Murray's Law: Urban Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The Night Blind Saga Book 2)

by Christina Rozelle

  But a realization strikes hot: They aren’t my main concern anymore.

  Turns out, the worst monsters are still living.

  “What do you miss most from your old life?” Gideon asks me. “Other than loved ones, I mean.”

  “Music. Hands down.”

  “Aw, yeah. I can see that. I miss it, too.”

  “We should try to find an old record shop somewhere.” I scan the businesses as we drive by as if a record store might magically appear out of nowhere because I asked for it. “I bet those places were last to be looted. There was one Evie and I used to go to near Selam County Community College, but that’s too far. And too close . . . to them.”

  “I get it. And you’re in luck—I know of one.”

  I spin around to face him. “You do? Where?”

  “It’s a bit of a drive. But we have a full tank of gas, so . . .”

  He trails off, and his face goes solid as he slows to a stop. I redirect my gaze to the sight before us, and freeze in an awkward position when one bumps into the side-view mirror. Then, there’s a flood of them all around us.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper.

  “Stay calm, baby,” Gideon says, checking his rearview mirror. “Four more minutes. Maybe five.”

  “So, what about you?” I ask a minute later. “What do you miss most? Other than loved ones.”

  “Bowling.”

  I laugh. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I was on a league with a few guys. Won some championships here and there, no big deal.”

  “Well, yeah, that is a big deal. It just surprised me, is all. I wouldn’t picture you as the bowling type.”

  “What would you picture me as, then?”

  “Um, I don’t know. Either a personal trainer, a model, or . . .” I slide my fingers over his thigh and give his groin a rub. “A porn star.”

  Fist held to his mouth as a silencer, Gideon’s caught in quiet laughter as the last ripped and bloody body stumbles past my window. Once he composes himself, he leans over to kiss me, two-day-old stubble brushing my chin. “Porn star, huh?”

  I shrug, peck his cheek. “I’d take it as a compliment.”

  “Oh, I do. I just think it’s funny.”

  “So, the record store?”

  He pauses for a second before one glance in my pleading eyes shows him that it is necessary for my current state of survival for us to go to that record store.

  “Sure, baby. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” He smiles, pats my thigh. “You’re in charge.”

  “Mmm . . .” I slip my hand over to his lap again and rub his dick until I feel him get hard. “I love it when you say that. Say it again.”

  “You’re in charge, baby. I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go. Your every wish is my motherfucking command.” He moans as I stroke him.

  “Again.”

  “You’re in charge, baby. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

  I pivot in my seat and pull my hair over my shoulder, then unbutton and unzip his pants. His warm dick bulges when I put it in my mouth, and all of my orifices beg for it.

  “How do you manage to make an apocalypse romantic?” Gideon says, echoing words I’d asked him yesterday in our waterslide tower.

  I stroke him slowly for a minute. “Because I’m madly—” I suck on just the tip of his penis, tickling the head with my tongue. “—and deeply in love with you.” I swallow it down, and he groans with pleasure, thrusting against me, gripping my shoulders. As he fucks my mouth, he swerves around things in the road, and finally pulls over, putting it in park.

  “Ah, fuck, Grace. Goddamn, baby.” He moves my hair from my cheek so he can peer down at me with his dick in my mouth, until I feel the spurts of warmth on my tongue.

  “Every time you do that, I fall in love with you a little bit more,” Gideon says with a moan. “Not gonna lie.”

  I put his dick away, zip his pants, then sit up. “Every time I do it, I fall in love with you a little bit more. So it works out.”

  “It more than works out.”

  Six

  The downpour Gideon predicted starts when I see signs for 420’s Smoke Shack, Billy Bob’s Liquor Palace, and The Pretty Kitty Boutique. A little rain won’t quell my excitement. Let’s hope those looting assholes left something decent. Better yet, let’s hope they missed this shopping strip altogether. Possible, but highly unlikely. A pipe dream, Henry would call it.

  I couldn’t miss him more.

