Hill had something to say to that, too. “The M16’s stock is great for clobbering people over the head, if that’s why you think you need a bird seed bomber. Go with it over the M4. You’ll get used to the extra weight easily, and it will give you an advantage in the distance. For close-range, just let us do the cleanup and stand back. Less gore in your face to ruin your makeup, too.”
I didn’t have to force a laugh this time. “Gladly. It will do wonders to that goblin thing you’ve got going on. Who doesn’t look prettier with gore splattered all over their mug?”
“She got you there,” the other soldier sneered at Hill before picking his pistol back up. “Still got some shots to fire, so if you ladies would kindly put your ear protection back on. Or, better yet, take that inside to chat over tea and biscuits!”
Nate had already reloaded three of the pistol magazines, so after slapping my headphones back on, I slammed one of them into the Beretta and went back at it. And, wouldn’t you know, I hit just a little better than before.
It was only once we were back below deck that I realized that Nate hadn’t said a thing while I’d been shooting shit with the others. I was about to mention that to him, but dropped the point. “What do you think? Am I completely useless, or is there still hope?” So what if I was fishing for compliments a little? It happened seldom enough, and after how it all had started in the morning, I needed a little pick-me-up.
Nate’s response was not what I’d been expecting. “You’re certainly doing a great job performing tricks when the right people say ‘jump.’ Next, you’ll be rolling on the floor, waiting for a belly scratch.”
That made me halt in my tracks. Nate continued on, not even checking back on me.
“Well, thanks for nothing, asshole!” I called after him, shaking my head to myself. Whatever. I recognized the intersection, so rather than try to catch up to him, I turned left, cutting through two sections to head straight to our quarters rather than back to the armory. Burns was there, glancing up as I stomped in, dropping my Beretta on my bunk before peeling myself out of my many layers. Fuck regulations that I should keep it in the armory at all times outside training.
“Didn’t go quite as expected, eh?” Burns ribbed me, but gently.
I paused, considering. “No, actually, it went exactly as I should have expected. I married an asshole, so why do I keep getting surprised when he’s behaving like one?” Burns didn’t reply, wisely keeping his opinion to himself, letting me stomp my way out of my clothes. I hit my left elbow and right knee on the bunks, which did wonders for my sunny disposition, but I forced myself to rein it in by the time I was back in my sweats and tank. “By the way, what’s that guy’s name with the longish black hair who’s missing part of his left ear?”
“You mean Cole?”
I shrugged, momentarily hard-pressed to remember if I’d heard him mentioned before, but the ear part should be a good identifier. Then I did remember; he’d been the one to sling around scorn right before we’d left the base as we’d picked up the others. There was some bad blood between him and Nate, no kidding, but he hadn’t come after Burns, nor Tanner and Gita—or me, for that matter. “I think you can put him on the maybe list, too. He and Hill were having a good time cheering me on. Oh, and Red’s got me all figured out. Just saying.”
“Red?” Burns echoed, raising his brows at me.
“Richards,” I corrected myself. “Damn fucker got me to hit a good twenty out of thirty on his M16 just by accusing me of hitting shit.”
“Sounds familiar,” Burns offered with a grin, then laughed when he saw me make a face. “Doesn’t take much with you, really. But great job! Maybe you should swap him for Old McGrouch over there.” He indicated Nate’s bunk.
It was only then that it occurred to me what the reason for Nate’s scathing remark could have been. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that.
“Maybe don’t mention that possibility when he comes back,” I offered. “Not that it is an actual possibility. Just saying.”
The look I got for that was bordering on ridiculous, like me stressing that last part was something that upended Burns’s view of the world.
“Is there something you wanna talk about, girl?”
