Sam's gray eyes cloud over with worry. “What do you mean suspects? You've already discussed this with him?”
“Of course. He's not stupid, Sam, and you know he hasn't believed any of your story from the get go. But because I've asked him to, he has agreed not to say anything yet either, unless you give us reason to. He's giving you the benefit of the doubt. So am I. So do you agree to my terms?”
“Agreed.” He smiles slightly at me as his hands grab my shoulders and feather down my arms. “Thanks, Red. I knew if I could talk to anyone about this, it would be you.”
He pulls me into a hard, unexpected embrace, planting a light kiss on the top of my head. Not exactly the type of kiss I'm used to from him, but until we know for sure about his condition, I know he doesn't want to risk anything. I hug him back just as hard, so glad he's finally come clean with me. It feels like we're back on track, and I don't want him to let go. But he does, and as he steps back, my field of vision opens up to the observer watching from the other side of the garden. I don't know how long Luke has been standing there, but he definitely saw the embrace. Even across the span separating us, I can feel the hurt radiating off of him. I watch as the last bit of brick and mortar solidify in that emotional wall he started erecting back at the farm, shutting me out completely. The brown eyes harden, the shoulders stiffen, and he turns his back to me and walks away.
For fuck’s sake. Of all times for Luke to be creeping around, why now? Why did he have to see that exchange? Not that it was a romantic gesture of any kind, but he doesn't know that. Sam notices me tense and follows my gaze to Luke's retreating back.
“Uh-oh. I'm guessing you didn't want him to see that.”
No, I did not. I've done enough to hurt Luke. He doesn't need me to do anything else to rip him up. I feel like some stupid-ass cheating girlfriend, yet the man I supposedly love is the one in front of me. This situation is so fucked up. But I don't say any of that to Sam. All I say is, “We should go rest. We're heading out early.”
He nods, agreeing with me and takes the lead. As I watch Sam walk ahead of me, I can't help but think I shouldn't have made the promise to keep things from Luke. He is my leader...and my friend. He deserves to know. What were his exact words to the docs earlier? Secrets get us killed. I hope to God that promise doesn't come back to bite me in the ass.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
To say I’ve slept any over the past four days since leaving the research facility would be a lie. I should be elated that we completed a successful mission. We delivered the two docs intact and put them on the road to our redemption. We delivered our cargo, received our fair trade in return and made contact with another group of survivors, who although slightly crazy, seem harmless enough. And we did all this without any causality to our crew. Now we’re finally on our way back home and I should be ecstatic.
Instead, I’m a complete and utter mess. Between the things Sam has told me floating around in my head, keeping his secrets from Luke and the others, and watching Sam for any weird change in appearance or behavior, I've barely slept a wink. The sleep deprivation must be affecting my usual sunny disposition too, since Gordon has told me on more than one occasion that I'm like a bear with a sore tooth and its paw caught in a trap. Fuck him. And I'd tell him that, too, along with the helpful advice to go take a long walk off of a short pier if I had the energy.
So I’m more than a little relieved when Luke calls a stop to this evening’s ride a little earlier than usual. Soon as we stop, I pry my frozen fingers from the bike handlebars and lift the fingertips to my lips, blowing on them to warm them up. Over these past couple of nights fall has made itself known, and I'm real glad for Mrs. D's gift of the half-gloves or else I would have chunks of ice where my hands should be. She was really thinking ahead on that one. God bless her enlarged, alcoholic heart.
Man, it’s freezing right now. Every breath I take is accented by little puffs of white, and the tip of my nose is so raw I could probably give Rudolph a run for his money.
I'm almost tempted to take a sip of the whiskey still stashed in my coat pocket. That would sure warm the cockles of my heart—whatever the hell that means—and help settle my jittery nerves on the Sam situation. I'm an emotional wreck. One minute I look at him and I'm thrilled he's back; the next minute I'm terrified his fingers are going to grow talons and rip my head off. My mood swings are yo-yoing up and down quicker than a whore's drawers. But I don't take a nip. As much as it would probably help me sleep, I need my wits about me. I need to keep Sam under a watchful eye. We can't get back to the Grand soon enough and have Jess run those tests. I think only then will I truly be able to rest easy.