  When we round the corner to the U-shaped strip mall, my excitement blooms to terror. We’re not alone. At least ten corpses occupy the space, waiting to spring at the first sign of life.

  “Ready to practice?” Gideon asks me.

  “Now? In the rain?”

  “Hear me out—this is perfect. No thunder or lightning, so we’ll still have night cover.” He fans his hand at the scene in front of us. “We move quick, quiet, poised, and we work back-to-back.”

  “I can’t do this.” My hands sweat, along with my body. “I’m not ready.”

  He sits for a minute, staring into his lap. “Yeah, never mind. It would be stupid of me to put your life at risk like that. I mean, there are at least twelve of them—eight on my side, and four on yours—so that would be too difficult for you to manage, right?”

  I scowl at him. “That shit’s not gonna work, Gideon.”

  “I’m sorry.” He runs soft fingers along my forearm. “But this is the world we live in now, baby. Survival of the fittest. On guard at all times. Quick, fierce, smart—it’s the only way we have a chance.”

  “How many of them have you killed?”

  He shrugs. “Hundreds, at least.”

  My jaw drops, and I cock an eyebrow. “I guess it was stupid to assume you weren’t having to deal with them on your nights away because you never told me about them when you got home.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.”

  “That’s a pretty good reason to worry.”

  “Grace . . . the longer you’re out there, the easier it gets.”

  We sit in silence, watching the trapped runners mill about. Two of them collide, attack one another, then retreat, bloody, ripped sheets of skin hanging from their face to reveal muscle and bone.

  “You could take all of these out, no problem?” I ask.

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  “Show me.”

  He touches a finger to my nose, then kisses my lips. “We have a danger streak in common, I see. You have no idea how much that turns me on.”

  “I do.”

  He grins, and a spark of mischief peeks out. “Ready?”

  “Yes. I’m always ready for anything you have for me.”

  “Mmm . . . I like the way that sounds.” He sucks on a finger before slipping it under my pants and rubbing me. “And I really like how wet that pussy is. Let me give it something else to purr about.”

  With a wink, he opens the car door, then slips out and crouches low. Through sheets of rain, he bobs from crouched shadows to spear them, and they drop in line, as if they’d been unplugged. In less than two minutes, he’s back, panting. He flings blood from his katana onto the sidewalk before getting in, drenched to the bone.

  “That was hot,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah?” He steadies his breath.

  “Yeah. I seriously want to fuck you right now.”

  “Well, there’s a good stairwell over there . . .” He tosses me a wink. I love how he’s not afraid to joke around with me.

  “I’d try anything once.”

  “You deserve better than that, my darling. You deserve—” He glances at the signs in front of us, rolling toward them. “Four-Twenty’s Smoke Shack, Billy Bob’s Liquor Palace, and The Pretty Kitty Boutique.” He examines the other businesses around us, crunching bodies beneath our tires. “And if you want, we can even rob the print shop, the tax office, and the sushi place.”

  “Wow, finally, a fabulous night out on the town.”

  “Only
the best for my girl.”

  Billy’s and 420’s are thoroughly looted. The windows are busted out, and the doors stand wide open. The Pretty Kitty appears to be intact, though. We race through the rain and into 420’s, and I find a clump of buds on the ground beneath the store’s awning, as if someone had dropped them on their way out. I scoop them up and tuck them into my pocket—about two or three grams—then we head inside.

  Once we’ve cleared the doorway, I close the door behind us, following Gideon through the store. When there’s shuffling to my left, I unsheathe my katana and spin around, met by a gruesome, bloody face. Short blonde hair matted with innards, a ripped pantsuit, pink pearl choker, and a dingy name tag that says she was once Beth Dixon, a real estate agent for Dorsey Alston, Realtors. She snarls, reaches for me, fingers adorned with two remaining acrylic nails, and with one clean swipe, I decapitate her. She drops to the floor in a heap, and Gideon rushes to my side.

  “Damn. Nice job, honey.”

