The Dead Saga (Book 6): Odium VI

by Riley, Claire C.

  “Just back up,” Shooter said from next to me. “I got you, okay?”

  I nodded and sniffed, my hard gaze still on Scar. “I hate you.”

  He was still smiling as I took a step back, lowering my machete from his side, and the anger I saw flash in his face showed me I’d done the right thing.

  “Hate ain’t nothin’ new to me,” he replied.

  I took another step away from him. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” I implored the Rejects. “This is exactly what he wants, don’t you see that? He wants you to fight each other. He wants you to kill each other. I don’t know about your club, the history. Hell, I barely understand your terminology, but I understand men like him,” I said, turning my attention back to Scar. “Men like him hate for no reason, they kill with no remorse, and they feed off the fear of others. He’s growing fat with the worlds fear and gorging on the hate and anger. But you don’t have to be like him. You can be better. You once were, right?”

  Scar’s mouth twitched. “You really gonna listen to this shit? And from a woman, no less,” he mocked, looking at his men—good men underneath it all. Men that Shooter could help if they wanted.

  They looked at each other uncertainly, frowns and scowls on their hard faces and hesitation in their eyes. They didn’t want this. They just wanted the brotherhood, to ride their bikes and be a part of something that was bigger than they were.

  I took a slow breath and hedged my bets on the good. On hope. Because anything else made me want to cry. I looked around me, at the men stood side by side, unsure of what to do.

  “Yeah, they are, because they’re better than you,” I said to Scar. I shook my head and took another step away from him. “And so am I.”

  The Rejects were cautiously lowering their weapons and so were the Highwaymen. Maybe they wouldn’t ever be reunited as one club, but maybe they could work together without killing each other. Without fear of turning on each other. Certainly not under the orders of a madman like Scar, and not while there were worse evils to kill in the world. There was hope for them, and for us all.

  Shooter reached over and took Scar’s gun from him and no one tried to stop him, unclipping it from the belt around Scar’s waist and tucking it in to the back of his own jeans.

  “We can do this, together,” I said.

  I looked up at Shooter, wishing I felt for him what he felt for me. He was a good man and I was lucky to have him, but my heart belonged somewhere else. And his heart belonged to that club, to those men that needed so much guidance. Those were our rightful places and I hoped he’d see that soon too.

  “We’ll find Drag, and if he’s gone, then we’ll help you rebuild your club,” Shooter said before adding, “or you can join back with the Highwaymen, it’s your choice. Now’s the time to make amends, not to fight each other.”

  Scar looked furious. Furious at me and at Shooter and at Gauge and at the fact that his men were listening to us. That they’d lowered their weapons and weren’t blindly following him anymore.

  “You wanna know what Butcher said to me?” O’Donnell said, stepping toward the Rejects. “He said to kill the Savages for him. To make them pay for what they’ve done, no matter what. Why did he have to ask that of me, and not you? You were his brothers, right? He should have been able to ask you to do that, but he couldn’t, because he knew Scar wouldn’t let you. He couldn’t trust you to get retribution for him because of Scar. Prove him wrong—do the right thing.”

  I looked over at her in surprise. I hadn’t expected her to get involved in this mess. It wasn’t the NEO way, from what she’d said, but then I guessed she’d been staying with the Rejects and Butcher had been a friend in some way. Aiken was staring down at her with no expression on his face, and I couldn’t decide whether he agreed with her involvement or not, but one thing was clear: he was standing by her.

  The Highwaymen women had finally made it into the clubhouse grounds and had made their way over to us. They were armed to the teeth, bloody and beaten, and yet they looked more alive than I’d ever seen them. And in the midst of them all was Gunner. He looked like death, but he was very much alive. I smiled and looked up at Shooter.

  He smiled down at me, those beautiful blue eyes of his staring longingly into mine.

  “I knew it would be okay,” I said to him.

  He glanced up at the crowd of people surrounding us. Friends ready to work together to destroy a mutual enemy, and then what? Then the future was ours, that was what.

