by her goggles and mask, but Cam remembered the shape of her mouth and her quick, intelligent gaze.
She doesn’t know, he thought. She can’t. No one would ever guess I could still feel that way about anyone, because no one could ever feel that way about me.
And if she did...If she was aware of his attraction, he would hate her for using it against him.
“Newcombe wants out of here,” Ruth whispered. “I can’t blame him for that, but he hasn’t been through what you and I have. He doesn’t realize.”
Cam nodded, brooding. He wanted more reasons to be closer to her, even bad ones, and not for the ‚rst time he wondered how she must have felt watching the planet go dark from the space station. Watching it stay dark, the cities on every continent abandoned and lost. She had suffered in different ways, more like a prisoner than a refugee.
“Don’t leave me,” she repeated.
“I won’t.” It was a promise. But at the same time, he knew it was very possible that Newcombe would force the issue. What else could the soldier do? Let them walk away? Newcombe had almost as much on the line as the two of them. He would never jump on a plane without Ruth or her data index.
Cam turned to regard the other man again as an old, animal feeling stole over him—an empty sort of clarity that he hadn’t known since he murdered Chad Loomas, the man who was the ‚rst to steal and hide food on the small mountain peak where Cam had survived the plague year.
If it came to a ‚ght, Cam thought Newcombe had every edge. Newcombe was stronger. He had the assault ri†e. Rather than confronting him face-to-face, Cam knew he would be smarter to shoot the other man in the back.
* * * *
Before dawn they continued north. It was necessary no matter what they decided. They had to assume there was a forward base, either on the mountaintop where Ruth and Newcombe had ‚rst met Cam or somewhere in Tahoe or Yosemite—or all three. They needed to be that paranoid. The helicopters yesterday might have only been on a random search grid, but Newcombe didn’t think so. Fuel was too precious.
The morning sun was still burning off the clouds when they discovered the reason for the helicopter patrol. There was only one body, a whole body, crushed and burned but whole, so immediately different than the thousands of bare skeletons strewn across the road.
“Stop,” Cam said. They were at least sixty yards away and he climbed onto the bumper of a station wagon, digging his binoculars out of his jacket.
“What is that?” Ruth asked, craning her neck.
It was a young man in uniform, wrapped in gear and still tied to a paraglider. A ripped glider. His clothes and skin were scorched and there appeared to be wounds caused by shrapnel. It was dif‚cult to tell because there were already bugs in him, an undulating haze like a ghost. Worse, he’d fallen to his death. Fallen a long way. Some of him had splashed and the rest was only held together by his uniform, belts, and pack.
“Christ,” Newcombe muttered.
Cam was already looking out across the horizon for the rest of the crew and the plane itself. That was the explosion we heard before the helicopters came to clean up, he thought. But he saw nothing. He supposed the aircraft could have gone down miles from here, depending on its altitude and direction when the missile struck.
“Is that a pilot?” Ruth asked.
She must think he ejected, Cam realized as he stepped off of the car. He gave Newcombe the binoculars, occupying the other man’s hands. “It’s a paratrooper,” he said. “What do you think, Newcombe? Is he Canadian?”
“But he’s not wearing a containment suit,” Ruth said.
“He’s American.” Newcombe appeared to recognize some articles of the man’s clothing, although there were no unit patches or insignia that Cam had seen. “A rebel, probably.”
“But he couldn’t last more than a couple hours down here,” Ruth said. “He would know that.”
“He
She doesn’t know, he thought. She can’t. No one would ever guess I could still feel that way about anyone, because no one could ever feel that way about me.
And if she did...If she was aware of his attraction, he would hate her for using it against him.
“Newcombe wants out of here,” Ruth whispered. “I can’t blame him for that, but he hasn’t been through what you and I have. He doesn’t realize.”
Cam nodded, brooding. He wanted more reasons to be closer to her, even bad ones, and not for the ‚rst time he wondered how she must have felt watching the planet go dark from the space station. Watching it stay dark, the cities on every continent abandoned and lost. She had suffered in different ways, more like a prisoner than a refugee.
“Don’t leave me,” she repeated.
“I won’t.” It was a promise. But at the same time, he knew it was very possible that Newcombe would force the issue. What else could the soldier do? Let them walk away? Newcombe had almost as much on the line as the two of them. He would never jump on a plane without Ruth or her data index.
Cam turned to regard the other man again as an old, animal feeling stole over him—an empty sort of clarity that he hadn’t known since he murdered Chad Loomas, the man who was the ‚rst to steal and hide food on the small mountain peak where Cam had survived the plague year.
If it came to a ‚ght, Cam thought Newcombe had every edge. Newcombe was stronger. He had the assault ri†e. Rather than confronting him face-to-face, Cam knew he would be smarter to shoot the other man in the back.
* * * *
Before dawn they continued north. It was necessary no matter what they decided. They had to assume there was a forward base, either on the mountaintop where Ruth and Newcombe had ‚rst met Cam or somewhere in Tahoe or Yosemite—or all three. They needed to be that paranoid. The helicopters yesterday might have only been on a random search grid, but Newcombe didn’t think so. Fuel was too precious.
The morning sun was still burning off the clouds when they discovered the reason for the helicopter patrol. There was only one body, a whole body, crushed and burned but whole, so immediately different than the thousands of bare skeletons strewn across the road.
“Stop,” Cam said. They were at least sixty yards away and he climbed onto the bumper of a station wagon, digging his binoculars out of his jacket.
“What is that?” Ruth asked, craning her neck.
It was a young man in uniform, wrapped in gear and still tied to a paraglider. A ripped glider. His clothes and skin were scorched and there appeared to be wounds caused by shrapnel. It was dif‚cult to tell because there were already bugs in him, an undulating haze like a ghost. Worse, he’d fallen to his death. Fallen a long way. Some of him had splashed and the rest was only held together by his uniform, belts, and pack.
“Christ,” Newcombe muttered.
Cam was already looking out across the horizon for the rest of the crew and the plane itself. That was the explosion we heard before the helicopters came to clean up, he thought. But he saw nothing. He supposed the aircraft could have gone down miles from here, depending on its altitude and direction when the missile struck.
“Is that a pilot?” Ruth asked.
She must think he ejected, Cam realized as he stepped off of the car. He gave Newcombe the binoculars, occupying the other man’s hands. “It’s a paratrooper,” he said. “What do you think, Newcombe? Is he Canadian?”
“But he’s not wearing a containment suit,” Ruth said.
“He’s American.” Newcombe appeared to recognize some articles of the man’s clothing, although there were no unit patches or insignia that Cam had seen. “A rebel, probably.”
“But he couldn’t last more than a couple hours down here,” Ruth said. “He would know that.”
“He
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