by Angela White
Angela scowled fearfully. “This is the best we–”
“Hang on!”
A second later, she was tight against his body, feet in the air, and then they were dropping off the side of the building.
“Semper Fi!”
His shout gave her the courage to wrap her legs around him and keep her head up as the ground flew closer.
Marc had swung them toward the pole, hoping to slow their descent. He put his feet straight out so that they slammed into the wood with a jerk that had their grip on each other tightening painfully.
Legs holding them to the slippery pole, Marc picked out a shallower-looking patch of mud and swung them for it and the braided cord snapped under their weight.
They dropped to the ground with a hard, wet thud.
They landed with her on top, legs pinned around his waist, and she winced as the layer of mud shifted beneath them, putting more pressure on her knee.
“You okay?”
His eyes were shut, and she leaned in, muddy hands feeling for his pulse. “Brady?”
Dazed but aware that she was getting upset; Marc opened his eyes and said the first thing that came to mind.
“Never have I seen anything so beautiful.”
Angela blushed, fighting the urge to lean down and kiss his pouty lips in relief. “If you say so. How about getting off my sore leg?”
They were on their feet a second later, and he was reaching for her. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.” Angela flinched away, slinging mud from her hands. “Let’s check on Dog.”
Marc followed her, frowning. Another side effect of her man or the life she’d led?
Neither, his heart whispered. She feels the attraction. She’s not scared. She’s interested and feeling guilty about it.
That made sense. Angie and loyalty went hand in hand.
When Marc let the anxious wolf out, Dog eagerly rushed to check them both over, and Angela took a minute to scan what was left of the town for survivors. She still hoped they might be able to help if someone was stuck, or maybe leave food, but there was only silence. Kirksville was a ghost town, and it made her think of the History Channel. All the bodies that must be buried under that mile-long stretch of thick mud–would archeologists discover them hundreds of years from now and try to figure out what had happened?
“We got lucky.”
Angela didn’t say anything, sure it was more than luck. Fate had allowed both of them to survive repeatedly. Was it because it wanted something from them, something bigger than their tiny lives?
The two Blazers were mud-splattered, the glass on Marc’s side window cracked, but other than dents in the fender and bumper, both vehicles had held up despite being shoved through the glassless windows by a wall of mud. They climbed into their seats with squelches, grimaces, and shared shrugs. They were alive. It had been a good day.
As they drove, Angela’s mind was on her reaction to Marc reaching for her. She had wanted to melt into his embrace! She was no longer able to ignore the intimacy that was growing. Marc was still a good man.
Your man? the witch questioned, and Angela was glad when Marc interrupted.
“You okay back there?”
She flashed her beams in response and saw he wanted to say something but wouldn’t. She’d been a fool not to call him all those years ago.
“Ready to go till dark?”
She picked up the mike. “And then some. You lead, I’ll follow.”
“Copy that.”
They had been traveling together for a month now. Five hundred miles of heartbreaking, gut wrenching, unbelievable horror, and Missouri was no different from Indiana, Virginia, or Ohio. Except, the ground here felt bad and smelled worse. They had seen their first obvious mutation yesterday. Only a single black ant the size of a baby’s shoe, all of its eyes had watched them alertly as they went by.
When she’d stopped, Marc hadn’t said anything, just waited while she squashed the freak under her tires. It had been a powerful moment for him, seeing Angie so appalled by something that she decided it didn’t have the right to exist, and he had never felt closer to her than at that moment. It was how Marc had spent most of his adult life.
“Three o’clock, down low.”
Angela immediately hit the brakes, searching for a clear path to her target.
“Use your gun this time,” he instructed, and Angela didn’t fight the urge to destroy, the need to do something overpowering. She’d had to let the worms go. These she didn’t.
“Slow down. Don’t scare them off.”
The small pack of ants didn’t stray from their slow, disorderly course through the dying switch grass and they didn’t seem afraid of the tires and engines that rolled closer, but the witch said they were aware. The demon could feel the scent of alarm coming from them.
Angela slid her window down.
“That’s far enough.”
The witch protested the distance, but Angela agreed. She could hit them from here if she tried, and Marc knew it. He wanted her to use this as a lesson too.
My how we’ve changed, the witch commented as anger and revulsion took over Angela’s trigger finger.
Not a killer, huh?
Angela ignored the hurtful jab. These mutations were in reach and couldn’t be allowed to endanger more of her people, couldn’t be left free to turn America into a cheap slasher film. Angela opened fire
They tried to flee, squealing and panic-stricken, and she took a savage, guilty pleasure in their destruction, getting the last one with her tire as it darted for cover under the Blazer.
Marc was impressed, aroused, and he struggled to keep it from his voice as he keyed the mike. “Very good. Ready?”
“Let’s roll.”
4
They traveled until it was almost dark; the land around them was wet, deceitful-looking. By the time they hit higher, dryer ground, the mud had molded to them like a second skin.
Marc had chosen to make camp on a flat, almost deserted stretch of highway, and their only cover was two moss-dotted dogwood trees, both without a single bloom.
“You look like an abused dog.”
