The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V

by Claire C. Riley

  It’s this—these deaders. He’s lost someone—many someones, no doubt—just like all of us. And for the first time since meeting him, I can see how damaged he is by those losses. I thought he was a robot, a machine immune to the death and loss of this world. But I can see now that that isn’t so. Not even a little bit.

  Shooter is a strong, almost brutish and pig-headed man, but he’s also just a man. And that man is a little bit broken, just like the rest of the world. And there’s something very pure about that realization.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  We head back out onto the road, with neither of us saying a word. He straddles his bike once more and I climb on behind him, holding on tightly like I did earlier, and he starts the bike again.

  A couple more miles up the road and Shooter pulls the bike over to the side. I don’t know why at first, but as he slows down and comes closer to a small cluster of trees, I see another path. I climb off the bike, my legs feeling shaky, and Shooter switches the engine off and hangs his helmet on the bars.

  “This way,” he grunts before heading off into the trees.

  I follow him, and we soon come to a small wooden hut. There are voices coming from inside, and from the worried look that Shooter throws me, it’s not good.

  “Nitro!” Shooter calls. He’s still moving, heading toward the hut as he calls again. “Nitro, brother!”

  There’s a loud bang, like something falling over, and then a gunshot rings out loudly. Shooter runs faster toward the hut, climbing the three small steps in almost a leap before throwing open the door. I’m right behind him, for all the good I think I can do.

  Gunner is on his knees, and Nitro has a gun aimed at his head. There’s blood on the floor—a lot of blood. Blood that’s going to attract a lot of deaders, very quickly. Gunner has a hand pressed to his stomach, and I can see the blood oozing from in between his fingers. He looks up at Shooter with a pitiful and pained expression. His hair is hanging around his face and clinging to his sweaty forehead. He blinks and looks down at his hand, but doesn’t say anything.

  Shooter shakes his head. “I’m sorry, brother” he says, with every ounce of conviction he can muster. “I’m sorry.”

  Nitro looks over at Shooter, his expression fearsome and full of rage. “Shooter?” His jaw is grinding and his eyes are cold, and I hate that it’s come down to this once more: man against man instead of man against the dead.

  Shooter is tense, his back rigid and his muscles taut. He shakes his head. “I got it wrong, brother.”

  I don’t know who he’s talking to—Nitro or Gunner. Maybe both. Because he did get it wrong, and now a man is dying and another man has committed what he sees as a sin. It’s fucked up. Really fucked up. But what’s more fucked up is my wondering if we could have stopped this. If perhaps we would have been quicker.

  If the deaders hadn’t been in the way.

  If I hadn’t fallen.

  There’s always too many ifs in this world to measure their worth, but these ifs are playing with people’s lives. And it may sound really fucking pretentious to think that maybe the fact that Gunner has a hole in his stomach and is dying right in front of us is my fault.

  “You got it wrong?” Nitro says. Nitro looks like he might be about to go over the edge and into whatever is beyond it, and Shooter really needs to defuse this situation as quickly as possible, because otherwise he’s going to lose more than just one man.

  “I did, I got it wrong,” Shooter says, and there’s so much emotion in his tone I can’t quite grasp how bad he feels.

  Gunner tries to get to his feet. He’s a big guy and Shooter runs over to help him. Gunner drapes his arm over Shooter’s shoulders and they both grunt as they stand up. Nitro is still standing there with the gun in his hand, a scowl on his face and confusion in his eyes. He looks on the edge of madness, and I wonder what’s going to come of it all.

  Shooter looks across at him. “Help me, brother. We can still save him.”

  Nitro’s scowl grows deeper. “But he hurt Amara. You said he hurt her.”

  Gunner side-eyes Shooter and I already know what he’s thinking without him even saying it. That doe-eyed giant is thinking I love her, Shooter. I would never hurt her, you stupid fucker.

  “I was wrong. He wasn’t hurtin’ her,” Shooter says softly, sensing the despair in Nitro.

  “But you said!” Nitro roars out loudly. “You said he needed to go to fuckin’ ground, Prez!” The gun is still in his hand and he’s waving it around like a crazy person.

