"Yes, ma'am." Atlan's shoulders slump. He looks young, and tired, and beaten. Sometimes I forget that despite his longer lifespan as a vampire, he's only been a soldier for a couple of years. He never went through formal military training—maybe a crash course, along with his lessons in swordplay—but he can't be expected to act and make decisions like a seasoned officer would.
I lay my hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently.
"We'll double back and pick you up," continues Sergeant Perez. "From the location you described, I'd say it'll take us a couple of hours. Sit tight, and get some rest. Over and out."
Atlan sets aside the radio and pulls on his clothes before stretching out on the bed again. I dress as well and lie down with him, and he turns to me, his face a few inches from mine.
"I don't think I can sleep," he says. "Back at the church, there were these two zombie babies—" He squeezes his eyes shut briefly. "Finley, they had huge fangs stretching out their little mouths. One of them was several months old I guess—it must have pulled up on Mick's leg and bitten him while he was fighting off the women. I had to kill it. And I kill zombies all the time, but they're usually adults or older kids, you know? Not babies."
"That must have been horrifying." Now I'm really glad I didn't go down that hallway. I'd have had nightmares for days. Actually, I'm pretty sure I will have nightmares anyway—this day was chock-full of disturbing events and images. "I don't think I can sleep either. We could just—talk."
So we do. We lie there together, talking, and though we've never done it before, I feel as comfortable as if we've been doing it forever. Atlan tells me more about his parents—their joy when he survived cancer, how they accepted him as a vampire, helped him through the transition to a semi-normal life. He tells me about his various jobs, how he was fired again and again during those first few decades, due to anti-vampire sentiment. He tells me about finding his place in the military after the Gorging, and meeting Captain Markham for the first time.
And I tell him things, too—how I met Heath, how he wormed his way into my life before I realized it, the warning signs I ignored, indicators of his narcissism and love of control. I tell Atlan about my sweet third-grade students, most of whom died in the days following the Gorging, and about the group I joined after Heath's death. How I survived the attack that killed them all.
"I still think about it," I whisper into the dark. Atlan turned off the flashlight long ago to conserve the battery. "I wonder if I had been braver, stronger, better with a weapon—could I have helped more? Could I have saved them?"
He draws a shuddering breath, his chest swelling against mine. "So you understand how I feel about today. About Mick and the others. They're not the only ones, you know—there are others I maybe could have saved, especially right after the Gorging—they haunt me, too. I replay the scenes, think of strategies I could have used—"
"We all have that stuff in our past." I shift closer to him, urged by the feeling that I will never be able to get as near to him as I want to be. "But if you dwell on the mistakes, they'll eat you from the inside, poison you and gnaw you apart. You have to learn to release the guilt. You're here, you're alive. The past is over and done—it's not hurting anyone else. Right now is what matters—this moment, and the one after that. We have to be able to seize the happiness we can get our hands on—really sink into it and enjoy it—because this life is so full of crap that if we can't have those good bits, it's not worth living at all."
He's quiet for a second. I think I got through to him this time, that I managed to help him with the guilt he's carrying—
Then he draws a deep breath. "Wow, that was super deep." With a grand gesture, he intones, "Ladies and gentlemen, 'A Theory of Life and Moving On,' by Finley Mars!"
I poke his ribs. "Don't you dare make fun of me, you vampire bastard."
"But it's so much fun. And you just told me I should enjoy myself whenever I can."
"That advice could be taken too far."
"Whatever." He nuzzles against my neck, the tips of his fangs lightly grazing my skin, and I shiver with delight, a sweet quivering desire waking in my core again. After a few more seconds of kissing my neck and shoulders, he lifts his head, his nostrils flaring at my scent. "God, Trouble, you're insatiable. And you smell so damn delicious."
His fingers fumble at the zipper of my jeans, ratcheting up my lust to new heights—but an annoyingly rational little voice pesters my thoughts. We've been talking for nearly two hours already—Sergeant Perez and the caravan will be here any minute. "We don't have time for this, Atlan."
