by Brant, Jason
Lance inched closer to the door, hiding beside it, his pathetic table leg held at the ready. At least it had a screw poking out the top. That should be enough to annoy someone.
As the men climbed the stairs, taunting them every step, Cass looked to her husband. He gave her a wink, tipped the table leg in her direction. Though he acted nonchalant about their pending fight to the death, she knew he was terrified.
Everything had changed once they’d had Dragon.
Lincoln, she thought. Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln!
Before she’d met Lance, she’d considered herself a righteous bitch who didn’t need a guy around pulling her down. Sure, there were a lot of men who sniffed around, some of whom weren’t complete losers, but years had passed since she’d considered anyone truly worthy of her time. Beyond just her dating life, she’d managed to alienate many of her female friends. Her gruff interior and calloused exterior didn’t make her a prime candidate for a girls’ night out.
Now, with Lance, she’d devolved to just a plain old pain in the ass. Her fuse was longer, though still short compared to a better-regulated human being. She actually let people get close to her now. She’d met the love her life, made a group of incredible friends.
Had a baby.
And that had changed everything.
When the infection had first spread, her reckless nature had kept her alive. She’d taken chances her friends avoided, run headfirst into danger when her neighbors retreated. Once she’d fallen in love with Lance, she’d reined things in a bit. She had something to fight for, to survive for.
The idea of abandoning him scared her more than the specter of death.
But with Lincoln, she couldn’t even contemplate the notion of either of them dying. They had an obligation to their little man she intended to uphold until he was old enough to take care of her.
Cass constantly fought against her nature now that she’d become a mother. Stirring up trouble was still her preferred method of problem solving.
That was how she ended up in terrible situations, such as preparing for a gunfight with a bunch of rednecks, one of whom may or may not have hosted a television show in the nineties. Had she spent more time analyzing their predicament, she might not be using an overturned couch for cover.
Not that Lance specialized in thinking problems through.
Her husband should have known better than to run outside when the Bandits left Adam’s body in the street. And she should have known better than to chase after him when a bomb detonated.
They were two peas in a pod.
Two dumbass peas in a big, dumbass pod.
“We can talk this out,” Joe Bob said from the hallway.
Cass shot through the wall where she guessed his voice had come from.
“Guess not. I hoped we’d do this the hard way.” Joe Bob’s voice hardened. “We’re coming for you, bitch.”
Guns thundered in the hallway.
Bullets cut through the kitchen wall, shredding plaster, spewing dust.
Cass dropped behind the couch as round after round destroyed the wall over her head. A few cut into the couch in front of her face, forcing her to inch away. She wanted to call out to Lance, to make sure he’d taken cover, but didn’t dare give up her position.
Drywall dust tickled her nose.
She shook her head, sent particles of construction materials cascading to the floor.
When the shooting stopped, she peered around the side of the couch.
The doorway remained empty.
Lance knelt beside it, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
The wall on the other side of the door was destroyed, chunks of wood and drywall cut away. A ragged hole had formed where they’d shot through, but Cass couldn’t see either Bandit through it.
One burst through the door.
Like the others, he had scraggly, unkempt hair. His face needed a shave six months ago. Brown stains covered his Canadian Tuxedo. A rifle rested in both his hands, pointing at the back of the apartment.
His wild, animalistic eyes found Cass.
She raised her rifle.
His angled in her direction.
As Cass’ finger tightened on the trigger, Lance swung his table leg, connecting with the knee of the Bandit. The screw plunged through his jeans and flesh, embedding in the bone. When Lance tried to pull it back for another swing, it wouldn’t budge.
The man howled.
One hand released the gun, reaching for the table leg.
Cass fired.
She knew her shot wasn’t true the moment she squeezed the trigger, the bullet sailing over his shoulder.
But in a rare stroke of luck, it hit the second man careening around the corner at the same time. It punched a dark hole in his neck.
The man’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling slack. Arterial spray jetted from the wound, splashing the door, shooting to the floor in long, looping ropes. He dropped a pistol, clutched his neck with both hands.
