Fighting for a Future (A Zombie Apocalypse Love Story Book 2)

by Kate L. Mary

  “Walk,” she calls over the rain.

  Several of the other tents are torn open, their sides now gaping holes that flap in the wind. Most of the lights seem to have been extinguished in the scuffle, but the few still working reveal a bizarre scene where primitive women dressed in leather hold men at their mercy. Through the rain and darkness I count six other men, all of them kneeling in the mud with their hands tied behind their backs. Four women stand over them, loaded down with homemade bows and spears, while three more gather the horses.

  “One more,” the woman at my back calls.

  When we reach the others, she kicks the back of my knees and I go down, relieved that the knife seems to have disappeared from my neck. I hit the ground, and mud squishes under my knees, and a second later my arms are yanked behind my back and tied. Around my wrists then at the elbows, making the muscles in my shoulders ache.

  “Do not move,” the woman behind me says before releasing my arm.

  To say I’m too shocked to do anything is an understatement. I search the darkness, trying to find the men in their group, but there are only women. Eight in all, and every one is muscular and broad, reminding me of the prizefighters I used to go see and how they would dedicate every free second they had to lifting weights, knowing it was the best way to escape the poverty they’d grown up with. But these are women, and this isn’t the city, and I doubt they’re on their way to a ring to beat the shit out of each other.

  The women talk back and forth while they go about gathering things. Their words are slow, overly pronounced, their dialect making them sound simple even though they’re clearly intelligent and organized. They dig through tents and wagons, and toss away things like food and money and shoes, but take common items like glass jars. Nothing they do makes sense, but they seem to have a purpose in everything, and they work together like a finely tuned machine or the cogs in a watch, winding around and around, hour after hour in perfect harmony.

  The only issue comes when they discuss the wagons. Two of the women, the tall one who grabbed me and another one with skin the color of coffee beans, want to load the supplies onto a wagon, while the other women want to leave it behind.

  A woman with gray, stringy hair lifts her hands before the discussion gets too heated. “I am Elder Warrior, and I will choose,” she calls. “It cannot make the trip up the mountain, and we do not want anyone coming after it. We will leave the vehicle behind.”

  The other seven women turn their backs on the wagon like her decision is law.

  When they head our way, I stiffen, and for the first time wonder what our fate will be. These women kept the seven of us alive for a reason, but what that reason is, I can’t even begin to guess. Are they hoping to hold us for ransom? If so, they’re going to be disappointed. The men who signed up for this detail did it because they had no money, no family, and no hope. We are worthless in the eyes of the rest of the world.

  “Stand,” the woman with the dark skin says when she stops in front of us. “We will go now.”

  I struggle to my feet, finding it difficult to maintain my balance with my arms tied behind my back the way they are. The ground is slick with mud, and two men actually slide and start to lose their footing, but the women are there to brace them before they have a chance to fall. With the heavy rain coming down, it’s tough to make out the faces of the men at my side, and the two I can see, I can’t put names to. We’ve been on the road for a couple weeks, but I’ve been too miserable to take the time to get to know anyone other than Daniel, and that wasn’t by choice.

  “Move,” a woman at my back barks.

  She shoves me, but it isn’t hard enough to make me fall, just enough to get me moving. I walk, cringing when cold mud squishes between my toes, and follow the other men and women toward the horses. There are half a dozen animals, but eight women and seven men, and I can picture the women riding the horses through the rain as they lead us behind them, tied together by rope. But that isn’t what happens, and I watch almost dumbfounded as one by one the men are helped onto the horses.

  When it’s my turn, one of the women holds me steady while another laces her fingers together and kneels and motions for me to use her hands as a foothold. I slip my mud-covered foot into her hands while the woman at my back gives me a push and the one in front hoists me up, and I find myself sprawled across the horse on my stomach. Some careful maneuvering by the women fixes that, though, and once I’m straddling the animal, the broad woman who killed Daniel climbs on with me.

