“Can I examine you?” Shrine hopped to the floor and rolled the corpse off the table with a splat. “No knives, of course.”
Jessica stepped back, bumping into Dillon. Kahn was busy gorging himself in the remains of a pregnant woman. Ayla had retreated behind the threshold, panting loudly. “What kind of doctor did you say you were?”
“She owns an porn shop on Morgal,” he said, smirking. Dillon’s eyes were now cut with the same silver-slit pupils. Quick learner.
Her face hardened, but soon broadened in a grin. “Be careful when you pick minds, John. It’s a two-way street you open.”
His eyes widened as the color blanched from his face. He stammered what might have been an apology before thanking her and backpedaling out of the room. Shrine waved him adieu.
“The hell was that?” Jessica said.
“You have business to attend to. Get a hot meal, stay warm, and get it straight with your boyfriend—”
“He’s not—”
“Whatever. You’re a leader. He’s in your care. So lead and care. If you do it right, he’ll make himself useful, I guarantee it.”
Shrine turned her attention to a dim corner of the room and beckoned a finger. A nude male shuffled into the light, closer to Calvin’s athletic build than Dillon’s substance abusing slenderness. His eyes were shut, mouth closed, rather well-mannered for a Dvorak. The corpse walked straight into the table and bumped off it. He repeated the action until Shrine clenched her fist.
“Are they alive?” Jessica couldn’t think of a better way to word it.
“Whether confused or enraged, you’re right, some aspect of them remains. There’s as many kinds of them as there are people. Some feel nothing but pain, others are embroiled with hatred for those who still live. Either way, they can be spoken to, reasoned with, controlled, and destroyed. It just takes a heart to listen.”
“I-I want to…”
“Someone you know?” Two hands out but a step away, Shrine guided the man onto the table. He used his kinfolk as a stepping-stool before easing onto the slab.
“It's my brother. He’s different. I made it through the flare with a bit of a burn, but my family was, they were…”
“And what, now he’s better?”
“He has his skin back. Those vanner girls have him. Dillon says he remembers me.”
Shrine sighed, hand on the man’s chest. She again lifted her visor. Her jaw tightened as she said, “I don’t have an answer. Your cat’s a rarity in itself. I haven’t even seen another animal—not even birds—I assume they’ve all succumbed to radiation and have been cannibalized. But if I were to find my own husband like that, resurrecting in his shell, I’d talk to him, to hear what he might say. That’s love and humanity, not power and survival.”
“But they’re intertwined.” Jessica said, reaching back to scratch Ayla’s butt.
“That's your gift. The balance.” Shrine’s face contorted as she flipped down her visor. “I-I have work to do.”
“Not until you tell me what you said to Dillon.” Hands on hips. “If I’m supposed to make amends, I could use some ammo.”
“I showed him what I’d do if he touched my daughter,” she thrust a scalpel into the Dvrorak’s chest. “You can handle yourself.”
Yeah, I can. “So, we good now?”
“Almost. Where did you say you were when the flare happened?”
“I didn't,” Jessica replied, door open. “A good walk from Market Street south. My friends said I was about two miles away from that reactor thing. Why?”
Shrine blinked at her twice before she shook her head and continued her cut, “Fascinating. Truly fascinating.”
Jessica shrugged, smiled, and left the gore behind her. The conversation had been worth it enough for Jacob’s sake, let alone the insight on her pocket vanner, Ayla, and herself. She squared her shoulders and strutted through door number two. It was time for a heart to heart with John Dillon.
~ 48 ~
John Dillon
“Damn it, John. I said no!” Jessica squirmed away, death-gripping his wrist to get his hand out of her pants. He lunged, pinned her to the mattress, and forced his tongue into her mouth.
Fucking hell, goddamn, motherfucker, shit!
Jessica melted into the padding. She ground up with her hips and stroked her fingertips across his face and down his neck. Her other hand fumbled for her belt buckle.
* * *
November 31, 4124 — 9:40 PM
Zombies in motion. Exciting stuff.
