by Tracey Ward
Backs Against the Wall
Survival Series
Book Two
By Tracey Ward
Backs Against the Wall
Survival Series
Book Two
By Tracey Ward
Text Copyright © 2014 Tracey Ward
Editor - Jessie Allen
All Rights Reserved
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.
For my husband Lawren who taught me about zombie cage fighting,
trebuchets and Greek Fire.
So much badass would be missing from this book were it not for him.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
Chapter One
I may be a Tinkerbell, but I’m definitely Tink when she’s trapped in the lamp gasping for her last breath, begging the world to believe and clap their friggin’ hands. In essence, I cannot fly. I know it the second my foot leaves the ledge. I feel it when I go airborne. I’ve done this sort of jump enough to know my limits, to know when I’ll get hurt and when I’ll be fine, and I absolutely know it now.
It’s too far.
I tuck and roll the best I can, but gravity is unkind. I’ve gathered momentum, too much to be useful, just enough to be hurtful, and I tumble head over shoulders over side over elbows onto knees. I’m pretty sure I did a cartwheel back there somewhere, something I wish my mom could have seen. She spent hours with me in the backyard one sunny summer day trying to teach me how to do them. I always managed to land on my head. She eventually called it, telling me to give it a rest before I hurt something important. It’s advice I wish I’d remembered back up on that higher roof. Now as the skin of my face is left somewhere 10 feet back, my right cheek having taken a hell of a blow on the rough tar rooftop, I also remember something else important.
I never liked Tinkerbell. She was a jealous jerk who deserved what she got and worse.
Finally I tumble to a stop on my back, smacking my head hard against the ground until I see stars.
“Ow,” I mumble weakly.
I’m not sure what I’m complaining about. There’s too much pain to inventory all at once. I’ll have to take stock of my body one limb, muscle and burning abrasion at a time. This will take a while. But the good news is I have nothing but time. The zombies are still out there, very nearby I might add, and I have no clear idea of how I’m getting off this roof now that I worked so hard to get here. If I go inside this building, I’m going in blind and defenseless. I don’t know what the situation is in there, if there even is one. Way my luck is going, there is. No doubt about it.
I move my legs. First the right, then the left. No breaks, good news. There’s a pulled muscle or two down there but nothing I can’t handle. My arms are next. Right one, good. Left one—
“Holy Mary Mother of God Almighty,” I grind out through gritted teeth as I roll back and forth on the ground trying to escape the pain. “Oh yeah, that’s broken. Soooo broken.”
My language goes far downhill from there. Jack and Jill tumbling down and breaking every bone along the way kind of downhill. I take a few deep breaths, vowing to never move my left arm again, and I test out the rest of me. Neck is good. That’s a relief. Head is sore along with the face but I haven’t begun vomiting, no dizziness, no blurred vision. Odds are I took a hard hit but no concussion. Ignoring the left arm (something I dare you to do someday. Go ahead, break it and pretend it never happened. Can’t be done!) I’m alright. I’m mobile. I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving this. But I know I can’t do it alone. Not with a broken arm and limited defenses.
I reach for my trowel, ready to take another shot at signaling for help despite my I-Am-Wonder-Woman-And-Need-No-Man moment back there. Independence is great but real strength is being able to ask for help when you need it. And man oh man, do I need it right now. I won’t sit around wishing and hoping someone will save me, but I do understand I have to keep trying to get help. I’m going to expose myself to the biggest, baddest gang out there if all goes according to this terrible, suicidal plan, so announcing myself to any other gang out there is really no big deal. Unless it’s the cannibals. Screw those guys. I’d rather be zombie dinner than end up on their plate. At least the zombies can’t feel feelings any more, making them sort of blameless. What’s the cannibal’s excuse? Crazy, that’s what.
Unfortunately, my trowel is no longer with me. I sit up, hugging my arm to my chest, and give out a groan but otherwise the pain is being handled internally. I broke it somewhere near the elbow because all I can feel is white hot pain in that area. I refuse to look at it though. I know I’ll see bone and I can’t handle that now. It’s too real. If I see how truly awful, crazy, jacked up bad it is, I’ll give up. I’ll imagine it hurts worse than it already does and I’ll assume I’m dead meat. I need denial to make it out of this alive.
I scan the rooftop for the trowel but it’s MIA.
“Perfect.”
Alright, no more calls for help. I wanted to do it alone and it looks like that’s what I’ll do. I stand up slowly, letting my skin stretch in new ways that tells me where more cuts and scrapes are. To be clear, by ‘scrapes’ I mean road burn. I mean sections of skin lost to the rooftop like it was trying to make a Joss suit it could wear. My thin Colony clothes are ripped wide open in several places making them nearly useless. I’m shivering again, something that’s working wonders for my arm, so I get moving to warm up. Also to seek shelter. I don’t know that I’m going home, though.
