by Joss Ware
The three men had bonded as only people can do when working together on a life-and-death mission, and from what Quent had seen, there was much more death than life in the poverty-stricken country.
A noise caught his attention, pulling him from his thoughts. He paused, listening and looking. He wasn’t alarmed, for there was nothing more threatening behind the walls of Envy than a few rodents or, apparently, reptiles and other members of the human race. Quent had no qualms about handling any of the above.
Although he waited, he heard nothing unusual, and after a moment, continued his walk. This time, he edged closer to the building along which he walked, noticing that the sun was lowering enough that shadows from the tall, close buildings had grown long. The area was growing darker, making it more difficult to see anything on the ground or through the glassless windows and doors.
As he avoided puddles from the previous day’s rain and chunks of concrete or hunks of rusting metal, Quent realized he was wasting time. He should be hunting his father, not looking for Remington—or, to be honest, Zoë. Hanging out in Envy and doing buggering nothing, bringing nothing to the table or offering anything as compensation for what he thought of as his room and board here in the city. The arrangement was one of a commune, and though he and the other chaps from Sedona had been afforded heroes’ accommodations because they’d helped to save the lives of some teenagers a few weeks ago, Quent just didn’t see himself fitting in here much longer.
Just as he hadn’t gone to work or had a career back in 2010, other than to manage his billions of investments, he saw no place for himself here. His life had consisted of shagging lots of gorgeous women, attending charity functions, giving media interviews occasionally, and planning and taking his friends on Indiana Jones-like adventures that, while often exciting and dangerous, really had little benefit to offer to the world.
Sure, he’d visited places like Kuala Lumpur and Cambodia, and that had prompted him to help bring attention to those in need there—call him a male Angelina Jolie, but with smaller lips and definitely no urge to adopt a dozen children, but that was about—
The next thing Quent knew, he was flying through the air. He landed with an oomph on something hard and unforgiving, and realized he’d tripped on something he’d missed in the shadows. For chrissakes. He hoped no one had seen him, and he supposed it served him right for laughing at Wyatt and his snake.
Quent pulled himself up, his fingers closing around something that…too late…he realized was an old car door. With a door handle, rough and rusting, but nevertheless filled with memories that captured him.
He opened his hand, pulled away, but at the same time his other palm rested on a different area of the car. Because he had no other way to drag himself to his feet, before he knew it, he was slipping into a maelstrom of speeding images and squealing tires, a dizzying blur of memories that sucked him right in.
“Quent! Open your fucking eyes!”
Deep in a swirl of whizzing pavement and loud, rushing noises, Quent felt himself being shaken and shifted, and he filtered back to awareness. Zoë was there, sounding more than a little panicked, and just before he opened his eyes, he felt her hand crack against his cheek.
The slap brought his lids wide and he looked up to find her bent closely over him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded, sitting back on her haunches. “Are you playing some kind of game?”
The sun had sunk much lower, and the shadows grown long and dark. He could hardly see her face. But from the tone of her voice, he got that she was more terrified than angry. Not a bad thing. As long as she doesn’t slap me again.
“Thanks,” he said, keeping his voice mild. “It wasn’t a joke. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare me, you pissed me the hell off.” She’d backed away. “Dammit, I knew I should have left when I had the chance,” she added in a mutter.
And at that moment, the plan crystallized in his mind like a bunch of glass shards coming back together to form a very clear window. Yes. Kill two birds with one stone.
Quent pressed a hand to his forehead. “Ugh,” he said, and made a show of struggling to his feet. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to keep you.”
“Mate? What the fuck does that mean?” She stood next to him and Quent found himself having to hold back from touching her warm skin.
“Just…it means friend,” he explained.
“Oh.” She paused, looking at him with mistrust in her very stance. “What the hell was wrong with you?”
“Remember today when you asked me about the deep dark pit that Wyatt was talking about? Well, you saw me fall into it.”
“You seem fine now.”
He nodded. “I am. I’m usually more careful.”
“Whatever.” She turned to go, which was exactly what he was waiting for.
“So if you’re going to disappear off into the dark again, I should probably warn you.”
Zoë snorted and turned back. “About what? The gangas? The lions? The wolves? I can take care of myself.”
Quent smiled, knowing that his teeth probably gleamed mockingly at her. “I know that. I was talking about me.”
“What do you mean?” she said suspiciously. And she took a step back.
“I mean that I’m going with you this time, Zoë.”
“No fucking way.” Her voice was adamant, and filled with affront. “I don’t want or need you or anyone with me.”
He kept smiling because he knew he bloody well had her. “That wasn’t what you were saying earlier today, when you were begging for more.” His voice dipped low and he sought her eyes in the dim light.
“I can get that anywhere.” She tried to sound blasé, but he could hear the unsteadiness in her voice. As if she, too, were remembering. Oh, so reluctantly.
And don’t you even fucking think about getting it anywhere else. “All right, then. No sex, if that’s the way you want it. Purely platonic. Neither of us needs the distraction anyway, so I’m on board with that. But I’m coming with you, like it or not.”
