by Kyla Stone
Willow had killed a Headhunter at Sweet Creek Farm. She’d stabbed him, felt his warm lifeblood gushing over her hands. A part of her had hated it. Another part of her had relished the power of taking a life. She could do it again. She would do it again if she had to, in order to protect those she loved.
It would feel awful to accidentally kill a kid. But her finger had been twitching on her own trigger, too. It could just as easily have been her. “They didn’t stop. You did what you had to do.”
For a long moment, he just stared at her, breathing hard.
“I would have done the same thing. I would’ve felt guilty as hell. But our people come
first. They have to.”
He cocked his head, studying her with that cutting gaze, sharp as stone. “You really believe that?”
“Hell, yes, I do. We survived the Headhunters. We’ve heard the rumors about the Pyros. What they’re capable of. We know what kind of people are out there. We have to protect our own. That’s what you did.”
Finally, he nodded. It wasn’t in him to show gratitude or apologize. She didn’t expect
it. But when his smirk returned, it seemed happier, lighter somehow.
Which is when she attacked. She surged forward, feinted to the left, and landed a hard punch to the right side of his jaw. He stumbled back, reeling.
For a second, his expression was a mix of pained and furious, then the shadows cleared. He rubbed his jawline and spit a glob of blood on the floor. “Damn, Cupcake. I guess I’m one hell of a teacher.”
She shook out her hand, flexing her stinging knuckles. “No, I’m one hell of a student.”
His hunched shoulders relaxed. He gave her a smile—a real one, one that reached his eyes for maybe the first time since she’d met him. She smiled back.
She pointed at a department store to their left, where dozens of shiny white mannequins gleamed—their limbs contorted, their slim, flawless bodies draped with the latest fashions. They were the old-fashioned kind made of molded plastic, not the new holograms that writhed seductively, purring your name as you passed.
There were at least a hundred on this floor alone. They stood, silent monuments to…something. Rampant consumerism? Arrogant cultural something or other? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She just wanted to bash their perfect plastic heads in.
She grabbed a pair of diamond-studded sunglasses off one of the mannequins and stuck them on her head. “Ready to destroy something?”
“Always so demanding, Cupcake.” He flashed her a wicked grin, already reaching for his pack to seize the nail-studded bat. “But I aim to please.”
7
Willow
“What about these?” Willow asked, kicking out her leg to show Amelia her new shin-high brown leather boots.
“They look lovely.” Amelia laced up her own sleek black pair with a rim of gray fur at the knees. It was the apocalypse, and yet somehow, Amelia still managed to look spectacular.
Willow stifled a scowl. She was only five feet tall, with a shoe-size to match, but she was cursed with her dad’s thick calves. The brown boots were the only ones that fit her. Something so stupid and insignificant shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did.
Since the world had ended in early September, fall styles were on display, but most of the heavy winter stuff hadn’t arrived yet. But there were plenty of boots, jackets, scarves, and thin cotton or leather gloves to choose from.
Benjie was off shopping with Finn and the guys, giddy at being included with the adults. She felt only a slight anxiousness at not having him at her side. She trusted Finn and Micah. And Jericho, Silas, and Gabriel were excellent fighters. Benjie was safer with them than with her.
Though she was working on that. She and Silas continued to train and spar every chance they got. Every day, she grew in strength and skill and prowess. With every fading bruise, her body grew harder, more resilient. She could take a punch in the face and bounce back up again, spitting blood and ready to return the favor.
She was still short and chubby; still plain, invisible Willow. But she was tough. She could fight. She could shoot. She could kill a man if she had to. And that made all the difference.
Amelia held a cranberry-colored cable-knit sweater to her chest, frowned, and discarded it. “Where’s Celeste?”
Willow glanced around the large department store. Celeste had disappeared. They’d all been together the last few hours, wandering the stores, collecting jackets, sweaters, a change of clothes for their backpacks, and new underwear, bras, and socks.
