Dark Days of the After Special Edition | Prequel & Book 1

by Schow, Ryan

  “I’ve been doing a lot of these types of jobs lately,” he said, his eyes now freely scanning her face. “It’s like someone knows something we don’t.”

  “I guess,” she replied.

  She was about to expand on that when he moved a strand of hair out of her eyes and said, “You have a really pretty face.”

  “I don’t, but it seems your poor eyesight might work to my advantage,” she teased, her voice playful. She touched his arm and said, “In fact, I think blindness just might be your finest quality.”

  “Seriously though,” Vlad said. “Does Skylar know something the rest of us don’t?”

  “You’d have to take that up with her,” she said, shrinking back down.

  “I’ve tried to reach her.”

  “She’s busy.”

  “Will she have a way to get me paid for this job?” Vlad asked. “I mean, I know I shouldn’t take this up with you, but you’re her friend. This is going to be your place.”

  “I thought she’d already paid you.”

  “Just a deposit. Don’t worry about it though. By the way, are your eyes blue or green? I can’t tell in this light. But wow, they definitely sparkle!”

  “Thanks. They’re blue. How long have you been doing this?”

  “Long enough to appreciate a woman like you coming around the job site,” he said, gazing longingly into her eyes. She wet her lips, diverting his gaze. He looked at her lips just a second too long, and then he glanced back up into her eyes. “I’m sorry if I’m being a bit forward. It’s just, with everything going on out there, and me staying here alone, I just…I…”

  “What?” she said.

  He leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn’t an impatient kiss, but the heart of him was in his need, not in the emotional connection she wanted him to make first.

  She backed up, pressed a hand to his chest to let him know there were boundaries, and she said, “Look Vlad, I appreciate your interest in me, but just because the bottom has fallen out of America doesn’t mean a lady’s forgotten the merits of romance.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, nervous, a touch of his accent coming out. “It’s just, I don’t know, I’m sort of into plain girls. They’re hot to me. I know guys shouldn’t have a type, but you’re my type.”

  Creating even more distance now, she looked at him, aghast. Dripping with sarcasm, but laced with anger, she tempered her response. “When you say things like that, boy it sure gets the broiler down there scorching hot.”

  “Yeah?” he grinned, taking her wrist in a decent grip.

  “No,” she said firm.

  “Whatever.”

  He moved back in for the kiss, but she backed up, rolled her wrist out of his grip, then grabbed his fingers and spun him into a painful joint lock that dropped him to a knee.

  “When I said romance wasn’t dead,” she said as she looked down on him, “what part of that message missed the hypothalamus?”

  The way he was looking at her, she felt bad for hurting him. What am I doing? She let go, stood back.

  “The hypo what?” he asked, rubbing his wrist.

  “The hypothalamus, which works with the pituitary gland to control various behavioral functions having to do with sexual stimulation, aggression and pleasure, in addition to other things. Yours seems broken.”

  “So yeah, I guess my hippo thingy is off some,” he said, standing back up. “What did you do with my wrist? That freaking hurt.”

  “I made sure it didn’t do what you wanted it to, what you didn’t have permission to do.”

  “I just wanted to touch your face.”

  “You crushed my lips after I said no.” Letting out a deep breath, realizing she was not only overreacting, but she was screwing up the entire night, she said, “Now that doesn’t mean it’s a permanent no, it just means slow down a bit, take some cues.”

  “I’d think you’d be happy,” he said, finger brushing his hair back in place.

  “I got laid twice last week,” she said, selling the lie. “It was kind of like a squirrel storing up her nuts for the winter, you know? So whatever you think you have as a man, you’re no mystery to me. And you’re certainly nothing I need.”

  “Every woman says that,” he replied. “They try to tell us we’re a dick and a paycheck, that the rest of us is just something they tolerate. But that’s not true, is it?”

  “What I have, you’re going to have to earn. I don’t just give it up to anyone. I mean, you’re plain, too, bro. And grabby.”

