I’m quicker where he’s stronger, and I dive under his arm as he makes a grab for me, and I stab him in the back with my knife like the true bitch that I am. He reaches around and begins groping for the knife, dropping his hatchet in the process. I quickly grab the hatchet from the ground and swing as hard as I can at his arm. The sharp blade makes it halfway through before stopping, and I grip the handle and pull it back out. The guy howls in pain and fury, his other arm now reaching for me and not for the knife in his back anymore.
I swing at him again, feeling the splash of his warm blood across my face as I swing at his arm again. I completely miss my original spot, this time hitting him in the shoulder, and he screams even louder—a goddamned scream which makes my ears ring.
I feel a jolt of something akin to horror and guilt before I slash the hatchet into his stomach, and then all I feel is sick as his guts come tumbling out, landing at both of our feet. He drops to his knees, his one good hand trying to stuff the bloody guts and intestines back inside his own body, like that’s going to help him now.
With him down on his knees I can swing the hatchet hard enough to smash in his head, but I don’t have to as Michael puts a bullet into the poor man’s brain and his body slumps forward. I look over at Michael, grateful that he finally came to his senses and decided to help out. He leans against the wall next to him for support and aims his rifle before picking out the bad from the good and blowing them away. The Highwaymen begin to take the advantage, and the remaining men and women obviously sense this. Some of them share a look and turn tail and run; others continue to fight, much to their own detriment.
My arms are beginning to ache from swinging the heavy hatchet, so I’m glad when three of the Highwaymen manage to lock the gates back up and Michael picks off the last of the other crew with his rifle. Most of the Highwaymen head over to the back fence where fighting can still be heard, but I stay where I am, pulling out my gun and walking around to finish off any of the dead that decide to not stay dead. Which is far too many for my liking. Seriously, it’s like everyone forgot that a headshot is all that counts these days.
Twice in the head makes them stay dead is my motto.
By the time I’m done, I’m drenched in blood, panting from exhaustion and seriously having second thoughts about not just locking myself in my cabin if this happens again. Though I hope there’s not going to be a next time, I’m not naïve enough to believe that is true.
I sit down right there on the bloody and dusty ground after shooting the last person in the head, and I have to force my hands to stop shaking and loosen up on the gun. It’s not so much fear, (though of course that’s a factor too—it has to be if you want to stay alive, because if you don’t fear death then you’re already dead) but adrenaline that makes my hands shake.
Amara comes and sits down next to me. I see that she’s in a worse state than I am; her whole body is trembling, so I reach over and pry the gun from her white-knuckled hands. She leans into me and cries, and I hush her gently, finding a side of me that I thought was long since dead. Compassion.
Michael is watching from the sidelines, and he looks away when I see him staring. Shooter and his men come marching around the corner, and he begins barking out orders to them about grabbing panels to repair the fence at the back and getting a team up top to watch for anyone else in the perimeter.
He sees me and Amara on the floor and storms over to me, and thankfully Amara stops crying immediately. Michael shakes his head and walks away, and I’m glad because I don’t want him to see me get a mouthful off Shooter only for him to find the whole thing amusing. Shooter is towering over Amara and me, but instead of yelling, he reaches out a hand and helps Amara to her feet.
“Thanks, Shooter,” she mumbles.
“Go get cleaned up and stand guard, just in case,” he says, his angry gaze fixed on me and not Amara.
She nods and leaves, and I have no idea if she throws me a sympathetic look or not because I can’t tear my gaze away from Shooter’s. His whole body is trembling with untamed rage, and I realize that I’ve never seen someone look so furious—with me, or with anyone else. My heart is in my throat when he thrusts out his hand to me, and I tentatively take it.
He grabs hold of my hand and pulls me up in one quick movement, and then I’m being pulled against his hard chest and his hands are in my hair, pushing it back from my face so he can get a good look at me. I’m weak-kneed and shaking, and this time it’s a mixture of everything that makes me shake—a little of the adrenaline wearing off, a little of shock from the many people I just killed, and a lot to do with the way he’s looking at me right now.
It’s somewhere between anger and lust.
“I told you to lock yourself in your room. You could have been killed,” he growls out.
I open my mouth to say something back, but he silences me with his mouth roughly pressing against mine. The air is sucked from my lungs as he kisses me, hard, his arms holding me roughly against his body. I don’t kiss him back, though I can’t say I don’t want to. But he takes what he needs from that kiss and he gives me something indescribable back with it. When he pulls away I feel weak, like he just took away all of my strength.
We stare at each other in silence for a moment, the world continuing on, and us oblivious at the death and the destruction littered at our feet.
“You and me, Nina, we’re two of a kind. We crave the violence while still searching for the peace, and one day you’re going to kiss me back,” he says, sucking in his lower lip and releasing it again. “One day soon.”
He lets go of my arms and watches me as I start to stagger away from him, in shock from everything that’s happened this last half hour, and from his possessive admission. But mostly from the fact that I know that he’s telling the truth.
Violence, anger, love, lust. It gets to a point where it all mingles into one. I do crave the violence, almost as much as I crave the love. But I think that’s what makes me human. I need both of those things to still feel alive. I need the extreme.
