by Kylie Scott
“Sounds like we’ve got a group of them,” the man reported, his big hands still on the go, seemingly unconcerned about her gun. How could it not occur to him that she might be just as much of a threat as the infected? “They’re coming from the street out front. Go out the back door, I’ll be right behind you. Go.”
But she didn’t move a muscle, just stood there, overwhelmed, trying not to empty the slight contents of her stomach onto the kitchen floor. This house wasn’t secure. Escape meant going outside, where the infected were. The thought terrified her. Her mind became a mess of white noise. No choice, she had to go out there.
“What are you doing?” the man bellowed. “Run!”
Escape back to Mary’s house. Back through the rabbit hole and up into her safe place in the attic. All on her own.
He could follow but, being built akin to the proverbial brick shithouse, no way would he fit through the hole in the fence. His surviving this long told her he could obviously handle himself and deal with the infected on his own. He would be fine.
Ali ran like a rabbit, straight out the kitchen door and into the midday sun, her gun held before her in a grip that could choke.
It was safer alone. Alone was best. If her own neighbors had gone nuts then strangers certainly couldn’t be trusted. And this guy was the quintessential definition of strange. No need to feel guilt over leaving him. She didn’t even know him. So why were her feet faltering? Why look back?
They were there, the infected, spilling around the sides of the house and into the suburban backyard, lurching forward in their fucked-up fashion. Far too close for comfort and far too many to fight. She broke out in a cold sweat. The tattered, bloody remains of clothing hung from their putrid flesh, rank in the summer air. No humanity left, walking nightmares. Hungry, yawning mouths stretched wide.
The acid burn of bile hit the back of her throat.
Ali turned away, clutched her gun tighter, pushed her legs harder, feeling the fire in her calves. Through the long, green, overgrown grass, past the bright, plastic children’s swing set, and on toward the back fence she ran.
The stranger’s heavy footfalls were close behind her when the toe of her boot caught in the cracked concrete path. Her balance deserted her. She threw a hand out, ready for the fall, but he was there. Fingers hooked into the back of her jeans, righting her before she could greet the ground. He kept her upright and on her feet. He saved her life.
“Keep going.” Sweat had beaded on his brow, but the gun in his hand was steady.
Ali pushed herself forward.
So close.
Nearly there.
Shots rang out behind her, the noise startling against the chorus of moans and groans. She braved a quick glance over her shoulder and watched more and more infected stumble around the sides of the house, like a lunch bell had been rung. Or a shotgun discharged. Which she had done, back in the kitchen. Shit. Damn.
They might not enjoy sunlight but it wouldn’t stop them if a meal was at hand.
Ali dived for the break in the shoulder-high fence and scrambled through on hands and knees, pushing the shotgun ahead of her.
She ran into something that stabbed through her denim, slicing into her skin. A sharp stab of pain shot up her leg and made her gasp. She ignored the pain and tugged herself free.
The escape hatch was three wooden palings with their bottom halves missing. She had to wriggle and wrench to get her hips and butt through, but it beat the exposure of the open streets. Eight weeks worth of dwindling rations and sitting up in the attic, sweating it out, had whittled her away, but it was still a tight fit.
Behind her the big guy swore as her rear cleared the rabbit hole and sweet liberty beckoned. His pack flew through after her, knocking into her heel. She stumbled back up onto her feet, ready to be gone.
The fence groaned and shifted behind her, protesting the weight as his hands gripped the top, boots scrabbling for purchase as he heaved himself up and over.
Shit.
Before his feet could hit the ground, she was off and running. On through Mary’s prized rose garden, straight over the top of the spot where she had buried the old lady. Her stomach tumbled and turned.
The key was on its piece of string around her neck and she tugged it up and over, wincing when she nearly took off an ear in her haste.
