I like whiners, Amiri’s voice whispered. One, anyway.
Rikki heard Eddie stirring, felt a breeze against her cheek; she listened to the ghost calls of birds and tried to find peace. And for one brief moment, lost in the warm languor of the jungle twilight, she allowed herself a turn of fantasy; an escape. Stupid, impractical, but she let herself slip away, searching out the quiet, the old careful dream—of an embrace so tight, so warm, she would have no choice but to feel safe. As though a man could be home; a man she would have no need to hide from, who would turn her loneliness into some unimaginable myth.
It was a dream as ancient as her teens; romantic and droopy-eyed, conjured heroes in her mind. Knights, soldiers, scoundrels with hearts of gold sewn on their sleeves. Mysterious, enigmatic.
Eminently impractical. Rikki had gotten over those old fantasies, mostly. Bad relationships could do that.
But this time was different. Dream mixed with memory. Real arms surrounded her; warm strong arms, holding her close against a hard dark chest vibrant with heat and heartbeat and a low murmuring softness; promises of gentleness. A fantasy with a face, a scent, a voice. Eyes to stare into. Lips that pressed against her forehead, her hand.
Amiri, she thought, battling an insufferable ache. Unwanted feelings, which she did not understand—except that there was something about him, the way he touched her, the way he looked at her, his actions and words and even the goddamn way he breathed, that made her feel like the tender spot on a bruised heart. He made her feel too much, and with nothing but a glance. He made her want to talk. He made her want to trust.
Dangerous. Don’t lose yourself. Don’t let go.
Though what she had to let go of felt as much a mystery as the one she had left behind in the refugee camp. Let go of control? Let go of stability? She had pretended to have both for her entire life, and it had kept her alive. But not happy. She was not happy, had not been happy even before the first attack, and the realization of that—sudden, sharp, in her face—cut hard and deep.
No self-pity, she told herself. You’ve got no time, no place for it.
Not when Amiri was alone, playing bait. Throwing himself to the wolves and without a complaint or hint of regret. Whining? The man would probably sew his own lips shut first. He was too dignified—had too much pride—for anything else.
Beside her, Eddie made a low sound. Like he was clearing his throat. Rikki opened her eyes, thinking he was going to say something, but there was an odd expression on his face and he swallowed like it hurt. She stared, thinking hard. Then sat up, slowly.
“You okay?” she asked, trying to sound casual. Failing miserably.
Eddie coughed, nodding. Smiling weakly. Like it was nothing. Then he coughed some more. Small, at first, like something was caught in his throat. He was fine for a minute—long enough for Rikki to wonder if she was being overly cautious, but then his face turned red and his shoulders shook and he had to bend over. The cough that ripped from his chest made an ugly sound, closer to a gag, and it sent such fear down her spine she felt breathless.
“Lie down,” she ordered, crawling to him. He shook his head, but she pressed on his shoulders and he was so overcome, trying to catch a break between those terrible shuddering coughs, he had no choice but to obey her. Rikki pressed her hand against his forehead. He was hot to the touch. Even through his T-shirt, she could feel him burning up. All that talk earlier about him being fine? Bullshit. She wanted to wring his neck.
“I don’t have a fever,” he muttered. “I’m warmer than other people, that’s all.”
“Whatever.” Rikki cast around for something, anything she could use, and pulled the backpack over to her. She unzipped the bag, rummaging. Found a cell phone—useless, no reception—a white envelope filled with enough cash to be a personal ATM, and several passports bound together with a rubber band. At the bottom, a bottle of aspirin. And a photograph. Of her. Larry had taken it on her last trip to Atlanta, on the day after she cut her hair.
“You guys travel light,” she said, voice strained. She tossed the photo aside and opened the aspirin bottle. She handed Eddie two. “Chew.”
He did, grimacing. “Anything we need, we usually buy on the run.”
“Too bad there’s no mall in the middle of the Congo,” Rikki snapped, and sat on her heels as he began coughing again. She thought back to the notes the doctors at the refugee camp had left behind, and the first thing she remembered was a hastily scribbled letter to a woman named Mary.
