by Angela White
3
LJ found Kendle before he hit the beach and recognized her immediately in spite of her rough condition. He had noticed tracks, followed them on a whim, and now stood quietly in front of her crude shelter, thinking it appeared sturdy for being handmade.
Shoestrings around thick branches formed a frame, a green tarp covered with Johnson grass served as a roof, and palm leaves made the walls. She’d even dug a drainage ditch to keep drier. It was clever. This twenty-six-year-old female of mixed parentage was clearly no timid brunette, though right now, she didn’t appear much like the outgoing, vivacious woman he’d viewed on TV either.
The thin, famous woman sleeping barefoot and restless inside her shelter would probably come to the chin of his six foot one frame, and she appeared to be sick. Her short black curls were sun-streaked, as were her long, dark lashes, and her skin was an unnatural shade of red that made Luke uneasy. Where had she come from? He knew everyone in this community, and the Survival Challenge star wasn’t a resident.
Kendle woke slowly, mind and body protesting. Her inner alarm had jolted her, telling her she wasn’t alone, something she had been for so long that there was no mistaking it. The man’s lean shadow (and it was a man, she felt that clearly) was blocking the sun, and she groaned as she sat up, stomach rolling. Had a boat found her? Was she rescued?
Her attention locked onto the tall, leafy greenness behind him, where a teal fruit dove sat on a low branch, watching them anxiously. She was on land!
“You real?” she croaked, slowly climbing to her feet.
Luke nodded, noting the pulse in her neck that was pounding rapidly. “As can be. Luke Johnson–LJ–at your service.”
Kendle stumbled forward on shaky legs and fell into his plaid-covered arms, sobbing, and Luke was unable to stop himself from being glad her smell wasn’t strong despite her faded, mismatched clothes.
“So glad...to see you! Been alone soo...long!”
There was total horror in those last two words, the kind that drew him instantly. It said she, and she alone, might be able to understand him. He held her gently, forced his mind to stay where it belonged–in the present.
“Sshh... It’s okay.”
Kendle trembled in his arms, tears falling hotly on his weathered skin. “I’m K-K-Kendle Roberts. Nice to meet you.”
Luke chuckled as her arms tightened around his waist, and he slowly rotated them toward his cabin, her heat baking into him. “Likewise. You need a doctor, little girl. How’s about we go to town and–”
She sagged against him, and Luke swung her into his arms. She was sick and might be contagious, but the thought didn’t scare him. He’d faced worse.
Luke pointed his feet toward home, uneasy about not only her appearance and fever, but also at how weightless she felt. His mind had connected her to the tides and sunsets, already sure she was a survivor of whatever had happened… A survivor who might have answers.
A shudder wracked her thin body, and he increased his pace, not out of breath. She weighed almost nothing, and he’d maintained a strict workout routine since exiling himself here.
“Ship’s dead,” she croaked. “All dead.”
Her words gave Luke a chill. Her story would be no cakewalk, and as much as he needed to know, he was dreading it.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
There was no response, and once he put her in his bunk and stoked up the fire, he took the dirt bike into town.
4
The next few days were a blur for Kendle as the pneumonia raged and she fought for her life again, immune system weakened by her exposure to the radiation. She had only brief periods of alertness, where she tried to tell him what happened, but Kendle wasn’t sure if he understood. It was a full week after washing up on the north beach before she came to, feeling alert and aware of who and where she was.
Kendle knew she was alone with the gently snoring man in the recliner next to her–the fat, loud female healer was gone–and she stared at his face in wonder. He was so healthy! The sickness hadn’t come here?
She shut her eyes, head thumping. She was alone, but that death ship was still out there. Would they (she!) spread it? Huge tears rolled down her cheeks.
The quiet sobs woke LJ from his unsettling dreams. He couldn’t ignore her misery and went to her with his blanket. As he pulled it to her shoulders, her claw-like hand flew out and locked around his wrist with an iron grip.
“We’re on land?”
Her pain rushed over him, and he longed to erase her desperation. “In my cabin, on Pitcairn island.”
More tears slid out, and when the island outcast held his arms open, she accepted the comfort without hesitation, feeling the connection of survival with him.
“You’re safe here, Ms. Roberts. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She mumbled against his shoulder, and Luke eased them down, holding her close. He hurt for her, wanted to tell her it would fade in time, but he didn’t. It hadn’t for him, and it had been almost half a century.
After a while, her tears eased, and her even breathing told him that she had cried herself back to sleep. Her feverish body was pressed tightly against his, and Luke knew he should get up, but only pulled the blankets up. He let her warm nearness lull him into a slumber that was, for once, without nightmares of being stalked by his mistakes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Self Defense
March 5th
Outside Versailles, Illinois
1
Angela flinched as Marc slammed the hatch on his Blazer, trying to get it to close over the full load of gear in the rear.
“Can’t we do something else, even though it’s muddy? What can you teach me that won’t land me on my back?”
Brady swallowed his first thought and said, “How about a new weapon today, instead of hand-to hand? We could try a knife or even a crossbow. I have one.”
