Hardy

by Theresa Beachman

  “Yup.” Her tone was happy.

  Hardy picked two cans off the shelf and secured them in his backpack. He hefted it back onto his shoulder. “All set.”

  Georgina disappeared around the corner of the shelving unit and Hardy grabbed another two cans and stuffed them in his pants side pockets. Didn’t hurt to play safe.

  He headed round the corner, expecting her to be a few paces ahead of him, but the narrow space between the shelving units was empty.

  Fuck.

  His pulse ratcheted up through a few hundred gears. He should never have let her out of his sight, even for those few seconds. “Georgina?”

  His chest went tight as he jogged to the end of the aisle, his shoulders tensing, his fingers curling on the trigger. He didn’t fucking like this at all.

  A boot kicked out of the darkness, painfully crunching against his wrist bones, and the Sweeper clattered free of his grip.

  Hardy spun, but something cold and solid collided with his temple, and blackness engulfed him.

  13

  “Georgina?” Hardy’s voice was low growl behind her. She stopped instantly but then there was a grunt and the clatter of metal on the floor.

  Hardy.

  Throaty laughter echoed between the shelves, followed by indistinguishable words in a voice she didn’t recognize. Georgina crouched in the darkness, her arms wrapped round her body, desperately flattening herself against the shelving unit.

  Shit, she shouldn’t have hurried on without him. Elation at finding the supplies they needed had made her careless.

  She took a few slow breaths, fighting the panicked rise and fall of her chest.

  She had to get herself under control. Hardy’s life might depend on it.

  She clenched her teeth and peeped round the corner of the aisle in time to see a tall, gangly man pushing Hardy out of the storeroom through a door marked Auto workshop. She tightened the straps of her backpack, listening for anyone still in the storeroom with her, but the door closed slowly on a slow-release piston and no one appeared.

  Georgina scuttled toward the door, barely daring to breathe and scooted through before it swooshed shut.

  On the other side, the air was thick with the stench of grease. Two hydraulic lifts for car repairs were situated in the far corner, one still jacked high, complete with a car that would never return to earth. Hardy and his assailant had their backs to her, so she ducked behind a large metal cabinet of car parts.

  She pressed her back to the cold metal. The tall man had a gun pointed at Hardy’s head and he’d taken the Sweeper from Hardy and slung it on his shoulder. Her mind raced. Shit, what the fuck was she going to do now? Her mouth went dry as an external door rattled loudly. She craned round the cabinet, keeping low. Another two figures appeared, the muzzles of their weapons trained on Hardy from the far side of the workshop. Her stomach sank. There were three of them now.

  She slid down the supply cabinet till she was sitting and rammed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She would not fucking cry. This was her fault. If she’d waited for Hardy, they would’ve been together and then they might’ve been able to defend themselves—

  Stop! Fucking hell, Georgina.

  She risked another look. Murky light filtered through high windows, illuminating Hardy. His assailant still had a gun aimed at his head.

  The man and woman who’d entered were equally dirty, their faces pinched with cold and malnutrition. Despite everything, a pang of sympathy lanced through her. These people weren’t evil, just ordinary individuals trying to stay alive in a world where the options were more desperate every day. The woman was middle aged, and she licked cracked lips nervously as she scanned Hardy’s impressive height and breadth.

  “Where’s the woman?” The dirty man stepped close to the tall man, long hair hanging in ratty trails around his emaciated face.

  The tall man laughed, his voice throaty and guttural. “Fucking woman left, Jed. Don’t worry about her.”

  Jed twisted his weapon and smashed Hardy’s captor in the face. The man grunted and dropped to his knees, blood from his nose spraying the oily concrete with a wet splatter.

  Hardy shifted, but the woman had her gun at his ear. “Fucking try it.”

  Jed bent over the bleeding man, his voice venomous. “Marshal, if there’s a fucking woman as well, I want you to get the fucking woman.”

  Georgina ducked, her heart thudding in her ears as she tried to decide on the best plan of action.

  Marshal spluttered. When Georgina peeked again, he was hauling himself back up onto his feet. “She won’t have gone far. I’ll get her.”

