The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V

by Claire C. Riley

  I look down as he lays his hand on my arm, his rough palm scraping along my arm. “I just need to take a look at that cut above your eye is all.”

  I reach up to where his thumb had rubbed earlier and wince as my fingers come into contact with a small cut. It hadn’t hurt when he touched it but it does now. When I pull my hand away there’s blood on my fingers. I look back at his face and nod.

  “Okay, but don’t try and kill me or I’ll have to kick your ass.”

  It takes a fraction of a second for him to choke on the laugh he tries to stop, and another for him to just let it go. His laughter echoes down the corridor and he pulls my arm gently.

  “I’ll try not to do that then, darlin’,” he says.

  Chapter Five

  I follow Shooter inside, letting the door shut behind us, and I check to make sure the other guy is still outside. Happy that he is, I focus on where Shooter is leading me and I wonder why this man seems to settle my soul so much when he should do anything but.

  At the end of the corridor, Shooter pushes open another door and we go into a small room. He waits for me to enter and then he closes the door behind us. I look around and see it’s set up as a doctor’s room, though of course it’s anything but. Cabinets line one wall and each one has a small lock on it, but behind the glass doors I can see bottles and jars of various types.

  “Sit down,” he orders me, and surprisingly I do it without question and barely a roll of the eyes. He goes to the cupboards and unlocks one, pulling out a couple of items before turning and coming back to me.

  His hands are filthy and I stare down at them and grimace. “You’re not touching me with those!”

  Shooter laughs again and grabs some blue latex gloves from the pile of supplies. With his germ-riddled hands safely covered, he squirts some liquid onto a cotton ball and then looks at me. “This might hurt,” he warns.

  “I’m okay with pain,” I retort.

  He flinches at my words like I just physically slapped him, and then he lets out a sigh. He lifts his hand and presses it against the top of my eye, wiping away the blood and grime.

  It hurts, but it’s not painful—not with the way he cleans the wound with such care. He watches me attentively the whole time, but I don’t flinch once.

  Happy it’s clean, he puts down the dirty cotton ball and leans in to take a closer look at my wound. I use this moment to take a closer look at him. He smells like smoke and leather, and if masculinity had a scent it would smell like him. His skin is rough like leather, well worn and full of a life well led. His beard is short and salt-and-pepper colored, unlike his hair. Which is shoulder length and dirty blond.

  “You keep looking at me like that, I might get the wrong idea,” he says.

  I look away, embarrassed. “I wasn’t…I was…where is my friend? Is he okay?”

  Shooter grabs some Steri-Strips and places a couple over my wound, and then steps back to examine his handiwork. Just as I’m about to ask him about Michael again, he replies.

  “I’ll be going over to check on him once I get you sorted,” he says gruffly. “I’ve seen this before, and it’s goin’ to take some time to deal with what you’ve been through, but know that you’re safe here. He can’t hurt you no more.”

  He reaches out again, running his thumb down the side of my face and taking my breath away. His look is so sincere and his blue eyes so soulful that for a split second I almost wish that Michael had kidnapped me, because I feel guilt like a sucker punch in my stomach having to tell Shooter the truth.

  “I umm, Michael is my friend. He wasn’t hurting me,” I say, my cheeks reddening.

  “That’s what they all say, but you’ll see soon enough. It’s just part of the conditioning.”

  I shake my head, and his hand falls from my face. “No, really! It’s not like that between us. Michael was helping me find my other friends. He’s never hurt—would never hurt me.” I laugh lightly. “I’d kick his ass if he tried.”

  “I just bet you would.” He smiles.

  I smile back despite myself. “Please don’t let anything happen to him. He’s a good man, even if he is a moody bastard.”

  “You got yourself an old man, Nina?” Shooter says, stepping back from me. He begins to gather his things up and tidy them away casually. But I can see the tenseness in his jaw.

