Lust Plague (Steamwork Chronicles)

by Silverwood, Cari

  “You okay?” Sten freed a hand from the wheel, clasped her arm.

  “Sure.” She remembered to breathe. “Sure.”

  They followed the smoke. Her heart slowed from the nightmare tumult that had thudded at her chest, and she discovered there were benefits to sitting up front. She’d never been this fragile before. What had happened to the no-nonsense, steel-riveted wall around her soul? But for once she had someone to lean on in a time of peril.

  A man makes a good armchair, she thought. Warm. Solid. A sanctuary.

  A mile later, while snuggling back into Sten, she discovered the dangers.

  “Try to keep it down,” she mumbled. His erection was going up and down on a regular basis. “Can’t you control yourself?”

  “Around you?” Sten laughed. The bass tone near her ear started up that harmonic vibration in her crotch, and she melted just the teensiest amount, felt dampness in her cleft. He turned the wheel carefully. His chin rested near her ear, warm breath drifting through her hair as he peered around her to drive. “You’re not going to last much longer, are you?”

  He knew.

  “I’m not going to answer that on the basis it might give you ideas.” But she squirmed on his lap.

  He laughed silently. “We’d better go find this Miss Emily before your brain turns to mush again and I have to fuck you to get you to make sense.”

  Cao. Shit. Damn. The swear words didn’t change anything, but they did help her feel better. Arrogant man.

  Wind had torn the red smoke into a tattered veil. Sten steered into a wider street. “There’s the source.”

  Ahead was one of the tallest buildings—four stories, and at the top, at the very edge, a gyrocopter lay on its side. A crumpled rotor blade stuck out into space. When Kaysana wound down her window, the canary zipped out, shot straight up to the roof, and vanished from view.

  “I reckon she’s up there. I’ll get you the revolver from the haversack.”

  Five headless and well-perforated corpses were strewn about the street—all of them near the building. Had the other zombies come from here?

  “Those are gunshot wounds.” She peered up. “Someone’s been defending themselves.” Alive still? God, she prayed it was so.

  He flipped open the door, nudged her off his lap.

  The building’s four-story facade rose before her eyes. The walls sloped slightly inward like on many buildings here—designed to resist earthquakes—and every tier had a small ledge underscoring the windows and wrought-iron grates. The walls were off-white brick, and on a big square sign POLICE HEADQUARTERS was written in Spanish, Tibetan, and English. The high timber doors leading in were propped open as if waiting for them.

  She reached back and undid the rear door of the steam cycle. Cadrach jumped out and trotted over to sniff a zombie. “Not much taste, has he?”

  “He’ll do. Smelling doesn’t equal liking.”

  “No, but it makes me uncomfortable.”

  Sten unclipped his haversack and handed her a chunky, holstered revolver and belt. She put it around her waist, adjusted the fit, cinched the bronze buckle. “Let’s go.”

  He reached up and unsheathed his shotgun. The haversack swung from one shoulder. “Yeah, let’s. So why are we standing here with our feet glued to the floor?”

  “We aren’t.” She drew the revolver. With Sten at her shoulder, she strode to the short flight of steps and into the building. What could go wrong when she had this monolith of a man as an ally?

  Inside the foyer, straight ahead and in front of the stairs, a timber desk was piled with paper, pens, and books. The floor was strewn with clothes, weapon belts, truncheons, and paper.

  “Me first,” Sten muttered.

  They picked their way through the debris, then went slowly round and round the stair flights, checking every new corner, trying every door, expecting a zombie at any moment. In the quiet of the deserted building, the scuff of their boots on the stairs sounded loud as a shovel carving earth. From above, light trickled into the stairwell. Dark niches remained where a zombie might cower.

  No matter how much Kaysana stared, the shadows sprouted suspicious shapes. She shook her head. “I think my eyes are growing stalks.”

  “Ah-huh, knew there was somethin’ odd about you,” whispered Sten out of the corner of his mouth.

  At the top, a closed door was the last barrier between them and the roof.

  The sign on the door: WARNING. BEWARE OF SPINNING GYROCOPTER BLADES.

  The walls rippled, jellifying for a moment.