  Crap. Georgina stared across the workshop floor. When Jed and the woman had entered, they’d left the exterior door open. It was about ten feet from where she was hiding.

  I could make it in four strides.

  She could be out of here in four strides.

  The words echoed round in her head as she risked another glance. There were three of them and one of her. If she stayed, the odds were not in her favor.

  But she couldn’t leave him. Even now, faced with three guns pointed at his head, he stood tall and unflinching. A warrior, through and through.

  Hardy was talking. “I have no fight with you. The Chittrix are the enemy.”

  Marshal restrained Hardy’s arms behind his back with a length of rope while the woman kept her gun trained on his head.

  “He’s done,” Marshal’s voice was nasal sounding through his mashed up nose.

  Jed took a step forward and punched Hardy square in the gut, following it up with a rapid kick.

  Hardy’s knees hit the floor. A barely audible grunt escaped him as he doubled forward, wheezing, blood dripping from his mouth.

  Now or never.

  Slowly, she eased opened one of the cabinet drawers. It was full of wheel bolts. She selected a handful, one at a time so they wouldn’t make any noise and then from the top of the cabinet, she grasped a thick wrench almost as long as her arm. It was comfortingly heavy and solid.

  Jed wasn’t finished. He was laying into Hardy, alternating between kicks and jabs from the butt of his rifle. Hardy gasped and lost his knees, his cheek scraping the concrete, his bloody face wincing as boots pummeled his side. His gaze connected with Georgina’s.

  He blinked, his eyes flicking in the direction of the open door. Telling her to go.

  She shook her head vigorously. Fuck that.

  Georgina stood and lobbed the bolts across the floor where they crashed noisily into metal lifting equipment on the far side of the room, drawing the scavengers’ attention. Then she powered up onto her feet and sprinted forward, swinging the spanner at the back of Jed’s head. It connected with a meaty thump and his legs buckled as he concertinaed unconscious to the floor.

  Marshal and the woman turned, surprise painting their features, but Hardy was quick to his feet. He ducked, his hands still bound behind his back, and plowed headfirst into Marshal’s abdomen. The man folded around him like tissue, grunting in surprise as he hit the floor with Hardy’s bulk flattening him. Hardy kicked onto his back, neatly looping his tied hands under his hips and in front of his body. In a beat, he locked his hands around Marshal’s throat.

  The woman swung to face Georgina, but Georgina had already raised her handgun. She aimed the weapon, mentally recoiling at the woman’s wide-eyed fear but she kept her face impassive. If she weakened now, the woman would attack.

  “Go now.” Georgina’s voice was steady with a resolution she didn’t feel—what was she doing pointing a weapon at the face of a middle-aged woman who badly needed a haircut?

  The woman took a stumbling step backward as Hardy released his grip on the now-silent Marshal. He grabbed a knife from Marshal’s waistband and flipped the blade to cut his restraints. The woman bleated then pivoted and bolted. She fled through the open door, tangled hair flying and was gone, her footsteps quickly fading against the harsh rasp of Georgina’s breathing.

  Georgina turned. H
ardy was panting over Marshal, his face a mess of blood, his freed fists opening and closing at his side. She gasped and slumped against the tool cabinet, her legs giving way as she processed the enormity of what she’d just done. Before she hit the floor, Hardy was there, his warm hands catching her waist and pulling her round till she faced him. He towered over her, six foot plus of intimidating muscle and tattoos, his eyes full of concern. “You all right?”

  She nodded. Her heart thudded in her throat making speech difficult. Before she could reply, he ran his hands over her arms and legs, checking for injuries, his palms scorching every nerve ending they grazed. He straightened seconds later, his breath brushing the top of her head. Her skin was ablaze, her knees shot. If he hadn’t been holding her up, she would’ve fallen.

  He gripped her chin and twisted her head from side to side, running his strong fingers through her hair as he checked her skull. Relief flooded his voice. “You’re okay.”

