The Dead Saga | Book 7 | Odium 7

by Riley, Claire C.

  I shook my head no and Shooter relaxed some. Tyson hadn’t hurt me, those little kids had—but not with their knives or their questions…not really. They’d hurt me with their hopelessness, and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

  “Let’s go then,” Gauge said, handing over a small black item to Shooter. “It’s ready.”

  “What’s ready?” I asked, looking between them all.

  “Creepy wee bastards are gonna pay, darlin’,” Highlander said. “No one kills me feckin’ friends and gets away with it. No matter how old they are.”

  Highlander was driving and he looked at me through the rearview mirror, his face a picture of rage and grief, and my God he looked terrifying. I looked over at Shooter, his face all hard edges and dangerous angles, his ice blue eyes finding mine in the dimness of the early morning.

  “Ain’t no hope for the damned anyway,” Highlander said, giving me a wink. I wasn’t sure if he meant us or the kids inside the warehouse were damned, but either way I knew he was right. We were all damned.

  “Shooter?” I said his name, puzzlement in my tone.

  And then Shooter pressed a button on the little black box in his hand and the world lit up bright yellow and orange as an explosion sounded out behind us.

  22.

  Nina

  The truck rambled on over crumbling roads with huge potholes and along deserted tracks, and I somehow managed to sleep through it all, only waking momentarily when I was jostled too much, before sinking back into sleep as thick as tar.

  Finally, Shooter woke me with a rough hand on my cheek and I flinched, startled awake. I was still drowsy from sleep but quickly growing alert. In this world, there was no room for a slow wake. You were either asleep or you were awake, and nothing in between or you found yourself on the wrong end of a set of teeth and being eaten alive.

  “We’re home,” he said, his voice gruff enough to let me know that he had likely slept a little too. I imagined that he was possibly even more tired than me, but he likely wouldn’t be able to sleep for a long while yet.

  I sat up, pushing my ratty hair back from my face, and blinked blearily as I wiped at my eyes. I looked out through the side windows, noting that the early morning darkness had finally succumbed to early morning sunlight. The large metal doors to the clubhouse grounds opened and I watched as we pulled through them, passing parked motorcycles and large trucks and into the clubhouse grounds. We pulled into a space and the truck’s engine was shut off, and I heard us all sigh almost in unison as we mentally prepared ourselves for getting out and dealing with the aftermath of what had just happened. It dawned on me that I had never even asked Shooter what happened when he’d left me. What he’d told people back here and how they had reacted.

  Men and women were standing around, their faces somber as we finally climbed out of the truck. I wanted to go straight to bed so I could avoid everything and everyone, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to. These people had lost their friend, and it would look exceptionally shitty of me to just wander off to bed like none of this was important. Like losing another person didn’t matter, when it did. It always mattered.

  Shooter handed me my arm and I took it gratefully, wishing I could do more to help, but I couldn’t even grab a box right then. I needed to put the stupid thing back on, but I wasn’t sure how to do it on my own and I didn’t want to bother anyone by asking for help. So instead I held it limply in my hand.

  Men made their way over to the truck and began helping to unload the boxes from the back and placing them on the ground, and then Crank’s body was carefully lifted out, carried by Gauge, Highlander, Shooter, and Axe. Sketch, one of the other nomads that had come in with Crank, stood by, his features solemn and grief stricken, his long dark hair loose around his shoulders.

  My throat tightened watching them carry Crank’s prone body toward the back of the clubhouse, men and women following silently, and I wondered where they were taking him. Behind the clubhouse the fence had finally been fixed properly, and it looked really sturdy now. The weeds had also been cut back so that the whole yard could be seen and nothing could be hiding in it. It also revealed what was once an exercise area. There was rusted gym equipment and benches, and I could see some overflowing fruit trees also—huge red apples dangling from strong tree limbs. And also, further back, I could see what were clearly graves. They were old, the only telltale sign of what they were being the wooden crosses in the ground with names hastily written on them.

  And next to those old graves was a new hole. A hole that was waiting for Crank’s body to fill it.

  Tears prickled the backs of my eyes, but I gritted my teeth against them, refusing to let them fall. I barely knew Crank, but I knew he was a good man. Funny, kind, caring. He wanted things to be different. He wanted to change things. And now he wouldn’t be around to make that happen.

  We stopped a bit away from the graves and the fresh-dug hole, and the men laid Crank’s body atop a stretch of fabric that was resting on top of a long piece of boarding. Gauge leaned down and took Crank’s hands, placing them on top of his stomach as if they were clasped while he patiently waited. Then he pulled the edges of the material inwards, covering his friend’s face and body from the dirt and worms that were about to cover him and wrap him within the warm embrace of the earth.

  On each side of the boarding, two thick lengths of rope were tied at either end, and each man picked one up and slowly, together as one, they began to silently lower Crank’s body into the dark ground.

  A woman behind me whimpered loudly as Crank’s body reached the bottom and the ropes were released and pulled back out, and it seemed to set off a chain reaction among the group. Women cried, men swiped silent tears from their rough cheeks, and as if on cue, a flock of birds flew overhead, cawing loudly.

