She huffs a breath and stares broodily out the window.
“Why do you care so much?” I ask, keeping my voice deliberately neutral.
Ren snorts. “You’re Collin’s best friend, and I know nothing about you. You can afford neural inhibitors, and a top of the line tank, but you’re a Walker and an orphan. You were somewhere you shouldn’t have been when Hellspawn fell, but you saved my life. You hate me, but you kiss me.”
Her words are so soft on the last one, I almost don’t hear her. Almost.
“There’s very little you need to know about me,” I say, staring out at the passing mountains. The trees blur, flashing red occasionally as we speed pass infects. “My past doesn’t matter. Money doesn’t matter. The only thing that you need to know is that Collin trusts me and I won’t put you in danger.”
Her gaze darts to me, and I see questions brewing, the denial on the tip of her tongue. I turn to the back of the truck and slip through the little door that accesses the bed—and the machine gun.
I spend more time mentally retreating from her than I am comfortable with, but I’m not going to think about that right now. She hits the gas a little harder, and I slip on the steel bed, catching the gun and holding on as we race through the mountains and the desert, headed for the remains of Sin City.
Chapter 11
The End of Days
We hit Vegas at dusk, and I can hear the screams from the rubble outskirts. I slow to an idle and look at Nurrin. She’s pale, her blonde hair sticking to her sweaty neck. “What’s your name?” I ask sharply, and her gaze snaps to me.
“Kelsey Cain,” she says. She rattles off a dead girl’s birth date and statistics, and I nod approvingly. “You’re Sean Jackson. Born in Buffalo, but moved west with the evac orders during the first wave. Mother and Father were killed when New York fell. Sister is alive and living in Haven 3.”
I nod. “Good girl. Remember—nowhere without me. Not even a Hale Hall, do you understand? I have no presence in Vegas, and we’re going without my name as backup, so we’ve got each other and nothing else. I’m going to get what we came for and get the fuck out.”
She nods—Vegas is a hellhole at the best of times, and Third Day is a far cry from the best of times.
“Do you think it’s already started?” she asks. I look out the windshield—smoke is rising from the ruined city, and the screams have increased in pitch, shrillness.
It’s ironic, in the worst possible way, that The Blessed Order took Sin City as their headquarters.
“Yeah, Ren. It’s already started,” I say softly.
Her hand clenches and unclenches, and I push down the urge to reach for it, to smooth my thumb over her knuckles. She nods sharply, and I put the car in gear, easing us forward through the rubble.
Vegas—now Haven 21—is different from most Havens. It doesn’t have walls, orchards, and fields. It doesn’t have brick apartment buildings for the orphans and the forgotten. The streets aren’t drenched in zom repellent.
Instead it has one single, shining monument to human depravity, a tower of sex and greed and stupidity. I pull through the wall of rubble, and Ren’s fingers clench rhythmically on her gun. We drive through the streets without much fanfare or issue. The streets are clear of infects—startlingly so. But as we drive deeper into the city, closer to the Palace, the screams intensify, until they echo off the buildings, off the vehicles, off everything to bounce and reverberate. She huddles into herself, and I see the first one.
The infect is racing down the street, his face twisted in a gross distortion. One eye socket is empty, the other so decayed all I can see is blood. His hands are gone, splintery bones where the appendages should be.
He’s grotesque, and I can’t look away, even though I know what’s coming. I see the sacrifice, running through the streets first.
The girl is young—not even a First. She’s too young to be. Her eyes are wide, and she sees us, the truck, an instant before the zombie screams and jumps the last few feet. She stares, pleading, and then she screams, another voice joining the melody of wailing. I look away, jaw tight. Shove the truck a little faster. At my side, Ren makes a soft, distressed noise, and I cut my eyes at her.
“She’s gone, Nurrin.”
Tears sparkle in her eyes, but she nods.
We pass three more token victims before we hit the main drag.
And then we stop, unable to move, and I’m suddenly grateful for the tank I paid a shit ton of money for. A zombie slams into Ren’s door. She yelps, skidding across the bench until she’s pressed against me, trembling as we stare at the decayed face and the gouges it’s leaving on the glass.
