Falling Sky (6 page)

I move as fast as I can, while skirting the Feral blood, pressing myself against the wall, feeling it scrape against my cheek.

Then I'm at the door, then out of it, and I look up to see the
Cherub
.

Flying away.

I see the
Cherub
flying away without me, and my fists clench and I want to raise the gun and shoot at everyone and everything. My ship. My home. Gone.

And I have no way to get to it.

And there are raiders in the Core. And if they find me they will kill me. Or worse.

And I need to get away.

And I'm mad at myself because my rage is fighting against my survival instincts. The instincts win. Because I can rage all I want if I survive this.

My mind races. I need to get away. I need to move quickly. And I need to avoid running into Ferals. All this noise is liable to attract any that are hungry.

I think about the only other vehicle in the Core. I run for the Ferrari.

I keep the automatic down at my side, ready to raise it and fire at any raiders that come across my path. I get near the dead Feral and leap over it, desperate to get past it. My foot comes down at the edge of the blood slick.
Too close.
And I slip. And slam into the floor and my skin is crawling as I imagine the Feral blood all over me.

But when I turn myself around, I've missed it. All except my boot, and I can deal with that later. I push away the fear. Push away the anxiety. And get back to my feet.

The door at the end of the hallway opens.

I raise the automatic.

A man comes through, large, carrying a rifle of some sort. He doesn't look like one of the boffins. I sight down at the central mass of him and pull the trigger three times, mindful that I'm down to three bullets. The bullets throw him back, but I don't stop to see if he's down for good. Instead I'm running through a different door into the place the boffins call the Garage.

The “Ferrari” is a modified jeep the boffins—Sergei and a few of the others—have been converting for use on rough terrain. It's an ugly beast and nothing like a Ferrari at all. Did I mention that their sense of humor is awful? But one of them had this picture from the Clean, this sleek, shiny red car. A Ferrari. And they had it pinned up while they were working on it. Inspiration from a machine that even I had to admit dripped of power and sex (and I'm deeply committed to the
Cherub
).

I used to give them shit for working on it, hell, I thought it was stupid. Why rig a ground car when we had all these airships at our disposal? Why get any closer to the Ferals than you have to? But now I'm grateful for it because I can no longer take to the sky.

I've watched Sergei enough to know how the Ferrari operates. He hooked it up with an ignition button to make it easier to operate. And it's fueled up for the road tests they've been doing on it.

I throw up the door that leads outside, then jump in and toss the automatic on the seat next to me. Slam the door shut. And hit the button.

Nothing.

I slam it again. And again.

With a lurch the engine fires up and coughs a few times. But it catches and I feel it rev beneath me when I hit the pedal. Then the cart is bursting forward and I've cleared the doors and hit the top of the hill. The wheels catch fresh earth and then I'm barreling down the hill.

I turn the wheel back toward the Core, hoping I can get one or two other people out with me, but as the Ferrari crests the hill, the building nearest me erupts in fire and I can feel the shockwave from where I sit inside the cart.

Above me the raider ships are swarming. And the
Cherub
is gone.

I slam the steering wheel in anger and turn the wheel back around, racing down the hill. The loss of the Core hollows me out, but the loss of the
Cherub
is a keen, cutting ache. I've lost my parents. Lost my father's Star of David. Lost the
Cherub
that used to be his airship. His home.

My home.

All I have left of Dad, aside from my genes, is his revolver. All I've held on to from him is a weapon.

I push it all away. No time to lose my shit now. Get free, get clear. Then lose your shit.

A problem with the Ferrari, aside from the fact that it's stuck on the ground, is that it's not airtight. It's covered on all sides, but there are gaps. There's open space for the engine, for ventilation. And that's space the Bug can get in. Don't get me wrong; I'd be more than happy to take this thing on a joyride to see how many Ferals I could take out by slamming full speed into them. But all it would take is one drop of blood, sucked up into the cart and onto me for my joyride to end.

And don't tell me I'm paranoid. Not unless you've seen your own father Fade right in front of your eyes. Not until you've seen the reason dim in a loved one's eyes.

But these wheels are all I have right now, and I need to put as much space between me and the raiders.

I think of the boffins who didn't get out in time. I hope the raiders were told to keep them alive. Because they would be useful to anyone. And if the boffins are smart, they'll do what the raiders tell them to do.

But something uncomfortable squirms in my belly. I know that if I were the raiders, if I wasn't sure whether the boffins had come into contact with Feral blood or not, I would kill them all. I'm not happy about that, but it's what they'll probably do.