  Sten pushed past her, brushing her arm. The minuscule touch of his skin on hers fragmented and sizzled. Bliss struck. She shuddered, rocked back into the wall. Seconds later her brain cells kicked in. The lust was back. Wet, throbbing cleft, nipples like bullet points…damn.

  Mouth open to breathe, she made herself calm. One. Two. Three.

  Cool air coasted between her thighs. Kaysana looked down at the leather leaves of her skirt and grimaced. Her outfit revealed more than it concealed. She adjusted the mask. If anyone human was out there, she wanted to stay incognito wearing this getup.

  After a swift twist of the handle, Sten wrenched open the door and rolled out. He sprang to his feet with the shotgun up, the barrel cruising in a semicircle, ready to blast enemies. Out there the sky was blue and cloudless. Framed by the doorway, a crumpled ball of paper tumbled past. The hairs on her arms went on alert. Cold raced down her spine.

  Still…nothing happened. Cadrach brushed past and ran out onto the roof.

  Trying to show nonchalance, she wandered out—pretending Sten wasn’t already getting under her skin, into her veins, and between her legs, as if she wasn’t eyeing him with a view to hauling him back into the stairwell so she could screw him fast and dirty.

  Gun barrel pointing the way, she turned, scanning the flat roof. Four dead male zombies sprawled near the wrecked gyro. At one corner, a five-yard-high metal-braced tower had a weather cock spinning atop. Storage bins, not much else. Where was Emily?

  “Go slow, Sten. Some might be only half-downed.” She hefted the revolver, ready to pop one into anything that moved, that shouldn't.

  “Sure.” Heel, toe, heel, toe, he worked his way past the four zombie corpses. None stirred. “Brains are gone. They’re good and expired.”

  Stepping as if on fractured glass, dirt crunching underfoot, she eyed the bolts at the base of the shiny new radiophony tower. There must be a radiophony transmitter. Worth knowing, if she could figure out how to use the newfangled thing. She sneaked a look to the left. Nothing lurked behind the storage bins.

  “Who’s there?”

  Woman's voice—Emily’s?

  Cadrach loped toward the sound and whined.

  On the far side of the wreck, they found Emily, naked, bound with her hands before her, and tied to the gyrocopter by her ankle. Metal creaked as a gust shook the gyro, making it teeter on the edge. The canary alternated between flying in frantic circles and landing on Emily. Two women lay dead a few yards away.

  In Emily’s eyes dwelt the blandness of overwhelming fear. Next to her, a large bore shotgun was propped against the gyro’s metal skin. Her whole body shook in waves from her pigtails to her toes. “Tha-thank you for coming, ma’am, sir. I’m sorry.” She sniffled. “Sorry I couldn’t help them. Ammo’s gone.”

  Cadrach lay near her, chin on paws, yellow eyes watching Emily’s every move. He wriggled close on his belly and licked her leg twice.

  “You did good, girl.” Sten laid his gun down and brushed her temple. “We got your back now. Don’t look at them. Tell me, are you wounded anywhere?”

  “No. Just them.”

  Both women were from the Art of War—a pilot and an ensign. Not zombified, just plain dead people. Kaysana kept her face rigid, absorbing the pain, striving for control. Every time she lost someone, it hurt, but this… Bile flavored her mouth, screwed up her guts. She frowned a little. Sten was so good at comforting people. Instinctive almost, it seemed.
Hugging was just plain foreign to her. She envied him.

  Like thrown-aside toys, the women lay stripped of their uniforms, tangled together with twisted limbs. A long metal pole joined them grotesquely—driven through one woman’s stomach and out the back, then through the other. Dark blood pooled on the ground. The putrid smell of burst innards and violent death. The beautiful blue of the sky contrasted with the frozen agony on their faces.

  Raped, tortured, then killed.

  “Raised men,” she whispered.

  “Yep.” Sten pulled a small knife from a sheath at his waist. “Hope they’ve gone elsewhere. They’re too smart for my liking.” He severed the rope joining Emily to the gyro, moved on to the ropes tying her hands.

  “They did it in front of me once the ammo ran out, made me watch. Said I was next. There was one who talked. Kept talking like someone was telling him what to do…ugly things.” Emily shut her eyes a moment, cleared her throat. “About fifteen, twenty minutes ago, they turned away, forgot me, climbed down, and went.”

