Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1)

by Veronica Sommers

  If I stand here much longer, this hug will move into more significant and stimulating territory—at least for me. Slowly, reluctantly, I pull back, glancing up into his face.

  The look in his eyes steals my soul away. He's watching me with such exquisite, heart-breaking tenderness, and longing as deep as the sea.

  "What are you thinking right now?" I whisper. "Don't overanalyze—just say it."

  He swallows, caution chasing away the softness. "I'm thinking we should have breakfast."

  He's lying, but I don't call him out on it. Instead, I follow him downstairs without saying another word.

  If my dearest wish is coming true and he really is falling in love with me, he's probably afraid to say it. Reluctant to invite me into a relationship where we can't have sex in the traditional way. Of course there are lots of ways he could bring me pleasure—it wouldn't take much effort on his part, considering how much I want him. But it would be awkward at times, maybe—it could feel a little one-sided in the pleasure department.

  Part of me still feels like it's my fault that I can't excite him, even though I know that's not true. He's been living without any kind of libido for decades, and if no other woman has been able to waken that part of him, I certainly can't. It's a medical thing, a side effect of the serum they used on him back when he was a twenty-something aspiring lawyer with a death sentence written into his DNA.

  When we enter the mess hall for breakfast, Captain Markham is standing there, holding an envelope. "The commanders have decided on a punishment for Harry."

  Atlan snatches the envelope and rips out the paper inside. A muscle feathers in his jaw. "Chum time? That's the punishment?"

  I stifle a gasp. Being dangled over the wall at the mercy of oncoming zombies is definitely a trial by terror. Still, I'm thankful they didn't sentence him to death. His life has been spared, at least.

  So why does Atlan look so grim?

  "The sentence is being carried out today," says Captain Markham. "I expect you all at the wall to witness it by ten hundred hours. We'll be hosting a few vampires from the north and south stations as well. They demanded to watch the punishment being carried out."

  "I'll defend Harry," Atlan says abruptly.

  "No." Khalil rises, his dark eyes serious. "Two vampires from Slaygate have already been appointed as his defense."

  "You'll be watching from the wall, Atlan," said Captain Markham. "And please leave your weapons behind. We've requested the same of the visiting vampires who will be observing."

  After breakfast, we file into the courtyard and climb into trucks, ready to head out to the wall. Atlan doesn't speak to me, only stares ahead, his blue eyes like sea ice.

  "What's the matter?" I whisper. "I know it's horrible, and Harry will be terrified, but at least the military didn't condemn him to death."

  Atlan doesn't answer.

  21

  Finley

  Along the top of the wall, a row of vampires and their blood-slaves stand silent, their ranks interspersed with human military commanders. There are other humans along the walls too, including some of the leaders of Blue City. I gaze down the row of stony faces and wonder how many of them know the extent of what Charon did—to the brothel girl, to Jess, to me. Do they understand why Harry had to kill him?

  Atlan stands to my left, and beyond him, Captain Markham. I glance over Sarah's head to my right, eyeing the lookout post where Ben's sun-blond head used to be. I know she's thinking about him too, with more pain than I can imagine. I saw her pleading with Captain Markham earlier, begging to be excused from this event—but he only said, "It's important for every human blood-slave to witness the penalty for killing a warrior vampire."

  The soldiers throw a couple of grenades and flash bombs far across the field, drawing the clusters of zombies away from the wall temporarily. The two vampires appointed to defend Harry exit the gate, their weapons swinging at their hips.

  There are a lot of zombies today. I wonder if the commanders eliminated last night's scheduled killing shift, to ensure that there would be a large enough zombie crowd to give Harry a good scare.

  Poor Harry. They're hauling him along the wall now, stopping not far away from me. There are about a dozen people lining the wall between me and Harry. He's tied securely, a human piece of bait cocooned in ropes.

  "Chum time!" calls one soldier.

  "Chum time," echoes another, and a few of them hoist Harry over the edge of the wall. Two soldiers catch his weight with a thick rope; and as he hangs there, a third soldier slices across his cheekbone with a knife, opening a bleeding cut.

