Reawakening

by Stein, Charlotte

  And the hairs prickling all the way up her arms and around to the back of her neck.

  Her first and most desperate need was to scrub at those irritated places until the sensation went away but she knew better than that. The drill came back to her as though it had never left—find Blake, then fastest route to safety, nearest weapon, nearest threat, settle your breathing so you can hear them approaching.

  And the answers came real easy, just as they always had in the past. The fastest route was a little to the right of the route she’d just taken, the nearest weapon was a short but pointed fallen tree branch, not three steps from her, there were no current near threats and as for her breathing, well.

  She shut it down fast, fast. Then mentally counted back to when she’d lost him. Five seconds meant he’d been ten steps from her, ten seconds meant twenty steps, and so on. He’d been on exactly the same path as her so she didn’t have a wide radius to cover.

  It should have been simple, really.

  Only it wasn’t.

  He wasn’t twenty steps along the path. There were other things along the path—strange things, that definitely hadn’t been there before. A dark shape in the lowlight that looked just like one of them, until she got close and realized with an odd sense of acceptance that it was the mailbox Kelsey had tucked herself behind, while that writhing crowd of zombies had made their way up Mayberry Street.

  She’d hidden behind a car, a rusted old thing with no windows, and for the barest second she felt certain she was about to see it. If the mailbox was here then the car had to be here, and oh God, God—where was she, exactly? Where was this?

  But more importantly—where was Blake?

  She clutched the tree branch tighter and went lower, focusing on the things that currently made sense. In situations like this you had to keep out of sight and be quiet—and especially when zombies had definitely taken Blake.

  What other explanation was there? They’d grabbed him and dragged him off someplace. They sometimes did that—she’d seen them do that!—because a lot of them were smart. The ones on Mayberry Street had been smart—hunting in packs like that, searching behind things to find the juicy, blood-filled humans. And here it was worse, much worse, because there were plenty of places to hide, but all of them felt weird, and wrong.

  She didn’t want to go near that thing, over there. The grey thing, that looked like the edge of a tent, flapping. It didn’t make any sense that the tent was here—the one they’d found, with the people inside—and it didn’t make any sense that the mailbox was here and oh, how stupid she’d been.

  She’d let her guard down, gone out running without a weapon, then let herself get lost in these nonsensical woods. She could have punched herself in the face, if her body had actually allowed her to bend that way.

  And if Blake hadn’t been missing, missing, missing.

  Lord, how she wanted to call out to him. Just in case it was a joke and they’d all laugh and maybe afterwards she could murder him in a bathtub of acid for scaring the fucking life out of her.

  But the thing of it was—she couldn’t call out if the zombies were around. She couldn’t, God no. Calling out would attract hundreds of them immediately, and any chance Blake had would be shot to hell. They’d descend on him and fight over him and rip his body into little bits.

  She’d seen that happen, too. Man, there was just nothing she hadn’t seen, nothing, and something about that seemed so grossly unfair she wanted to tear it into little bits. Just grab a hold of it with her teeth and wrench it around and…

  Blake. He was there, standing by the chain link fence. The one she’d hoped didn’t exist, back when she’d frightened herself with ideas that this place wasn’t really an island. The place had gone on forever and ever inside her head, instead—the way it seemed to right now as she looked past Blake and through the links, to the rolling fields beyond.

  She couldn’t stop it. Her body started shuddering all on its own. It wanted to lose control and she had to follow it. The fields, the fields—they looked just like the ones she’d had to pelt across, when the zombies had busted into the park’s bathroom and almost got a hand on her.

  Jamie and Blake—they’d lied. Oh no, they’d lied. It wasn’t an island at all and now they’d made her run to this awful echo of her worst memory with no weapon and nothing to help her and oh, why was Blake just standing there at the fence, staring?

  No, no, no, why? He wouldn’t be able to hear her because she’d become an expert at stealthy creeping. But even so he was motionless and dead seeming, and there was blood on the metal in front of him. Lots of blood and bits of stuff, and was that blood on his arm, too?

  Thirty seconds, she thought, thirty seconds, then pinned down the sob that welled up inside her as though she was a champion wrestler, and it had no more fight than a dry leaf.

  She was going to give him a chance. She had the stick—it would go into his temple, no problem at all. Her nerves were still steel. She could still hold onto herself if he turned and snarled. All she needed was one moment, one moment of seeing his turned face then in, in, in.

  She just had to reach out a hand to him, first. Slow, slow. Just one wavering hand, moving toward his shoulder as though touching him would magically turn him back. No words, no words, because words could never turn him back. Never.

  She’d said enough of them, to know.

  When he turned, suddenly—it was fair to say. She almost stabbed anyway. It went beyond an instinct and into something raw and primal, as though some ancient God had the reins of her and jerked them whenever he felt like it.

  He jerked them even when Blake turned and was still himself. Completely himself. Nobody on earth could have mistaken those eyes—electric blue and glorious to behold. She almost fainted on seeing them and even when she didn’t, the rest of her attempted something like it. Her arm and legs turned to noodles. The noodles wanted to stagger toward him.

