The Ice Queen was already signaling him to follow her. As he turned away, I got a glimpse at the paper. It was full of numbers and what looked to me like random signs—gibberish that a printer possessed by demons might spit out. Nate saw my confusion and answered it with a barely perceptible shrug. He clearly didn’t have a clue, either, but since Cole sounded confident, it was best to let him work instead of demanding answers now.
After setting Cole up with the battery pack, Pia returned to us, a bundle of maps in her hands. Splaying two of them out on the hood of the Rover, she and Nate quickly noted down all the marks on the invitation card, and with Hamilton joining them, they started tracing routes. I watched them for a bit until Burns handed the card to me, after pretty much everyone else had gotten a good look at it. Considering our current situation, it looked like right out of a sci-fi movie—a world where you could still call or email a printer and pick a stack of these things up the following day. The letters were embossed, the paper around them in enough relief that I could even feel it through my gloves. It even had that fancy-card smell, a little like old books; something I’d never noticed before, but now it was impossible to ignore. Flipping it over, I stared at the map, noting that we had already diverged from the marked course, if not by much. The bunker was exactly where we knew it would be, near the southern end of Daniel Boone National Forest in southeastern Kentucky. With Cumberland Lake just a stone’s throw away, it could have been some upscale resort, but then that might have been a selling point. If the roads remained clear and we ran into no other obstacles, we could make it there in a little over a day, although I really didn’t feel like driving well into the night if that meant that tomorrow evening I might already be dead. As much as I’d yearned to finally know what message Rita had been told to give us, now that we had about thirty hours left—going on the cryptic “tomorrow evening” countdown—I wouldn’t have minded to have another week, or decade for that matter.
Nate was quick to fold up the maps once more, signaling me to get back into the car. “South,” he told me once more when I asked for directions. “Then west. I’ll tell you where.” That puzzled me a little—also because the route on the invitation card had gone east, then pretty much clear south between Indianapolis and Cincinnati. It hadn’t been a very detailed map. Nate gave me a bland look. “I’m not going to play ‘Simon says’ with him unless I absolutely have to. We pass by Indianapolis to the west and hunt for a place to crash either at Lake Monroe or Patoka Lake, and then amble toward the Appalachians tomorrow.” He followed that up with a surprisingly acerbic smile. “If I go to my execution tomorrow, at least I want to do it not stinking to hell. A good night’s sleep in the cooler air by the lake will be good, too, and we can supplement our diet with fish, if we catch any.”
“Unless the alligators eat us first.”
Nate sighed, but I could tell he was loosening up a little. “Bree, there are no alligators in Indiana and Kentucky.”
“There could be,” I pointed out. “Maybe they escaped from a zoo. Or from a private owner’s estate. Would be just like us to get eaten by an alligator two states over from alligator country.”
He shook his head at me, laughing softly. “Just drive. And I’ll make sure to keep you safe from anyone’s bites other than mine. And maybe a million mosquitos.”
“You say the sweetest things,” I quipped as I started the engine. That blasted thing was still way too silent for its own good. And off we went.
Chapter 19
After having spent the last five days pretty much blasting at full speed through the Midwest—whatever “full speed” meant on any given road; sometimes it had been little more than a crawl for a mile or two, but more often than not we’d stuck to broader roads—it was oddly relaxing to spend the remainder of the day meandering through the countryside. Because that’s exactly what Nate had meant when he’d said he’d tell me which roads to take. I knew it wasn’t about enjoying the landscape, although past the Indianapolis metro area it was quite nice cruising. It also wasn’t about enjoying our last two days of freedom, although being out and about, ambling through the forests and hills, was a nice change. It was even less about keeping me busy, although I appreciated that. It was obviously for operational security purposes, our mad, near random to-and-fro hopping between country roads left us incredibly hard to track, the terrain making it near impossible to follow us except at direct line of sight distance—and we paused often enough to make sure that didn’t happen.
By the time we got to our destination for the night—Patoka Lake, since we’d almost crashed into the end of a streak slumming it at Lake Monroe’s western edge—I was very ready to get out of the car and into the blue water of the lake. We spent another thirty minutes finding the perfect spot to make camp—which was an elaborate way of saying we ditched the cars in the forest far enough away from the next larger road not to be seen, but close enough that should we have to bail, we wouldn’t end up stuck between trees or have to drive into the water to become sitting ducks there, quite literally. There was a certain air of levity going around as we established a perimeter—without running into alligators, or anything larger than the odd critter quickly disappearing into the underbrush. Like many recreational areas, it had remained mostly untouched by the apocalypse at first glance, not many visitors having been around to die out here due to summer season not having started, and a week of what people had believed to be a flu epidemic ravaging the country. Oh, if they had known… I was sure a few more would have chosen lake houses to bite it in.
