Hardy

by Theresa Beachman

  “We used to eat these as kids,” she explained when he didn’t answer. She dug into her pile and offered him one. “They’re not bad.”

  Hardy stared at the offending nut, waiting for his blood pressure to ease enough for him to be able to talk.

  Georgina let her hand drop, her cheeks flaming.

  “You took the Sweeper.” God. He sounded pissed. His vision narrowed to thin slits. Hell. He was pissed.

  She unhooked the weapon from her slender shoulders, and passed it to him with one hand, still keeping the small stash of nuts close to her belly. Her sweater rucked up and his eye was drawn to the smooth expanse of skin exposed above the waistband of her jeans.

  Hardy took the gun, attempting and failing to ignore the fuse of heat her touch lit in his body. He reluctantly raised his eyes as her sweater.

  “The handgun didn’t seem enough when I was on my own. Not after I used this yesterday,” she challenged him through dark lashes.

  Words eluded him. How did she do that to him?

  His reply was gruff, more stringent than he’d intended: “I thought you’d taken it…and gone…to find your sister.”

  Color leached from her face. “Seriously?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “You were gone and the gun—”

  “What kind of person would that make me?” Her expression stiffened. She jabbed her forefinger in the direction of the farmhouse. “Foster has a broken leg. You think I would leave him?”

  For a long humming moment she glared at him.

  “Well?” Her tone was glacial.

  Shit. He’d misjudged her badly.

  He turned from her, feeling the burn of those blue eyes on his back. “The others will be wondering where we are.”

  He looped the Sweeper onto his back and strode up the hill without checking to see if she was following. He might say something he’d regret, something there was no space for in his head or his heart.

  By the time he was back at the house, he was back under control, his emotions locked down where they belonged.

  Safer for him, safer for everyone else and definitely safer for Georgina.

  17

  Georgina closed her hand over Foster’s. His skin was sticky to the touch. While the nurse part of her brain was working through all the worst-case scenarios if they didn’t get him what he needed ASAP, the rest of her was trying not to think about Hardy’s expression when he’d found her outside the house. He’d thought she’d done a runner. It’d been written all over his face. He believed she’d take off and leave an injured man, and even worse, that she’d take the most deadly weapon in their possession for her own benefit.

  He stomped into the room, his expression stony.

  Fine. Two could play at that game. She turned her back on him.

  Hardy grunted in Mabe’s direction, oblivious to her turmoil. “Let’s get Foster in the Jackal.”

  The two men gently maneuvered Foster out to the Jackal, but Georgina was too aware of the clench of his jaw and sweat beading his forehead. She followed them out to the jeep, the skin on the back of her neck pricking but there was no one there, only the trees bent and whispering to her in the wind.

  She shook her head. If there were Chittrix she’d have heard then long ago. She boosted herself into the Jackal and scooted over to Foster on the bench seat to prepare him for the trip into the city center.

  She leaned over him to grab the seatbelt to secure his chest.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Sorry?” She started at Foster’s voice.

  “I was weaned when I was two.”

  The side of her breast was pressed against his cheek. She flushed and pulled back, but couldn’t be angry when he flashed a crooked smile.

  “Sorry. Couldn’t resist,” he croaked and licked his lips.

  Georgina unscrewed a water bottle she’d filled from the stream and held it to his mouth. He managed a few sips before his head dropped back again, his eyes closing against the lines of pain marking his face.

  “It’s all a front, you know.”

  She screwed the bottle shut. “What is?”

  “The machismo.”

  Georgina dropped the water bottle into her backpack and shook her head. She smoothed her hand over Foster’s forehead, suspecting a fever. “I’m sure there’s more to you than that.”

  “Not me. I’m not delirious.”

  She checked his pulse. Normal. “Yeah, but not making any sense.”

  Foster worked his tongue in his mouth and cracked open one eye. “Only cause you’re not listening.”

  “Oh. Right.” She reached for another seatbelt to fasten across his thighs.