  It takes me a minute to work out what he’s saying, and then another minute to understand it, and then I have no idea on how to reply to him. Do I have an old man? A partner? Mikey thinks I’m likely dead and is probably hundreds of miles from here, heading to the safety of Ben’s parents’ cabin and the island, where he should be able to live out his days in relative peace. Well, probably not with Alex and Joan.

  I had been heading to find him, but now I wonder whether I should or not. Wherever I go, I bring death. I bring suffering. It’s like Michael said: I’m a magnet for it. And I wonder, if I really love Mikey, should I go and find him, or should I just let him live his life?

  I don’t know how much time has passed since Shooter asked me the question, but he’s put his supplies away and removed his gloves and now he’s standing in front of me, his shoulders squared and his head cocked to one side as he watches me.

  “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, darlin’?” he asks.

  “I did have someone,” I finally say.

  “They gone?” he asks.

  Again, I don’t know how to answer. I have no idea if Mikey is dead or not, but he’s definitely gone, and he’s probably all the safer for it. Our fates have never been in sync, so maybe it’s time to let us go. Maybe it’s time to accept that we’re not meant to be.

  “That’s all right,” Shooter says reaching out, his thumb wiping away a tear which has slipped free. “We’ve all lost someone. That’s the one thing we all have in common. Death is all around us, and we have to make the best of what we have left now. Accept our fates and deal with the consequences.”

  I nod and look down at my knees with a frown.

  “Come on. Let’s get you somethin’ to eat.” Shooter holds out his hand and I take it as he helps me down from the table.

  I let go of his hand as we start to walk out of the room. “Can we go see Michael? I need to know that he’s okay.”

  “I’ll take you to Mary so you can get cleaned up and I’ll go check on him for you,” Shooter says.

  “Mary?”

  “She looks after the women,” he replies as we exit the building. The man from before—Gunner, I think Shooter called him—stands up straight and then begins to follow us as we walk.

  I watch Gunner warily for a moment, but he won’t catch my eye at all. I look around, not seeing any women anywhere. “What women? There’s no women here.”

  “There’s plenty of women, but they’re mostly locked away when I have to leave for any length of time. It’s safer that way,” he says without stopping.

  “What is this place, Shooter?” I ask, looking around us and seeing lots of small huts with twitching curtains and a biker placed outside each one. It seems safe here, and yet equally not.

  “It’s kind of a sanctuary,” he replies. “A safe haven, I guess.”

  “For who?”

  “For women.”

  “Safe from whom?” I ask, growing concerned.

  “Safe from men,” he says bluntly.

  “Wait, but you’re a man! I mean, you realize the irony of that sentence, right?” I say. “That is if you’re a man.” I quirk an eyebrow.

  Shooter barks out a laugh. “Darlin’, I’m all man.”

  I blush and look away from him, feeling embarrassed by his arrogant comment. I mean, I can see he’s all man. There’s no need for him to go bragging about it. Shooter leads me over to one of the smaller huts.

  The man outside nods at Shooter. “Prez.”

  “Spearhead,” Shooter replies.

  He knocks twice on the door and then waits until a female voice calls from inside.

  “Who is it?”
>
  “Shooter.”

  I hear the sound of a lock turning and then the door opens. Shooter pushes on it, holding it open for me. He looks over my shoulder, speaking to the guy behind us as I go inside.

  “Wait outside, Gunner,” he says, coming inside and shutting the door behind us.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the daylight outside to the musky dark inside of the cabin, but when it does I’m surprised by what I see. Despite what Shooter had said about this being a safe haven or a sanctuary or whatever for women, I still expected to see torture equipment, beds with semi-naked women on them, guns, knives, weapons of mass destruction primed and ready to drag whatever information I have inside of me out. But instead I see four or five women sitting around a table crocheting. Or knitting. I never can tell which is which. They look up as we come inside, and they put their knitting or whatever down on the table in front of them.

  There are several single beds spotted around the room, and a tall, lean woman is standing by one of them. She’s smiling, but it’s the most un-genuine smile ever I’ve seen and I instantly dislike her.