Cass put three more rounds into his chest.
He stumbled away from the door, his back slamming against the far wall. His eyes locked onto Cass. Blood spurted from between his fingers, coated his hands and neck. The leather jacket he wore was slick and dark from it.
His mouth worked.
If he made any sound, she couldn’t hear it over the keening prattle of the first Bandit.
“My fuckin’ knee! You son of a bitch!”
“You’re screwed,” Lance yelled as he lunged forward, driving the first guy away from the door and into the kitchen.
Cass couldn’t believe her moron husband decided to spew puns in the middle of a gunfight. He’d watched way too many action movies during his extended unemployment.
The gun fell from the man’s grasp. He tried to spin away from Lance, stop his driving momentum. Lance’s legs churned like a linebacker plowing through a tackle until the Bandit’s back slammed against the refrigerator.
Milk and egg cartons spilled from the shelves as it rocked against the wall. The door swung around from the impact, catching Lance in the shoulder. He didn’t react as he drove his forearm into the man’s throat.
Cass glanced at the man in the hall, saw him sliding down to the floor, and swung her gun toward the kitchen. She sighted the duo, waiting for Lance to get out of the way so she could take a shot.
“Move,” she shouted.
Lance cocked his head to the side. He spotted the rifle aimed at him.
The Bandit caught him in the temple with a punch, dropping him to the floor.
Cass sighted the man’s chest.
He saw her rifle, raised his hands in front of his face.
Cass pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked.
“Out of bullets, ya dumb bitch.” The Bandit bent, yanking the table leg from his knee. Blood arced from the screw, drawing a red ribbon across the floor. “Earl?”
“He’s dead, ya dumb redneck.” Cass grabbed the hot barrel of her rifle, hoisted the gun overhead like a club. “Just like you, Joe Bob.”
“We’ll see about that.” Joe Bob threw the table leg at her.
Cass twisted around, raised her arms, protecting her face and neck. The splintered end of the leg caught her in the lower back, sending fresh hell through her hip and leg. She collapsed to a knee, mouth twisted in agony.
With a snarl, Joe Bob tried to lunge at Lance, but his damaged knee didn’t hold his weight. His attempted jump came out as more of a stagger. He fell into the wall, knocking a chunk of plaster free.
Lance regained his senses, kicked at Joe Bob’s knee.
The blow landed flush, knocking the Bandit’s leg out from under him. He cried out, fell to the floor, and landed on his hip.
Cass tried to stand, but her back and leg decided they’d had enough for the day. A spasm twisted into the muscles just above her ass. Something hard ground against something soft. Flash bulbs burst before her eyes as she dropped to her hands and knees, gasping.
Lance towered o
ver Joe Bob, cocking his arm back.
The Bandit punched him in the crotch.
A high-pitched keen whistled from Lance’s mouth.
He stumbled back, hands covering his boys, legs turning to rubber.
Cass jammed the butt of the rifle into the floor, used it to push herself up. Putting most of her weight on her good leg, she took a shaky step forward, using the gun like a crutch.
Joe Bob reached up, grabbed the open door of the fridge, and hauled himself up. Like Cass, he only had one good wheel. He struggled to stand straight, his damaged knee refusing to straighten. He leaned against the wall, smirking as she approached.
“I admire your spunk.” He hocked a load of red spit to the floor. “You aren’t like most of the bitches we take, I’ll give you that.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“Neither have you.” Joe Bob ripped away a piece of the crumbled plaster by his shoulder. Threw it at her face.
Particles of drywall flew in her eyes, blinding her.
She cried out in surprise.
Dropped the rifle.
Clawed at her face as she spun away from the cloud of plaster swirling around her.
A powerful punch caught her in the back, sending her sprawling headfirst into the underside of the couch. The crown of her head slammed off a board supporting the cushions. She collapsed to the debris-covered floor, dazed.
Heavy footfalls shook the apartment.