  “Yeah, you did, didn’t you?” he rumbled out with a soft smile.

  I looked over at Scar. “You’re done, Scar. These men want more than what you can give them.”

  “And what’s that?” he replied darkly.

  “They want a life worth living, and a death worth fighting for. Not blood spilled through anger and greed. They don’t want the world that you want—they want something better. We all do.” I shook my head at him and smiled before turning away, my eyes finding Amara’s.

  God, it was good to see her. Even better to see Gunner standing next to her. He looked weak, sick as hell, but he was alive and that was what mattered. It felt like I’d finally made a difference in the world, despite what Michael had said and all the bad forces that were constantly working against the good.

  “Hey, bitch,” Scar said from behind me, and I stopped in my steps, my smile falling.

  I really hated being called “bitch.”

  “You’re gonna be sorry.”

  I turned back to face him, my machete at waist height. “Is that so?”

  He smirked. “Yeah. You’re gonna be sorry and then you’re gonna beg for my forgiveness. But I promise you, bitch, it’ll be too late.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I gritted out.

  Scar chuckled darkly. “Hey, bitch, you forgot somethin’.”

  I sneered at him, my eyes narrowing. “And what was that?”

  His cocky expression changed as he pulled out a knife from the inside of his cut and swung it toward me. I screamed in surprise and lifted my arms up to protect myself, my machete in one hand and the small blade O’Donnell had given me in the other.

  His first slice bounced off of my machete, the sound of metal upon metal clanging loudly in my ears. But then he swung again and I felt the blade tear painfully through me and I screamed in pain as I heard the small knife O’Donnell had given me clank on the ground.

  I automatically swung my machete at him, hitting him in the neck and slicing through it with a guttural roar. I put everything into that one swing, not stopping until his head fell clean from his body. I sobbed at the burning pain that tore through me and dropped to my knees, staring in wonder at the blood that was surrounding me and wondering where it was all coming from.

  Was it all his?

  Please God, let it be his and not mine.

  Scar’s head was next to me, his eyes blank, blood pumping from the wound. They’d already clouded over, and as I stared down at his wretched face I saw new death spark inside his pupils and his jaw begin to snap at me.

  It was his blood, not mine. It couldn’t be mine, I decided.

  “It’s okay, I’m okay,” I mumbled to myself as I tried to stand up. My machete fell from my grasp as Gauge swept me up into his strong arms and the world began to spin around me. Shooter was bellowing orders—too many orders for me to comprehend.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” I said again and again, as Gauge ran with me toward the clubhouse.

  I looked up into his face, seeing speckles of blood clinging to his beard. Pain burned through me, so much pain I didn’t know where it was coming from. I felt dizzy and sick, nausea climbing my throat with the scream that I had lodged there but refused to let out. Because to let it out would be to admit that I was messed up. That I was injured beyond repair. And I wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

  “I’m okay, right?” I sobbed, still looking up at Gauge. “Tell me I’m okay, please!” I begged.

  He remained silent as he pushed through
the clubhouse door, the world momentarily going black around me. I clung to him tightly, fear finally leaking from me until my eyes adjusted and I could see where we were again. People were staring, the other women looking at me in shock, their hands going to their mouths to cover up their horror.

  “Gauge?” I sobbed. “Am I okay?”

  I wanted to be strong and not cry, but found it was too difficult not to. He lay me down on the large table in church, pushing something below my head. I tried to sit up but dizziness washed over me and made the room spin and sickness twist in my stomach.

  Gauge’s face came into view shortly before Shooter’s did, his hard face looking crushed and broken, his eyes sad.

  “I’m sorry,” Shooter said, his blue eyes holding mine hostage.

  “Gauge, tell me!” I sobbed.

  “No, darlin’, no. You’re not okay,” Gauge said. “You’re really not okay at all. But we’re gonna do everything we can to help you. Ya’ hear me?”