  I sit behind her, my arms still behind my back and my body shivering from the cold. A leather strap is tied around our waists, securing me to the woman, and someone throws a thick blanket of fur over my shoulders.

  All around me, the other men are in the same positions, already on horses or being helped onto one. The women are silent, focused on their task. They gather the items they salvaged from our wrecked camp and tie them into bundles, attaching them to the horses. The aroma of wet fur is heavy in my nostrils, along with the salty scent of body odor from the woman in front of me. The smell isn’t sweat or filth, which is how the vagrants in the city smell, but earthier. Dirt and rain and pine, with a hint of perspiration. Not pleasant, but nothing to cringe away from.

  When everyone is seated, we take off, moving in a line. There are twelve of us on horses, the front horse holding two men instead of one prisoner and a woman, while three women lead the group on foot, carrying bundles of stolen goods and weapons. The woman in front of me rides like a pro, using the horse’s mane and a gentle press of her heels to lead it where she wants it to go. The pace is slow, but with the fur around my shoulders, I’m surprisingly warm.

  It isn’t long before the rain tapers off, but even once the deafening noise of the storm is gone, no one talks, and the only sound is the steady beat of the horses’ hooves against the ground as they squish through the mud. There’s nothing but darkness upon darkness as far as the eye can see. Even the stars have been blotted out by the thick cover of clouds, and with the never-ending blackness in front of us, I can’t help wondering if these women are dragging me to hell.

  After an hour or so of riding, my ass already hurts. It’ll be numb by the time we make it to wherever these women are taking us. It’s still night, but in the distance something has begun to form, pulling itself from the blackness like a rat climbing from a sewer. It’s a continuous shape, swallowing up the horizon. A mountain, maybe, or a forest. It’s hard to tell with the thick darkness hanging over us.

  The woman in front of me is as stoic as she is muscular, so I doubt she’ll tell me a thing, but after hours of riding in silent suspense, I find it impossible to stay quiet. “Where are we going?”

  “Our village.” She doesn’t even look back, and she doesn’t elaborate.

  A million other questions go through my head, but I say nothing because I’m too afraid to hear the answer to most of them.

  We go back to riding in silence.

  The rain may have stopped, but the air is still wet, and my body is covered in goose bumps thanks to my damp clothes. Even the fur draped around my shoulders can’t block out the chill in my bones, and I bounce back and forth between sweating and freezing as, in the distance, the sky turns orange. In the dawn of a new day, I’m able to see I was right and the massive shape looming in front of us is, in fact, a mountain.

  The light also helps me get a better look at our captors. They’re wild, the very definition of savage, and their leather clothes homemade, as are their weapons. The fur draped around my shoulders isn’t a blanket, but a pelt that looks like it was peeled right from an animal’s body. Still, in the light of day, there’s something beautiful about these women. About their strength and power and the way they carry themselves with their heads held high. Wherever they’re from, it’s obvious they’ve been secluded from the outside world for a very long time. Possibly since the plague.

  When I glance over my shoulder, the eyes of the woman on the horse behind me bore into mine.
Her skin is the color of coffee beans and her irises only a shade lighter, and she has her hair shaved to the scalp, revealing every follicle on her head, and muscled forearms that flex with each step the horse makes. She’d be beautiful, with defined cheekbones and full lips, if there was anything soft about her at all. But there isn’t. She’s as hard and unyielding as steel.

  In that moment, with her gaze holding mine, a new and terrifying possibility occurs to me, and the shiver that shakes my body has nothing to do with the dampness sinking into my bones. These women could be cannibals. Those groups existed, back in the early days after the plague when food was scarce and life was hard, and though it’s believed they all died out years ago, it’s possible some still exist. Hidden away from civilization, wild and savage like these women.

  When a second shiver moves through me, I pull my gaze from the woman and hunch my shoulders like it will make me invisible. More than ever, I wish I hadn’t let that damn railroad company sucker me with promises of good fortune. I should have known shit like that doesn’t exist anymore, especially not for a guy like me.

