by Joss Ware
Zoë realized her hands were ice cold. Her pulse stampeded through her body. How could she even sit in something that big and black, something that rumbled and roared and grumbled? She’d be trapped. Inside.
He walked up to her and she stiffened, keeping her face blank.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was marginally softer, his eyes the faintest bit questioning. But he still held himself stiffly, and she knew his anger was merely banked and not departed.
“I don’t like those. I’d rather walk.”
“We’ll find Raul Marck faster. It’s the most efficient way to go—that’s why the Elite still use them, even though the roads are completely buggered up.”
Zoë looked at the evil black thing, drew in a deep breath, and walked over to its other side. It took her longer than it should have to figure out how to open the door, and then she realized it was so tall she’d have to climb onto a step to get in…but she held her breath and forced herself to do it.
Her belly squished with nausea as she settled in the chair of worn and split leather, sliding her quiver and pack onto the floor. The interior smelled like…something. She didn’t know what. But it was unfamiliar. After a moment, she realized she had to reach to pull the door closed. All the while, Quent said nothing. He didn’t even seem to be watching her.
He must be pretty damned pissed.
Well, so the fuck was she.
Zoë swallowed hard when he reached in front of her to grab something—a strap—from behind her right side.
“Buckle up,” he ordered, then proceeded to fit the strap’s metal link into a holder with a sharp clip. All without even brushing against her.
Zoë realized she was high off the ground, and that she could see much farther than when on foot. She gripped the edge of the seat as the vehicle started off with an unfriendly lurch, then proceeded to jounce and jolt along.
A wave of panic rushed through her and she drew in a deep breath. Quent might be blind with fury and wordless with anger. He might never touch her again—which was fine—and he might even leave her somewhere. But she didn’t fear him.
He might look like he was ready to kill her, but he wouldn’t. She just knew it.
So Zoë settled in her seat and gave him directions to the place she’d found Remy. Since that was the last place she’d seen Raul Marck, they’d start there.
And, she had to admit grudgingly, they’d arrive much sooner in this black behemoth than if they’d gone on foot. Or even on horseback.
God, it just fucking figured that, on top of everything else about him, he had to be right about this too.
For the remainder of the day, Quent could hardly allow himself to look at Zoë although he was fully aware of every damn breath she took, every time she moved. But the ice inside him, the emptiness in the pit of his belly, kept him distant.
Burned, his eyes now fully opened, he retreated.
They’d driven—if one could call the rough, bumpy motion driving—to what had been a small downtown area in a sort of Main Street USA, where Zoë had seen Raul Marck and rescued the woman who turned out to be Remington Truth. Arriving there just around noon, they had full daylight to search for and locate tire tracks, which they’d followed east as far as they could before the trail of matted-down grass and broken branches disappeared. It had been excruciating, getting out of the vehicle every few yards to see which direction the ambiguous trail went, but Zoë did it and she was damn good at it.
And Quent had the added pleasure of being able to eye her perfect arse in those low-slung pants she liked to wear when she bent to examine the trail.
Once they’d lost the path, their only plan was to keep traveling in a circuitous route from where the trail ended and try to pick it up, or, when night fell, see if they could locate the headlights of a vehicle that might be—or lead them to—the Marcks. Now, it was near twilight and they’d settled in a middle-class suburban neighborhood for the evening to wait, and hunt.
He glanced over to where Zoë stirred a pot of some sort of stew made from two small fowl, which reminded him of quail, and greens with wild carrots. He’d been impressed when she pulled a little drawstring bag from her pack and added dried herbs, salt, and even pepper-corns to the dish. It smelled damned good and he was hungry; perhaps that explained why she always smelled a little like cinnamon.
“My naanaa always said if you’re going to cook, you’d best do it the right way,” she’d explained when he commented about the sack of spices. “Even in the most primitive conditions.”
She’d built a small fire in what had been a bathtub and cooked over it, using a pot that had clearly been utilized since the Change. In fact, she seemed to know her way around in this old house so well that he realized she’d been here before.
“So is this a regular stopover place for you?” he asked, settling back against the wall in the hall beyond the bathroom. This was after he’d investigated the possibility of sitting on an old armchair that sat in the corner, and rejected the idea when he discovered what lived inside. He didn’t mind mice, but he didn’t need to get up close and personal with them.
“Yes,” she replied. She crouched next to the bathtub and those low-riding pants dipped away from the smooth curve of her back. Quent looked away and made his gaze follow the smoke as it trailed out through a crack in the nearby window.
They had no reason to hide their presence by obscuring the fire’s smoke, but he had taken the time to drive the humvee into an old garage and close the door. A few weeks ago, Elliott and Jade had coopted the vehicle after fighting off its Elite driver, and since then they’d parked it secretly in that old garage outside of Envy, making it available to any of the Resistance members.
At first, they’d worried about using it and running out of gas, but Wyatt and Fence had dug around under the hood and discovered some wicked-looking batteries that powered the engine, recharging as the motor ran. Quent hid the humvee tonight because no one wanted the Elite to know that they had acquired a truck. It might make them suspicious about what other information, technology, or abilities the Resistance had obtained.
