I remember the way her breathing had changed in the car, the way her little body had shuddered in my lap, and I want to curse. I stare at her, at the tiny hairs curling at her temple, her fierce expression softened by sleep.
This how she looked the first time I saw her--mouth just slightly parted, her eyes twitching under her lids, little hands fisted near her cheek. Full lips pouty and begging to be kissed.
I could. I could lean down, right now, and kiss her and she'd wake up. I had seduced enough women to know she wanted me--it would take a little extra time, and she might draw blood, but I could seduce her, fuck her out of my system
The thought of it, sucking that full lower lip into my mouth, of her delectable body laid bare before me, of slipping my hand under those little shorts and toying with her until she came, screaming my name--and she'd scream--was enough to make me hard.
I glance at her again, seeing the slight tension in her body--she's awake, and waiting for me to say something. Cursing myself for an idiot, I roll from the bed and stalk into the bathroom.
I piss quickly and then slip out of the tiny bedroom. I need to clear my head, clear the smell of her from my head. And check for zombies.
I squint into the morning, sunlight glancing off the water in a brilliant--blinding--display.
The beauty is shattered by the shambling bastards milling on the dock and around the car. One shifts, looking up, and I curse. I grab the two gallon jug I keep on the boat, and splash it across the deck, the stench of the zom repellant flooding my nose. It brings with it too many memories, but I've had ten years of practice at ignoring them. I toss the jug aside and drench the stairs as I retreat.
She's sitting up in the bed, but I ignore her--had a shit ton of practice at that, too--and dump the last bit of repellant on the towel that is still damp from her shower. I shove it under the door and sit back on my heels, letting the reality wash over me.
Fucking hell, I'm trapped here with her.
I’m hiding in the fucking bathroom.
Cursing, I tug my jeans on and stalk out of the bathroom.
She's still sitting on the bed in her tiny shorts and tank top, and my eyes drop to her chest. Good lord, I'm going to hell. Collin is going to feed me to a horde.
"How long will they stay?"
Her voice floats around me, fucking with my head, and I want to snarl. Instead I meet her eyes, seeing the tension in hers and shrug. "Could be gone already, or they could stay out there another four hours. They could keep us here all day."
She makes a face, but I see panic in her eyes. The thought of being here all day with me is not appealing. "We have to get to 18," she snaps, and my temper sparks, rising to meet it.
That she's in pain doesn't matter. I'm pissed and that's not fair either.
But there's a helluva lot about this world that isn't fair.
"Yes, Nurrin, I’m aware of your thoughts on the matter,” I say dryly. "Give me your arm."
It startles me a little when she does without arguing. She's in more pain than she's saying.
The wound is turning. My stomach bottoms out when I see it, the taste in my mouth sour with fear. It shouldn't be this bad, not yet. Not with the--my eyes dart to hers. "Did you take the neural inhibitors?" I demand and because I'm staring at her, I catch her minute flinch. "Motherfuck, Ren." I snap, dropping her arm and grabbing my bag.
The pills fall into my hand, and it's through sheer force of will that I keep my hand from shaking as I shove them at her. "Take them."
"No way in hell," she says, her eyes furious and I lose it.
Without thinking, I tackle her to the bed, catching her hands and pinning her to the bed. She gasps, her body tight and furious under me, and I struggle to remember what I'm doing. She whimpers, and I can’t keep the groan contained. Her eyes darken, a little, but I don’t know if it’s fear or desire. Until she brings her knee up. I swallow a laugh--no need to piss her off any more--and catch her leg in mine, settling over her.
“Take them,” I demand, and my voice is husky, full of desire.
“Fuck you,” she snarls, and my body tightens. I’m on top of her, her smell all around me, a place I have imagined being a thousand time.
I’m painfully hard, and I grind myself against her, inhaling sharply at the heat of her body. “That’s one way to spend the day, Ren.” I murmur.
Her eyes—oh, god. Her eyes. Disgust and curiosity. One of them will end in a world of heartache. I could push her, just a little, and she’d give herself to me. I can feel how hot she is—she doesn’t want to be turned on, doesn’t want to want me, but she does. She licks her lip, and I have to force myself not to grind against her again.
I want to taste her, every inch of her. I want to watch her take me into her mouth, want to watch her come apart under me, want to see that sleepy look in her eyes she gets when she’s had sex.
And I know she has. I’m not an idiot.
I force myself to focus, and murmur, “Take your medicine like a good girl, and I’ll let you up.”
I can see the fear in her eyes, the revulsion. “They don’t work. And I don’t want to be a veg.”
“These work. No side effects.”
She shakes her head frantically, her eyes distant. “Ren,” I snap, and she focuses on me. “I’ve taken them. They work. You’ll be fine.”
She stares at me, and I pray to the god that abandoned us that I’m telling the truth. She opens her mouth and I drop them on her tongue. And the, because there is no way in hell I can not kiss her, I do.
Her lips are soft and surprised under mine, and I feel her swallow. I should pull away, but I open my mouth, nibbling at her lip until she softens, relaxes. I suck on her lip, dying a little at the little gasp of pleasure she makes, the way she arches under me when I lick into her mouth, and wish that it was somewhere else, her hands in my hair, and—
I roll away, force myself to let her go before I take her somewhere she isn’t ready for.
