Maybe more and better brains, much smarter brains, would let him put the dots on the eyes of that plan?
More brains, yes, but whose? How did one tell how smart they were before dissecting them from their human?
One of those he’d already caught and engulfed chose to interrupt his thoughts. It postulated this:
If the humans are residing too low, then they must be attracted higher. Any fisherman worth his rod knows how to draw a fish toward his hook. Make a pretty lure, of course, and trawl the depths.
Avidex slid his triangular teeth together in a gruesome approximation of a human smile.
Oh yesss.
43
The convoy had rearrangeditself to venture into the Rad Zone and added a bit of fanciness—the truck that Maura was to live inside for a few days. It was a big shiny red truck with chrome bumpers and writing on the side.LARRY’S PARTIES: Book now!There were balloons too. Cyn was tempted.
The old tires had been inflated and seemed to be holding. If they burst, the truck would have to run on the rims.
They trudged in a ragged column across this uneven terrain. The ting and rattle of equipment, murmur of voices, and the crunch of tires and beaster feet merged into a surreal gothic orchestral theme. Moonlight strained down through the gaps.
Every footfall made the dust from the collapsed buildings fall from above or drift upward. They’d had to find and don surgical masks before the march could continue. Willow had attempted to get Toother to wear cloth over his mouth, but he’d shaken and pawed it off then huffed at her indignantly, andthathad stirred up more frigging dust.
The new plan was for this part of the journey to be completed in one go with zero stops—to minimize exposure to radiation and, hopefully, any encounters with creatures of the unknownvariety. Currently, Toother was harnessed to the truck and drawing it, but they’d switch to towing it by beaster power when it seemed best.
Cyn ambled beside Rutger. Vargr had gone scouting along with a few other wing-soldiers. The open spaces here made flying an asset.
Huge buttresses of semi-destroyed building supports rose above, sketching out lacework arches and jagged spears where buildings should be—diabolically teetering towers of barely there concrete and steel. Pieces could drop onto their heads at any random moment.
She kinda hoped not.
There was beauty in this vast, doddery scenery. The Balrog from LOTR would’ve been delighted with the décor. Gandalf would find his spells nicely set off by the shadows and gloom.
She’d no longer thought the darkness oppressive, because it was no longer true darkness—there were telltale signs her eyes weren’t using daylight even if her brain was happy to pretend. The blue in the motes drifting off Rutger, in the shimmering on beaster limbs, horns, and eyes, it decorated the gloom like pretty baubles.
One could light up a Christmas tree with their blues. She sighed. Why’d she have to recall Christmas? The longing for the past hit hard at times. The oddest things could set her off.
And yet she could not recall who had given her presents. The tree, yes, the ornaments, the squeal of children as they ran about. Nothing more. How uglier would reminiscing be to those who remembered it all? She glanced across at Rutger.
God-monster, her horned behemoth who punched walls when what he called post nanite tension got to him. Her lover. No matter how big and strong one might be, feelings existed. Everyone hurt.
She must stop pitying herself. They were alive at a time when almost no one else was.
By midnight on this first day she was coughing and limping, and her vision had blurred.
Hunched over, with her head ready to self-combust or something, trying to recover from a bout of coughing, she heard Willow approach, saw the stomp of her rather delicate blue boots as she drew closer.
“Hi.” She peered from beneath her brow, the mask shifting on her nose. The damn thing was barely doing its job. Masks were less and less effective with time. Harder to breathe through too.
“You’re going in the truck with Maura. No questions. Just do it.”
“I could swat you like a mosquito, and you know it.” Cyn straightened, wobbled, caught herself. So many aches.
“Hah! Then you’d fall over. In!”
“Give me back my gun then. I need to feel like I’m useful.” And dangerous.
The strain showed on Willow’s face, in her eyes, even though she was still. “I can’t. Not yet. There are more than enough soldiers to defend us. I’m sorry, Cyn.” Then she spun and walked away.
They still didn’t trust her?