I have no idea where I'm going. Away is all I can think of. It's not like I can get the
Cherub
back.

I drive until my heart stops pounding. I drive until the acid taste in the back of my mouth has subsided. Then I find a shaded spot beside a hill and park the Ferrari. And slam the wheel a few times.

And I mourn the loss of my airship.

I mourn the loss of my home.

People often ask me where the
Cherub
came from. They ask me how I came by her because she's a fine ship and because I'm an independent operator.

I don't always tell these people the truth.

The truth is that the ship belonged to my grandfather. More or less. I told Miranda this when she asked. “Was he a pilot?” she asked.

“No. A mechanic. Back in the Clean. When the Bug hit, and the shit went down, he stole a ship. One of the best and newest his company had.” He stole the
Cherub
and saved a bunch of people, and I am so damned proud of him for doing that. But most importantly, he saved his own life and ensured that I would be here today.

He obviously wasn't the only one. Lots of people realized that taking to the sky would be the logical thing to do and they all did it.

So granddad stole it and took it, and his family, up into the air. When he died, my father inherited the ship, patching her up and making additions where necessary. After Mom died, it was me and him in the ship up until the time he Faded. So it's something of a family legacy. Stolen, originally, to be sure, but made our own. A Gold family artifact.

Since it fell to me, I had poured all my time that wasn't spend foraging or eating or defending myself into that ship. Into making her faster and better. Into making her my home. Into making her safe.

Now she's gone.

Not to mention everything that was on the ship. The food. The water. The alcohol. The ammunition and weapons. The memories.

Fuck.

I used to hate gravity when I was younger. Always waiting to pull you to the ground. Yet we sailed through the sky, able to evade it. But it was like a demon waiting below. Just waiting to get its claws on us.

Now it had grabbed me. And there was no escaping it now.

It's somewhere during my pity party that I realize that while I may be sheltered from the view of any wandering Ferals, I'm still visible from the air, and I'm sure one of the raiders must have seen me drive away. So I start up the Ferrari again and keep driving, aiming to put as much distance between me and them as I can. Of course an airship could easily outpace me. So I head for nearby trees, hoping they'll shield me.

The fuel gauge is already showing a drop in the tank, and I realize with a sinking sensation that this vehicle isn't going to last long. Not without another supply of Serge's special fuel.

But I get under the cover of the trees and kill the engine to save fuel and I just sit for a while. Safe for the moment within the chassis of the cart.

I think about what my plan should be. I think about driving straight through to the coast. Where I can put my back up against the ocean, maybe take shelter in some cave down by the beach. Lay it up with traps and the like. Go native for a while.

It's not a prospect that fills me with joy.

But getting back into the air is going to be a problem. And there are no rendezvous points nearby.

I think about Diego and Rosie. I won't be able to make it out to them either.

I'm royally fucked is what I am.

Christ.

Exhausted and depressed, I put my head back against the seat and close my eyes. And fall asleep.

I awake with my bladder throbbing. This is a problem that doesn't happen on airships. Your typical airship is equipped with at least a chemical toilet that we use (and then dump) for most basic biological needs.

In the Ferrari I have two choices: open the door and brave the ground, or piss in the car and deal with the aftermath.

It gives me pause.

Normally I would piss in the car with abandon. Happily mark the thing as my own in the most basic, animalistic way. But not only does that remind of the Ferals and the things they do, but I may very well be living in this thing for the near future, and I don't relish the thought of soiling my new home.

So instead I ready my guns and prepare to face the ground. I open the door with the automatic out, moving it slowly, pausing after each push to make sure nothing is going to run for me.

When nothing does, I slide out of the car and scan the area around me.

It's lightly wooded, with nothing moving. I wait a few moments more and when nothing happens, a few more.

And here's the thing about the ground. You start out thinking that the longer you take checking, the safer you'll be. But you end up thinking that the sooner you get your business done, the quicker you can get back to safety.

There's no winning.

Especially when you're out in the open, with only one hand free to protect you.

It's one of the most vulnerable situations I've ever experienced.

I have the gun out, my eyes scanning, as I finish and get everything covered again. Then it's a quick scurry back into the cart and a long exhalation that nothing went wrong.

I know it's silly to think, but I'm glad a Feral didn't get to me with my cock out. I have envisioned myself dying a number of ways. That's not one I'd like to even consider.

So it's off to the coast, then, I think. Park the cart on the beach, with plenty of room to piss, a clear line of sight in front of me, and fresh seafood when I need it. Yes, the coast sounds mighty good right now.

Only my fuel runs out before I get there.