  His cheek bulged as he pressed his tongue from the inside. “After you came in this morning, your cheeks were pink and he was grimmer than usual. Takes a lot to fluster him.”

  Hardy. Georgina stalled with the belt straps. She kept her expression neutral. “It was cold outside.”

  Foster quirked one eyebrow. “Uh huh.” He beckoned her closer, a wicked grin lighting up his eyes.

  Georgina slanted forward.

  Foster cupped his hand over his mouth in a theatrical display. “He likes you.”

  Oh. She sat back bolt upright, letting hair slide across her face. She waved her hand in dismissal but her heart rate spiked up a notch.

  Finally her mouth engaged with her brain. “He thought I’d taken off with his precious gun and left you. That’s all.” She fastened the seatbelt and gave it a tug. It wasn’t ideal but it would have to do.

  “Really?”

  Georgina narrowed her eyes. “Yes. Really.”

  “He has trust issues.” Clearly Foster wasn’t going to be dissuaded. He patted his chest. “I’m helping him work things through but—”

  “Well, thanks for the psych rundown, but it’s a waste of time. I’m not interested.” She shot Foster a bright, false smile. Checked over her shoulder in case Hardy might be there. But of course he wasn’t. “He’s stubborn.” Had she said that out loud?

  “Yes.” Foster grinned, his eyes glinting with happiness. “You understand him. I knew it.”

  “Foster—”

  Foster subsided back into the pillow. “I just want him to be happy before I die. He deserves it.”

  Georgina gripped his fingers. “You are not going to die. Not on my watch.” She held his wrist. “You’re going to be fine.” God. She counted his heart rate against the ticking second hand on her watch, blocking out all thoughts of Hardy.

  “It’s okay.” His eyes closed again, and his lips moved, but his words were inaudible. His voice softened to an incoherent rumble and even when she bent her head to catch his words, only one was audible.

  Faith.

  Faith. She needed more of that. Faith that they could make it to the hospital in time. Faith that after a year there would still be usable supplies.

  The Jackal rocked. Natalie was climbing in.

  “Mabe and Hardy are trying the radio again before we leave.” Her mouth turned down in disappointment. “They’re still not having much luck. Just static.”

  Georgina reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’re going to be fine. Hardy knows what he’s doing.” She handed Natalie a damp cloth to change the subject. “I need you to take care of Foster during the journey. Okay?”

  “Yes.” Natalie twisted her ear buds cord. She pinched her lips together. “I can do that.”

  * * *

  Georgina sat in the back of the Jackal watching the house recede in jerking rolling bumps. Daylight flickered through the trees in stripes of variegated green for the first part of the journey but was soon replaced by the gray rubble strewn streets of Bath.

  Beside her, Natalie dozed, her head lolling with the rocking motion of the vehicle, her face smooth and untroubled for a brief time. Natalie had shared her music and after an argument about track choices, she and Foster both slept, sharing the ear buds, one apiece.

  Hardy was driving up front, Mabe navigating n
ext to him using a huge paper map that he kept rotating and frowning at as he shouted instructions. Hardy was oblivious, his mouth set in a thin line, his grip tight on the steering wheel.

  Thick cords of tense muscle flexed at the back of his neck, drawing Georgina’s eye. Did he cut his hair himself? A jagged line travelled across the back of his skull between shaved skin and the soft darkness of his buzz cut. The way he’d looked at her earlier was etched in a repeat loop: anger, frustration, relief when he spotted the rifle, and something else. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to. Foster’s words played on a loop in her mind. He likes you.

  She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles getting her emotions back under control. He didn’t trust her, so she could move on now, irrespective of what Foster said.

  “How are we doing?” She eased upward, still hanging onto the roof support, and craned her neck, peering between Mabe and Hardy, trying to ignore the delicious warmth of his breath on her neck as she stretched into the front cab. Fickle butterflies took flight in her belly. Damn.

  Hardy pointed as they sped past a sign punctured with bullet holes. Bath Royal Infirmary. “We’re here.”