The refugees now wandered about, leaving their torpor on their benches and cots. A better smell filled the warehouse’s living area: steamed veggies, soup, and the hearty aroma of barbeque. The men, women, and children were abuzz about tomorrow morning. The information had either been leaked, or freely given as motivation. Jessica didn’t get the politics here, and she really didn’t care.
They had their own little society, and Jessica had hers. She wouldn’t offer her voice unless asked, or required. All the same, she and her entourage were the subject of sideways glances and whispers. She wondered what the rumors were about them. Did they resent her for not accompanying the exodus from the firehouse, or fear she’d take over? Maybe they recognized her arrival for the crash-landing escape it was. In a better world they’d be grateful for the firehouse rescue and all her efforts since. That was asking a bit much.
She was just a girl making her way. Nothing more. Well, maybe a little hungry.
Jessica reconnected with Nicky and Holly on the main floor. The muffled roar of another missile strike came and went. They said the attacks would likely continue throughout the night—keeping them stressed and restless. Jessica still feared an all-out night assault, but the common wisdom was that they’d definitely wait for morning. The vanners, who knew? She guessed there was no use worrying when the second stringers were as good as the warehouse's stalwart young couple.
Sig and Hilde bid them goodnight, retreating with steaming trays to a walled-off storage room. Nicky said similar quarters had been prepared for them in the main receiving office. He then guided them to the kitchen.
The airdock’s radial ceiling was cracked, letting smoke out and frigid air in. Besides the chill breeze, the air was warm enough near the crate-fed fire pit at room center. A burly woman and middle-grade girl attended the blaze, makeshift grills, and a half dozen simmering kettles. Barehanded, they rotated black-scorched metal and dunked their arms into boiling water, testing green beans and poached chicken before dropping the foods back in. The most cheerful faces she’d seen in days, they were introduced as yet another mother-daughter combo, veterans of Holly’s first group. This shit was genetic or something. But maybe with ten thousand initial survivors, the lucky families that stuck together simply developed side by side.
Three heaping trays of veggies and light meats later, Jessica and Dillon retreated with their many thanks. Nicky showed them to their quarters and again left for Holly—final plans and defenses, he said. The door shut behind them. Ayla and Kahn crunched a large pile of spare ribs and shared a water-pot-bowl.
Jessica, years removed from their first meeting, was finally alone with John Dillon.
She nibbled and he did the same. Neither seemed to have much of an appetite—her stomach was tightened in knots. A mattress had been placed on the floor under a large holo-map of Anatali's Alaska. Two pillows, two blankets. She wondered why Nicky allowed the assumption that they’d be sleeping together. Then again, considering half the refugees were on cold cots, this private room was a luxury. The large, cluttered desk had been scooted to the wall against filing cabinets and several office machines. She’d made the desk her seat, keeping obvious distance from the black-eyed boy. Why he hadn’t gone back to normal…well, the others hadn’t either.
It had become less of a stigma, and more of an expression. En guard.
They constantly locked gazes, half-smiled, then looked away. He was bound to misunderstand. She cleared her throat and stood, walking to the shipping m
ap. Two touches and she was zoomed in on Nome.
Jessica traced her path from Bayview Trailer park, up along Market Street, past the rail station, and onto Tabby’s. “You remember when we first met?”
He looked up from the mattress. “Not really. It’s been a while.”
“I do.” Up to Marsden High School where she’d ran into the vanners and Nicky. “It wasn’t at your trailer, and it wasn’t at a bar…”
“Oh! The basketball game.” Like a light bulb.
“You were chasing Marci pretty hard-core. I’m guessing she might be the only girl that ever shot you down.” Stopping at the 13th Street firehouse, she reset at Steadman Cemetery to the east, where she’d met the Winslows.
“Hey, I got shot down all the time. I’m not some player, you know. You and your friend really messed me up.”
Exit the cemetery, and up the canal to Morgal Street. Her finger paused at Talk to Me. “As if. Does it burn you that you never got to fuck her? You tried to use me to get to Marci; you knew she was into groups.”
“Talking about Tabby’s again?” Dillon set his tray aside and reached for her foot, of all things. He slid his hand along the instep and pulled on a toe. Tender, if ridiculous. She wanted to kick him, but didn’t have the muster.
