10
The journeyback to Vargr’s tribe, the Mercantors, began with crossing the footbridge in the middle of the night, but only after he checked above for snipers. Cyn checked too, peering upward, squinting as if that’d make her night vision work better. If she’d seen anything move, she’d have been tempted to yank Vargr’s gun from its holster and blast away.
This bravado baffled her at times. As had her reaction to sex with this gargantuan, if hot, beaster. Was she always this nuts?
She’d been pondering this and had no good answer. She didn’t know herself that well. Self-preservation had definite pluses, but going full throttle at everything seemed attractive too. What use was life if she fucked it up and went for dull average?
There was that.
Thinking back to his sparkly, rock-hard—with knobbles—dick, made her want to slap herself. Had she been a nympho in her prior life? What happened to dates and making out before jumping into bed?
“Psst.” He squeezed her hand to remind her to follow, and she jogged after him. This footbridge was not the quietest.
Still, nothing stirred above. The soft roar of water somewhere ahead would be muffling the sounds from their boots.
“Therewasa storm,” Vargr said.
The air smelled moist and exciting. Rain hinted of the future, of freshness, of nature renewing. The rain was fudging the facts. A bit of thunder and lightning to spell outDOOMon the sky would’ve been more accurate.
Whatever effect the sex was supposed to have, her head was clear of the Lure. As for feeling permanently attached to him, of that she had doubts. The sex had undeniably been great, but then who wouldn’t think that after five years living in a mind fog? That contract was pure BS and as binding as any promise made under duress.
A lean, hungry-looking dog met them halfway and trotted alongside. Five years without a human owner would do things to a dog’s idea of who ruled who. Lap dogs wouldn’t be likely to have survived and dogs couldn’t open cans.
“Wanta eat us, boy?” Vargr asked it, clicking softly as if that was some sort of dog language.
He merely eyed them with his tongue lolling out.
“Are there many dogs still alive?”
He glanced at her. “Keep moving. Not many that I’ve seen. There are more cats. I give them some food if I have any and if they’re friendly. When we reach the other side, I’ll find him something.” He nodded ahead. “Take care not to slip.”
The studded floor of this metal walkway shone with moisture, and a small waterfall cascaded over the side of the scraper they approached. It must come all the way from above. Funny to imagine weather above. Where had she lived for those five years?
“Your head clear now?”
“Yes. Very. I bet you think I should thank you.”
“For fucking you?” He managed to smirk despite them running.
“Yeaaah, not happening. For all I know it would disappear at night anyway, and don’t think you own me just because of that bit of paper, or your unscientific bond-mating idea.”
The smirk morphed into a grin. “Hah. Neither of us will find it easy to separate for long. The pull draws you back. I’ve seen it.”
She’d seen something else.
This gap was large, and the footbridge long, and they were well over halfway. The muffled bang of their feet hadn’t drawn any shots from above, but now they neared the end, and she could see what deep shadows had concealed—a raw gash to the right that rent the side of the building then continued downward for many stories. Rooms had been smashed and peeled open, and far below she spotted the wing of a plane. Shrouded in night mist it hung from a cavernous hole by twisted shreds of metal.
“From one of the attacks on the Ghoul Lords, probably.” Vargr had noticed where she looked. “In sunlight you can see where the flames from spilled jet fuel burned down the side. The plane took out a couple of lanes of a motorway lower down, missed the trainline though.”
“A train?” She frowned, finding it difficult to imagine a train below her, running across this gap.
They reached the end of the footway. Vargr halted in the foyer so he could rummage in his pack.
Plastic screwed-down chairs, a few suitcases, and a bunch of plastic plants remained as mute memories of the people who once sat here. Someone’s coat had been laid over the back of a seat. Ad posters on the walls told of coming movies and concerts.
“Yes. Trains. You forget those?” He fished out a can, peeled back the ring pull to open it. The aroma of beef stew wafted up. He poured it out, carefully, letting it pool. “You’re lucky, Dog, I don’t normally tote cans around.”
After a single whine and a suspicious but hopeful stare at her man-beast, the dog began to lap then gulp at the food.