And if Shooter is anything, it’s extreme in every sense of the word.
Chapter Thirteen
When I get back to my room, the door is still barricaded from the inside.
“It’s Nina,” I say and then I bang on it until someone finally opens up. I offer them a grateful smile as they help me inside and barricade the door behind me. Deep down I know that I should be out there helping to secure this place again. But I also have trust that Shooter has it all in hand, and that we’re safe. At least for now.
Two of the women lead me to the bathroom, and another one fills the sink with warm water. They help me to peel out of my bloody clothes until I’m standing in just my underwear, and then they take a cloth each and start to wipe my body down. I don’t even stop them; I’m just so grateful that someone is taking care of me for a while. So I let my guard down and let myself be vulnerable for a change.
My hands are sore, my knuckles cut and bloody, and it stings when they clean them but I know it needs to be done. Everything aches, right down to my toes. My body is covered in bruises and scars from previous fights and I feel a little ashamed of it.
One of the women is wiping my face down, the water turning bloody when she rinses her cloth in it. My nose stings from the split at the bridge of it where I head-butted that crazy bitch from earlier. But all of this is a good kind of pain, a pain that I can relish in because it means that I survived again, that I made it through another day by my own hand, and I’m happy to suffer that type of pain for my survival.
When I get so cold from standing there wet and almost naked that I begin to tremble, and the blood and dirt is cleaned off of me, the women wrap a towel around my body and guide me out of the small bathroom. The cabin has a couple more women in it now, and one of them heads into the bathroom after me. I can feel the other women’s eyes on me as I move to my bed and sit down on the edge.
Another woman comes over to me, and in her hands are some clean
clothes for me. I breathe out a sigh of relief at having something clean to wear.
“Thank you so much,” I say gratefully, still not leaving the warmth of my towel.
There are three women sitting with me, two with their arms around me, drying me and getting me warm again, and the rest of the women make their way over to me, their eyes wary and uncertain.
“What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.
“Can you show us how to do that?” the woman who handed me the clothes asks, her voice timid. I remember her as one of the ones from this morning that left when I started training.
I look around me, seeing the hungry and eager looks on all of these women’s faces. The internal battle scars that they all wear. Their armor is coming off and they’re showing me who they really are and who they want to become.
“Please, can you show us how to fight?” she asks.
I look back at her, seeing her look of awe—her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed—and I can’t help but smile too. Sure, my body is aching and my face is all busted up again, but right at this moment I know that it was worth it—all of it—and I feel pride. Pride that I am needed, that I can do some good here. That I’ve proven to these women that they can be strong and survive in this world. It’s exactly what I need right now.
“Yes, most definitely,” I say, my tone laced with equal parts pride and exhaustion. “We’ll start first thing tomorrow.”
She laughs and I stand up, my towel still wrapped around my body, and she leans over and hugs me. The other women come forward, all of them talking at once, telling me their names, who they were before, and what weapon they want to be able to use, and I can’t stop turning and smiling at them. All of them. Because they seem grateful to me, and I haven’t even really done anything but give them some hope and some pride.
I dress quickly, and despite being exhausted I unbar the front door, ordering them all to bar it after me. It’s full nighttime now, and almost every available Highwayman is helping to fix the fence and keep out the deaders, and whoever the hell it was that tried to get in. At some point I want to speak to Shooter about what happened tonight. I saw the look on his face when he saw that fence being busted in, and it wasn’t just an oh shit, here’s Johnny look. It was way more than that. He didn’t even look shocked when I really think about it—just angry. And there was definite familiarity between Shooter’s men and whoever tried to get in here, and I want to know the full truth. And of course there’s the small point of his kiss that needs talking about. But right now, I just need to walk and clear my head, help clear up the mess, if I can. But mostly, I just don’t want to be locked inside this cabin tonight.
I’m way too wired to sleep, though by the fact that there’s no guard on our cabin door, I’m guessing that Shooter doesn’t expect anyone to be leaving their cabins anytime soon anyway. Not that it really matters anyway, since I pick up Gunner along my route to find Shooter. Gunner is busy dragging a dead body over to a large fire ready for burning when he sees me.
He grunts something at one of the other men and comes after me, and I feel kind of pathetic that I’m glad he’s here. I mean, I would have preferred Nova or Michael to have my back, but Gunner—despite the looks of worry that everyone gives him—is a good replacement. He’s a big guy, tall, broad, with a strong jawline that looks like it’s been chiseled out of stone, but his soft gray eyes reflect the sadness and guilt he obviously feels inside for whatever it is that he’s done, and that’s good enough for me. It shouldn’t be, of course—not after some of the things I’ve lived through. And there was once a time when I would have killed someone like him without giving it a second thought. No time for apologies. No time to make up for past errors. Just kill them where they stand. But for some reason, right now, here in this place, I can’t bring myself to hate him, no matter how much I think I probably should. Deep down, I know it’s because he’s searching for the absolution that I know I need to. And if I can forgive him for the crimes he’s committed, then maybe I can be forgiven too.
