Jump Zone: Cleo Falls (12 page)

“Thanks,” Libra said awhile later. “Guess we’re even in the life-saving department.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I don’t get it,” he said after a few more minutes. “How come you’re so different from those other Taigans?”

“Other Taigans? You mean the Bangers?” she looked at him from the corner of her eye, could see how conflicted, how puzzled he appeared. He couldn’t think…

Cleo ground to a halt in mid-step. “Those aren’t my people, Libra. Those aren’t Taigans. They’re Bangers. Did you think— Oh for the love of ducks, no, no, and no.”

Libra’s eyebrows came together, clearly unable to process her denial.

“Bangers wander the Taiga, usually alone—in fact, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen them in pairs,” she said, glancing back. “They don’t have the mental acuity for socialization or know better than to drink from the Dead Lakes. They’re violent, aggressive, and singular-minded when it comes to food.”

“Are there a lot of them?” he asked.

“No, not really. Scattered around here and there. I haven’t encountered one in ages, and they generally stay far away from the villages. Even when we do run into them, we just give them space and avoid confrontation. Don’t you have people like that in Gomeda?”

He shrugged. “We certainly have individuals who can’t cope with life, sure. But we institutionalize them and try to fix them.”

“Oh.” Cleo wasn’t sure how to respond. Was he implying the Bangers could be fixed?

“Where do they come from?”

“I don’t know. They just…are.” That’s what her father had told her once when she was very young. She never thought to question him and accepted them as part of the threat, like alphacats, polar grizzlies, and everything else scary and unexplainable.

“Why do you call them
Bangers
?”

“It’s how they eat. They catch small animals—squirrels, mice, rabbits if they’re lucky—and pound the carcass with a rock until it’s pulp. Then they slit the skin and drink…well, I think you can figure out the rest. You could see for yourself that they don’t have the dental capacity for chewing tough meat. Or the mental capacity to care.”

Libra winkled his nose. “That is the
vilest
thing I have ever heard. Just…
disgusting.
They don’t even
cook
it first?”

Cleo shook her head. “Bangers and fire don’t mix.”

Libra put his hand over his stomach. “I don’t even care that you gave away my food. I can’t see my appetite returning for weeks. Maybe months.”

“It is kind of gross.” Cleo laughed and met his gaze. Their kiss came rushing back into memory, the way his mouth moved across her lips and neck, so vivid, she felt heat rush into her cheeks and a pull of longing in her abdomen that made her shiver. She averted her eyes, embarrassed.

“You must be freezing,” he said, misunderstanding. “I’ve got some dry clothes in my pack. You can take your pick.”

“Why don’t you find something for me.”

While Libra rummaged, Cleo was struck by another shiver, complete with goose bumps, and realized she really was chilly, especially now that they’d stopped jogging. The rain had kicked the temperature down to an uncomfortable level. They’d been lucky with the weather ‘til now, but September nights could drop the mercury into low double digits and Cleo had no intention, after surviving drowning, a hungry alpha-cat attack, and a pair of thieving Bangers, of succumbing to pneumonia.

“These will have to do for now,” Libra said, tossing her a ribbed sleeveless shirt and pair of black thermal leggings. “My apologies for the wifebeater, but it’s the only thing I have that’s both dry and clean. The pants are some kind of special material that I’m supposed to wear under my clothes if it gets cold, so they should warm you up.” Libra turned his back to give her privacy and peeled off his wet shirt. “Tell me when you’re done.”

“These are perfect, thanks.” She lingered a moment to gawp at his physique. She’d almost forgotten how marvelous his back was; broad with well-defined muscles across his shoulder blades.
Definitely not a malnourished desk jockey.
“Why are wives beaten for these flimsy little tops?”

He chuckled, low and chesty, the damage to his vocal chords only enhancing the sexiness of his rumble.  “It’s just an expression.”

“We’ll have to find some dry wood to make a fire tonight,” she said, fighting with the swollen laces of her halter and wishing she’d chosen a different outfit at the start of her journey, like the practical woven-thread tunic that was at the bottom of the river with the rest of her things. “Oh, for the love of wet cows.”

“That’s a new one. What’s wrong?”

“Ever try to peel off drippy animal hide?”

“Need help?”

Yes.
“No, but this could take awhile.”

The rumble again, heavy with implication, struck her midsection like a ball of fire.

