by Joss Ware
“You damned idiot! Where’s your bandanna? There you are, with the moonlight shining on your golden hair for anyone to see.”
“You’re just pissed that I took them all out at one time.”
“Fuck you.”
He shook his head, still grinning. If you insist. Then the smile faded as he remembered. He was yanked at her.
No, indeed, that wouldn’t be happening any time soon. He might want to put his hands all over her, but he wasn’t about to do it. The desire had gone, that deep tug that made him ravenous for her. Oh, yeah, he still admired her sleek body, those full lips, those long legs, but it was different.
He knew every part of her, what she smelled like, tasted like, how smooth her skin was, the two little marks on her belly, the scar on her hip. That she liked his mouth on her neck, and the way to bring her to the edge by kissing her breasts just the right way. He’d heard her moan his name as if she were dying, felt her nails down his skin and held her while she slept. He knew how she looked when she let it go and gave herself up into orgasm…that most intimate, most vulnerable of moments. Heartbreakingly beautiful.
But he didn’t know her.
He thought he’d begun to know her, to understand her…and then she’d left him this morning. And somehow, that doused the fire that had burned between them. In him, whenever he thought of her.
He wanted her, but he no longer wanted her. Needed her.
Craved her.
He looked away, out over the dark night. From here on the roof, he could see for miles over the trees and shadowy humps of ravaged twenty-first-century America.
And then he saw something else…lights. Moving. Two of them, in the distance.
Headlights.
CHAPTER 7
“Where do they come from?” Quent asked.
“The gangas?” Zoë grabbed onto the handle of the truck door and tried to calm her pounding heart.
She wasn’t certain if her pulse was going crazy because of this harrowing ride—fast, in the dark, with their headlights half covered so as not to draw attention to their approach—or because she might actually find Raul Marck again. Kill the damn bastard at last.
Quent had seen a pair of headlights moving slowly about five miles away, and they’d wasted no time in packing up and going after them. If it wasn’t Marck, it was someone just as dangerous.
“Yeah. Where do they go during the day? If they sleep in dark places to stay away from the sunlight, why don’t you just attack them then, during the day? Why put yourself in danger by stalking them at night?”
Zoë gasped and squeezed her eyes closed as a large object suddenly appeared in front of them. Quent swerved the truck and she slammed into the door, then back toward the center of the seat as he straightened out, the tires making weird noises on the dirt.
If I make it out of this fucking truck alive, I’m going to kiss the damned ground. I’m going to fucking make out with the dirt and roll in the grass and wrap myself in leaves and wildflowers.
Driving at night, much faster than they should, the only illumination being a half moon and the obscured headlights…He’s omigod crazy. He’s going to kill both of us.
She opened her eyes and saw a row of buildings ahead of them, and the hint of orange zombie eyes in the distance, but, fortunately, no large obstacles in their path.
Then she recalled his question. “Lots of times, they come from the water. The gangas. When the sun starts to come up, they head for the nearest body of water and just fucking walk into it—all the way in, till they disappear. Then when the sun sets, they come back out. Water, swampland, even caves or something. Dark buildings. But mostly water. They always head west when the sun starts to go down—toward the ocean.”
“You never follow them? Try to catch them?”
She shrugged and braved a look back out the front window. “A few times, I found some in a building and got off some shots. When I come across gangas, there are no survivors when I’m done. If I find them, they’re wasted.” She stifled a shriek. “Watch out, you damned idiot!”
But he seemed nonplussed as he turned to avoid a deep dark shadow, which appeared to be a pit of sorts. A pit. That he nearly drove them into. Crazy-ass idiot.
“This is not nearly as bad as driving in Peru. At least the truck has doors.”
“Where? No damn doors?” Zoë shook the handle to make sure the door was still attached.
“Peru.” He looked at her, as if waiting for some sort of reaction. “Near Machu Picchu. Ever heard of it?”
“Watch where you’re going!” she shouted. “Don’t fucking look at me!”
“But you’re such a pleasure to look at,” he said, with that note in his voice that made her go soft inside. It had been missing for a while—that smooth, silky way he looked at or spoke to her.
But there it was…for a minute at least. And then she saw his mouth settle and his full lips tighten as he focused his attention on the terrain in front of them.
“Won’t they hear us coming?” she asked.
He nodded. “They definitely might. I’ll have to slow down a little when we get close, but at some point, we take the chance of being seen, or we have to get out and try and follow on foot.”
On foot sounds like a plan.
“In fact, I’m going to stop up here and climb that tree, see if I can still see them. We’ve got to be closer, we were going pretty fast.”
No fucking shit.
Before Zoë could respond, he slammed his foot down and the truck jerked and swerved, skidding over the bumpy ground until it stopped. By the time she’d removed her heart from her throat, the idiot had gotten out and was climbing the tree.
Damn. He was almost as fast as she was, and smooth, too, and before she knew it, he was out of sight among the leafy branches. They shivered and shone in the moonlight, and then Quent’s silhouette erupted from near the top, his head forming an awkward hump in nature’s handiwork.
Nature’s handiwork? Fuck, that sounds like something Naanaa would say. What the hell is wrong with me, thinking ass-crap shit like that?
Rolling her eyes to herself, Zoë opened the truck door and grabbed her bow. Those ganga eyes had been about a mile away…she itched to run over and take a few out. But first, she’d better get an update from Tarzan.
