by Joss Ware
“No, we’re going down.” Zoë slid about four meters and her feet touched the elevator roof. Moments later she had the top of it open—a trick she’d learned from watching a few spy movies, and one that had come in handy for escaping gangas more than once. The little trap door gave a deep groan when she pried it open, but it was so low that she had hope if their pursuers heard it, they’d think it was just normal building sounds.
“What the hell is that horrible smell?”
“What—oh.” Zoë realized that in the close area of the elevator shaft and their proximity, her hunting shirt was doing its job. Stinking. “It keeps the gangas away.”
“Crap. I would say.” Her voice sounded plugged up all of a sudden, and Zoë smiled. The woman continued, “Are you going to give me a name? In case, you know, I have to get your attention? Or at least thank you for helping me? You were going to help me, right? I saw you shoot that zombie.”
Yeah. Whatever. “Zoë.”
She dropped silently into the inside of the elevator and had the pleasure of landing on something soft and musty. And then part of it moved, and she stepped away, disgusted. Snakes were so fucking annoying.
The nameless woman hung by her fingers from the top of the elevator for a long moment before finally letting herself drop. “Don’t like heights,” she said breathlessly, pulling to her feet.
“Watch out for the snake,” Zoë said helpfully.
But instead of a frightened or at least surprised reaction, her still-nameless companion said nothing but “What’s the plan?”
“We hang out in here for a bit. They’ll have to give up sooner or later, and they’ll never find us in here.” Zoë grinned in the dark. Surely the woman wouldn’t want to stay in the small space with her stinky shirt and a snake for very long.
If she didn’t, she could go on her fucking merry way and maybe Zoë would have another shot at Raul Marck. Rage blasted through her again at the realization that she’d lost her damned chance. All because of this woman.
But once again the bitch surprised her and said nothing about being stuck in the small dark place. Zoë felt her move and figured she was leaning against the wall. In the small windowless cube, the darkness was fully complete. Even with the door at the top open, the area was black and blacker.
“So do you want me to just say ‘hey you’ when I want to talk to you?” Zoë said after a long moment of silence. Silence, that is, except for the faint slithering sound as Mr. Snake tried to find a safe place to sleep again.
The low light came on again and Zoë found herself looking down at a long green snake tail. Clear of any markings but a long black stripe, the scales were a nauseating puke color.
“Nope, not poisonous.” She looked up at Zoë with a gleam of humor—and a bit of malice—in her dark blue eyes. “Figured I’d better check if we were going to be in here awhile.” Then the light went out. “And you can call me Remy.”
And that was when it all clicked into place.
She was hiding out with none other than Ms. Remington Truth.
Remy could hardly stand to breathe. The smell emanating from this woman—or her shirt, as she claimed—was so incredibly rank, it was like being in a room with gangas. Or rotting potatoes. Or something even worse.
But she supposed it was better than being in the company of Raul Marck and his much too-good-looking son. Who happened to kiss really well.
If she’d known the man she’d kidnapped at gunpoint three days ago was Ian Marck, she’d have figured out another way to escape the people who’d found her in the quiet little home she’d made for herself in Redlow. She still didn’t know what had possessed her to tell them her real name, but what was done was done.
And since she didn’t know how to drive those truck-like vehicles known as humvees, she’d had no choice but to seize the opportunity when she’d seen Ian climbing into one. Employing her handgun had seemed like the best way to induce him to take her on as a passenger. Since no one but the Elite and a few bounty hunters had mechanized vehicles, she figured it was the most expedient way to escape, since no one would be able to chase them.
Of course, she hadn’t realized what a horrible, bumpy trip it was going to be, over heaved-up concrete roads or the rough, uneven ground. Next time, she was going to walk or ride one of the wild mustangs that roamed throughout the area.
She shifted against the wall, still breathing through her mouth, and winced as pain radiated through her leg.
Damn.
The blood seeped through her jeans and she felt some of it trickling down into her sock and shoe. Now that she’d stopped moving, now that the adrenaline rush had ebbed, she realized how damn much it hurt. Holy crap. Pounding heat and spiraling pain.
Going through that window, ragged with glass, hadn’t been the best way to get inside the building. But it had been the fastest, and it wasn’t as if Remy hadn’t been injured in the past. But this…this was agonizing.
“So’d you knee him in the balls?” Zoë’s voice sounded faintly accusing. It rasped low and husky, as if it weren’t often used. “While you were fucking lip-locked? That’s damn nuked up.”
“No I didn’t knee him in the balls,” Remy told her from between tight teeth. Which was a mistake, because that meant that she drew in a breath through her nose. For a moment—a brief one—the stench overshadowed the flaming pain in her leg. “Although I would have if I’d had to.” She closed her eyes and continued. “I jabbed him in the gut, then kicked him in the shin.”
And then, surprised that she’d managed to get him to release her, she’d run toward the building where she’d seen the arrow come flying, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake.
She still wasn’t quite sure.
“Ah. Girly fighting.”
Bite me, she wanted to say, but then she remembered the sure, strong arc of the arrow and how it had lodged into the ganga’s skull. This babe didn’t mess around.