  I look behind us, sensing that we’re not alone, and lo and behold, we’re not. Deaders have homed in on our location, the sound of the gun, the shouting, and possibly the aroma of fresh blood luring them to us like they’re coming back for a Thanksgiving meal of Gunner.

  “We’ve got company,” I say, more to myself than any of these men since they’re way too preoccupied in the whole not-killing-each-other dilemma. I really don’t want to take my eyes off the scene in front of me in case I miss something important, but I don’t really have a choice about it since the deaders are going to get to me any moment and chew my face off if I don’t do something about them.

  I turn away from the cabin and climb the three steps down before pulling out my machete. I drag it across the first deader’s throat, hacking its head clean off. The body falls and the head rolls in the opposite direction, jaws still snapping a mile a minute, as if it was thankful for the escape. Another deader is coming from the trees and I swing round and lop that one’s head off too. They’re both old deaders, probably from the start of the outbreak, so it’s no hard feat to put them down. Decaying muscles and stringy flesh make them pretty easy to kill.

  By the time I climb back up the steps, Shooter has stepped further into the cabin. Gunner is back on his knees and he’s fading fast—too fast for my liking—and whether I like it or not I’m ready to take him out if I need to. But Shooter is right: there’s possibly still hope for him if we can get him back to camp quickly.

  Nitro still has his gun in his hand but he’s also crouched down and his holding his head. He looks a mix of so many different emotions. Fury. Confusion. Desperation.

  “Nitro, put the fuckin’ gun down, brother,” Shooter says in his gravelly reproach. “I won’t fuckin’ tell you again. It was my fault, not yours. I’ll take the heat for it. What happens happens.”

  Nitro shakes his head slowly, droplets of sweat dropping to the ground. “Can’t do that, Prez. They need you, they don’t need me. I’m just a fuckup.” He stands up and swallows. “Can’t go back there.” He shakes his head again, clearly talking himself into something that he doesn’t want to do.

  Gunner groans and sinks lower on his haunches. He pulls his hand away from his wound, paling when he sees all the blood. He looks up at Nitro. “Need to end it, brother. Not got much longer left,” he says between pants of pain.

  I’m powerless to stop any of this from happening, or to even help in any way, and it feels sort of devastating. I hardly know these people, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Maybe other people can go through life not giving a damn about others, but that’s not me. There’s no escaping my humanity, it’s an albatross across my shoulders, breathing its heavy burden down my neck. I’ve tried to run and hide from it, but there’s no hiding from who I am.

  I open my mouth to speak, but can’t find any words. I want to tell Gunner that he needs to hold on, if not for his sake then for Amara’s. But looking at him, I know that he already knows that. And that’s why he’s prepared to die right here for her. Because him going back to the camp would be a risk, and he won’t risk her life. But what he doesn’t understand is that him not going back to camp is also a risk for her. Because him not going back to camp will kill her too. She loves him, and in a world full of death and destruction, love is what we have to cling onto.

  I put away my machete and pull off my thin sweater to reveal a T-shirt underneath, and then I push past Shooter. He turns in surprise and glares,
and Nitro startles and aims his gun at me.

  I put my hands in the air and continue moving forward, my eyes on Nitro. “I just want to help him.” I gesture to the sweater in my hands, and when Nitro doesn’t say anything or make any move to stop me, I take that as my cue to help and I go over to Gunner and get down on my knees.

  “All right, big guy, let’s see what we’ve got to work with,” I say, and help him to lie back.

  “You need to get away from him. He’s too dangerous now,” Shooter says, and I can hear the regret in his voice.

  I look over my shoulder at Shooter. “What? This guy?” I say, pointing at Gunner. “Nah, he’s a pussycat, nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Nina—” Shooter begins.

  “You just sort out Mr. Trigger-Happy over there before he blows everyone’s heads off, and leave this one to me,” I reply, already losing interest in the conversation as I pull up Gunner’s shirt and see the full extent of his gunshot. “Damn, Gunner, why you always getting yourself mixed up in drama?” I try to joke to lighten the situation.

  “How’s it lookin’?” he grunts as I press my balled-up sweater against him.

