Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,92
step and hurl the manhole cover like a discus. It's larger and heavier than the ones we used to throw in our seasonal games, but it is aerodynamic enough. As the SUV slows, making a right turn, the manhole cover shears into its back end, cutting through the paneling and destroying one of the back tires. The SUV slews widely, a rooster tail of sparks trailing behind it, and it slams into an oncoming car in the other lane.
The passenger side doors open, spilling two dark shapes out into the street. They orient on me, tiny spurts of flame flickering from their guns as they start shooting. As I dodge behind a car parked along the street, a black sedan shoots past me.
As the car nears the intersection, the driver slams on the brake, twisting the wheel to the left. The car skids, putting its length between me and the gunmen. I hear two muffled reports, noise suppressor on a larger gun, and both gunmen are knocked off their feet. Another cough, and the back window of the SUV shatters.
The driver of the sedan looks back at me. I don't recognize her at first—her skin is too tan and her hair is black. But I know that face; I know those eyes. The long barrel of a sniper rifle is propped up on the open passenger side window.
“Phoebe,” I croak.
One of the other doors of the SUV opens and a slender figure in a blue dress spills out.
“Get her,” Phoebe says without the slightest inflection in her voice. As if she hasn't been missing for the last few weeks. As if it wasn't her an hour ago putting rounds through the window of Montoya's penthouse.
I stagger toward Mere, who is shakily moving toward the black sedan, trying her best not to look at the pair of dead men on the ground beside her. My legs start shaking as I near the car, and I lean against the trunk, trying to breathe. Mere is close enough that she can see my face, and she shakes her head in horror at what she sees. There are black lines running down her face, a combination of shadows and mascara.
White bird. Black lines. Red blood.
I close my eyes and see Jacinta's face one more time, and then I don't know anything else but darkness.
BOOK FIVE
DENDRA
THIRTY-TWO
As I wake, I start to dig.
My body knows what to do. I'm not even fully conscious yet, but already my hands are scrabbling at the dirt around me. It's dry and loose, and my skin tingles from having been buried for… more than a few days. My clawed hand breaks through, and I've shifted enough in my makeshift grave to get my feet under my body and shove my way to the surface.
I flop on the ground, spitting dirt out of my mouth. My jaw aches, but it moves like it should, and I spend a few moments exploring my face with my fingers. My skin is tender in places and my eyes water if I press too hard on the bridge of my nose, but my face has healed.
It's just as Escobar said. We can heal ourselves. It isn't a truly revolutionary idea—any time in the humus heals—and most of the minor scrapes and cuts I've sustained over the last few weeks are gone. But I needed serious work on my face, and my other wounds were still tainted by the weed killer. I can still feel the poisons in my blood, too, but their influence has been lessened. I am stained now, instead of being foul, and the act of making such a distinction is troubling.
I'm in the shade of several palm trees, behind a nondescript villa with a plain porch. The setting sun makes the sere hills glow, and the sky overhead is vast and blue and I can see the glint of a few stars already. Next to the villa is the tall trunk of an aged monkey-puzzle tree, its burred branches curling like simian tails. I smell the air, and it's clean and dry with just a hint of fermenting fruit. It's the wrong season to be growing grapes, but there are vineyards nearby.
There's a light on in the villa. I drag myself out of the grave and brush off the worst of the dirt and dust. I'm not wearing any shoes, and it feels good to walk across the tiny yard with bare feet.