Except, possibly, with scissors, because no one could consider the hacked-up job of her hair any sort of style. She was pretty enough—a man would probably think she was beautiful, with super smooth skin the color of light mahogany, high, elegant cheekbones, and an exotic shape to her eyes and mouth. But her hair was a disaster, and the boxy shirt she was wearing…ugh. It was not only caked with dirt, but seemed as if it were stiff enough to crack if she bent at the waist.
“So what were the Marcks doing with the gangas? Looked to me like they were trying to send them on a new mission. Looking for someone with dark hair? Who might be related to Remington Truth, maybe?”
Remy’s mouth dried and her stomach did a little flip. Could this woman know? How? Instinctively, she reached for the crystal and found its comforting round shape beneath her fingertips, hanging there safely at her belly. Warm, even through the shirt.
You’ll know when to use it. When the time is right. Until then…guard it with your life.
Her grandfather’s last words to her. On a deathbed of confessions, grief, and guilt.
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a bounty they’re looking for,” Remy replied, trying to ignore the pain shooting up her leg. That was the truth, thank God. “You know that’s what they do.”
“Yeah, when they’re not fucking feeding villages and families to gangas. Your little stunt back there, by the way, blew my best chance to take out your boyfriend’s father.” Her words came out tight and full of loathing, but Remy heard the pain deep in her voice and resisted the urge to touch Zoë’s hand.
Probably not a good idea with this prickly one. “Sounds like you have a history with him.”
“So what bounty are they after?”
Okay, then. Apparently I’m the only one allowed to share. But that was okay. Best to divert her from her earlier questions. “A member of the Elite has run away and they’re looking for her. There are a few gangas that have the capacity to understand differences in appearance.”
“Coulda fooled me. I’ve never seen one with any more brain power than it take
s to stagger around. What’s the Elite?”
“You know…the ones who…well, the ones who wear the crystals.” Remy caught herself before she said too much. And it was taking more and more effort to keep her voice steady in light of the pain gyrating around her leg.
“That’s what they call themselves? The Elite? And one of them ran away. Can’t imagine why the fuck she’d do that.”
How much did this woman know? Remy frowned, once again glad for the darkness. “Yeah. Her name is Huvane. Uh, Laurie or Mallory, or…something like that. She was…with them from the beginning.” She closed her eyes, counting to ten, breathing to alleviate the pain. It wasn’t freaking working.
“Are you all right?” Zoë asked.
Remy curled her lips inward, then relaxed them. No sense in playing the martyr. “I cut my leg pretty badly when I dove through the window. It’s bleeding and it hurts like a bitch in heat.”
“That’s not good. I knew a guy once who died from a cut.”
“Thanks.” Too damn bad the crystal Grandpa had given her wasn’t the healing kind. It would come in handy about fricking now.
“Put that light on and let me take a look. I know a guy who’s a doctor.”
“A doctor? There aren’t anymore doctors,” Remy said, but she pulled out the light. “Any who survived the Evolution would probably be dead, or old and dotty by now.”
“Not this one,” Zoë told her. And then she sucked in her breath. “Holy nuking crap.”
Remy had a moment of triumph that she’d shocked this rude, abrasive woman, but then she looked down at her wound and realized how serious it was. Good God. That wasn’t bone showing through there, was it? She felt a little faint.
“You’ve got to get to someone who can help you,” Zoë said, her dark eyes serious and—Whoa! Was that compassion there? “We can leave just before dawn. Three hours at the most, if I can catch a horse. Will you trust me?”
An interesting question. Hadn’t she already done so? But, yes, she would. She had to.
Because if something happened to her, all would be lost.
She nodded.
Zoë looked up and down the corridor.
Empty. Silent.
She slipped her keycard into the slot of Quent’s door, listened for the soft click, and then withdrew it just as silently. Breaking into the room where they programmed the keycards and making her own had been one of the smartest things she’d ever done. He’d never asked how she’d gotten into his room—she wondered if he even wanted to know.
The slender knob went down without a sound, and she pushed the door open. Her heart was pounding and her mouth had gone dry…just as it always did.
But this time, it was for a different reason.
It was daylight. Exposure.
She didn’t think he was inside…but what if he was? Her belly flipped.
But the room was empty and she slipped in. The space smelled like him and she closed her eyes for a moment, leaning against the door. And just breathed.
Then she shook it off and walked briskly over to the window. She meant to yank the curtains closed, but she paused for a moment to look down onto the ravages of 2010 Las Vegas, awash in a blaze of sunlight. Those same rooftops and high window ledges, balconies, and even wall-less rooms that she frequented under cover of night and shadow appeared fragile and forlorn in the day.
Overgrown with whatever tenacious greenery could find root and spread up, down, or across, the buildings looked as if they needed to be trimmed. Irregular holes dotted the walls where windows or doors had been. The city’s silhouette was one of jagged walls and rooflines, where the force of earthquakes, torrential storms, and battering tornados had torn away all but the skeleton of the buildings. And even then…steel beams curled and rusted and were eaten away by Mother Nature.
Zoë pulled the curtains closed, leaving only a three-finger-wide strip of sunlight to play over the bed.