“Hey, when we were back there, you told the Banger you killed his friend,” Libra said. “But later you told him to share the food.”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“How could he share with a dead guy?”

“Ghosts get hungry too,” Cleo joked.

Libra remained silent.

She glanced over her shoulder. “You don’t really believe I killed that Banger, do you?”

Silence. Stillness. He remained focused in the other direction.

“Libra?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

“No!” Cleo pulled so hard on the leather cord, it snapped. “Damn it.” She pulled the laces through and tugged the wet garment off her body with a huff. “How could you even think such a thing?”

“I don’t know. Nothing about this territory is what I thought. Everything’s a surprise. Especially you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“How could I be a surprise? You didn’t know I existed until a few days ago.”

“I don’t mean you as an individual, but you as a girl from a tribe in the Taiga. I expected you people to be more like…them. Bangers.”

She wished she could see his face, read his expression, his body language. Words alone gave no hints as to how to interpret these revelations. “But that’s ridiculous. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Talk, stories, personal accounts. I think Gomedans have a load of misconceptions about the tribal way of life.”

“Clearly,” she huffed, discarding her wet leather for the comfy leggings. She rolled the waistband over a few times so they wouldn’t drop off her hips. “But for the record, I’ve never killed another human being, not even a Banger.” Cleo turned. “There hasn’t been a murder in my clan since the day I was born,” she said, unable to cover the malice in her voice. “Hope that convinces you we’re not some kind of animals.”

Libra spun round to face her. “I wasn’t implying—”

“Yes, you were. Did,” she said matter-of-factly. “Many times.”

“No, I wasn’t. It’s just that…” Libra blew out a breath and shrugged. “The way you had him in that strangle hold, then how you took down the other one… how was I supposed to… I mean, I’ve never seen a girl fight like that.”

“Well, let’s get this out in the open, then. I’m a Wolverine Clan warrior, third-class. Do you have a problem with that?”

“I never said that!”

“Did my
savagery
shock you?”

“What? No!” he said. Libra turned on his heel and walked a few steps. He pushed his hands through his wet hair before pivoting abruptly and marching back to where she stood.

She stood her ground, hands on hips, shoulders back, and chin up, ready to face whatever bullshit misconception he had. Perhaps she’d flatten his ass to the ground for good measure.

“Fact is…”  His Adam’s apple bobbed. He reached up to remove a leaf from her hair then scanned her face, his gaze lingering on her mouth. “Fact is…” He brushed his thumb across her mouth, making Cleo’s breath catch. His eyes locked on hers and his voice seemed to take on an even raspier tone. “I was completely turned on.”

Nineteen

T
urned on.

Did he really say that? Cleo wondered if her cheeks were as bright as they felt.

“We’d better get moving.”  Her voice sounded disembodied as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

Turned on.
By her fighting.

She was damn proud of her skills, but the guys in her tribe either challenged her or avoided her. Group A had the cocky I’ll-show-her-who’s-boss mentality, then went away bitter, tails between their legs, when she put them in their place. Group B were the opposite—completely intimidated, scared to ask her to go walking with them, terrified when caught staring.

Now the urbanite went and added a new category, Group C—
turned on
.

For the love of all things… Damn, she couldn’t come up with an appropriate ending to that one, but at least she felt a little better about letting him take up so much of her headspace. At least he appreciated her kick-assness. She might even forgive him for that other shit.

He cut into her reverie. “Can we make it to the post tonight?”

Cleo glanced at the dimming sky. “Not a chance. There’s not much daylight left. But it’s all pretty easy from here. Once we hit the grid line, we’ll go south until we get to the Dead Lake.”

Cleo bent to pick up a broken branch, snapping away the few skinny twigs protruding from the sides. It made a perfect walking stick, and she was a little sore. “I know a good spot to stop for the night. From there, it’s only another couple hours to the Trading Post. If we get up with the sun, we can make it in time for breakfast. And believe me when I tell you Miss Valentina makes bread that will make your mouth water. Oh, and fresh bacon! I can practically smell it. Don’t you love the smell of thick applewood-smoked bacon, frying in the skillet?”

When he didn’t answer right away, she caught him staring at her backside like
it
was a side of bacon. “Did you even hear what I said?”

“What? Oh, sorry. Bacon. Never had it.”

“You’ve never had bacon? You poor, deprived soul!”

“Yeah, well, there aren’t an abundance of farm animals wandering around Gomeda.”

