His breathing was shallow against my mouth. His hands were in my hair, cradling my jaw, moving down my side and around the hem of my T-shirt. A ripple of excitement shot down my spine. We were both thinking the same thing: This was incredibly unfair.
I bit his bottom lip, and he tasted my impatience. Needing no further encouragement, his fingers brushed under my shirt and pulled it up to my ribs. Ignoring the ugly bruises from Rulon’s men, he slid down against me, kissing his way from my hip bone to my abdomen. I breathed in sharply, shivering, but a fire was burning in my core. He paused.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” I breathed impatiently.
“I just can’t control myself with you.”
“Then don’t,” I whispered.
Needing no further instruction, he pulled my shirt over my head and reached behind my back to undo my bra. Over the thud of my own heart and our heavy breathing, I heard a rattling off in the distance coming from outside.
Amory froze, both of us listening intently. The rattling persisted, the sound of metal on metal coming from the street. Stifling an inward groan, I sat up on my elbows, and Amory lifted himself over my body to pull back the dusty curtain and peer through the grimy window.
“Carriers,” he breathed. “There’s a whole horde of them out there.”
“But why?”
He swung himself off me and handed me my shirt. “They must have tracked us here hoping for food.”
My stomach lurched. How could we have been so stupid not to cover our tracks in the snow? Carriers were not the only ones who could follow them here.
I thought about all the carriers the rebels had set free during the riots. Now that Saint Drogo’s had been destroyed, the carriers the PMC didn’t kill were on the loose. For a fleeting moment, I felt a surge of pity. Being free in Sector X could hardly be better than being a prisoner. They had nowhere to hide, nowhere to seek shelter from the freezing cold. Almost all the old buildings in Sector X had been destroyed. And we had walked right into the only neighborhood that seemed untouched.
Silently, I pulled my shirt over my head, stuffed my feet into my boots, and scrambled to find a pair for Amory in the pile of dirty, mismatched spares.
“They must be starving,” I said.
Sure enough, looking out the window, I could see a few carriers overturning trashcans in the street, pawing desperately through the filth for some scrap of rotten food. But there were at least a dozen outside our window: men and women in late stages of the virus. Most were stage five, with the horrible oozing sores around their mouths and withered skeletal frames.
As we watched, a scuffle broke out. It was a pitiful match between two stage five men whose strength was so depleted they could hardly swing at each other. They were grappling over a smashed Styrofoam container of leftover Chinese food. One of the carriers went down, and another joined the fray. The commotion seemed to rouse the others, who spotted the food and rushed the first victor.
“We have to find another way out,” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene. “There are too many of them.”
Just as I said it, another carrier noticed the fire escape ladder. Why hadn’t we pulled it back up?
He stared at it for a moment and then hoisted himself clumsily up the shaky rungs. The sound of rattling metal seemed to attract the attention of the others, who watched with mild interest as the carrier climbed up to the landing. Then another made a horrible wailing sound and followed.
My heart pounded in my chest. “They’re coming up here. Why are they coming up here?”
Amory drew in a sharp breath. His eyes had gone dark. “They know we’re here. If they find us, they’ll find food.”
He strode out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where the rifle was lying across the table.
“Where are your extra clips?” he asked.
“With my uniform.”
“We’re going to need them.”
I hesitated. “We can’t shoot them, Amory.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like it, but —”
“It’s not that. If any PMC officers are patrolling, gunshots will lead them straight here.”
His eyebrows knitted together. He knew I was right.
“They must have other weapons here.”
We split apart, overturning dresser drawers and rifling through the closets. Finding nothing, I moved to the kitchen. I threw open one cabinet after another, rifling through drawers.
“Here!” shouted Amory.
He was standing over a chest in the living room. Inside was an assortment of knives, several handguns, and a dozen grenades. Amory handed me a holster, and I quickly fitted several knives into the belt. My stomach contracted, remembering the last time I had stabbed a carrier. Its flesh was soft and rotten. The thought of it made me feel sick.
As I watched, Amory tucked one of the handguns into his holster. I raised an eyebrow.
“Just in case,” he muttered.
Weighing the options of death by carriers or death by PMC officers, I thought maybe the latter would be less painful.
I followed Amory to the door of the apartment. Before opening it, he spun around and grabbed me by the tops of my arms. He kissed me forcefully, and my heart pounded.
I pulled away, placing a hand on his chest to hold him back. “Stop. We’re going to be fine.”
He shrugged, looking distressed. “Just in case. I want that to be the last thing I think about.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Throwing open the door, we stuck our heads out into the hallway. It was silent.
We moved wordlessly back toward the door of the empty apartment we had climbed in to. The only sound I could hear was Amory’s careful breathing. Standing outside the door, I drew one of my knives.
In one swift motion, Amory kicked the door in and flew backward.
The room was dark, but I could see several shapes hulking in the shadows. The closest carrier — emaciated, balding, and with loose yellowish skin — turned and blundered toward us into the hallway. Amory backed away, looking satisfied. He wanted to control the fight — draw them out one by one rather than fighting them all in the apartment.
