding.

“Good,” Mohammad spread out his arms. “And welcome to my home.”

He smiled, hoping to win one in return. But no such luck. The hybrid was far too busy shoveling the canned pasta into her mouth to care much for his hospitality.

“You must be thirsty,” he realized, turning to retrieve one of his juice packs; but when he returned, it was offered to only air.

The third aluminum can, rolling slowly, dropped down off the nest, skipping and clanking some fifteen feet below.

Friggin’ ninja
.