  "What the hell?" I hiss. "Why would they do that to him?"

  "To draw the zombies faster," says Atlan.

  His voice is so cold and stiff my head snaps up, and I stare at him. "What's up with you?"

  His mouth tightens, and his fist clench, too. It's odd seeing him here at the wall without weapons. In his T-shirt and dark jeans, he looks less like a vampire warrior and more like a normal guy I might meet for drinks after work, in the Pre-Gorging days. That is, if I had no boyfriend named Heath, and if I got lucky enough to draw the attention of such a masterpiece of male physique and bone structure.

  My attention snaps back to Harry, who is sobbing quietly. I wish he wouldn't cry. I wish he could be brave—but I shouldn't judge. I'm certainly not the bravest human being myself.

  The soldiers lower him slowly, slowly, down toward the killing fields.

  The zombies have been browsing the grenade shrapnel, but their heads turn as they catch a whiff of Harry's blood. Their necks creak and jerk, and they emit guttural squawks, raw with hunger. Gradually at first, then faster, they turn and stumble toward the wall. Toward Harry.

  The two Slaygate vampires draw their weapons.

  But instead of advancing, instead of intercepting the crowd of zombies, the vampires stand aside, sober and ceremonial, their weapons folded in their arms.

  "What are they doing?" I shake Atlan's arm. "Atlan, why are they just standing there?"

  From Atlan's other side, Captain Markham speaks. "They are taking the human's sentence a step further. Enacting vampire justice for the killing of one of their own."

  The realization strikes me like a gut-punch.

  They're not going to save him.

  And Atlan knew it.

  "Atlan," I say frantically, "do something!"

  He shakes his head, distress breaking over his face. "I can't. I don't have my weapons."

  "He has been ordered to stand down," says Captain Markham. "Unfortunate as it may be, this scene needs to play through. I have to punish Harry for murdering a vampire, and I can't force the other vampires to protect him. They want to make a lesson of the boy. They want all humans to remember who their true saviors are."

  I grip Atlan's arms, looking into his eyes. "You don't have to be a part of this. You don't have to obey him." I jerk my head toward the captain.

  "Oh yes he does," the Captain intercepts. "And I suggest, Miss Mars, that you keep quiet until it is done. There is nothing you can do."

  Nothing you can do.

  I'm helpless. Human. And a coward, on top of all that. I'm not brave. I may have survived the apocalypse, but mostly I did it through hiding and running and hitching myself to people stronger and tougher than me.

  My eyes burn into Atlan's for another second before I whirl and push my way along the wall, past the other witnesses. They don't even look at me—their eyes are fixed on the horrific scene unfolding below. They all think I'm powerless to stop this, and maybe I am.

  Maybe.

  Harry is descending closer to the ground, and the zombies are growing louder, more alert, more savage.

  Thoughts skitter through my brain, a dozen for every step I take.

  If I attack the soldiers holding Harry's rope, they will only drop him. Unhelpful. No, he needs someone down there with him right now, someone to protect him—someone who can get there fast. I don't have enough time to go down the steps an
d get through the gate, not that they'd open it for me anyway—

  A flash of clarity freezes my mind—the image of what I have to do, and the reality of what it means. What the end will be.

  Obviously I'll die if I do this. But it makes a kind of sense—it has a kind of justice and meaning and beauty to it, because Harry saved me from Charon, and now I am going to try to save him.

  I won't succeed. No way. In spite of my training I'm still no warrior.

  But this is the right thing to do—it's stupid and deadly and right—and if I don't do it, this will be a moment I can't move past, a regret I can't live down—I will forever be that coward drenched in paint and cleaning fluid, hiding atop a shelving unit while my group, my friends, are gnawed below me.

  If I don't do this, I truly will be a coward.

  The roars of the zombies are nearer now; they have almost reached the wall, and their famished cries drown Harry's desperate shrieks.

  I don't have to think about this anymore.

  I just have to act. To do it.

