by A. R. Shaw
Clarisse remembered too. She’d already stockpiled all the necessary equipment to continue her research and stored all the equipment safely away in an unassuming van parked in a storage facility that was along her way to the secret destination. She simply pulled up and typed her code into the keypad of the storage facility gate, like so many times before, only this time her fingers shook out of nervous anticipation. They had practiced this many times, but this time their actions were for real.
She drove her little car up to unit 124 and unlocked the roll-up door with her thumbprint scan; she opened the van door the same way and drove the vehicle out of the unit. Following that, she drove her little car into the empty space and lowered the metal door. After she reentered the van and drove to the exit gate, she stopped only to key in the exit code, which she fumbled the first time. While she waited for the gate to lift, a little sign in the shape of a penguin waved a cheerful good-bye. Now, when she thought back to that moment, she wasn’t sure why she’d cried, but she had.
Afterward she never looked back and stuck to the predetermined route of back roads. Though the trip took her a little longer, she wanted to avoid any suspicion. Not that anyone would likely take notice of her activities in such chaos. Rick kept her on his radar the whole time in case she ran into any trouble.
Now, even after society had fallen, she continued to work on something that would save them; these few people who had hidden from death. The colossal pressure of such a deed weighed heavily on her every waking moment as well as her darkest of nights.
“Yes, I remember,” she said softly now in answer to Dalton’s question, “We were very lucky, Dalton, but I can’t give up now because you don’t have faith in a vaccine. There has to be an answer somewhere.”
He stepped close to her. His musky breath blew a few wisps of the dark hair escaping from her tight bun when he spoke. “You can waste your time tomorrow. Get your coat. Let’s go.” She took a step back and considered him. His expression remained grim.
“I’m not going, Dalton.”
“Clarisse, if you don’t come with me, I’ll have to stay here. With you.”
The way he said, “with you,” sent tingles up her spine, and her eyes widened behind her dark-framed glasses. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and instead found the flooring below her quite interesting.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered as her heart began beating faster. She hoped he didn’t notice the way her lab coat collar vibrated because of her rapid pulse rate. She turned her back on him before he could see the color rising to her cheeks.
Dalton had to swallow twice before he could answer. “Because it’s my job, Clarisse.” His voice came out low and raspy. He hadn’t meant for it to be this way; he couldn’t help his feelings toward her. He was here to make sure she got her ass back to camp. That was what he was supposed to do, dammit. The rest was something that would never be, but he had no control of the first part. He’d never do anything about his attraction for her, but he would keep her safe.
Searching for her parka, he saw it hung by the door. He looked back at her . . . at the back of her long, slender neck, just exposed above her lab coat, with wisps of chestnut hair curling under the usual bun he had more than once imagined taking down.
Speaking now was impossible, so he tugged her by her left arm and started to drag her lightly to the doorway.
“Come with me.” He dared utter only those few words finally and even they came out all wrong for a married man.
Clarissa stiffened as his long, strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm. “Dalton, let go of me.” She couldn’t bear him touching her, was too aware of his heat through her sleeve. She turned. He stopped and stared into her brown eyes. She immediately dropped her gaze and reached up with her right hand to gently peel his fingers from around her arm.
He picked up her parka and held it open for her without another word. She glanced at him briefly and knew by the way he clenched his jaw he wasn’t going to let her stay in the quarantine lab. There was no arguing with the man, and no way would she let him stay here with her overnight. Without trying to hide her frustration and irritation, she took off her lab coat, never speaking a word. She turned and slid into her parka as he slowly pulled the collar up and around her neck. The gesture was way too familiar. She zipped up the front and turned to grab her gloves, then found Dalton holding one open for her. She slid her hands in, first one and then the other, while she avoided his intent stare.
She’d taken a step toward the door when he edged in front of her. She was afraid he was finally going to say something about what they both had been denying, but all he did was reach up and pull her fur hat over her head. For a second their gazes met and held as he drew the strings tight to ensure that she was well shielded against the blizzard they were both about to enter.