  I nodded and tried to look around me, wondering what the hell was going on. Shooter’s fingers grasped the bottom of my chin and he pulled my face back to his. “Don’t look, Nina,” he grunted.

  Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

  I didn’t want to look, but I had to. I had to know what had happened. Where the pain was coming from. It felt like it was everywhere. It felt like the pain was inside me—in my veins, in my blood, tearing through my body. I felt hot and sticky with the pain, it was that unbearable.

  I tried to reach up to Shooter, to cling onto him, but found I couldn’t. And that frightened me more than anything and a sharp yelp of fear tore free from me. I shrugged my chin out from Shooter’s grip and looked down again, wondering why they were tying me to the table. Was I going to turn? Was that what the pain was? The burning sensation pumping through me? Was it the zombie virus changing me?

  “Don’t look,” Shooter said again, and I sobbed in frustration and fear at his words.

  “She needs to see,” Gauge grunted out, looking from me to Shooter. “She needs to know.”

  Shooter leaned over and pressed a kiss to my mouth. “This is all my fault, Nina, I’m so sorry. I should have known he’d be carrying a knife. I should have fuckin’ known.”

  I couldn’t find my words. My tongue felt dry and heavy. I looked away from Shooter and Gauge, ignoring the sound of the door opening and closing and of a woman’s voice talking about sedating me, and I found the strength to look at the damage Scar had inflicted. The violence he had rained down upon me, just like he had promised.

  He’d said that I’d be sorry. That in the end I would beg for his forgiveness, but that it would be too late.

  And he was right.

  Because as I stared at my arm, my gaze traveling down the length of it until my watery eyes saw the carnage and destruction he’d inflicted, the blood and the bone raw and vibrant as my gaze reached the wrist and I saw that my left hand was hanging by bloody threads, I would have done anything to change the outcome.

  I would have gotten down on my knees and pleaded for Scar to kill me instead of leaving me maimed like that. Because that was worse than a death sentence.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Everything hurt.

  So much so that I wanted to be sick. Maybe that would have been better for me. If I were sick, maybe I could vomit out all the pain that I was feeling, and I’d feel better. Because I sure as hell couldn’t feel any worse, could I? Another burning sensation tore through me and I cursed myself for tempting fate.

  Shooter was holding my hand, my small one trapped inside his large one, lost within the confines of his strength. For the first time in a long time, I felt weak. Almost as weak as when the world ended and I was a victim. I blinked against the pain and the sadness that pulled at me like the waves of the ocean, tugging at me to give myself over to it. To surrender to my vulnerability and self-pitying grief. I wanted to. I wanted to so bad. To just let myself be sucked under in the misery of it all. It would have been easier. My eyes were closed against the pain and I tried to breathe, to let the air in and out without panicking too much, but it was hard. The room was thick with heat, testosterone, and the underlying stench of blood—my blood. So much blood I was surprised I was still alive. But of course, I was; that was why the burning sensation of the infection was licking at my veins, tempting me to give over to death and become another one of its victims.

  “Make it stop!” I cried out.

  Gauge, Shooter, and Aiken were holding me down on the table, rough hands grabbing onto me as they pinned me down, holding me still while someone else hacked my hand off. My body shook, and I writhed against my restrains as something hard was forcibly lodged between my teeth. I opened my eyes, a tortuous scream tearing free from my dry lips as I watched a large slab of something red-hot press against my bleeding flesh, and then there was blackness.

  I was sinking into the dark, swimming against the tar ocean. The sticky waves clung to my limbs, making my moves sluggish, and with each stroke my arms took and each kick my legs gave, I felt my body weakening. Tiredness dragged me down, down, down.

  My head sunk beneath the waves and darkness surrounded me, shrouding me like a cold blanket. I kicked against them, forcing myself back up toward the surface, choking on air and gagging on the thick sludge that lined my lungs as once again I was submerged beneath the black waves. I squeezed my eyes closed, black tar pushing into every orifice as I sank lower, my muscles burning as I fought against the zombie infection that had killed so many billions of people.

