51: Deva
Deva
Deva clung on, her knuckles white. Her whole body vibrated in sympathy with the metal beneath her.
Brice lay beside her, firm grip on her wrist. As if she needed looking after.
“I need to get inside,” She pointed to the service hatch, a couple of metres toward the front of the lorry.
He let go of her. She shuffled forward, a half-crawl, half-wriggle that scraped her elbows and knees. She grimaced, carried on, grabbed the ridge around the hatch.
Brice was still by her side, didn’t look like the crawl had been awkward for him at all. “You still got the tracker?” he asked.
“Almost forgot.”
Piran had taken apart one of the comms units, turned it into a tracker, added a suction cup. Deva dug it out of her pocket and slammed it onto the lorry’s body. It held. She flicked th