When Dalton ushered her out the door, the cold took her breath away. He grabbed the lead line and began striding toward the camp. Clarisse followed, but the swirling snow pelted against her glasses, nearly blinding her. As she stumbled, struggling with the depths of a snowdrift, he returned and grabbed her around the waist and behind her knees, hauling her up into his arms. She realized he intended to carry her the distance, and she protested.
“Put me down, Dalton,” she said, but her request was lost to the howling wind. She wondered if, in truth, he’d heard her but chosen to hold her despite her protest. He carried her through the blizzard and she knew he couldn’t hold her and the rope both at the same time. She felt him stumble at times as the wind buffeted them but knew he’d walked this route many times. He wouldn’t get lost. She rested her head on his shoulder, exhausted from her research and the lost sleep, all brought on by what she knew he’d call “her own damned stubbornness.”
Just before they came into clear view of the camp, he stopped and placed her down in the snow in front of him. He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the camp. She walked on with Dalton right behind her. After the guard buzzed them through, Dalton tried to talk to her, to warn her again to stay at camp at night, or he would be forced to take the same actions. She had already anticipated this, and instead of hearing him out, she headed forward hurriedly to her own tent.
Dalton knew Clarisse was angry with him and decided her irritation was for the best. He went in the opposite direction, to the family quarters, where Kim and his boys lay sleeping.
As he passed the greenhouse tent, he saw Tammy busy inside setting up heaters to guard against the freezing overnight temperatures, doing her best to keep their precious seedlings alive. She waved at him as he approached.
He opened and closed the entry door quickly, only to be met with a slight burning odor. “Hey, you’re up late. What’s that smell? Do you need help?”
“One of the other heaters crapped out on me earlier, so I’m rigging this one up with another extension. I think it’s paint burn-off. We can’t afford to lose any of these guys,” she said while squatting down to plug in the cord. She seemed to have it all under control.
“Do you want me to take the old heater out of here for you?”
“No, that one is unplugged,” she answered, her voice nearly lost to the howling wind outside. “This new unit is working fine. I’m camping in here tonight to keep an eye on things.”
“Okay, goodnight.” He waved and finally walked on to his own quarters, thinking about Tammy as one of those women that men didn’t often cross. She could lead a whole platoon if the need arose.
When Dalton entered his own tent, only a nightlight had been left on for him, casting distorted shadows along the walls. He turned it off and listened to the storm outside. At least now he could sleep knowing that all were where they needed to be, safely within camp.
He checked in on his two boys, looking innocent as the ambient light cast a glow over their flannel pajamas. How lucky they all were. If it hadn’t been for Clarisse’s warning, they might not have been spared.
Why couldn’t she understand? She’d already
saved them all.
15 Not This Time
Marcy stared out the windshield as the storm blew around her. She chanted, “Seven, eight, nine, ten,” then honked the horn once, twice, and a third time. A desperation overtook her; her pulse accelerated. “Where the hell are they?” she yelled. Alone and terrified, she’d gone through the honking routine just like Sam said to, at least fifteen times now.
She shivered in the decreasing temperature, the vinyl seating crunching awkwardly as she adjusted her position. She considered going against all of Sam’s warnings about leaving the confines of the truck. “They’re probably already in the house, lighting a fire by now,” she reasoned aloud, aware of the tremor of fear in her own voice. But no. They’d never do that, leave me here alone one second longer than necessary.
She’d scarcely formed the thought when the glass at her left shoulder caved in, small particles glittering in the glow of headlights reflecting back from the snow. Marcy ducked instinctively, rolled to the right, feeling the fury of the storm as it shrieked through the hole in the driver’s-side window.
In the months before—before the end—Marcy would have sat there stunned, immobilized in shock. But not now. Her response was automatic. She drew her weapon without conscious thought, continuing her roll toward the right side door, grabbing for the handle as snow and a rag-covered hand wielding a club invaded the break in the window.