  “Beautiful,” I lie and wiggle my eyebrows. “You’re going to have a badass scar after this for sure.”

  “Can you see the slug? Is it still inside?” he grunts out.

  “Turn over a little, let me take a look.” I help him turn and when I don’t see an exit wound on his back I lay him back down. “I’m going to need your help here, Shooter.” I look up at him and he nods.

  “Nitro, brother?” Shooter takes a step forward. “We can fix this.”

  Nitro finally snaps out of his haze. He stands up and nods. “I’ll go to the Rejects, Prez. I can be a mole for you, work my way back into the Highwaymen until the brothers forgive me.”

  “Fuck no! That might never happen, Nitro. You know the rules. Let me take the heat. This is my fuckup, not yours,” Shooter yells. He takes a step forward and Nitro raises the gun and aims it at Shooter. “You ain’t gonna’ shoot me,” Shooter says.

  “I will if I have to. Now move out of my way, Prez. Drag will take me back, I know it.” He nods. “He’ll take me back and I can make this right again.”

  “I’m your president, Nitro, now you’ll do what I fuckin’ tell you to do!” Shooter bellows loudly. His hair is stuck to the side of his face, his jaw twitching in anger, but I know that anger is really directed at himself and not Nitro.

  “And my job is to protect the club, my brothers and my president. I’m leaving so I can keep doin’ that. Because this club is all I fuckin’ have left, and I won’t let it go to shit because of me, Prez. Tell ’em I did what I thought was best, but I know I fucked up and I’ll make it right. And you don’t mention that it was your orders, ya hear?”

  “Nitro?” Shooter pleads.

  “Not another fuckin’ word, Prez,” Nitro replies.

  Gunner grunts in pain and I regretfully press harder on the wound to stem the flow of blood. Nitro looks over and then backs away before walking toward Shooter. He jerks the gun to one side, indicating that Shooter needs to move, but of course he doesn’t. They stand toe to toe, both men eyeballing each other like they’re about to rip out the other’s throat for not listening.

  When I can’t take it any longer and I’m about to tell them to either kiss and make up or fucking kill each other because the suspense is agonizing, Nitro reaches over and roughly grabs hold of Shooter’s head, pulling it forward and planting a kiss on his forehead.

  And then he lets go and walks out of the cabin, the sound of his heavy, stomping boots going down the steps the only thing he leaves behind. Shooter looks after him, fury and guilt and sadness warring on his face. But we don’t have time for that shit right now, because Gunner’s life is still hanging in the balance.

  “Shooter, I really need your help,” I say.

  Shooter looks over at me, drags a hand down his sweaty face, and nods. He shuts the door and then comes over to me before getting down to his knees.

  “All right, what’ve we got?” he says, his words thick and heavy. “Where’s the slug?”

  “Still inside him,” I reply grimly as I look up into his face.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Fuck,” Shooter replies, but despite his bleak outlook he pulls out a small black leather pouch from the inner pocket of his cut and unzips it. He opens it wide and lays it flat on the ground. Inside are emergency medical supplies of needle and thread, scalpel, a small spray bottle, and a syringe, among other things.

  “We need to get it out of him or he’s a dead man.” He looks up at Gunner. “Sorry, brother.”

  “Kinda expected to die today anyway, Prez. It is what it is,” Gunner grunts out, watching us both intently.

  “Not going to happen, Gunner,” I say with more confidence than I have the right to use.

  “Just tell me if it gets to the point where you think it’s already too late and we’ll end it quickly for you,” Shooter replies.

  “All right,” Gunner says, and then squeezes his eyes closed when Shooter removes my hand and the sweater from the gunshot wound and uses his water bottle to pour water over the wound and clear some of the blood away.

  Shooter doesn’t skip a beat before sticking his big fingers deep inside Gunner’s side and rooting around for the slug. Gunner pants and grunts in pain, but after several intense seconds of searching, Shooter pulls his hand out.

  “I’m going to rip him open if I keep looking,” he says to me and I nod in understanding. “You good?”