“Definitely fucking not.”
“Look,” Quent said. “I know you’re looking for Raul Marck—”
“Yeah, and I finally found him. I would have scrambled his fucking brains to bits if that damn woman hadn’t messed everything up by getting herself cut up. Now I have to find the bastard again, and I don’t need anyone getting in my way. Especially you.”
“Right, then. But it’ll be a lot easier if you just let me go with you.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’m going to follow you if you don’t. And then you’ll waste even more time rescuing my incompetent arse. I’m blond, remember?”
“For fuck’s sake. I should have just let you lie here.”
And the fact that you didn’t speaks volumes, Zoë, luv.
“Why do you want to go with me?” she demanded.
“It’s certainly not because of your charming personality,” he said with a soft edge to his voice. “Although there are some parts about you that I find more than a little delightful. It’s because I want to talk to Raul Marck before you kill the guy.”
“What for?”
Quent opened his mouth, then decided to wait. “I’ll tell you all about my mission on the road. It’s not so different from yours. Deal?”
Zoë stared at him for a minute, and he could feel the annoyance coursing off her in waves. Her hair sprung out in tufts all over and the high curve of her cheekbone caught the last bit of sunlight just right and gleamed sharply. She’d settled her hands on her hips, and she looked as if she were about to launch into some long tirade or lecture and tear him a brand-new arsehole.
But after a moment, she released her tension, sighing in defeat. “All right. I’ll let you come with me, but only because I don’t want to be wasting my time saving your ass. And you have to do exactly what I tell you at all times. No questions, no arguing.”
Quent grinned. “You have my word.”
Zoë snorted. “Not sure how much that means.” She looked him over. “Well, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Uh, one more thing,” Quent said easily.
“What?”
“I need to get a few things.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You blackmail me into taking you with me, and now you want me to wait while you pack a damned suitcase?”
Quent stepped closer to her, and reached to skim a hand down her bare arm. “I’ll make it worth your while, Zoë. I have a feeling it’ll be the last soft bed and hot shower either of us see for a while.”
“Well, if you put it that way…I might as well get something out of the damned deal.” She leaned into him, cinnamon, curves, warmth, and all. He suddenly felt light-headed, and wondered if this was good idea after all.
She was right about the distraction.
But it was too late. He was lost. “Whatever you want, luv,” he managed to say as she plastered herself to him and his world sunk into hot, sleek, strong kisses and Zoë.
Always, only, Zoë.
* * *
ca. 15 July 2010
Early after sunrise
It’s over. Whatever it was, it has ended. By my calculation, it has been more than a month since that day it all began. This is the first time I’ve desired to sit and put my thoughts on paper. There were days of paralysis and terror, and then numbness. Now, we are bent on survival.
There is now only one other survivor besides Devi and myself. A young man named James.
After the first earthquakes and terrible storms, many of us gathered together at the elementary school. We thought it was merely something we could wait out. But then three days, maybe four, after the events began, people began to die.
Devi tried, and I helped, and so did others, but they fell as well. Devi could find nothing wrong with the people who died, and my beloved doctor was worn ragged and weary by his inability to save any of them.
Now, weeks later when the grief is not so raw, he theorizes that it was some sort of poisoned gas or biochemical event caused by the physical upheaval of the earth and its storms.
It appears that for some reason, Devi, James and I were immune to whatever it was.
A miracle, perhaps. Or perhaps it is not a miracle to have been left to live when so many have died.
But I cannot deny that still having Devi with me is a miracle of grand proportion.
We have no access to the Internet, to cell phones. Even a radio, running on electricity from a small generator, gives nothing but static or silence.
—from the diary of Mangala Kapoor
* * *
CHAPTER 6
What the fuck was I thinking?
Zoë had been asking herself that question, in various ways and laced with an assortment of expletives, since she and Quent had left Envy.
Barely had the sun’s glow begun to lighten the sky—for they’d returned to Quent’s room just as twilight settled over the city and the rest of the night had been spent in a variety of pleasurable activities—when she’d eased from the bed. He was snoring the sleep of a man well sated; his sleek, golden body sprawled amid the tangled sheets.
The image was temptation enough for her to slide back in next to him, but Zoë knew better. Then it would be noon before they left, and she had work to do.
Work that had gone terribly by the wayside in the last few days. The thought made her itchy inside—a different itch than the one Quent seemed well able to scratch—and even a little nauseated. Zoë knew that every night she spent doing something other than hunting the zombies, somewhere, one of them was attacking and tearing someone apart. On the orders of Raul Marck.
Someone’s grandmother, father, sister, friend, lover…As long as he was alive, he was demolishing people and families with his rotting-fleshed monsters.
The very thought fairly destroyed her, made her crumble inside and turned her world dark and empty. There was no other purpose, no other reason she’d been left alive other than revenge—to rid the world of Marck, and as many gangas as she could, one at a time.
