Battle
Page 23
It didn’t matter. He was sleeping. That was something. Lou hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years, only stolen minutes here and restless hours there.
When she’d lived on her own, after her father and before Marcus, she couldn’t sleep. It was too dangerous for a young girl to let down her guard long enough for dreams.
With Marcus, life had been frenetic. It was uncertain. There was always a coming storm or one from which they’d need to clean up. Being Marcus’s friend didn’t lend itself to lazy Sundays or long, comfortable nights tucked under a down comforter.
Lou yawned. Maybe Rudy and Norma were smart to celebrate Marcus’s departure, however long it might be.
She thought about what the day would hold, what she’d have to do once the sun peeked above the horizon. She pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to formulate a mental to-do list. She couldn’t.
There were bodies to bury, but Dallas would help with that.
Dallas.
Lou smiled thinking of him. He was a nice guy. He was soft spoken and considerate. He thought she was smart.
Lou stretched her arms above her head, arching her back. She softly whistled to Fifty, who rolled over and groggily climbed the steps to her side. She rubbed his head and led him through the front door. Its rusty hinges creaked and the thin wood door slapped shut behind her.
The two of them padded their way on the dusty wide-planked oak floors to her bedroom. It was in the back at the end of the hallway that split the middle of the single-story clapboard house. The thin, dust-stained sheers fluttered at the open window.
Lou sat on the edge of the cinderblock-mounted mattress in the corner and patted it with her hand. Fifty hopped onto the bed and chased his tail into a ball. He lowered his head onto his front paws and licked his chops. Lou rubbed his hindquarters, her fingers raking through his fur.
She bent over and yanked off her boots, tossed them across the floor, reached across to a wooden pine crate that doubled as a nightstand, and retrieved her knife. She held its cold handle in her palm and turned it over, rubbing her thumb along the worn grip. She ran the index finger of her other hand along the top edge of the blade, tracing it lovingly.
She sighed and put the knife back on the box, took off her hat and laid it next to the knife, and spun her feet from the floor onto the bed. She drew back the rumpled cover and drew it across her body, sinking her head into a thin feather pillow.
She drifted to sleep thinking about The Wizard of Oz, picturing L. Frank Baum’s description of the glimmering road of yellow gold bricks that paved the way for Dorothy Gale to find her way home. She could hear her father’s voice reading the book to her, the texture of his voice adding to a magical adventure that saw good triumph over evil, even if it was only a dream.
CHAPTER 25
FEBRUARY 13, 2044, 7:24 AM
SCOURGE + 11 YEARS, 4 MONTHS
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Marcus Battle stood on the arching overpass of an empty freeway. His pack was at his feet and his rifle was against the concrete guardrail. It was a Saturday and the sun was warming the horizon. Every part of his body was sore, and his knees and fingers throbbed. A chill ran along his spine and he shuddered involuntarily.
He stood against the guardrail, looking east. The sky was melting from purple to red to orange. It was a new day.
His breath, visible in thick puffs, ballooned outward. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and put his weight on his good leg. Eleven years and four months after the Scourge first started picking off people and changing his world, he felt like he was back to square one.
He was alone. He was without purpose. He didn’t much care for living in a world without the people he’d loved.
He turned to the southwest and gazed past the clusters of buildings and the fog settling into the thin valleys between the gently sloping hills. He could go back. He could find his way past the wall again and make his way to Baird.
He could go somewhere else. Houston maybe? Galveston? He’d heard the island was enjoying a renaissance, relatively speaking. There wasn’t much violence there.
He laughed at the thought of that. Not much violence.
He looked north. It might only take a couple of weeks to reach Canada. Canadians were good people. He’d met a few before the Scourge. They were polite and self-deprecating. But he couldn’t take the cold. One blizzard and his knees would shatter. His arthritis would immobilize him. Not an option.
“East, then,” he mumbled and faced the sunrise. It was climbing fast above the horizon. Savannah? Charleston? Hatteras? All of them sounded appealing. Lazy towns, he’d always heard, with a warm Southern charm. That was a possibility.