  18

  Hardy eased off the gas as he steered the Jackal up the sloped ambulance lane and allowed himself a second to flex his hands on the steering wheel. He hadn’t doubted he would get Foster here, but a sense of lightness filled his chest as they completed another step in the journey.

  The road was surprisingly clear almost as far as the large glass sliding doors, which hung open—one was twisted free of its hinges while the other had been reduced to a frame with only shards remaining.

  He braked and brought the Jackal to a standstill underneath the entrance canopy. Mabe stuffed Barney in his pocket and unclipped his seatbelt. The mouse peeped over the edge of the pocket as Mabe armed his pulse rifle. He checked the sights. “Prepared for any welcoming party.”

  Hardy jumped out and lifted his pulse rifle to his shoulder, scanning the wasteland of the hospital grounds. From where he stood, the long drive they’d climbed was visible, the parking lot jumbled with abandoned vehicles and signs of battle. Laser scars marked most of the vehicles. Something big had gone down here once. But now, a hush descended around him, soothing his ears after the engine’s roar.

  He tracked round to the Jackal’s rear, Mabe close on his heels.

  “Pretty quiet?” the vet noted, scanning the sky.

  There was a distant hum in the air. The omnipresent background shimmer of a Chittrix hive.

  “Let’s stay on our toes,” Hardy muttered, the tendons in his neck already beginning to ache.

  He opened the Jackal’s double door expecting Natalie to be directly on the other side. Without thinking, he stuck his hand out to help her down.

  But it was Georgina.

  He hesitated as she stared right at him, her lips parting as she sized him up. Then, her warm hand slid into his, surprising him. He’d been sure she’d refuse, still pissed about his earlier accusations. Her boots hit the asphalt, and for a second, they stood facing each other, her hand clasped in his. She barely reached his shoulder, but her grip was firm, and his skin electrified where she touched him.

  Giddiness washed through him then she released his hand. Her expression shifted, the soft openness fading to the professional nurse that he trusted to help Foster. She squinted up at the hospital that towered above them, the few remaining windows glinting in the last rays of the sun. The rest were vacant black holes.

  Her tone was curt. “Let’s get him inside. I want to set his leg before it gets dark.”

  Hardy nodded, relieved to be doing something and shaking off the distraction of her touch. He climbed into the back of the jeep. Natalie was still sitting in her harness, winding up the cable for her ear buds.

  She shot him a hesitant smile and Hardy returned it while making a mental note to be less gruff with her.

  A crash behind him drew his attention. Mabe had a stretcher jacked up beside the Jackal, ready to rock.

  “Come on.” Mabe tipped his head in the direction of the blank windows staring down at them. “Far too many windows for my liking.”

  19

  Georgina squinted into the gloom. Scant light permeated the grime-streaked windows, obscured from months of wind, rain, and sleet. The sun was already a memory, the sky darkening from bloody red to black. The color fit Georgina’s mood as she surveyed the devastation of the ER.

  Glass crunched loudly under her feet as she inspected the now-empty reception desk then turned left to the triage cubicles. Curtains hung at awkward angles, draped over upended beds and scattered medical equipment. Drawers had been ripped from cabinets lining the walls, their contents crushed underfoot or smashed apart. The wreckage of dressing packs and broken syringes littered the floor. It was worse than she’d expected. She bit down on her lower lip to quell the negativity crashing through her. She’d been naïve.

  Foster groaned as they reached the far end of the emergency room. She stroked his wrist in a soothing rub, while her mind raced through possible options.

  Nearby, Hardy was watching her, his golden gaze full of trust, his expression calm. Waiting for directions. He’d got them this far, but this was her call. He was relying on her.

  She blew out a breath. She wasn’t going to disappoint him. “The emergency room is the obvious place to ransack. We need to check out orthopedics.”

  Hardy arched a brow but said nothing.

  “Fine.” Mabe stroked the top of Barney’s head. “I’ll stay with Natalie and Foster. Take Hardy.”

