Hell Bent (Redneck Apocalypse Book 2)

by eden Hudson

  Colt

  The lights in the bakery are on when I pull up. I shut the Explorer off and hop out. The door’s locked, so I knock on the glass.

  A few minutes pass. Maybe she’s in the shower. Maybe this is one of those rare, rare times when she sleeps. I’m about to go when movement inside catches my eye.

  Tiffani’s in the kitchen. I can see her through the order window, taking a pan out of the oven and looking around for a place to set it.

  That’s when I realize she’s got full sheet pans on all of the cooling racks and every flat surface. Cookies, cinnamon rolls, some weird layered pastries with cream coming out the front, donuts, three giant pans of tiramisu, bread knots, scones, croissants, some square yellow cakes sitting next to one of those icing bags.

  There’s nowhere left for her to put the pan she’s holding. She tosses it at the corner where her big trashcan is.

  The bakery could be catering a party or something. That would explain all the different desserts. But not why she trashed that last pan. This is something different. Something that looks a whole hell of a lot like me cleaning the cabin or reorganizing the arsenal.

  I should go. Tiffani won’t want me here. I wouldn’t want anybody to see me like this, especially not some asshole I barely knew.

  Tiffani pats her pockets for her cigarettes, digs them out, and turns toward the door.

  She sees me and stops.

  I lift one hand in an awkward wave. I should leave. She probably wants to be alone.

  I start to head back to the Explorer.

  The bakery door opens at the same time as I grab the driver’s side handle.

  “Here to see about Tough?” she asks.

  “I can come back tomorrow,” I say.

  She shrugs. “The cinnamon rolls will be cold by then. Coffee’ll just be a minute. Unless you have somewhere to be.”

  My stomach growls, loud. With the vamp hearing, there’s no way she could’ve missed it.

  Tiffani pulls the door open wider and nods at me to come in.

  *****

  I never used to care much for sweet stuff—for any food, really, other than to fill the hole in my stomach when I couldn’t ignore it anymore—but Tiffani’s cinnamon rolls are so good. And with the way I’ve been these past few months since she bit me… It’s like I can finally appreciate how good food can be. I used to just eat so I wouldn’t be hungry anymore, but lately I’ve been savoring the way stuff tastes.

  But even Tiffani’s awesome-as-hell cinnamon rolls aren’t enough to make this less awkward. I swallow a bite and look her way. She’s at the counter, The X-Files playing on her computer. Except she’s not watching it, she’s looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

  I feel my face get hot, so I clear my throat and say, “That used to be Mom’s favorite show. She had the box set when we were kids.”

  “She’s the one who got me into it,” Tiffani says.

  I can hear Scully’s dog yipping while Mulder tries to tell her about the case he’s working.

  “This is a good one,” I say.

  Tiffani nods.

  I look down at my coffee. Adjust the handle so it’s parallel with the edge of the table.

  The noise from the show stops. Tiffani gets up and brings her computer over to my booth.

  “Scoot over,” she says.

  I move closer to the window, and get my coffee and plate out of her way.

  She puts the computer down, adjusts the screen, then sits next to me and hits play.

  I wasn’t lying when I said this episode was a good one. The ones where Scully’s trying to have a life outside work but Mulder just keeps bothering her are some of my favorites, but this morning I can’t pay attention to the show. I haven’t sat this close to someone in a really long time. I don’t think I’ve ever sat this close to a girl who wasn’t my mom or sister.

  My leg starts bouncing under the table, and I have to keep adjusting the handle of my coffee cup, making sure it’s perfectly parallel to the edge.

  Tiffani glances over at me, but doesn’t say anything.

  After a while, she shivers. Digs into her pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and an old metal lighter. She shakes one out of the pack and puts it to her lips.

  “You smoke in here?” I say.

  She shrugs. “It’s my bakery.”

  “Yeah, but that shit reeks.”

  “I’m the only one who ever smells it.” She taps her nose. “Super-smeller. I air the place out, humans have no idea.”