“Okay. Knives are quiet.”
Before she could blink, he drew the blade from his muddy boot and threw.
It landed deep in a nearby oak tree, the handle vibrating. “They’re also deadly.”
She watched him pull it out of the tree with a smooth motion.
“This is a K-BAR, Marine combat knife. You try.”
Unsure, Angela took it and threw too quickly. The knife bounced off the tree’s rough bark and skidded across the ground, landing in the damp dirt.
Bracing for a correction, she was relieved when Marc got it for her without comment and handed it over.
Angela slowed herself down and tried to aim, but she was nervous with his big body standing behind her, and the blade sailed past the tree. It skidded into the dense undergrowth next to the bare squares where their tents had been set up along US 51.
“Sorry. I’ll get it.”
She shifted out of his reach, wading through the drifts of sticker bushes, and he studied her, remembering a blizzard and their house of snow. That had really been the beginning of them, of stolen, stunning moments, and he hadn’t forgotten any of it. Had she?
No, but she didn’t say so, and her confused heart distracted her further. Angela threw the knife harder than she meant to, wrist twisting. It bounced off the edge of a different tree and flew back, the sharp edge hitting Marc’s arm. Deflected to the ground, it slid back into the stickers as blood welled.
Angela gasped, retreating. “I-I’m so sorry! I’ll get my bag.”
She didn’t seem to hear him say it was only a scratch. When she came out, he saw her hesitate and knew she expected to be punished.
“Can you slide your arm out?” She knelt at his feet to dig in her bag, tense body waiting for the blows to begin.
Marc did it quickly, not in pain despite the increased bleeding from the movement. The air was thick with tension.
Marc not getting mad calmed her a bit, and Angie let the doctor inside take charge. She instinctively hoped that if she did a good enough job, he wouldn’t hurt her for it. “Bend down here, please, and kee
p your arm up.”
He did what she said, observing her face as she tied an elastic band around his upper arm. Blood dripped from his elbow in scarlet splatters as she opened sterile packages with an ease that told him she’d done it many times. She was a nurse?
Angela dumped water over the wound and then spent a moment examining the cut. She placed a large gauze pad over it, pressing hard. “Hold this while I thread a needle.”
She made seven small, neat overlapping stitches, and as she finished, Angela became aware of how close they were standing. The tension around them was thick.
Her hands shook as she put on the medicated bandage. “I’m sorry. I guess knives aren’t such a good idea.”
Marc smiled, tossing his torn coat into the Blazer’s open window. “We’ll keep working on it. I’ve gotten worse from new recruits.”
She stayed tense. Kenny would have been using his fists on her right now for drawing his blood, intentional or–
“I’m not him.”
Her eyes flew up, and he shrugged. “Sometimes, I can read it in and know what you’re expecting, but that’s not me, not ever, for any reason.”
She sighed, haunted as she allowed herself to open up a bit to him. “I used to know that but I… I can’t help it that I’m afraid.”
“I’m gonna keep proving it to you.” His words were almost a promise, and he smirked. “In the meantime, where’d my knife go, and what in the hell were you aiming at? A rain drop?”
He went to hunt for it, and her laughter was good, genuine.
“So how much medical training do you have?” he asked casually.
She couldn’t help the defensiveness that crept into her voice. “I’m an MD.”
“A doctor. I never would have guessed. Didn’t you want to be a writer?”
“Yeah, but I needed something dependable, and I found I could help people who couldn’t figure out what was wrong.”
Marc was still frowning, and when she carefully handed him a pain pill, he surprised her by dry swallowing it without asking what it was. Clearly, he trusted her.
“How can you be a doctor and a battered woman at the same time?” The question was out of Marc’s mouth before he could stop it.
She flushed. “We become masters of disguise–to do anything else means bringing the wrath down. And I had a good reason to be careful and do what he said. My innocent son.”
“What about him? Wasn’t it a challenge to his…authority, to have you be a doctor?”
“He would say it’s because of our deal, that I had no choice but to go to work because he said so. That’s partly true, but mostly, it was the money. He hated my name on the check, but he didn’t mind spending it on war games or a new gun. He insisted that I finish my medical training. He said any woman of his had to contribute.”
Marc heard no real bitterness and was offended for her.
“So, keeping your career was part of the deal, but not marriage?” he asked, finally seeking confirmation of his suspicion, one he’d been working hard on. He’d never once heard her say husband.
He was unprepared for the wall of guilt her quiet answer caused.
“He wanted it to be, but even then I understood that if I said yes, he really would own me.”
She scanned their surroundings. Corn. “You gonna workout before we leave?”
“Yes.”
Marc said nothing when she joined him, helped him set it up, but his expression was full of questions.
She didn’t want to tell him (or anyone!) about her baby, but assumed he’d soon know. She wasn’t sure how well she could hold up under the routine he did every day, but she was about to find out.
“I wasn’t ready to join you before,” she finally explained.
“Should you be doing this yet?”
She winced. “No, probably not.”
“Then why are you? You don’t think I can handle things without your help?”
