Okwembu doesn’t have a chance to process the sudden arrival of the others. They tumble into the vehicle, sprawling across the floor in a tangle of limbs.
The man who pulled them in screams over his shoulder to the driver. “Get us out of here!”
The woman next to him slams the door shut. The driver floors it, and the vehicle bucks and writhes as it fights against the wind.
The inside of the vehicle is cramped and low, with two rows of seats facing each other. The seats are covered in torn brown fabric, worn enough that Okwembu can feel the metal frame beneath digging into her back. The others throw themselves into the seats next to hers. She can feel Carver staring at her, taking in the streaks of blood on her face.
The noise makes speaking impossible. The wind has picked up again, and it’s as if what came before was only a warm-up. She can feel the constant pressure on the vehicle’s right-hand side, an angry god trying to shove them off the road. Okwembu can just see through the glass at the front of the vehicle. The headlights illuminate a world of flying debris, most of it moving too fast to identify.
A rock appears in the windshield, tumbling slowly, nearly as tall as the vehicle’s front end. Okwembu flinches, but the driver is already spinning the wheel. The tyres screech as they dig into the dirt.
None of them have seat belts. Aaron Carver slams into her right side, squashing her up against the side of the vehicle. For a moment, her ear is pressed against the metal, and she can hear the true ferocity of the wind. She actually feels the rock scrape the car.
The skid has made them tilt, lifting the wheels on the right side an inch or so off the ground. The driver spins the wheel the other way, but the wind has them in its teeth. They’re slowly tilting, inch by inch.
And Okwembu sees why. The skid has shifted everyone in the vehicle to one side. If they don’t shift their weight to the other in the next few seconds, they’re going to roll.
Nobody else has figured it out. They’re all scrambling to stay in their seats, all panicking. She has to act, and she has to act now.
She manages to get a hand between her and the wall. But she’s not strong enough. She gets her foot flat against it, half twisting her ankle, gritting her teeth against the pain.
She pushes hard, shoving them off her. Carver was a tracer, wasn’t he? Someone used to movement and centres of gravity? Surely he’ll see what she’s doing. But when she looks into his eyes, she sees only anger and confusion. He’s not going to do anything. It’s up to her, like it always is.
Janice Okwembu scrambles off her seat, and hurls herself to the other side of the vehicle. The tilt pauses, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. And it’s Clay who reacts, scuttling on all fours across the vehicle, pushing his back up against the right-hand door. The woman does the same, and finally the others figure it out.
The vehicle slams back to the road with a bang that rattles Okwembu’s skull. The driver wasn’t expecting it, and for a moment it feels as if the vehicle will spin out of control.
Okwembu closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, they’re back on course. She can still hear debris scraping across the vehicle’s body, but they’re on a steady path, the headlights slicing through the darkness ahead of them.
Trembling, she pulls herself back onto her seat. The others do the same. She glances at Carver, but he’s not looking at her. He’s staring at the floor, hugging himself, shivering with cold.
“Almost out of it,” the man says, raising his voice above the wind. His accent is unbelievably thick, like he’s chewing a mouthful of food. “Everybody just hang on.”
Okwembu can feel that they’re descending, winding down the slope, away from the lake. Exhaustion and adrenaline catch up with her. She bites the inside of her cheek–she has to stay awake. Her hand moves to the data stick around her neck, grasping it through her shirt.
After a while, the road straightens out. They’re still deep in the forest, but now the wind is nothing more than a low murmur.
The man in front reaches over the seats, resting a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “We OK there, Iluk?” he says.
Iluk nods, and the man turns back to them. He puffs out his cheeks, shaking his head.
“You’re damn lucky,” he says to them. He’s a big man, with short black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee under a pockmarked face. “You hadn’t come out onto the old forest road when you did, we’d’ve gone right past you, praise the Engine.”