Our provisions were starting to dwindle, but nobody seemed to have the appetite to go cabin raiding. We had two fishing rods with us and Burns and Clark set them to good use, which was to say they were standing knee deep in the water, joking around, shirking their duties in camp setup. I was surprised that none of the scavengers suggested finding a boat to row out and drop some explosives into the water to make fishing just a little interesting. Maybe they just didn’t do it where I could hear. I was happy to walk through the forest farther back from the water to make sure nothing unpleasant was hiding in there for us, and by the time I returned to the shore, we had a fire going, some coffee brewing, and the first three fish were slowly turning to charcoal over the flames. No bean-rice-mystery-meat stew for tonight. And what did they say? Tomorrow we might dine in Valhalla.
I’d kind of expected the mood to be somber—or rather, dreaded it—but the opposite turned out to be true. Was our ecstatic-going-on-manic chattering fueled by a latent sense of dread and unease? Yes, but I honestly couldn’t remember a time anymore when that hadn’t been a constant in my life. Even before Nate’s grand speech to me about there no longer existing any safe places in the world, the fact that billions of people had died and way too many of them had refused to stay dead had drastically changed my perception. It had taken less than a year after that to turn my paranoid sense of being chased—by the undead; by assholes out to rape me, or eat me; by someone misguided trying to protect their territory—into reality… and still, we prevailed. It was impossible to forget about all the shit that had happened since I’d thrown my lot in with Nate, but there had been good days as well. Actually, some of the best days of my life I’d spent with the people sitting around the fire with me now. I hadn’t let the rise of the undead stop me, and I sure as hell wouldn’t let that asshole in his doomsday bunker change anything about that now. In a sense, knowing that tomorrow things would come to a head was a relief. Finally, no more guessing games and feeling like I constantly needed to look over my shoulder. We’d go full frontal into confrontation mode—and whoever was left standing won. I had a certain feeling that Nate would make damn sure that only we would be able to limp away from this. And if we didn’t? Then getting the most out of tonight was all the more important.
Because of the fish we caught, we kept the fire burning well into the night, trusting that we could easily defend the small peninsula which we’d chosen between the twenty of us. Once everyone had th
eir share to fill our stomachs, Martinez got a little creative with seasoning the last two fish, turning one spicy enough that it became a dare for everyone to eat a bite of it. I, of course, went about it with all the cockiness that dead taste buds had lent me—and almost choked on my bite when it turned out hot as fuck, much to the raucous laughter rising around me. Coughing, I managed to find the bits I’d accidentally spewed out and swallowed them, not willing to relinquish that victory. My mind was still reeling from the sputtering as I idly wondered if that was a repetition of being able to kind of taste blood, when Martinez patted me amiably on the shoulder. “Should have warned you about that,” he teased. “Just because you can’t taste for shit doesn’t mean you can’t smell it. It’s the oil in the seasoning that draws out the heat of the spices, and when the fish is still warm enough, it keeps evaporating in your mouth and fucks with your upper airways.”
Of course I had to reward that with a rather crude and graphic remark about where he could shove his spicy fish—which sounded even more painful than eating it—but since even Hamilton and Sonia kept their barbs to a minimum tonight, I wasn’t actually annoyed. We of course didn’t have any milk to tone down the burn so most of us were sitting there with tears streaming down our faces, which just added to the general sense of hilarity—until Martinez’s explanation triggered something in the deep recesses of my brain.
And, just like that, I was very happy I’d passed up the bottle of moonshine making the rounds, objecting each time that since its taste and effect were lost on me, someone else should get wasted on my share instead. I’d always found that a very curious thing, those reports about a heightened sense of smell, leading to anecdotes about cravings for pickles just because someone at the other end of the train was eating a sandwich with pickles in it. No idea why that of all things had stuck with me. Nothing I could do about that now, except curse to myself about the timing. Somehow I didn’t see our current travel schedule having room to go hunt for a stick to pee on. I briefly considered saying something, but then cut down on the impulse. What did it matter if I ended up dead tomorrow, anyway? And leaving the others with one less nuance to mourn seemed like a blessing.
Second watch shift turned to third, and begrudgingly, we decided to call it a night. I figured it was probably an oversight so I turned to ask Pia for which shift I was penciled in—it was always either the last, or the one just before that—but got a smirk from her in return. “Everyone here knows that you’re not standing watch tonight,” she told me, her attention briefly flitting over to Nate. “And neither is he. So why don’t you finally leave us to enjoy the evening in peace and get on with christening the back row of your snazzy new car?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “What makes you think I haven’t already rubbed every inch of me all over it?” Then I had to pause because I burst out laughing at myself. “And that came out so very wrong.”
I was met with agreement, but Pia was adamant about shooing me away—and didn’t meet with much resistance, Nate and me both quick to get up. She then turned to Hamilton. “You hit the sack as well. It won’t do anyone any good if you fall flat tomorrow because of lack of sleep.”
He gave her a tight smile that was far from humorous but retreated toward the Humvee without a word of protest. That puzzled me all the way to the Rover, my thoughts clear on my face since Nate paused by the door and looked back at me, a wry twist to his mouth. “You know that they need to do their plotting without us hearing even a breath of it, right? Can’t spill any secrets that you’re not aware of.”
Gee, that was the kind of reminder that I’d needed just then. Nothing like thoughts of torture to get my groove on.
“So our plan is to simply show up there, the three of us, and see what happens?” I asked.
