Falling Sky by Rajan Khanna Read Free Book Online Page A

need it. Yes, the coast sounds mighty good right now.
    Only my fuel runs out before I get there.

    I drive as far as I can manage, even letting the car coast down a hill until it butts into a tree (softly, though, as the brakes still work). Then I stay in the car as long as I can. I’m in strange territory, lightly wooded, the kind of place Ferals love to nest in. I have my revolver, a tiny bit of water, and the clothes on my body. And the night comes on cold, the way it sometimes does at this time of year.
    Again, I force myself out of the car to relieve myself. I have a new system now. I climb on top of the car, which gets me off the ground and able to see around the area better. It’s times like this that I thank God I am a man and can do this easily. I don’t even want to imagine squatting somewhere.
    It’s as I’m scanning the area around the cart that I see the lights up on the hill. It almost makes me spray all over the cart.
    Lights. That means people. Ferals can’t make fire. I can’t imagine they can use electricity. Someone is living nearby. Someone who feels comfortable enough to advertise their presence to the world.
    Someone who might have food. Shelter. Fuel. Water.
    Someone who might have friends. With guns. And bad attitudes.
    This is the world we live in. For every good possibility there are at least three bad.
    But I can’t stay where I am forever. And I have to move.
    I decide to sleep on it, returning to the cart and curling up in a shivering heap. My dreams are filled with horrific images. Ferals on hooks. People running, scared. Blood. Screams.
    I’m awake before dawn hits, but when it does, I’m ready to move. Already my stomach is growling and I figure braving the place on the hill is better than slowly starving in the cart.
    Moving on the ground is scary. It’s been a long time since I’ve done it this way. Sure, working with Miranda required me to be on the ground, but I always had the Cherub at my back—there was always somewhere to retreat to. Now . . .
    I try not to think about it.
    I move over open ground, which means I’m more likely to be seen, but it also means it’s easier for me to see anyone coming at me. Besides, Ferals are just as likely to smell or hear me moving, so evening the score works just fine for me.
    The revolver is heavy reassurance in my hand. It’s my only security and I’m glad for it. I only wish I had more ammunition. I have six bullets in the gun itself and another thirty bullets in my jacket. And the three in the automatic. Then I’m out. If I get swarmed, those could go in a few minutes.
    I pray that I don’t get swarmed.
    The hill starts off as a gentle slope that grows more wooded as I climb it, but then I break through the trees and the incline gets steeper. It’s another frustration—Ferals can climb better than I can. I’ll be slower than them, and that’s never a good thing.
    With all this shit going round in my head, it’s like phantom Ferals are already pursuing me.
    I try to keep my focus on the top of the hill. And I push my legs as hard as they will go.
    I’m sweating as the slope lessens, but I can see the structure where the light must have been coming from. Some kind of house. I quicken my pace.
    And then I hear it.
    The Feral howl.
    I’ve heard many creatures howl—I’ve heard the occasional wolf, or mountain lion, or even, once, a pack of wild dogs—but none of those is quite as chilling as a Feral. Animals at least sound natural; they were meant to sound like that. But Ferals—their vocal cords should be used for speech. Their cries have the hint of that. Just enough to be unnerving, but not enough to seem human.
    I sometimes have nightmares about them.
    I scan the area I think the noise is coming from and see a few dark shadows moving toward me. I crouch and aim my pistol. But then I hear sounds behind me and I turn, quickly, to see