“So, besides Nutrishit, what’s on a typical menu?”

“Ha! Nutrishit…because I’ve never heard that one before,” he derided. “We get the occasional fruits and vegetables from the hydroponic farms; whatever the Ministry of Food and Agriculture deems there’s an overage of. For instance, if they have an inventory excess of tomatoes, they’re sold in open market, albeit at an exorbitant price.”

“What do you mean
excess
? What happens to the original inventory?”

“It goes to the NutriCorp. Oh, don’t give me that icky face, please. Nutrifood
is
made up of some real food, you know. It’s not
all
chemicals. At least nobody has to bang it with a rock,” he said with a shudder. “But realize that they have eleven million mouths to feed on a limited supply, so they hydroponically grow perfect specimens that NutriCorp then uses to mass produce balanced meals for everyone, so even folks that can’t afford to supplement their diets with fresh ingredients… Well, at least they’re getting some kind of nutrition.”

“Like the Stone Soup fable?”

“Yes, exactly. Except there’s not quite enough of the good stuff, so they do have to bulk it up with fillers and such.”

“It’s the ‘and such’ I’d be worried about.”

“Yeah well, there
are
nutrition issues in Gomeda,” he said quietly. “I can’t deny that. But people aren’t starving anymore, not like they did after the collapse, but some do suffer from certain…deficiencies. Lots of disease still lingers about, far too much chronic illness affects the young, the poor, et cetera. I guess
healthy
is a relative term for us.”

She craved to ask him about his past, about his life in the city, but bit her tongue. It was sure to lead to comparisons, then to a Gomeda versus Taiga competition, and though part of her still itched for a fight, she didn’t like how Libra’s face tightened up when they argued. She wanted the warm-fuzzy feeling to come back to their conversation. She wanted that half-smile that made her insides feel squishy.

“You don’t look too deprived.” Cleo reached out to give his upper arm a squeeze. “Or
feel
too deprived.”

“All the better to save young damsels who throw themselves over waterfalls,” he said, flashing his half-smile.

“But seriously, how…” she let the question trail off, unsure of how to word it.

“How come I’m the picture of health?”

Cleo nodded thinking “picture of health” barely described his toned physique.

“I was born healthy.” He sighed as if it were a burden. “And was lucky to have access to potable water, vitamins, and a fully stocked food consolidator.”

“But no bacon.”

“Alas, no bacon.”

Cleo gave her head a slow dramatic shake. “That is just so wrong. Don’t think I could survive without bacon. Or want to. I’d probably throw myself over a waterfall.”

“Oh, is that what happened?” Libra smiled and reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We had other meat-like things that don’t bear scrutiny, so we won’t discuss them. How about you? It’s obvious you don’t subsist on grubs and rodents—” 

“—that we catch with our bare hands and eat raw?”

“You mean
drink
raw?” He crinkled his nose. “And you’re correct. I admit, and you may flog me later, but I had some pretty heinous misconceptions about the people of the Taiga, especially the—”

“Oh, we’re here,” Cleo interrupted as they rounded a bend in the path. She pointed to the wall of stone that cut through the trees.

“Zhang hell!” Libra started agape at what lay ahead, then flicked his eyes back to Cleo. “I mean, it didn’t look as big when I came up on a solar scooter, you know?”

There was no other way to describe the grid but a river of boulders; rocks of every shape and size, piled ten to fifteen feet high and fifty feet wide.

“How do you traverse these with wagons and horses—you do still use those, right?”

“And solar scooters, sometimes,” she said, hating herself for caring what he thought of their lifestyle. “There are all kinds of passes on the inter-tribal trails, and bridges or tunnels, depending the landscape. The trails that run a direct route from village to trading post are simple to navigate. We’re a bit off the beaten track here.”

“What about animals?”

She was surprised he would have considered migration routes. “They climb over,” she explained, but Libra looked sceptical. Cleo laughed. “Moose can cross rocks, you know. They’re far more agile than their spindly legs let on. The smaller critters go between the gaps and spaces. That said, lots of snake nests in there, so be careful.”

Cleo hoisted herself onto a three-foot-high boulder—the biggest in the wall in front of her—but if a little kick-ass action got him turned on, maybe fleet-footing it over the channel would heat him up, too.

She peeked over her shoulder to see Libra’s eyes darting from rock to rock.

“You’re not afraid of snakes, are you?”

