by Tim Marquitz
Nina glanced at the men, shaking her head. “What happened to ladies first around here?”
Jasmine sidled over and bumped Nina with her hip, licking some gravy off her middle finger. “This is seconds for us.” She smiled, apologetically. “Sorry we didn't wake you up. You looked so purty just a layin' there with drool hanging from your lip.”
Nina grimaced and gave Jasmine a gentle shove. “Shut up. Jaz.”
Rachel giggled and put a dripping chicken leg onto her plate, but then pushed it at Nina. “Here,” she said. “This is for you.”
Nina didn’t argue. She thanked the girl and then covered everything on the plate with gravy. Greta, who had been watching with a bit of a frown, lightened upon seeing that and seemed pleased. The woman offered up a tankard filled with some sort of foamy beer. “We brew this here, my father and me.”
“Thanks.” Nina took a healthy gulp. It was cool, almost cold, filling her mouth with a bittersweet, honeyed flavor. “Jiminy! This is the best fuckin’ draft I ever had.”
Greta laughed then, and nodded her thanks.
Nina spent the next few minutes shoving food down, the men having given up the table. They stood around with their beers, talking or just enjoying the sounds of the night and being in a civilized place with nobody trying to shoot or bite ‘em. At some point, Nina looked up to find George staring at her with that empty-headed stare look of his. She had some half-chewed potatoes in her mouth, so she pushed them forward with her tongue, smashing them between her lips in a gross display of etiquette.
George blew out with a bit of Southern scorn. Nina chuckled and went back to filling up, not caring if he watched her or not.
The night cooled, bellies began the arduous task of digesting, and light conversation started up. Pa and Mathias talked about the Bible, Pa rubbing his distended belly in contentedness. Manning marveled over Buck's massive gun, the rough-rider explaining why he'd designed it that way, and how he had to manipulate standard ammunition to get it to work right. Their voices drifted on the gentle breeze.
The table got cleared before any of them knew what was happening, and they were left with a small cask of the honeyed beer, which they did their best to empty. At some point, Mason Daggett disappeared, leaving George to stare off into the grove of pines just outside the reach of the torches, his back towards the group and a bottle of Kentucky whiskey they'd brought from the train between his legs.
A couple of hours before midnight, the hired men came out. The big black feller, Cato, waved and smiled. “Howdy. Thought we'd give you a little breathin' room before we bothered to acquaint with ya.”
“Much obliged, Mister Cato,” Pa said. “Have a seat.”
The big guy sat down between Pa and Mathias while Miguel pulled up a stool near the edge of the torchlight and began whittling on a piece of wood. The tall white man, Christopher, engaged Buck and Manning about things like guns and news from the east.
Things were peaceful for a while, until Nina spied George, all screw-mouthed as he stared at the black man. It must chap his hide to see Cato sitting there so comfortably. At first George spoke more into his bottle, grousing and what-not, but soon he was airing it out a bit mouthier.
Jasmine eyed the situation, legs swinging from the table. “You see George being a fool?”
“I sure do, but he ain't got his big brother around. Maybe someone will kill him tonight.” Nina was half-joking, but no doubt she was ready to be rid of George Daggett. She was wondering how she could have possibly felt any relief at all after Father Mathias had done his miracle healing on George a couple days ago.
“Should we say something?” Jasmine asked and sipped from her tankard, a thin line of foam lingering on her lip when she withdrew it.
Nina shrugged. “I say let’s see what happens.”
And in the next breath, it did.
Cato stiffened visibly, his eyes widening so the whites were starkly contrasted against his dark skin. The black man turned and gave George a hard glare. “What was that now?”
George hesitated, but then seemed to regain his courage. “I said we white folk are trying to relax and shouldn’t have to bear the company of some uppity nig—”
The black man shot up. “Look here! I won't hear that word uttered around me. Mister Ramdohr wouldn't have it neither.”
“That so, you fuckin' overgrown coon? You nuh-nuh-nuh...”
Cato blustered. “Don't say it. I'm a’warnin' you!”