She blinked rapidly, grimacing at the grit scratching her eyes. Her vision was blurry and discolored. The agony in her back had reached hellish levels, dragging her out of the fog she’d slipped into. Her pulse pounded inside her head in a horrible rhythm.
Lance dry-heaved a few feet away.
“Look at the two of you. Thought you were so tough you could take out Joe Bob?” The Bandit let out a phlegmy laugh. “You’re pathetic.”
“Says the… guy who… punches balls,” Lance eked out.
“All is fair in love and murder.”
A meaty smack came from beside Cass, followed by the thump of someone hitting the floor. Cass kept blinking, rubbing her eyelids with her fingertips.
The scratching, itching sensation waned, though she struggled to keep her eyes open. She rolled to her side with a grunt, the movement grinding her spine and hip. Clenching her jaw in anticipation of the pain, she opened her eyes.
Joe Bob stood in front of Lance, who knelt on the floor.
Her husband had one hand to his nose, blood gushing from both nostrils.
The other hand cradled his balls.
Joe Bob’s fingers curled into a fist. He cocked it back, ready to strike him again.
Lance glared up at Joe Bob. “Did you talk about yourself in the third person?”
“What?” Joe Bob’s fist held steady by his shoulder.
“You called yourself ‘Joe Bob’ a second ago. Did you refer to yourself in the third person? Or are you Earl and I’m confusing shit-kicking sister fuckers?”
Joe Bob socked him in the eye.
Lance’s head snapped back, but he didn’t fall over.
He shook his head, long hair flapping, blooding slinging around. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” Joe Bob readied another blow.
“Now you sound like my wife.”
Joe Bob hit him again.
Lance’s eyes watered from the punch, but he refused to collapse to the floor. Blood streamed over his lips, dribbled to his shirt. His gaze cut to Cass for a split second, then back to the Bandit.
That was when Cass noticed the hand at his crotch. His index finger was distended, jabbing toward the door. Cass peered in the direction he pointed, spotted Joe Bob’s rifle on the floor.
Lance pointed at it one more time before curling his finger around his jewels again.
“For a guy who can’t fight worth a damn, you sure talk a lot of jive.” Joe Bob shifted his weight, leaning on his good leg more.
“I can’t fight worth a damn? You’re going to critique my skill after you socked me in the nuts and threw powder in my wife’s eyes? You aren’t exactly Rocky Balboa.”
“Got the drop on your candy ass, didn’t I?”
“At least I don’t—”
Cass leapt for the rifle.
Or at least she tried.
Instead of lunging forward and sliding across the floor the way she’d intended, her legs refused to cooperate, and she simply toppled forward. Pulling with her hands, she scrambled across the floor, hoping to worm her way past Joe Bob while he was preoccupied with beating the life out of her husband.
That didn’t work either.
Joe Bob swatted Lance with the back of his hand, then reached for the rifle.
As the Bandit took hold of the rifle, Cass grabbed his boot, tried to yank his foot out from under him. He swatted at her with his free hand and scooped up the weapon.
He spun it in his grip, aimed the barrel at Cass’s head.
Lance jumped to his feet and exploded forward, wrapping his arms around Joe Bob’s waist. He drove him chest first against the door jam. The wood cracked under their weight.
Joe Bob squirmed in his grip, managing to spin around so he looked down at Lance’s back. He slammed the butt of the rifle into Lance’s spine. “That all you got, pretty boy?”
The blow dropped Lance to a knee, but he maintained his grip on Joe Bob’s waist. They jostled for position, each pushing and pulling, until the Bandit managed to spin them around so Lance’s ass pressed against the wall.
“Wait till you see what I do to your bitch.” Joe Bob hit him in the back again. “I won’t even wait for Higgins to get the first crack. Gonna pop her cherry right here while you watch.”
Lance snarled and rammed his shoulder into Joe Bob’s waist, doubling him over. His legs churned as he drove them across the living room. Joe Bob backpedaled as quickly as he could, trying to keep his feet under him.