  I run, halting behind the two soldiers who grip Harry's rope. They're focused on holding him in place, a scant few feet above the ground, and they don't notice me. My hand darts to one soldier's hip, yanks out his sidearm, jams it into my waistband. Then I vault between the soldiers, over the wall, both my hands finding the rough rope, gripping it—and I slide down, the rope's rough surface burning over my palms, the gagging growls of the zombies filling my ears, the smell of unending death in my nostrils.

  Atlan screams my name. I hear his wretched roar over every other sound—a cry streaked with pain and terror.

  But I don't have time to think about him, because the zombies are coming.

  I leap off the rope and stand in front of Harry, switching the gun's safety off.

  Harry sobs behind me, "No, Finley, no! No! Don't do this, get away, get back inside!"

  I can't, of course. It's too late now—I've made a choice, taken a stand, and I'm not backing out. Weirdly, I'm not even shaking. My state of mind has gone beyond thought, beyond terror, into a place that is agonizingly clear and simple.

  Point, and shoot.

  Protect.

  I pull the trigger and blow the first zombie's brains out the back of his head.

  My second bullet strikes another in the neck, and her skull lolls grotesquely before ripping free from her body.

  They're coming too fast. They're going to tear me apart and eat me first, and then Harry.

  I shoot another zombie's leg, slowing him down. A couple of my bullets miss, and then I get one more headshot but it's too late because three of them are nearly on me, dead fingers reaching out, fangs bared and heads angled to bite into my flesh.

  Something streaks into my field of vision from the left, crashing into the three zombies just before their fingers graze my skin. A spray of blood arcs from a zombie's neck as its head is ripped off by pure force and fury.

  Atlan.

  He must have jumped off the wall—slid down the rope after me—what does it matter how he made it down to the field? He's here.

  He grabs the remaining two zombies and smashes them together so hard their skulls crunch. He tosses them aside and leaps in front of me just in time to drag down another zombie. Savagely he tears through the creature's neck with his teeth.

  He looks up at me for a split second, his eyes bloodshot and furious, his mouth slavering blood and black gore. A thrill of hideous joy shoots through me as I behold the monster—unleashed, for my sake.

  But there's no time to thank him. Another cluster of zombies is approaching from the left, and a couple more from the right. I shoot into the oncoming cluster, but after a few shots my gun clicks empty, and I swear frantically.

  There's a shout from the wall, and something drops into the trampled grass beside me—another gun and a box of ammo. Glancing up, I see Kevin waving. Kevin, the freckled soldier who wasn't good at anything, is apparently the only one besides Atlan who is willing to help me and Harry. "Give 'em hell!" he screams, lifting a huge gun and aiming into the throng of zombies surging across the field. I don't know who he snatched the weapons and ammo from, or why no one is stopping him, but I snatch the fresh gun and get to work.

  Over and over I shoot, always careful to point the gun where Atlan is not. That's harder than one might think, because he's seemingly everywhere, tearing through zombie corpses with his bared teeth and hands, ripping, raking, crushing and cracking. It's almost comical, the way they stumble past him toward me, completely unaware of how lethal he is until he has torn their heads from their bodies. When he misses one, I take it out with a bullet. Okay, sometimes it takes a few bullets before the zombie goes down. I'm not really counting.

  No one ever told me how much strength it takes just to keep holding a gun up and firing for more than a few minutes. Without the training I've been doing, I'd be dead by now.

  The Slaygate vampires don't assist with the zombie slaying, but they don't interfere either. They could stop Atlan from helping me, could hold him back while the zombies gorge themselves on my flesh. But they stand, watching. The zombies flow around them unheeding, as if they were no more than stone statues in a riverbed.

  My arms ache from holding the heavy gun, and they're trembling too hard to shoot straight any more—plus I'm out of bullets. I sag against Harry's bound body, gasping for breath. His face is a mess of tears and snot, but he gives me the most beautiful smile. "Thank you, Finley. Thank you."

  "Hey, you saved me first. I'm just returning the favor. And the person you really should be thanking is Atlan, anyway."

  "He wouldn't have done it if you hadn't been in danger."

