Lifel1k3 (Lifelike #1)(25)

God, he was so thirsty… .

The rev of a motor and the soft squeak of brakes caught his attention. He tried to lift his head, but it hurt too much. He heard slow boots crunching in gravel, the chink of spurs. Graycoats, maybe? ’Bout time they showed up. Damn lawmen were never around when you needed ’em. But maybe they could stitch him up, maybe they could …

“Hey,” he called feebly. “H-hey, help!”

He heard a low growl, joined by a high-pitched yapping. Craning his neck, he clapped eyes on a pair of dogs standing among the scrap. One was huge, black, feral-looking. The second was the kind of cute you’d expect to find sitting in a gramma’s lap. Small, white and very fluffy.

Tye could swear their eyes were glowing.

“Mary,” said a deep, graveled voice. “Jojo. You hush now.”

Tye heard crunching footsteps, the creak of leather. With a wince, he pulled himself up onto his elbow, caught sight of a tall fellow in a dusty black coat, a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. But though he almost wore the right color, this fellow surely wasn’t the Law.

His face was weatherworn but handsome, his eyes a pale and shocking blue. He was packing serious grit—a long-barreled rifle slung on his back, two custom shooters at his hips, a belt loaded with frontline tech Tye didn’t even recognize. A red glove covered his right hand. Snug in his breast pocket was an old, beaten copy of the Goodbook. And at the top of his button-down black shirt, encircling his neck, the man wore a pristine white collar.

“Y-you a … priest?” Tye asked.

“Preacher.” The man tipped his hat. “Howdy.”

“Howdy?” Tye coughed, holding up his bloody hands. “I got a bullet in my belly, Preacherman, how the hells d’you think?”

“Mmmf,” the man grunted. He fished inside a pocket and stuffed a wad of what must’ve been synthetic tobacco into his cheek. Blue eyes took in his surroundings as he stroked the stubble on his chin.

“You just gonna stand there?” Tye hollered. “I’m gutshot, Preacher, go get the Graycoats. I need me some—”

“I’d shush that hole of yours, boy,” the man said. “Unless you want another.”

Something in the Preacher’s voice made Tye fall quiet. Something that reached past the broken glass and acid and planted a cold, wriggling fear inside his gut. The Preacher scoped the remnants of the battle, the bodies and the ruined Spartans, the smoking tires. He nodded to himself. Spat a long stream of brown juice into the dirt.

“Well, you boys surely made a mess.”

Tye clutched his punctured belly, licked at dry lips.

“Listen, you g-got any water? I’m real th—”

“Lookin’ for someone,” the man replied, still scanning the trash. “Blond piece. Fancy hair. Skinny scavvergirl, ’bout yay high.” The man gestured vaguely.

“Y-yeah, Evie.” Tye winced. “I kn-know her.”

“Where’s she at, boy?”

“She … she jetted. Her and her grandpa Silas. Took off … in their damn h-house, if you believe it. After that brunette in the flex-wing b-blew my crew all to hell.”

“Mmmf,” the Preacher grunted.

“Mister, I’m r-real thirsty… .”

The man ignored him, wandered off into the Scrap with the big black dog. The fluffy white one simply sat on the trash and eyeballed Tye. He couldn’t see what the preacherman was doing, concentrated instead on ignoring the pain in his belly. He didn’t know how long he lay there. The minutes pooled together like the blood on the ground beneath him. Finally, he heard footsteps approaching across the trash again. Raising his head, he saw the Preacher looming over him.

The man was holding a dirty poncho, partway burned, splashed with red. He held it out to Tye, and the boy saw writing on the inside collar: Property of Eve Carpenter. If found, please return to Tire Valley. If stolen, screw you, trash-humper.

“This her?” the Preacher asked. “Evie Carpenter?”

“Y-yeah,” Tye whimpered. “That’s her.”

The Preacher held out the poncho to his dogs. They snuffled the fabric, eyes still glowing softly. The little white fluffball growled like a broken chainsaw. Tye groaned as the pain in his belly surged. He could taste blood in his mouth now.

“Preacher, I’m h-hurt. I’m hurt real bad.”

“Yup,” the man replied, eyes still on the scrap.

“You’re a f-fellow of the Goodbook. Ain’t you g-gonna help me?”

The Preacher sighed. “I reckon.”

Reaching to his belt, the man drew out a hulking pistol.

“H-hey, whoa, whoa!” The boy raised his bloody palms. “You’re a holy m-man, you don’t got no right to lay a killin’ on me!”

The Preacher took aim between Tye’s eyes.

“Boy, I got the only right.”

BOOM.

The man looked about the battleground one more time. Studying the patterns and the poetry. Listening to the wind. Satisfied his blitzhunds had the scent, he threw the poncho over Tye’s shattered head.

Spat into the dirt.

“Mmmf,” he grunted.

Spinning on a spurred heel, the Preacher strode off into the Scrap.





1.8


BREATHE