  I bend over and puke.

  “Yeah, it did that to me the first couple times, too,” he says when I finish. “No worries. You get used to it.”

  “Is it me”—I wipe my mouth—“or do they seem slower?”

  “They are. I assume from the rigor mortis and the rotting. They’re still fast enough to be a concern, though.”

  The shop is mostly empty. A few water bongs left, and other random things. I walk toward a long, glass counter, half of which is cleaned out, assuming that’s where the weed was displayed. But the other half is still filled with an array of smaller pipes, vapes, dugouts, and one-hitters. I choose a large dugout with a mother-of-pearl pentacle embellishment and fill it up with the weed from my pocket. I feel better already.

  After a sweep around the premises for more weed, and finding none, we scope the perimeter before exiting 420’s. The rain has slowed to a drizzle and the clouds are moving fast. This will be a quick storm.

  Next door, at Billy Bob’s, the stench is unbearable. Three bodies on the ground buzz with flies, and not a single bottle was left behind. Gideon hops over to a bottom shelf and removes a bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold. I don’t have the best memories of past tequila drunks, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll take what I can get these days.

  Gideon drops the Cuervo into his backpack, and I follow him to the door. We make sure the coast is still clear, then jog down the walkway. We pass the sushi place and a tax office—both sound, not surprisingly—and arrive at the equally sound Pretty Kitty Boutique.

  “Someone boarded up the windows from the inside,” Gideon says in a low voice. “They might still be in there, either alive or dead.” He unsheathes his katana.

  “Wait—are you sure about this? What is this place? Do they have clothes, you think?”

  “Yeah, I’m positive. Not sure what kind, but it’s worth a shot to check it out. On second thought . . .” He sheathes his katana and swings his AR around, clicking the safety off and holding it at ready.

  “Should we knock first? Maybe someone’s inside and they’ll just let us come in?”

  The notion is met by Gideon’s skepticism. It’s naïve. With a nod, I aim my AK at the door. Gideon gives the handle a push, and the door opens. When he clicks on his flashlight he hops back, and so do I, taken aback at the grisly, disturbing sight. The man must be at least three hundred pounds, dressed in women’s lingerie and knee-high boots, track marks decorating both arms. He mumbles something under his breath.

  “Holy shit, the pervert’s still alive.” Gideon closes the door behind us, then trains the rifle on him.

  I edge around his sprawled, hairy legs, adorned with platform boots. “Fucked up on some good shit, looks like.”

  “Let’s hurry and get the hell out of here. And work on burning that image from our minds for the rest of our lives.”

  “No joke.” I glance around the dark room, following Gideon’s flashlight beam, and I laugh. “A stripper boutique. Nice.”

  “You go shopping,” Gideon whispers. “I’ll watch this asshole.”

  “Okay, I’ll make it quick.”

  I make my way past rows of tops that are barely there, grabbing everything black and tiny, now that I’ve lost so much weight. When I get to the counter, there’s a black wicker basket full of thongs in a rainbow of colors. I take all of the small ones, as well as a few pairs of thigh-highs and knee-highs. I’m a kid at Christmas.

  When I shine my flashlight around, the beam falls on what appears to be the biker chick section. Leather everything—skirts, pants, jackets and vests, and full-body zip-up jumpers.

  Now we’re talking.

  I grab a pair of leather pants with a decorative zipper from the top of each thigh to knee, and strip from my sweats. I unfold a fresh pair of purple lacy panties and slip them on, followed by the pants. They’re too big, so I thumb through the rack until I find one size smaller. Those fit perfectly, hugging my curves in all the right places. I grab three more pairs of similar pants in my size from nearby racks, then move on to the shirts.

  Though I’ll regret it later, because of the Texas heat that’s coming soon, I yank a fitted leather jacket from the rack and try it on over a ripped black tank. Not only does it protect my body better from the dead, it also provides for better night cover.