Fine. Across Morgal and onto Clydesdale: Spangler, Dillon, Christy and two-dozen others. Fate. “Yeah, Tabby’s. You’ve ignored me ever since. It was like put-out or get-out. I hated you and that stupid bitch.”
“But you’ve been following me up until the other day. What’s your excuse?”
“No excuse.” The Spire. “Like I said, I wanted you to prove me wrong. Prove you were something better than a douchebag just trying to fuck my hot friend.”
“Since I met you, it was never about Marci,” he curled his palm around the arch of her foot. “It was you. Always you.”
Oh what the—
“Absolute bullshit!” Jessica stomped at his hand before punching Rose City. Knuckles dented drywall. No pain. “You’ve been single for all of five hours and now we’re fucking soulmates?”
Dillon flexed his fingers before caressing her ankle. “You got a lot of nerve playing the high-ground after that shit with Captain Alaska. You ain’t any better, and at least I actually felt something for Christy.”
“It wasn't like that, so don’t think you can turn this around on—”
“I know you Jessie. Better than anyone alive”—wasn’t saying much—“so I ain’t going to kiss your ass like the bots, or beat you down like the bad guys. I know how much your dad and brother meant to you. I had it pretty easy; I was already alone. If anything I’ve been finding hope though this shitstorm, not losing it.”
There it was, the same sensitive pseudo-philosophy that turned her heart to him a year ago. He’d already had her eye. The recently orphaned Ridgeline High graduate had inherited his father’s doublewide trailer. Converted to an ink-parlor, flophouse, and youth party central, Dillon made his way off the skills and generosity of others. Tabby Jr. Those two actually met as rivals—the dealer and the upstart—but they worked out some kind of working relationship, likely trading new markets for real ‘supplies.’
Jessica had heard about Dillon via Marci a dozen times before running into him at one of Jacob’s games. The local celebrity had been sober, chatting up Ridgeline’s coach. Shirking Marci’s protests, the stalking began. Something about his posture, the way his pants fit. Like a bad dramedy, he dropped his wallet in the concession line. She nearly throttled the slut who tried to pocket it. The awkward three-way chat between her, Marci, and Dillon landed the girl a comm-contact and the first of many meetings at the Breaker’s Bar. At one point, it was almost nightly.
Complicated. He had the wisdom of a hungry wolf, devil-may-care for a meal, all hidden beneath a simple charm that always came across honest. He was broken; she had wanted to fix him. And after her dad died, she wanted him to fix her. Marci had fallen out of the picture by summer, but by then Jessica was sure his act was all game.
“We’ve never been good at showing our cards.” She traced her pinky from god-knows-where in the Rosebed to the Bay District. To here. She didn’t shrink when he slid his hand up her calf. “My first time was a joke, but I wanted you to be my first love. You’re a big fucking disappointment.”
“Whose fault is that? Not sure who you thought I was—I mean, the way I live has always been straightforward enough—but if you’d responded…”
“Too shy. Trying to loosen me up.” The words tasted bitter, but her legs felt hot. His touch sent a shiver from toe to top.
“Too shy. But I fucked it up. I know that. I didn’t want to make it right afterwards. You deserved better.” Dillon closed his eyes and exhaled. When he opened them, they were blue. “I didn’t want to hurt you again.”
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Was she really buying into this? Stock and trade, your manipulator genius, Mister John Dillon. He probably believed his own bullshit. Every word, every touch. His mournful heart, cobalt eyes, and blah-blah-fucking-blah.
His elbow raised her pants cuff, his hand now stroked the inside of her thigh. She braced her hands through the map, bit her lip, and glared. “N—”
The simple word was cut by a moan as he went higher. Now on his knees, he stared into her eyes with the barest hint of a smile. Fucking pro. She felt dizzy, legs shaky. Try again, “N-No.” As if that would work. She didn’t even believe it. In a clean sweep, he had her off her feet and on her back. She yelped and heard Ayla skitter to her feet. But that was it—her dog kept her distance. Thanks for the backup, bitch.