His eyes flick up to mine, full of delight and wickedness. "Says who?" He tugs my pants down to my knees. "Next time I do this, I'll spread you out properly, but for now—"
At the first glide of his tongue, my breath hitches, and I whimper, my hips writhing against the sheets.
"Oh god," he groans. "You taste even better than I imagined."
"Atlan," I pant, aching and enflamed. "Don't stop."
"Never."
He nuzzles and nips, kisses and teases—and then he finds just the right rhythm. I'm panting, my fingers scrunching the sheets—poised and trembling, ready to crash over—and then the radio crackles to life. "Atlan?"
Atlan ignores the Sergeant's voice, but I'm alarmed, receding from the edge. "Atlan, you have to answer her."
But he changes tactics, replacing his tongue with his fingers, and tending to my breasts with his other hand. I'm temporarily deaf and mute, my body screaming for release—and with a few clever twitches of his thumb, Atlan brings me over the edge. I clench and spasm, gasping, barely conscious of his triumphant smile. He wipes his fingers on the sheets and picks up the radio. "Sergeant?"
"We've found the hotel. We're outside."
"We'll be down in a moment."
He stows the radio in the pack and pulls on his boots, glancing over at me with another lascivious smile.
"Slight problem," I murmur, hitching my jeans and underwear back into place. "I may not be able to walk."
"I'll carry you."
"No, you have to carry the zombie brain."
He rolls his eyes. "I hoped you'd forgotten about that."
28
Atlan
Finley makes me carry the stupid smelly zombie brain. I complain, but what she doesn't know is that I'd carry the whole damn building for her if I could.
Watching her walk down the stairs ahead of me, still a little wobbly-kneed from what I did to her, is so satisfying I can't stop grinning.
"Are you good on blood?" she asks. "You did expend some energy over the past few hours."
"I'm good." Better than good—I'm awesome. I can't remember the last time I felt this happy, this whole.
"Well, you tell me if you start feeling off," she says. "This type of activity—sex, I mean—it's new for vampire-you, so we should be careful."
"Careful?" I snort.
"Yes, careful. I don't want anything to happen to you." She glances back at me, aiming her flashlight briefly at my face. "You do realize that we have the ultimate co-dependent relationship, right? I keep you alive, you keep me alive. It's funny, really."
"Co-dependent relationships get a bad rap, but I don't think it's always warranted. Besides, this isn't co-dependence so much as mutual respect and reliance. And you know—survival."
"Mutual respect and reliance. I like that." She waits a step until I catch up, and slips her fingers into my free hand—the one that isn't occupied with toting a zombie brain. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've had a few extra decades to work on it."
"Oooh, that's right! You're really just a dirty old man in a young man's body."
"Ouch." I wince, even though I know she's teasing. "Rude."
"Truth bombs, baby. They tend to hurt."
"Actually, 'dirty old men' are just sweet, starry-eyed souls who crave youth and beauty but they're trapped in aging shells."
"Um, no. They're horny hound-dogs who only see a woman's body,
not her inner self."
"I see you, though."
"I know." Her fingers tighten around mine, but she releases my hand immediately afterward, because we've reached the first floor of the hotel.
We push out through the hotel doors, the night air washing chilly and fresh over my face. The world feels different now. Like an entire year has passed since we left Deathcastle. Like everything has changed—or maybe I've changed.
The two remaining armored vehicles sit in front of the hotel, like hulking monsters in the moonlight. The door of the front one opens, and Sergeant Perez hops out, followed by a leggy, dark-skinned vampire from Bastion—Chandra is her name, I think.
Perez is in her late twenties, attractive, with straight features and light brown skin. Despite the two days of driving and weather and craziness, her dark brown hair is still sleekly combed into a prim, tight bun, and her fatigues are barely crumpled. Her lips thinning, she surveys Finley and me with dissatisfied dark eyes.
"Sergeant." I bow my head to her. "My apologies—I should have done better."