Okwembu doesn’t have time to question the strange phrase. The man keeps talking. “These storms can last for days,” he says, looking up at the roof as if he expects what’s left of the wind to lift it right off. “We get the real big ones once or twice a year. Real big ones. Nothing like the dust storms they get further south, though. Those things last for months.”
“Who are you?” Prakesh says. His voice is a croak, and he’s shivering badly.
“Hell–hang on,” the man says. There’s a storage locker bolted to the vehicle frame above him, and he clicks it open. Okwembu can see food containers, water canteens, equipment the purpose of which she can only guess at. And blankets.
It’s these that the man goes for, passing them out. Okwembu gives him a grateful smile, wrapping one around her. It’s scratchy, and smells of alcohol and sweat, but it’s warm. Their rescuers pass out canteens of water, and they drink deeply.
“I’m Ray,” the man says. “Iluk’s doing the driving, and this here is Nessa.” He gestures to the woman. She has a face that looks as if it’s chiselled out of stone, framed by long, dirty-blonde hair. Like Ray and Iluk, she wears camouflage-patterned overalls, open at the neck, with a thick hooded sweater below them.
One by one they introduce themselves. Ray nods to each of them in turn. “Any more of you out there?” he says.
The others look at Okwembu. She shrugs. “No. There was just the one–the man you found me with.”
Carver opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off. “He wanted to go back to the lake, and I tried to stop him. He attacked me.”
“Gods,” Clay says. His face is pale, his shoulders shaking.
“You’re lying,” says Carver.
Okwembu shrugs. “You heard him, back at the lake. He panicked, and I had to defend myself. I didn’t have a choice.”
Okwembu can feel suspicion radiating off Prakesh and Carver. Before they can say anything, Ray clears his throat. “What about the ship you came down in?” he says. “Where’d you land?”
Prakesh lifts his head. “We hit the lake. It’s gone. Anyway, it was just an escape pod, not the ship itself. That burned up in the atmosphere.”
“So no supplies? Any fuel, or anything?”
“Gone.”
“Ah, shit.” Ray shakes his head. “Prophet’s not going to like that.”
He glances at Nessa, and something passes between them, something that Okwembu can’t quite figure out.
“Who’s Prophet?” says Clay.
“We saw your ship come down,” Ray says, ignoring him. “And I said to myself, Ray, the Engine has provided for us. It has sent survivors to join our cause. Prophet sent Nessa and Iluk and me up here, see if we could find where you landed.”
He pauses. “Are you really from…” He raises his eyes, lifts his chin towards the roof.
It takes them a moment to realise what he’s referring to. Prakesh speaks first. “Outer Earth?”
“I knew it!” Ray slaps his knee, a huge grin spreading across his face. His teeth have been worn down to tiny stubs.
“Outer Earth’s a myth,” says Nessa. But she’s glancing at Ray, like she wants him to confirm it.
“Ain’t no myth,” Ray says, grinning. “Told you, didn’t I? Where else could they have come from?”
“Why’d you leave?” Nessa says.
“Ask her,” Carver says, jerking his head at Okwembu.
Okwembu’s calm has returned. Carver seems to speak at a distance–he can’t hurt her, not any more. She glances at him, then turns to Ray and Nessa, lifting her chin slightly as she speaks. “Outer Earth was hit by a virus,” she says. “It killed almost everyone it touched. A few of us escaped.”
Carver gives a bitter laugh. “She left out the part where she and her buddies blew a hole in the side of the station dock.”
Stupid, she thinks, looking over at him. Stupid and petty and small-minded. Just like Mikhail. She exhales through her nose. “I’ve already explained why I—”
“You don’t get to explain shit.”
Ray clears his throat. “I see you folks have a lot to work out. But you’re going to be fine. We’re going to get you to the Ramona, and we’re going to look after you.”
Nobody speaks. The rumble of the engine is undercut by the howling wind, not as strong as it was but still forceful enough to rattle the sides of the vehicle.
Eventually, Prakesh says, “What’s the Ramona?”
Ray smiles again. “You’ll see.”