Part of the strength of the Strangers was in keeping the humans ignorant and simple, and in using their own technology and strength to do so.
Quent looked down at his gloved hands and felt a thrust of distaste. Hated that he had to wear them so often, but when he was in a strange place, he dared not take the chance. Back in Envy, in his room and the other places he frequented, it had become easier to hold back the memories. It was as if his body became used to them when they weren’t new or unfamiliar.
He’d taken care with what he touched from the time he opened the old garage to pull out the humvee—when he’d pulled on the gloves—until now. Part of the trick, he was beginning to learn, was how he touched something and what condition his mind was in when he did so. As long as he didn’t use the pads of his fingers, he didn’t “read” anything. And if he did touch something with his fingertips, and concentrated, and planned, he could slow the tumble into the memories…or even, sometimes, keep them at bay.
But he had to be prepared. And that was why when he fell in the alley, he hadn’t expected to touch that old car, and that was what had dragged him into the deep, dark pit.
A well-nibbled book lay next to him on the floor, and he reached for it, after stripping off a glove. His mind steady, focused, he picked it up. The memories and images tugged at him, but he held them back, pushing at the colorful splash at the corners of his mind.
Yet one slipped through…a laughing girl of maybe ten, her blond hair in pigtails, hands smoothing over the cover of the book, then shoving it into something dark and close—a backpack…The memory threatened to drag him with it, but Quent controlled the impulse and made himself look at the cracked wall in front of him. Reality. The old electrical outlet, rusted and mildewed. A broken table leg. His scuffed, dirty hiking boots.
And he breathed more steadily when he replaced the book on the floor.
It was getting easier.
If only other things were.
He glanced at Zoë, who was scooping the aromatic meal into two shallow bowls.
Anger still burned in the pit of his belly. Anger, shock, betrayal. Something had gouged deep inside him when he watched her this morning, gathering up her belongings.
He’d expected her to try it, but he had hoped that she wouldn’t. He’d hoped so hard that when he saw her actually open the door to leave, without a backward glance, he’d nearly let her go.
But no. She was the first real hope he had to find his father—she obviously knew her way around, and she was looking for Raul Marck. A bounty hunter would have connection with, and a process to contact, the Elite and that was exactly what Quent needed.
An entrée to the Elite. A way to find them, where they lived—and where he could track down Fielding.
But he sure as fuck didn’t need anything else from her.
Not anymore.
She’d made her position crystal clear.
Zoë walked toward him now, offering him one of the shallow bowls and a spoon. Then she moved on past, heading out into an old bedroom. Quent gathered up his gloves and pulled to his feet, agreeing with her implied suggestion that they eat in the larger space.
“This is very good,” he told her after he’d settled against an old bed and taken his first bite, still bare-fingered, testing himself with the spoon. Focusing on the taste, the smell, the environment around him. The tease of images nibbled at the edge of his mind, but he was able to keep them away, and after a moment, they gave up and allowed him to eat in peace.
A little victory. But, yet, a meaningful one.
By age thirty, Quent had dined in the world’s finest restaurants, been cooked for by the most elite of chefs, and had even dabbled a bit in his own kitchen when he’d hooked up for an interesting week with Solange Poutentade, who’d been touted as the next Escoffier but was a hell of a lot prettier. He’d also eaten in the most mean of conditions—in Haiti, in the wilds of Nepal, in the mountains of Peru, and the villages of Cambodia and Zimbabwe. Everything from mopane worms to snake meat to momos. And, for the most part, he’d enjoyed them all, especially the Nepalese momos.
But perhaps not quite as much as this savory meal, in this decrepit old house with the woman across from him.
Zoë had nodded her thanks for his compliment as she sat cross-legged to his left, where she could look out a filthy window. The sun had nearly set, but a great slice of light filtered over her shiny black hair, full lips, and the gentle curve of her bicep. Quent shifted and looked away.
“So you’d have killed Raul Marck if you had the chance. Just dropped him dead?” he asked. “No questions asked.”
“Hell, yeah,” she replied. “Without hesitation.” Her eyes settled on him, large and brown, shaped like almonds. “Are you saying you wouldn’t nail the guy who took everything from you?”
Oh, you have no idea. “Not saying that,” he replied. “I’d just want to find out why he did it. As in, why my family, why my village…Aren’t you curious?”
“No. I just want that bastard dead.” She settled her empty bowl down with a clatter. “Sun’ll be gone soon. Gangas will be out. You’re going to stay here.”
Quent didn’t bother to reply. “I need to talk to Raul Marck before you kill him.”
Zoë snorted. “You won’t have a chance. The minute I see him, he’s dead.”
He tried to picture her raising her bow from a high-up perch, like a primitive sniper, a ruthless assassin, and knew she was capable of it. But the thought bothered him. “No questions asked? You’d just shoot a man in cold blood?”
“He killed my family in cold blood,” she replied, her voice icy. “What, should I get to know him first, give him a damned chance to get away again? I’ve been looking for him for almost ten years. And the one fucking time I find him, before I can get a good shot off, Remy decides to play hero and blows it. And then I have to rescue her.”
