City of Dust

Chapter Seven

After showing our papers to the border guards, I angle Winston's head towards the on-ramp of the old 101. The highway hugs the California coastline and provides us with a straight shot to the City of Dust. While not half as busy as it was pre-Turning, you still have to watch out for the occasional lone vehicle, armed convoy or rogue monster.

Unlike Eureka's streets, the 101 is more or less regularly maintained, as evidenced by the large patch of blacktop Winston steps over. Nearby, the crushed bones of some animal lay in a pile against the guard rail. My eyes flick over the bones in a cursory glance; if they were anything other than a rare member of the native fauna, not even the broken bones would have remained. The Turning has made hunters out of some of us, scavengers out of others. Everything has a price if you know where to look.

"You don't talk a lot do you?"

I glance over my shoulder at the girl. Winston and her mare walk in single-file per my instructions.

"No."

"That's okay. I know that you're being paid to protect me, not to be my friend." She shrugs.

"Excellent observation," I reply dryly. She's smarter than I give her credit for. I might not have to babysit her as much as I expected.

There's not much to look at by way of scenery. A decade of Ehtab's dust storms has scoured the landscape, grinding nearly all plant life to the ground. Trees are stripped bare, bark flayed from their trunks; hillsides are nothing more than large mounds of dirt; sharp rocks have been worn deceptively smooth by heightened erosion. When the dust allows the sun to peek through the clouds, the temperature soars to near-oppressive highs. Any animals that managed to survive the initial destruction have fled further inland, hiding in protective faerie circles or pushing towards the center of the country.

The ocean lies to our left. Soon, the waters will be filled with boats as fishermen attempt to haul in what little fish have escaped the clutches of kraken and capricorns that call the coastline home. The boats used to sail out in the pre-dawn hours, but now they must wait until the monsters sleep in order to avoid being attacked.

"So, you're not going to talk—ever?"

I twist around in the saddle. "Talking draws attention," I tell her. "This whole area?" I make a large, sweeping gesture to encompass the highway and surrounding landscape. "This is cockatrice territory. See those hills?" I point off to our right, at what used to be a winery's rolling fields. "Dozens of those bastards live there, digging dens between the roots of dead grape vines. They're drawn to sound, like many monsters. The less you talk, the more likely you are to survive."

Kayleigh's hands tighten on the reins, causing her chestnut mare to toss her head.

"Have you seen a cockatrice?" I press.

"No." Her voice is softer, almost a whisper. Good, she's learning.

"Well, you'll probably see one before the day's over. The most important thing that you need to know is that there are always more around. If you see one, chances are high that there's more hiding, waiting. And if you do see one—kill it immediately. The lurkers will generally swarm the dead one and eat it, giving us the chance to escape."

Kayleigh swallows hard and tugs at the veils, loosening them around her neck.

"It ain't pretty out here," I tell her bluntly. "Now, is that enough conversation for you?"

Quietly, the mayor's daughter nods.

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An hour later, an on-coming car forces us off the highway. I direct Kayleigh to jump her mare over the barrier and onto the berm. Winston makes the jump easily—more like a high step for the big bull—but the chestnut mare needs more coaxing.