All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [246]
But quiet was the last thing he wanted because he kept thinking about Amanda, and how she’d died to save them, so Eliot could get the girl he really cared for.
Would he have done the same for Amanda? Or was Paxington making him selfish? Or was it his Infernal blood?
How had this all gotten so out of control?
Fiona walked next to him, and for once in her life, she had nothing to say.
That was driving him nuts, too. If she’d just yell at him—tell him how stupid his plan had been . . . something . . . then he could’ve defended himself.
The silence was like a knife slowly twisting in his brain.
Mr. Welmann took point, on the lookout for mobs of angry damned or onrushing trains. Robert walked on Eliot’s right side, balancing on the railroad track. He’d unbuttoned his shirt all the way, and dirty shirttails flapped about him.
They were quiet, too.
More condemnation by the lack of conversation.
It was hard to tell how long they walked. The light from the furnace-orange sun was always behind clouds, and never changed. Robert’s watch was busted. Fiona’s phone displayed jumbled characters when she’d tried calling Mitch, and she got a “caller unavailable” message.
Mr. Welmann scanned the horizon. “Uphill grade,” he told them.
Eliot nodded, not caring. It was as if this place evaporated his ability to think straight and all he could do was walk on these tracks.
There were channels and riverbeds alongside the rails now, bone dry as if there had been running water in them a million years ago. As the plains sloped up, black rocks jutted from the ash and seared red clay. There were even a few spots of lichen.
Eliot’s mind cleared a bit when he spotted stunted sagebrush. There were scrub pines, too, twisted and tortured, but alive.
As they neared the summit of this hill, a breeze carried a hint of moisture.
He got to the top, and it was as if someone had drawn a line along the ridge—splotches of moss appeared on the other side, the earth was black loam, pine forests sprouted and thickened into a jungle that blanketed the valley beyond, and a ribbon of muddy river snaked down its center. The sunlight turned from blazing orange to a cool silver overcast.
Eliot took a deep breath, and smelled a “compost” scent mixed with honey and the perfume of a million flowers.
“The Poppy Lands,” he said.
“Duh,” Fiona muttered.
Despite her sarcasm, despite the fact they’d just lost one of their team, Fiona’s eyes were wide, taking it all in and gleaming with curiosity. She’d always wanted to travel and see exotic places. This was about as exotic as you could get.
Flowers grew everywhere: fleshy orchids with inviting petals, drooping wisteria cones that dangled nectar-sticky stems, and carpets of pinhead-sized blossoms the color of cotton candy.
The train tracks continued down the slope—cutting through forest and jungle.
They followed them.
Whatever chemicals or magic protected the train tracks, it also kept the vegetation off. Still, as they entered the jungle, the trees crossed overhead and formed a tunnel.
The bugs left them alone, too. That was a good thing. There were clouds of metal wasps, giant beetles that bored into hardwood like it was Styrofoam, and butterflies that fumed acid vapor trails in the air.
“Doesn’t look like there’s a war going on here,” Robert said.
Fiona took a few pictures with her cell phone camera.
Mr. Welmann held a hand, indicating they halt. “Don’t be too sure,” he said, and pointed ahead.
The train tracks ended. Jungle blocked their way.
“Line’s been cut,” Mr. Welmann said. “That’s one of the first things you do in the war. Sever your enemy’s supply routes and communication. Get them alone. Wear them down.” He frowned.
Fiona stepped up to the jungle. “Everyone back.” She pulled out her chain and spun it over her head. She turned the whirling mass flat, and walked into the jungle where the tracks used to run.
Branches, vines, and roots