George rose off his bench, tangle-legged and as beef-headed as ever. The Mexican named Miguel stood up, too, his knife still in hand from whittling.
“Don’t say it or what? You gonna swing?” George spat. “What you think the Law gonna do about that, assuming you got real law in this no-horse shithole. Back home, oh, you’d swing alright—one o’ yer kind brush a white man and they'd hang your whole damned coon-ass family.”
Manning started to rise. “Look now, George—”
George adjusted his stance, stuck out his chest, and squared off with Manning. “You got something to say to me, friend? 'Cause I'll tell ya what, I've had enough of your shit these past few days.”
Manning looked between the Southerner and Cato and settled himself. “You know what? Not this time. Go right ahead.”
“Yes, go on, George,” Buck added, then said, “We could all use some entertainment.”
Nina noticed even Father Mathias was keeping mum, watching with his brows slightly furrowed in the middle.
Cato put his palm up to Miguel, and the Mexican gave a barely imperceptible nod. The black man—taller by several inches, broader by a country mile—looked down at George, and the Southerner gave a wobbly bow.
George spread his arms wide, spilling whiskey on the ground. “As you wish, my African king, lord o’ the fuckin' jungle, ruler of apes and tigers and all kinds of weird jungle,” he paused to blow a silent belch, “shit.”
Cato stood stock still, so George stuck his face up, jutting his jaw out. “Okay, darkie, I ain't gotta say it ‘cuz you know I'm thinkin' it, and you cain’t do shit about that.”
Mason emerged from the Daggett’s quarters, buttoning his shirt. He stopped upon seeing the scene, smoothed his ruffled hair. Greta came out behind him, looking disheveled, as well. She still wore her dress, although her shirt was twisted and half fastened, and she held a shawl around her muscly shoulders. A cascade of blonde locks were loose from her bun and fell all about her face.
Nina and Jasmine exchanged a look, realizing where Mason had gotten off to.
Unabashed, Greta marched up and pushed herself between Cato and George, put her finger against George's chest. Nina noticed she was an inch or two taller than him as she scowled into his face. “You causing trouble?”
Mason gently—surprisingly so—intercepted Greta's pointing finger and eased her aside. “He's just a little roistered, that’s all. Let's get you to bed, Georgie. That head wound has got you messed up, brother.”
George tried to shove his brother but missed, nearly plowing the ground with his face before Mason caught him. Once straightened, he bellowed, “I'll go to bed when I damn well please. Only me and the Lord know when that’ll be, by God. Let me go!”
“I just had me a prayer meetin' with God, and he said now would be a good time.” Mason patted him on the back and helped him along.
George's demeanor nosedived under the guidance of his brother. “But I'm comin' back to take that big bastard on, right?”
“Of course. Have us a good night's rest and we’ll revisit it, what do ya say?”
“That’s right. You always got my back.”
“Always.”
Greta followed the brothers to their door, whispered something to Mason, and then hoisted her skirts and hurried back to the farmstead without so much as a goodnight. The three hired hands retired shortly thereafter, Cato making apologies for any untoward hostility and assuring them he held no grudges against anyone.
Pa and Mathias retired next, shaking their heads ab
out “that dolt,” meaning George Daggett, and Rachel nodded off with her head pillowed by her arms on the tabletop. Manning, Buck, and Jasmine shared the last of the beer with Nina, making a few jokes and chuckling about Mason humping their host’s daughter.
Finally, Buck drained his cup and said, “Too bad Red’s not here. He’d be enjoying all this. He’d sure like this brew.” He stood and stretched. “Want I should carry the girl to bed?”
“That’s all right, Mister Patterson,” Jasmine said, then announced her exhaustion and woke Rachel, pulling her along with her to their quarters, and Buck headed off to his. Nina didn't miss Jasmine’s wink as they went inside.
That left her and James. Alone.
“What a night.” Nina sighed and stretched.
Manning stood and went for a beer, then sat next to her on the bench. “Turn around,” he said.
“What?”
“You’re tense. Turn around.”