  Learn More

  Outliers

  First Place Winner in the 2018 Kindle Books Awards for Sci-Fi/Fantasy Fiction

  Chapter One

  The feast was the biggest one yet. After three years of working in the House of Saffron, I should have been used to it. But there were days when no matter what I did, I found it impossible to block out the sights and smells that accompanied my job. The smoky fragrance of roasted meat that begged my stomach to pay it mind, and the mountain of mashed potatoes, complete with rivers of melted butter carving their way through the peaks. No matter how hard I tried to ignore it all, there were moments when my senses took over. On those days my arms and legs worked on muscle memory alone. Carrying the bottle of wine, pouring it ever so carefully so as not to ruin the fine clothes of the people sitting around the table. Serving the dessert, baked apples with cinnamon or raspberries sprinkled with chocolate, all things that never once in my twenty-four years of life had passed my lips. Things that made my mouth water and my knees threaten to give out. Things that my stomach begged for.

  Today was one of those days.

  It was to be expected. Yesterday had been a bad day, so I had taken my meager rations from the kitchen home to Anja and our mother. It was something that the head housemaid frowned upon, but as long as I only did it sparingly, she chose to look the other way.

  “Indra.”

  The sound of my name cutting through the conversation snapped my brain into focus. Saffron was at the head of the table, sitting with her back so straight that it looked as if she had a board tied to it, and she was waving me over.

  “Mistress.” I bowed when I stopped at her side, careful to keep my head down.

  She was a short woman, as were all the Sovereign, and standing with my head dipped the way it was meant that we were practically eye to eye. This close up her skin appeared fake. It was the same pale shade as everyone who lived in the city, but waxy and much too smooth to belong to a woman more than half a century old. Her cold eyes were the same shade of gray as her hair, and she possessed a healthy roundness that signified her station in life, yet did not boast the same gluttony most of the other Sovereign’s bodies did. Standing next to her always made me feel like a withered leaf that would soon be blown away by the wind, and today was no different.

  “Your master just had the most wonderful thought,” Saffron paused the way she always did when she spoke. It was her way of making sure everyone was paying attention, something she should have been unconcerned about within these walls. When the head of this house spoke, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath. “Do you know of someone in need of a job?”

  I kept my head low, but my eyes snapped up faster than usual. Was this a trick? Saffron had no sense of humor, but the request still felt wrong. The Sovereign had not created a new position in decades. Our jobs were passed down from generation to generation. Three years ago, when my mother had gotten too sick to keep working, I had taken her place, just as she had taken the place of her mother when she was a young woman.

  “A young boy, perhaps?” Saffron continued when I said nothing. “It’s just that Lysander is about to become a man and I’m sure he could use a Hand to help him throughout the day. He will be starting his own life very soon, you know.”

  I did know. Everyone knew that the son of Saffron and Bastian was about to marry. The house had been preparing for the celebration for nearly a year. I was also painfully aware of the fact that Saffron’s only child had been a man for many years now. A man who preyed on the kitchen staff, who cornered women in the pantry and had his way with them. I had been in that position myself, but only once after first arriving at the house. After that I had learned how to watch my back, being careful never to make myself vulnerable so I would be forced to endure the humiliation of that day again. Not that my efforts had prevented other women from succumbing to the same fate. It was impossible to recount how many times I had been forced to stand by and do nothing as the pleas of another woman penetrated the pantry door. There was nothing for me to do, of course, but I hated myself all the same. Lysander of Saffron was a monster, and yet he was among the class that ruled our little world, and Outliers like myself were powerless to do anything to stop it.

  Saffron’s gray eyes held mine as she waited for my response. They were like two stones, as cold and emotionless as she was, and yet sincere. She was being genuine in her inquiry, and even though I found it impossible to understand the motivation behind her sudden goodwill gesture, hope bloomed in my chest. A position like this could change a family’s life.