  Even when he said something nightmarish and awful like, “We made a mistake. They’re here.” All her mind wanted to do was translate his words into, it’s okay, I’m alive. Look at how alive I still am! I’m going to grab your hand so you can feel my total and utter humanity.

  Which he did, just before they ran. They had to, because he was right. She could see zombies sprinting over the field toward them like bloody streamers, hungry for their blood and their bodies and their sanity.

  But that was okay, because she still had all three and so did Blake. He was all right. As long as he was all right and as long as Jamie was too, so was she. She could fly on winged feet, as long as he had hold of her hand.

  And when he glanced at her, she knew he felt the same way. He held on so tight, so tight, and he didn’t even let go when they finally got back to the cabin. Not even to get them through the door without wedging. Not even when Jamie saw them both and glanced down at the two hands and she thought, wildly—it’s okay. I want to hold your hand, too.

  Which was even weirder than all of the winged feet thoughts. But then, that’s what fear did to a person. It made them crazy and it meant she didn’t want to let go, in spite of the need to close the door.

  Jamie did it, however. He didn’t even say anything—she could tell he just knew. He bolted it and dropped the shutters on the windows, and said something to Blake—something muddled. Something about the safe room she hadn’t known existed, but that was okay. She hadn’t known the shutters existed, either.

  Not to mention how easily she was being led. The urge to tell them that they couldn’t just hide—they had to fight and defend their home—welled up inside her, but something tamped it down just as quickly.

  Though she couldn’t say what was doing the tamping, exactly. Something…something…what was it?

  “You okay to go in the safe room, June?” Blake said, just as the shutters began rattling. They always banged, when they knew someone was caught inside. Always, always, just incessant banging and banging.

  “Yeah. That’s okay. Yeah—l
et’s go.”

  “And you’re not afraid to be in that small space with us, right?”

  That was Jamie. Though he didn’t exactly sound like himself.

  “No,” she said, and meant it. Why on earth would she be afraid when they were so kind and good and made her have wings in her feet?

  “This way, then,” he said, before leading her to some door under the stairs that she couldn’t remember being there.

  Though that was okay. It made sense. That was okay. And it was okay that the lighting in the little secret room was kind of pink, and that there was a big red love heart sofa in there, too, and the whole place was small—much smaller than giant pieces of furniture would seem to allow.

  “Are you…” she began, but Jamie just closed the door behind them. Shut them all in together in this warm room with the pink light and the big, big love heart.

  The banging outside stopped. She thought, idly, that the room must have been soundproofed, but then couldn’t figure out why. So that when you were locked inside, they couldn’t drive you mad?

  Maybe. After all they were definitely going to die in here. There was no food, weirdly, and no water—even though the zombies never just let up. She couldn’t think why Blake and Jamie had organized all of this as their last resort.

  It seemed so unlike them.

  “Okay, June. So what we’re going to have to do now is check. We’re going to have to check that you haven’t been bitten.”

  But then so did words like those. Though even stranger was this feeling inside her, this almost-compulsion that said—yeah, they definitely need to check. Because, well…why? Blake had seen her the whole time and he knew she hadn’t been bitten or contaminated in any way. If anything, he was the one who needed to be checked.

  Only when he put a hand on her arm and urged her to turn, she found herself going all the same. She had absolutely no idea why he wanted her to face the love heart couch, but it felt like the right thing to do. Everything felt suddenly so syrupy and nice, and he had very gentle hands.

  Especially when he placed them on her shoulders and pressed fingers to the twin knots where her collarbone began. That felt extremely gentle and sort of…deliberate. Then Jamie said, lift your arms up, and it was kind of easy to. He had such a good, drawling voice. Not even drawling, really. More like…a swaying sort of voice.

  And Blake’s was good, too. He made it faint and dipped it in a little butter before he next spoke, so that when he did she felt perfectly okay about having her arms above her head.

  Like I’m going to be frisked, she thought, shortly before he did just that. His hands simply slid right down, all along her sides and over her ribcage, to her hips.

  It was almost unbearably intimate. Far worse than any sort of ruder touch—maybe because she couldn’t remember any other man making such a strange move. The other men laser-ed in on the obvious areas—tits, cunt, ass—and ignored anything that didn’t get them anywhere.

  Not that Blake was trying to get anywhere, though, of course. If he really wanted to get somewhere he could just force her, after all. He didn’t have to make up some strange pretext then run his hands down her sides. Then back up again. Then down, down, then…oh. Oh.

  She thought about her arms and legs turning to noodles, back there by the fence. Had they actually re-established solidity? It was hard to say when he had his hands on her hips and Jamie said somewhere behind her, kind of breathlessly, “Yeah check underneath—check underneath the shirt. You know, ‘cause they could have gotten underneath.”

  There was a brief moment of feeling like a science project, then custard invaded her brain and made her think something patently ridiculous, like—yeah, they could have definitely crawled inside my shirt and nibbled on whatever Blake’s touching right now. Definitely. He should probably touch it more.

  Of course, she tried to focus. Zombies were outside! They were going to die! But it was getting kind of hard to remember that stuff when he had his hands right. Underneath. Her breasts.

