dodging the spear he swung, jabbed and slashed in such a crazed random flurry that it was impossible to predict where it would strike next.
Mireille jogged to him, hacked at the scavengers on the fringe and forced her way into his killing ground. He swung at her in passing. No animosity, nothing personal: she was simply another target. "It's me!" she screeched, had to jump back as he went for her again. She spun, drove a spike up under the chin of one savage, spitting tongue, palate and brain. With the other sabrette she took off a head and watched a fountain of blood spurt high in the air from between the shoulders. "LaRoche, you fucking maniac! Remember me - Mireille? I'm on your side!"
LaRoche gave her a glance. Not a smile, nor a grimace. Just a reproachful, what-kept-you? look. She swung her arm over, a windmill-action because LaRoche had moved close, was cramping her. Contact jarred her wrist as the blade cleft a skull and stopped at the bridge of the scavenger's nose. At the same time another fell, LaRoche's spear buried in his gut. The scavengers took it as a sign which declared their offensive to be all-but lost. The remaining rabble turned on its heels and dashed for the safety of the scrub.
LaRoche didn't appear to notice the retreat. He blundered on, swinging and jabbing with the spear, grunts and snarls issuing from between trembling lips. Mireille caught his arm. He shrugged it off. "It's over, LaRoche." More jabbing, slashing, muttering. "LaRoche, they've gone. We've won."
He stuttered to a halt, frowned deeply. "Won?" Turning slowly, he surveyed the carnage.
Corpses littered the ground. A severed hand clutched the shaft of a club. A head stared at the body to which it had once been attached. Movement, moaning: a couple of the scavengers were still alive, blood draining from wounds into dark, sandy pools beside them. Before she could stop him, LaRoche strode to them, stabbed each in turn through the heart with the spear.
When Mireille reached him he was staring down, trembling all over, the spear dangling loosely from a hand at his side. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came. Just a stream of vomit.
3
LaRoche was squatting at the mouth of the crystal canyon. Mireille was off somewhere. Foraging, she'd said. She seemed to have been gone for ages and he wished she'd hurry up. There was no sign of scavengers, not yet, but it was too much to ask that the war had been won in the first skirmish. When they did come again, he wasn't sure he could repeat his earlier performance.
Not that courage was failing: he'd never had it to start with. Just some irrepressible urge to survive. It had welled up inside accompanied by a voice, sometimes very clear; at others, just a whisper. Familiar, like a ghost from a past, that had retreated behind a thick fog. It kept reminding him of his duty, especially to himself. He had to live, it said, because if he died, so would the future and he had no right to be that selfish. So, he'd fought, mainly to stay alive, figuring he could sort out the airy-fairy ulterior motives later.
While Mireille had been gone, he'd tried, but, although the voice hadn't entirely deserted him, it had become even more distant and oblique. It seemed to be staggering through his subconscious like a drunk, bumping into things, stimulating responses he'd never instituted. One time, he'd felt a sudden urge to make love and Mireille's image had popped into his head. The thought had embarrassed him. The voice said: "What are you - some kind of fag?" His conscience, maybe? He'd have liked to think so, but he had a feeling it was more than that - like there was another person in his head. What was wrong with him? Was he going mad?
Hugging his knees to his chest, he tried thinking of something pleasant, but his memories only related to this place and the scavengers; nothing before. And all he really knew about himself was his name, one he'd thought up in a moment of panic - a meaningless label on an empty box.
Mireille made it back. By this time, a light ground mist had rolled in to carpet the area. Definitely spooky. LaRoche was growing up out of it like a fungus, hunched over and dozing. Just as well scavengers were apparently stupid. She threw down the bundle she was carrying, exploding the mist and frightened the shit out of him. He began scrambling around for his weapon in panic. Then he saw who it was and tried to snarl resentfully. "You took your time."
"I stopped for a pee, alright?" She lobbed a swollen water-bag none-too-gently on his lap. "Tastes like puke, so don't drink too much at once."
He was leaning over, rummaging through the pile of material. "Is this the best you could do?" He held up a blood-stained shirt. "My God! You've been robbing the dead!"
"What was I supposed to do? K-Mart was shut."
"But they're filthy!"
"Jesus Christ! We needed clothes, I got us clothes." She scanned the area. "Hurry up and get dressed. I'll stand watch."
LaRoche continued picking through the garments, sneering in disgust. He flinched, slapped at his arm, brought the hand in front of him to examine the creature pinched between finger and thumb. "Fleas! These rags are alive with them!"
"For Christ's sake!" She snatched a leather coat from the top of the pile, began fumbling her way into it. Then dragged on a pair of woollen trousers and hide boots. All had seen better days, none of them the inside of a laundromat. "There!" She stooped, collected up her weapons, glared at him. "If I can put up with it, so can you."
"It's unhealthy," LaRoche continued. "We could catch something."
"Like what? AIDS? Clap?" She was aware of tickling in her pubic region. Something crawling through the hairs. Crabs? "Don't be such a wimp." The itching increased - more of the little sods - but there was no way she was going to let him see her scratching. She shuffled a few paces and turned her back. "Get your skates on. I want out of here before those bastards come back."
She hoped she sounded confident, in total control. At least LaRoche seemed to think so. It was as well he couldn't see past the aggressive, hard-nosed exterior. Beneath the facade she was having problems.
It was the voice in her head: bloody Richard; too persistent to simply write him off as imagination. So, what was he? Her alter ego, she guessed. Did LaRoche have one? At the moment he was probably too screwed up to even notice.
Richard had been doing his best to dump her in the same funny-farm. He said he was in hospital, at death's door, in case she was interested. The least she could do was show a little consideration and stop trying to get herself killed. Didn't she realise she was part of him? What happened to her directly affected his wellbeing! And another thing - aside from any sense of responsibility she ought to feel for him, there was the moral aspect. Killing was wrong. Didn't she know that? After what she'd done, didn't she feel the slightest bit dirty?
"Screw you," she moaned under her breath. Why should she feel dirty? She'd actually enjoyed it! The fear, the danger, the victory. And the killing. Especially that. Able to spare a life, or snuff it out with a single blow - that was the power civilisation had stolen from the majority of the human race. For a few precious minutes there, she'd taken some of it back. Anyway, what had he expected her to do - just lay down and die?
He seemed to go quiet. Didn't have an answer to that one, she supposed. She used the cease-fire to check out LaRoche. He was easing himself into a pair of breeches, attempting to keep the filthy material away from that cut on his leg. His concern annoyed her. "For Christ's sake! Are you going to take all day?"
LaRoche didn't look at her. "I need medical attention. This is a very deep cut."
"What do you want, a sympathy card? Call 911."
"There's