She stares at me, anger mounting and I know what’s coming.
It’s better—she hates me. I keep her alive. Everyone I love dies, so better that she hates me.
But as I say the words that will make her think she is nothing, the words that will fuel her hatred—fuck, I really will burn in hell for this.
And for that kiss? It might just be worth it.
Claiming the West
A World Without End Novella
Nazarea Andrews
Part 1.
The Sacrifice
*
It is a curious and disturbing thing, to be the one who destroyed the world.
Sylvia Cragen-
**
There is still hope. There will always be hope.
Priestess Holly-
***
It began with blood. It will end with blood. And faith.
The Red Priestess-
Chapter 1.
The Nature of Change
I grew up an orphan of the apocalypse. I mean, we all did. Some people still make sad noises when they hear my story. Like it’s something to pity me for. I've never understood that. Not when we all lost everything.
And in the end, I came out ahead. But. I suppose I should start at the beginning.
The third year of infection is the year we lost Massachusetts. It took the countryside first, which was unusual. Most of the time, the infection hit metropolitan areas first, with a vicious speed that brought it to its knees before anyone could throw up protections.
That's how we lost New York, and Atlanta and Pittsburg. It's how we lost so much. But in Boston--we came out on the offensive and put down the infection as fast as it rose. We pushed it out of the inner city and hunkered there, happy to wait out end of the world. We were stubborn and smart and more than willing to shoot first and ask questions never.
The infected couldn't take the city, so they turned their hunger to the suburbs and surrounding area. And it fell. In a bloodbath.
The problem was that we were isolate
d. And eventually, even the survivors die.
I was too young to remember that. I heard about it, later, but then I was just a baby. One of the few rescued from the fallen city. We were tucked into a vault in one of the banks, with one young girl who took care of us, kept us alive.
That’s where Omar rescued me. I wouldn’t realize it, not then. Not for another three years, when I was living in the orphanage.
He rescued me and gave me a life, put me in robes and gave me a purpose, gave me his trust and gave me a cause.
And I bought into his cult. Not the Order. But the bone deep fervor that Omar couldn’t be wrong. I didn’t know that, then. I didn’t really know it until I stood on the edge of world with Sylvia and the Red Priestess.
I loved him, with the devotion of a child for her father.
I never imagined I would be the one to kill him.
Chapter 2.
Base Camp
If I ever have to shower in a plastic cubicle again, I might stab someone.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the provisions from the Holdout, but I’ve lived my whole life behind Walls, with the modern convinces like running water, heat and shelter that wasn’t a tent. And while I happily followed Omar across the continent to chase an dream of reclaiming the East, I would never be happy in a base camp.
But, I’m clean. I’m safe. Sylvia has upheld her bargain with Finn’s First—safe passage and her continued aid.
But Omar is impatient. The survivors of the Holdout are happy to wait out the horde on the other side of the bridge, sending raiding parties occasionally to pick off the dead.
A throat clears on the other side of the plastic cubicle and I twist the water off. “What?” I snap.
“Sylvia wants to see you,” a deep voice rumbles.
I shiver and dry myself quickly, dressing in my fatigues. The solider waiting outside is one of Josiah’s, a sharp eyed, brown skinned young man who is devoted to Sylvia. He bought completely into the plague bringer’s beliefs—the way I bought into Omar’s.
It made him entirely too understandable and I keep my face deliberately blank. Buckle my weapons belt on and rake a hand through my hair. “Lead on.”
A smirk twitches Trent’s lips, but he merely flanks me as we move through the camp to where Sylvia is camped.
I mutter a curse when I see the woman sitting next to Sylvia next to a small, low burning fire.
“Fuck me,” I mutter.
Trent laughs softly, and I give him an annoyed glare before I step away from him.
Sylvia shifts as I approach, and her eyes, so similar to Finn’s—find me, probing and assessing.
“Ma’am,” I say, lowering myself to the stool she keeps by her fire. I flick a look at Lori, kneeling on the dirt.
Of all the Order to follow Omar into the East, Lori is the only one that still wears her robes. Even her pet priest, a Grey robed bastard almost as large as Omar, has set his robes aside for the comfort and utility of combat gear.
But the High Priestess appears every day in her scarlet robes, looking like she’s just presided over a Third Day ritual, and I have to wonder—how the actual fuck does she manage that? I used to wear robes, back in 1.
They aren’t the easiest thing in the world to keep clean.
“Why are we powwowing?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow and studying the two women that I’ve somehow become allies with.
“Ahab says the Holdout is clear. We’ll be returning to the mainland soon.”
I straighten out of my slouch. We’ve been waiting for this. All of the grand plans have had to wait while we were trapped here, but now.
“So we’re leaving,” I say softly.
“Not yet,” Lori interjects delicately. I glance at her.
“We have a problem,” Sylvia says. “You’re Omar. He is still set on reclaiming the East. And that is not what needs our attention. The East is dormant, but overrun.”
