Incubation (The Incubation Trilogy Book 1) by Laura Disilverio Page B

the IPF’s arms. You won't get within a hundred miles of Atlanta.” I tone it down. “Cover is more important than speed right now. In the swamp, we’ve got cover, we’ve got a chance. On the roads . . . we’ll be back at the Kube, or somewhere worse, by nightfall. I’d rather take my chances with the swamp and animals than the IPF.”
    “Or that man back there.” Halla shudders. “Okay, I vote swamp.”
    We look at Wyck.
    He crosses his arms and glowers. Finally, he gives a tiny nod. “How’s your leg?” he asks gruffly.
    I recognize the olive branch and smile with relief. I don’t like being at odds with him. “It’s good, thanks,” I say. “Due entirely to your doctoring skills. I’d probably have gangrene by now if you hadn’t patched me up.”
    My lighter tone works. Wyck cracks a smile and says, “I’ll play doctor with you any time.”
    His words jolt me, and I scan his face, but see no intent there except humor. The awkward moment passes when Halla says, “We should see if any of these clothes I got are useful. How many years do you think they sat in that washer-dryer?”
    Looking at them, I’m guessing at least twenty. It strikes me as humorous that looters never thought to look inside the broken machine. The clothing consists of tunics and leggings made from some second or third generation intelli-textile, not nearly as figure conforming or temperature regulating as our jumpsuits. For a moment, I’m reluctant to abandon my more advanced clothing, but the jumpsuits are too distinctive and I accept the man’s shirt and leggings Halla hands me without complaint. They’re a dull brown that will allow me to blend in better, at least.
    She hands Wyck a longer pair of black leggings and a tan shirt, and keeps a roomy tunic and flexi-waist pants for herself. By common consent, we semi-disappear behind the nearest trees and shuck our jumpsuits. I resist the urge to spy on Wyck, although I catch a glimpse of his tanned and muscular back by accident. I sniff at my underarm before donning my new clothes, hoping we get the opportunity to bathe before too long. If we have to go three weeks or more without a bath, searchers will be able to find us by the odor. With my belt, the shirt doesn’t swallow me completely and I tuck the knife into the back again. Halla tosses me a pair of socks when I emerge.
    “There are four and a half pairs of socks,” she says, holding up a lone gray sock. “How does that happen?” She looks more pregnant, somehow, in the loose-fitting tunic.
    Balling up the torn jumpsuit, I put it in my backpack, thinking that at the very least it will be useful as a pillow. Wyck returns in his new attire, smoothing down his curly hair, and we each eat a vegeprote bar and drink a little water before heading north into the Okefenokee.
     
    The ground beneath us changes gradually and it’s not until I hear a splash—frog or fish?—that I realize we’re at the swamp’s edge. It smells different here with a trace of sulfur in the air. Various forms of fungi sprout from the dead tree trunks, and Spanish moss drapes from the limbs, trailing almost to the ground in some places. It’s misnamed, of course; it’s really a rootless epiphyte from the pineapple family, not a moss, living on air which seems appropriate given its airy, tendrily appearance. Cypress trees rise spindly and tall, and the scrub oak we’ve been traveling through peters out. Dragonflies flit past, iridescent flashes of green, blue and red. Mosquitoes descend in a whining cloud and we’re slapping at ourselves until we find repellant in the first aid kit and apply it liberally. The amber water on all sides fizzes like a carbonated beverage, small bubbles rising to the top with a barely audible but constant hiss. I eye it dubiously. What could—? Chemicals. Whatever chemicals are contaminating the water are breaking down the peat at the bottom, releasing carbon dioxide. I wish we had time to stop and test it, see