By L. A. Weatherly
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The Distrito Federal; Mexico City. It was almost dark now; the traffic heading towards them was a series of lights swooping out of the gloom. ” “Thought so,” said the man, glancing at him again. “French, I bet. ” Seb couldn’t resist. “Italian,” he said, keeping a straight face. “Venice, originally. ” The truck driver’s eyes widened. ” “Yeah, sure,” said Seb, leaning forward to tap the ash off his cigarette. “Over ten thousand head of cattle. ” He could have gone on in this vein for some time, except the guy was such an idiot that it was too easy to be much fun.
So was I. It felt like a million years had passed since I’d crouched in the Church of Angels cathedral in Denver, trying to stop the Second Wave from arriving. And it hadn’t even been two days. ” I whispered. ” “What are we going to do when we get to Mexico? ” I knew he’d been to Mexico dozens of times; from the sounds of it, he and the other AKs had crossed the border often. His hand stopped trailing up and down my spine. For a minute I thought he’d fallen asleep; then his voice spoke in the darkness.
I went over to the sink and hastily splashed cool water on my face. In the mirror, my short hair was like an explosion from the wind and the crying. And it still looked very red. I held back a sigh as I tried to smooth it down, wishing I’d asked Alex to buy a hairbrush. “You know what, I think that colour makes your eyes look greener,” said Alex suddenly. I looked up in surprise. ” He nodded, studying me. “It really does. ” He touched a spiky lock of my hair, his finger stroking gently through it.
Angel Fire by L. A. Weatherly