The Dead
Donna Augustine
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Copyright © 2016 by Donna Augustine
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1
Survivor or victim. That was how I’d always divided people. Some people thought they weren’t exclusive to each other. Personally, I’d always found it hard to be both at the same time, and I’d determined from a very young age which category I was going to be in. It took me a long time to climb out of the victim column, but I’d done it.
Turned out the hardest part wasn’t getting into the right category, but staying there. I was finding out that it only took one small blip in the span of your life to kick you back onto the wrong list. Like right now, for instance—as I sprang up in bed, my shirt soaked through with liquid fear and my heart pounding like a scared rabbit, not one part of me told the story of a survivor.
My fingers stiffened around the blanket I gripped as if it were my funeral shroud, trying to stop the trembling in my hands. I forced myself to breathe through my nose, even as it felt like it was an eighth of the size needed to do the job.
Time to do inventory; I needed my checklist, the one that kept me sane on the mornings when the dreams didn’t seem so dreamlike and the stench of death clung to me like I’d bathed in my own destruction.
I was safe in the confines of the Rock, in a house that was smack in the middle of a walled community—walls I used to hate but whose brick seemed to comfort me on mornings like this. A quick look around showed that there weren’t any Dark Walkers in my bedroom. The sounds of chimes weren’t tinkling on the air and nothing was trying to steal my life or my magic.
I was alone, like I had been every day for the last two weeks, since we’d returned with Tiffy. The panic started to chip away from a body frozen in fear and my shoulders sagged. I sank deeper into the bed as my inventory, once again, drove out imaginary threats.
The fact that I had a whole day before I’d be facing my nocturnal stalkers again gave me solace. By then, the memories would’ve faded, bleached away by a beautiful sunny day, and my tired body wouldn’t care about last night’s battle.
I got out of bed, trying to think of the positives, like how at least I hadn’t screamed this time and called attention to my sad state. Seeing Dax appear in my doorway ready to slay my enemies and not finding a foe almost made me wish the dreams were real. It was hard to look tough, like nothing bothered you, when you were screaming like a stuck pig.
Dax would stand in the doorway and assess the non-threat, not saying anything. I’d sit there, without an excuse. Finally, I’d nod and he’d back out of the room, not knowing what to do with the invisible monsters any more than I did.
He’d been hanging around later in the mornings than he used to. It didn’t take a huge mental leap to figure out why. For someone who prided themselves on being independent, I still hadn’t told him he didn’t need to hang around in some roundabout way. I would today…if the right moment arose. Or tomorrow. It wasn’t like there was a pressing need to tell him right away. Why bring up an awkward discussion for no reason?
Bookie, on the other hand, had no qualms about discussing it. I’d had the unfortunate opportunity to startle him when he’d come by predawn last week with a hankering for some of Tank’s jerky stash.
I’d been forced to confess my sad state of affairs as he interrogated me worse than Ms. Edith had when I’d lived in the Cement Giant, that hellhole that was only a mound of rubble now.
I’d told him it wasn’t a big deal, but blowing Bookie off when he caught scent of an unanswered question was like trying to rip a half-read book from his bare hands. He wasn’t called Bookie for nothing.
I’d tried to tell him it only happened once in a blue moon, but the skepticism in his eyes and the unsaid words told me he hadn’t bought it.
Then he’d gone on to explain how the human brain can only handle so much—even mine—and he wasn’t surprised that the recent occurrences had caused this.
He’d told me that in the Glory Years, way back before the Bloody Death ravaged the world, they’d had these people called therapists. They’d believed it was a good thing to talk stuff out. I would’ve thought he was making the whole thing up if Bookie wasn’t such an expert on that time.
He’d sworn up and down that it worked. He’d even suggested that I try it on him. Of course, I explained he was crazy. There was only one thing that was going to fix me—killing every Dark Walker I could get my hands on. My body might have been weary, but my soul was ready to fight. I dragged myself over to my dresser and pulled out my work clothes for the day, determined to drive away these fears the only way I knew how—my enemies’ blood.
* * *
I got to the trader hole an hour later, with a belly full of Fudge’s crispy bacon and none of the watch dogs the wiser, and there were more than one these days. If it wasn’t Dax dogging my steps, or Bookie offering to play therapist, Rocky was showing up. I had either the worst timing of anyone alive or they were all keeping tabs on me. Lucky for me, there were some issues with the north side of the Rock’s wall that needed Rocky’s attention, and a foal had decided to come early, so I’d lost Bookie. Dax must have had something other pressing matter, since he’d already been gone this morning, doing whatever it was he went and did. Of course, I would’ve gotten out of the Rock alone anyway, but them being handed distractions was much less time consuming than me having to spend an hour or two planting fake ones.
