obnoxious attitude, he seemed to have acquired a certain amount of uncanny knowledge. Like the shards: according to him they were crystalline formations, which marked a source of food, water and shelter. He was surprised she didn't know that.
She stopped him. "The point is, how do you know? Who told you?"
From his frown and vacant stare, it was obvious he had no idea. Then he was fobbing off the question. "Women don't have a monopoly on intuition." He turned into the wind, tasted it, wiped dust from his lips. "Keep looking. There isn't much time."
Though he refused to elucidate, she could see some sense in his theory, misguided or not. The wind had picked up considerably and was starting to drive sand and dust before it. They needed shelter. If he could find it for them, she supposed LaRoche's smug arrogance was a small price to pay.
The sky was a deep pink directly above deepening to almost purple on the horizon. Night was definitely closing in and there was still no sign of the formations LaRoche was looking for. As a consequence, his confidence seemed to be waning. "I didn't think they'd be so hard to find," he moaned dismally.
"Better dig out your prophet's handbook again. Maybe speed-reading wasn't the answer."
He stopped and scowled moodily. "I didn't ask for this, Mireille! Being chosen is a heavy responsibility."
"Oh, spare me!" She caught a mouthful of sand and spat. Then turned her back to the wind. "Who picked you from the pile of shit, God?"
"Maybe She did!" The words were out before he could stop them. He averted his gaze.
"She?" When he refused to respond, Mireille tried pushing. "How do you know God's a she? Don't tell me you've had a visitation!"
He'd said too much already. "My beliefs are none of your concern." He turned and began wandering off into the storm, paused long enough to add: "Goodbye, Mireille. It's been an enlightening experience."
Mireille called after him, was about to follow when a strong squall hit, blasting her with sand. By the time she could see again, there was no sign of him. She could just hear his voice ululating on the wind. A desperate plea, a name. But not hers. "Karen," he kept calling. "Speak to me...."
His voice was drowned by a sudden roar as the wind intensified. She sank to her knees, head down, uttering her own prayer to someone she felt could maybe help her. But she couldn't even recall where the name Richard came from.
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