I love you. Remember that.
The letter, just like all the paperwork, was probably nothing but ash now. Mack was dead. Rikki was the only one left who had handled those notes directly.
Coughing was one of the symptoms. She remembered reading that in the notes. Coughing, raging fever, muscle weakness. Then blood. And death. The puzzle was, why now. Why him. If anyone should have been showing symptoms, it was her—or Amiri. Eddie had been in the biohazard suit far longer.
Except for exposure to the powder.
Eddie sat up, just a little wild-eyed. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine.”
“Yes,” she lied. “But you need to rest.”
“I don’t,” he protested, then stopped, whipping his head around to stare behind them into the jungle. His body shuddered, and he clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle another coughing fit. Rikki began to ask him what was wrong, but he held up his other hand and gave her a sharp look.
She listened … heard nothing—then realized that was part of the problem. No birds, no monkeys. Even the drone of the insects was gone. And in that silence, not so far away, she heard something snap. It was a metallic sound. Like someone was loading a gun.
Eddie shot to his feet and grabbed Rikki’s hand. No hesitation. She slung the backpack over her shoulder and they ran, keeping low to the ground. The young man’s hand burned with a heat she felt in her bones, searing like fire. She did not know where they were going, only that her heart pounded so hard she felt sick. Sick and terrified—and not just for herself, but for Eddie. Amiri.
It was happening again. Memory flashed: her team, her friends, dragged from the Jeep, too stunned to fight, the sun on their faces, the thunder of the guns …
No, she told herself, squeezing Eddie’s hand. No.
Rikki did not hear pursuit, but that was little comfort. Eddie’s pace faltered. He began coughing again and she pulled back on his hand and forced him to rest. All around, the jungle twisted with vines and root clusters larger than her body. She saw a hollow near the base of several trees, shrouded on one side by thick vegetation. She tugged on Eddie’s hand and pointed.
“Can you keep running?” she asked, knowing that if it was just herself she’d run right into the sunset and back again if it meant staying alive.
“I can keep going,” he rasped, and past the youth of his face she saw once more the hard glint of those old, old eyes. Remembered the burns on his hands.
But it was too late. She heard another snap, almost on top of them, and they dove toward the hollow, scrambling into its moist darkness. It was just big enough for them both; it felt like a small cave, and the vines that curled over its entrance were thick, bruising with shadows. Eddie shoved Rikki all the way to the back, then huddled in front of her. His spine pressed against her cheek. Their breathing sounded loud, harsh. Her hands touched the guns at his waist.
Time passed. Rikki and Eddie did not move. Breathless, hot, drowning. Her scars ached, her legs began to cramp; something crawled along her neck into her hair.
Then, voices. Very quiet, hardly a whisper. Rikki stopped breathing. Eddie shuddered, stifling a cough. She placed her hand against his shoulder. Above them, clothing hissed.
And then, quite suddenly, a face peered into the hole. Asian, shaved head, eyes as cold as ice. A black vest, the edge of a gun in his gloved hand. He flashed teeth that reminded her of a shark.
“Come out,” he said, softly. “Come out and play.”
“No,” whispered
Eddie, and the man’s feet exploded in flames.
It happened so fast Rikki hardly knew what to think, but the man’s screams were no illusion and he danced backward, flailing. Shouts followed. Men raced into sight, brandishing guns. Not one of them had a chance to pull his trigger. Their feet caught on fire; their weapons burned red hot. They screamed and screamed, and it was the ugliest, most miraculous sight Rikki had ever seen in her life—just like that damn crocodile, only this time the distraction was too good to put the bastards out of their misery.
Eddie rolled from the hollow, taking Rikki with him. The moment they stood, gunshots rang out, bullets slamming into the ground around them. Eddie looked over his shoulder, eyes hard, and she heard an explosion, like a thousand matches striking at once. Heat rolled over her back, singeing the hairs on her neck, and she turned just in time to see a wall of flame rise ten feet high into the air, churning black smoke like a pyre in hell. Men still shouted, Eddie had out his gun, and she suddenly felt like some chick Rambo—missing a bandanna around her head and more muscles than God.
