Lifel1k3 (Lifelike #1)(12)

Of course, everyone had heard talk about deviates who could move things just by thinking on it, or even read minds, but Eve figured that was just spit and brown. Because as fizzy as “mutation” might have sounded in old Holywood flicks, most folks didn’t get superpowers or Godzilla smiles or even great suntans in Dregs. They just got cancer. Lots and lots of cancer.

And the few folks who did get “Special”?

Well, the Brotherhood got them dead.

The quartet was deep in Tire Valley when an automated sentry gun twisted up out of a cluster of old tractor tires, spitting a plume of methane smoke. Hoping the voice-ident software wasn’t fritzing again, Eve started singing some antique tune Grandpa had made her learn. Beethovey or something …

“Da-da-da-daaaaa. Da-da-da-dummmmmm.”

The gun slipped back into its hidey-hole, and they rolled on. Eve had to sing at a couple more automata sentries on the way, dodging the thermex charges Grandpa had laid for uninvited guests, finally rounding a bend to find home sweet home.

It was a series of shipping containers and antique trailer homes, welded around the hulk of a heavy thopter-freighter that had crashed here years ago and buried itself up to the eyeballs in trash. The freighter’s engines had been slicked with grease to spare them the rust that was slowly eating the rest of the ship. Methane exhaust sputtered from three chimneys, and the structure rattled and hummed with the songs of wind turbines and coolant fans. It was surrounded by mountains of tires and the remnants of an old 20C amusement park. The rusted spine of an ancient roller coaster could be seen cresting the trash around them, like some corroding sea serpent swimming through an ocean of garbage.

Eve strolled up to the freighter, banged on the hatch.

“Grandpa, it’s Evie!”

Dragging her wilted fauxhawk from her eyes, she banged on the door again. She heard slow whirring from inside. Pained, labored breathing. The vidscreen beside the door crackled to life and two rheumy eyes peered out from the display.

“We don’t want any,” a voice said.

“Come on, Grandpa, let us in. It’s hot out here.”

“‘Grandpa’?” His voice was all gravel and broken glass. “I used to have a granddaughter once. Damn fool stayed out all night and half the day. Got herself the cancer. Died screaming with her eyes swollen shut and her belly full of blood.”

“That is foul, Grandpa.”

“You kinda remind me of her, actually.” A wet cough crackled through the speaker’s hum. “She was better-looking, though.”

“Come on, I wore my poncho, cut me some rope.”

“The dog is wearing your poncho, Eve.”

“He was hot!”

“And where’s your gas mask?”

“I look defective in that thing.”

“And you’ll be the belle of the ball with a faceful of basal cell carcinoma, won’t you?”

“Are you gonna let us in or what? Kaiser’s brain is probably roasted by now.”

The door cranked wide enough for the group to squeeze inside. Grandpa waited beyond, slumped in his old electric wheelchair. The chair had no manual controls—directions were jacked straight from Grandpa’s brain via the wetware implant at his wrist.

The old man was thin as a starving gull. A shock of gray hair. Eyes sharp as scalpels pouched in sandbag sockets. Wheezing breath. It made Eve’s chest hurt to look at him—to remember what he’d been and see what he’d become. Instead, she looked at the floor and crooked a thumb at her co-conspirator.

“Fizzy if Lemon stays over?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Grandpa frowned. “She’s stayed over for the last ten months.”

“Always polite to ask.” Lemon leaned down, kissed him on his stubbled cheek.

“Away with you and your feminine wiles, Miss Fresh.”

Lemon grinned. “How you feeling, Mister C?”

“Like ten miles of rough road.” The old man coughed into his fist, loud and wet. “Better for seeing you, though, kiddo.”

Kaiser pushed past Eve, still boiling hot. He padded down the hallway, shaking off Eve’s poncho and slinking inside his doghouse. Motion sensors activated the coolant vents, and his tail started wagging in the recycled freon.

“It’s almost midday.” Grandpa scowled up at Eve. “Where you been?”

Apparently, Grandpa had continued in his Surly Old Bastard traditions and hadn’t watched the newsfeeds. He’d no idea about the Dome or what’d happened there. The Goliath. Her outstretched fingers. Screaming …

“Went to WarDome last night to watch the bouts,” she said. “Hit Eastwastes on the way home, looking for salvage.”

Grandpa glanced at Cricket.

“Where’s she been?”

“Just like she said.” Cricket nodded his bobblehead. “WarDome. Eastwastes.”

“Oh, so you believe him and not me?” Eve sighed.

“His honesty protocols are hardwired, chickadee. Yours only work when it suits you.”

Eve made a face, wrangled her satchel off her back, started peeling away her plasteel armor. Underneath, she was wearing urban-camo cast-offs and a tank top that predated the Quake. She stashed Excalibur near the door. Despite the lawlessness in Dregs, Grandpa wouldn’t allow guns in the house, and with her nightmares being what they were, Eve was only too glad for it. Some old grav-tank pilot’s armor and Popstick were the only armaments keeping her bat company.