Marc snickered and stomped to the rear of his Blazer, trying to dislodge the mud. “Feel like one.”
“Let’s make a shower.”
He thought about it for a minute then began to gather a mental list. “Got an empty gallon jug?”
An hour later, the wolf was out roaming the breezy darkness around them, and they had tested their crude invention on the dinner dishes, sharing tired grins of accomplishment. It had been a long day.
“Where should we set it up at?”
She tossed a blanket onto the roof of his Blazer and moved one of the jugs they had warmed to the hood. When she turned, he was frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
“Who’s gonna hold the towel?” he questioned.
She was getting a bit nervous, but hiding it. “I’ll pull my Blazer alongside. Once we open the doors and hang a couple of sheets, it’ll be fine.”
Thinking this was probably going to be hard on her, Marc got busy. The privacy was for her, not him. He had showered with ten other naked men in the room nearly every day for years. His red face was from the images of her naked and soapy that had flooded his mind.
When the jugs were ready, Angela climbed onto the roof and sat down, supplies next to her.
Marc took off his Colts and entered the cozy four-by-four area. As he began undressing, Angela lit a smoke, trying not to imagine his every action and failing as she kept watch on the dark, Missouri sky. Her sharp gaze picked out shadowy forms of mountains to the east that she assumed were the Ozarks. Everything appeared normal here, but she wasn’t fooled and continued to keep watch.
Rap-rap-rap-rap!
Angela fumbled for her gun, and felt Marc’s displeasure even though she couldn’t see it.
“It’s a woodpecker.”
“This time of night?”
“Everything’s screwed up now f
or them, too.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Don’t be, just remember it. Once you familiarize the sounds of your surroundings, you’ll only react to what’s not normal for that environment. Your mind will sort it out for you.”
Angela smiled softly, grateful for him and all she was learning. Marc was the perfect teacher. He never made her feel stupid or acted like he was better, and she loved being with him.
Angela heard his dog tag clink and felt her mouth go dry at the thought of his naked chest. His belt buckle was next, then a zipper, and a rustle of jeans that made her heart pound.
“Hit me, woman,” he called cheerfully.
Angela slowly began pouring warm water into the shower they had made, thinking she hadn’t heard any underwear.
She sucked in a surprised breath when her body responded to that image. He was the only male she had ever been physically attracted to.
Liar.
She ignored the witch.
“Soap, please.”
That brought a new set of images, and she was careful not to touch his wet fingers as she handed him the blue cake.
“Washrag?”
She got it quickly, wishing he would hurry.
When he finally called for a rinse, she was relieved. Too many feelings and memories were coming back to her, and it had to stop. A spark hadn’t been enough then, and it wouldn’t be now.
“I’m done. You can stop drooling.”
Angela flushed, stuttering in embarrassed denial.
Marc laughed, drying off. “Well, I thought it was funny. Come on down. Your turn.”
Angela moved slowly, fear creeping into her veins at the thought of being defenseless with a man above her.
Pulling on his shirt, Marc sensed it. Their eyes locked, spoke.
I’m scared.
You can trust me.
Prove it.
“Hang on.” He pulled on his shoes and then dug out another blanket that he tossed over the opening.
“If it gets lighter, you’ll know I’m peeking.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything for you, Angie. You know that.”
Marc kept up a steady stream of chatter about their travel plans, and Angela hurried, body tingling from her hands and thoughts.
By the time she finished, Marc pouring water through a small hole, she had relaxed more than either of them had thought she would. She trusted him. Marc had always been hers, and that hadn’t changed.
5
A bit later, they settled closer to each other than usual, sharing a pot of hot chocolate by the fire. Angela was trying to comb out her hair, the length making it difficult.
Marc watched her while he cleaned their weapons, not glancing away as the flames danced over her black curls and pale skin.
“I can do that without ripping all your hair out. The birds could make a nest with what you’ve thrown into the fire.”
Angela’s first thought was no, and she was shocked to hear her own eager voice say, “Deal. You battle the tangles, I’ll roll.”
His surprised, happy look kept her from withdrawing the offer, and she surrendered the brush reluctantly when he held out a hand.
Marc shifted behind her and knelt down, then began to gently brush through the tangles. He started with the damp ends, aware of how shallow her breathing had become, how tense her posture was.
It was an uncertain moment for Angela, and she listened with a thumping heart, hearing leaves rustling in the soft breeze, the gravel crunching under Dog’s paws as he returned, panting. And all the while, she waited for the footsteps and gunfire, fear insisting Kenny could be here by now.
Dog sniffed their feet, their beds, and then curled up near the fire, and Angela told herself to relax. The wolf would hear anyone sneaking around, even a Marine. Besides, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Marc was just brushing her hair.
By the time he had gotten a third of the way up her small waist, Angela had adjusted and Marc eased down, legs on either side of her. She tensed again as his big body surrounded hers, but when he only continued to work on her damp curls; she continued what she was doing.
Marc wondered if she would note today’s escape in her journal. She’d had him telling stories every night for the first few weeks, but hadn’t asked for one lately. He suddenly wondered why. Had his tale of betrayal and self-preservation during Katrina bothered her that much?