  “Still,” I say. “It’s gross.”

  She lights up. “Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”

  I feel myself smile.

  We go back to watching the show. I was lying when I said smoking was gross. That’s something I picked up from Sissy and Ryder, a hold-over from elementary school. I like the way cigarettes smell. Like burning paper with a tang of something else.

  Then I take a drink of my coffee and taste the smoke.

  “Tastes like cigarettes and ass,” I say.

  Tiffani doesn’t look my way, but she half-smiles. Not quite enough to show her fangs.

  “Aaron, my ex-husband, used to smoke.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I wouldn’t let him do it in the house. Didn’t want the smell in my clothes.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tiffani tap the filter on her thumb. One tiny curl of ash falls off.

  “He died yesterday,” she says. Her expression hasn’t changed.

  I adjust the handle of my cup again. “Was it sad? For you, I mean. Him dying.”

  “It shouldn’t have been,” she says. “Hadn’t talked to him in more than fifty years.”

  The episode keeps playing. Tiffani finishes her cigarette and puts it out in her palm.

  When I realize I’m staring, I make myself look at the show again. I’ve been stabbed and shot and beat the hell out of before. I even got Tased once, the day before Ryder and I dropped out of high school. But I can’t remember ever having been burned. I wonder what it feels like. I wonder if she’s doing it because it hurts or because of the heat.

  Tiffani wraps her arms around her stomach like she’s trying to hold in the warmth.

  Does she know she’s been leaning closer and closer to me this whole time or do vamps not notice that sort of thing?

  “You could lean against me if you wanted,” I say.

  She looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “If you’re cold.” I point at the way her upper body’s angled toward me.

  “Hell,” she says.

  But she scoots over and presses her arm against mine.

  Cold isn’t quite the right word to describe what she feels like. Even through our long sleeves, her skin sucks the heat out of mine, but I don’t complain or pull away. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me. I didn’t even realize how badly I missed it. Not in a sexual way—can’t miss something you’ll probably never have—just basic human contact.

  Maybe my brain forgot how to want things. Maybe I’m even more screwed up than I am crazy.

  When the episode ends, Tiffani slides out of the booth. “I need to get ready to open.”

  That’s my cue. Get lost before someone sees my vehicle sitting out front and decides they would rather starve to death than eat in the same bakery as Colt Whitney.

  I take my plate and cup to the order window, reach through and set them in the slop sink, then go grab my coat. Head for the door.

  “Colt.”

  I turn around. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say my name. Might be the first time anyone’s said it since I kicked Tough out. When you don’t have anyone to talk to, it gets kind of hard to keep track.

  “Thanks. For…” She gestures at the booth with her cigarette pack.

  My heart’s pounding and my face is hot. It feels like I’m about to do something stupid. But maybe she doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, either. Why else would she have told me about her ex dying and being upset?


  “You’re welcome. Tiffani.”

  Tiffani

  On the shore, my body returned and my wounds healed. Not the painful crawling of vamp healing, just an instant restoration.

  I stood up, brushed a few pieces of broken glass from my shirt, and patted my pockets for my cigarettes. Empty. Colt knew I smoked, but hadn’t considered the pack and the lighter I would need to do it.

  Far away, almost on the horizon line, I could see Mikal. She stood beautiful and terrifying with her wings outstretched, towering over an ugly, hunched creature cringing at her feet. Even at this distance, the super-smeller picked up the reek of human waste, rotting garbage, and something like blood poisoning.

  So that was where I was headed.

  Need a cigarette, I thought. I imagined I had a lit one between my fingers.

  Colt didn’t know how smoke tasted except for second-hand, but I’d brought enough of my own consciousness with me to recreate the flavor. I figured I deserved to waste a little of my concentration on the luxury. Especially after all that glass. I took a long drag and let the smoke curl in my lungs.

  It didn’t mask the smell coming from the creature, but it was familiar, and the cigarette gave me something to focus on besides what it meant that Mikal was here.