  Hardy dipped his head in agreement. He removed his handgun from the holster on his hip and placed it in Natalie’s hands. She accepted the weapon with trembling fingers.

  His eyebrows knotted. “You’ve shot a handgun before?”

  “I don’t like them, but yes.” She wiped her forehead with her forearm, then reached round and stuffed it in the back of her jeans.

  Mabe snaked an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a side hug. “You can help me keep an eye on Barney.”

  Hardy bent over the gurney and whispered something in Foster’s ear. When he straightened, he wasn’t quick enough to scrub the care from his face. He wasn’t as impenetrable as he liked to make out.

  He didn’t wait for her, so she hurried after him, back to the reception desk and up the main hospital corridor, away from the emergency room. Debris fragmented with every step, making her wince however lightly she tried to tread. She cursed silently as she caught up with Hardy’s broad shoulders.

  About fifty feet down the gloomy passageway, he paused and pointed with the nose of his pulse rifle to a sign above his head.

  Orthopedics. Ross Building.

  There was a multicolored map on the wall under the sign. Georgina pressed her fingers to the red cross. You are here. Her fingers skimmed across the plastic. Where was the Ross Building?

  Of course. Her shoulders sagged. “Where else but in the next wing and on the top floor?” she muttered.

  The route was indicated in purple on the map to match the lines of color that ran along the hospital walls, guiding staff and visitors to the right location.

  Hardy pointed at the rainbow stripes on the walls that no one followed any more. “These?”

  “Yup. Let’s go.”

  Georgina jogged at his side, dodging sheaves of paper and leaves that had blown in through broken windows. A dark, earthy odor permeated the corridor and she breathed with relief when they hit the connecting bridge to the next building, a glass walkway that was warm and dry. A twinge of regret plucked at her when the swing doors of the glass bridge swung shut behind her with a rubbery snick.

  Hardy paced ahead, marching under the sign that announced they were the entrance hall of the Ross Building. She craned at the ceiling as if it was transparent. Orthopedics was four floors above. She wiped dampness from her hands. Might as well be the moon.

  On the far side, double doors with mes
hed-over glass indicated the entrance to the stairwell. Hardy was at them in seconds. He raised a finger for her to wait while he took position at the side and pushed the door open with the nose of his pulse rifle.

  Georgina listened for any sound in the dark space beyond, but the silence was absolute. With a bob of his head for her to follow, Hardy crept into the stairwell, his movements smooth and cat-like. She followed, bumping into the solid muscles of his back when he stopped abruptly on the ground-floor landing.

  She stilled immediately, not wanting to step backwards and risk making any noise. She waited, her nose resting against his back, his masculine scent of soap and sweat loosening her limbs. Warmth poured off him and her stomach did a funny flip-flop. Gingerly, she inched back as much as she dared and squeezed her eyes tight shut, bringing her traitorous reactions to heel.

  He turned abruptly. “You ready?” His eyes were dark and unreadable.

  “Uh huh.” Crap, she sounded like an idiot. She pressed her shoulders down, composing herself. She could do this.

  His sharp whisper cut through the stale air. “Are you coming?”

  Okay, okay. She hurried to the first step. “Keep your hair on. I’m naturally cautious.”

  He grunted and continued to climb the S-shaped stairs that wound up into shadows.

  On the first floor, Hardy directed his flashlight to a ramshackle barrier of cardboard boxes that had been piled against the double doors. He edged past them, guiding her with the narrow beam of light, so she didn’t trip on the loose string and tape that cluttered the floor. She followed, grateful for the light, her heart rate rising with every step.

  On the second floor, the doors were dark. Maternity and Obstetrics. Georgina closed her eyes and shuffled past, sliding her hand across the bannister for guidance.

  Babies.

  Fuck.

  On the third-floor landing, the doors were missing and a cold draft blew through the empty space. Georgina shivered and pulled Hardy’s thermal fleece up higher around her neck, burrowing her nose in the soft fabric.