  I’d like to say that the day had turned miserable, the air chilly and the rain pattering down on us all as if the big man upstairs was crying too, but that’s not how it was. Instead, the sun shone brightly, peering out from behind a large white cloud and reflecting off the ground. The birds flew in circles, cawing, people cried, and then the sound of dirt being shoveled on top of Crank’s body polluted the air.

  Shooter shrugged out of his cut and his shirt, sweat and dirt trailing down his hard chest as he covered his friend, putting him to rest, finally. His face was hard and expressionless, but when he looked up and caught my eye, I saw the pain inside him. It was vibrant and ferocious, like a feral animal with its paw caught inside a bear trap and wanting to free itself. It was clawing and tugging, chewing at his insides in a desperate bid to be free.

  But it was Shooter, and he held himself together, composed and calm. He’d wait out this storm, but all hell was coming.

  Shovels were taken away and dropped at the side of the clubhouse, and the men stepped closer to the mound of earth where Crank now lay buried. Balls brought over a wooden cross, and he hammered it into the ground at the head of the mound. Carved into it was Crank’s name.

  Battle, one of the other nomads that I hadn’t seen much of but couldn’t exactly miss because he was such a huge guy that seemed to dominate most spaces, unscrewed the top on a bottle of whiskey and handed it over to Shooter.

  Shooter held the bottle over Crank’s grave. “Been with me a long time, brother,” Shooter said. “You had my back more times than I can remember, and had this club’s back even more than that. You loved this way of life, and I hope it treated you with the respect that you deserved, brother. I hope you left this earth happier than when you entered it. I hope that you’re up there drinking whiskey with our fallen brothers. Gonna miss you.” Shooter poured some whiskey onto the grave, the alcohol mixing in with the dry earth and turning darker before he took a sip of it himself and then handed it over to Battle.

  “Gonna miss your sorry ass,” he grunted, and took a sip, handing it over to Gauge.

  “Dumb fuck,” he snarled, pouring some more onto the grave and then taking a sip himself.

 
; Sketch took the bottle from Gauge and stepped forward, his face a picture of misery and raw pain. “I hope she was waiting for you, brother. I hope they both were.” He poured whiskey over the now muddy mound and then took a long drink himself. He stared down at the grave for a long moment in silence, clearly thinking about saying something else but then changing his mind. He handed the bottle over to Highlander and took a step back.

  “Ya had to go and get ya’self killed, didn’t ya, for fack’s sake, brother. What did I tell ya about those creepy wee bastards?” He tutted angrily and poured some onto the grave before drinking a swallow and handing the bottle off to someone else.

  A couple of zombies had somehow found themselves to the other side of the fence. We couldn’t see them, thanks to whoever had done a great job of securing it, but their scratches and groans could be heard on the other side.

  Each man and woman took a turn at saying something, though those of us who didn’t really know him chose to stand silently at the edges. I had memories of Crank, but none like these people had. None that truly expressed the life he had led, both before and after the end had come. I didn’t know the man he had been—not really. I only knew the man who had tried to chat me up at the clubhouse. Who had tried to appease little kids with the promise of newly painted bikes. Who had been charming and funny, and filled to the brim with misery that only he really understood.

  Yet it didn’t seem to matter to my heart.

  Losing someone, anyone, no matter how long or how briefly I had known them, was horrible. It was heartbreaking, soul-stripping. No matter how many times I went through it, it never got any easier. From losing Ben all those years ago, to Emily-Rose so many years after, to the here and now and losing people I had only had brief conversations with.

  It was still painful.

  It still hurt.

  Each death was a nail through my hands and another thorn in my crown.

  I understood now though. I got it. It was all inevitable, and the darkness didn’t follow me, it surrounded me. It was everywhere I went, no matter who I was with. I wasn’t to blame for these deaths any more than I was to blame for the end of days.

  They were just another step toward the inevitable ending of mankind.

  I hadn’t noticed that Shooter had come to stand next to me. He took my good hand in his and I looked up at him, watching as his jaw ticked and his teeth ground together. The way the hard lines of his face seemed somehow deeper today. The crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes seemed more pronounced. The gray strands of hair in his beard seemed more blatant. This was a man that had seen even more than me. He had lived through tragedy after tragedy and was still living a legacy regardless. I squeezed his hand in mine, my gaze moving to the men and women drinking to their friend.

  Axe came toward Shooter, his gaze serious. “You and Highlander came flying in and out of the clubhouse before we knew what was happening, brother. The Rejects want to make sure we’re in on any retaliation against the bastards that did this,” he growled. “Before the split, we were as one, and as one we need to be again. Let’s start with this and build on that.” He held his hand out and Shooter released mine to clasp Axe’s in his strong grip.

  “Already got the fuckers; they didn’t live out the day, brother, but I appreciate the offer more than you know. Regardless, there are many enemies out there, Axe, and a united front from both of us would mean survival for us all,” Shooter said. “Would need you to step down though. Ain’t room for two prezes in this club.”

  Gauge came over and handed Shooter his cut and shirt and Shooter slid them both on, pulling out his cigarettes and lighting one. He offered the rolled-up cigarettes to the other men and Axe took one, lighting it with a matchstick and then throwing it to the ground before stomping on it. It seemed like he was buying himself some time before replying.