She did, wondering what he was all about, then he took hold of her shoulders, started rubbing and kneading her tired muscles. Nina stiffened at first as the rigid muscles refused to relax, but after a minute she had damned well melted into her seat. She nearly cried out when Manning’s hands found a really sore spot, and she realized it was from when the deadun had nearly ripped her hair out, back during her rescue of the Buells.
Deaduns. She'd nearly forgot about them, or at least had wanted to, what with all the food and hospitality. Where were they now? What did Liao Xu have up his sleeve? When would he catch up with them?
Manning worked at the knot, drawing a wavering sigh from her and making her forget about that yellow-hooded, dark eyed sonofabitch and his walking dead. Manning’s hands were...incredible. The further she slid into relaxed bliss, the more Liao Xu and his deaduns faded into tomorrow. If they were in Reno, they could all rot there, far as she was concerned.
Manning’s lips suddenly tickled her ear lobe, making her shut her eyes and lean her head a bit. “I think Mason and Greta had the right idea,” he said. “If the world's coming to an end, I want to spend whatever time I’ve got left with you, Nina.”
“Ain't no one dying tonight.” She stood up, took his hand, and led him out into the dark pines.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NINA FUMBLED WITH MANNING'S TROUSERS AS he backed her into a small clearing nestled in a grove of pines. He held her by the shoulders, smothered her mouth in a pleasant, suffocating way. Part of the difficulty in the trouser removal was his hardness. His penis stood up straight against his stomach, rigid as a tree limb, harder than she could have ever imagined. Hell, she'd not even seen more than a handful of peckers in her life—mostly accidental spottings—and she wasn't sure what to do with it.
Would have to figure it out as she went, she guessed.
But Nina knew enough about the basics of copulation to understand James being hard was a good thing, if a bit intimidating. They bustled and wrestled one another, fought their clothing free and tossed shirts and shoes into the brush. Before Nina could breathe twice, her holster and gun slid to the ground, denims right behind them.
A light breeze stirred up the forest, carrying the scents of bark and brush and dirt. His hands were all over her, leaving promises every place they touched.
“Wait,” she said, stiffening, her hands rigidly pushing his away, fighting his advances even though she didn't want to. This was too much. She was too vulnerable.
Manning's hands stopped, but his lips did not. He kissed her neck, his breath sending chills across her shoulders. “I understand. It's too soon...”
But why resist this now? What was the point? Any thoughts about her safety seemed less important in light of the bigger cause; fears of disappointing Pa by impropriety or trying to live up to some false standard seemed silly. Hell, Pa wanted her to be happy. And he approved of James Manning. She could see it in his eyes. Something he rarely accorded to most folks. Respect.
In the end, Nina got the feeling she might be nothing more than a pawn. She'd likely have to sacrifice everything. So what harm did this moment bring? What great judgment on her soul? Nothing, was the answer. She gave in with a sigh.
Nina was curious about the tip of his cock brushing and bouncing against her quivering abdomen; she wanted it in her hand, to stroke it, to see what made James Manning tick. All that was left to do was to take it...
Hell with it, she thought, letting go of Manning's hands, in fact, guiding them to parts of her body she normally considered sacred places. His lips fell on her neck, kissing, licking, while a hand cupped her breast. She let out a long breath, and something more, something inside of her seemed to release and she felt free.
Not even layers of sweat-covered, blood-marinated skin could deter the man. Chills shocked her ceaselessly, heart pounding like a…well, like a runaway train. Manning put his hands between her legs, gently parting her. Nina’s breath caught and she halfway climbed up his body from the pleasure, pulling one foot free of her denims and wrapping her leg around his waist.
Manning was a volcano, exuding incredible amounts of heat in the chilling air. But Nina burned, too, a firebrand of lust. She was dizzy with it, breathless, as he lifted her, carried her a few steps, and pressed her against the trunk of a large pine, the bark scraping at her skin. He started to enter her...
No. She slapped his chest with one hand and gripped his cock with the other, pushing him away and pulling him back at the same time. Even in the dimness she saw the fiery lust in his eyes...and maybe something more.