  He laughed, raised his hands in mock surrender and said, “Guilty as charged.”

  For a second, she didn’t know who was playing who, but in that moment she was lonely enough to let him have her, jerk or not.

  “So what’s acceptable then?” he asked.

  “Kissing, maybe. But slow. And if you don’t rush it, if you treat me right, maybe I’ll let you squeeze my tits.”

  Smiling, nodding, he said, “Okay. So why don’t you come fifty percent, I’ll go forty-five, and when you’re ready, you can close the distance with a kiss.”

  “Math major?” she said, taking his hand and cutting the distance between them in two.

  “Something like that,” he said, moving in to her. When she closed the distance, she felt him sigh the minute their mouths met.

  The night got off to a bumpy start, and even though she wasn’t feeling super Kosher about Vlad, the last time she was laid was never, so she wasn’t about to blow her chances at sex.

  “You can hold my boob, if you want,” she said against his mouth.

  He went right for it, kneading it like dough, as if it was some sort of silly putty and he was bound and determined to change its shape. When he squeezed too deep around her nipple, she jumped back and hit his hand out of instinct alone.

  “So that’s a little rough,” she said, straightening her shirt out.

  “Jesus God,” he said, a bit uptight. “Make up your mind.”

  Pushing out of his arms, she then said, “What happened to gentle or seductive? I’m not a toy you can just manhandle.”

  Blowing out a breath, frustrated and clearly exasperated, he said, “I’m a carpenter, I bang things in holes all day long.”

  She fixed him with a disappointed frown.

  He just ruined it.

  “Well, on that note,” she said, heading to the barn door, “have a nice sleep and good luck with those nails tomorrow.”

  When she left, he didn’t follow.

  Thankfully.

  Back at the house, Stephani sat at the kitchen table, surprised to see her back so soon. When Harper walked in, the blonde-haired woman said, “Well, did you get your you-know-what popped?”

  “My cherry?” she whispered.

  Stephani laughed and nodded her head, her chin bobbing up and down gleefully.

  “I got my tit squeezed and he told me he was into plain girls,” she said.

  “Well at least you got some action,” Stephani said, disappointed. When she saw the growing shine in Harper’s eyes, she said, “If it’s any consolation, I’ve been with Cooper all night.”

  “That actually sounds better than what I just went through.”

  “Yeah? Well he’s been farty for the last half an hour and it hasn’t been pleasant. I’m not sure what the hell he ate, but I can tell you it traveled through his system on a hot trail of stink.”

  She laughed, but it was hollow.

  “I’m going to turn in if it’s alright,” she said.

  Stephani stood and gave her a big hug, holding her tight. “I’m sorry, Harper.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Back in bed she let those disappointed tears loose. It wasn’t because she didn’t get the romance she wanted, or the respect she felt she deserved, what disappointed her most was that nothing about the night with him felt right.

  “I really am going to die a virgin,” she mumbled in the dark. Turning over, drying her eyes, she nestled into the blankets and thought, It is what it
is.

  It’s whatever.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Logan laid in bed, Kim cuddling him, her head on his chest. He felt good being with her, and it was nice not to sleep alone, but in that moment, all he could think of was getting the message to Harper.

  “Are you okay?” Kim asked.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I know you feel like you have to talk to Harper directly,” Kim said, pulling him closer and moving more of her body onto his, “but maybe you could just send her an email instead. We’ve all got emergency drop boxes. Why don’t you just use hers?”

  “You have no idea what it took to get me to this point. So drop box or not, I’m going.”

  Falling still save for her fingers, which were moving against his arm, she said, “What am I supposed to do?”

  “About living here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yoav got you all set,” he said. “You live here. I’ll leave you a key.”

  Reaching over, she kissed him and said, “I know. I just want to make sure you’re okay with me staying.”

  “I am.”