When his bad leg gave out, he stumbled, nearly falling to the floor. Lance didn’t drop him, but pushed harder instead, lifting the Bandit from the ground, charging past the overturned couch.
Instead of slamming him into a wall, Lance plowed them through a window.
The glass shattered.
Joe Bob squealed.
They disappeared as they fell from the two-story window.
14
Brandon left the elevator with The Wildman and split away from the weird guy, passing cubicles and offices converted into bedrooms. He saw Eifort on the other side of the floor. She stood by a large bank of windows, watching the city spread out before her. She chewed her fingernails as he approached.
“Can you see anything?” Brandon asked.
He’d watched Cass rush through the front door while he helped calm people down in the lobby, but hadn’t seen her come back in. They’d all heard more gunshots and another explosion.
“No.” Eifort glanced at him with bloodshot eyes. “The wind is clearing out the dust, but I haven’t seen any movement in the streets.”
Brandon considered offering some words of comfort, but he decided against it. No one wanted a teenager making empty promises about everything working out or whatever stupid platitudes he could come up with. In fact, things had gone so sideways he wasn’t certain things would work out at all. The Bandits seemed to have lost their minds.
He watched as she resumed chewing her nails.
Though he’d only known her for a few days, Brandon had a tremendous amount of respect for Eifort. She was tough as nails, yet attractive and caring. She would go to any length to protect her family, yet she didn’t come across as aggressive as that Cass woman.
He made sure to stay far away from that blonde nut, even though he felt a connection with Lance after everything they’d gone through.
Cass reminded him of a wild animal—no one ever really knew what she would do next.
Eifort, or Megan as she kept asking him to call her, was more on the normal si
de. Normal for a woman who fought monsters and stormed enemy basecamps, anyway.
“He’s not much of a fighter,” Megan said.
“Who?”
“Emmett. He’s a big guy, but a softy. He wouldn’t hurt a fly if he could help it. Before we sailed to the islands, he had to… kill… someone. Nightmares woke him up for months afterward.”
“Lance and Cass are with him. And they’re the toughest people I’ve ever met.” Brandon followed her gaze, watched as the wind slowly blew the dust cloud through the city. He couldn’t quite see the blast site yet, but he could make out the buildings around it for the first time since the explosion.
“I can’t lose him again,” Megan whispered, more to herself than to him. She brushed away a tear that spilled from her eye. “Finn needs his father. I’d go after him, but what if something happened to both of us? We can’t abandon our boy again. I already did that once this week.”
Brandon looked around the floor, spotted the pregnant woman—he thought her name was Lilith—playing with Lincoln and Finn. Her eyes were red as well, though she wasn’t crying at the moment. Seeing her dropped a ball of lead in Brandon’s gut.
The memories of what the bizarre cult had done to Adam in the middle of a field assaulted him. He’d suffered a few nightmares about the cross erected in the middle of nowhere, meant to crucify a sacrificial offering for the demons. Knowing what Magnus King and his followers did to fellow survivors made him question whether humanity deserved to survive. He couldn’t understand how men could do such terrible things to each other.
As he watched Lilith playing with the children, he felt a lump forming in his throat. He didn’t even know her, but he wanted to hug her. Tell her how sorry he was he couldn’t save her husband. Her child had already lost its father. The thought of more kids losing their parents made him nauseous.
Brandon had to look away, afraid he might cry in front of Megan. The last thing he wanted to do was weep beside a woman who was dealing with way more than a couple of bad dreams at the moment.
On the other end of the floor, he saw The Wildman talking to his girlfriend.
Or wife.
Whatever she was.
Brandon had avoided her because she seemed less than pleasant. Charlie had told him The Wildman’s significant other was actually Lance’s ex-wife, which was just weird. Though he hadn’t told Charlie at the time, Brandon didn’t really believe that. Who would travel around the apocalypse with his ex-wife, her bizarre boyfriend, and his new wife and kid?