The reason for our quitting early beckons to us from the field off to our left. Nestled in a small grove of pine trees sits the weathered remains of an old barn, most of its red paint peeled away now exposing the bare planks underneath. But it's shelter and if those dark clouds above our head are any indication, we’re going to need it tonight.
The inside of the barn is a pleasant surprise. While one side of it is missing pieces of the roof, the side above the hay loft is intact. Nice and dry and a perfect place to sleep if you don't mind the moldy smell coming from the few remaining bales of petrified hay. The smell is irrelevant to the bigger picture; the two metal barn doors. They actually still function, which means we can bolt them and keep ourselves locked up nice and safe. As snug as a bug in a rug for the night. Perfect.
After settling in I ignore the fireside banter and camaraderie, choosing instead to take my tin of hot soup and sit off to the sidelines. There must be some truth to Gordon's bear analogy since no one offers to keep me company. Not even Gordon himself, and he's usually my shadow out on missions. Even Scruff ignores me as he lies next to Mike, soaking up the ear scratches and gnawing on some bone he found along the way. The bone doesn't appear to be human. It doesn't look big enough, but I try not to look at it too much.
I watch as Sam and Badger talk, laughing occasionally like there wasn't a fucking thing wrong with the world. He catches my eye every now and again as he glances up, and in those moments I see the old Sam. It irritates me to no end. How can he sit there and pretend nothing is wrong when alien infection may be running through his blood? How can he be so casual about it?
He's not the only one catching my look. Luke is just as quiet as I am, although he sits with the rest of them. Robyn is attached to his left hip like a gun holster. She keeps whispering to him. He doesn't say anything back, but his gaze keeps shifting to Sam and then to me like we are the objects of Robyn's whispers. I wonder what she’s saying. Has he told her anything of our suspicions or has she come to her own conclusions? Do they all suspect Sam is infected? Are they already making plans to eliminate him? I’m desperate to speak to Luke, but his stone-cold look shuts me down every time I get close and I lose my nerve. Gah! This shit is driving me crazy.
The thoughts in my head are like a whirlwind, and they don't ease up at all. Long after everyone has turned in for the night, that whirling eddy still circles around my brain. Regurgitating all the worries and fears that I manage to keep at bay during daylight hours.
My unease is made even worse by no one being on watch tonight. Since we are locked inside, we've all been given a reprieve. Anyone tries to get in; Scruff will be as good as any alarm system. It still doesn't help me find any peace in sleep. So I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and listening to the monotone of raindrops and hail as it hits the roof and drip through on the other side of the barn.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
I concentrate on the sound, using it as white noise, and eventually my eyelids grow weary and I give in to the temptation of nothingness.
* * *
I don't know what awakens me. Not quite a thud or a thump, but it's a sound composed of stealth and sneakiness and my brain instantly tells me it shouldn't be there. I wake up, motionless. I no longer hear the rain splattering on the roof and it registers with me that some time must have passed by. The rain an
d hail have stopped. There’s no sound….of anything. Maybe I dreamed the noise? I hold my breath, my ears straining to pick up on it again.
Thump.
I turn my head toward the door and the shadowed silhouette barely visible in the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the holes in the roof. Someone is at the door all right, but the doors are still closed, so it's obviously someone trying to get out, not in. Call it intuition. Call it a hunch, but I know it's Sam. Maybe I'd chosen a spot close to the door for this purpose. Like deep down I was waiting for him to make a move and here it is.
I watch him as he releases the lock in silence. I don't know why I don't call to him. Why I don't ask what he's doing. His movements are plainly those of someone who doesn't want the rest of us to know what he's up to. The door opens a crack and he squeezes through and disappears into the night. I get to my feet, my first instinct to wake Luke. But he's on the other side of the sleeping crew, and Sam is already out of my line of sight. If I don't hurry now I'll lose him, and I have a gut feeling I need to see what he's up to. Besides, if he's actually just going to take a number one or two-well-it'll be awkward for all of us.