He struggled on his bad leg and turned his back to the sun. West. West might be the best choice. It was an endless sea of prairies and mountains. At the end there were rocky coastlines that ran from Mexico to Alaska. There were so many more spots in the west from here. Kansas City or Denver, Phoenix, or Los Angeles. There was even Baja, Mexico, and the San Juan Islands near Seattle.
Marcus took a deep breath, listening to the wind whistle its way through buildings and rustle the tall Georgia pines that speckled the highway esplanades.
He picked up his pack, bending at his aching knees to save his stiff lower back, and slung it over his shoulder. He reached inside the other strap and shrugged the pack into place, positioned the padded straps equidistant from his neck, and snapped the plastic buckle at his chest. He reached down and picked up the Springfield.
Without knowing where he was going, he knew what he was doing. He was starting fresh. He was wiping clean his bloodstained slate.
He might find what he was looking for in a few days. It might take him years. He might never make it there. But he’d keep moving until he did. He’d travel until he felt at home.
Marcus wiped the sheen of cold sweat from his forehead and smiled. He thought of those he loved, considered those he’d killed. The latter took longer than the former. And then he started walking. It was fitting that he’d narrowed his choices to the places where the sun rose and where it set. It was a calling.
“As far as the east is from the west,” he whispered to himself, “so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”
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IN
RED LINE: AN EXTINCTION CYCLE NOVEL
Excerpt from Red Line
Chapter 1
Near Son La, Vietnam
April 1, 1980
Lieutenant Trevor Brett nibbled on the woman’s ear, paying special attention to the lobe. He’d first seen her weeks ago and there was an instantaneous, animal attraction. Her musk was intoxicating and narrowed his fractured mind to a single focused thought.
He had to have her.
His memory flashed to that moment. Her smooth skin looked delicious. Her silky black hair framed her features in a way that made her all the more inviting. She was thin, which wasn’t necessarily good. Lieutenant Brett had long ago given up being picky about those upon whom he’d set his sights.
The woman had had no choice but to succumb to his advances. She was like the others before her. The initial fear and pulse pounding gave way to resignation and acceptance.
So Brett nibbled. It wasn’t flirtation.
No.
He was chewing on the ear, rolling the chunks of cartilage around his tongue and between his jagged yellow teeth. He held it between his gnarled, clawlike fingers for leverage. It was the newest addition to the necklace he wore around his neck. Like a piece of sugary sweet candy on an elastic string, he couldn’t keep it out of his mouth. He couldn’t resist the urge to gnaw. His thickly rounded sucker lips popped and slurped.
There was little satisfa
ction from the gristled piece of skin, but it kept his mind from fixating on the relentless hunger that fed at his gut. The woman, as he’d suspected despite his attraction, wasn’t enough to satiate the hunger for long.
Women often weren’t enough. Men, thick and greasy men, were the prize. He needed another man.
Brett was perched fifteen feet off the ground on the gnarled limb of a tamarind tree. His clawed feet gripped the knotty wood with calloused, elongated toes that had the appearance of vulture’s talons.
He suddenly stopped chewing and held the snack against the roof of his mouth. He tilted back his head and closed his eyes. He inhaled through his nostrils, first with a long pull of air and then with short quick bursts. A slow, rounded grin crept across his face. The odor was unmistakable. It was thick and greasy.
Filtered through the scent of rotting vegetation and mildew was the sweet smell of Brett’s favorite prey. He took another quick suck of air in his nose. The odor was intensifying. The prey was moving toward him.
Brett was hunting a narrow stretch of land between the Da River and the mountains that stretched most of the distance from Lao Cai to Hanoi. It was a good spot that offered unsuspecting farmers and preoccupied fishermen.
The prey came from the river. Brett opened his eyes and narrowed his gaze, scanning the green landscape for visual confirmation. He shifted on his feet, the callouses scraping against the wood and his knees clicking as he moved.
He gripped the thick tree branch with his clawed hands to steady himself. Nine of his ten fingers, or what resembled fingers, were adorned with long, hooked claws. One of the fingers was missing a claw. Brett lost the weapon fighting a woman in the river. It didn’t diminish his abilities to pounce, slash, and feed. It had been more than ten hours since he’d fed. Warm saliva pooled in his mouth and oozed from his lips, mixing with the omnipresent stain of blood that painted his face.