  He had them there, but he didn’t move upwards and touch them. Instead he let his hands glide down over her bare stomach—she was actually able to watch them go beneath the material, like something crawling and creeping that she should be afraid of.

  Only she wasn’t, she wasn’t. He was standing very close—so close she could feel his hot breath on the nape of her neck—but there wasn’t anything threatening about it. Tense, yes. But not threatening.

  And maybe it was only tense because she couldn’t bear to move. If she moved he might go away, and Jamie would go away, and she couldn’t bear that. No, no—she had to stay still and let him slide her sweatpants over her hips.

  They went very slowly to the ground and once they were gone a million threads inside her went slack. It was kind of like letting go of everything—even the things outside—and that was okay by her.

  Especially when he ran those hands over her thighs, too. Just like being frisked, just like being frisked, she thought—only not. His hands were too slow for frisking, for a start. And when he let them glide back up her left leg—hands forming a circle that was neither too tight, nor too soft—he went all the way to the top. Right over the bristling skin of her inner thigh, to the place where her panties had pulled taut.

  Of course her panties had pulled taut. Her sex felt immense—like a clenched fist between her legs. There was a thrum thrum thrum in that place like nothing she’d experienced in over two years.

  Now it had returned to her and it had apparently brought its friends.

  “You okay, June-bug?” Jamie said, and she thought about saying no. No, this is really out of place and weird. Can we stop, please?

  But instead her mouth went with, “Yeah. Never been better.”

  Because that was true. She couldn’t remember ever feeling as warm and relaxed and okay with the world, as she did right at that moment. It made her wonder if there was some pot she’d smoked without knowing—soothing pot for those you’re going to die moments—but that was just stupid.

  Even if Jamie really did have a stash—she suspected as much when she caught him off guard sometimes and he smelled a certain way—she’d certainly never partaken of it. She’d never even partaken of it before the apocalypse—doing it afterwards just seemed like asking for trouble.

  Like now, when being faux-stoned was making her stand here and get felt up.

  He was definitely feeling her up, after all. Of course he was doing it in a really nice, subtle sort of way, but even so. He had a hand on her inner thigh. His fingers were almost rubbing her in the place she needed it most…

  “She seems clear,” he said, and she could have fallen to begging, then. Just told him in no uncertain terms—carry on, carry on. Use your mouth, if you have to. She’d started shuddering again and it had nothing to do with the creatures outside.

  It was a joyous thing, instead. A good thing. She gave into it, that shaking, rather than pulling away or forcing herself not to or any of the other things she always did, when faced with a kind of weakness.

  Only this wasn’t weakness. It felt good, and strong. Right, after all the wrong things. And especially when Jamie then said—

  “You should keep touching her anyway.”

  The shuddering got worse. Suddenly she understood why they had a couch in here—because she needed to sit down. She desperately needed to sit down and have them sit down with her, then maybe they could do so many lovely, tangled things together. Yes, yes, so many things.

  “Are you sure?” Blake asked, though she didn’t know who the question was directed at. Not even when Jamie answered.

  “Yeah, pretty sure. It looks like she wants you to.”

  God, how clever Jamie was! He seemed silly sometimes but she’d always known somewhere inside that him being that way was all just obfuscation. A defense mechanism. He probably had weird PTSD, the way she did.

  Because she did. Couldn’t be denied. The things outside had robbed her of something vital, and it was onl
y just coming back. Slow, slow—like Blake’s hands on her.

  He didn’t acknowledge what Jamie had said, but carried on anyway. She could feel and hear him standing again behind her, then after a moment his hands were on the curve of her back. The one just above her ass. His thumbs pressed in, briefly—the way they had at her collarbone—but this time she knew exactly why. He’d found the two dimples, on either side of her spine.

  And apparently, he liked them. Not only that, but he seemed to like the nape of her neck, too. The one revealed by the ponytail she’d knotted her hair into, before she ran out the door. And she felt really glad she’d done that now, because it meant he could press his mouth there whenever the urge took him.

  The urge was taking him now. He had his mouth on her—the one that sometimes looked like a slash and sometimes looked vulnerable, the one she’d thought about kissing even when she was sure she hadn’t.

  And oh it was softer than she’d imagined—or maybe he was just being gentle? She couldn’t tell, exactly. It was hard, when her body felt suddenly swamped by all sorts of sensations. There was the sensation wetness provoked like a hot electrical eel zipping straight down to that place between her legs. There was the heat of his mouth, and that made a tense fist low down in her stomach.

  Then finally there was the knowledge that it was him. Blake was kissing the nape of her neck, and somewhere in the middle of doing it he had found her hips with his hands, again.

  Only they felt much bigger, now. Immense, in fact. He had his great big hands on her hips and he was urging her back, just ever so slightly. Not like a tough guy, yanking her back into the cradle of his groin. More like someone seducing her back into the cradle of his groin.

  His way was good. But it wasn’t fast enough. She simply had to put a hand behind herself and feel blindly for something on him—his hair, his face, his neck. Anything. Something solid she could use to get them closer together in half the time, so that maybe he’d know without her having to say that this was okay.