I shook my head, kicking Raynor’s bag to the side once I’d gotten my supplements out. “Nah, just idiots being idiots, is all.” And that, ladies and gents, included me. At least I hoped it was just that. Because this wasn’t something I was going to waste even a single thought on, considering what else was clamoring around in my head already. Nate suddenly, out of nowhere, getting jealous? As much as the idea made me want to laugh, it was mostly at myself. It made much more sense that with Hamilton being a problem in general but his second in command appearing the reasonable party, Nate was actively plotting to take Richards out to even the playing field. So far, provoking him had been hard; with him gone, Hamilton would be easy game for either of us. That posed the question exactly how uncomfortable thinking along these lines made me. The general level of ambivalence inside of me didn’t exactly make me feel comfortable in my own skin. My, but weren’t we on the fast track to devolving into grunting Neanderthals?
Chapter 8
By the time Nate returned—carrying his winter gear in his arms, his innermost layer dripping with sweat from what I figured had been an impromptu workout session—he was calm once more, and mostly ignored me. I’d gotten back to trying to make sense of Raynor’s folders, but my thoughts kept running away from me, so I had given up quickly. Playing cards with the others was more fun, anyway. I’d also snacked my way through two packs of nuts liberated from the galley, putting my mind further at ease. Hunger I might not feel, but I could definitely tell when my body felt sated. Burns kept staring at Nate, waiting for an explanation, but eventually gave up as well. I hadn’t asked whether that get-to-know-each-other program he and Tanner were running included Nate—I’d mostly assumed it did—but it didn’t really matter, anyway. We were all slowly but surely going stir crazy, and now that my mental capacities were almost back to normal, I could tell that, too. Too little activity, too much tension, and no undead to take all that out on—not a good combination. I’d never expected I’d think that, but I was actually looking forward to the day when we were neck-deep in shamblers once more.
Dinner was a quiet affair as we were having meat—or at least something that the cooks claimed had once been some kind of animal or other—and everyone was too concerned with shoving as much of it into their faces as possible. Everyone at our table laughed when Gita let out a tremendous burp, and even Nate seemed to have gotten over whatever had irked him in the afternoon. Training after that was hard—but what else was new—yet satisfying, my body behaving a little more like it should. I slept like the dead that night, a full six hours, and only woke up when Nate shook my shoulder hard. My mind flipped from oblivion to full awareness within seconds, annoying the hell out of me. I’d never realized just how much of a physical advantage the serum had conferred on those inoculated with it. It also made me wonder exactly how much luck we’d had with our little chase-and-snatch action in Sioux Falls when we’d gotten us one of the juiced-up shamblers to dissect. I should have died ten times over that day alone. As scary as that thought was in hindsight, it did a lot to motivate me as soon as I stepped into our hangar gym. I still wasn’t quite where I’d been before the damn virus had forced me to my knees, but I was getting closer, day by day. Considering all the downsides—and not just what would happen to me once I bit it—and the price I’d already paid, I would be damned if I didn’t try to get the most out of this. So I ran faster, punched harder, ducked quicker, and did my very best to push myself beyond my limits. So what if someone snickered when I dropped down from the pull-up bar after only a minute, a twenty-pound plate between my knees? That still was sixty seconds of my grip holding strong with added weight it hadn’t been able to handle only a week ago. Compared to the damage a zombie or wild animal could inflict, their stupid comments coul
d only hurt so much. What Burns had told me before helped as well—if it had been him, or one of the other guys, I would have laughed in their faces and jumped back up. Now I had all the more motivation to make sure not to fail.
And then came the day when, just as we were finishing breakfast, Bucky—for once present—got up to address us all, with the odd snide remark thrown our way that we all ignored.
“Last day of lazing around on your fat asses. The commander tells me we’ll arrive at our drop-off point at the ass-crack of dawn. You better get the best out of all the comforts we’ve been enjoying on board of this mighty fine destroyer, because starting tomorrow, you’ll eat only what you can carry, and everything we meet will be out to chew your pretty faces off.”
Cheers went up from the soldiers’ tables. I didn’t quite know how to react. Looking at the others, I was met with similarly mixed feelings plain on their faces.
“Well, at least now they have to tell us where we are going,” I offered, trying to put a positive spin on this.
“Not until tomorrow morning, they don’t,” Nate provided, his ire quite obvious.