She’d picked out a bright turquoise scarf in honor of Zia. She fingered the luxurious, velvet-soft fringe, a sudden shard of grief sliding between her ribs. Some days, everything made her think of Zia. Some days, everything hurt.
She needed a distraction. “I’ll find her,” Willow offered.
She wandered between the racks of designer clothes, purses, and sunglasses, her eyes stinging. Thoughts of her family flashed through her mind: Zia dancing and singing karaoke at the top of her lungs, doing her donkey-bray laugh; Benjie and Zia decorating each other’s hair with a bunch of tiny butterfly clips, Zia’s turquoise-tipped pixie hair standing up all over her head; her mom sipping a margarita and smiling in relaxed contentment on the Grand Voyager, the last time Willow ever saw her.
She shoved those thoughts out of her head. Zia was gone now. Her mom was gone, too. There was no time for tears while the world fell to pieces all around you. The only thing left to do was survive. And surviving, at least, she was good at.
Willow finally found Celeste behind the customer service and administrative offices, in the women’s bathroom. The large, upscale bathroom was decorated with gray slate tile and shiny chrome counters. Everything was rimmed in a film of dust.
Celeste had stripped off her pants and shoes and was balancing her leg on the lip of the sink, a razor in one hand and a bar of hand soap in the other. A half-full bottle of water sat on the counter next to her.
Willow fisted her hands on her hips. She cleared her throat loudly. “Nice underwear.”
Celeste rolled her eyes. “Thanks.”
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m practicing personal hygiene.” She gave a haughty sniff. “Which the rest of you have obviously forgotten.”
Willow touched her snarled, ratty hair. Now that she thought about it, her scalp itched like crazy. Her whole body felt grimy. “There are kind of more important things to do in the apocalypse. Like staying alive.”
Celeste poured a bit of water over her shin, scrubbed with the soap, and dragged the razor across her leg. “Speak for yourself.”
Part of her wanted to get out of there and return to shopping, which was actually kind of fun in a weird, disconcerting way. She’d never in her life picked out an item of clothing without regard to cost. Now she could choose anything and everything. She’d never cared about fashion, but Zia would have loved it.
She should probably leave. Celeste represented everything she despised in the elites: spoiled, clueless, self-absorbed, vain. Celeste was model-beautiful, with flawless brown skin, curved cheekbones, and perfectly arched brows. She’d grown up in luxury, in a world apart from the one Willow knew, where everyone was desperate and hopeless and starving.
Celeste always seemed to bring out everything she despised the most about herself, all the envious, petty, insecure parts. That old fear prickling at her that she would never be good enough, pretty enough, smart enough. Simply, enough.
She turned to leave. There was no reason to torture herself in Celeste’s presence. But something made her hesitate.
Celeste’s face reflected in the mirror was drawn and forlorn, wounded somehow. She looked lost. Vulnerable. Willow’s mind flashed back to the Grand Voyager, when they’d been trapped together in the water beneath the bridge. Celeste’s eyes had that same haunted look now.
Oh, hell. She crossed her arms over her chest. “No one cares if you’re a hairy ox, you know.”
&n
bsp; “I care!” Celeste sniffed again and rubbed the back of her arm across her face. Her eyes were rimmed with red, dark circles smudged beneath them.
“Wait, are you crying?”
Celeste glared at Willow in the mirror. Her lower lip trembled. “I get it, okay? You’re the strong, fierce one. Amelia is the stoic ice queen. Where does that leave me? Nothing in my life has prepared me for this.” She waved her arms, encompassing everything, the whole damned and ruined world.
Willow shrugged, taken aback by the outburst and not sure what to say. She shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not easy for any of us.”
Celeste lowered her leg. She hunched her narrow shoulders and gripped the counter with both hands like she wanted to rip it out of the wall. “I’m not like you. I don’t belong.”
Willow fought down a hot spark of anger, but she couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Please tell me more about how it sucks to be you.”