“It’s shatter proof, right?” she asks, breathlessly.
I nod, and she eases away from me. Drags her gaze from the zombie that’s still battering at her window and onto the carnage.
It's a fucking bloodbath. The bodies are strewn across the Strip like trash, dead and dying. Clusters of zombies crouch over dead bodies, feasting on the bounty of the Order. At my side, Ren gags, and I grab a bag, shoving it at her as she heaves and throws up. It's disgusting and messy. It's what I would do, if I were a little less jaded. If I hadn't seen it for so many years.
Every Haven has their version of the Order— lesser chapters, small congregations. Most midsized chapters hold the Third Day Massacre. I want to say there’s a method to their madness, but there isn't. There’s only fucking insanity, a new, deadly kind in a world gone completely mad.
It began with Sawyer Russell. He'd been traveling with a group of survivors out of Chattanooga—everyone in the area was scrambling to get clear of the carnage spilling from Atlanta, and he landed on a hospital transport.
They had five Firsts—babies born the day Emilie Milan rose. Six more born on Day Two and Third Day.
Eleven in all. Eleven breathless, hungry, screaming babies.
The hospital transport hit a traffic snarl outside Cleveland, Tennessee, and they were left to walk. The first night, the screaming babies brought down a small pack—five zombies found the little house the group was hiding in. Sawyer was desperate, coming down off a wicked meth high. With the zombies literally at the door and a baby screaming, he did the only thing that made sense in his fucked-up mind. He tossed the kid out.
That nameless child was the first First. And when the zombies left, temporarily appeased, and his group beat the shit out of him and left him for dead, Sawyer was left to think.
He didn't die. Instead he rallied, and he found people desperate and degenerate. People willing to believe anything, any tiny lie that offered any kind of comfort.
When he said killing a First made the horde retreat, and killing them all would make the zombies die, people were desperate enough to believe him. Before anyone realized how dangerous he was, the Blessed Order was established—a dangerous, murderous group.
Sawyer took his insane followers and retreated to Vegas, raided the local army base, and turned what was left of a casino into a fortress.
All year, the casino is open. People can visit the gaming tables, the second-level clubs. The fight halls and races. On the upper floors, the strippers and prostitutes, the kink clubs.
And, in the basement, when everything is gone and you have nothing left, Sawyer and his cult of blood hungry bastards takes what little remains.
I wonder what that girl's parents had done— what they spent her lifeblood on. What vice kept them running in this pathetic excuse of a world?
The massacres are a tribute, Sawyer preaches. They're a tribute to the work that is done and being done, to God's judgment while we hesitate over killing the Firsts.
I think they're all power hungry lunatics, but I know better than to cross the Order in their seat of power. So I wrap my name up tight and drive us deeper into hell.
Part 3
The Future without Hope
*
The future belongs to those who prepare for it today.
Author Unknown
**
/> The future is uncertain—but we will fight for our way of life. Even as it changes.
President Andrew Buchman
Chapter 1
Casino Evil Incarnate
He says trust. He says nothing matters. He says he'll protect me.
He's fucking insane if he thinks I'm actually buying any of it. I thought this would be a quick trip—in and out, get the meds, drop the warning, and scoot back to the Hole and Dustin.
I didn't think we'd end up in the Order's stronghold on fucking Third Day.
The massacre is over. We inched down the Strip at a snail's pace for an hour or more. Then, like a switch had been flipped, the Order swarmed the streets in zom gear, picking them off with practiced precision. Within minutes, the zombie horde was slaughtered. Without acknowledging the truck we're sitting in, the Order stripped the dead of their weapons and retreated into the casino.
"We're going in there, aren't we?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady.
Finn nods, puts the truck in gear, and rolls over the dead toward the Casino.
They're waiting for us, guns bristling, and I shiver as he pulls into the parking garage and our truck is swarmed.