  I wouldn’t be its victim.

  I wouldn’t.

  I wouldn’t.

  I sank lower, my lungs on fire, my body convulsing, my mind tortured and agonized.

  I sank lower and I tried to pray for my absolution before it was too late.

  “Kill me,” I begged. “Don’t let me turn.”

  *

  “She awake yet?” Gauge’s baritone voice filled the air.

  “Not yet,” a female voice replied.

  I was asleep? No, I was awake now, which meant I was alive. But I was flitting in and out of sleep like a fitful toddler that didn’t want to open her eyes and see the boogeyman that was in her closet.

  But I was alive—for the time being, at least.

  “Nina?” He said my name, his voice close to my ear.

  “Leave her. She needs to rest,” Shooter growled out from somewhere else in the room.

  “We need to talk. People are waiting, wondering if this is still happening.” The smell of Gauge’s cigar filled the room.

  “Get out of here with that!” the woman scolded, and I felt Shooter’s grip tighten on my hand before letting it go.

  I felt cold without his touch. Cold and alone in the bleak and horrible world.

  Seconds later the door closed, and I lay there silently, trapped in the darkness behind my lids while I tried to find some strength within myself.

  “They’re gone,” the woman’s voice said, and I slowly opened my eyes.

  The world was blurry, tainted red with my blood as I forced myself to focus and look up at her.

  She offered me a small smile. “Don’t worry, you’re okay. I’m Stormy—I’m with the NEOs. I’m a doctor—well, vet, but I’m the best we’ve got right now.”

  I took a deep breath and looked down at my right side before quickly looking away again. Because no, I didn’t want to see that right then. I didn’t want to think it or feel it either, but it was still there, tugging at my subconscious, dragging me back to the haunting realization every time I tried to dismiss it. Tears filled my eyes and the already blurry world got a hell of a lot blurrier.

  “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay,” Stormy said from next to me.

  I let the tears roll down my cheeks and looked back up into her face. The old Nina would have been instantly alert, ready to protect herself at all costs from whatever new danger there might be, but the new Nina, she didn’t care what happened next to her. Not right then.r />
  “Is it?” I replied, forcing myself to stop crying.

  “It is, I promise. We’ve done a good job of patching you up.” Stormy smiled like it was the best news ever, and I scowled like she was talking another language to me. She finally got the picture and stopped smiling at me. “Okay, so it’s not perfect. But so long as we keep the infection at bay, you’ll live. You’re very lucky.”

  “Lucky?” I sneered. “You call this lucky? Are you drunk? High maybe? Lady, I’ve only got one hand! There’s nothing lucky about that.”

  “Maybe not lucky then, but you’re alive, you’re relatively healthy, and you have a lot of people that care about you,” she said, gesturing to something outside the room.

  I turned my head to try to see what she was talking about, but Shooter had closed the door after him, so I couldn’t see what she meant. I could hear, though, as if my hearing had become heightened, and there were a lot of people talking.

  “Does it hurt?” the woman asked, and I looked back at her. She had an exceptionally kind face, dark hair, dark eyes and pale skin, and a smile that showed genuine compassion. So much so that I didn’t have it in me to be horrible to her and come back with some biting remark. Which was what I wanted to do.

  But equally, I didn’t want to act like it was okay. Like everything was going to be fine when I felt anything but. My entire life had changed and I couldn’t ever be the woman I had once been. And all because of Scar.

  No. It wasn’t because of him. It was because of me and my big mouth. I had goaded him. I had gotten too close. I should have stayed back like Shooter had said.

  “Yes,” I replied, answering her question through gritted teeth. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I can get you something for that if you want,” she said, patting my shoulder gently. She moved out of my line of sight. “It will make you a little groggy though.”

  “I don’t care. Just make it stop,” I replied. “Please.” Though I wasn’t just talking about the physical pain, I was talking about all of it— life. I wanted it to all be over. “Why couldn’t he just kill me?” I sobbed.