  You can’t go over there, a voice said.

  Ryder had appeared. Spit bottle in one hand, the other hand hooked on his back pocket.

  I thought you were supposed to be helping him, I said.

  He don’t want you here, Ryder said. This is me helping.

  I took another drag off my cigarette and sized him up. He was translucent in places. As I watched, he flickered in and out of existence.

  What do I have to do? I asked. Fight you?

  Ryder spit a stream of tobacco juice into the bottle and scraped his lip on the rim. Be a damn short fight, sweetheart. No, I’m just going to warn you. Take a fucking hint already. Leave.

  I took a step toward Mikal and the creature.

  Don’t! Ryder yelled. But he didn’t make any moves to stop me.

  Another step. No glass or razor wire.

  I exhaled and started walking.

  An explosion from under my shoe tore my leg off at the hip.

  Colt

  “What do you think?” Tiff asks, nodding at the lobster tail pastry I’m eating.

  “Tastes different,” I say. “Last time you made these they were good, but… This time they’re amazing. What’d you change?”

  Tiff plops into the booth seat beside me. “Cinnamon in the cream.”

  “Real cinnamon sticks, real bourbon vanilla extract.” I’ve heard that lecture a million times now. “You should make them this way every time.”

  She gives me a wry smile. “You like anything with cinnamon.”

  Not cinnamon schnapps. But I don’t say that out loud. Drinking isn’t something Tiff and I talk about. Food, yes. Coffee, yes. Whether Tough’s okay, how business is going, Mulder’s porn collection—all yes. Not drinking. Not training. Not planning out what I’m going to do with every single second that I’m not in the bakery and sticking to the fucking plan because crazy people don’t follow schedules.

  “You know,” Tiff says, looking at me sideways like she can tell I wandered off for a minute there. “Some people are allergic to cinnamon.”

  “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  She smiles and scoots over to lean against me. “Start my damn programs.”

  I tap her computer screen, bring up the player, and find the episode we’re on. It’s hard to believe we’re just halfway through Season 5. But lately we’ve been talking more and watching less.

  Once it’s playing, I sit back and put my arm around Tiff so she’ll get some heat on her left side, too. She squirms around until she’s comfortable. I almost miss the tagline because I’m paying attention to her. The way she feels, the way she smells—like cigarettes and coffee and cinnamon and hot peppers. I love that smell. It turns me on and relaxes me all at the same time.

  I get settled and look up at the screen. The tagline is just starting to fade. I lunge forward and hit pause.

  “What are you doing?” Tiffani says.

  “Resist or Serve,” I read, pointing at the screen.

  “Yeah?”

  It’s like my whole life condensed into three words. Even bigger. It’s like everything in history condensed into three words.

  “Colt?”

  Three words. Who the hell ever thought I’d be okay with three words—thirteen letters—two of the shittiest numbers out there? But they keep running through my head—resist or serve resist or serve resist or serve—and it’s like my OCD can’t even compete with their efficiency. Even after I turn the episode back on and Tiff stops looking at me with that little crease between her eyebrows, they’re still there.

  Resist or Serve.

  *****

  When I walk into the tattoo parlor later on that evening, Lonely drops the flash he’s working on and claps his hands.

  “The other shoulder cap,” he says, pointing.

  “Not today,” I say. “I’ve got something better.”

  He grins his eerie crow grin and cocks his head at me. “There’s nothing better than a balanced spirit, white knight.”

  But he’s wrong. When everything in the world makes sense in just a few words, when all the crazy shit and death and fighting and loss and sacrifice can be focused into one sentence, one phrase you can hang onto, that’s better than anything.

  *****

  The chest piece takes Lonely about forty-five minutes to outline and another two hours to shade. At one point, the tattoo iron shakes my ribcage so bad that I start to see black at the edges of my vision. Lonely calls for a break just before I pass out. He stretches the cramps out of his hand while I lean forward with my head between my knees and breathe. Then we start up again.

