Gemini

Chapter 9* Prometheus

Chapter 9* Prometheus

Have you ever been to a cliff mid-winter? When there’s no snow yet, just cold winds buffeting you from every direction, and dry, frigid air. So cold that you’d just shiver your socks off.

Well, that is exactly where I am now. I find myself standing on a rocky surface, where little plants grow from cracks in the floor, and all I see when I look out is a vast expanse of land taken up by mountain faces. Vertigo overcomes me when I step forward to peer down the edge.

“Where are we?” I finally voice. I really have got to look for a new thing to say when we teleport.

“No idea,” Sam says. “But it doesn’t matter. In a bit of time we’ll be up and running again. I think… I think the teleporter is able to bring us farther now.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “I can’t wait to see the resistance.”

“I know.” My voice is fervent. “I can’t wait for human contact.”

We exchange a little eye smile. Our lips don’t move, but his eyes twinkle, and I hope, so do mine.

Rummaging in the backpack, I find a bottle of water and toss it to him, and a packet of biscuits. Chocolate chip cookies, yum. Good food, considering that it’s post apocalypse. Sam drains the water while I devour the biscuits.

“Pass me some,” he orders, tossing me an empty bottle. Sticking out a tongue at him, I pass him the packet and take out another bottle of water. Mineral water trickles down my throat, soothing the burn left from the fire. Good stuff.

And my eyes catch something lying in the sparse bushes that shouldn’t be there. It is behind Sam, so I can’t really get a good look at it, but my curiosity is piqued, and I stand.

It’s grey in color, mottled with bruises. It’s swathed in something… cloth. Bile rises in my throat as I finally realize what it is, or rather, what it belongs to.

It is a hand, belonging to a dead man. The hand of a dead man, the dead man’s hand. I begin to sway, and Sam steadies me.

“Keep your calm,” he says in a low voice. “Breathe, Kayla.”

I try to. My world swims and I have to clutch him for support.

“You’d think,” I wheeze, “That after a year of seeing dead bodies everywhere I would be used to them.” I laugh harshly.

Patting my back, Sam leads me away from the body, over to where we previously sat. Handing me a biscuit, he sits me down and scoots next to me, our arms touching. “Tell me about you.”

About me. What about me? I know nothing about me. I decide to humor him with what I already know.

“My name is Kayla Richards,” I say in a monotone. “I am seventeen years old. I weigh about 110 lbs, last I measured. I have red hair and brown eyes. I have a ginger friend. I’ll punch anybody who makes fun of my ginger friend.” Okay, no idea where that last part came from.

Sam bursts out laughing. “You’re crazy.”

Beginning to warm up a little, I sidle just a tiny bit closer. “Tell me about you, then.”

“Well,” Sam says, struggling to put on a serious face. “My name is Samuel Jackson.”

“Middle name?”

To my surprise, he blushes. “Not telling.”

“Come on,” I whine. “Just tell me. It can’t be so bad, right?”