Chapter Three

Our Journey Begins

Bethany stopped, looking around the yard. Yes, that was the first view she had of the cabin, that was the tree her face planted against . . . "We came in from this direction," she said pointing. "If we keep walking this way, we'll eventually get to my camp. We were walking towards Polaris the whole way, so it's straight south."

How had she remembered that?

"How eventually?"

"It took most of the night to get here. It's going to be a hike."

"Then we'd better go. It'll be easier in the daylight, but the faster we get away from here, the better."

"Right." All right, it was morning, sun to the left, landscape sloped for the most part downward, it shouldn't be too hard to find her way back. As long as they didn't run into a bear or a mountain lion . . .

They didn't encounter any large predators. Bethany was grateful for that; she wasn't sure either of them was in shape to fight or flee. She was panting after the first mile or two, and a little lightheaded, probably from hunger.

Martin wasn't in much better shape. His exposed scales were dull, the scars on his face and arm could indicate past injury severe enough to mark less visible long-term damage—Visitor's thick scales didn't scar nearly as easily as soft human skin, and periodically shed so only the deepest scars remained—and blood soaked the haphazard bandage. But his eyes were bright and his step was surer than hers.

And quieter. Bethany felt like a klutz next to him. She was afraid he'd grow impatient with her, or even abandon her altogether, but he didn't. Though he kept casting his mismatched gaze over his shoulder in anticipation of pursuit, he stayed close, stopping with her when she had to sit until her head cleared and keeping his pace matched to hers, even encouraging her to slow down if she tried to push herself.

Downhill was easier than up had been, but she was still exhausted. Casting a quick sidelong glance at her companion, she scowled. She envied his endurance, grace, and most especially his lack of sweat glands. By the time they reached what she estimated to be halfway, her shirt was soaked through. "We should be there by dark," she panted, wiping what felt like another gallon of sweat from her forehead and throwing herself to the ground, ignoring the dirt and pine needles.

"You're not drinking enough," Martin admonished, mildly annoyed. "I'd rather not have to carry you the rest of the way."

"You haven't taken a drink since we left."

His lips twitched into a smile not quite as ghostly as before. "I don't leak."

"Are you trying to be a comedian, or are you just picking on me because I'm a mammal? Fine." She took several long swallows from her canteen. "There. You too."

Taking a swallow, Martin rolled his eyes emphatically. He looked back the way they had come three times in less than two minutes, but seemed content to wait until she was ready to move on.

Her legs were shaking under her, but when he did it again she pushed herself off the ground. "Let's get out of here."

"Are you sure? You look pale."

"Pale as a cooked lobster by now, I'm sure. I want a bath and a real cooked meal and I'm not going to get either sitting here. Well, I'm not going to get them anyway, but at least I have a store of soap and water and some almost edible stuff back in camp."

He shrugged and nodded, but she noticed that when they started walking, he kept even closer to her. He tried a couple times to make her take one of the vegetables they'd scavenged, but she couldn't force herself to eat any of the things.

The trees thinned out sooner than she expected, the terrain growing rougher. She stopped to get her bearings, her heart stuttering in uncertainty for a moment, but she brightened quickly. That was the cliff she could just see from her search site, so if she oriented herself with the odd jag of stone and the lone, twisted tree . . .

"That way," she decided, pointing. "We're closer than I thought."

It was still more than an hours' hike through the sun without the benefit of shade. He was uncomfortable, having trouble keeping his eyes open in the glare, so she tried to steer him away from obstacles. She had other problems, feeling like a potato left to bake too long in the over. She finished off her water, then half of Martin's when he threatened to hold her down and pour it down her throat. She didn't have the energy to fight through the headache that started to throb at the base of her skull under the influence of too much sun and not enough sleep.

She led them straight, though. As the sun just started to fall behind the bluffs, she spotted her tent. "Oh, thank goodness. I'm starving." Her own voice startled her; it was as rough and cracked as her companion's, breathless and unsteady. She really needed to get out in the field more if she was in this bad of shape after a single day's hike.

They had to scramble over a steep slope of loose rock to reach her camp. Bethany fell with a yelp when a solid-seeming bank of earth shifted under her and felt the deepest stab at the base of her spine re-open when she landed on her back. "Thanks," she said, trying not to sound ungrateful when Martin lifted her to her feet. Flushed and growling, she let him help her the rest of the way down, feeling like one of the annoying, perpetually helpless princesses from too many fairy tales.