  The talking bothered her. Other zombies don’t talk. Ling did the same. And who attracted them? Us? Kaysana breathed out slow through her teeth.

  A stream of blood flowed across the concrete, swallowing the gray. They’re dead, gone—nothing more can be done for them. Emily is the priority. The past is done. A memory flashed in her mind.

  Blood unfurling and spreading in the stream beneath the bridge. The stream that carried twigs for their races.

  No. Kaysana pushed it aside, shuddering back into the now.

  Untied, Emily wrapped her arms about herself and stared wide-eyed up at Sten. “I know you. From the airship.”

  “Yeah, darling.” Sten dropped his haversack, knelt, and gently turned her foot, studying the purple marks left by the rope. “I’m rescuing you again. Don’t make a habit of this, will you?”

  “No.” She laughed in a choked-up way, wiped her eyes. “Promise.”

  Chapter Ten

  If she went nearer, Emily might recognize her. The world’s so fucked-up, what’s it matter? She squatted, put her arm about Emily, pulled her close. The notion this might make Emily feel better was strangely…nice. “Let’s get you checked over.”

  The rope had abraded Emily’s ankle. Items from the gyro’s tool kit and first aid kit lay strewn next to her leg. The swabs stuffed around the rope were stained with blood. Impressive presence of mind. Had Emily been looking for something sharp? And she’d tried to treat her wound.

  A few faint yells and shouts came from below. “You’ll be okay, Emily.” Sten massaged her foot, then met Kaysana’s eyes. “Color’s coming back real fast. We need her walking. From the sounds of it, a crowd is gathering down below and this building is climbable.”

  Climbable? “We should limit the entry points. Can you block the door?”

  “How will we get out then? The zombs could come from any direction down there.”

  Excellent question. She looked about, thinking. “I know how. Given some luck.”

  “Luck? That’s my territory. I’ll wedge the door shut.” He stalked away.

  One thing fixed.

  The whistle of the wind and the creak of the gyro shifting lent the awful pause a musical background.

  She stepped sideways, glanced down. Below, men milled at the base of the building, some making tentative efforts to climb.

  Sten came around the end of the gyrocopter, and her mind plummeted into an abyss. A fog of desire swirled in, crowding out thoughts. Biting her lip didn’t help.

  “I’ve jammed the door shut the best I can.” He wiped his brow. “It should do. Now. How do we get off here? What’s the plan? Kaysana?”

  The fog was a gray shroud, tangling up his words with the lust raging through her. Teetering on her feet, she hung there, teased by the movement of Sten’s lips, by the swagger in his hips. She itched to sink to her knees and hold on to his leg. Stupid. I’m not a dog. Not thinking right. Maybe, if I…shut my eyes?

  Blackness descended. She groped for, held onto, some part of the gyrocopter. Something sharp dug into her fingers.

  She heard the conversation as if at a distance, yet comprehension eluded her.

  “Damn. She has a plan to get us off the roof.”

  “Why can’t she say what it is? Who is she? I feel like I kinda know her.” A female voice.

  “All she wants right now is to come—and this doesn’t seem the time or place. Emily, can you go slap her?”

  “Me?”

  “Yep. You. I bother her too much, an’ we need her thinking.”

  Even through the fog she recognized smugness. Bastard.

  “Gosh, okay. Here I go. This seems wrong.”

  Footsteps crunched closer. A hand smacked across her face, stinging her. She coughed and opened her eyes, put her hand to her cheek. Emily peered at her, concern and curiosity, all in one.

  For a few seconds pain overrode her confusion. Why does he affect me so?

  “I’m sorry for that but… How do we get off the roof?” Emily leaned in, blonde pigtails swaying. “Zombies are coming.”

  Behind Emily, as if he’d had been catapulted onto the roof, a man appeared—arms outstretched, eyes alight with orange fire, his fire-wreathed hands reached. Cadrach snarled and lunged…then Sten’s shotgun blew the zombie away.

  Blood misted the air. He bit off a scream, spun out into midair, and went down. Gone.

  A knife clattered to the concrete. Blinking, she studied it. The zombie must’ve had it. Snick snick. The shotgun’s barrel rotated, loading a round. Sten hefted it, stepped back toward her. “They’re coming up. Kaysana, what do we do?”