Even as it swept toward her, she flung open the door and rolled out into the fury of the storm. She clawed her way to her feet and took aim. She didn’t scream. She didn’t warn. She fired. Once, twice, a third time. Just like Graham taught her. She heard a howl over the scream of the wind. Her attacker’s arm and club disappeared. He was either injured or dead. She was certain she’d hit him, but she wasn’t through with him yet. She had to be sure.
She kept to the side of the truck and edged her way around the back, not wanting to be outlined against the headlights. Damn! She saw her assailant fleeing across the blinding light and vanishing abruptly into darkness.
Marcy shook from adrenaline as much as cold. Anger flared through her. How dare someone harm my family! She had no doubt her attacker had hurt them before coming after her.
She ducked down to stay under the lights and felt along the front bumper for the rope. Letting it slide through her gloved hand, she waded blindly ahead, knowing the monster was out there, still alive and knowing the territory better than she did. She had to find the men. She had to get there before the killer. They might still be alive. If the killer’s only weapon was the club, they could just be unconscious, lying somewhere out here in the snow. She had to find them, so she forced herself forward blindly. Every few difficult paces, she stopped to listen for anything besides the howling wind, to search for dark movement against the swirling blizzard. Discerning nothing, she struggled on, then stopped when her boot hit something hard. She searched with both hands. A rifle! She swept through the snow, searching, hoping, but found no unconscious man.
Up again, she lumbered on with the rifle slung over her shoulder.
When the rope end disappeared from her hand, she stood suspended for a second in disbelief. She felt as if she’d been flying high above the storm and, all at once, stood untethered in midair, in the pitch black of night, all alone. Then, some instinct told her she wasn’t alone. Intuition made her whirl and jerk sideways as the club careened toward her face.
She lunged at the enemy. Hands smacking against a chest, sending the attacker sprawling backward to the ground. Pissed and frightened, Marcy would fight this person or die trying. She whaled at the attacker with the butt of her pistol, striking out again and again as long, cold fingernails grabbed at her in the darkness, tearing at her sleeves. A skinny, ungloved hand lifted the club. Marcy snatched it free, flung it away. A high, feminine screech rang through the air. “No! No! That’s mine!”
Then the woman scrambled up and darted away, and Marcy followed close enough to hear the grunts and cries of her attacker as she stalked her through the night.
“Where are you?” the woman screamed. Marcy crouched down and kept her eyes on the shapeless bundle of rags as the woman searched. For Marcy? For the club? Muttering as she moved in an aimless circle, quickly gathering snow.
Marcy kept her pistol ready in front of her, but soon the woman seemed to get her bearings and scurried off to the right. She followed as closely as possible, keeping the unkempt shape in sight until finally the house appeared dimly ahead of her. The house that first seemed a safe haven from the storm now appeared a malevolent hovel.
The raging woman screamed and mumbled words Marcy couldn’t understand as she ascended rickety stairs and crossed the porch. Faint candlelight glowed as the door opened into the lunatic’s lair. Marcy ran toward it, crept up the steps, hearing more incoherent ranting from inside. She crouched, weapon drawn, and kicked opened the weathered door of the madhouse.
The woman straddled Sam’s waist, about to plunge a large kitchen knife into his chest, and Marcy pulled the trigger.
The shot hit the woman in the back of her head. Blood sprayed—over the wall, all over Sam. Marcy took two long strides and kicked the woman off Sam’s chest and shot her again at point blank range, then a third time and then a fourth.
Sam moaned and Marcy turned. When the woman fell, the knife had continued, slicing into Sam’s chest. As she stared, it fell over and clattered onto the wooden floor. Sam’s eyes were wide open. He stared at her in amazement. “Nice shots,” he said. “Now untie me.”
“Where’s Mark?” she demanded.