As the carrier stepped into the hall, my breath caught in my chest. I couldn’t see his features clearly, but I could smell him: the rotten stench of death and decay. He turned and started toward Amory. I didn’t hesitate.
While the carrier’s back was turned, I jumped up behind him and plunged my knife into his back, aiming for the heart just as Logan had taught me. The knife sank into the flesh too easily. It was rotten — the consistency of ricotta cheese below the surface. My stomach twisted with disgust.
The carrier screamed, his knees buckling, and I yanked out my knife. He fell forward, blood oozing from the festering flesh and staining the carpet.
Another carrier had emerged from the door, howling like a banshee. Her face was almost consumed by raw red oozing sores, and her eyes were yellow and bloodshot. She had gone bald.
She limped toward me, and I backed away. I raised the knife in my hand, but suddenly Amory’s hand wrapped around her throat, slicing her jugular with cool efficiency. Blood gurgled wildly from the wound, and he brought her to her knees with another stab to the back. The carrier slumped forward, but he stabbed her again.
“Amory!”
He turned just in time to stop the carrier emerging from the room behind her. Grabbing another knife, Amory skewered him in the gut from both sides. The carrier lumbered forward, and Amory caught him across the face with a vicious slice.
Two more carriers crowded out of the room behind him, and I ran forward. One came behind Amory, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was too focused on delivering another gash with his knife down the first carrier’s chest.
What was he doing?
I rushed forward just as the carrier behind Amory wrapped an arm around his neck. With as much force as I could muster, I stabbed the carrier in the back. I had intended a
clean wound to the heart, but I had missed. The other carrier was getting closer, and I slashed my knife through the air. It jerked out of reach, backing away from Amory.
The carrier still gripping him screamed. Amory bucked forward, trying to shake him off, but he held on too tightly. As they thrashed around, it was difficult to aim another clean jab with the knife. I couldn’t tell if I’d hit his heart, but it was enough for the carrier to loosen his grip and stumble. Amory turned and stabbed the carrier in the gut, twisting his knife and shoving him to the ground. Then his lip curled into a snarl, and he aimed a forceful kick at the carrier’s head.
That was when I saw it. Amory’s eyes had gone cold and dark. His face was twisted in a hateful scowl, every muscle in his body rigid with a focused, murderous rage.
I was so busy watching Amory that I hadn’t noticed another enormous carrier push his way out of the apartment. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of them. Before I could react, he grabbed me around the shoulders, squeezing me like a boa constrictor. I choked, partially from a lack of oxygen, and partly due to the putrid stench that filled my nostrils. The carrier smelled like body odor and rotten fruit.
I bucked forward, trying to throw him off balance, but he held fast. I tried to break the hold as Logan had taught me, but I was shaking with panic and exhaustion.
Amory finally finished with the other two. To my immense relief, he turned and flew toward the carrier holding me. The carrier wailed, and I felt warm blood pouring around my shoulder. He had sliced the carrier’s jugular. The carrier’s hold on me loosened, but he fell forward, bringing me down with him.
The weight of the carrier — the weight of a fully grown man — smashed me into the ground. I was trapped — pinned beneath a writhing, half-dead monster twice my size. I jerked my head, watching Amory, but he did not help me. He stabbed at the carrier on top of me, and the carrier shuddered against me as the knife entered his heart.
“Help!” I cried, but Amory didn’t even glance in my direction. I could feel the carrier’s warm blood pouring down my sides, and the smell of him was almost enough to knock me out. The carrier shook, gasping and thrashing on top of me. Horror and dread seeped into my stomach like poison. Amory was going to leave me under this dying carrier. He was so heavy. I couldn’t get out from under him.
The carrier’s death was not as swift as it should have been. I watched with a detached horror as Amory stabbed another carrier and then another. They kept getting closer, growing in number, but he never seemed to tire. Bodies of the dead and dying piled up around him, but he did not stop or glance in my direction.
The expression on his face was one that I had never seen: cold, ruthless, and vacant. He was a killing machine. He never paused in horror or remorse as one of the carrier’s tears ran with the bloody slash across her cheek. Her dying cry was so hauntingly human that I felt myself shaking with dry sobs.
The carrier on top of me was still breathing his last gurgling breaths. Warm blood trickled down my neck and the collar of my shirt. Finally, with a painful quiver, he stopped.
The hallway fell quiet. No more carriers emerged from the apartment. All the bloody bodies on the ground were silent.
The only thing I could hear was the sound of Amory’s labored panting. Covered in blood and shaking with fatigue, he looked positively insane. His eyes were still cold — sharp and silver like a predator’s. I laid my cheek against the filthy carpet, breathing in the stale smoke, mold, and blood. I wanted to die.
A small gasp made me look up. Amory was still standing there, but he looked wild, suddenly afraid.
Covered in blood, his shirt ripped, he jerked his head from side to side, taking in the dead all around. He gasped again, turning to scan for a nonexistent threat. Then he looked lost.
“Haven?”
The sound of my own name made me stir.
“Haven!” He was glancing around wildly. He couldn’t see me, and he didn’t remember where I was. Or he didn’t know . . .