He had to be close behind her, but there was nothing he could do once she was inside. Mary’s house was Fort fucking Knox, bars on every window, deadlocks on every door. Not that it had helped. Back before anyone knew what was happening, Mary had taken a bite to the wrist. Apparently, the plague had been cooked up in a lab somewhere in Asia. No one would admit to exactly where. How it escaped had become another mystery, but it went global in days.
Nothing to be done. Not for Mary or anyone else. It couldn’t be murder if the person was already dead. And infected was dead. Everyone knew it. Everyone who was left.
Luck was with her and the key slid in, the door clicked open. Everything unfolded as it should. She sobbed with relief. Get inside, and get safe.
The stale, oven-like air of the house greeted her with all the promise of home. She slid the gun onto the kitchen bench, gave both hands over to clenching the door handle and throwing herself against the solid old wood in a whole body effort to slam it shut. Lock the whole fucking mess out. Get back up into the attic. Pull up the ladder. Screw the light of day. She would stay up there till hunger or thirst drove her out, and that was a promise. You could go a long time on a box of cereal and a couple of bottles of water.
This was her home now. Her haven.
“NO!” the big guy roared on the other side. Then his hands were there, fingers jammed in, prying the door open and forcing his way inside. Too strong. She couldn’t stop him. But she wasn’t done yet.
Ali bolted for the ladder, panic pushing at her heels and sweat stinging her eyes. The door slammed shut behind her. The deadbolt was thrown.
A fresh cramp bit into her side, but no way would it stop her. Not a chance.
One hand hit the cool rough surface of a metal rung. Safety was so close she could taste it, sitting on the tip of her tongue like a tease. Her feet couldn’t work fast enough. Her damp hands slipped, but above, the comforting dark of the manhole beckoned. The superheated air from the midday sun wafted down, furnace-hot and so welcome.
“No you don’t.”
Strong arms wrapped around her waist and pulled, prying her free of the ladder with disgusting ease. She shrieked every insult known to woman and man, fighting him off with all she had. “You fucker! You motherfucking cock-sucking asshole. Get your fucking hands off me! Get off me!”
She kicked, punched and flailed. His hard chest stopped her fist short, jarring her wrist. Pain shot up her blood-smeared leg as she kicked. She wasn’t getting anywhere but she wasn’t giving up, either. Whatever the fuck he wanted, he couldn’t have it. She’d fight till her last breath. The big bastard took her down with ease, pinning her to the floor. Not crushing her, but giving no leeway.
Hot tears of frustration scalded her cheeks as she screamed words of abuse at her captor. They were a torrent, jumbled and nonsensical. She screamed till she choked. Then her cries morphed into gulping pleas for him to listen, to let her up and let her go. To leave her alone. Why the hell wouldn’t he listen to her anyway? What the fuck was wrong with him?
This man was every bit as good at the silent treatment as she was. In truth, he was better.
Eventually, she stopped. The tears, the words, all of it.
They lay on the pastel linoleum floor in a mess of sweaty limbs. She could barely move with the big bastard on top of her, holding her down. Her arms were pinned by his hands and her legs trapped beneath his. Effortlessly, he contained her. Ali shut her eyes tight, blocking out his determined gaze. Now he’d take what he wanted and all she could do was survive. A cry caught in her throat. She’d seen a woman dragged out of her car and raped on the Neilsens’ front lawn not long after the infection h
it, when the police first abandoned the streets and chaos took over. But the man on top of her made no move. Apart from his breathing, he remained immobile. Waiting was the worst part. She’d suffocate on the scent of him before long. The house was oppressive, humid, with every door and window locked tight. Claustrophobia dug into her, its razor sharp fingers sinking through her neck, clawing at her throat.
Everything was locked out. She was locked in—with this stranger—with no escape. She was cornered.
The man said something, chanting it over and over. His breath was hot on her ear, and his body hovered above her, caging her in even though he carried his weight on his arms. She couldn’t quite hear him over the pounding of her heart and the shit running riot in her head.
There was no air. No hope. No nothing. Sweat poured off her face as she gulped for breath. Her body was giving up, signing off, as all good little ensigns eventually did.