Nate shrugged. “What else can we do? And before you start to speculate—don’t. Let Zilinsky handle this. Trust that, by now, she knows what’s in that note that Cole got delivered from whoever was made to play errand boy, and she’ll likely spend half the night and most of the day briefing the others about it.” His smile was more of a grimace. “Do I absolutely hate this? Yes, every single aspect of it, starting with having to walk into what may very well be our certain doom absolutely blind, with no clue about what our team might have planned to support or rescue us. Am I arrogant enough to be certain that I could come up with ten better plans? Yes, but the problem is, all the strategy planning I’ve ever done was based on what Decker and his cronies taught me. My mind is poisoned by his doctrine, and anything I can think of, he will have already planned for. Zilinsky? She’s a brilliant strategist in her own right, and her ideas have always been as bloody as they are efficient. That was one of the first things that fascinated me about her. It’s part of the reason why they accepted her and Romanoff into the serum program. I think the only reason she ever even glanced at one of our manuals was to come up with ways to subvert all the standard strategies and know what to do should she ever again find herself on the other side. Let her do her job so we can do ours.”
I didn’t really need that reminder and got the sense Nate was mostly droning on for his own good. All I did in response was quip a brief, “Okay,” and pull open the back door of the Rover to get inside. Nate looked slightly puzzled at my lack of protest but wasn’t far behind.
Things got pretty heated pretty fast. Was I tempted to inform him of my suspicion that, strictly speaking, our activities were no longer required? Yes, but the day I’d have sex for any other purpose than having sex was the day I was ready to clock out for good—and that would never happen. After spending the entire evening with my best friends, making fun of each other and sharing a million stories we’d already heard a million-and-one times, this was the perfect ending to what might very well be my last full day alive. Nate was just as eager as I was, if not more, to chase that high and pull each other along, years of familiarity going great with the rising need to forget about the world one last time. And then one more, and one more, until we were both panting with the need for breath, exhausted in the best kind of way, sweating all over each other and the Rover’s back seats—and not giving a shit about anything in the world except for each other. It was amazing—no, divine—and my body was still soaring on its endorphin high when my mind crashed, sudden and unrelenting, from one moment to the next.
Staring deep into Nate’s eyes, I heard myself whisper without even giving my voice box the command for the words. “I don’t want to die.”
Pain cut through his haze of lust, his eyes, a moment ago unfocused, now staring deep into my own. “Neither do I. Want you to die, that is.”
Maybe now was the wrong moment to split hairs about phrasing, but with the iron grip of dread squeezing my heart to the point where I couldn’t draw breath anymore—or so it felt—I couldn’t let this go. Yes, I was fully aware that I was having a panic attack, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking rationally anymore… somewhat. “And you?”
Nate’s expression remained carefully neutral for way too long before he looked away. I was afraid he would withdraw from me, physically the same as emotionally, but instead, he rolled over onto his back and pulled me close so that I was mostly lying on him rather than at his side, our bodies molded against each other from my cheek on his shoulder down to my toes against his shin. He brought his other arm up, actually holding me, as if the very thought of letting me go was impossibly painful.
“I don’t want to die, either,” he finally said in a low, raspy voice, speaking to the dark ceiling above us rather than me. “But considering what I’m afraid I will have to do tomorrow, that doesn’t really sound like a good option.”
I was silent for a while, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. We were both still wide awake—and I doubted I would get much rest tonight, not with my mind getting weird like this—and when he refused to say anything, I was the one to budge. “Which is?”
I hated watching his throat move in a convulsive swallow right in front of my face. Not muc
h in this world fazed him—and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know about the few things that did.
“Over the past week I’ve been thinking a lot. I can’t help it, but there’s this nagging doubt inside of me that I’ve been seeing things wrong.”
“Like what?”
Again he hesitated but then let it all out. “I’ve been trying to come up with exactly why things happened the way they did. I’ve shared the theory with you that I’ve had for the longest time—that when I refused to do as Decker wanted me to, with Bucky’s sister, and then went on and refused to lead a strike team and went for search and rescue instead, I deeply disappointed him. And then I added insult to injury when I did everything possible to make them kick me out so I could come after the people who killed my brother. He gave me one more chance to come back, and I not just blew it; I used him and his resources to further my plan, until I’d gotten what use there was out of it. I figured I’d never live to regret all of it. When they started coming after us, and Hamilton let it slip who was behind it all, it made sense—extenuating circumstances warranted Decker giving me another chance, only that I did my very best to keep wriggling out of the noose he tried to knot around my neck. But there are so many inconsistencies in this, and so little that fits perfectly. I… I fucking hate to admit it, but I think I’ve been looking at it all the wrong way, and for a lot longer than since we’ve met.”
“It made a lot of sense to me,” I offered, not quite sure what else he saw in this.
Nate frowned, mostly to himself. “It’s just… I always thought it was a competition. His way of forcing Hamilton to try to keep up with me. I’m not proud to admit it, but while I applied myself, if you want to call it that, he never had a chance of surpassing me.”
Green Fields Series Box Set | Vol. 4 | Books 10-12 Page 102