Now, I wait.
She's coming to me. She'll find her way back home.
Without turning, I say to my man, "Leave."
Six
Skye
"We're almost there," Deacon says from beside me.
I nod and pull my sawed-off shotgun out of its holster against my leg. "Everyone check your weapons."
The car fills with the sound of shuffling and clicking as everyone checks their weapons. Fueling is one of the most dangerous things a human can do in a Primitive dominated world. Primitives figured out long ago that humans need fuel in order to travel. Thus, they often stake out fueling stations for attacks.
Our team is getting close to the Santa Fe Sanctuary, less than a day out from our destination. The fuel station we chose is a relatively new one. After the Fall, fuel had been one commodity that’d been in abundance. Now that’s changing. Fuel has a shelf life; the older stuff has gone bad. This particular fuel station was built about 30 years after the Fall and is periodically restocked with new reserves coming in from fuel rich Sanctuaries.
We heard a rumour that it’s been replenished recently, which makes it perfect for filling our vehicles, but a breeding ground for Primitives. I radio to the car behind us, instructing them to prepare for battle.
"There they are." Deacon points out the window of the vehicle, his other hand gripping the steering wheel. There are three Primitives racing toward our vehicle, a gruesome and awkward herd of predators racing after its prey.
"For a species that’re supposedly evolving some kind of smarts, they're still pretty stupid for running at us like that," Scarlett comments from the back seat, craning her neck to see them.
"Don't underestimate them," I admonish her grumpily.
I don't need my team getting lazy, deciding they can take down the Primitives with ease. Through skill and the vaccination, battling Primitives has indeed gotten easier, but that doesn’t mean they won’t tear a person apart if they get their hands on us.
Scarlett decided to join our team when she realized that one of her Santa Fe harem sisters was leading it. When we lived together in the Santa Fe harem, I was informally in charge. Scarlett is used to taking orders from me and she trusts me as a mentor. I might be cold and difficult to be around at times, but I will never lead my team wrong. When I was in Santa Fe, I was an advocate for the harem. Now, I’m an advocate for survivors everywhere.
"Should I hit them?" Deacon asks.
I think about it then nod. "Do it."
Taking out Primitives with a vehicle can be dangerous. Depending on the speed at which we hit them, we could damage the car irreparably. But if we hit going too slow then they might just go under the vehicle and cling to the bottom, or grab hold of the grill until we stop. On one memorable occasion we managed to pick up a Primitive and continue on to our next destination without ever realizing the danger lurking under the car. When we stopped for the night, we got a nasty surprise.
"Brace," Deacon instructs everyone in the vehicle.
I'm sitting next to Deacon, so only I can see the satisfied twist to his lips as the car impacts the first Primitive, his bloodlust rising as he closes in on the kill.
I grip the door handle as the car shudders at the impact. Deacon turns the wheel sharply, takes aim and hits another. Blood sprays across the windshield as the Primitive is killed instantly. The body rolls off the vehicle just as Deacon hits the third. We feel the bump as it goes underneath the tires.
Scarlett turns to look and points when she sees it far behind the car lying on the ground in the dust. The vehicle behind us hits it, ensuring its death if it hadn't died when the first car got it.
"We're here."
Sure enough, the pumps have become visible through the dirt thrown up by our wild driving. Without turning, I address the occupants of my car. "Deacon, cover us from the car, but keep your ass in that seat. I need you driving if we have to get out of here quickly. Hugo, you pump the gas while the rest of us cover you."
The second the car slides to a halt in the dirt next to the pumps, everyone moves. I jump onto the hood and then climb onto the roof, bracing myself as I lift my rifle and take aim at a rapidly approaching Primitive. As the others take their places surrounding the vehicle, I shoot the Primitive in the head. It hits the dirt and rolls, not getting up when it stops.
Silence reigns for a few seconds and I can hear the click and whoosh of gas as it enters the tank. Then all hell breaks loose, Primitives come at us from every direction. We shoot as though our lives depend on it, because they do.
We pause only long enough to allow the other car to swing around us and slide to a halt at the pump on the other side. In unison the car empties and everyone takes up position, same as us, while one member of their team starts pumping.
We've had so much practice at dealing with Primitive attacks that not a single one manages to break the line and get within ten yards of our vehicles. Every bullet counts and every bullet strikes its target. Primitives drop to the ground all around us, creating a grim pile of death that we will drive away from and forget.
"Cars!"
The shout comes from Scarlett.
At first, I have no idea what she's talking about. Cars? In a year of touring the western side of the North American continent, we haven't once come across another vehicle. Travel is dangerous and working vehicles are rare.
My gaze follows to where Scarlett is pointing and I see that she is correct, puffs of dust on the horizon announces the arrival of several vehicles heading our way. Probably looking for gas, same as us. I have no choice but to ignore them for now as I focus on the problem at hand; killing every Primitive that has staked out the fueling station as a good place to pick off humans. By the time we’re done, not a single one will be left alive.
"Do you think they're hostile?" Scarlett calls up to me from her position at the rear of the vehicle.
I let out an annoyed huff and roll my eyes. "How exactly am I supposed to tell that from here?"
No one says anything as we pick off the last few Primitives. I had hoped that we would have enough time to jump back into the vehicles and leave the site before the other cars arrive, but we're too late. One by one, six vehicles line up facing us, clouds of dust surrounding them and obscuring the faces inside. If the number of cars facing us is any indication of the number of occupants inside, we are sadly outnumbered.
"Be ready, but not aggressive. Guns down. No shooting unless I say." The last thing I need is for one of my people to get jumpy and kill someone innocent.
Before the dust can clear, a man emerges. He's tall, broad, with wild dark hair hanging down his shoulders and a beard obscuring half his face. It's not the bottom half of his face that tells me who he is though. It's the one amber eye fixed on me that tells me exactly who’s approaching.
Deacon twists to look up at me from the driver’s window, his brow raised in question. He wants to know if he should be covering me, but I'm incapable of speaking. Not one single word. That one eye has pinned me to the roof of my car.
He stops right below me, the dust swirling around the cuffs of his leather pants and his heavy, dirt encrusted boots. He tips his head back and glares. "Skye." That one single word, my name, is filled with meaning. He’s come for me.