"You've saved a lot of human lives in your time," she says crisply. "Doesn't excuse your sloppiness today, but—don't torture yourself."
It's basically what Finley said, only shorter. And coming from someone who doesn't love me, who barely cares about me at all except as an asset—it's meaningful in a different way.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Get in the other truck." She jerks her thumb toward it, and Finley hurries to obey so quickly that I almost smile. When a woman like Sergeant Perez gives orders, everyone listens up, which is no doubt why Captain Markham put her in charge of this mission. I don't know her that well, but I do know she commands respect among the other soldiers at Deathcastle. I hope Markham doesn't blame her for my failure today.
"Listen, Sergeant," I say, striding forward. "I have something else to tell you." And I brief her quickly on the strange actions of the female zombie.
Perez narrows her eyes. "That's her brain you have there?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Give it here. I'll put it in a bag and take it along, see what the doctors make of it."
After handing over the brain, I hop into the other truck behind Finley. There are eight human soldiers in this vehicle, including the driver. A vampire from Slaygate, one of the pair that refused to protect Harry, is here too, with a nervous-looking human man in his forties.
Finley settles into a seat, and I take the one next to her, unbuckling my sword-belt and laying the sheathed blades across my lap. I give the Slaygate vamp a chilly nod.
"Hi," says the nervous human guy. "I'm Bob. I'm a blood-hire for Darius here. Getting paid quite a lot, but not enough, I think, given what we've been through lately." He gives a squeaky chuckle, looking at Finley. "How much are they paying you?"
"She's a blood-slave, idiot," growls Darius. "Shut up." He glances at me, a pained expression on his face. "He won't stop talking."
"Blood-slave? Oof. Tough break," says Bob the blood-hire. "Do you get extra benefits for performing extra—services?" He winks awkwardly.
Finley leans forward. "Do you?"
"Oh—I don't—um—" The man flushes. "Not my thing."
"Then why should it be mine?"
"No offense intended! Just curious."
"Curiosity killed the chatterbox," says Finley coolly. "And guess what? He came back as a zombie. No more talking."
I hide a smirk. Bob splutters for a second and then quiets down as our vehicle starts to move ahead.
"How far are we from the bunker?" I ask.
"Several hours, I'd say," one of the soldiers tells me. "We lost a lot of time avoiding the tornados, outrunning a horde—looking for your group." He barely meets my eyes before glancing away. In fact, none of the soldiers in this vehicle will look me in the eye.
"Look, I failed. I get it," I tell them. "But what killed the others in my group was panic, and a failure to follow procedure. Our driver, Mick—he shouldn't have left the caravan. He shouldn't have led his men into a building before I had to chance to check it out. He panicked, lost his head, and made stupid, impatient decisions. Now I understand if you don't want to trust me with your lives after that. Maybe you're right to feel that way. That's why we're a team, okay? So it's not all on one person. As long as you keep your heads, and follow protocol, and don't freak out in a moment of crisis, we'll be good. We'll get through this, hopefully without any more death."
I glance at Finley, who's smiling at me. The soldiers nod and relax a little, although they still look sober and unhappy. Honestly I don't blame them. After what we've already seen out here in the Hordelands, I'm realizing that I've got to be ready for anything.
29
Finley
The bunker is pretty much what I expected—a concrete square protruding above the earth, with big reinforced doors. There's a barbed wire fence all around the area, and a smaller electric one within that—but I'm pretty sure the electric fence has been off for a long time. An avalanche of zombies crushed the outer barbed fence, probably months ago, maybe even back when the Gorging first occurred. Some of the bodies are still stuck there, twitching. The inner fence is broken too, but most of the horde must have wandered off eventually, once the smell of human faded from the outside of the doors.
All this I glimpse through the windshield, once the vehicles have rolled to a stop and the vampires have disembarked. Everyone else, all the human soldiers and blood-bags, stay put inside the trucks, waiting—except for Sergeant Perez. She walks, stiff-backed and confident, up to the gate. I can see her speaking into her radio, presumably trying to contact whoever is inside.