“Not so much your part. You followed orders. It just makes me sad all those people were hurt.”
Marc agreed. “I almost left the Marines over it. I mean, we could hear them screaming for help. How’s a guy supposed to live with that?”
Angela wanted to comfort him, but she was afraid to say the wrong thing and break the peacefulness.
She did the best she could. “They wouldn’t let you help. You were knocked out when you tried to anyway. Nothing you could do.”
Marc sighed glumly, wishing he had… He sighed. If he had shot his way out, he’d be dead now too.
Pop!
Angela jumped into his arms as the log in the fire exploded into a shower of sparks, bodies brushing as they laughed.
Marc was pleased when she didn’t move away. He kept his hands working, almost holding her.
When he finished, he laid the brush down and rested his chin on her shoulder. “You got that rolled yet?”
She held it up, and they both laughed at the misshapen joint. Angela’s stomach tightened at the feel of his warm breath on her cheek, but she didn’t pull away. “It’ll burn, but it won’t be pretty.”
He chuckled, fishing in his pockets for a lighter. When he leaned in to share the flame, their bodies made full, willing contact for the first time in fifteen long years.
Angela’s heart immediately settled into a rhythm of a peace that she hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Look, honey. The moon.”
She leaned against Marc’s hard chest to peer up and was happy to be able to see the dim outline through the grit.
“It’s a good sign.” She still didn’t move. “We need more of those.”
They smoked in silence, and Angela let the warmth and comfort of Marc’s body carry her away. She was safe, if only for this moment.
Her lashes fluttered when he slid an arm around her to pass the joint. Caught up in the good moment, Marc couldn’t resist putting a soft kiss on her smooth cheek. “Never did I see such beauty, such courage, such passion, and such fear in her eyes. The lonely heart demands and the mind refuses, but the body, the core, pulses with need.”
He inhaled and passed, continuing to speak his poetry as they relaxed in clean jeans and matching Marine sweatshirts.
“Never did I see such hair, dark as the night, and lips of love, red as a rose. A body that tempts me, begs me, and blue eyes that follow me into my dreams and beyond. Forgive me these careless slips of shameless flattery. I cannot explain, with mere words, what you mean to me. Hold to the truth, to your heart, to love… To us.”
“It’s beautiful.” Angela let her cheek rest against his chin, pushing away the voice screaming of Kenn’s anger.
“It’s the way you make me feel, what you make me see. My life was so empty without you.”
Hers, too. Other than her son, she’d had no one she could love or trust, and when Marc wrapped his arms around her, she relaxed against him, the long day wearing her down.
Don’t lie to yourself, her heart scolded, and Angela faced it this time. She was too aware of the man behind her to keep denying it. Marc was the only one who had ever understood her and what she needed.
When he kissed her jaw again, she said nothing to make him stop.
“You smell good,” he mumbled against her neck, sweet vanilla assaulting his senses. The feel of his lips on her skin sent an unexpected shiver of pleasure into her stomach.
“Are you cold?” he asked, tightening his arms around her.
Angela flushed, nodding so that he would pull the blanket around them and make their innocent
embrace more private.
Aware that things were going too fast and that tomorrow she’d probably be standoffish again, Marc wrapped the quilt around them anyway and pulled another cover over their legs. As he wrapped himself around her, she slipped her hand into his.
Marc sucked in a breath, heart skipping, and they sat together in silence, both very aware of the other, yet content to be so close.
The day caught up to her quickly. When Angela was asleep in his arms, Marc gently laid them down and pulled the covers up. He cradled her, loving every second. As he buried his face in her hair, he placed a long, slow kiss to her neck that gave him chills and sent her eyes flying open.
Marc forced himself to stop despite how hard it (he) was. “‘Night, honey. See you in the morning.”
“Yes, you will,” she mumbled groggily, already falling back to sleep and Marc joined her, the wolf at their feet. They would face their demons together when the time came.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Devil and his Minions
March 19th
1
Dillan and Dean made it to the filthy slaver camp right before dawn, pulling three middle-aged women and a strikingly beautiful teenager behind their horses on rawhide ropes. The females had all come from Kimball, Nebraska, where the brothers had spent a few days waiting out a dust storm.
Surrounded by a wall of mountains, the slaver camp was a sprawling, unorganized mess of mud-splattered, bullet-ridden vehicles and torn, dusty tents across highway 287. They were out of sight and sound of 25 and the next town, with trees, charred frames of cars, and ranch homes as the border. One house had been reduced to only a blackened frame with anti-religious phrases sprayed on its sheds and outbuildings, targeted due to it being covered in Christmas decorations. The hundreds of statues and displays were riddled with bullet holes and melted by Molotov cocktails, but there had simply been too much to destroy all of it. Now, it stood as a warning that the world of rich excess was over.
Smoke swirled sharply with the wind from burned-down fires, and hordes of flies buzzed and landed, swarmed and resettled over the garbage dump behind the camp, where small corpses lay rotting in the foggy drizzle.