  I zip the jacket halfway, eyeing the tiny zippers that run down each side to match my pants. Very cute. I grab my load and continue toward the shoes, in utter disarray, probably from homeboy trying everything on. And when I get there, two dark beacons, shining and untouched, call me from a top shelf. I go to them, stand on my tiptoes, and grab them, praying they’re my size.

  They are. Size eight knee-high leather combat boots, lace-up, with a shiny silver steel toe plate. I step into my new, precious footwear, lace them up and tie them tight, then stand and ogle my reflection in the dusty, full-length mirror. Damn. Too skinny, but I am now officially rocking the Apocalypse. Come and get me, bitches.

  Another scan for a sensible pair of tennis shoes in this place finds nothing but a bunch of pumps and platforms made to look like tennis shoes. Cute, but impractical. I guess this will have to do for now. I take up my load of goods again, arms full, and spy a shelf of duffel bags. Double score.

  Most of them are ridiculously bedazzled in some way, with words like “Diva,” “Princess,” and “Hottie” in glittered cursive. I finally find a black one with minimal bling—red glitter trim and no words—and pack it with my new wardrobe before I head to where Gideon awaits.

  “Wow.” Gideon leans against the wall and, stroking his chin stubble, admires me. “If I saw you out there, I wouldn’t know whether to fight you . . .” He moves closer, sliding a hand around to my leather-blanketed ass. “. . . or fuck you.” He kisses me, then backs away when the pile of blubber, hair, and lace grumbles something in his narcotics-induced beauty rest.

  “Seriously,” Gideon says, giving me a nice, long inspection. “You look amazing.”

  “Wait ’til you see all the other fun stuff I got.”

  “Shit. My quality of life just leveled up again. I love how you have the power to do that.”

  “Me, too. You brought me here, though, so it’s not all me. And the record store? This is the best night of my new life.”

  The man in our peripheral bolts upright. He squints around, dazed, then kicks a syringe under a nearby clothes rack.

  Gideon raises his AK. “You should be more worried about those clothes, bro. Have you seen yourself? I think you’re shopping in the wrong store.”

  “None of it matters anymore,” he mumbles. “Just shoot me.”

  Gideon and I exchange a look, and he shrugs. “Can’t do that, man. Sorry. But I’m gonna need you to move away from the door so me and my girl can exit safely.”

  He doesn’t budge.

  “I said move.”

  After gathering what may be all his strength, he rises from the floor on unsteady legs. When he’s regained his balance, I think he’ll move aside, but instead, he lunges, and
his blood is splattered on the wall behind him. My ears ring from the shot. He drops to the ground, half of his head missing, and his body jumps one last time before it stills.

  “He wanted to die,” I say.

  Gideon opens the door for me. “Yeah . . . but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

  Seven

  When we load up into the Lincoln, we sit there in silence for a moment before Gideon starts the ignition. His solemnness shows a deep remorse.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He puts it in reverse and spins the vehicle around, dodging the remains of the stiffs in the parking lot to head out onto the main road.

  “Yeah. But I have a hard time accepting that this is the way things are now. As if . . .” He trails off, sizing up the growing shadow of a horde in the distance. “As if it’s all a bad dream we’ll wake up from someday. I want something better for you.”

  “I’ll get used to it. Already am.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to.”

  “But I do.”

  He nods, and there’s an obvious attempt to shove that can of worms aside. “Record store now?” he asks.

  “Yes. But hey, if we pass a Walgreens or a CVS, can we stop? We could get lots of stuff there: shampoo, conditioner, chocolate, deodorant, toothpaste, chocolate, food, lots of stuff. Did I mention chocolate?” I’m getting excited.

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Suddenly less excited.

  “It’s just that . . . I doubt there’s anywhere left in the city that hasn’t already been looted.”

  “Perhaps. But a girl can dream.” I take out my new dugout and inspect the mother-of-pearl pentacle, the metal one-hitter, painted to look like a cigarette.

  “That’s cool,” Gideon says. “And how lucky was it that you found that bud on the ground?”