He goes to the corner and grabs some musty blankets, balls them up, and heads back to Gunner. He lifts his friend’s head up and pushes the blankets underneath. Gunner doesn’t even stir, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. All I know is that he’s not dead, not yet.
Shooter sits down with his back against the wall and I go to him, sliding my back against the wall until I’m sitting down next to him.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” I ask, my gaze on Gunner.
I hardly know the man, but I’ve grown fond of him. Everyone has seemed scared of him all the time. And I could see why, I’m not stupid. He’s a big guy, with broad shoulders and a right-angled jawline. He looks mean—hell, Shooter said that he’s still in recovery, meaning that he did some heinous things previous to being “not in recovery”—yet when I looked at him, all I saw was a man with sad gray eyes that wanted some redemption and was trying his hardest to get it.
“I don’t know,” Shooter replies simply. “I should have waited,” he says. “I should have thought it through more.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I reply.
“But I should have—I would have if I would have listened to him.”
“Why didn’t you?” I ask.
He’s silent for several seconds and I turn to look at him, practically reading the answer on his face as he stares at Gunner’s still body.
“You were worried he’d say something about Mary,” I say.
Shooter turns to look at me. “He still might.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think he ever would have.”
Shooter’s gaze is intense enough to drown me. The darkness in them has me gulping for air and reaching for the surface, but there is no surface with Shooter. He’s built up his layers to keep people out, and to keep his crew alive.
“Maybe, maybe not. There’s too many variables. He’s still in recovery, for one. Can’t have one man bringing down the club, it’s too dangerous.” He sighs, his frown deepening. “You don’t know them like I do.”
I manage to pull my gaze away. “You’re right, I don’t. But we’ve all been through our own wars, and those that survive aren’t ever the same. You become better at reading people, at knowing their intentions.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
Shooter reaches over, his hand touching the bottom of my chin. He gently tugs it so that I’m facing him again. “What’s my intention now, woman?” His voice is husky and full of need, and I shiver at the sound of the deep desperation in it, the longing and desire all twisting and turning into one. He wants me—needs me right now, even.
“You want to kiss me,” I say, not looking away.
His mouth twitches. “That’s right.”
He leans in, his hand still on the bottom of my jaw, his touch gentle but insistent. His mouth is inches from mine, our gazes are still connected, and I can’t deny this part of myself—the desperate and lonely side that wants to feel something other than fear for once. Shooter’s gaze flits to my mouth and I look away.
He lets go of my chin. “Get some rest. It’s going to be a long night.” He looks away and I blush in the darkness, silently thanking him for letting me out from under his spell.
We sit with our backs against the cabin wall, watching Gunner’s chest slowly rise and fall and the light gradually fading from the room. My eyes grow heavy, and I don’t even realize that I’m falling asleep until I feel Shooter laying me down and placing something heavy over the top of me.
In my dreams, I’m swimming toward the shore. My arms are heavy and my legs cumbersome in the choppy waters. On the beach is Mikey. He’s waving at me, a big smile on his face. A wave pushes me forward and I paddle like crazy to get to him, but as I get closer he stops smiling and turns away.
I call his name, but he ignores me and starts to walk toward a woman further up the beach. I keep on paddling, my limbs like dead weights attached to my body. And I know that I’m crying, because I know that I’m going to drown.
Mikey reaches the other woman and puts his arm across her shoulders. They both turn to face me, and they smile and wave before turning to look at one another and starting to kiss. My chest burns, my legs already giving up way before my heart does.
And then I’m sinking. Not slowly, but quickly, as if I’m being dragged down to the bottom. The waves crash against my body in every direction, until I feel battered and bruised and I know more is broken on me than not.
And then I give up and let myself sink, because I know there’s nothing to fight for anymore.
I know this is the end of my story.
And I know the world will go on without me. I was just a blip in its existence, nothing more.
I open my mouth and take a last breath, water flooding my mouth and sliding down my throat to inflate my lungs.
And then I close my eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I open my eyes, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and I abruptly sit up. I look around the room, seeing Gunner exactly where we left him and Shooter by the window. He looks over at me, dropping the lace curtain back into place.
The room smells of sweat and blood, of nightmares and demons, but the day has broken so at least we made it through the night. I start to move and Shooter’s cut falls off me. I put it to one side and then scoot over to Gunner and check his pulse. It still seems steady, and when I check his wound I can see that it’s barely bled at all through the night. All good stuff, though he’s still sleeping heavily.
“You should have woke me,” I say. “I would have taken a shift at watching him.”
Shooter frowns at me like that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said, and I roll my eyes at him.
“You should have woke me,” I say again and stand up, stretching my back out.
“Nothing’s out here, but I still think we’re going to have problems getting him back to camp. He’s a big guy, and I don’t want those stitches popping again.” Shooter’s tied his hair back at the nape of his neck, and he rubs at a spot there now, as if the weight of the world is on him.
“What’s your suggestion?”