No one wakes as I make my way toward the door. Scruff emits a low whine as I pass by, but I quiet him with a whispered, “Stay” and he obeys. Belting my knife sheath around my waist as I go, I line up with the crack in the door and peek through outside.
The absence of cloud cover illuminates Sam clearly as he takes a couple of steps and then pauses, his head cocked to the side like he hears something. I listen as well, trying to hear what has caught his attention. At first I hear nothing, and then it strikes me. I hear nothing. The serenading frogs and crickets that are our usual night-time lullaby have all fallen silent. The silence is almost blaring. The next thing I notice is the weapon hanging over his shoulder. Something tells me he's not out here to take a leak.
Suddenly he spins like he’s finally located the elusive sound and starts hiking toward the trees.
What the hell did he hear? Is it something he perceives as a threat? And if so, why is he going after it alone? I question if he’s maybe suffered some sort of brain damage during his missing months. Why else would he do something so stupid? And if that is the case, then what’s my damn excuse since I now seem to be the second idiot following the first.
The smell of wet pine and damp earth assaults my nostrils as I trail him straight into the woods. The trees don’t grow thick here and I can see Sam's pale flashlight bobbing up ahead. He took the time for a flashlight and a weapon. This was not on the spur of the moment. He's prepared. But for what? Using his wobbly light as a guide, I track him as he negotiates his way through the thick roots and low hanging branches.
I’m far enough behind so he doesn't hear me, yet close enough to keep the beam of light in sight. The further we walk away from camp, the more my unease increases. Where the hell is he going? If he’s really just looking to take a leak, then he has one serious case of performance anxiety. Part of me wants to yell out. Tell him to wait up. The other part, the terrified part, wants to turn around and go back. It doesn't want to see or even know what Sam is up to.
He keeps walking. The trees start to thin out even more now, and I can hear the rush of a river close by. I choose the thickest pine to hide behind as Sam finally stops by the river bank. The night sky is hemorrhaging moonlight, revealing him in full view. He turns slowly in a circle, looking for something. Or someone. Did he realize I was following him all along?
He turns my way, but his eyes pass over me, oblivious to my presence. I catch a glimpse of his face, and a cold shiver races down my spine. His face looks vacant. Empty. The memory of my nightmare of him changing into one of those hybrids resurfaces, and I almost turn tail and run. That is until I see what's approaching him from behind.
Icy fingers start kneading at the top of my neck and working their way down my spine. A metal taste coats my tongue, and I lick my lips trying to get the spit flowing to wash the fear away. I try to scream at Sam to run, but the words stick in my throat and all that comes out is a whimper of fear.
The creature materializes from the darkness like it stepped out of some parallel dimension. One minute it isn't there and the next it is. It scuttles toward Sam's back, the tell-tale noise of its claws dulled by the spongy ground. Sam has no idea what’s coming at him, and it's moving in for the kill.
“Sam! Behind you!” I scream in warning, making my presence known. The creature pauses in its attack and turns my way. I pull my knives, distracting it and hopefully giving Sam the opportunity to put enough distance between him and it to take his shot.
As intent as it had been on Sam earlier, I can feel its gaze cutting me down now. It starts heading my way, and I grip my knives tighter.
“Sam, aim for the head,” I holler at him and glance his way, hoping he's in position. Only he's not in position. He's not aiming or running or moving. Hell, he hasn't even pulled his weapon. He's just standing there with the same empty look as earlier, apparently not even aware we're in mortal danger. What the hell?
“Sam, a little help here!” I'm panicking now and trying to get him to move his ass as I back up, but my yell goes unheeded. The hybrid closes the distance between us at such an alarming rate I don't even have time to turn and run, which would be pointless anyway. I can't outrun it through the woods. Instead, I make the decision to defend myself and hope I survive long enough for Sam to kill it.
