either: they were flying, leaping, racing. Without being told, she knew he was back in the Deadlands, the place he had hated and couldn't wait to get back to. "There's no future for us out there, LaRoche. We'll die. You know we will."
He became sullen. "At least we'll be doing something, not just wandering aimlessly the way we are." He shook off the maudlin thoughts. "Anyway, we're not going to die. I know we aren't." He was climbing to his feet, then starting off down the tunnel. "Come on."
She hurried to catch up. "Where are we going?"
"Who knows? Out of these caves for a start." He paused, extended a hand towards her. She came to him, reluctantly at first. He knew she needed reassurance, so he wrapped his arms around her and held her to him. She was trembling. He squeezed her gently. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
She wished. But that didn't make it true. Maybe she was expecting too much for life to be predictable, comfortable. It had been. For a brief moment.
When they finally parted, it was too soon for Mireille. LaRoche, however, was itching to begin his journey of adventure and discovery. He watched her eyes. "Are you alright now?"
She looked away and nodded, lips pursed. "Mmm. Couldn't be better." She omitted to add that she didn't expect it to last.
10
If they weren't sure how far they'd walked in the tunnels, a desiccated corpse disinterred in the process made it pretty clear it wasn't far enough. They had surfaced somewhere in the Deadlands. And as a bonus, they'd returned near a large band of smelly scavengers. Twenty or more of the filthy, unkempt mongrels were in a clearing, relaxing, talking, eating. The closest, a small group - three men and two women - were engaged in a bawdy wrestling match. None, apparently, were expecting trouble.
Mireille and LaRoche scrambled out of the hole as quietly as possible and watched from behind a clump of bushes. She felt nauseous. Her head was throbbing fit to burst. It had to be the air which was so fresh in comparison to that in the caves that it made her eyes water. LaRoche didn't seem to notice. He was deep in thought, studying the scavengers. She never guessed he'd do anything but look - unarmed and outnumbered, the only sensible option was to back off and hope they weren't spotted.
When he started rising she tried to catch hold of him, but he shrugged her off. Then he was walking, spreading his hands like some evangelist embracing the masses! If nothing else, it was a diversion. The scavengers didn't know what to make of it. Their indecision provided an extra moment or two of grace and Mireille grabbed it with both hands. Springing to her feet, she rushed for the pile of weapons.
Afterwards, she had vague recollections of screaming, the clash of steel, and blood. A great deal more, it seemed, than the first time. Apart from that, the confrontation might have been a dream, were it not for the spoils - new weapons and "fresh" clothes stripped from the corpses.
She watched LaRoche selecting his wardrobe and shivered. He'd pitched in eventually - didn't have a lot of choice - but it was the way he'd fought. Fearless, cold and vengeful, as if everyone was to blame for him having a bad day. Especially Mireille. He'd glared at her occasionally, usually after a particularly brutal attack - see what you've made me do! Whoever he'd become, this man was unlike the LaRoche she thought she knew.
Coming to another body, he nudged it with his foot, then squatted to open the woollen shirt a fraction at the neck. He tensed, ripped it down to the waist. The scavenger was a woman. Young, judging by the size and firmness of her breasts. LaRoche gazed for a while then shot an accusatory glare at Mireille. "Waste! You're becoming a liability, Mireille."
That part of him hadn't changed - he was still blaming her for his cock-ups. She brooded in silence, watched as he rose and scanned the area. He heard a whimper, glanced in the direction of the sound and nodded at the dying Scavenger. "Ask him if you don't believe me."
Blood rushed to her cheeks. "Fuck you, LaRoche! If you'd kept your head down, none of this would have been necessary."
"The Gospel according to stupidity?" he sneered.
"Chaos rules," she countered unconvincingly.
He paused to pick up a broad-sword, fingered the beautifully crafted hilt and the keen edge, tried it for balance. Then he held it out before him with both hands like a crucifix. It seemed to calm him and a satisfied smile spread across his lips. Next, he was scanning the bodies until he found the one he was looking for.
It took him a minute or so to remove the full-length hide coat and a little longer to wipe the blood from the shoulders and collar. Finally, he put it on and strode around pretentiously. "What do you think?"
"You look like a flasher." Mireille was feeling sick again and he wasn't helping.
He swaggered over. "There's a lesson to be learned here." He turned on the spot, displayed the front panels like a salesman. "Hardly a mark on it. That's planning."
"You struck lucky, that's all."
"Luck had nothing to do with it. The head was always the target. Anything lower would have damaged the material." He stroked the collar. "Pity about the blood, though."
"And you reckon I'm the cold-hearted butcher!" Mireille looked around for something to do, decided to scout for water bags. LaRoche followed, still admiring the way his coat flowed around him, flourishing his sword occasionally. Nothing practical. She put up with it for a while, then turned on him. "What's happened to you? Was it the caves?"
He gazed off into the distance. "Before then, I think. I only know I feel...." He frowned, puzzled. "....different."
She studied his expression, came to the conclusion he actually believed his own bullshit. "So, where does that leave me?"
LaRoche shrugged indifferently and resumed admiring his coat again. "Wherever you want to be. No doubt you'll decide for yourself soon enough."
11
Light was fading. Perhaps night was approaching, if such a time existed in this place. There was no sun to set, but despite this the temperature had dropped considerably and was still falling. A cooling breeze had whispered in without notice at first, but was now intensifying by the minute. A buzz tingled over the goose-flesh on Mireille's bare arms and she shivered. Her choice of the sleeveless jerkin obviously wasn't a good one.
LaRoche noticed, but chivalry wasn't on his agenda. He closed the front panels of his coat against the chill and smiled quietly to himself - planning was everything. It would get him what he deserved with a minimum of effort. Someone else could do the donkey-work. Like Mireille. She was certainly conscientious - taut as a bowstring, anticipating an ambush at every turn. Unnecessary now, as it happened. He was feeling benevolent for some reason and said: "Forget the scavengers: they'll be scuttling off to their holes by now. We'd be better employed looking for shards."
His casual lack of concern annoyed her. Plus this air of superiority he'd adopted. Like she was always dumb and he was suddenly smart! How did he know what scavengers did of an evening? And what the hell were shards? She put both questions to him. He stared at her as if he couldn't figure where she was coming from. Then his head was shaking despondently and he was walking again, grumbling: "Just accept that one of us has a brain that's functional. In the meantime, find some shards, or we'll be stuck out here in the open."
She stumbled along behind, growled at his back: "Maybe you hadn't noticed,