  I look down at the fleshy, bloody wound and grimace, and then I nod and stick my fingers inside of Gunner and get to feeling for the slug. It’s warm and wet and disturbingly gross, and I have to look at Shooter, letting him hold my gaze the entire time to keep me from freaking out. I feel around, not sure if I’m touching something massively important or just muscle and fat. My fingers skim something hard and out of place and it must show on my face.

  “You got it?” Shooter asks.

  “I think so,” I say, nodding.

  “Don’t let it go any deeper or get pushed behind any muscle, or we’ll never fuckin’ get it out. Be gentle and try and slide it upwards,” Shooter replies.

  I nod and do like he says, and I swear it feels like the longest and most intense thirty seconds of my life as I slide that slug upwards to the edge of the wound. Shooter grabs it and holds it up to the light and I pull out my hand and then quickly press my sopping sweater back to the wound. Fresh blood is oozing from the wound now, but with the bullet out at least he has a chance of healing.

  “It’s all here, nothing missing,” Shooter finally says, pocketing the bullet. He takes out the needle and thread. “Grab the bottle and spray the wound.”

  I do like he says and Gunner hisses in pain, and I’m impressed that he hasn’t just passed out yet, if I’m being honest. I use my sweater to wipe the fresh blood away so that Shooter can see exactly what he’s dealing with, and he wastes no time in stitching up Gunner.

  Gunner grunts every now and then but doesn’t complain. His eyes are screwed up as Shooter stitches him and then wipes it over again to remove the fresh blood.

  “How you doin’, brother?” Shooter asks, pulling out the small needle.

  “Hurts like Hades is driving his burning spear into me repeatedly,” Gunner gasps out. He opens his eyes and looks down at Shooter and me. “I need somethin’ Prez,” he says, eyeing the needle in Shooter’s hand.

  “I know, I got you,” Shooter says. He pulls off his belt and wraps it around Gunner’s bicep, pulling it tight and then fastening it. I’m in too much shock to say anything as I watch Shooter find the vein and then pierce it with the needle before injecting Gunner. Gunner’s eyes roll back and the tension runs from his body like liquid draining away. His body goes slack and Shooter avoids my gaze as he puts the needle away. He grabs some gauze and puts it across the wound before taping it in place and then sitting back.

  We�
�re both covered in blood, and the cabin floor is covered in it too. Shooter lets out a slow breath and looks over at me before looking away and standing up. He walks to the door and opens it.

  “Dead sacks,” he says. “Keep watch on him.” And then he leaves and closes the door behind him.

  I stare after him and then look down at Gunner who, despite losing copious amounts of blood, looks relaxed and at peace. I pull his shirt back down and then I use my sweater to mop up some of the blood on the ground before throwing the saturated top into the corner of the cabin. I walk toward the door and pull the old lace curtain to one side so I can look out the window, seeing Shooter use his knife to stab up through the jaw of a deader and right into its brain. Another three lay near his feet, and he pulls out his knife and lets this fourth one join the pile.

  He wipes his knife off and surveys the surrounding area for any more. After several moments he turns around and heads back up to the cabin, his gaze catching mine briefly through the small window. He comes inside and closes the door after himself before staring in silence at Gunner.

  I come away from the window, letting the musty lace curtain fall back into place, and look down at Gunner. The atmosphere is tense—incredibly so. There’s so many things I want to say to Shooter. So many things I want to ask. But now isn’t the right time. Today has been one giant mess from the time we all woke up. If only there was a do-over button.

  Shooter walks over and squats down next to Gunner before pressing his fingers to his throat. His head hangs low as he waits several moments and finally pulls his hand away.

  “Pulse is steady, bleeding’s stopped. But we can’t move him right now. We’ll camp here tonight and hope that he’s okay to travel in the morning. If he’s not, I’ll put him down and decide what to do next,” Shooter says, his voice dark and oppressing.

  “I—” I start to speak, disgusted by the way he so casually talks of killing Gunner, but when Shooter turns to look at me I let the words die on my lips and I nod okay. Because in the dark shade of the cabin, and night falling outside our window, there is something much darker inside Shooter. “Okay, Shooter. Okay.”