She scowled. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have called. To be free, I have to learn, and I can’t do that while I’m resting. Time is a luxury I can’t afford.”
Marc studied her coolly, like he had done with every man he’d trained, but inside she continued to impress him.
“Quit when you know you should. I do a hard run, and you’ll need to build up to it.”
When she agreed absently, clearly not listening, he waved a hand at the steady drizzle that had begun to fall. “After you, my lady.”
2
“You should go back.”
The rain was hard now, the slick ground throwing up nasty brown sprays as they traveled the course.
“Not...maxed out yet.”
“Fine.” Marc picked up the tempo as he always did for the last ten minutes of his workout and was surprised when she managed to keep pace. The sit-ups and pushups had been hard on her, as were the meditation positions, but she hadn’t complained once, and he’d enjoyed her quiet company.
Angela winced as she stumbled against a muddy rock, catching herself awkwardly and masking her discomfort.
“You okay?”
She nodded, not using her breath for talking, and he frowned. “Damn, stubborn woman.”
It gave her the last bit of determination she needed to hang the full hour with him. When the pain radiated through her abdomen, she hid that too.
Marc knew she was struggling as they went over the garbage obstacle course he’d set up, but he didn’t realize how badly until they hit the end and were done.
Angela shut her eyes, body suddenly cold and foreign, and she swayed on her feet, hands going out to clutch at the nearest support. Marc.
He spied her legs folding and swung her into his arms, ignoring her feeble protests as he took her to their vehicles.
“Angie? You okay?”
She muttered something indecipherable against his shoulder.
“Angie?”
“...can walk.”
He ignored her mutters, putting her down only when he got to the door of her car. Her hand grabbed at the handle for support, missed.
“Angie!”
Her lashes fluttered briefly, then she was falling and he was scrambling to catch her.
Marc’s handsome face was the first thing she saw as she came to, and his deep frown sent Angela to other waking moments–of not knowing what to expect. Fear flashed through her, and her hand tried to grab at her gun before she controlled it. Marc wouldn’t hurt her. She had to believe that.
Marc waited for the fog to leave, relieved that she’d woken so soon but still very worried. She appeared weak, the heavy bags under her eyes purple and black, and he felt his heart clench. One of the things that caused her symptoms was pregnancy. If she was carrying her man’s child, this had just gone from bad to not winnable.
“I’m not.”
Marc met her eye. “Say it again and mean it.”
Instead of the anger he wanted, there was only unfathomable grief and he knew before she spoke. There had been another child. She’d been pregnant, and her man still hadn’t come.
“I lost a son during the war.”
“Miscarriage?”
She confirmed it, voice haunted. “It was a lot to handle, and I wasn’t strong…before.”
Knowing how much she must ache and burn inside allowed him to put her need in front of his fury. “You were alone?”
“Before, during, and after.”
He was quiet for a moment and then responded, sure she needed to hear these things–and not just in her own mind. “You should have died too, right?”
Tears welled, and Angela controlled herself, not telling him that she sometimes wished she had. He already knew that. “I’ve assisted in more than fifty births at the hospital. It saved me.”
Marc gave her a gentle, comforting smile in the morning fog that still lingered around the Blazers. “I’m glad.”
She smiled back, wondering who would die when they found her man. There was no way Kenny would miss the sparks that flew when their eyes met.<
br />
“Me too, sometimes.” She stood up slowly, waving off his protest.
“You should rest.”
“I’m fine. I pushed a little too hard, that’s all. I’ll ease into it from here,” she lied, smoothing her curls. “This first time, I just...” she hesitated, not telling him the ache to hold her boy was almost as overpowering as her fear.
Marc finished it for her. “You had to do it all, like me.”
Angela tried to seal that gaping hole and failed. She was maintaining a kind of radio silence with her son to keep Kenny from knowing she was even alive, let alone where she was, and the lack of contact was awful.
“I needed to prove that I could.”
“Not to me, honey.”
“No. To me.”
3
“We have to make a stop.”
“Copy, on your six.”
Marc wanted to tease her about her near perfect response, but made himself pay attention as they pulled into the deserted gravel parking area of the Versailles, Illinois, RV resort.
The large lot was empty, not a single camper on any of the hundred concrete pads, and Marc rolled slowly past them to the main complex of shadowy cabins and sheds. He stopped near the largest storage building, recognizing an older spigot setup.
“Are you overheating again?” Angela asked.
Marc got out and opened the hood, avoiding broken glass and piles of muddy rubble. Pockets of steam were escaping from under the hood of his Blazer.
Marc turned around to tell her to stand watch, only to find her already doing it, Dog pacing a wide perimeter around them both. There was better color in her face, but her movements were careful, as if she was hurting, and he tried to hurry.
Angela ignored the bodies–an old woman, young boy, and three adult males, their corpses riddled with bullet holes–and swept the traffic and trees, the distant outline of yet another dead city. Debris shifted with the wind, gravel crunched under their feet, and though she spotted no mutations, nothing appeared to be growing here. Not even the bluestem prairie grass that Illinois was famous for.