Quent set his bowl aside. “Have you ever killed a man?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
“Without hesitation. Without giving him a chance to defend himself?” For some reason, his mind would not relinquish the thought. “Where I come from…” Then he stopped. Damn it.
Where he came from no longer existed. The laws, the jails, the judges and juries. The authority.
What had Lou said? It’s like the Wild West in some ways. A man takes the law into his own hands because there’s no other way.
Hard to believe after fifty years, there wasn’t. But then again, it wasn’t so difficult. The settlements were small and widespread, like buggering Little House on the Prairie…and in Envy, Vaughn Rogan had a good handle on things. Kept things settled and everyone safe. And he was going to have Simon help in that vein.
So why did it bother Quent so much?
He fully intended to kill Fielding the moment he laid eyes on him.
But what made this different was that Fielding should have been dead long ago. He was no longer a human being. And he’d caused the Change.
“What if there was a misunderstanding? What if Raul didn’t know what he was doing? What if he was ordered to do it?”
“Why in the hell are you making excuses for him?” Zoë demanded, her eyes flashing in the low light. “He killed my family. In cold blood. Burned them out of their fucking houses. Watched the gangas tear them into pieces and feast on their flesh!” Her voice choked and now he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. “I’m not going to listen to you defend the man who took everything from me. Everything. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
Quent swallowed. Yeah. He started to reach for her, but she leapt to her feet. That was probably a good thing, he told himself. A quick dash of the back of a hand over her eyes and she was stalking away, snatching up her quiver and bow.
“I’m going hunting. Stay here, Quent. I mean it. I’m not in the mood to be saving anyone’s ass tonight, especially yours.”
He watched her go, took a few minutes to gather up their bowls and sloshed a bit of water to clean them. Then he went to his pack, digging through for what he needed.
When Zoë found him last night, he could have convinced her to depart Envy with him then, but Quent knew he didn’t want to be on a hunt for Fielding without being prepared. And prepared he was.
Just as he heard the low rumbling Ruu-uthhh… from below, he pulled out the makings of his own weapon. Skirting a hunk of drywall and an old rusted-out computer, Quent moved to the window to look down.
Maybe ten zombies down there, staggering along in an irregular cluster. He wondered where they’d come from, how they’d come to be here. Did they sleep somewhere nearby during the day, and come out when the sun went down? And why would they be here, in an abandoned neighborhood if they sought human flesh?
They’re brainless. Haven’t a thought to spare among the lot of them.
As he watched, something glinted as it whizzed through the air, and one of the monsters stumbled, then crashed to the ground. Though he was one floor up, Quent fancied he could feel the vibration when the heavy creature landed. And he was pretty sure he saw the straight black bolt sticking up from the monster’s skull.
Nice aim, luv.
He looked, trying to figure out where she was. As high as he was, it seemed. But maybe in the next house over.
Quent opened the plastic bottle he’d taken from his pack and poured pungent alcohol into a glass wine bottle he’d found earlier today. He had another one in his pack, but better to take advantage of this new one. Eyeing the gangas below, and measuring the weight of the wine bottle, he deemed he had enough in there to do what needed to be done.
After stuffing the strip of an old T-shirt that had belonged to Elliott down inside the neck of the bottle, Quent moved to the window, rubbing out a circle in the dirt with his elbow.
The gangas were below, but they’d moved on down the street. And he didn’t want to break the window in order
to get to them—too loud, for one thing. They seemed to be wandering through the streets, looking cursorily around. Even from above, he could hear the shuffle of their feet and the lost-sounding groans.
Did they scent him or Zoë? Were they just marching through, looking for any human flesh to eat? What would happen if he and Zoë followed them instead of killing them?
Another ganga dropped like a stone and Quent smiled in spite of himself.
Very elegant and precise. But watch this.
Moving through the house to the next bedroom, he found a nearly glassless window, and that just beyond was the roof of a garage. The gangas trundled along below. Still smiling to himself, Quent carefully crawled through the window. The glass scratched against the side of his jeans, and his boot heel knocked a piece aside, but it didn’t cut through, and he stepped onto the garage roof.
Silent, his feet straddling the peak of the roof, he walked along the top, hoping the roof wouldn’t give in and he’d go tumbling through…but the rest of the structure seemed sound. And he was at the strongest part, at the peak of the trusses. He’d learned all about trusses in Haiti. Quickly, carefully, pulse working harder, adrenaline rushing through him, he got to the end ahead of the zombies.
He lit the edge of the T-shirt that trailed from the neck of the bottle and counted—one, two, three—then tossed the little bomb down smack onto the cluster of gangas.
Boom!
The explosion lit the area with a flash of yellow light. Definitely enough alcohol to get the job done. Score. Quent stood there on the roof, looking down as the smoke cleared. Nothing moved.
Gangas: wasted.
Not elegant or precise, but very, very effective.
And then he heard her. Lord, that woman had a rubbish mouth.
Next thing he knew, she was standing in the street below, amid the zombie remains, hands planted on her hips and glaring up at him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she yelled up.
“Killing gangas,” he replied, trying not to smile. “A little more efficiently than you.”