The bed. A wave of anticipation and warmth shot through her. The covers were straight and unwrinkled, the pillows neat against the headboard. She reached across the sunbeam and brought a pillow to her nose, breathed in, and smelled him.
And then, as if realizing what she was doing—how ridiculous she must look—she shoved it back into place.
The rest of the space was just as neat as it had been the other times. Shadowy and darker now that the curtains were closed, but clear of clutter. Very impersonal. Much more impersonal than her own home—the one she always returned to after a hunting trip.
Or a visit to Envy.
Zoë tightened her lips. She was wasting too damn much time here. I should get the hell out of this place.
If it weren’t for Remy, by now Zoë would have tracked down Raul Marck and shoved an arrow into his cold stone heart. Then she would have been back at her own little home, a cozy space where she made her arrows and still cooked some of Naanaa’s recipes. And where she kept the few things she’d salvaged from her family’s belongings.
But, despite her annoyance with the whole damn situation, she couldn’t leave Remy, especially if she was somehow really connected to the infamous Remington Truth.
So Zoë had caught a mustang—rather easily today, perhaps because it was just after dawn, and the horses were still sleepy. She’d ridden as hard as possible with a feverish and injured woman clinging to her. By midday, they’d approached Envy. The city was enclosed by massive walls of old vehicles, debris, and even things called billboards that protected it from gangas and other predators—wolves, lions, tigers, and so on.
Entering the city through its gates was never a problem for her—the gates and walls were meant to protect those within, not to keep people out. Although she was usually asked for her name and plans (whether she was planning to stay on or travel through), this time the sight of Remy’s gray face and the bandage made from Zoë’s blanket precluded any delay.
So Zoë’d attended to her…well, friend was too damn strong of a word for the bitch who’d nuked up her chance to skewer Raul. Whatever. Zoë’d gotten Remy through the gates of Envy and, with the help of the guards, to a place called Flo’s.
Once the man who was Quent’s friend, the doctor named Elliott, had arrived to attend to Remy, Zoë slipped away. She sure as hell saw no reason to stay, and she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself.
She’d check back later and figure out what to do then.
Last night, Zoë had removed her hunting shirt and tied it up in an old plastic bag so that the stench wouldn’t dissipate…and so that Remy’s precious nose didn’t have to smell it.
But if she had to be honest with herself, Zoë figured some of the stink still clung to her. She eyed the door to Quent’s bathroom.
It had been a long time since she’d had a hot shower.
* * *
ca. 11 June 2010
Time uncertain
I write “circa” because I am not certain if a full 24 hours have passed or if it is still the same day of the events. Everything has become a very dark and ugly blur. I am paralyzed and terrified and I cannot sort it out.
For the first time, I realize why I write in longhand in a paper journal. So that when all of Nature has taken over, and the machinations of man—the very ones which I have helped to create and improve and that now seem so inconsequential—have been destroyed, there is still this, my private diary.
Perhaps I sound calm in my written words, but I am not. Perhaps writing is the only way in which I can keep from screaming in terror and disbelief. At times, I can barely keep my hand steady to write.
Devi is here with me, thank God.
I cannot describe what is happening. It’s simply too terrifying. But I believe the world has ended.
Or if it has not, it has knocked upon the door of its demise.
—from the diary of Mangala Kapoor
* * *
CHAPTER 4
Quent opened the door to his room and rushed in. Where the hell did I pu—
He stilled, and, th
e hair lifting on the back of his arms, his belly tightening…he closed the door deliberately.
But, no. She’d only just left yesterday morning, and her presence simply lingered. Wishful thinking.
But now he recognized the soft shhhhh of spraying water from beyond the bathroom door. And filtering through, along with the faint warmth of shower humidity, he smelled…orange. And spice. Female spice. Cardamom, cinnamon, whatever it was…
When he saw the bow and quiver, her shoes, and a small pack settled on the floor, his belly pitched and dropped with a heavy thud. And then he let that smile come. And the heat blossomed through him.
Thank God I hadn’t left for Redlow.
He owed Theo Waxnicki a big, bloody thank you, too, for insisting they wait one more day to leave, so he could prepare a device for them to take and expand the communications network they were building.
Quent started for the door of the bathroom, kicking off his sandals and already starting to unbutton his shirt. A nice burst of heat and steam got him in the face, and he stepped in quickly and shut the door. Orange and spice filled the air, not cloying, but subtle.
He caught a glimpse of her behind the translucent shower door—long, curvy, shadowy—and he swallowed hard. His heart was simply pounding, and he couldn’t move.
At that moment, one of the double shower doors opened a crack, and she poked her head out. Ink-black hair slicked back from her breathtaking features, droplets of water glistening on her skin, her mouth curved in a very welcoming smile.
“Well, what the fuck are you waiting for?” she said, her eyes hot. She stepped one long leg out, putting a slender foot on a thin white towel and grabbed him by the arm. And tugged.
He went.
The next thing he knew, Quent was in the steamy shower, his hands full of warm, sleek woman, his clothes plastered to him in places—and stone dry in others—as the shower beat on them. She was tall and warm and strong, pulling him up against her, twining a leg between his, and he let himself go.