“Never mind.” Celeste wiped furiously at her eyes. A single tear slid down her flawless cheek. “My life wasn’t perfect, you know, whatever you think.”
Willow felt a pang of sympathy. She did her best to ignore it. Damn it. She couldn’t. She leaned against the cold bathroom wall and sighed. “Try me.”
Celeste glared at her for a minute beneath her long lashes, probably deciding whether to simper some stupid nonsense or actually say something real for a change. She picked up the razor, put it down again, then finally took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay, fine. My mother was the CEO of a huge biotech company, before—before the Grand Voyager. It was a big deal, even in this day and age, you know? An African-American and a woman? She was a workaholic and a perfectionist, and she still believed they’d rip that title away from her the first chance they got.”
Celeste took a swig from the water bottle and wiped her mouth primly. “You’ll probably think this is crazy, but some of the wealthiest families are—were—using marriage to consolidate their power. My mom hired this match-maker, had me all set up to marry Jefferson Kellogg, the son of the BlueTech holoscreens founder. It would be this young-love, fairy-tale wedding. All pre-planned for maximum reach and media coverage, of course. The vloggers would eat it up. More importantly, it would fortify our family’s future, create a tech dynasty.”
Willow frowned, understanding dawning. “But aren’t you—”
“Gay? Yeah, I am.” Celeste pulled on her tight, forest-green suede pants and tugged on a pair of white silk socks. “But that didn’t fit into my mom’s plans.”
“Why didn’t you just say no?”
“Have you ever met my mother?” She glanced at Willow, as if remembering who she was talking to. “She would’ve cut me off. From my credit accounts, my share of the company, the inheritance. Everything.”
It would be hard for someone like Celeste to even consider such a possibility. Willow wouldn’t be poor if she had the choice. No one would. Worse, the pressure from a parent to be something you weren’t, to sacrifice an essential part of your identity for their own selfish gain…that would suck. No matter how much money you had.
Willow didn’t know what to say. Things were easier when everything was black and white, when the elites were rich bitches, not real people with real problems. She shoved her bangs out of her eyes. “At least now you can be whoever you want to be.”
Celeste turned back to the mirror. “Yeah,” she said slowly, “I guess I can.”
Willow pointed to Celeste’s boots, a pair of white designer stiletto heels. “I hope you weren’t planning on wearing those.”
Celeste huffed. “There’s no reason to be ugly.”
“No, but there are several very good reasons to be able to run.”
Thirty minutes later, Celeste had a practical but attractive pair of thick leather knee-high boots sans heels. They met up with Amelia in the makeup section of the department store.
Amelia held up an expensive-looking, curved glass bottle. “Perfume!”
“Hallelujah!” Celeste said.
“Try some, Willow.” Amelia held out the spritzer. “You’ll forget for half a second that we all smell like a pig sty.”
But Willow had stopped paying attention to them. The exterior window adjacent to the mirrored perfume counter was broken in the left corner. Safety glass kept most of it intact, but there were a few holes—bullet holes, her mind registered numbly.
A faint scream filtered through the window.
She raised her finger to her lips. “Shhh!”
Celeste and Amelia immediately fell silent. Willow dropped into a crouch, crept to the window, and looked out.
A shopping plaza was located across the massive parking lot. Dozens of bodies were piled in front of a sporting goods store. Five figures emerged from the darkened entrance of the building. They were dressed from head to toe in personal protection gear—yellow pressurized suits and helmets. Two of the figures carried a body between them and tossed it on the pile.
Willow sucked in her breath, fighting down revulsion mingled with fear. What the hell were they doing?
Another scream echoed through the air. Two more yellow-suited figures strode from the store, dragging a woman between them by her arms. Her blonde hair was short. She wore a long polka-dotted skirt and a ratty jean jacket with red patches. She struggled to stand, to wrench herself away from her captors. They tightened their hold and dragged her to her knees, turning her so she faced Willow. She looked up at her captors, her mouth open as if begging for her life.