  “I know that ain’t what you wanted to hear, but a year ago you came to me and those were the terms, and a year on those terms haven’t changed,” Shooter continued, and Axe looked up at him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “You know there can only be one prez, brother. The Devil’s Highwaymen can be one again. A united front. A united club.”

  “It’s what Crank always wanted,” Gauge said, running a hand down his thick beard.

  “Don’t go pulling that shit, fuckface. Guilt-tripping ain’t ever worked before,” Axe replied, but there was no malice in his tone.

  “Ain’t guilt-tripping, brother. You know it’s the truth, just like every man here knows it’s the truth.” Gauge shrugged. “He left because he couldn’t stand the split.”

  Shooter sighed. “Speak to your people. Make a decision. Let’s become one unit again. Stronger than ever before,” Shooter said, and Axe nodded reluctantly. “I’ll need to speak to my men too, but I have no doubt that they’ll want the same thing.”

  Silence dropped between the three men and then Axe sighed and nodded. “Okay,” he relented, throwing the cigarette to the ground. “I’ll speak to them. I’ll step down if they agree, and we’ll finally unite. For the good of the clubs.” He held his hand out in front of him again, and this time when Shooter took it he pulled the other man in against his chest and they slapped each other’s backs, gruffly talking to each other. I turned a blind ear to them, not wanting to intrude on their moment, and I stepped away from Shooter, giving him the space he needed to deal with club business.

  Everything was starting to go right for the Highwaymen. This was something that they had wanted for a long time now, and I could only imagine how strong they would be as a united club. Yet I couldn’t help but be sad that Crank wasn’t there to see it.

  I watched as a couple of the Highwaymen left the funeral and stormed past me, their faces filled with angry resolve, and I guessed they were going to kill the zombies on the other side of the fence.

  Above us, the birds continued to circle, and I looked up at them, shielding my eyes with my good hand. I frowned, wondering if they were eagles or something, because they were big—like really big. But they didn’t look as elegant as eagles.

  “Vultures,” Sketch said, and I looked across at him. He’d come to stand by me, his long hair tucked behind his ears and a bottle of beer in his hand. “It’s like they knew he was dead,” he said, and I frowned, not understanding. “Up in the hills, he used to feed the vultures. Befriended them somehow, crazy bastard. Used them for scouting and shit. Followed him down here. Not sure what they’ll do now.”

  We watched as the vultures continued to circle the clubhouse, giving long squawks before doing one final large circle and then leaving.

  23.

  Nina

  I was still tired, to the point of exhaustion, yet I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep yet no matter how much I wanted or needed to. The day was bright like summer, even as autumn threatened on the periphery.

  I walked out to the front of the clubhouse, my stupid arm attachment in my hand. I was unsure of my place there in that group of grieving men and women. It felt like I had been grieving my entire life. Mourning the loss of someone was second place to breathing these days, but it never got any easier.

  “Nina.” My name was called and I turned to see Amara standing in the doorway of the clubhouse, her long red skirt flowing around her ankles, and her hair tied up into a bun on the top of her head. She looked almost regal standing there, the sunlight glinting off the gold chains around her wrists and neck, huge hoops hanging from her lobes, and her hands clasped around her tiny baby.

  I walked toward her, and she pulled me into her arms before I had chance to speak. Another me would have pulled away and told her to calm the fuck down because I wasn’t dead and it would take more than a handful of twisted little freaky kids to kill me off, but this version of me let her arms embrace me and I molded myself to the shape of her, to her warmth and her love, because despite myself, I needed it. I really really needed it right then.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she said against my hair. “Every time I see you I wonde
r if it will be my last, and then you return like an angel.” She kissed the side of my head, her hands rubbing up and down my arms.

  “I’m hardly an angel, Amara,” I replied, giving a dry laugh.

  She pulled out of the hug and looked into my face, and I thought she really saw me. “I never said you were an angel, only that you keep returning like one.” She winked at me and I gave a small laugh again, only that time I meant it. “Come inside and eat. We cooked.”

  She guided me inside, and the darkness of the club embraced me with as much love as Amara had just had, and I finally felt safe. We headed through the clubhouse, the scent of alcohol cigarettes and leather hanging thickly in the air, and we went into the kitchen. Sure enough, Amara and some others had been preparing food. There were trays of the stuff, enough to feed everyone, and it felt nice, despite the somber mood and the reason for it. It felt right, like something that Crank would have been happy with.

  Everyone, putting their differences to one side and coming together would have made him happy. I remembered Shooter saying that Crank had turned nomad way before the apocalypse but that he’d come home for a few years and had been an important part of club life. When the apocalypse hit and then later the club split in two, he’d left with some of the others. He’d said that at the end of the world if people couldn’t come together to protect one another, then he didn’t want to be a part of any of it. He’d remained in contact, apparently, keeping the club in the loop on things that he’d found out while on the road, but he’d never wanted to come back—not until the clubs united, he’d said.

  And yet there they were, joining forces, and there he now would be, for all eternity. Everyone finally back together.