Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,120
soon as I ask myself the question, I realize the answer. It lies in the enigma of her shrugs. Why wouldn't she have survived?
I've never been in this much pain—never has so much of my body hurt—but I'm still conscious. I'm still me. There are ways to kill us, but for the most part, we are immortal. Mother takes care of us. That's our secret, and our flaw. We think we need Mother, and so when we are confronted with pain—real, life-threatening pain—we run back to Mother. And when we can't get back to Mother, well, then we die. Like any other creature on this planet.
And that's our flaw. That's what Escobar has figured out. That's what Phoebe knows. We think we need Mother. We think that she can fix anything. She's our God, our deity that takes care of us, feeds us, and protects us. She is our faith, and as long as she is there, we think we can do anything. But what happens when she is gone? When there is no one to rescue us? Is that when we give up, when we default to the primal fear that lives inside all living creatures? We are alone, and the world does not care about us. We are insignificant, motes of dust in an infinite sky.
Phoebe sees the world differently. She needs nothing. She needs nobody. She is. Zen purity.
I clench my fist, noticing that the foaming spot has stopped bubbling. I don't need Mother's permission to die. Nor do I need her permission to keep on living. Those choices remain with me.
My philosophical breakthrough is interrupted by Alberto, who leaps over the wall from an upslope basin. He looks like a preternatural nonagenarian with sharp teeth and nails. Way too spry for his appearance. All I can do is brace myself.
He slams into me, a snarling bag of bones, and my feet slip on the crystallized bank of the salt basin. One of his hands rakes my face, tearing my skin, and the other claws at my clothing, trying to get my neck exposed. I get my hand under his chin and force his head back, exposing his neck too.
It's primal combat, animals vying for dominance. Equally matched, the fight will be decided by which of us has the stronger will. Who can take more pain, more physical punishment? Who will be more relentless? Alberto is clean and strong. He fights with that confidence—that knowledge that he is the better physical specimen. Even though I'm invigorated by the blood from the Arcadian I killed in the plaza, I'm still weak, traumatized by the salt and sun.
Be quick about it, then.
I've got his head back, and instead of trying to bite him, I grab his throat with my left hand instead. His skin is fragile, like mine, and tearing it is like ripping a snake's discarded skin. He doesn't bleed; he foams—both from his mouth and from the ragged gash in his throat. And while he's still recovering from the attack, I punch him in the side of the head, putting as much strength as I can in the blow. Bones in my hand shift unnaturally.
He staggers out of our embrace, clutching at his head which is no longer as perfectly shaped as it was. Foam is bubbling around his hand.
My knuckles are covered with foam.
Alberto comes at me again, and I sweep his strike aside, popping him in the face with my left hand, breaking his nose. He retreats a couple of steps, bumping up against the wall separating the basins, and I stay where I am. Keeping my distance.
Alberto leans against the wall, breathing heavily and noisily. His wounds continue to foam, white bubbles dripping down his face. He exhales heavily, and foam spatters from his lips.
I continue to wait for him, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to run. To get to ground and dig as deep as I can. I stand my ground and wait. Which of us is going to break first?
“Is this hurt worse than when I took your head off?” I ask, goading him.
He shows me his teeth, his hands closing into fists, and I think he's going to charge me again, but then he spins on his heel and darts for the wall behind him. I'm taken aback that he's going to try to run, and before I can respond, he goes over the wall into the basin on the next level.