“I don’t know, Marcy. Untie me.”
“Where is he?” Her voice went high.
“Marcy! Marcy, use the knife and untie me.” Sam rolled to his side, bringing his knees up to his chest.
“Mark!” she yelled.
“Marcy! Untie me, God dammit!” Sam yelled, then gasped as he moved, and she came out of it enough to listen to him. She found the blood-drenched knife next to Sam’s curled body and hacked into the tight bindings. Then, she went in search of Mark in the depths of the eerie, darkened rooms filled with litter.
She rushed past broken wooden chairs and couch cushions with their stuffing emptied all over the living room, past rat carcasses and parts of deer flesh, long spoiled, lying by the open fireplace.
She scuffed through litter into what had been a kitchen, then a bathroom, toilet broken, but the stench said the woman had continued to use it anyway. She ducked out of there quickly, then continued into a back bedroom, saw Mark, and screamed.
When Marcy screamed, Sam ripped at the ropes still tangling his feet. Blood poured from his chest. The room spun, but Marcy needed him. He got to his feet, balancing himself on a wall of the hallway, his shirt and coat quickly blooming with bloodstains. Dizziness sent him reeling. His hand came away from the back of his head wet and warm with crimson blood from the injury. Marcy continued yelling Mark’s name. The sound of her distress echoed loudly in his cranium. He squinted from the pain.
“Marcy, where are you?” he shouted.
“Back here! Hurry, Sam, I need your help!” Her high-pitched cry dropped down to horrible, hoarse sobbing.
“Marcy, I’m coming! Where are you?” He yelled it, trying to find her as he stumbled alongside a wall that defied its true angle. He braced himself against the illusion, as the rest of the room spun. He closed his eyes and tried to follow the sound of her voice because his eyes couldn’t pick a worthy direction. As he trailed her voice, his blood smeared along the dirty wall, trailing crimson waves.
“We’re in here!” she called.
When Sam finally found them, with difficulty, he blinked and shook his head to make the two images become one. Marcy crouched, untying Mark as he lay motionless on his stomach, his head in a puddle of blood. Marcy rolled him over, and his injuries were immediately evident. His nose lay at an unnatural angle, one eye was swollen shut, and blood drained out of his ear. Clearly, the crazed woman had clubbed him across the face.
“Mark, can you hear me?” Marcy sobbed, clutching at him, rocking back and forth on her haunches. “Mark!”
Sam staggered to them and dropped to the boy’s side. He reached for his neck to check his pulse, afraid of what he might find. Blinking his eyes several times, he tried to ignore the spinning and focused on the task at hand. Finally he was able to determine a faint thumping. “He’s alive,” Sam whispered hoarsely.
Marcy cried tears of relief. Sam patted her on the back and she leaned against him, pressing her cheek against his blooming blood-soaked shirt.
“She stabbed you,” she said, pulling away. Shock glazed her eyes.
Sam had to keep her with him. Though she’d just saved them all, she still had more to do, or they might yet die.
“I know, Marcy, but I’m okay. You need to listen to me now. Can you do that?” He held her by the forearms and shook her until she looked at him.
“Yeah.”
“We need to get Mark back to camp. The swelling in his neck could block his airway. Do you think you can drive? It sounds like most of the storm has passed.”
She nodded.
“Good girl. Let’s get Mark into the main room and get the truck up here.”
In no condition to help Marcy move Mark into the living room, Sam could only offer suggestions on how not to injure him further. She did the best she could as Sam followed, holding himself against the wall. She carefully laid Mark down on the floor in front of the entrance, putting a ratty cushion under his head for elevation.
As Sam passed the dead body of the woman, he could see with morbid clarity how she had died. When she’d returned to the house in a rage, she’d been bleeding from a chest wound. Then she’d attacked him with the knife, without thought to her own condition. Even if Marcy hadn’t shot her, she’d have died drowning in her own blood. He’d heard her wheezing, fighting for breath.