The vampires dispatch a few wandering zombies while we wait. After maybe half an hour, a deep groaning issues from the earth, and the doors of the bunker inch open. Not all the way, though—just wide enough for a couple people to walk abreast into the darkness beyond.
Suspicion tingles at the back of my neck, and I lean forward between the front seats. The guy Bob shoves in beside me, smelling of body odor and eagerness. His plump shoulder is smushed against mine, and I don't like it, but there's a crowd of curious soldiers behind me, trying to see as well—and I'm not about to give up my prime spot, so I endure the contact.
Sergeant Perez speaks to Atlan, and he draws both his swords and strides forward, toward that dark crack in the concrete.
She's making him go first, as a punishment.
Okay, maybe that's not fair. Maybe she sent him because Captain Markham is always bragging about what a great warrior he is.
And he is an excellent warrior—when he's facing down a horde of zombies. Has he ever had to take point on a mission into a mysterious underground bunker before? What's waiting for him in there? What if there's something worse than zombies?
As if he could hear my thoughts, a soldier mutters from behind me, "What do you think is in there?"
"Labs, tech. Science-y stuff," replies another.
"Who knows what it could be," Bob interjects, puffing out his chest. "You know, before the Gorging I did some research on secret government facilities—you wouldn't believe the weirdness they've got inside some of these places. Clones. Unicorn skeletons. Deformed mutant people from Chernobyl. Proof of alien life—oh yeah." He nods soberly. "You scoff, but it's all true. I've got sources—I mean, I had sources—"
"Bob," I say.
"Yeah?"
"Shut the hell up."
Miraculously, he shuts up. My eyes are glued to that crack between the thick bunker doors, that black slice of space that sucked in the man I love—
Then Atlan appears again, and with a flourish of his swords and a sweeping bow, beckons Sergeant Perez to proceed inside. I smirk, glad to see that his sense of showmanship is back.
After exchanging a word with the sergeant, he saunters back to the trucks, banging on the hoods and twirling his index finger in a gesture that clearly means, "Come on, get out."
Clutching my pack, I clamber out after the others. Atlan moves in b
ehind me, and I feel his presence—his attention, his protection—like an infusion of warm sunlight through my body.
The entrance area of the bunker is gloomy, much darker than the late afternoon countryside we just left behind—but after a few minutes my eyes adjust and I realize we're in a passage between two doors, the outer one that just opened for us, and an equally thick inner door.
There's a speaker in the wall, and a voice is coming from it. "Welcome, welcome. Please come all the way in, and then we'll let you through to the bunker. Welcome."
After a moment, the outer door grinds heavily closed, and the inner one rumbles aside.
A woman in a once-white coat, now splotched with yellow and brown stains, stands before us, her blue-gloved hands spread wide. "Welcome! Oh, welcome!"
Her hair is a frizzed, tangled mass of brown curls around a thin face ridged with high cheekbones, with a tiny upturned nose in the center. I thought I was pale—this woman is white as salt, white as bone—white as death. Her eyes are wild and eager, flitting from one face to the next, while her hands fiddle nervously with the large buttons on her coat.
The man beside her is Asian, his hair grown long and shaggy, a scant beard decorating his chin. He's also wearing a stained lab coat, and he clutches the woman's elbow while staring at us with a kind of desperate elation.
"We're—well, we're so glad you're here," says the woman, her voice thin with emotion. "So glad you came."
"I'm Sergeant Perez," says the sergeant, stepping forward and extending her hand.
"Oh dear, how lovely." The lab-coated woman stares at the sergeant's hand, curling her own fingers against her chest. "I hope you won't take offense if I don't shake it. We're very careful of germs here, very careful."
"Understandable," says the sergeant.
"Well, come on then—we'll take you below. Show you what's what, and who's who." The woman giggles.
"And you are?" Perez prods.
"Me? Oh, I'm Dr. Clarice Corbin. And this is my colleague, Gwan Beom-Seok, also a doctor. Different, um, specialties." She giggles again.
Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 19