The red patches and polka dots weren’t designs. They were blood. Blood leaked from the woman’s ears and trailed down her neck. Blood smeared her eye sockets and rimmed her mouth.
“She’s infected,” Amelia breathed beside her.
“Stay down,” she hissed.
“What are they doing?”
“I—I don’t know.”
One of the figures tossed something on the pile of bodies. It ignited in a whoosh of flame. Another one shook a can of paint and sprayed several red X’s encased in circles over the doors and exterior walls of the sporting goods store.
The woman screamed louder, writhing in an attempt to escape. A third figure held a syringe. He strode up to the woman and jammed the syringe into her neck. Within seconds, she slumped forward, her head hanging limp.
The two people who’d forced the woman to her knees picked up her body like a piece of trash and threw it on the pile of burning bodies.
Amelia gasped. Celeste covered her mouth with her hands. Willow continued to watch, numb and disbelieving, unable to look away.
Celeste moaned. “Why did they do that?”
“They’re clearing buildings,” Willow said. “Disinfecting.”
Amelia leaned back against the wall. She was breathing hard. “They didn’t have to kill her.”
She hated even thinking it, but it made a dark, twisted sort of sense. “In their minds, that woman could continue to spread the infection as long as she was alive. There was no hope for her anyway.”
“Maybe—but the way they’re doing it is…barbaric.”
Her stomach churned. Acid burned the back of her throat and she gagged. The acrid stench of charred and burning flesh filled her nostrils. Human flesh. Human bodies. They were real people, with families and lives and dreams and…her brain stopped.
“Do you think those are the Pyros?” Amelia asked.
Willow backed slowly away from the window. Did those people have flaming skull tattoos on their necks, too? She hoped not. She prayed to every deity under Heaven that they never ran into those people. “Whoever they are, we should stay very far away from them.”
8
Micah
“We should sleep here.” Micah gestured to the rows of designer sleep pods in the Dream Sleep store located on the second floor of the mall. “Too bad these things need electricity and a net connection to work.”
“You ever slept in one?” Gabriel asked as he cleared the large store, checking around and beneath each pod, the
dead holo display ports, and behind the counters. This store had no external windows, the shadows dark and deep.
“Nah, but I always wanted to try the floating-in-outer-space feature.”
“Me too.”
Micah’s new boots squeaked on the tile floor. He opened the fanciest pod—a sleek, egg-shaped Dream 3000 model. “Never mind. They don’t even have mattresses.”
“It’s all in the haptics, I suppose.”
“I guess. But I’d still take a real mattress any day.”
Gabriel grinned. “Me, too.”
Micah had worried it would be awkward between them when Gabriel suggested they pair up to clear the top floor of the mall. But they had slipped easily back into their old rapport. Micah still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
He missed his brother like a hole inside his chest, like a phantom limb that still ached long after it had been severed. In times like this, when he suddenly felt close to the brother he hardly knew anymore, it made the ache pulse with fresh agony.
“Hey, look at this,” Gabriel called from across the store. He stooped behind the counter and held out an oblong-shaped object in his gloved hands. Micah couldn’t make it out in the dim light until he was closer.
He brightened, his face breaking into a smile. “No way. A violin.”
Gabriel clutched it almost reverently. It was old; the wood was dull with scuffs and dings, but all the strings were there. Nothing looked broken. “I found it beneath this old blanket. There’s a pillow, sleeping bag, and a few cans of beans.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t touch it. It could carry the virus.”
Gabriel shook his head. “Whoever left this stuff hasn’t been back in a couple of weeks. There’s dust, see?” He wiped his finger over the neck of the violin and showed Micah the print he’d left behind. “The bow is here, too.”
Micah thought of Amelia, the permanent indentations on her fingertips from her years of playing, how she still practiced when she thought no one was looking—her hands fingering imaginary strings, her chin cupping an invisible instrument. “Amelia will love it.”