I dismounted from Charlie, the horse Rocky had given me because he’d said he owed me for vetting his place—even though I hadn’t found a single Dark Walker—and tied his reins to his saddle. I wouldn’t tie him to the hitching post, trapping him if he needed to make a quick getaway. As long as everything was calm, he’d wait patiently for me to return. If he needed to leave, then that was what he should do, and I understood. He wouldn’t abandon me unless his life depended on it. He was a great horse, even if I hadn’t earned him.
I knew there were motives behind the horse and how nice Rocky was being, even without Dax’s near constant reminders. Rocky wanted to keep his place free and clear of the Dark Walkers, and to do that, he needed me to stay. Dax had motives too, though. He wanted to keep an eye on me because it was hard to get revenge against an enemy you couldn’t see.
If I wanted to get real logical, did motives matter that much anyway? Does anyone ever do anything without something in it for them? Except for maybe Bookie, wh
o seemed to be operating on a higher moral plane than the rest of us. It seemed to me that most relationships were built on give and take.
There I went again, getting too deep. The only way to survive this world at the moment was to keep it all nice and shallow. I could dig through the deep muck of ulterior motives after I had a safe place to burrow in, and that wasn’t now. It might never be if I didn’t handle business. I gave Charlie a pat on the neck, told him I’d be back as soon as I could, and walked into Bert’s Trader Hole.
Bert, owner and bartender of the establishment, squinted, setting loose a whole new layer of wrinkles on an already well-etched face. This was my third time here this week, and I wondered if he’d found the fresh grave in the woods, about a half a mile away.
Not that he’d say anything if he did. He knew who my people were. People in these parts were well aware of the Rock, along with the man who ran it. Even if they hadn’t heard of Rocky—which was as likely as finding fresh month-old bread—they’d all heard of Dax. He’d been busy making sure everyone who hadn’t known him before did now, in addition to what would happen if you crossed him.
Dax’s motives were pretty obvious. It was good business to let everyone know it was in their best interest to keep their mouths shut about our presence in the area, since there were oodles of Dark Walkers sniffing around. I wasn’t completely positive that was the only reason, though, as it was hard to be a hundred percent sure, since Dax hadn’t sat down and written out his agenda for me. I didn’t take it personally because I didn’t want to have to return the favor and spell out exactly what I was doing every day. It was more of a guessing game between us. Either way, his tour of intimidation turned out to be pretty helpful.
Still, I’d make sure the next grave was buried a little farther out this time. When people looked at you as if death just strolled through the door, it was even ickier than the looks I’d gotten because I was a Plaguer. I was starting to think that maybe in this life, I was meant to be the walking and talking reminder of death. The Grim Reaper in the flesh. There were worse things to be, I figured—like dead.
Ignoring the owner’s look while wondering if I should trade in one of my knives for a sickle, I found the darkest seat in the place and tucked myself into the corner where it would be hard to see my face. My crazy red hair was piled up under a hat I’d borrowed from Rocky. With my black leather pants, fashionably broken in to just the right degree and in all the right places, I almost blended—to strangers, at least.
Bert’s steps were slow as he approached my table and his lines were crinkling deeper than ever, but I got my whiskey. I flipped him a Newco coin and his bent fingers caught it with the ease of long practice.
Even though we weren’t in Newco anymore, their coins were the easiest commerce unless you wanted to tote around oil or gas. The coins were another thing I’d gotten from Rocky. Apparently Dark Walker spotting not only entitled me to a horse, but it paid a healthy wage, which I was more than willing to part with for a sip of the strong stuff.
I leaned back and waited, whiskey in hand. The first sip burned going down, and from the taste of it, I figured it was strong enough to kill any of the germs living in the grime that clung to the glass.
I hoped my prey wouldn’t take all day so that I’d have fewer questions to field on my return. The longer I was gone, the more they always seemed to have.
As if I’d conjured him, a single Dark Walker strolled through the door. Or maybe magic had nothing to do with it. It had been getting easier and easier to find my targets lately. Still, it was mighty nice of him to oblige me this way.
My watchers were sure to notice me missing by noon and I was running out of excuses; not that they ever believed any of the ones I’d offered up. Still, I tried. The way I figured it, when you were trying to dupe someone, it was insulting to not do it as well as you could. Otherwise it was like implying you didn’t care enough to even consider them.
As far as actually believing me, it didn’t really matter. The bottom line was I was a grown woman. Whether they wanted to treat me like one or not wasn’t my problem. It was theirs. I was doing what I had to do for me. Right now, that was drinking whiskey and watching my soon-to-be victim.
The Dark Walker moved about Bert’s alone. A single scout, he probably wasn’t meant for any real conflict. They wouldn’t send a single Dark Walker after me and have any hopes of success, not after parties of them had gone missing. They wouldn’t be that stupid.
The six-foot scout, masquerading as a human, squinted and surveyed the clientele, which consisted of me and a handful of drunks at a table across the room. He was definitely looking for me; all the Dark Walkers were. No wonder I was having nightmares. I’d never be truly free until they left me alone.