Burns, of course, had to chuckle. “We’ll know soon enough when we see the street signs. I really don’t need to know a moment sooner.”
I was tempted to try to weasel some information out of Red, but seeing as Bucky sat down next to him, I decided that avoidance was the better part of valor. Last day—that meant I still had two training sessions in the gym, plus some time to frustrate myself to death in the armory. I decided that I had done enough of cleaning and disassembling, likely not needing to do much of either under pressure in the upcoming weeks. Simply handling my weapons would make a lot more sense.
Nate disagreed with me, making me do the very same drills over and over until I was ready to strangle him. My fingers hurt—and were reeking of weapon oil—as we quickly grabbed a bite to eat from the galley for lunch. Rather than relax, he had us all pack our packs in the early afternoon, tearing mine apart no less than five times until I’d finally stowed everything away in a manner that passed his inspection, if barely. The others were wisely keeping out of it, but to say that the tension ratcheting up between Nate and me was making the others uncomfortable was an understatement. I more fled than walked to the gym as soon as I was dismissed, but before I was even done with warmup, Nate was plastered to my side again, my backup Glock and one of the M16s in his hands. “You can do drills here as well,” he bit out, pointing at a corner of the mats. “Plus some push-ups and crawling across the room. Your torso is still way too stiff, and it won’t get better in full gear.” And that in front of what felt like the entirety of the soldiers, including my favorite Capt. Asshole.
Rather than tell Nate where he could shove that M16, I dropped to the floor, trying to keep my face as neutral as possible. Just one more day, I kept telling myself. Things couldn’t get much worse once we were out there. At least not between us. And no, my torso wasn’t stiff like a statue’s, and maybe he’d like me to demonstrate the strength of my grip by volunteering his throat?
As such things go, the angrier I got, the more I messed up, which in turn just made me even more frustrated—and angry. I must have been doing a shit-job trying to hide that because after the second time the Glock dropped from my fingers, none of the soldiers dared to laugh anymore. They weren’t even looking at me as I dragged my sorry self across the mats, pretending I was working my way underneath some low obstacles while keeping my weapon up in both hands. On the other side, I jumped to my feet, then as high as I could, before I let myself drop into a push-up—rinse, repeat, over and over. Then back the entire way, and one more field strip. I was huffing hard enough that I barely got air into my lungs as I crouched over the weapon, trying to be both fast and precise—and fumbled both, the bolt not just sliding out of my fingers, but hitting the mats at a weird angle that made it roll away from me, too fast to grab when I reached for it. Just my luck that it came to a stop right in front of Bucky’s left boot.
Reaching down to scoop it up, Hamilton flipped the bolt end over end in his hand, considering it. “My, my, how will you get anything done in the field when you can’t even do the simplest things every recruit learns in the first week, Stumpy? Need me to lend a hand, seeing as yours don’t get the job done?”
Everything inside of me screamed to come to my feet, my position on the floor too vulnerable—and at a really bad angle, with him towering over me. He was now tapping the bolt against his thigh right next to his crotch, forcing me not to look even in the general direction of it.
“Can I have that back, please?” I said in the sweetest tone—well, growl—I could muster, pretending like I was trying to kill him with kindness. Any method would do if successful, really.
“What? Oh, this?” He twirled the elusive part in his fingers. “I should make you crawl over here and beg on your knees for it, seeing as I constantly find you in this position, anyway. Or, better yet, send you out there without it. Maybe that will teach you.”
I couldn’t help but scoff, hard-pressed to remain in my more or less casual crouch as I stared up at him. “And waste a perfectly good weapon? That would make you even dumber than everyone already knows you are.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but then he held out the bolt to me with a truly magnanimous gesture. “Here you are. I’m always happy to help.” Yet as I reached up to grab the bolt, he didn’t let go right away. “I can help you with other things as well. Judging from how you’re reeking of frustration, I’d guess you’re not getting enough attention at the moment. What a shame, really.”