Their mouths locked in a brain-burning kiss. Jessica felt a wash of heat twice any passion or danger in the last three days. Dillon’s hands, arms, and legs seemed to glide over every inch of her body, exposed or not. The kiss continued until she rolled him onto his back and gasped for breath. He again pulled her close. His hands found other places.
No time. No chance. God, yes…
“Damn it, John. I said no!” Jessica yanked up, tearing his hand out of her pants. He spun her to the mattress and forced his tongue into her mouth.
Fucking hell, goddamn, motherfucker, shit!
Jessica melted. She ground her hips as her fingers ran down his neck to his chest—making space. Her other hand fumbled for her belt buckle.
~ 49 ~
The hard part
??? ??, ???? — ?:?? ??
“The hard part’s over.” Calvin’s hand trembled, tickling the small of her back before pressing her close.
She massaged him through his pants. “I’d say it’s just begun.”
He opened his mouth. Jessica silenced him with her own. The poker clattered to the floor.
Breaking the head-spinning kiss, she said, “See, it’s not so bad.”
“Sh-Shut up.” His body vibrated; the hand that pushed her shoulder away soon cupped her breast. That’s right, if you want it, take it. The sound of Trent’s shower had dissolved within the roar inside her ears. “I-I won’t.”
“Need more encouragement?” Jessica bit her lip and yanked him by the belt to the kitchen. The island countertop offered little discretion, but a fair bit of warning offset from the hall. Calvin’s half-hearted resistance would be hilarious if not for the bulging need a finger-stroke away. She made a show of turning her back, strutting a step, and coming right back to his eyes.
She could tell at a glance, he was hers. “Get it out of your system. You’ve been staring since we met.”
“Cause I don’t trust you.” The words were dry, hollow, fighting a lump in his throat.
“Trust this?” She guided his hand to her belly and down, first gliding along the top of her panties, then under the waistline. That’s right, smooth. Shaved for the boy in the other room, but yours if you want it.
“God…”
Whose?
Jessica unbuckled him, dropping his pants to his ankles. That was nothing to laugh at. She wetted her lips and cleared her throat, pressur
ing him to cool tile and a seat on the floor. Curling to his side, she dry-stroked, feeling his pulse beat against her palm. Calvin half-moaned, half-snarled. She considered backing off, just to see how he’d take her, but settled on a breath, then a lick.
“Fuck you, Jessie.”
“That’s right.” She rose to a kneel, hooking her thumbs under her hips, dragging her panties to her knees then walking them off her feet. “You man enough to get it done? Probably only take you half a minute, kid.”
“Heard. That. Before.” Boy was damn near paralyzed. Jessica felt ten feet tall. She straddled his ankles. “No. N-No.”
“Sure about that?” She licked again, bottom to top. “I’m sure there’s something Pharis hasn’t done that you’ve always wanted to try. Last chance, maybe ever.”
Calvin snapped up, breathless, and ravaged her mouth with his. A half-foot away, he teased her belly, tap-tap. Her hand set it straight, thumb smoothing the fluid over the head. “Say ‘no’ one more time and we’re done, kiddo.”
He shoved her over on her back. Jessica spread her legs. She felt the sharp pain of his first thrust and every ounce of his shuddering climax. Tight? He was only her fourth. He didn’t stop. Thighs clamped on his hips and feet linked behind his back, she wrapped her arms around his neck, cursing, spurring him on. They linked gazes.
His eyes were filled with spite. She imagined hers laughing, smirking. The highest high or the lowest low? Human. Alive. Jessica felt it building, rising, every rhythmic pound bringing her closer to truth, clarity, peace—some goddamn freedom. He lost speed, his breath labored in her ear.
She rolled Calvin over, taking the top. ”N-No,” he said.
Too late—my turn.
Jessica slammed her ass onto his legs. His hips rose, helping—help me. Fuck me. Help me. She felt him tense; it sent her over the borderline. She bit her scream, but it escaped her lips, echoing though the apartment. He again filled her, hands on her ass. Jessica milked for every moment of truth without fault.
Anatali: Ragnarok Page 26