“Hmm? No. Take this,” he said, throwing his pack up toward her.

“Yeah, sure,” Cleo said, swinging it onto her back, wondering why he looked so charmingly distracted.

“These rocks are pretty solid, yeah? No loose bits or booby traps I should know about?”

Cleo hoisted herself up to the next level of rocks and looked down from her perch. “No, they’ve been jammed in here for decades, so they’re pretty stable. But you should be careful anyway.”

To her amusement, Libra did two deep knee bends, rotated each ankle, and then backed up a dozen paces.

“Not sure a few rocks warrant such Olympian preparation, Libra,” she laughed. “This has nothing on the escarpment you managed to scale.”

Instead of answering, he puffed his breath a few times and took off at a sprint. Just before he got to the first row of rocks, he leapt—not just jumped, but leapt like a freaking alphacat—into the air. Arms out, Libra hand-sprang off the three-footer she just came from, his body twisted in a full upside down circle, and landed on the row above her. The rest happened in a blur of movement—hands, feet, bouncing, somersaulting, flying over the channel until he was out of sight on the other side. The entire performance couldn’t have taken any more than ten or fifteen seconds.

“For the love of tap dancing ducks, what
the hell
was that?”

Cleo, who had always thought of herself as nimble, scrambled across the rocks, shaking her head with disbelief, shock, and most annoyingly, a touch of envy.

“Gravity…” she huffed as he came within her view. “Got something against it?” She tossed the backpack down at him.

“Hell no,” he said, beaming like a wolf in a field of sheep. “It’s essential to what I do.”

“And what is it you do,
exactly
, Mr. I’m-just-a-pencil-pusher?” Cleo demanded, ignoring his proffered hand as she jumped to the ground from the highest boulder on the edge. “You got a cape and mask I should know about?”

“No. And no wings, either.” He did a repeat of his earlier pirouette to satisfy her. “It’s just a hobby. Ever heard of PK or free running?”

“Nope.”

“PK is short for parkour. It’s a sport that people do in the city, a way to get from one place to another using a combination of running, jumping, flipping, twisting, basically using your body in an acrobatic way to get around obstacles.”

“And you’re a PKer in Gomeda?”

“People who do it are called
traceurs
, and yes, I do it all the time.”

“The escarpment?”
That’s how he did it. Cheater. He could have mentioned…

“You got it. Between the roots jutting out from the rocks, the ledges, bumps, and slopes, it really wasn’t that much of a challenge.”

“Really,” she said, thinking it was probably a good deal more challenging than he’d admit. But as this new information simmered, she couldn’t help feeling a bit pole-axed, torn between being impressed and feeling a little like she’d been duped.

“And I did have a good length of polycord.”

He hadn’t mentioned this PK skill. Should he have? Did the opportunity come up before now? Probably not, but her suspicion vibes tingled nonetheless.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Never came up. Why didn’t you tell me you could fight like that?”

“Never came up.”

“Guess we’re even.”

“No. We’re not,” Cleo said, tightening her jaw. “Why didn’t you tell me, you know, back there, when I flipped out, imagining you dead?”

“I…I don’t know,” he said, reaching for her hand. She didn’t pull away, but neither did she curl her fingers around his. “I guess I was shocked that you actually seemed to care. And you were so wound up, angry…” Libra’s eyes darkened as he tugged her toward him, “…and hot. You looked so mussed, like you just tumbled out of bed after an especially athletic night,” he said, dipping his head, getting closer with each word, “so damn sexy that I just wanted to eat you up.”

Libra’s lips brushed against hers, not with the hungry punishing force like before, but affectionately, softly, making her eyelids flutter down, completely surrendering to the tenderness of the moment, the tenderness of his touch.

Cleo sighed and pulled back before he had a chance to deepen the kiss, before she could get lost in him again. “That little handspring move was kind of cool.”

“Kong,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s called a kong.”

Cleo smiled and raised on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth, on the side that always curled up. “You’re good,” she whispered. Cleo loved that he had this amazing talent, yet hated that it was something that made her feel completely lacking. “Could you teach me?”

“A few moves, sure. Tomorrow. Right now, we need to focus on priorities,” he said. He pulled her close and placed a kiss on her forehead. Affection, apology, friendship, she wasn’t sure until he said, “Fire, food and…bed.”

Bed. His voice was low and suggestive.
Bed
, he said, not sleep.