  He could see her naked, shower with her, have sex with her and hit her in Krav class, but kissing her like he just did felt strange. Almost like a surreal wave swept through him, left him thinking of her as more than a roommate, more than a Krav partner or even part of the Resistance.

  She told him you have sex because you need to, share a foxhole when it’s necessary, even fight when it comes to it…but this? Living together as lovers? It didn’t feel right. Then again, he was probably hung up on Skylar, or thinking about getting to Harper.

  “What will you do while I’m gone?” he asked.

  “Same thing I’m doing now, except the sex part,” she said. When he remained silent, she said, “I promise not to sleep with anyone in your bed.”

  “I didn’t…”

  “It crossed your mind,” she said.

  “I just don’t want some dude’s ball sack on my sheets.”

  She laughed and said, “Trust me, this is a you and me thing. We may be new and impermanent, but I’ve got manners. And I respect your things. Your place.”

  “Good,” he said. “I need sleep.”

  When he fell asleep, it was quick and deep. The alarm roused him early and he got ready for his work-sanctioned trip to Oregon. He checked the computer to make sure Ms. Yeung put it down for state record. She did. If he got pulled over, or interrogated, at least he’d have some official cover.

  When he was getting ready to leave, he checked on Kim. She was still asleep, and he thought of letting her remain that way. Gently, however, he woke her.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said softly.

  She reached up and kissed him, and then she said, “Come back to me.”

  “I will,” he said.

  “It’s not a love thing,” she said, seeing the look on his face, “I just hate being alone. Especially during Unfettered Hate.”

  With that, he smiled easy, then said, “I left an extra key on the kitchen table.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I just want to say,” he began, awkward, “I didn’t expect you to do what you did with me, and you know I know that, but I’m glad we did.”

  “Me, too,” she said with a warm smile. “Be safe, Logan.”

  Logan went through town on the motorcycle, no helmet, but big sunglasses for when he hit the swarms of bugs. For a moment there, he felt like a relic of the past, too free for this hell hole.

  He came to the entrance to the highway and was stopped by a Chicom soldier. He put up one hand while resting the other on his utility belt. Specifically his pistol.

  Logan pulled up to him, stopped and lifted his glasses. They hated it when you shielded your eyes.

  “Good morning,” Logan said.

  The Chicom policeman saw the sticker Ming Yeung gave him, studied it longer than he should, then said, “Where are you going?”

  “Oregon.”

  “No,” he said.

  “I didn’t want to go, sir. In fact, the best thing you could do is say no and mean it.”

  “I mean it,” he said.

  Nodding his head and exhaling through his nostrils, he said, “I just need you to call my supervisor. Her name is Ming Yeung at SocioSphere. She’s in charge of data security.”

  “Why are you going to Oregon?” he asked, looking Logan over with suspicious eyes.

  “We’ve got a nest of dissidents using our servers as end relays so they can operate below the state’s radar. What they’re doing…it might be the Resistance. Ms. Yeung thinks it is.”

  “When will you be back?” he asked.

  “As soon as I can.”

  He motioned for Logan to go through the checkpoint. Lowering his glasses back down, he said, “Stay safe, sir.”

  The man muttered something derogatory, but Logan didn’t care. The second he could, he was going to put a bullet in the heads of guys like that.

  Maybe even him personally.

  The highway was off limits to former American citizens without travel clearance, so with almost no traffic, he pushed the bike to eighty or even ninety miles an hour. Occasionally he passed some sort of military vehicle or another. Other than that, he had the road to himself. Then, up around Redding on Interstate 5, he ran into a convoy. It wasn’t unusual to see one, but it was concerning that this one was stopped.

  One of the troop transports was fixing a flat tire.

  The road was blocked by the scattered vehicles, most of the convoy either pulled over or stopped this way or that. There were jeeps, flatbed trucks with tanks on them, a Howitzer, several larger trucks he couldn’t identify. A cold chill ran through him.