Then he saw it. The prey. Brett leaned forward. He was ready to pounce.
“Wait for it,” growled the woman’s voice that occupied his head. She was always in control. “It will come closer.”
The hunger in Brett’s gut screamed at him to jump, to use his speed and agility to overtake the prey and feed. The ache emanated from his stomach to his chest and into his throat. He longed for the warmth of raw meat and the delicious satisfaction of blood.
The prey moved closer, carrying a net of silver and coral basa fish over one shoulder. Even from a distance of fifty yards, Brett’s bloodshot eyes could see the basa’s tiny heads, their eel-like eyes, and the thick underbelly that distinguished them from others in the catfish family.
He wasn’t interested in the fish, though, and his glare darted to the chunky man carrying the net. He was walking with the low energy of a man who’d spent his day fighting for his food. Brett inhaled the sweet odor of the man’s sweat. His eyes narrowed on the beautifully full artery running along the man’s strained neck.
Another flood of saliva poured into his mouth. His sinewy muscles tensed, twitching almost, as Brett awaited the command. He was so hungry. So. Hungry.
“Now,” snarled the voice. “Get him now. Kill him and feed.”
Brett pushed with his thighs and jumped from the branch to the muddy ground below. He landed solidly on both feet, his shoulders rolled forward, as he caught the fisherman’s full attention.
The man froze. His eyes grew wide. He dropped the net.
Brett sniffed the distinctly acidic smell of urine. His lips pursed and popped. His joints clicked and snapped when he dropped to all fours.
In the time it took the man to open his mouth, but before he could force a scream, Brett was on top of him. Brett’s razor teeth ripped at the man’s throat. His lips found that juicy arterial flow and he fed. Oh, he fed.
Brett grunted and snarled and slurped as he worked the prey to a pulp. He scratched and clawed the meat free of the bone when his teeth and lips were otherwise occupied.
When he was finished, when he’d put the hunger at bay for the moment, he squatted on the jungle floor, admiring his work.
“He was delicious,” said the voice. “Mmmmmm.”
Brett snatched a thin bone from the ground next to him. It was a finger. Maybe a toe. Brett picked it up with his own clawed hand and slid the bone between his lips. He bit down and raked his teeth across it until the last remnants of flesh were stripped away.
Brett then tore what was left of the man’s nose from his mangled face and held it tight in his hand. It would make a wonderful addition to the cord around his neck.
He stood and then crouched on his knuckles like an ape. He inhaled deeply through his nose, threw back his head, and howled. Even after a decade, it was a sound that chilled what little humanity remained in Lieutenant Trevor Brett. That speck of his former life couldn’t reconcile the monster he’d become. That speck, that spot of reason and love and compassion, was buried so deeply within his core, it might as well not have existed at all.
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Acknowledgments
My love and thanks begin with Courtney, Sam, and Luke. You always have my back.
Big ups to my editor Felicia A. Sullivan, who is brutally honest and fiercely loyal. She’s also brilliant at finding the words I overuse. Brilliant. Brilliant.
Thanks also to Pauline Nolet and Patricia Wilson for their critical eyes and outstanding proofreading of my schlock and to Stef McDaid for the wonderful formatting of both the digital and print versions of this story.
Cover artist Hristo Kovatliev is truly a rare find. He takes ideas and runs with them. My favorite part of the process is seeing the first drafts of each new design. Steve Kremer, master of all trades, is an outstanding reader and friend who thinks of things I hadn’t.
And Kevin Pierce, who I wish could narrate everything I do. My life would be much cooler than it is. You rock.
Thanks also to my parents, Sanders and Jeanne, my siblings, Penny and Steven, and my mother-in-law, Linda Eaker, for their support and loud cheers.
Oh, and you. You. For picking up this book and reading it, for giving Marcus Battle life, and for demanding more of me. I am always grateful.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
Excerpt from Red Line
Acknowledgments