  “I do, Mistress,” I said, once again lowering my eyes. With Saffron, or any of the Sovereign for that matter, eye contact needed to be kept as brief as possible. “I know the perfect boy for the position.”

  “He isn’t too young, is he?” Bastian asked, and as always I found it difficult not to cringe at the sound of his nasally voice. I was fortunate that he rarely spoke.

  Keeping my head bowed, I allowed my gaze to move across the table to Saffron’s husband. He was a plump man, even bigger than average, with a gut that strained against his shirt, threatening to pop the little white buttons that kept it closed. Like his wife, Bastian’s skin appeared waxy in the light of the kitchen, but that was common for Sovereign since they spent very little time outside.

  Bastian dabbed his napkin at his mouth before saying, “We don’t need a good-for-nothing running around the house.”

  “No, Master,” I said, once again focusing my eyes on the floor. The rug under me was worn but still bright, and soft under my tired feet. “Ten. The perfect age for training.”

  “Indra knows our ways. She will pick a good one,” Saffron said, dismissing her husband with a slight wave of her hand. “Her family has served us faithfully for centuries.” A pause. “How is Dichen?”

  I curled my fingers and dug my nails into the fleshy part of my hand. “My mother is very good, Mistress. I will tell her that you asked after her.”

  “Good, good. It was a shame to lose her, but you have proven to be just as manageable as she was. It’s not always the case, you know.” Saffron was no longer talking to me. She had turned to the guest at her right hand, the mistress of the neighboring house, but I remained where I was. “Eslanda, you’ve had such a difficult time with your help, have you not?”

  “The most difficult time.” Eslanda paused with a fork full of mashed potatoes halfway to her mouth and the electric lights glistened off the butter. “That’s why I’m supporting Stateswoman Paizlee’s bill.”

  Saffron frowned at her guest as she waved her fingers at me, motioning that I was dismissed. “You can’t be serious.”

  I backed away as Eslanda raised a plump hand to stop Saffron from saying anything else. The head of the neighboring house was robust, twice as big as Saffron, and the rolled skin at her neck was a bitter reminder of how much those living in the city had comp
ared to my own people.

  “I know you’ve had good fortune with the Outliers in your service,” Eslanda said, “but not all of us have been so lucky. One of them stole from the House of Kora only last week.” She popped the mound of potatoes into her mouth in a triumphant gesture.

  “What’s this?” Bastian asked, his nasally voice booming through the room, earning him a glare from his wife. “We haven’t had a gathering in years.”

  “Well, I may be exaggerating.” A white speck flew from Eslanda’s mouth and landed on the lace tablecloth, lost in the intricate white design just as I turned my back to the table. “But there was an incident at the house. I’m not certain exactly what happened, but whatever it was, it was enough for Kora to change her views on the bill. We need more regulations when it comes to the Outliers. We can’t just let them in and out of the city like they’re one of us. They aren’t. They’re different.”

  The last word seemed to hit me in the back, and for the first time today the wobble in my legs had nothing to do with the food piled to excess on the table. My steps faltered as I passed the line of Fortis guards, and the one closest to me reached out when I stumbled. He caught himself before his fingers could make contact with my arm though, and his hand dropped to his side as his fingers curled into a fist.

  “Are you okay?” he asked in a voice just loud enough that I was able to discern it above the conversation going on behind me.

  Shock forced my gaze up, but the man was so tall that I found it difficult to keep my head down while lifting my eyes to meet his. I had seen him before, every day since first coming to work in the house, but until now he had never addressed me directly. He was older than me, but not by much. Currently he stood in the shadowy recesses of the room, making his bronzed skin look darker than usual. The light hanging above the dining room table at my back cast a shadow across his face, accentuating his strong features and making his brown eyes look almost black. His hair was cut close to his scalp, so short that he almost appeared bald, and unlike many of his Fortis companions, his face was free of hair.