I breathed in heavily, trying to summon my voice.
“I’m here,” I said. Those two small words took so much energy.
His head jerked around, eyes locking in on me.
“Oh my god!” He rushed forward, reaching me in three strides.
His eyes were no longer insane; they were swimming with confusion, fear, and shame. In one try, Amory heaved the massive carrier’s dead body off me. My lungs expanded instantly as the weight disappeared, and I choked in air.
“Oh god!” Amory muttered. He flipped me over as easily as if I were a rag doll. His eyes raked my face and body, checking for injuries. He shook his head in disbelief. “What happened?”
I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to say what had happened. He had turned into an exterminator. He had no humanity — no thoughts other than killing.
Amory scooped me into his arms, but I was shaking all over. Without meaning to, I cringed. A hurt look crossed his face, but he pushed it down. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was afraid of him.
He got up, holding me against his chest, and walked back to our apartment. Looking worried, Amory sat me down at the table. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but instead, he just backed silently out of the room to go dispose of the carriers.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the faded flowery wallpaper. Something was amiss with the coziness of the room and the stench of death that hung over everything. I realized it was me. The carrier’s blood and body odor had leeched into my clothes and skin. The dried blood was beginning to flake around my neck and chest. My shirt was stiff with it.
Finally, I got up and went to the bathroom. I peeled off the ruined shirt and pants and stepped into the shower. The hot water pounded against my skin, and I watched the blood mix with the water. I scrubbed my neck and chest raw. After months of bathing in a frigid creek, it should have been amazing. But every time I looked down, all I could see was blood.
I couldn’t think of anything except Amory slaughtering those carriers one by one. It wasn’t the killing that bothered me; killing them was unavoidable. It was the vacant look in his eyes. He was so . . . detached. Whatever happened in Isador, it had changed something fundamental inside him.
As I got out of the shower and dried myself, I half expected the white towel to come away bloody, but all traces of the carrier had been washed away. I found some more mismatched clothing in the closet and padded out into the living room. Amory was still gone. I knew I should go offer to help him dispose of the bodies, but I wasn’t ready to face him yet.
Collapsing onto the sagging couch, I watched the early fringes of sunrise peeking around the blackout curtains over the living room window. It was hard to believe that in one night, we had broken Amory out of Isador, run from the PMC, and killed a dozen carriers. My whole body felt as though it had been beaten, and I was tired of fighting.
Some time later, the front door creaked open. Amory stood in the doorway, looking far worse for the wear than I remembered. His arms and face were covered in dried blood, and several bruises were forming on his face. His shoulders sagged, but not from exhaustion alone. Something about the way he carried himself told me he was also burdened with shame and guilt.
Our eyes met across the room, and he sighed heavily, almost a shrug. He looked lost, but I didn’t know what to say.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and broken. “Something’s wrong with me.”
I didn’t speak. I was at a loss for words.
Then Amory turned. His shirt was ripped, and I saw deep bloody marks forming a crescent pattern across his shoulder. A carrier had bitten him.
“Oh my god. When did that happen?”
Amory glanced down to see what I was referring to. He shook his head. “One of them got me pretty good from behind.”
“I need to clean that.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been vaccinated. Besides, that one didn’t even have the sores yet.”
“It can still get infected.”
/> I went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet to find some antiseptic. Amory removed his shirt and stood still while I swabbed the angry red marks. As I cleaned the bite, I took the opportunity to survey his other injuries. A hand-shaped bruise snaked around his neck, and another was blooming on his jaw.
Running my fingers over the back of his neck, I felt a raised bump just beneath his hairline. I touched it. It didn’t feel like a random cut from battle. It was a raised square scar just as my CID mark had been, and it was shiny and tender, almost a burn.
I sucked in a huge burst of air, remembering how it had flared up when Amory had come within range of the rover’s frequency.
“I think I just found where they inserted your CID.”
Amory’s hand clamped around the back of his neck.
“Get it out!”
He reached down to his pile of bloodstained clothing where he had dropped his holster and drew out a small knife.
“Cut it out. Please!” he said, shoving the knife into my hand.
“I can’t,” I whispered. Holding the knife between my fingers, I wanted to. I wanted to cut out his CID and end the pain — end the PMC’s hold on his life. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find it. You could bleed out and die before I ever get it out.”
“No. They just inserted it there so I wouldn’t be able to cut it out myself.” Amory jerked around, cupping my hand that held the knife. “Please. Do it, Haven. They made me this way. I don’t want to be their puppet anymore.”
I stood there, weighing the possibilities. I didn’t want to tell him that removing the CID wouldn’t solve all his problems. We were nowhere near a rover. The way he slaughtered those carriers was likely the result of weeks of brainwashing, not a signal beamed to his CID. On the other hand, if we couldn’t get rid of his CID, it was unlikely we would make it out of Sector X undetected. The George Washington Bridge was the only way out, and it was equipped with over a dozen rovers.
“It’s now or never,” he said. “We have everything we need: antiseptic, gauze, bandages, good lighting . . .”
Enemy Inside (Defectors Trilogy) Page 8