Eddie doubled over, coughing. Rikki pulled him into a stumbling run. She fell once; he yanked her up, and after that she lost herself—caught only in the desperate unbending desire to get the hell out of Dodge, fast, fast, fast. She kept expecting a bullet to slam into her body or some man to step into their path. Every branch that hit her chest reminded her of steel, every caw of some bird that old rough laughter. The sweat flowing down between her breasts felt the same as hot blood, and her scars burned like the old wounds were salted and open.
They did not stop until Eddie’s legs finally buckled. He went down hard, coughing and gagging, and Rikki fell with him, too close to stop and tangled in his body. Her lungs burned like she had been inhaling bleach, and only her pure, stubborn, shit-stupid will to live was keeping her from having a heart attack.
But she listened hard—or did her best—and heard no screams, no sounds of pursuit. No gunshots.
“Oh, God,” she muttered, rolling on all fours. She gagged, puking up nothing but stomach acid, and felt Eddie touch her back.
“We gotta keep going,” he said breathlessly. “Come on. At the rate we’re going, we’ll hit the river soon.”
“Fabulous.” She spit, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and staggered into a quick walk that made her head spin. Eddie did not seem to be faring well, either. His cough—which she had thought could not possibly get worse—shook his body like he was made of Jell-O, and it was terrifying to listen to. She kept expecting to see blood fleck his hands, and it did not pass her notice that Eddie checked his palms each and every time.
Six hours. According to the notes, each victim died only six hours after symptoms began.
She did not want to think about it. She did not want to watch this boy die. Not when it should be her.
Or Amiri. Golden-eyed man. She wanted him to be here more than she wanted to be safe, and that was some horrible joke only she could play on herself. All of them, dying together. Bullets and disease. What a way to go. Down in a blaze of glory.
Eddie was right: soon after, they found the river. They stood on shore, staring out at the wild churning water, which was a color only slightly brighter than mud. On the other side, more jungle. No way to cross. Distances were hard to judge, but it had to be at least a mile, maybe more. Neither of them was up for a swim. Or maybe they just weren’t that desperate yet.
“We need to find a boat,” Eddie said.
“Amiri won’t be able to find us if we do that. I won’t leave him.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that,” he replied, but he looked at her as though seeing something for the first time, and it was a quiet judgment that he passed, utterly inscrutable. It made Rikki feel odd. Like she had more to lose than just her life.
And then he started coughing, and they went to find a place to hide.
There was a fisherman’s hut a short walk downriver, a squat structure made of sticks and mud that looked like it might wash away at the first hint of a hard rain. It was shelter, but they did not use it. Too obvious, in case anyone was still looking for them. Instead, they moved back toward the jungle, and hunkered down in the tall grass beside a stream.
Eddie plunged his entire head into the water and stayed there. Rikki watched him. Heat radiated off his skin, like he was on fire. Burning up.
It made her think hard—about a lot of things. But she did not ask. She also contemplated, briefly, the idea that he was contaminating the water supply with a possible illness, but hell, so much had happened already; if the refugee camp hadn’t fouled the water with disease, one young man certainly wasn’t going to.
“You know,” he said, after coming up for air. “I think, maybe, I’m not feeling too well.”
“Nah,” Rikki said. “You’re healthy as a horse. Young studs like you don’t get sick.”
He lay on his side, water streaming off his body. His eyes were bloodshot, gathering shadows. Only minutes ago he had looked nominally healthy, but his color was shifting from pink to scarlet, and that frightened Rikki so badly she had to kneel at the stream and drink, just so that he would not see her expression.
Eddie needs your best, Rikki told herself, and took a deep breath—sucking up every raw nerve in her body. She put the mask on her face.
But when she turned, his eyes were closed. She thought he might have fallen asleep, but he started coughing again, and rolled onto his back. Rikki knelt beside him, and after a moment’s hesitation, smoothed his wet hair away from his face. She felt awkward, out of practice giving comfort to the sick. Most of the time, the people she dealt with could not be touched. Not like this.