Finn shoots me a quick questioning look as the Order soldiers shout orders. I nod quickly, and he grins at me, shoving the door open. I slide across the seat. He tugs me down and wraps an arm around me, pulling me close as we face the Order. "Name and Haven."
Finn grins, and his voice takes on a soft drawl. "Sean Jackson and my fiancée, Kelsey Cain."
I struggle to stand still and not react to that—it comes without warning.
"What's your business here?" the soldier demands.
Finn grins, a light expression that's out of place on his blank face. "What? I thought the Order liked visitors."
"It’s Third Day, man. Not a day for visiting the vice clubs."
"Come on, dude. It took everything I had to save for this trip—and another two weeks of cajoling my girl's guardian. Don' tell me you’re gonna refuse us entrance." There's an entitled whine in Finn's voice that makes the soldiers relax, a calculating gleam in their eyes.
"You have to pass an infection test." His gaze flicks to me, and a leer touches his lips. Finn's grip on me tightens minutely. The solider whistles sharply, and a gaunt-looking man in pale scrubs made bulky with armor hurries out with a test kit. The soldier’s grip on his gun relaxes a little as the medic grabs my hand, jerking me out of Finn's grasp. He makes a low, angry noise, and I shoot him an annoyed look. The needle stabs into my finger, blood welling up. I hiss at the sting. The medic gives me an apologetic smile, then gives Finn the same treatment. As soon as the vials settle into a deep red, the soldiers lower their guns and relax.
"Welcome, Sean and Kelsey, to the Keep of the Blessed Order."
Chapter 2
The Enemy's Gates
It takes another two hours to be sorted through the security and assigned a room. Finn pays the extravagant price with a remarkable amount of bitching, and finally, finally, we're escorted to the sixth floor, where our room is waiting. It's clean, done in white and gold, with sharp lines and one large bed. I stifle my sigh and Finn smirks.
As soon as the guard shuts the door behind us, he drops our bag and drags me into the tiny bathroom.
"What the hell are you doing?" I hiss as he presses me against the door and reaches to turn on the shower.
"The room is bugged. We can't act like anything but our cover stories—do you understand?"
He stares at me, and I remember what he said downstairs—I'm supposed to be his fiancée. I bare my teeth and snap, "You’re fucking insane, you know that?"
The smile he flashes me holds more than a trace of crazy, and I think he knows it.
"Fine. What's the plan?"
"We need to get the eye of High Priest."
I shudder. I've spent most of my life avoiding that very thing. To be told now that I'm going to do the opposite—it's enough to make my blood go cold. Finn eases back, giving me space, and stares at me. "You can do this, Nurrin. Two days—less if we put on a good show tonight. We get what Lori wants and we go back to the Hole."
Back to Dustin and Collin—back with the medicine that could save their lives. I nod, and he gives me a rare, approving smile.
Two hours later, I'm really wishing I'd gotten more details before I agreed to this. I stare at the dress and shake my head. "No. I'm not wearing that."
Finn makes an impatient noise. “Quit whining and get ready—we’re already late.”
I give him a dirty look. He returned with the dress five minutes ago. I stare at it and then him and ask the question I've been avoiding, "Where are we going?"
Finn doesn't answer—surprise, surprise—but he does give me a dark smile before pushing me into the bathroom and closing the door.
I stare at the dress. I hate it, but my mouth waters a little. It's gorgeous, a fall of black silk and satin, flowers and spirals in jet beads, twisting up the side. It's got a high neckline and thin shoulder straps. The shocking part is the midriff, which is a sheer black material that rises in knife-like points. They rise up and around my breasts, drop low to brush my navel and hips. The back is completely sheer, dropping in a sharp point at the tip of my ass.
The dress is demure and daring, sexy as hell while keeping everything important tucked away.
Its eye catching and attention grabbing and everything I need to be tonight—in this dress all eyes will be on me. There's no way to float under the radar. The High Priest is sure to see us.