Zoë had no time for the sort of distraction Quent provided, as satisfying as it was. It would be even worse if he was with her all the time. What the hell is wrong with me? I work alone. I live alone. I am alone.
So she crept around the room as she’d done several times before, gathering up her things, hardly daring to breathe. He’d be furious, but she owed him nothing.
She’d already saved his damned life. What more did he expect? He should be the one doing her a favor—and leaving her the hell alone.
Zoë didn’t allow herself to glance toward the bed a last time, though her heart was heavy. She silently turned the doorknob, careful not to let it clunk, and slipped out into the hall. Pulse pounding, palms slick, she eased the door shut and started off, slinging the quiver over her shoulder.
She made it to the ground, jogging down the flights of stairs without delay—of course, his room had to be on the fifteenth floor, which was a pain in the ass for a variety of reasons—before she slowed her pace.
Guilt had no place in her morning, so she pushed away the image of Quent waking to find her gone. He’d forced her into the agreement, and he’d had no business doing so. The only blame she allowed herself to acknowledge was that she’d done nothing to save her family, and that she hadn’t killed any gangas in the last three days. That was the longest she’d ever gone without scrambling zombie brains since she’d begun hunting them.
And it pissed her off. And it was because of Quent.
She came around the corner, heading for the exterior door, and holy ass-load of shit, there he was. Standing there, tall and imposing, fully dressed, vibrating with anger.
She lost her breath for a moment, then frantically regrouped.
“How the fucking hell did you get here?” she blurted out, hands going to her hips as she tried on a persona of annoyance. It was bullshit, because her knees had nearly given way and her belly dumped to her ankles when she saw him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
“I’m faster than you,” he said tightly. His eyes—oh, his eyes were no longer hot and smooth, sliding over her like a promise. Now they burned with fury, and stared at her, flat and sharp like brown glass shards. “And, apparently, smarter. Since I anticipated just this sort of event.”
Zoë shifted her stance. “Well, now that you’re here, let’s get the hell going.” What else could she do? Dammit.
She strode past him, but his hand whipped out and closed over her arm, yanking her back so hard she stumbled. Zoë caught her balance and pivoted around, her own fury slicing through her. “Take your fucking hand off me.”
“Again,” he said, just as icily, but with an underlying calm, “that was not what you were saying last night.”
“Last night is over. This is serious.”
“Yes,” he said, very softly. So softly, the back of her neck prickled as if a ghost had settled over it. Her belly felt leaden and solid. “And we had a goddamned deal.”
“So, all right. Let’s get going.” She tugged and he released her arm. She still felt the imprint of his fingertips, and a glance told her that the impressions were still white on her dark skin. “Don’t touch me again.”
His response was a mocking snort-laugh. Then, with a peremptory gesture, he indicated for her to lead on.
So she did. They walked through the gates of Envy just as the top of the sun broke the horizon. And then he really pissed her off.
“Right, then. What’s the plan?” he asked, pausing beside a decrepit building that once was a house. A large square of cracked concrete sported irregular rows of grass and a rainbow of wildflowers far enough away that it might once have been the footprint of another home.
They were beyond the view of the guards, and the landscape stretched before them, hilly, green, punctuated with pre-Change buildings and signs. Farmland sat to the east, the fronds of cornstalks waving gently in the morning breeze. And beyond, mountains stretched hi
gh in nearly every direction, as if embracing Envy and its environs.
“I go where the gangas are,” she told him. And she rarely traveled during the day, and wouldn’t be doing so now if he hadn’t been so fucking persuasive back in the room, with the comfortable bed and his busy hands and mouth. A renewed blast of annoyance and anger had Zoë tightening her lips. Why the fuck did I ever agree to this?
“On foot? On horse?”
“Look, Quent, if you can’t keep up with me—”
“Right, then, we’ll go my way.” His lips were pressed as flat as hers. “It’s a damned rough way to go, but we can cover ground and travel at night if need be.”
She glared up at him, ready to blast him back, but his expression stopped her words dead. It didn’t make her any less furious, but she decided for prudence. His eyes were so angry, so cold.
He walked up to the huge metal door on one side of the old house and, as Zoë watched, he lifted it from near the ground, jimmying it up with his foot, then using his arm to raise it the rest of the way. To her surprise, it bent as it scrolled up into the top of the building. But when she saw what was inside, and realized Quent’s intent, she began to back up.
“No damned way.”
Inside sat one of those big black vehicles that Raul Marck and the Strangers used to get around in. It gleamed maliciously as she watched Quent walk up to it. He hesitated for a moment, then opened one of the doors as her mind jumped to the past and the night she’d first seen one. The cutting lights in the dark, the low creepy rumble of its motor, the crunching of its tires on the ground as it drove away from the destruction its occupants had wrought.
That same growl of a motor erupted now, in the daylight, and she heard the change in its noise as the vehicle began to move out of the house—the thrust of power and then the squeak as it stopped with a subtle jerk.
Quent opened the truck’s door, got out, and closed the scrolling door of the house. “Let’s go, Zoë,” he said. “Climb in.”