  Georgina was speechless. Her body burned with sensation, abandoning higher functions like speech for another day. He slipped a muscled arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. The scent of soap and Hardy detonated through her brain.

  Oh God.

  Adrenalin, she repeated, a mantra in her mind. This was what adrenalin did to you when you nearly died. Nothing else. There wasn’t time for anything but survival.

  At last he released her and stepped away to scoop up his backpack and retrieve the Sweeper. His expression was all business now, but she was bereft, her skin still tingling from his touch.

  He pointed at the open door. “The woman will return with backup. We need to be long gone.” Behind him, the two men still lay unconscious on the floor, the hitch of their breathing visible through their thin clothing.

  Georgina wrapped her arms around her middle. For several seconds she just stood there, still clutching the handgun. His face was different. Scratched and bleeding but something else too. His pupils were dilated, dark, with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. It left her breathless. And wanting more. She took a deep breath. “Yes, we should go now.”

  She took his hand and let him lead her back out into the world.

  14

  Hardy kicked the door open and jumped out the Jackal. With the gasket repaired he’d pushed on till they hit the rutted track that led to a small farmhouse visible through straggly trees. Somewhere remote to make camp for the night. Much as he wanted to keep going, it would be dark soon and pushing on was only going to get them all killed.

  He leaned back into the vehicle and lifted out the Sweeper. Earlier in the garage had been a brutal reminder of how dangerous England had become even when there weren’t any Chittrix around. The reality was that anyone who’d survived this long had done so because they’d made difficult decisions along the way.

  When Georgina had knocked out the lead scavenger and stared down the woman, his heart had been in his throat. The encounter had left adrenalin pumping round his body, frying his nerves. Scattered flashes of his mother, broken and bloody had intruded, compelling him to check Georgina was uninjured. It had surprised her, he’d seen it on her face, but the thought of someone hurting her, it made his heart pause.

  He didn’t even know where to begin with that. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be feeling. He wasn’t supposed to be fucking feeling anything. He slammed the door shut and took a second to gather himself, his head resting on the cold metal.

  Uncertainty killed him. It ate away at his confidence that he was doing the right thing and he couldn’t afford that right now. He pulled himself upright and jogged to the rear of the Jackal. Dusk was closing in, things would be clearer in the morning.

  Georgina was bent over Foster, helping him sip water, while Natalie propped him up with a rolled-up blanket that had seen better days.

  Foster grinned even as he winced at Natalie’s too-vigorous makeshift-pillow rearranging. “Come to learn how to treat the ladies?”

  Hardy suppressed a wry grin and climbed into the rear making the vehicle rock under his weight. Georgina scooted out of his way, further than was strictly necessary, or was his imagination playing tricks?

  Foster peered down his nose. “Heard you had fun getting spare parts.”

  “It’s been a long winter.” Hardy exhaled. “Those the Chittrix haven’t picked off are starving to death.”

  His stomach rumbled as if making a point, and Foster chuckled then groaned as the motion clearly set off pain in his leg.

  Hardy ground his teeth. Seeing Foster hurting tore him up. He gripped Foster’s hand. “We’ll get you the help you need tomorrow. Then the next day I expect you to be up and raising hell as usual.”

  Foster sagged back against the bench seat, sweat sheening his skin. “Fuck, yeah,” he muttered, his eyes closing.

  From the rear of the jeep Natalie shot Hardy a tentative smile. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, pressing his lips together in acknowledgment and climbed out the back to join Georgina and Mabe.

  Mabe hunkered on a boulder. “He seems good. All things considered.”

  Hardy grunted. He didn’t like any of this. Not knowing how they were going to get to Brackla. Not knowing if Foster was going to make it.

  Georgina shifted from foot to foot, flapping her arms at her side to warm up. The temperature was plummeting fast, and she was only wearing a thin sweater. “I doubled his meds as safely as I can. Should help him rest.” She paused, checking out the muddy road. “Is this where we’re spending the night?” she asked, side-eyeing the derelict farmhouse that sagged in a depressed slant at the end of the track.

