Ice Planet Barbarians (Ice Planet Barbarians, #1)(9)

“Gee, thanks,” I tell her, trying to be upset that I just got volunteered. But it kinda has to be me, I think. Other than Kira and Liz, the others aren’t much of leaders. Everyone is hurt, and I want to point out that my wrist is fucked and my ribs ache, but . . . everyone is hurt. Liz is limping, Kira’s got a busted leg, and the others are a mess. Do I want to leave my fate in the hands of another and hope she could scout decently? “Anyone in here have any survival experience?”

Someone sniffs back tears. Other than that, silence.

Yeah. No one is equipped for this.

At my side, Liz hums “Eye of the Tiger.”

I shoot her the bird. “Okay, fine. If I’m going out in the snow, I need a couple of bars, the gun, and some water.”

“We don’t have canteens,” Liz points out. “Just eat the snow.”

“Not the yellow snow,” someone else quips.

“Oh sure, everyone’s a comedian now that I’m the one going out to scout,” I grumble, but I stretch my legs and tested my wrist and ribs, wincing. It sucks, but we’re low on options. “Okay, I’m somehow going to climb out of that hole in the roof, I guess. I need some clothes.” I gaze down at my dirty shorty pajamas. “I’m guessing these won’t cut it.”

“I know where you can get some nice warm clothing,” Liz says, and points at the dead guard.

“Ugh,” I say, though I was thinking the same thing. “I was kinda hoping someone would miraculously spring out a parka or something.”

“No such luck,” says Tiffany, getting to her feet. “I’ll help you undress him.”

A short time later, Tiffany and I have stripped the body of his clothing and try to figure out how to put it back on me. There are weird invisible buckles and fastenings instead of the usual zippers and buttons, and it smells like sewage and blood and some other spicily-nauseating scent, but it’s surprisingly warm and lined. The jacket’s a little tight across my breasts and makes me look like I have a uniboob, but I’m not wearing this for fashion. The biggest problems are that there are no gloves for my hands and the shoes are designed to fit something with only two big toes instead of five little ones. I squeeze my feet into each shoe, but it hurts.

Still better than nothing, I suppose, which is what I had before.

“Keep your hands tucked in your jacket,” Tiffany suggests. “Your body warmth should help.”

I nod and shove the gun down the front of the jacket, too, letting the long barrel rest between my boobs. I braid my dirty hair to get it out of my face, take the bars Liz offers me, and suck in a deep breath. “I’m going to go as far as I can,” I tell the others. “I’m going to look for help. Or people. Or food. Something. But I’ll be back. If I don’t come back by tomorrow, um, well . . . don’t come looking for me.”

“God, I wish I had some wood to knock on right about now,” Liz says. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, bluffing. “Now, help me get up to the ceiling so I can climb out.”

We maneuver the table over, and two girls hold it in place while I climb and Liz and Megan push me higher. My wrist screams a protest, but I keep climbing, wiggling my way to the top of the breached hull. The scrape is big enough for me to squeeze through, and by the time I make it up to fresh air, my wrist is screaming in pain and it’s getting colder by the minute. I’ve wrapped my sleep shorts around my neck as a scarf and hood, the extra fabric bunched around my exposed throat. My face sticks out of a thigh hole. I’m sure it’s not a sexy look, and the shorts are filthy, but I’m glad for them. The wind is bitter, and I haven’t even stuck my head up through the hole yet.

I put my hands on the icy metal, hissing when my fingers stick to it. I pull them away carefully, wincing at the needle-like feelings pricking at my skin. It’s not only cold out there, it’s damn cold. I use my good arm—now sleeved in the thick, jacket-like uniform of the alien —to propel myself up a bit higher. As I hoist my torso through the crack in the hull, I have a momentary vision of sticking my head out and having an alien chomp it.

Not helpful, Georgie, I tell myself. I shove the image out of my mind as I push through the gap and stare around me.

The good news is that the wind isn’t as bad up here as I thought. Instead, the snow falls in quiet, thick flakes, the two suns shining high overhead.

Two suns.

Two freaking suns.

I squint up at them, making sure I haven’t hit my head in the crash and am now seeing double. Sure enough, two of them. They look almost like a figure eight, with one tinier, much duller sun practically overlapping a larger one. Off in the distance, there is an enormous white moon.

“Not Earth,” I call below. Fuck. I fight back the insane urge to weep in disappointment. I’d so wanted to climb out and see a building in the distance that would tell me oh, it’s just Canada or Finland.

Two suns have pretty much destroyed that hope.

“What do you see?” someone calls up to me.

I stare around the crashed ship at the endless drifts of snow. I look up. In the far distance, there are other mountains—or at least I’m pretty sure they’re mountains—that look like big icy purple crystals the size of skyscrapers. They’re different from this mountain. This one is nothing but barren rock. There are no trees. Nothing but snow and jagged granite. Our tiny ship looks like it bounced off of one of the nearby jaggy cliffs; that was probably how it had torn open.