He just looked entirely too amused.

In a few minutes they reached her tent. Almost limp in relief, she unzipped the front flap, peeking in cautiously though it looked undisturbed. It was, and she exhaled in gusty relief. Her camp was mercifully unmolested, her supply of food still held off the ground by a tall tripod and the rest of her supplies secure in her tent, including what she was especially eager to find, her two week's supply of water.

Tossing her empty, faintly musty canteen to the ground, she grabbed an empty bottle and filled it, draining half of the fresh, clear liquid in one gulp.

"Careful," Martin warned. "You could get yourself sick that way."

"I know. But it tastes good." She stopped, though, feeling a warning twinge from her stomach, even from water that was tepid rather than cool. "There's plenty," she encouraged, moving to her bags of food. She frowned as she untied the anchor rope and lowered the two large knapsacks. "Sorry, I don't know if I have anything you can eat. It's mostly roasted nuts, dried fruit, granola, and beef jerky. Nothing raw."

"I've been feeding myself for a long time," Martin replied, emerging from her tent with his own bottle of water that he sipped carefully, rather pointedly she thought.

"Not a lot to catch out here," Bethany observed, digging out a granola bar. "Could you get by with some dried apples? They're not actually cooked . . ."

She froze when a hand gently prodded her back. "Do you have a first aid kit? That cut's deep, and it's bleeding."

"Yeah. Wait till I clean up a little, and I can check out your arm." She shuddered at the memory, even knowing it had been necessary.

He drew back a little. "My arm is fine."

"Right. You just filleted yourself with an axe, no problem whatsoever," Bethany snapped, following the granola bar with two strips of jerky and three rubbery apricots. She felt better afterwards, although she'd kill for a steak.

On second thought, bad choice of words.

Getting rid of some of the sweat and grease would complete her transformation back to something almost approaching human. Grabbing a bucket she usually used to sift dirt for bone fragments, she dumped in the remains of her water bottle to rinse it out. "Don't move. I'm going to wash up best I can." Dragging the least full of her water tanks out of the tent along with a change of clothes, she heaved it around to the back.

"We really shouldn't delay . . ."

"Just keep watch if you're worried. Does Mrs. Simpson have any way to contact the mother ships directly?"

"No," Martin admitted reluctantly. "They got tired of her calling and begging to be taken back."

Closing her eyes, Bethany breathed past the raking guilt. "We should have brought her with us."

"And done what with her? She would have looked for every opportunity to murder us."

"I know, but . . ."

Martin blew out an impatient breath. "I know what you're thinking, Bethany, but that kind of damage cannot be healed. Besides, she didn't start out as the innocent woman you imagine. She murdered her own brother and her husband for insurance money."

Unable to come up with a reply to that, Bethany jerked off her clothes after checking to make sure she was completely out of sight. Filling the bucket, she dumped it over her head, shivering when the water hit her hot skin. She had only bar soap, so she used that to scrub herself head to toe, including her hair. She hissed in disgust at the sewery feeling of every inch of her flesh, and groaned in relief as the water rinsed it away.

Pulling on blessedly clean clothes, she tied her hair back, wincing every time her movement pulled at the numerous cuts on her back and shoulders. Her hair soaked her thin cotton shirt where it dripped, but it felt good against the humid air.

"Here," she said, tossing the well-stocked first aid kit at Martin as she walked around to the front of the tent. "You patch me up, I'll do you."

He caught it without effort. "I don't need . . ."

"Don't even finish that sentence."

….

He closed his mouth obediently and turned her around. She untucked her shirt so he could lift the hem enough to expose the freshest wound. It bled freely and looked clean, but he wiped it with the harsh-smelling antiseptic, feeling her shudder under his hands. It wasn't quite as serious as he'd feared; taping a bandage over the slash, he made her unbutton the top two buttons so he could pull her collar down and check her other hurts before tugging her shirt back in place.

"Thanks. Your turn." She eyed him top to bottom. "Unless you want to clean up a little first, too. You're a mess."

Martin glanced down. He was dirt-streaked, dusty, and couldn't keep the strings of hair out of his eyes. He was tempted to shed the sadly tattered human disguise, but most humans weren't going to stop long enough for him to explain his presence if he was spotted. What was left did afford him some protection, at least from a distance. It would cause further delay, but . . . "That might be a good idea."