  By the time he’s done, I know I won’t be able to wait all night to show Tiff. I pay Lonely, then head straight to the cemetery.

  About halfway there it occurs to me that I haven’t had a drink since last night. But the tattoo-high, that invincible feeling, is buzzing in my head. The black noise has stayed tamped down all day. I’ve barely had to fight it. I haven’t seen anything I shouldn’t. I don’t feel crazy. I don’t feel anything but excited. All I want is to show Tiffani. I know she’ll get it. I know she’ll understand when she sees it. She can’t look at any of my other tattoos because they’re Bible verses and they hurt her, but this one she’ll get.

  It’s misting out and kind of foggy, but I keep the Explorer floored. When I get to the cemetery, I park on the highway, then jump out.

  Fog has collected around the headstones. I hear a feminine giggle somewhere off to the west side of the cemetery, but I know it’s not Tiffani. Tiffani never giggles. When she laughs, the sound comes from down in her chest. And it always sounds surprised, like she wasn’t expecting to hear anything funny.

  Footsteps in the grass to my right.

  “Colt?” Tiffani comes out of the mist. “What are you doing here?”

  My heart skips a couple beats, then sprints to make up for it. I try to hold back the stupid grin, but I can’t.

  “I wanted to show you my new ink.” I pull my shirt off over my head, then peel back the plastic with my free hand. The skin around the tattoo is still tender and hot, but the cool, wet fall air feels good on it.

  Tiffani just stands there, staring. Long enough that the rational side of my brain finally catches up.

  This is batshit. Normal people don’t track each other down in cemeteries in the middle of the night. They go home and wait until morning to tell their only friends about their new tattoo. This is something a crazy, lonely person would do.

  I can feel the blood flooding my face, turning my cheeks Whitney-red.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I wasn’t. That’s the problem. I just did it. I didn’t have a plan or a backup, I didn’t consider any possible outco
mes. Now I’m here and I can’t just throw my shirt back on and say, “Just kidding. See ya,” and run away. Fuck, I’m so fucking stupid.

  One hand has a death-grip on my shirt, the other is ticking off fingers. Except this time, instead of numbers, I’m counting syllables—resist or serve, resist or serve…

  Without any warning, Tiffani closes the distance between us. Vamp speed. From twenty feet away to less than a foot in the time it takes me to flinch. Time, the world, everything stops. She reaches out. Her fingers are so cold that they burn as she traces the tender red skin around the ink. Goose bumps break out all over my chest.

  My voice is hoarse when I ask her, “What do you think?”

  “I’m not that into tattoos,” she says. “Sort of old-fashioned that way.”

  But she doesn’t stop tracing the letters or even look up at me.

  “You like it,” I say.

  Tiff smiles.

  That’s all it takes. I feel like I can breathe again. Like everything is okay. Better than okay—perfect. Everything is perfect.

  I squeeze the shirt tighter in my fist. I never want this to end. I don’t want her to ever stop touching me. Please, God, never let me forget exactly how this feels. If I can remember this, if I can hang onto this feeling, then nothing bad will ever matter.

  Tiffani

  We were in the bakery. Colt’s arm around me. His coffee, his cinnamon roll, the cigarette in my hand. He said something, then took a drink. I couldn’t hear him, but I recognized the look on his face. He played it straight as a yardstick whenever he made a joke.

  I watched, waited. His long eyelashes, the dark stubble coming in on his jaw, the motion of his throat as he swallowed. I wanted to run the backs of my fingers across his cheek. But if I just waited…

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

  When he saw that I saw him looking, he ducked his head and tried to fight the smile.

  I felt myself laugh, but no sound came with it.

  A distant part of my mind registered that I wasn’t sitting in the bakery with Colt. It felt the hot, dry dirt under my cheek growing wet with blood. It knew I hadn’t bled in more than fifty years, that blood itself hadn’t smelled like this to me since I was human. This was what blood smelled like to Colt. Not glowing life, but waning death.