“Breathe, damn it. Breathe.” The man was in her face, staring down at her, blue eyes shot with concern. “You’re having a panic attack. Do you hear me? It’s a panic attack. You’re safe. Everything’s okay. Now breathe. That’s all you need to do. Just breathe for me.”
His words unlocked something, flicked a switch in her head. Her airways opened and stale, fetid air rushed in.
The sudden rush of oxygen was magic. She couldn’t get it down fast enough. Her head swam.
“Easy. Easy now, that’s it.” He stroked her arm, murmuring on and on.
Eventually he stopped too, rolled onto his side.
They lay in silence, him with a leg and an arm thrown over her, holding her down. He needn’t have bothered. Exhaustion had already won the war. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Both of them stared up at the hole in the ceiling as their heartbeats slowed.
CHAPTER THREE
“You weigh a ton,” she said.
Daniel lifted his head off his little ray of sunshine’s chest, ridiculously gratified by the calm, even thumping of her heart, and the steady, measured lift and fall of her ribs. She was alright. Never mind the griping.
His girl was okay, and on some subconscious, unchartable level, that equated to trust. It had to be trust. Or maybe she was just worn out. Oh well. He’d settle for what he could get, for now.
“Hey.” He held both of her wrists in one hand, and used the other to wipe at the dirty tear tracks on her face, to tuck a strand of oily hair behind an ear more adorable than any ear had a right to be. He was grinning again, and he didn’t bother to fight it. She was every Christmas all at once, tinsel and trees and the whole shebang. Sure, last Christmas had been spent fighting for survival, but this more than made up for it. What a wonderful present. He’d even gotten used to her smell. “How are you feeling?”
“Squished.”
“Right. Sorry.” In deference to her future goodwill, he shifted more of his weight off her and onto his side, leaving a leg thrown over her and her hands trapped, for safety’s sake. Thankfully he had gotten his cock under control a while back. “Better?” he asked.
By way of a response, she snorted and stretched her fingers as if she was working out the kinks.
“Did you know it’s Valentine’s Day? And you still haven’t told me your name,” he said.
“It’s Valentine’s?”
“Mm hmm. February fifteen. I’ve been keeping track.”
“Valentine’s is the fourteenth.”
“What’s a day between friends? Anyway, we were talking about your name. Which you were going to tell me,” he prompted.
She didn’t even blink.
“Whenever you’re ready. No rush at all.”
Her focus remained fixed on a point above his head. He didn’t need to look. He knew what she was staring at so wistfully—the gruesome hole in the ceiling. Her own perceived gateway to freedom. That bubble needed bursting. Obviously she’d been holed up in the attic since the shit hit the fan, given the state of her.
He waited while she deliberated.
Daniel sucked in some much-needed oxygen. Why had he held his breath? That was dumb.
Eventually, she blew a strand of hair out of her face, her throat moved, and she gave a bare inch. “Ali.”
“Hi, Ali. I’m Daniel.” He smiled, and like the turning of the tide, about an ocean’s worth of tension eased out of him. “Well, I have a feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
She gave a brief bark of laughter, or perhaps a cough. The house was dusty. It made it hard to tell. “Friends don’t hold friends hostage. Generally speaking.”
“Hmm,” he nodded. “Friends also don’t let friends live out their days in a stinking, dark, dusty hole. Or so I’ve heard.”
She pinned her lips tight and turned her head away, making him feel ten types of asshole. Too bad.
There was a message to be delivered here, and he could not afford to fail. He couldn’t face going back to being alone. Could not do it. Boy didn’t that mess with his whole “man as an island” theory of a lifetime’s making. “Ali, I know things are scary, but barricading yourself in here alone isn’t the answer.”
“Really?” She glared at him. It was a queenly glare. His girl pulled it off with aplomb, no matter the grime. “Living in a dark, stinking hole got me this far.”
“Granted, but the worst is over. I’m not saying things are a party out there, but they have calmed down.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, her voice highly skeptical.