Nina turned around, pressed her shoulder against the tree, pushed her derrière against his hardness. It was all she could think to do after having seen Jasmine do the same thing with Strobridge. She briefly wondered if her legs were as long and inviting as Jasmine's, but no thought remained in her head long, not with the world melting around her.
Manning probed her down there with his fingers before something much larger replaced them. She spread her legs to accept it, gasping. Nothing she dreamed up could have prepared her for having Manning inside her. At first, it was an awkward, rough entry, despite his gentle attentions. He pressed down on her lower back, and she arched her behind upward. The angle allowed him to enter further. A sharp, quick pain in her abdomen followed that took her breath away as he filled her completely.
Nina strained against the tree trunk. “Oh fuck,” she said, having no better words to describe the experience.
He stopped. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah…” She backed into him, filling herself this time, letting him know he didn't have to hold back. That she wanted it, too.
Manning took control, working himself into her and moving urgently. He reached around, fondling her breasts. An electric thrill tingled just beneath her skin, across her body, into her belly. Manning's thighs slapped against Nina's backside as she held on, her fingers digging into the scaly bark. Nothing could have prepared her for this. The hard pummeling against her bottom, Manning's strong grip on her shoulders, pinning her against the tree; opposite of pain, in fact, the most pleasant sort of contact. It was beautiful and violent all at once.
Nina’s breath came fast, a shuddering built deep inside her core, wrapped itself around her and James Manning like a coiling snake. She'd thought herself a woman before, tossing a gun around and blowing deaduns to pieces, talking tough to ex-soldiers and rich railroad bosses. But this act had nothing to do with...taking. Or perhaps it did, only there was giving, too. Giving herself to a man. A man she…loved?
The word was sweet on her tongue, ready to slip loose. Then it was gone.
She smelled something, that stench, like a carcass left to rot in the sun. The shuffling through the brush, feet dragging, as telling as a lumbering heifer with a bell around its neck.
Still in the act, James unaware, Nina hugged the tree and peered around it, hoping to the spirits that it was Red Thunder and not what she feared. Then, from the gloom of broken-up moonlight, a man came shambling in the general direction of the barn. He was dressed
in old trousers and a torn shirt that might have once been white but was now dingy and stained with gore.
The bastard was tall, his head brushed up against low branches. He gazed about, and with Nina’s eyes grown accustomed to the night’s darkness, she saw that roving dead stare and a gaping hole where his nose used to be. He made peculiar sniffing noises, the visible tendons on his face gargling these disgustingly wet, ticking sounds.
Nina's euphoria vanished, replaced with revulsion and a kind of heartsickness.
“James,” she whispered. Manning hadn't noticed it, hadn't stopped humping her either. “James!” she raised her voice, regretfully pulling away from him.
“What's wrong—” He cut himself off. He'd seen it now.
“Shh.”
She felt him backing away, no doubt looking for his gun in the thick grass.
By sheer bad luck, the deadun stumbled in their direction, a stiff-legged, jerky gait, always on the verge of falling on its face but never quite managing the feat. It had either picked up their scent or its brain had told it to go at that particular moment. Who the hell knew?
Nina backed up, too, and used her feet to locate her holster. She stumbled, stepped on dry leaves and twigs. The deadun snarled, hunger in its voice, and altered its course, plunging at her around the pine tree. Nina had just enough time catch its slime-coated arms, one slipping free to grasp her shoulder with crust-hardened fingernails.
She let the thing spin her around, putting it between her and Manning. She had to keep those chomping teeth away from her vital parts. Any part, really. She'd seen what kind of damage they could do. Something else, too. The image flashed in her mind of Rachel’s father, Grover Buell, turning into something horrid after being bitten by a deadun.
Nina kicked at its knee with her bare foot. It was a different affair without a boot and though the deadun’s flesh and sinew folded away from its shin bone, she reeled off balance. It grunted and spun her around again, gaining momentum. A third time and they'd go down in a heap; she, naked, tangled up with a deadun. Not the most sporting of odds.