And the west is overrun and don’t have the added benefit of the dormant infected. My stomach twists. The Havens are falling, and Omar would happily let that continue, if it meant winning a war we ceded a long time ago.
“He’s never going to change that opinion, Dr. Cragen. He’s convinced it’s winnable.”
“And he’s the commander—which is why it’s time to remove him.”
Chapter 3.
The Traitor’s Burden
I let out the breath I’m holding.
Part of me wants to ask if there is another way—any other way. But I bite down on the question and nod. “How long?” I ask, straightening. Lori is watching me, a satisfied smirk on her lips, and I ignore her. Focus on Sylvia.
The brutal truth is I hate the Red Priestess. She’s a psychotic bitch at best, and a fucking zealot at worse, and I don’t trust zealots.
You can’t ever trust someone doing something because of blind belief. Omar taught me that, when I was fourteen and took the acolytes robes.
Irony never amused me much.
“We’ll leave the island within the week. It takes a little time for Ahab to get us all home, and I’m one of the last to be moved—he’s protective, and Josiah—“ she stops abruptly.
I look away, giving her just a beat of privacy.
It would be so much easier to dislike Sylvia if she weren’t so damn human. I hate when the monsters get up and show their softer side—it’s why I like zombies. With them it was always good to shoot first and ask questions later. You could never go wrong with severing a spinal column, because a zombie always wanted to eat you. There were no fucked up, half explained motivations and tragic backstory. There was just hunger and infection and we all knew how to deal with that.
“Ok. I’ll stay close to him until I have the opportunity. And then I’ll kill him.”
“Do you think the army will follow you?” Lori asks quietly, her voice sharply demanding. I glance at the priestess and let a slow smile spread. She frowns, a precise pretty thing.
Lori would be incredibly beautiful and even fuckable, if she weren’t so fucking insane.
“The army respects experience.”
“The army respects Omar. Who made me his second in command,” I correct, shifting on my stool. “Let me worry about the army. You worry about what the fuck you’re going to tell 1 when we arrive at the head of an army short a president and a general.”
I stand. “Is that all?”
Sylvia glances at me. “Can you do this, child?”
I think she means it as a comfort. Reaching out, being human.
It just comes off as overbearing and annoying. I ignore her question and turn away from the fire.
Omar is in headquarters—Command, I correct myself silently. Finn called it headquarters, but Omar hated that term. I don’t actually know why—probably because Finn liked it. My priest isn’t very logical when it comes to O’Malley.
Then again, most people weren’t. Look at the First who followed Omar into the East to keep him alive, and threw it all away to give Finn a chance at life without the shackles of his past.
I almost envy her. Nurrin was born a First, and that is a fucked up burden to shoulder in our world. But she carried it like a badge of honor instead of a curse, and wore Finn’s love like an old, comfortable coat.
I wish I could live with that kind of confidence in my place in the world. I think I will always feel like a little girl that Omar pulled from an orphanage, giddy with belonging and terrified it will vanish.
“Where were you?” He says as I step into the tent.
“Shower. I went down to the shore, to see if there was any word from O’Malley.”
Omar grunts, and I slide past him, leaning against the table and pulling my long knife out. His head comes up, black eyes watching me as I sharpen the blade with long, even strokes. “Finn is gone. Long gone, and likely dead. That damn doctor knows it too.”
“Finn was never here to help you take the East,” I point out.
Most people would never survive standing up to Omar. He’s a
legend—the youngest general and a war hero. He led the first mission into the remains of Atlanta, cleared the CDC on the heels of the apocalypse—and he taught the First Daughter.
Sometimes, I think that assignment was punishment. He did something, and was given babysitting duty. Except that when it came to Kelsey—and Finn—there was nothing simple or safe about the job.
And he would have encouraged them.
I don’t know what happened, when Kelsey died. What caused that mission to go so wrong. Only two people do—and if there is anything Finn and Omar have ever agreed on, it’s that Kelsey is out of bounds.
“He’s an idiot. And blinded by that bitch.” Omar says, grumpy.
“Ren?” I ask, an eyebrow rising. “We knew that. We knew it when he showed up with her at the Stronghold, and we had it confirmed in 1. Using her was always a risk—and a stupid move. I told you that it wouldn’t control him.”
His gaze snaps to mine, “It got him here, didn’t it?”
I snort and shove off the table, dropping the sharpening stone. “And what the fuck did that achieve? We crossed a fucking continent to find out that we’re fighting a losing battle and let the best fighter we have slip away in the middle of the damn night. This whole thing is a joke, and you know it.”
“You think we should go back.”
Hope flares in my gut. If I can talk him down—convince him that this whole thing is madness—“Would that be so bad?” I ask, softly. “We have a good thing in the West.”
“It’s falling, Holly,” he snaps. “What would you have us do? Hide in the Stronghold and hope the infected don’t come looking for dinner?”
“Cragen can change that. You know she can.”
Omar stares blankly at the map and I take a deep breath. “You brought me here because you trust me. Because you value my opinion. Of all your orphan priests. You made me your second. Listen to me.”
“Are you afraid?” he asks, ignoring my plea.
The World Without End [Box Set] Page 60
