Necropolis

“Nelson,” Lyta replied.

Nathan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m his son.”

Lyta didn’t take long to put the subtext of Nathan’s painful reaction into context. “How did he die?”

Nathan looked around, hating to take time from preparing for evacuation from the area, but he spoke after only a moment. “He was murdered. By something that might be working with the Panthers.”

Lyta nodded, repeating what he’d said. “Something. As in what would eat us at the end of this march.”

“Not anymore,” Nathan returned. “You and the others take off. Get back to your home.”

Lyta narrowed her eyes. “I intend to find out what these animals wanted to do with me.”

Nathan glowered at her. “You’re not in condition to come with us.”

“She could be,” Thurpa spoke.

“Help the others gather supplies,” Nathan snapped at him.

Thurpa frowned. “They’re doing well on their own.”

“Then stop convincing my cousin that she has to risk her life,” Nathan hissed harshly.

Thurpa looked between the two. “As if you risking yours is any better?”

Nathan rubbed his brow. “I’ve got an advantage.”

“What?” Lyta asked.

“None of your—”

“The snake-headed staff that Nelson Longa owned,” Thurpa spoke up.

“Snake-headed... Is that why you’re interested in it?” Lyta asked.

Thurpa shook his head. “It’s an artifact, from the dawn of time.”

“It’s too complicated to explain here and now. You’re hurt. Exhausted...”

“And free,” Lyta responded. “Why would you deny me the chance to find out why my home was attacked? There’ve been so many people killed...”

Nathan grumbled. He gripped the strange walking stick, one she remembered from when Uncle Nelson had visited her so long ago. The object was as tall as Nathan, who was a shade under six feet, and it was one central ebony rod with strange designs inlaid along its length, wound about by two metallic serpents whose heads poked straight up. Lyta glanced at the space between the ominous snake heads and saw that there was a space for another object up there, braced or locked in between them.

Thurpa walked closer to Nathan, whispering into his ear. She couldn’t make out what was being said.

“I don’t know,” Nathan replied. He seemed crestfallen, looking first to the strange staff and then toward Lyta.

“Just give it some thought,” Thurpa said.

“Could I get some assistance?” the woman, Brigid, asked them. The two men walked away, leaving her be.

Lyta felt hands on her shoulders, sitting her down. Petroleum jelly salve was spread over her neck and shoulders. The ooze was an important supply for a militia on the move to deal with blisters, cuts and abrasions of all forms. As soon as the balm was spread across her raw back and about her wrists, she began to feel better. There were several jars of the stuff for the militia, so there was more than enough for the prisoners. Bandages from the Panthers’ first-aid supplies were also put to good use to protect the ravaged flesh.

Lyta accepted a shirt and a web belt. The shirt was long enough on her to act like a minidress, but there was enough air around her bottom to make her feel self-conscious until a pair of men’s briefs was provided for her from the militia’s laundry.

Clean clothes, after being naked for so many days, were wonderful. A bottle of water was also provided for her, and she took several deep pulls before passing the bottle on. Fresh water, clothes, she didn’t even mind the cooling of the evaporating wetness on her shirt. Boots, unfortunately, were in short supply, but Lyta didn’t mind. Most of the people in her town didn’t have much use for footwear, and the soles of her feet were only slightly less tough than rhinoceros skin.

Finally, Lyta got a weapon, two of them actually. One was a machete that looked rusted and pitted, but it was still heavy and felt good in her hand. The other was a .45-caliber pistol. Since the weapons of the Mashona were mostly stolen from the Zambian and Harare armed forces, she knew this pistol. She dumped the magazine and saw that it was loaded. She pulled back the slide and noted that the chamber was empty.

Lyta would keep it that way. She wasn’t sure about the safety on the pistol, and she wouldn’t carry one with a hammer on a live round. It would take a moment to slingshot a fresh round into the breech, if necessary. Both came with sheathes, so she put them onto the belt that tugged the long uniform tunic about her hips snugly. She rubbed her hand across her bare scalp, wishing that she still had her hair and idly wondering how she looked. Right now, she felt wonderful, but she was certain that a glance in a mirror would show her the truth of her ramshackle appearance.

Here you are, covered in bandages and the clothes of dead men, and you’re wondering if you’re hot or not, she thought, trying to hold down her disgust.

“It sure beats being raped and dead,” she muttered. “I look human again.”

“Are you all right?” It was Brigid, the beautiful woman from America, from the place she called Cerberus redoubt.

“Just trying to get my mind off of my vanity,” Lyta replied. “Can I join your group?”

Brigid looked taken aback. “We’re on a dangerous journey, Lyta. I don’t know if it would be wise.”

“Wisdom comes from mistakes,” Lyta replied. “And I know this could be a big mistake, but if I survive, I’ll at least know what awaited me. What was on the other end of this journey.”

Brigid’s brilliant green eyes looked the young woman over. She took a deep breath, pursed her lips, then nodded. “I’ll see what my compatriots have to say.”

“If it’s any help, I’m a resident of a frontier town in Zambia. We all receive firearms training,” Lyta added. She looked at the other prisoners. Though dressed, bandaged, rehydrating from water bottles and gobbling down random bits of food left behind by the Mashonan militia, they were ragged. They were unmistakably former prisoners, gaunt, wounded, eyes darting at the slightest sound.

“Not that it seemed to help us,” Lyta amended, frowning.

“Does anyone else want to see where the Panthers were taking you?” Brigid asked.

“I have to see to my family,” one man said. Others nodded, muttering in agreement. “If there’s any left.”

Brigid glanced to Lyta, and the young Zambian woman bit her lower lip, trying not to show any emotion. That effort translated into exactly what she tried to avoid as Brigid laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

It was a warm, comforting action, and she looked worried for Lyta.

“I want to know what was worth the life of my mother, my fiancé,” Lyta admitted.

Brigid nodded.

“I’ll see what we can do,” Brigid replied.

Lyta watched her head to the tree line. Her spilling curls of golden-lit crimson provided a beacon by which she could be seen in the light of the moon and stars above.

Kane mulled over the whispered Commtact message from Brigid, then looked toward Grant’s position. He was a hundred yards away, barely a silhouette picked up by his night optics.

“Grant, you have an opinion on this?” Kane asked.