The way I see it I have two options. I’m in no condition to see The Hive today. They prey upon weakness and in my current state I am all weak sauce, so I can go to Crenshaw to have him bandage me up or go to Ryan. That’s it with that second option. No real benefits, no promise of help or healing. Just Ryan. One choice is smart, one is emotional and I hate, loathe and despise emotional. But can you imagine which option I’m considering the hardest?
I make my way to the door leading off this roof. I’m relieved when it opens easily. I was worried it would be locked as so many these days are, like my water sources all are. Not that it seems to matter since people still break into them and rob you blind. My temper flares, fueling my aching body with the steam it needs to get down the long flight of stairs, through the seemingly endless corridors and out into the growing morning light.
There are Risen everywhere.
They haven’t spotted me yet. In fact, most are heading toward the building I jumped from, probably answering the siren call of the other Risen still pounding on a door to the rooftop to get to me. But in my current state, openly broken and bleeding all over the road, it won’t take long for them to catch my scent. As it is, I’m bleeding steadily from my arm onto the pavement.
I turn quickly, taking off at a fast pace as I pull the hem of
my shirt up high until my left arm is cradled in it against my chest. I ball up the excess fabric in my right fist as much as I can to pin my injured arm in place. I feel tears sting my eyes as what feels like sandpaper against raw nerve screams from my elbow through my entire body. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. To keep from basically waving to the Risen and saying, ‘Hey! Over here! Breakfast is served!’
With my shoddy makeshift sling in painful place, I run. I book it as fast as my sore, sorrowful legs will carry me. I dart down alleys trying to avoid Risen but they’re everywhere. I can’t get away from them and I find eventually that my best bet is to run right down the center of the street dodging them when I have to. Hands reach for me, mouths snap toward me, but it’s nothing I’m not used. I tune it out and focus up. But all the focus in the world can’t make me fast enough to outrun this city.
A Risen tackles me as I try to dart out of the way. She grabs onto different parts of my body as she slides down the side of me while I try to continue to run. I’m using denial again, pretending I absolutely do not have a 130 lbs zombie hanging from my waist right now. Eventually she slips down far enough that I think I’ll escape but she grabs my leg and we both hit the pavement hard. Luckily I’m able to roll onto my back. It’s good news for my busted arm, my face and my life. Never, never, never ever let a Risen get your back. You can’t fight them off, you can’t hold them off. If they get ahold of you from behind in any way, especially pinning you to the ground, we’ll all miss you and say lovely words at your funeral because you’re dead.
She grabs onto the waist of my pants, trying to use it to climb up me but the best she gets is pulling the loose material down my hips slightly. I roll as far as I can away from her then I swing back toward her where she rests on my leg, bringing my free knee up and putting all of my force and momentum behind it. I’m able to crack her right in the face, stunning her enough to scurry back, clearing my feet from her grasp. I’m in no condition to fight her any more than this so I roll over on my good arm and use it to help hoist me up onto my feet. My nearly useless sling is now completely useless so I cradle my left arm with my right, noticing some interesting textures there and doing everything I can to not think about what I’m touching. Then I run.
I run until my lungs burn. I run until my legs are rubber. I run until the Risen have thinned and I have a chance to stop for two seconds to try to catch my breath so I can run some more. The only good thing about today so far is that it’s just that; day. I can see. I have landmarks to tell me where I’m heading and whether or not I’m running in blind circles surrounded by a sea of Risen. I’m still really far from home. Maybe too far. I might have to take up residence in one of these buildings soon, definitely before nightfall.
I know I need to get moving but I can’t. I can feel it in my entire bitter body. I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten and I’m fading fast. I need water soon for sure and a bandage or fifty would be nice too.
“You don’t want to stop here,” a voice calls quietly from down a dark alley nearby.
I jump to attention, nearly leaping out of my ruined skin.
“This is The Eleven’s territory,” he continues. “They’ll eat you alive.”
He’s nothing but a motionless shadow wrapped in darkness. A vague form inked in black on black paper.
“Are you one of them?” I demand, sounding fiercer than I feel.
“No.”
“Then you shouldn’t be here either. Why don’t we both leave and no one has to get hurt?”
“I thought you wanted me to come.”
I scowl, thoroughly confused. “What?”
“Your signal.”
The trowel. The light.
“You saw it?”
A figure steps out slowly, emerging from the shadows by degrees. Tall, blond hair. Kind of gangly. But it’s his eyes that I notice more than anything. They’re razor sharp, slicing my momentary strong façade to shreds. He sees it. He sees how broken I am. Because he sees everything.
Trent.
“Didn’t you want me to see it?” he asks softly.