She thought of her dad and Markovic. Amiri, with his golden eyes. “You have a girlfriend, kid?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “I did. We’re just friends now.”
“Ah, the friendship deal. Not so cool, huh?”
“She has issues with guys,” Eddie mumbled, shifting like his body ached. “Her father … was an asshole. He hurt her.”
Rikki continued running her hands over his hair, trying to calculate the timing of his symptoms, the speed of escalation. “I bet you were her knight in shining armor.”
He smiled again, weakly, his eyes still shut. Rikki said nothing else, letting him rest. She took his pulse, found it high and thready. His fever felt worse. Minutes ticking, his body breaking down. Faster than anything she had ever seen. This was no flu. Not some fluke.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. She wanted to scream.
Rikki lay down beside him. She tried not to think of her dead brother. Frankie. Little hands, his dark eyes. That smile.
Frankie had liked the Transformers cartoon. He’d enjoyed hiding her dolls and playing ball, or just poking her with sticks. Had curled in her bed at night and kept her back warm. Wiped his nose on her sleeve while they listened to their parents fight. Held her hand, telling her it would be okay when Mom and Dad used the word divorce and she cried.
She did not want to see Eddie die.
Rikki forced herself up and patted his stomach. “I need your shirt, kid.”
Eddie did not ask, or argue. He sat up just enough for her to pull the T-shirt over his head, then slumped back down. Limp, boneless. Rikki dumped the white cotton in the stream, soaking it, then spread the cloth over his flushed body. She imagined steam, a low hiss, and ignored it all as she worked to bring his fever down.
I’m warmer than other people, she remembered him saying, and thought of fire—fire and heat and viruses. Those stubborn viruses. Biological infectious particles, evolved to survive in particular host environments. Affected by extreme temperatures. Sometimes. No one had ever experimented with exposing diseases to the internal extremes of a particular host.
“Eddie,” Rikki said, rubbing his shoulder. “Eddie, I have to ask you some questions. I need to know if you can raise your body temperature without hurting yourself.”
He peered at her, eyes bloodshot. It was easy to imagine blo
od seeping from them like tears. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rikki frowned. “I know you started those fires.”
Eddie’s mouth tightened and he closed his eyes. She shook his shoulder. His skin was so hot. “Eddie, please, this is not the time for playing dumb. I don’t give a shit how you do it. Question is, can you heat yourself up without frying anything vital?”
He ignored her. Rikki said, “Eddie.”
“Don’t ask me,” he hissed, looking at her with an expression so piercing and haunted she rocked back on her heels; staring, tasting the fear in his gaze. Hard, desperate fear.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she whispered, horrified.
“You’ll tell,” he murmured, pressing his flushed cheek against the ground. “You’re a scientist. You’ll want to write a paper or something. Study us.”
Us. More than one.
Amiri.
Rikki forced herself to take a deep breath. Then one more. She looked at her hands, then Eddie, and took the T-shirt off his body. She soaked it in the stream, splashing water on her own face. Brought the T-shirt back to Eddie and held it heavy and dripping over his mouth, squeezing water past his lips. He watched her as she did, and she watched him. Thinking of Frankie. Her little brother.
“Can you do it?” she said quietly. “Can you raise your temperature without hurting yourself?”
He judged her. She could see it in his eyes. Wheels were turning and turning, tasting her character. She let him, and did not blink.
“No,” he finally whispered, hoarse. “I’ve tried.”
“Okay,” Rikki said, keeping calm. “We’ll just have to stick with basics, then.”
She began to move away, back to the stream. Eddie grabbed her hand. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?” she replied, sliding her other hand around him. She held him to her, comforting him in the only way she knew how. He stared, those dark eyes haunted, and Rikki tried to make him understand, tried in ways that words could not. She knew what it felt like not to trust. She knew fear.
And she also knew that if Eddie did not let go, if she did not hide her face for even a moment, he was going to see something he should not.
The Last Twilight Page 13