I brace myself as the thing leaps, and I catch the stench of old blood. Its last meal, no doubt. I try to sidestep it at the last possible moment, determined not to be its fresh kill. I attempt to whirl out of its reach and get behind it. The frantic idea unfolding in my head is to stab it at the base of its spine and hopefully debilitate it. As if it anticipates my move, one clawed arm swipes out and clotheslines me, jerking me off of my feet and slamming me to the ground. The knives fly out of my grasp as I land hard on my back.
Gasping for air, I stare up at the hovering shadow of death. An involuntary scream of terror leaves my lips as the thing attacks.
Its savage strength is overwhelming as it straddles me, the talons pinning my shoulder to the ground through my jacket. My free hand instantly flattens in the middle of the scaly chest as I try to push it off of me. Through my terror, I glimpse its face in the light of the moon. The gray eyes glare at me with a look of pure hatred. It’s such a human look that I'm taken aback. My sweaty fingers slip down its torso, encountering holes along the way and the connection fizzles at the back of my brain. The holes are bullet holes. This thing has been shot up already. This can't be one of the creatures from St. Joseph’s can it? We fucking blew those things up. This can't be one of the same, but the look of hate mingles with recognition. It knows me. This attack is personal. And I'm in deep shit.
The hybrid snarls at me as the mouth starts to protrude. The lips pull back from the rows of long, razor sharp teeth, stretching beyond belief. The transformation must take only seconds, but it feels like time has slowed to a sluggish crawl. Feels like this thing has been hovering over me forever. Spittle forms at the corner of its lip and glistens silver in the moonlight before dripping onto my cheek. It's literally frothing at the mouth, eager to drink me dry. The disgusting drool seems to kick start my fight-like-fuck mode, and a strange calm sets in as I struggle to rise above my fear. I need to think clearly, or this ugly bastard is going to be the last thing I ever see.
Its snapping canines move in, diving towards my neck.
It’s going to rip my throat out.
Jerking my head out of its trajectory just in time, it misses my jugular by a mere inch. Lashing out, I slam my fist hard into the thing’s humanoid nose. I feel the bone break under my knuckle with a satisfying crunch. It doesn't slow it down. Instead, its look of hatred only intensifies, and it poises one long talon above my chest. Its intention is quite clear. It means to drive that damn thing straight into my heart.
The sharp claw falls, and the impact is like a sledgehammer
to my torso. Fear and pain choke the scream from my throat as I feel a wave of wetness ooze over my chest. This is it. I'm dying. Blood is spurting out of my punctured heart. So why does it smell like whiskey?
Jesus Christ! Mrs. D's flask! It stabbed the stupid flask, not me.
I don't have time to thank my lucky stars since the hybrid and I come to the conclusion at the same time. I'm not dead. Apparently, that only seems to piss it off even more because it raises the other claw that had been pinning me to the ground and swings at my neck. Images of Taylor's decapitated head cloud my vision, and I react instinctively, blocking the oncoming strike with my right forearm and reaching for my knife with my left hand.
Where the fuck is it?
My frantic fingertips finally come in contact with the cold steel. I struggle for a decent grip, but it keeps slipping out of reach.
Fuck.
“SAM!” My cry is desperate. Pleading. Why isn't he helping me? My luck is going to run out sooner rather than later, and he's just watching.
“HELP ME!” I scream, hoping for it to carry through the trees to my crew. The hybrid’s claws come down on either side of my head, positioning itself for the best biting angle. I push against its chest with the arm between us, but I'm no match for its strength. Its head lowers toward mine. Fetid breath encases me, smelling of rotted blood spiced with feces. I gag on my scream. One clawed hand settles around my jaw, almost like a loving caress as it forces my head back, exposing my throat.
Sammy.
“Stop!” The tortured cry comes from over the creature’s shoulder. Sam doesn't shoot the bastard in the head like I told him to do. He's still rooted in place, not even having drawn his weapon. Yet his strangled cry of protest is enough to make the creature hesitate in puzzlement and shift its attention to Sam. That second of hesitation is all I need.
Strain of Defiance (Bixby Series Book 2) Page 17