  “Mary, this is Nina,” Shooter says, stepping to one side to allow Mary to get a good look at me. “We just rescued her out on the road.”

  Mary comes forward, but I barely hear what she’s saying because I’m still trying to work out what Shooter just said to her.

  “Wait? Did you just say rescue?” I ask, my voice sounding shrill and panicked—so much so that the women at the table look over to me. “Let’s just make this clear: you didn’t rescue me, you kidnapped me after almost killing me and my friend. I wasn’t in any danger, barring the danger you put me in.”

  Shooter grabs the back of his neck and sighs, and he at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed by his actions. “There was a little miscommunication,” he says to Mary.

  Mary purses her lips and nods. “It’s okay, Nina, you’re safe now,” she says, her voice harder than I expected it to be.

  I turn to look at Shooter, his blue eyes like spotlights in the dark.

  “I’ll come and check on you later tonight. Mary will look after you for now. Don’t worry about a thing, just rest, eat, and get well.”

  “Eat? Get well?” I splutter.

  “You’re too thin, darlin’, but it’s okay, you’re gonna be fine now that you’re here.” Shooter smiles briefly before nodding to Mary and stalking out of the room.

  I turn back to Mary, whose wary gaze now seems patronizing rather than caring. “I need to see my friend, right now!”

  “Was he hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then they’ll be fixing him up. Now what about you?”

  “What about me?” I ask, feeling confused and frustrated, but mainly frustrated. It’s like I’m talking in riddles with these people, and no one seems to be really listening to me.

  “What do you want more? A good night’s sleep? Or some food?” Mary smiles, but there’s no real kindness in it. Over the years I’ve learned to distinguish between real and fake—I had to or I would have been killed long before now—and Mary is all fake, and by the looks of the way Shooter dealt with her, he has no idea. Perhaps it’s nothing more than her dislike for the responsibility he puts on her, or maybe it goes deeper than that. Either way, I’ll be keeping an eye on her.

  “Or a hug?” another woman asks as she comes forward. The other women at the table follow her, all of their smiles full of sympathy and concern for me. It’s sickening. “Sometimes, especially after such a trauma, a hug can be a really useful healing technique.”

  I shake my head. “A hug? No, I don’t want a fucking hug. Are you all insane? I want to see my friend!” I yell, turning to leave. I reach the door and open it, seeing the big guy Gunner standing outside.

  He looks up as the door opens, and I freeze. He’s sharpening a large hunting knife on a rock. “Mary?” he drolls.

  Mary comes behind me. “We’re fine, Gunner,” she says from next to me. She gently pulls me back inside and lets the door close. “They won’t kill your friend. At least not yet. They’ll try and fix him first.”

  “Fix him?” I ask, shrugging angrily out from under her grip.

  “Yes, fix him. There aren’t many people left in this world, so the Hell’s Highwaymen don’t kill people unnecessarily. If they can save them, they will. If they can bring them back from the brink, they will. Even the men you don’t think can be brought back, are. Shooter is a force to be reckoned with, that’s for sure.” Mary nods appreciatively, maybe a little too appreciatively, and the other women quickly agree. Clearly he’s made an impression on these women.

  Mary leads me further into the cabin and over to another room. Inside is a long bath with a shower above it. The shelves are filled with all sorts of female products—things I haven’t seen in a long time.

  “What the hell is this place? What are you all doing here?” I turn around to face her. “Michael doesn’t need fixing, not really.” I think of the cut on his head and the amount of blood he’s lost, and I know that he does need fixing, just not the way she’s implying.

  “Nina, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you have is called Stockholm Syndrome. But it’s okay. You’re safe now. You’re going to be well looked after here, and Michael…well, like I said, Shooter always tries to save everyone, though not everyone is saveable. He’ll do what he can, and perhaps you and your friend Michael can still be together afterwards. But only if you want that. This is all your choice now.” Mary looks exceptionally pleased with herself as she backs out of the room. “I’ll bring some water for you to clean up with and get you some food, and then you can rest.”

