Read Online Exodia by Debra Chapoton - Free Book Online Page A

far,” Carter says
again. “We’ll catch the old pipeline. Traveling gets real easy then
for a straight forty or so miles. We’ll try to catch a truck. Don’t
want to wear out those fancy shoes of yours.”
    I don’t look back at him. I know his
tone is joking. My shoes are no better than his tire-rubber boots,
but mine are dyed blue, government issued.
    We walk on and I begin to feel less
sore as I warm up to the hike. The birds chirp above us, one in
particular has a pleasant melody. I am less afraid, too. And the
farther we get from Exodia the less burdened I am. These people
expect me to be some kind of hero-leader. That’s not going to
happen. I’ll blend in with the Reds, learn their ways, help where I
can, and someday go back to find Lydia. But not to attack and win
back Exodia. Ronel may want someone who knows Exodia as well as I
do, but there’s no way these people can match my grandfather’s
arsenal, man-power, and psychic advantage.
    I press my hand against one of my belt
sacks, remembering the stolen ledger papers there. The papers
crinkle. I hope there’s something on them that will help David
Ronel. He may let that be the extent of my contribution. I’ll read
them when we camp tonight.
    Vinn stops suddenly, ducks down, and
motions for us to do the same. We crouch uncomfortably among the
low ferns. He makes some coded hand gestures to Carter who nods
sharply and puts his hand on my shoulder. He mouths directions:
stay down, stay quiet.
    Vinn inches forward, discards his pack
and his stinky vest, and pulls a double action Stun-n-Run gun from
his back pocket. I ache to open my food bag. Lydia said it also
contained a couple of weapons. I should have checked it before we
left, put a weapon in easier reach.
    Carter shrugs off his bag, intending to
back up Vinn. He, too, has a weapon ready. It’s a hammer, kind of
crude, but effective in close quarters. I still don’t hear anything
unusual, but I notice that the birds are no longer
singing.
    Vinn and Carter rise slowly
and creep ahead. I feel useless, helpless. I, who so recently
raised a deadly fist against a stranger, am cowering in the weeds
like a child. I risk some deliberate moves – I settle both bags to the ground and
explore the outer pocket of the food bag. A knife. Just a cooking
knife. Sheathed in a metal jacket that has
probably protected its serrated edge for decades.
    I grip the handle and rise, keeping the
sharp metal sleeve in my left hand–an extra weapon for something
deadly I’ve been trained to do.
    I hear shouts, followed by the sounds
of men fighting. Grunts and human growls. Cries of pain. A woosh,
then a high-pitched whistling followed by an explosion.
    I’m already running in their direction
when my name is called. I slide down an incline and dive through
heavy brush, knife ready. I take in a gory sight, much worse than
my simple bloodless murder. Two men are lying quite still, quite
dead, quite bloody, and then my brain unravels all the clues. Two
Blue soldiers are sprawled face up, but they have no faces. I want
to laugh at my first impression. I start to laugh, catch myself,
turn and vomit. I haven’t missed the most important clue: Vinn is
lying there, too, not quite still, not quite dead, but very, very
bloody.
    “ Help me,” Carter
commands.
    I sheath the knife, clumsily tuck it in
my first belt sack, and kneel next to Vinn. Together Carter and I
get him to his feet and up the hill.
    * * *
    We waste precious minutes deciding what
is best for Vinn. He argues for what is best for me.
    Vinn’s wound is serious, too serious
for him to continue on, but also too dangerous for him to go back
alone. His face shines pale and waxy as a corpse. I offer to return
with them, but Vinn, between gasps and groans, and slumped against
a tree trunk, insists that it is more urgent than ever to get me
far away. The soldiers have tracked me, he believes, and he curses
himself for not checking my bags or boots for a tracking device.