  Fog waited at the edges. Pain, she needed pain. The sharpness under her fingers called, and she grasped it. Fire lanced into her, wetness leaked across her fingers, and her mind cleared. Even with her eyes closed, he’d affected her. If not sight, then maybe smell. She inhaled.

  The first aid kit. She dived on it, fumbled through the contents—swabs, tweezers, found a small bottle of antiseptic, unscrewed it, and wiped liquid under her nose. The scent burned away Sten’s distinctive odor.

  She blinked, sneezed. I can think again. She went to jam the bottle in a pocket and found she had none. Skimpy skirt, minuscule top. Blast. She tucked it into her top.

  Now even Sten’s smell sends me crazy? The lust was still there, but a simmering presence instead of something that blazed like a ten-mile-high bonfire. Not being able to think clearly when she needed to was a disaster. She’d have to stay on her toes to defeat it.

  Another zombie scrambled onto the roof. Cadrach lunged, thumping into him. He collapsed like a dead man should, all floppy, flailing limbs. To a symphony of wet cracking sounds, Cadrach closed his bear-trap mouth over the zombie’s throat and ripped it out.

  In one stride, Sten reached him. “Leave it, Cadrach!” The dog backed off. Sten placed the shotgun to the zombie’s temple, pulled the trigger. The shotgun boomed and splattered the roof in an arc of black blood.

  Three more clambered onto the roof. They headed for Emily.

  Pirouetting and leaping back like a well-armed ballerina, Sten gestured at Emily and held out his arm as if to shepherd her farther away from the onslaught. For a microsecond, his arm touched Kaysana. The shock wave dropped her to her knees. As if they were puppets yanked by a string, the three invaders swiveled their heads and changed direction toward her and Sten.

  On hands and knees, Kaysana scuttled back out of reach. She pulled the revolver from the holster. In their eye sockets, flames churned. The brush of hair at her side and a low growl told her Cadrach was there.

  Blam. She shot one plumb through the forehead, and the recoil rocked her wrist. Still coming? Blam blam. And it finally went over backward with a neat triangle of holes on its head.

  Sten picked the other two off easily, knocking them off the roof. The third he booted into space. Yet she heard him mumble under his breath as if he found the killing distasteful.

  “How do we get
off, Kaysana? There’s a hundred down there!”

  A step forward, a glance down, and she saw more zombies sprinting in. Some scrambled to climb the facade. Some fell, landing in crumpled heaps. Others, ones with flaming eyes, came up the building like monkeys. The revolver dangled heavily from her hand.

  The next five zombies she and Sten blasted full of holes. She reloaded, slipping in the fat brass cartridges plucked from the belt, one by one. Though eager and full of a wild-eyed joy of battle, the wolf stayed behind, where Sten had sent him.

  Before she was ready, five more reached the top.

  After a step back to cover a wider area, Sten shot them, one after the other, like a prize-winning shoot at a fair. Then he reloaded, methodical and calm. Blood and chunks of flesh spattered the roof. Sten scrubbed his forearm across his face as he wiped away sweat.

  She mightn’t be quite in her right mind, but she could see the man hated killing. Hell, what sane person wouldn’t. How much had she prejudged him?

  “We should leave, Sten, or we’ll be overwhelmed.”

  The aerial—that had been her plan. She gestured. “Knock over the aerial and use it as a ladder to get across to the next building’s roof. That’s a police garage. Bound to be some vehicle in there. Can you unscrew the bolts at the base? They’re new. There’s a wrench in the kit you tipped out.”

  “I can,” Emily piped up. “My dad was a steam engine fitter and mechanic.”

  Naked, plus she’d just survived a close encounter with rape and death, and her little ship’s librarian was composed already and steady of voice? The depth of the woman amazed her. Kaysana adjusted her mask. “Sure. Do that. The bolts might still be tight. Yell if you need help.”

  “’Kay.” Emily smiled, saluted, turned on her heel, and ran toward the aerial.

  Saluting? Yelling orders might have given me away. God, Sten said my name too. This is stupid. She drew off the mask, tossed it aside.

  “Look at this.” Sten stared over the side. He held the long and bloody pole that had skewered the women. While she’d been preoccupied, he’d slid it from their bodies. Ugh. She hoped his reasons were good.