“Hear me out.” Her brow flinched for a moment, but at least he had her attention. Until she craned her neck and frowned at what his finger was up to mid-torso—the torso in question being hers. His digit was drawing circles around the dip of her bellybutton. Endless circles. They both watched his finger go round and round, dawdling over soft skin in a lingering caress.
He could have sworn the thing had a mind of its own.
“Get. Your. Hand. Off. Me.”
Which, he had to admit, was fair enough. Maybe enough boundaries had been messed with on their first day together.
“Sure, sorry. Didn’t even realize I was … Yeah, never mind.” He moved the hand back to his leg and let his fingers fidget on safer ground. They wouldn’t stop moving, a sure sign of nerves.
“So. Life outside,” he began. A sore subject, to be sure, but he had to sell it. “You realize situated on the edge of the city is a bad place to be? Inner city is thick with infected, but further out here in the ‘burbs you’re going to cross paths with other survivors.”
“Oh, you think?”
“Be nice,” he said. “Now, I’m guessing the people left over are going to be a mix of the lucky, like you and me, and the odd bastard handy with a weapon and happy to do what they need to get by. I’m guessing by now food and water are getting scarce for you. You can’t stay hidden, can you? Not if you don’t want to starve. You also know it’s too dangerous to go out on your own.”
“I’ve done okay.”
“You need someone to watch your back. Can’t do that on your own.”
She tucked in her chin and said nothing.
“I’m not saying you didn’t do good getting in here and staying put through the whole meltdown, but it’s time to move on, Ali. I was thinking of heading south-west, find a nice rural area and set myself up, be self-sufficient.” He would be self-sufficient alright, him and his hand, if she shot him down. More important things were at play here, though, because eventually, she would mess up and be dinner for the hungry horde. The thought made his heart kick over painfully. The infected were growing restless as pickings grew slim, branching out from the thick of the cities.
Soon enough, her little corner of suburbia would be overrun, if her own lack of food and water hadn’t since made her flee.
“I’ll grow my own fruit and vegetables, use solar panels for power. I was a mechanic, so I’ve got a good basic knowledge of all sorts of things. Sky’s the limit.” Daniel nodded, pleased with the sound of it. Plausible, warm and friendly.
> Please God, he had to have won her over.
Instead she sighed. And it was long, drawn out and mighty fucking irritated. When women sighed like that it never boded well for anyone involved. “We discussed this.”
“Huh?” He propped himself up on an elbow, bewildered. “No, we didn’t.”
“Fingers.” Ali jerked her chin at the hand currently stroking her thigh, toying with the inner seam of her jeans, generally making itself right at home.
“Sorry … my bad.” He jerked his hand up, then paused. Amongst the dirt and dry stains on her jeans, something caught his attention. Dread slammed through him. The damage sat directly above her knee, and it was fresh. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
“No. You’re not.” Daniel clenched his teeth and ignored the sick feeling building in his belly. “How did you get it?” When she hesitated a second too long he lost his cool completely, something rumbled in his throat and his voice rose to all new heights. “Now, Ali. Tell me now. How did you get it?”
“I didn’t get it from one of them, okay? It was a nail or something going under the fence. I’m not infected. Stop yelling at me,” she growled straight back at him, her gaze fierce. “Asshole. Get off me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank fuck for that. I’m sorry, but I had to know.” The minute he lifted his leg up off her, she tried to scurry away, scrambling backward on hands, butt and feet, crab style. The grip he had on her pants didn’t let her get far. “Take them off. That needs seeing to.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Don’t give me that. You want me to lecture you on how easily infection sets in? How fast?” He scowled, clinging to the raggedy hem of her jeans as if she was his safety blanket. Her gaze flicked to her feet and his followed. One solid kick from those boots of hers and he would be in a world of pain. Important, given how clearly unhappy she appeared to be. “Please … I mean.”
The melting-glass glare and the jut of her chin relented, somewhat. Good enough.