  This was the enemy.

  His stomach surged, squeezing into his throat where he felt sick. Slowing down, he saw there was no way around without drawing unwanted attention.

  Two guns were out of holsters and on him in no time flat. One of these gunman held up a hand as he pulled to a stop.

  The two men walked up on him fast, drawing the attention of a dozen other Chicom soldiers. “What are you doing out here, Gweilo?”

  He pointed to his windshield and said, “I have official clearance.”

  “Get off the bike,” one of them said, shoving him by the shoulder. “Whose motorcycle is this?”

  “I was given it to use,” he said, thinking of the Chicom pistol he had stashed under the seat, along with two fresh mags. “It’s not mine.”

  “I said get off!”

  Logan got off the bike, stepping back with his hands up. The soldier walked around him, sizing him up. He then kicked the back of his knees, driving Logan to the asphalt. A sharp and rattling pain shot up his legs, into his spine.

  “You prick,” he grumbled.

  “What did you say?” the Chicom soldier snarled, smacking the top of his head with the barrel of the pistol.

  “I called you a prick,” Logan said clearly, pissed off about his knees, and now his head.

  The soldier hit him with the barrel of the gun again. This time, he left the barrel there, laid sideways on his head. The jerk then walked around the front of him, dragging the weapon to Logan’s face, the barrel never breaking contact with his skin. He knew he should be afraid, but he was so sick and freaking tired of these oppressive monsters that a part of him didn’t care if he pulled the trigger or not.

  “You called me a prick, while you ride your tricycle on our roads in our country,” he said, baiting Logan.

  The gun traced his face, but then the end of the barrel found his right eye, pressed in. “I am curious,” he said, grinning. “If I pull the trigger, will anyone miss you?”

  “No,” he said. “Nor will I miss this place.”

  He started to laugh, as did some of the others. “So you’re out here with a stolen motorcycle,” he said. “And you expect me to let you pass because you have a sticker?”

  “It’s not stolen, and I have clearance.”

  “This
is clearance,” he said, really shoving the barrel into Logan’s closed eye.

  He grimaced but said nothing. More than his desire for his next breath, he wanted to punch this guy’s ticket. He didn’t care if he was killed right after that. It would almost be worth it. Instead, thinking about the bigger picture, he said nothing.

  “I want you to beg,” he said.

  “I’m not your boyfriend,” Logan said, unable to help himself. “If you want to put things up your ass, you don’t need my permission.”

  Others broke into laugher, not the Chicom. He reared up and struck Logan over the head so hard, he was sure the skin split. As the world wobbled and tilted sideways a bit, he waited for that warm rush of blood to drain down his face, but it didn’t happen.

  He started to tip over, but he managed to get a hand out, almost like a kickstand. It stopped him from falling over completely.

  But then the Chicom prick kicked his arm out and he fell over.

  The same boot that kicked his arm now stood on the side of his face. With the heel grinding into one side, the asphalt and loose gravel digging into the other, there was nothing more in this world he wanted than to snatch this man’s still beating heart from his chest.

  “What smart ass things have you got to say now, Gweilo?” he asked, drawing more laughter.

  “After you admitting you like getting rumped by other dudes, there’s nothing left to say,” he said through squashed cheeks. “But I think maybe you have some explaining to do to your heterosexual friends.”

  The laughter reached a crescendo, causing the boot to smash his face further, then twist off. Craning his head, he looked up to see the man towering over him, the black hole of his barrel the nearest thing he saw. He fought the loosening of his bowels. He’d known this time would come, but he didn’t think it would be before the physical war the Resistance was planning.

  “Hey, Kwon,” someone said.

  Knowing guys like him begged for their lives in times like this, Logan realized there was nothing left to fight for, nothing left to beg for, so he said, “You have really small hands, Kwon. Little tiny fingers.”

  The man racked the slide.

  “Kwon,” someone said again, now standing next to him.