“One of us needs to go back and get some of my boys. Get them here with a trailer to load Gunner up in. He’s stable enough to survive the journey now, so there’s no fear of taking him back to camp.” Shooter pulls his cigarettes from his pocket, and lights one before exhaling a plume of smoke. “I don’t want to leave you alone here with him, but you can’t ride.”
I feel guilty for not being able to ride a motorcycle, which is something I never would have heard myself thinking before.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“Gonna have to leave him here alone.” He takes another long drag of his cigarette and then stubs it out. “I’m going to have to tell the brothers that Nitro went back to the Rejects. Gunner found out and Nitro shot him and left. You down with that?”
I nod, though I’m not entirely sure that I am down with it. These bikers are not to be messed with, and if they ever find out we lied, we’ll both be killed. Then again, what’s to say Shooter won’t just kill me now if I say no?
I watch him coming toward me to grab his cut. He picks it up and slips it back on before coming to kneel by Gunner’s side. He leans over Gunner and slaps his cheek a couple of times, but Gunner is still completely out of it.
“Probably won’t even wake up,” Shooter says.
“What if he does?” I reply.
“Pretty sure he won’t. Camp is only a thirty-minute ride from here with no complications.”
“But what if he does?” I say more forcefully. “He’ll think we left him.”
Shooter looks back down at Gunner’s peaceful face. “Let’s hope he doesn’t wake up then, because I ain’t wakin’ an injured brother up to tell him I’ll be back for him later, you feel me, Nina?” He stands up and rubs his hands down his dirty jeans.
I nod yeah. I get what he’s saying, even if I disa
gree with him. Neither option is good; all we can do now is not waste a single minute. I check Gunner’s pulse one last time and then I stand up.
“Let’s be quick then,” I say.
“That’s my girl,” he replies and opens the door before heading outside.
I follow him, squinting against the morning sun still rising in the sky, and then I pull the door closed behind me. We walk the short walk to his bike. Nitro’s is gone, but Gunner’s is still there and Shooter kicks up the stand for Gunner’s bike and rolls it back up to the cabin, leaving me alone for a few precious seconds. When he comes back he hands me a helmet and climbs on the bike. I hesitate for a second before climbing on behind him and wrapping my arms around his middle. His muscles tense under my touch and I let out a nervous breath and grip him tighter so I don’t fall off.
He starts the bike and pulls out of the clearing and then we’re back on the road and heading back toward camp.
I see the turnoff for the quarry and I can’t help the shudder that runs through me as the image of the deaders trapped in it comes to mind. I wonder about Gunner, and if he dies if he’ll end up in there too or if Shooter will put him out of his misery before it comes to that.
“Keep your head down,” Shooter says against the rushing wind.
Of course I look up. “What? Why?”
“There’s a truck comin’ toward us. Probably nothin’. Not anyone but the Rejects that are stupid enough to try anything with us, and they wouldn’t be hittin’ us in broad daylight with only a truck full of men. But mankind is a stupid motherfucker when it wants to be, and you’re a prized possession in these dark times so I want you as out of sight as you can be.”
I press my face against his back and pray for it to be nothing. But I know my luck, and I know how shitty it can be. So the likelihood of these assholes passing us by without trying something is small. Still, I feel safer with Shooter than I normally do with anyone else, so that’s a positive.
Shooter maintains the same speed, I’m guessing so that he doesn’t draw attention to us. He reaches down and pulls out his handgun and I realize I was wrong.
The truck is close enough for me to hear now, and I realize that I’m holding my breath in anticipation. Shooter’s muscles are hard and tense beneath my arms, and I hold onto him tightly and close my eyes and say a silent prayer.
I’m not even just praying for nothing to happen so that Shooter and I can get out of this unscathed. I’m saying it for Gunner, in the hopes that we can get help for him before he wakes up. So that we can bring him back to camp and he and Amara can be together. I’m saying it so that Nitro is okay. And I’m saying it so that Shooter can live with his demons.
I’m saying a prayer for us all and I’m hoping that for once—for just this one damn time—luck will be on my side, like she’s not been before.
I keep my eyes squeezed closed and my face pressed against Shooter’s back as the truck slows down.
“I’ve got you, woman. I’ve got you,” I hear Shooter say.
And I believe him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
O’Donnell.
I’m falling.
I’m actually falling.
I mean, this is really happening.
I’m going to die…
Fuck.
I don’t even have time to scream as the air rushes past my face and I gasp in shock and fear. And then my body is hitting the ground with a hard thump and I hear something crack. Even then I don’t cry out. All I can think is what a waste everything is and then I black out from the agony that envelops me.
When I open my eyes it feels like hours have passed, but it can’t have been more than a split second later because, well, I’m still alive. I stare up at the rotting sacks of death trampling all over me, and I try to curl myself up into a ball. Thankfully I’ve crushed some of the zeds underneath myself, which is probably why I’m still alive and not being eaten. Not so thankfully I’m covered in zed gore and the zeds don’t have a clue what the hell just happened. They’re all swarming over one another and still trying to get up to Ricky and the others.