  She closes the door and I turn to look around me, my gaze falling on my own reflection in the mirror. I’m too in shock from what she just said to yell anything to her about how fucked up this situation is, and besides, she said they would fix him, which means they’ll need to stitch him up first and get him healthy, which is exactly what I want.

  So all I need to do is let them stitch him up and then I can get us the hell out of here. After I’ve eaten of course. And washed. And maybe had a good night’s sleep on an actual bed for a change. But after that I’ll get us out of here for sure.

  Chapter Six

  Mary brings me a bucketful of hot water and fills the sink. Another woman brings some towels and a flannel and then they leave me to clean myself up.

  I slowly peel my dirty clothes off, and when I’m naked, barring my panties, I start to clean my body with a sliver of homemade soap and the flannel. I sniff the soap scenting all kinds of herbs in it. I don’t remember the last time I washed, but I know that I’m grateful for this right now. As time progresses, you get used to being dirty—your clothes smelling and your skin sweaty and covered in dirt and dried deader blood. It becomes normality, I guess.

  I tremble as the water cools, and I slowly wipe away the inch of dirt embedded on top of my skin. But it’s a good tremble—the sort that lets my skin breathe and reminds me that I’m alive and should be grateful for that fact. The shelves are filled with a lot of feminine products, and it makes me smile for the most part. These women are sitting pretty here, with these bikers protecting them and bringing them whatever they need. It’s a very old-fashioned way of living, but we do what we do to survive, so who am I to judge? Though I do wonder how they have to pay for these home comforts. Shooter said that none of the men here would hurt me, and I’m guessing that goes for all the women here. Does that mean we’re his property? Is that what he wants with us? Because it wouldn’t be the craziest thing I’ve had happen to me.

  I look through the products on the shelf until I find some shampoo, and then I use the remaining water to try and clean my hair the best I can. When I’m done, I know I smell a hundred times better, but I also know that it would take at least ten more of these sink baths to get myself properly clean. Still, I’m not complaining.

  There’s a sharp knock on the door and I
grab the towel that I was given, covering myself quickly with it.

  “Who is it?” I ask, wishing that I had my gun or knife with me.

  “It’s Mary. I’m just letting you know that there are some clean clothes just outside the door. I tried to bring them into you but the door was locked.” Her tone suggests annoyance at that, but boo hoo to her.

  I wait a beat until I can hear her walking away, and then I unlock the door and open it a crack, and sure enough on the floor is a small pile of clothes. I grab them and close the door, locking it once again. And I begin to dress.

  “Feel free to use any of the creams that are there. We share everything here,” Mary calls to me in her best Stepford Wives tone. “What’s mine is yours.”

  I roll my eyes and pull on a black strappy top and green cargo pants before slipping into a thin black jacket that’s seen better days but is my new favorite thing ever thanks to its ACDC badge on the shoulder. I put everything on and lace my boots back up, feeling overjoyed at the feel of new socks on my feet and the fact that I don’t smell like ass anymore. And then I turn to look at my reflection in the mirror again. I look better than I did fifteen minutes ago, but I still look pale, and I have a huge bruise on my right cheek where Michael hit me when we were sparring yesterday morning. And Shooter was right, I look skinny. Way too skinny. But I’m toned, and I know that I’m strong—both mentally and physically—so that’s something.

  I begin to pull a brush slowly through my hair, and let my thoughts wander. This place is weird, but then I’m tired and hungry and aching all over. I know I should probably give it a chance. Clearly the men here, or at least Shooter, aren’t bad men. He truly thinks he’s helping me, and there are not many people like that anymore. Mary is a strange one and I can’t work out what her deal is. The same goes for Gunner. He seems dangerous—silent and deadly—yet there’s something about him that seems the opposite also. His gray eyes seem sad and broken, like he’s seen more than his fair share and now just wants the easy life.