I put as much strength into pulling the bolt free as I could—which was considerable, as I’d been smart enough to use my left hand—yet Bucky let go a second later, making me fall flat on my ass. At least I didn’t end up on my back with him jeering down at me, but it was close enough to make me want to ram that thing right up, preferably until he was choking on it. Russell, one of Bucky’s flunkies, laughed wholeheartedly, drawing a few snickers from the others. My cheeks flamed up, forcing me to keep my face down so no one would see it as I quickly—and this time, flawlessly—reassembled the assault rifle. Bucky finally moved on, leaving me crouching there, vibrating with tension that I knew I just wouldn’t be able to lose until I punched someone in the face. Exactly what I needed right now.
“Up for a round of sparring?”
My head shot up, my eyes first fixating on Nate’s face, then the extended hand he was offering to pull me up. After how he’d snapped at me first, I wasn’t keen on giving him a chance to wipe the floor with me now, but it was impossible to read the anger blazing in his eyes for anything but what it was. I wrapped my fingers around his, letting him do the work—and, unlike the last time we’d done this, didn’t go right into a swing. Had it really been that long since last we’d sparred for real? My tongue, unbidden, danced back to the perfectly formed dental implant crown now sitting where the tooth had been that he’d knocked out—the very first sign that something was wrong with me that I hadn’t been able to ignore any longer. So much had happened since then—but one thing would always remain the same.
I barely waited until he’d fallen into a neutral stance before I attacked, not bothering with great technique for a start. He was right—my first instinct was to go for a jab with my right hand. Rather than prove Nate right that this wasn’t the best idea, I used it to feign, quickly moving out of his reach when he attempted to block a swing that never came. My foot went up, only lightly brushing his hand as he quickly evaded me, but it was a first contact. I danced back, regaining my balance just in time to block his punch with my lower arm. His foot shot out, hooking around my calf, making me stagger, but not fall. So we weren’t just pretending. Good.
Of course, I’d gone through all of the motions I now used over and over during the past weeks, but it was different to use them in combination now. It took me a good five minutes to score the first real hit, the heel of my foot hitting his obliques perfectly. He’d been ri
ght—again—when he’d torn into me as we’d come here today; I was still stiff, but this was a great way to limber up. Nate staggered back and I came right after him, dipping deep into my reserves to jump as far as I could—and slammed my left hook square under his jaw as he was still trying to evade me. Pain exploded across my knuckles, but it was a familiar, acute kind of pain, not that damn lingering agony that had been my life for far too long.
It felt liberating. It felt good. I smiled.
Until both of his feet landed square in the middle of my abdomen and he kicked me off him, my body flying a good two yards through the air until I came down hard on the mats, too stunned to roll. Yeah, that hurt, too.
We scrambled to our feet at the same time, only that he hesitated while I didn’t. Using brute strength, I bull-rushed him, slamming my shoulder into his stomach while my arms went around his torso. He hadn’t expected the move and hadn’t braced enough, ending with me managing to drag him down. Letting go, I reared up to go for his face once more, but now he was ready, blocking each punch. I made ready to use my elbow next, but he saw that coming, rearing up to topple me over backward. I ended up on my back with him looming over me, our legs still tangled. Rather than repay my favor from before, he pushed away, letting me roll over and come to my feet.
I was just about to start the next attack when Bucky’s rasp, coming from somewhere behind me, made me remain bounding on the balls of my feet instead.
“Oh, it’s so cute to watch you two lovebirds cuddle with each other. You’re not pretending that’s a real fight, are you?”
Nate’s face was completely void of emotion as I glanced at him for guidance, giving me nothing. Turning around to face Hamilton, I tried for the same, but panting with exertion—and just a little high from my endorphins kicking in—I knew the best I could aim for was a jeer, so that’s what I went with. “Just having a little friendly tousle there. You should try it. Might get that stick out of your ass that you’ve got permanently crammed up there.” In the past, I’d wondered why my mouth always had to run in the wrong direction. He’d ultimately cured me of that notion. Why shouldn’t I be deliberately goading him on? What did I have left to lose?
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