The Bionics (The Bionics Series Part 1) by Alicia Michaels Page B

resting between them. His smooth, brown skin is offset by dark, midnight black hair buzzed close to his head and twinkling brown eyes. Dax is a great, hulking beast of a man, broad in all the places that count, but as warm and charming as they come. He and I are the same age —though he’ll reach his twentieth birthday a few months before me — and I always wonder what our lives would be like if we’d met before the nuclear blasts four years ago that hit m any of the major cities in North America and changed our lives forever. Would we have ever met? Would we be friends?
    I often tease him that if he didn’t have titanium ribs and a set of robotic legs , he could be on one of those electronic billboards in the city, posing in his underwear. Dax always laughs at me, but I t hink it’s true. Then I think of what a shame it is that guys like Dax can’t be models . They can’t be anything but dead or in hiding.
    Him finding me three years ago was one of the best things that ever happened to me, because it saved my life— he saved my life. He turns to me and smiles and I smile back. Besides Dog, he’s the only one that can make me do that.
    “Ready, Blythe?” he asks, reaching for the remote and turning off the television at the height of President Drummond’s speech. The image of our brown-haired, blue-eyed national leader disappears and I am relieved to be free of his deceptive gaze. “I think I’ve had enough of that asshole to last me all week. How ‘bout you?”
    I snort as I stand and sling my pack over my shoulders. “I don’t know why you watch that garbage. All they do is fill the airwaves with his messages and his voice. If you’re not careful, you’ll become one of his mindless drones . You’re already part robot , so you’re halfway there. ”
    Dax laughs and stands, pulling on his blue- jean, fur-lined jacket. I always joke that it makes him look like one of those old-fashioned pilot s they have photos of in the museums . He pulls a skull cap over his dark hair and I dig mine out before stuffing my ponytail in it and covering my ears. I have gotten used to bundling up every morning before starting out. Ever since the war, the burning out of the ozone layer and our nation’s pitiful attempts at constructing a synthetic replacement that left our planet in even worse shape, the weather is unpredictable. While August used to be the hottest month of the year in the state of Texas, today we will more than likely find ourselves tramping through snow.
    “What do you think, Blythe,” Dax asks as we leave the house, Dog trailing obediently behind us, “keep or burn?”
    I stare up at the smooth, white exterior of the house with its round windows and clear, gla ss roof. It’s a beautiful house—this is one of the few areas in the state not affected by nuclear war— but too conspicuous for us to use as a hideout in the future, so I tell Dax we should burn it. If the M.P.s should come back looking for more of our kind, our fingerprints and hair fibers will be everywhere. We can’t leave any hint of our presence in this house or neighborhood and since we can’t use it as a hideout, we’ll burn this beautiful place to the ground.
    He finds a gas can in the garage and goes back inside. Dog and I stand on the brown, withered grass and wait for Dax to come out. By the time we set off on our way, the house is lighting up from the inside with orange flame, soon to be no more than a pile of smoldering ash. We really kick it into high gear then, putting as much distance between us and the house as possible before the M.P.s are alerted of our presence and show up .
    As we walk, I reach into one of my many pockets and pull out a pair of gloves. They don’t offer much protection from the cold, but I wear them anyway because they’re better than nothing. It’s a beautiful morning, even if the sun hasn’t come up yet. A few stars remain in the sky, and that pretty mix of pale blue, orange, and pink has just