  Hardy gave her a curt nod. “We’ll hit Bath in the morning and find what you need to set Foster’s leg.” He shrugged off his bio-armor jerkin as he spoke then unzipped his thin thermal fleece underneath. He handed her the fleece before slipping the body armor back on over his long-sleeved t-shirt.

  She stared at it for a moment, splotches of pink blossoming on her cheek.

  “You’re cold,” he stated by way of explanation. He curled two fingers at Mabe. “You go east, I’ll take west, we’ll clear the farmhouse and surrounding buildings before we move Foster.”

  “Let me get my pulse rifle,” Mabe called over his shoulder as he headed to the Jackal’s front cab.

  “Thank you.” Georgina said in a soft voice.

  The evening light burnished the curls of her hair. This wasn’t going anywhere, but he was allowed to look. She rubbed the soft fabric of his fleece between her fingers then shrugged it on, zipping it up to her neck.

  Damn, she was cute. Another life. Another place. Another man without the fucked-up history. Maybe.

  Wrenching his attention away from her, he scanned the thick bushes lining the dirt track that led down to the farmhouse. There were no lights on, but his nerve endings chafed. He wasn’t taking any unnecessary risks.

  He unslung the Sweeper from his shoulder and went to move off, but Georgina grabbed his arm, her grip unsuccessfully trying to close around his forearm.

  “Please, be careful.”

  He stared at her hand for a moment. Slight fingers, short fingernails. Feminine, but strong and skilled. He’d seen them taking care of Foster. What would they feel like on his bare skin? His chest? Lower?

  His stomach clenched. If she knew what he was thinking, she’d run a mile. He tugged his arm away and she dropped her hand, the apple of her cheeks now a rosy blush. Hardy turned, doing his best to ignore the fireworks igniting throughout his body from that simple touch.

  He headed to join Mabe, finding him checking the clip on his weapon. Natalie was watching the vet, perched on the sill of the rear door, ear buds hanging forgotten around her neck, her hair a tousled mess. She started when Hardy approached and let her hair slide across her face, hiding her expression. Mabe had a fan.

  Oblivious, Mabe jammed the clip back into his handgun and tucked it into his waistband. “Ready?”

  Hardy grunted in affirmation as
he stuck his head past Natalie and checked on Foster one last time. A grubby blanket was tucked under his chin, and his face was pale in the fading light. His eyelids flickered, tracking some unseen enemy as he muttered a litany that evaded Hardy even when he strained to hear. He’d never seen Foster so still—Foster never stopped moving. Or talking.

  Damn. Enough. He straightened, reining in his emotions as he rechecked the Sweeper. The display registered fifty percent. Enough to defend them in one more Chittrix attack, but no more. There was no way of recharging the damn thing until he found the rest of his group and Julia again.

  He jerked his head for Mabe to follow, and the vet dropped into step behind him, surprisingly quiet on his feet.

  “Georgina told me about what happened with the Scavengers,” Mabe observed when they were out of earshot, a grin edging his mouth. “She’s feisty.”

  Hardy glared. “Feisty is good.” Feisty will keep Foster alive.

  As they advanced closer to the house, he raised his weapon, keeping one eye on the darkening sky. The bushes and trees were silent, the remaining wildlife having given up for the night from exhaustion or hunger. No chirping critters to cover his approach tonight. The shift of wood and bracken under his boots was preternaturally loud in his ears. He slowed his breathing, keeping the Sweeper close as he crept toward the house.

  The front door was unlatched and ajar. Hardy took a right and jabbed his fingers left for Mabe to take the other side. Then he pressed carefully though the thick bushes at the side of the house, heading for the rear. Alien plants that had arrived with the Chittrix fought for dominance amongst the English hydrangeas and rose bushes, their thick, tropical stems at odds with the local fauna. The alien plants were much taller and hung over Hardy’s head like umbrellas, blocking out the sky and the last bright strands of the day. He gave them as wide a berth as possible. Many were carnivorous, and he’d seen them crush squirrels and cats to a pulp. Fuck knew they might do to a man’s head.

  He peered in the windows as he progressed. Inside was a miasma of moldy decay but untouched.