  "I suppose that's true." I scan the field around us. There are no more zombies standing, but their bodies are scattered everywhere—and several yards away lies a pile of them, probably a couple dozen or more heaped in a mass of rotted flesh and bones and slack-jawed skulls.

  And on top of that mound is Atlan.

  The crack of a neck snapping echoes across the field, and Atlan rises slowly from his last kill, his shoulders bowed. He's not wearing his coat, and every bit of his skin and clothing glistens with gore. He turns, dark blood running in clots and rivulets from his mouth, down his throat. His hair is blood-wet at the ends, and his fingers are gloved in the guts of zombies he tore apart.

  This isn't the warrior dancing with death, kissing his fingers to the crowds, spinning and slaying to the music. This is Atlan broken down, laid bare and raw.

  His most monstrous self.

  He stalks toward me, slow and purposeful, and halts an arm's length away.

  We stand face to face, amid the carnage strewn across the fields around us, with the doomed man hanging bound at my back, the soldiers watching from the wall, and the silent vampires witnessing at a distance.

  Atlan's voice emerges from the gore-mask that is his face. "Hey Trouble."

  A broken laugh escapes me. With one quick motion I strip off my shirt and step forward in just my bra, using the soft cloth to wipe away the blood and guts from his mouth. And then I kiss him, firm and fierce, my hand cupping the back of his neck.

  He keeps his lips closed, and I'm grateful, because I really don't want to taste everywhere his fangs have been today. Besides, this kiss isn't about my own gratification—it's me telling him that I know who he is, the good and the bad, all of it—and I don't care.

  I pull back for a second, looking into his eyes, and all the feelings I've been struggling with shift and coalesce into something clean, and pure, and brilliant. An undeniable truth.

  I stare into my warrior vampire's face, and I grin, a savage thrill soaring through me. "Atlan, you magnificent monster. I love you."

  He sucks in a breath. "How dare you?"

  "What?" I narrow my eyes at him.

  "How dare you tell me that, when you know I can't hug you, because—" he looks down at himself. "Zombie guts."

  I break into another laugh, breathless and shaky. The reality of wha
t we just did—what I survived—is crashing in now, breaking over me like a tidal wave, turning me weak.

  "You have to cut Harry free!" I exclaim. "Please hurry. And Atlan, you have to make them release him."

  "They will." Atlan nods. "He has served his sentence."

  He stalks to Harry and begins slicing apart the ropes with his teeth. I look up at the wall, where Kevin is being restrained by a pair of soldiers. His red hair ruffles in the wind, and his freckled face glows with conviction. I salute him, and he nods to me.

  Freed from the ropes, Harry tumbles to the gore-spattered ground and stumbles to his feet, wobbling a little. I hook one of his arms across my shoulders. "Come on," I tell him. "Together."

  We stand at the gate, the three of us, and after a moment, it groans and swings slowly open.

  Atlan stalks through the opening with the measured stride of a conqueror, still dripping blood from his fingertips.

  On the other side, a cluster of military leaders and vampires wait for him, with Captain Markham at the front and center.

  Atlan speaks, louder and more powerfully than I've ever heard him.

  "The man you condemned has served his sentence. He will be freed and given work of his choosing. The soldier Kevin helped my cause, and will not be punished for it."

  "Your cause?" says one of the vampires. "Why would you defend this vampire-killer, after he murdered one of our own? One of humanity's saviors?"

  "One of humanity's saviors?" Atlan laughs. "Harry killed a rogue vampire, a madman who murdered a girl in a Blue City brothel, who beat one of his lovers and nearly tore apart my own supplier. Harry did all of us a favor by getting rid of Charon." Atlan's voice rises, fury and steel in his tone. "This incident is over. Yes?" He looks straight into Captain Markham's eyes.

  After a second, Markham nods. "Yes."

  Atlan turns his gaze on the other vampires. For a minute I don't think they will concede to him; but then I'm aware of Khalil and Viana moving in on either side of us. Faint anger twists in my stomach, because they didn't help us in the killing fields—but they're showing support now, and perhaps that is just as crucial.