I think they can smell me; they keep looking around themselves like they know something isn’t right. But zeds are stupid, so they haven’t figured out that I’m right here by their feet. I reach next to me and grab a handful of the gore that’s exploded around me before smearing it across my face and any other bare skin that’s showing.
Zeds are trampling over me and it takes everything I have not to call out in pain, because along with the other list of injuries I have, I’m rapidly racking up more. I quickly assess that my chances of survival are barely scratching even twenty percent. They’re not good odds, so it’s not looking good, but at least I’m not dead yet. Yet being the fundamental word in that thought bubble.
Okay, I need to get out of this zed party. I very slowly drag myself through the gore and away from the horde with my heart pounding so hard that I think I’m going to be sick.
Once out of the main horde I shuffle backwards until my back meets the wall, and I stay as still as I can and try to not look like a human so that no zeds get curious enough to come near me and ask any questions. Ha! Just kidding. Zeds can’t talk. The day that happens the human race is entirely fucked and I might as well put a gun to my head and end it all.
My impending death seems pretty much inevitable at this point. I’ve lost my weapon in the fall, and my shoulder and arm are aching so bad that I damn well know that something’s broken, but I’m too scared to look at it. Not to mention that Mikey, Ricky, and Phil all just watched me fall off the side of a building and have left me for dead. So yeah, I’m pretty much fucked.
I grit my teeth and try to pull myself out of the funk that’s lowering down and threatening to suffocate me. I take some short, shallow breaths and build up enough courage to finally look down at my left arm. I can immediately see what the problem is and it makes me feel nauseous. Something is definitely broken because it’s bent at the completely wrong angle. I look away from it because I definitely can’t deal with that right now.
The zeds are slowly moving further away now that Mikey and the others are out of sight, but they’re not totally going because they can still smell fresh human blood—a.k.a. me. I still can’t see my weapon, but I’m guessing it’s buried somewhere beneath the zombie sludge, or it’s still on the platform above me. That’ll be a nice find for some poor schmuck running for their life.
Glad I could be of service, stranger in the future.
The dizziness has passed, and the zeds have moved a little further away from me, giving me a moment of not absolute and utter terror so that I can finally think straight for a split second and assess my current situation.
I decide I’m not completely screwed. Sure, I can’t use my left arm; but my right arm is okay, I have my wits, and of course I’m feisty as fuck. I can do this. I know I can. I can catch up to the boys and they can get me back to base where Stormy will fix my arm and I can recuperate for a couple of weeks. I’ll probably even have Mikey as my nurse. Yeah, it’s all going to be okay.
I keep telling myself that, even with quiet tears streaming down my sweaty face, proving that I don’t really believe a single word of what I’m thinking. I look to either side of me, deciding that I’m going to have to run at some point and need to pick a route ASAP, because the zeds have all but lost interest in what’s above them and are now slowly shambling in circles like mindless…um… zombies... Well, you know what I mean.
To my left is one end of the alleyway, and of course the zed horde, and to my right is the other end of the alleyway and a possible way out. Only, I don’t know what’s around that corner.
If it’s a horde of zeds, I’m dead.
Hell, if it’s a single zed, I’m still dead.
If it’s empty, I need a way to get Mikey and the others to see that I’m down here and I’m not a mindless zed, but I’m alive. And the only way to do that is to make some noise to attract their attention, but t
hat will also attract the attention of the zeds, aaaaand I’m back to square one of being dead.
First things first: move.
Pressing my back against the wall, I slowly push myself back up to standing. And then I move cautiously to the right. Slowly, slowly, slowly. I only make it three or four steps before I feel dizzy and my head begins to throb so much that I consider letting myself get eaten just to stop the pain in my skull.
I need to sit down, and maybe sleep for an hour or two. I could also do with a snack, or a taco. God, I miss tacos. I reach up with my right hand and touch the back of my head, and when I pull it away and look there’s blood on my hands. That’s not good. No tacos for me.
Blood on my hands means I’ve split my head open and might die. Fresh blood on my hands also means that I’ll start smelling real human real soon…and then I’ll die, or be eaten. Either way I’m looking pretty dead right now because basically, every option I have includes me dying at the end of it.
My chances of survival have been drastically reduced to around eight percent now.
A lone zed has broken away from the crowd and is looking at me with a heyyyyy, don’t I know you? look on its face. Looks like it’s now or never.
I begin to stagger to the right. I don’t even mean to stagger, but that’s about all I can manage. It’s a good thing that zeds can’t run, because my stagger is stupidly slow. I lean against the wall after every two steps, and have to catch my breath and fight off the dizziness. When I check behind me I can see that the zed is still following me. It still seems confused about if I’m a zed or not, which I take as a good thing.
I’m almost at the end of the alleyway when the pain in my head is so bad that I bend over and start retching. Vomit comes up and spills from my lips, and I’m thinking that my odds are now barely three percent. Can’t be much more than that.
The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V Page 18