I don’t even really know where I’m going, only that I’m filled with fresh vigor to help in some way. First I need to find Amara and Anne and make sure that they’re both okay, and then I want to find Michael. Lastly, I need to speak to Shooter about training these women, who the hell tried to get in here, and lastly—that kiss.
I check out the area of the fence that had almost come down, and thankfully see it looking safe and secure again, and I relax a little at the sight. There are quite a few men working on it, and it looks like they’re making it even safer than before, which is good.
I head back around to the front of the camp, to where the main gates are, happy to see that the gates are back in place and that again there are men working on it, making it safer and more secure than previously.
I don’t see Shooter, which is good, and I take my cue to leave before he does see me. I can tell from the way Gunner keeps looking over at me and fidgeting that he has something to say, but by the looks of his sweeping gaze across the camp toward the other Highwaymen, he must not be allowed to talk to me at all. Maybe that’s part of his recovery. Maybe it’s a punishment. I have no clue. The only thing I do know is that if Gunner has something to say, then it must be important, because up until now he hasn’t really made an attempt to say anything to me.
I walk back toward the hospital, to where Michael is more likely going to be since he can’t live with his ribs all busted up as they are, but instead of going inside, I lead off down the path toward the small beach in the hopes of getting Gunner on his own and hopefully freeing up his tongue to give me some information, but halfway to the beach I hear talking and my steps slow from a stomp to a creep.
Gunner follows suit to a point and then he pulls out a gun and moves past me. I note that, even though the path is very narrow and he is such a big dude, he makes sure not to touch me in the slightest. Gunner leads the way slowly down the path and gestures for me to stay where I am. Well of course, being the good little woman I am, I instead roll my eyes and pull out the handgun I’m still packing and I follow Gunner down the path. He stays in the shadows, and I stay in his shadow. It’s really not hard at all, since he’s three times the size of me.
It’s all gone silent and the path forks in two directions, so we both wait several moments until talking can be heard again and we know which path to take. Our steps are almost silent on the damp undergrowth, which is just as well because I don’t know what we’re walking into. I only know that I wish I had kept hold of one of the other weapons from earlier. Not the axe, of course, but a trusty machete or a katana wouldn’t go amiss.
Gunner stops again and crouches down, and I copy him. He turns his head slightly to look at me, a deep furrow between his eyes building when he sees that I’m still there. I almost give him the middle finger when he looks like he’s going to send me away again, but then the voices from the beach start getting louder. Not closer, but louder—as in whoever is there is shouting. And then a gun goes off, and Gunner is on his feet and charging straight out onto the beach with his gun raised.
I’m several beats behind him, being a little more cautious because I don’t want to get my head blown off. Though when I get there, I see there isn’t any reason to be. Because the only people left on the beach are Gunner, Shooter, and a dead Mary.
I look at her body, bent at the knees and face down in the sand. The back of her skull is a bloody mess, and even in the light of the moon I can see the blood splatter sprayed across the sand. I look away from her body and up at Shooter. To say he looks happy about me being there would be a big fat lie. He looks positively furious to see both me and Gunner.
“Prez?” Gunner says, his voice low and threatening, and full of confusion as to why Shooter just killed one of the women that they were all supposedly protecting. He’s aiming his gun at Shooter, and though I can see from his expression that he’s not entirely comfortable aiming a gun at his president, his hand never wavers.
“Put your
gun down, Gunner, it’s not what it looks like,” Shooter says.
Shooter has his gun in his hand, but it’s aimed at the ground, and Gunner has his gun raised and aimed at Shooter. They’re both staring each other down, with neither man looking like they’re going to let go of their guns, so I clear my throat and both men look over at me.
“What are you doing here?” Shooter says.
Chapter Fourteen
“I thought we’d come and give you a hand with the—” I glance back down at Mary’s body and the sand, which is slowly being stained red around where her head used to be. “—with the ummm killing…I guess…but you seem to have everything under control here so I might as well just head back to my room.” I smile, ignoring the knocking of my knees. “Gunner, you coming?”
I never really warmed to Mary, but now that she’s dead I feel a little guilt that I didn’t perhaps try a little harder with her. Maybe she was just like one of those Disney villains and was just misunderstood?
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Shooter says to me. “She was a snitch working for the Rejects,” he says to Gunner.
“The Rejects?” I ask.
“The Devil’s Rejects,” Gunner replies, as if that makes things any clearer. “Another motorcycle gang,” he adds on when he looks and sees the confusion on my face. “You certain of that, Prez?” Gunner asks Shooter.
“Yeah. I recognized some of their men, Butcher and Rev, talking to her when the shit was going down. Got a clear shot at Rev on his way out so he may be down and out if we’re lucky, and I’m not sure where Butcher got to. Mary took off once she’d seen me start shooting. Couldn’t find her at first, but found her ready to head out across the lake while no one was on guard. Probably got the Rejects waiting for her close by. And if they’re close by, then that means Drag is gearing up to bring us a whole world more trouble than what happened tonight.” Shooter spits on the ground like the words are poison to him.
The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V Page 11