If I knew what they wanted, maybe I could get some leverage. Why Ms. Edith, my tormentor for so many years when I’d been imprisoned at the Cement Giant, had called me the key. Or maybe I’d still be in the same boat I was now. Didn’t make a difference. I was done sitting idly by, while each one I let walk away alive could be the one who pulled the trigger on me tomorrow.
No, there would be no more waiting. Every Dark Walker I saw now was going to be a dead one. I didn’t know how many there were, but I’d chip away at their numbers. I’d keep going until either they were all gone or I was, and I’d like to see the Dark Walker that could kill me. It was going to be one hell of a fight.
As if it sensed my ill will, its squinty gaze glanced over to my corner. Even in the shadows, I knew it made me, knew it had found what it was looking for. The gloves I wore were a telltale sign for anyone paying attention, which wasn’t as often as you’d think. Even in the Wilds, people liked to walk around in their own little bubbles, and boy, did some of them get pissed if you tried to pop them. But not this one. He was here doing a job.
It walked over to the bar and ordered a drink. I watched it throw back a single shot. It shuddered slightly, and I could tell it didn’t like the taste of whiskey.
I bided my time and kept my hands on the roughened wood table, instead of reaching for a knife. My instincts were to attack it now, gut the thing before it had a chance of slipping away, but Bert’s had too many witnesses. I wasn’t sure if even Rocky or Dax could keep me from getting banned from the local holes if I started murdering creatures inside the joints. Then it would be back to waiting in the bushes. I hated sitting in the bushes with the ticks. In the end, that was really what kept me seated. Damn bugs bothered me.
The Dark Walker didn’t order a second whiskey and headed out, confirming my suspicions it wasn’t here to do the dirty work. It was a scout. There was only one reason they’d send out a single scout. Their numbers weren’t as good as I’d feared. Otherwise, they’d be sending groups. That was what I would do.
I let it leave before I pulled my hat down low and rose to follow it, registering a grunt from Bert as I left. I pushed open the door that had just slammed shut behind it. It took a minute for my eyes to readjust to the morning sunlight, but I found it walking quickly toward the hitching post. It leaned down and started unwinding the reins while his pinto waited.
They always rode horses, just like the locals. No trucks out here to tip off the innocent. They never dressed overly nice and never too poorly. Everything was meant to blend. I recognized the effort only as someone who’d put the same concentration into the task would.
I walked up but stopped a good eight feet away, just the perfect amount of space to throw my knife but still remain out of reach.
“What happened? You come all this way and don’t even say hello?” I asked, toying with it as it had its back to me.
It was hard not to have a little fun with them after I’d done this so many times. I mean, they did want to kill me and all. It wasn’t like I started the fight.
They could at least provide me with some amusement if they were going to hunt me. Fair is fair, even in the Wilds. Maybe more so in the Wilds, where it wasn’t an eye for an eye as much as if you started
a fight, you better finish it, because otherwise your opponent would scorch the ground you stood upon.
The Dark Walker turned just as I pulled my hat off, blazing red hair a touch darker than it naturally was from the coffee rinse I used. I wanted to make sure there was no question about who I was.
The reins dropped from his hands and I caught sight of the tremble. So he’d heard the stories. Knew his buddies were disappearing. Good. This was exactly the reaction I wanted. The more unsettled, the easier it was to steer them. A panicked animal ran. A calm one thought about where it was running.
But even unsettled, he still kept to the game. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of. I’m just trying to get my horse and leave, lady. I just stopped in here for a quick drink on my way back to my farm.” He turned back to his horse, but not before I caught him looking at the gloves on my hands.
“Yep, that’s there, too.” I tugged off the black fingerless glove on my right hand and held it up for him so he could get a clear shot of the scar if he wanted. “It used to be a ‘P,’ but I’m sure you know that.”
As if he couldn’t stop himself, he glanced over his shoulder and his eyes shot to the top of my hand. He dragged his stare away and shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
As soon he looked away from me again, I was on him, my knife at his throat. I might’ve been small, but my aim, especially when I picked a target, was always true thanks to my magic, which was nearly burning a hole through my chest at the moment. Seemed the more I used it, the more it wanted to be used, burning hotter every time.
He grabbed my arm, but it didn’t budge and it wouldn’t. He outweighed me by near double, but strength had nothing to do with this. I’d pictured my knife at his throat, and that was exactly where it would stay until I no longer wanted it there.
“The more you struggle, the quicker you die.” I kept the pressure of the knife even, breaking his skin enough to scare him into stillness but not so much to nick his artery and kill him. Not yet, anyway. I’d gotten this part down to a science. “We’re going to walk forward into the trees over to your right,” I told him.
The Dead: Wilds Book Three (The Wilds 3) Page 1