I heave a sigh and strip out of my clothes and underwear and shower quickly. I pull my hair up and apply my makeup. I use a light hand, making my lips almost a natural pink, and no blush. My eyes are dramatic, smudged and smoky, the blue jumping out. Then I dry my hair, leave a few curls hanging down, and pull the rest up. I add the peep toe heels and straighten, smoothing the wrinkles free and taking a deep breath. Then I open the door and step into the main part of our suite.
Finn is leaning against the side of the window, drinking something golden from a small glass. The sun is setting behind him, and for a heartbeat, framed by the opulent rooms and the sun, in a black suit, black shirt, with a startling silver tie— for a moment, he makes me freeze, emotions that make no sense kicking around in my chest.
It's Finn. Finn O'Malley. The man who annoys the shit out of me, who refuses to answer a simple yes or no question, the one who made my brother keep secrets from me.
The one who saved my life. Three times now.
I shove that thought down and take a half step toward him. Of course he looks good. He's in a suit and tie—even in blood stained-workout clothes, Finn looks good. In a suit, looking out on the world like he owns it and fuck the zombie apocalypse for getting in his way? Then he looks positively edible.
It doesn't mean anything.
His gaze swings to me as he takes a sip of his drink. I flush as he does a slow sweep over my floor-length gown. His eyes are like a hot, physical touch, sweeping me from head to foot and lingering on all the interesting bits in between. I clear my throat, and his gaze, sardonic and amused, snaps to mine. "Do I meet with your approval?" I ask, cocking out a hip.
He shrugs and finishes his drink. Straightens his cuffs. When he looks back up, his gaze is cool and remote, as blank as he ever is. "You'll do. Let's go—we're late."
He leads me down the brightly lit stairways, and I try not to think of the last time I clattered down a stairwell with him, the alarms of Hellspawn chillingly quiet. He’s holding my hand— part of the stupid façade—and I want to tug free and bolt the rest of the way down, until we’re on level ground, with enough space to shoot anything that approaches.
Where memories don’t echo off the tile and white walls.
His grip on my hand tightens, and it steadies me. Running would be weak. And if there is anyone I don't want to be weak in front of, it's Finn.
There's a third-floor restaurant, a place full of pristine tables and white tablec
loths, beautiful women escorted by flawless men. He leans close and murmurs, "Follow my lead."
I slide Finn a look from under my eyebrows, but I don't respond as he steps slightly in front of me and speaks to the hostess. "Reservation for Sean Jackson and guest."
I bristle that all I am is a ‘guest,’ but the hostess smiles slightly and leads us to a small table, secluded to one side of the restaurant. She waits until Finn is situated comfortably next to me, and then smiles again. "The show will begin in a few minutes."
My mouth goes dry, and I lick my lips as she walks away. "What show?" I whisper.
"We're supposed to be in love."
"What show?"
"It's normal—a lot of newly engaged couples go to them. And looking like that, there's no way we'll slip under the radar. Especially not at this show."
My voice is shrill and a little hysterical.
"What show, O'Malley?"
His gaze flashes hostile, and the lights in the room dim. I freeze as a server places two glasses of water on the table. He leans down and murmurs,
"If you desire anything, I'm at your service."
I glance at him, startled to see the waiter is wearing only a few chains and a cup. Finn catches my gaze. I know he can see the shock there.
Then the stage comes into view, the silver pole. A girl is writhing on the stage to music that pounds in my blood like a spell. I lick my lips again, unable to look away.
The stripper teases for what seems like forever, long enough that I forget we're in a restaurant, surrounded by other patrons, long enough that I begin to forget that Finn is sitting beside me. She swings and sways, dancing, her head thrown back. And when she's finally naked, the man appears. He's naked, fully erect and carrying a pair of handcuffs.
I watch as she sinks to her knees and takes him in her mouth, her pretty blonde head bobbing while he keeps a hand tight in her hair. Until he finally pulls her away and secures her to the pole. Her breasts are high, nipples tight and shiny from his mouth. I think he'll fuck her—I almost want him to—but then he drops to his knees, hooks one of her legs over his shoulder, and licks. She screams, a noise of sheer pleasure, and I finally look away, overwhelmed.
The World Without End [Box Set] Page 10