I hesitate, unsure. I did want him to see it. But now that he’s here I’m not so sure. His eyes are too intent on my face. His demeanor is too calm considering our situation. He’s knee deep in another gang’s territory, there are Risen everywhere around us and yet he stands there casual as can be as though the world never went all out Daffy Duck a decade ago. I could sense it when I saw him in the woods, but now standing in front of him with his eerie eyes on me, I’m burning with it. This guy is completely and utterly unnerving in every way.
My hesitation has drawn out to over a minute, I’m sure of it, yet he says nothing. His stance, his gaze; none of it changes as he waits for me to respond. We’ve gone well beyond the norm of social convention, even in the apocalypse, and I’m starting to feel twitchy. These days, time is living and we’re wasting a whole lot of it staring at each other like idiots out here in the open.
“I did,” I say too quietly. I straighten my aching back and try again. “I did want you to see it. I thought…”
“You thought what?”
God, his tone is even. Like a machine. The way my father’s alarm clock used to sound. It. Is. Now. 6. 30. In. The. Morn. Ing. Rise. And. Shine.
“I thought you might help me.”
“Why would I do that?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why are you here?”
His mouth twitches ever so slightly. “What do you need?”
Isn’t that the question? I need a bed to sleep in. I need water to drink. I need food to eat. I need help with my beaten body. I need Crenshaw is what I need.
“I need you to take me to Ryan,” I say firmly.
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t show much of anything.
“What do you need with Ryan?”
“Good, so you admit you know him.”
“What would be the point in denying it?”
“Does that mean I can stop pretending I don’t know your name, Trent?”
“Apparently it does.”
This time he allows a grin. It changes his face entirely. He goes from the intense, horrifying robot boy that was giving me chills to a young man with a nice smile. The instant transformation is creepier than anything else about him so far. It’s too sudden, too extreme. Like watching a mask come off only to find the person underneath is not who you expected at all.
“You know who I am too, don’t you?” I ask, taking a gamble.
The grin disappears. Robo Boy is back. “I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Joss.”
He nods in understanding. That’s it. No other response.
“You’ve seen me before, haven’t you?”
“I’ve seen everyone before.”
“I believe it,” I say wholeheartedly. “You saw them take me.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve seen me with Ryan.”
“Several times.”
“Does he know what happened to me?”
“Yes.”
“Because you told him?”
He shakes his head. “Because he’s smart.”
“Does he know you’re here now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Did you want me to bring him?”
I pause, not because I don’t know the answer but because I don’t know if I want him to know it. But then again, I’m pretty sure this guy knows everything already.
“Yeah,” I admit quietly, “I did.”
“I didn’t want him to see you dead.”
My heart leaps into my throat, my skin covered instantly in pins and needles as adrenaline courses through me. I take a step back from him, scanning him quickly to check his weapons. Like it matters. If he has even one, he outmatches me. Hell, just having two arms is a victory for him. But knowing I’m the underdog won’t stop me from fighting. Never has, never will.
“Relax,” he says, the grin reap
pearing. I wish he’d put it away. “I’m not going to hurt you. I didn’t want Ryan to come with me in case I got to you too late. If you were dead, he didn’t need to see that. I’d rather he thought you were alive in the Colonies than dead in the streets.”
It’s the most he’s spoken by far, making it possible to notice how hypnotic his voice is. It’s deep and melodic, the evenness not so creepy after all. Maybe even kind of nice. I don’t relax, though, and I don’t give back the step that I took. I’ve seen enough predators to know that the ones that draw you in are the most dangerous. Case and point – Vin.
I look around us at the unfamiliar buildings that could be swarming with Risen or Eleven, neither of which I could survive an encounter with.
“So you’ll help me?”
“I’ll try.”
I nod my head as I take that crucial step toward him, muttering, “That’s all any of us can do.”
The first thing Trent does is makes a sling for my arm. He has a backpack strapped to him full of various supplies, most of which I only get a glimpse of, but I do see weapons. Plenty of them. Hammer, wrench, ginormous knife. My fingers are itching to get their hands on one of them so I’ll feel a little more like myself and a lot less like a damsel in distress, but when you’re out in the wild with nothing to your name but a thin set of clothes, bruises and a broken arm, there comes a point where you have to admit defeat.
“This is a mess,” Trent tells me plainly as he winds a long sleeved shirt into a makeshift sling, his gaze leveled on my arm.
“It sure feels like it,” I grumble, trying to ignore the fact that gazing at my arm pulled in tight to my body also means gazing at my breasts. I’m hoping Robo Boy is too preoccupied with the gnarly nasty that is my arm to worry about my assets.
“Have you looked at it?”
“No.”
“Smart.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It’s bad.”
I don’t know why I do it. Probably because I feel like I’m being challenged. Like he thinks I can’t handle it or something. The wild is a competitive place and proving you’re strong is proving you can survive. I’m already standing here helpless as a toddler with my pride piddling down my leg onto the street. It’s shameful and I hate it.