"Wait. I've got . . ." Bethany darted back into her tent, coming out a minute later with a bundle of cloth in her arms. "Here. They were my dad's." She thrust the bundle into his arms, her fingers caressing the khaki shirt. "I usually bring some of his stuff to wear in the field. Since I went into the family business, I always thought it brought good luck."

Martin hesitated, unsure if he should accept, but she pushed the clothes insistently into his chest. "Take them. They'll fit you better. I need a belt and to roll up the cuffs halfway to my knees to wear the jeans."

He would be a fool to refuse. The clothes he had on were actually stiff with grime. How long had it been? He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Thank you."

"I'll start packing while you wash up."

Shucking the clothes, he was surprised they didn't actually crack. He kept a couple pieces, doing his best to wash them in the bucket with hand soap. The rest he buried in a hastily-scraped hole.

He had to wash his hair twice to get most of the grit out, and the rest of him must have come out three shades lighter. Possibly three pounds lighter, too. The dermal plastic really was a wonder of technology; he could actually feel the difference after it was clean. The new clothes, a short-sleeved khaki shirt, hooded brown jacket, and jeans, were too big, but rolling the cuffs kept the jeans from dragging, the leather belt kept them from falling, and the rest might hang on him a bit, but they were just as pleasant to wear as what seemed like entirely new skin.

Bethany was tying a bundle closed and setting it beside two similar packs. She grinned when she saw him. "Ah ha. You are a blond."

"Not naturally," he quipped, reaching for one of the bundles. "I admit it was a good idea. The closer to dark we leave, the better. Daylight's a bad time to be driving around, even here. But I'd still like to hurry . . ."

Grabbing his arm, Bethany shook her head. "That wasn't the deal," she said, picking up the first aid kit. "Let me see your arm."

He thought about arguing, but the look on her face stopped him. He meekly held out his wounded arm, letting her turn it so his wrist faced upwards.

She used the same antiseptic on him that she had endured, and he understood why she'd shivered. She had to swallow twice. "This needs stitches."

"Since you already said you're not a real doctor and I can't just walk into an emergency room, I'll have to skip it."

Taking a deep breath, she used butterfly bandages all along the cut to hold it closed, turning whiter with every one she applied. "Are you all right?" he finally asked, growing alarmed.

"I've never been good with blood."

"Not even green?"

"I don't care what color it is, it's liquid and it's supposed to be inside your body. Should it still be bleeding?"

"I don't know. I'm not a doctor either. Probably."

Taping a gauze pad over the bandages, she wrapped the arm in more gauze. "That'll have to do. I'm no expert in first aid, but you guys are supposed to be immune to most of our viruses and bacteria, aren't you? As long as it doesn't get infected, I think you'll live."

"Good. Now, if you really feel the need to drag all this along, we'd better get everything loaded."

Bethany made a sound of agreement. "Car's under the tarp," she said, waving her hand vaguely.

He'd already guessed what the large lump under the camouflage canvas was. He pulled the cover back, ready to toss his bundle into the back, and froze. "This has to be a joke. Or a really bad hallucination."

"No joke. The guy I bought her off might have been inspired by a hallucination, though. That's Priscilla."

"You named your truck Priscilla?"

"Somehow it seemed appropriate."

It was a large, rugged, older jeep that had been well taken care of, and it was glaringly, shockingly, blindingly pink.

Martin closed his eyes. "What were you thinking? You may as well be driving a target!"

"Don't make fun of her. She's from the good old days of free travel and huge digs. She won't be a problem, not at night with no headlights. No one uses headlights anymore. Hell, not many people use the roads any more."

"You don't need headlights to be seen in this thing!"

Bethany crossed her arms. "It's gotten me around fine since you guys showed up. You're being paranoid. Wait until the sun goes all the way down, it'll be fine."

Martin eyed the garish beast. "Are those purple flames?"

"And turquoise sugar skulls. If you're just going to make fun, you can stay here."

He found his mouth curving unaccountably into a smile. "Sorry."

Bethany looked at him, doubt flicking across her eyes. "Speaking of, do you have anywhere to go?"

The question confused him for a moment. The only place he wanted to go was away. Where had his lifetime of military training gone? Shaking off the daze, he could only think of one place, his old adopted home. "Los Angeles."