“What do you see?” she called up.
“Nothing. Bloody nothing.” His annoyance was evident. The tree branches began to shake as he clambered back down.
“Dammit! Are you fucking sure?” Zoë felt her hope drain away. “I thought you knew where they were. You said you saw the landmarks! Where the hell did they go?”
“Yeah, I did. We’re almost to where I saw them—see that spire over there? That skinny thing, looks like it was from a church? They were just to the left—east—of that when I saw the lights. Now I don’t see anything. Anywhere.”
“They’re gone, dammit.” She kicked a stone and it flew through the air, clanging into the side of the truck. She hoped it made a big dent in the stupid vehicle.
Quent dropped from the tree, and landed lightly on the ground next to her. His blond hair—uncovered, of course—shone in the moonlight, thick and unruly. She couldn’t help admire his form for just a moment: those broad, square shoulders, covered by a light shirt that buttoned down the front but still revealed a bit of golden-brown hair springing from the vee. The shirt was tucked into belted, loose pants with many pockets, and some of them seemed to sag with a variety of contents. Who knew what he had in there?
“We’re going to drive to where I saw the headlights, and spend the night there. In the morning, we’ll look for tracks again,” he said, walking past her to climb back into the vehicle. “You coming?” That soft note that had been in his voice was gone, and it was back to cool, emotionless tones, shaking her from the moment of admiration.
Who the hell put you in charge? she wanted to say.
But she couldn’t argue with his logic. Damn it.
Zoë climbed in, despit
e the fact she hadn’t kissed or otherwise made out with the ground, and she was damned overdue to nail some gangas. “Drive that way so I can take out a few of those zombs,” she said, pointing to where she’d seen the orange glows.
“Maybe I should walk over there and let them take me…maybe they know where the truck went,” Quent said. In the mean time, wonder of wonders, he’d done as she’d ordered and turned in the direction she indicated.
“As tempting as the idea of you as zombie bait might be,” she said, “I’d just as soon have you drive up after them and let me shoot. I could get off quite a few the way you fucking drive.”
“I thought I drove too erratically,” he said, and beneath the steering wheel, his leg moved sharply. The truck surged forward and Zoë found herself grabbing on to the seat again.
Damn him. “You do, and you also drive too fast. It’s the speed that would give me a chance to nail a bunch of them before they got away, not the damn swerving and jerking.”
“Hold on,” he said grimly.
“I already am damned holding on,” she managed to retort, somewhat steadily as he swerved yet again. This time, the truck actually fucking tipped to the side, on two wheels, and she gave a little squeaky cry and squeezed her eyes shut. “Stop that!”
She swore she heard an evil little laugh, but when she managed to open her eyes and glance at his profile, he seemed as sober and annoyed as he’d been a minute ago.
“So why’d you do it?” he asked, glancing at her, and she saw that his face had definitely set again.
“Do what?”
“Sneak out of bed and out of my room.”
Zoë didn’t answer right away. “Because I didn’t want a liability slowing me down.”
“Bugger that. You know I’m not a fucking liability.”
“Oh, yeah? How do I know that? All I know of you is how goddamned hot you are in the sack,” she flared back. Then snapped her mouth shut.
This, this, was what happened when you spent most of your damned life alone. When you meet someone you can talk to, you fucking talk too much.
“So I’m hot in the sack?”
She cast him a withering look that she knew he couldn’t see. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Then why, Zoë? You could at least tell me why. The truth. Why did you leave, again, after we agreed that I’d go with you?”
“We didn’t agree, Quent. You insisted, and blackmailed me into it, threatening me and making up ass-crap reasons why you should come.” Reasons that I fell for too damn easily.
“So you’d really rather be alone.” His voice sounded flat and cold over the rumble of the engine.
Her palms had gone damp, making it harder to hold on to her bow and the door handle. Why are you asking me these damned questions? I don’t want to talk about this.
Then she saw the orange eyes. Saved. “Right there, Quent!” She pointed, and began to roll down her window—a practice she’d learned during the hot afternoon. “Get closer.”
He did as she asked, and she whipped an arrow out of the quiver that she held between her knees. The truck jounced and bounced, making it more difficult for her to lodge the arrow into place…but she had a close view.
“Stop for a sec,” she said, and hardly noticed when he slammed the vehicle to a halt. They were only yards away from the gangas, who had turned to look toward them when the truck rolled up. Probably thought she was Raul Marck or another bounty hunter. Boulderheads.
She aimed at the nearest ganga, sitting on the edge of the open window, and for a moment realized how damned handy having a vehicle was. Then she drew back the bowstring and let the arrow go.
The sound of its flight, the smooth twang and ensuing swish comforted her—but when the point slammed into the forehead of the nearest ganga, that was when Zoë felt the real rush. Accomplishment.
One less zombie to tear into a human.
She hadn’t noticed Quent moving around next to her, but just as she nocked her next arrow in place, easing herself out of the window even more fully, he ordered, “Get in!”
She ducked back into the truck, whirling in her seat, just as the vehicle lurched into action. “What the hell?” she shouted, angry that he’d interrupted her aim.
Then she saw that, as he drove, he was half standing, head partly out of the vehicle. His left hand whipped up and out of the window next to him, and flung something over the top of the truck toward the gangas.
Boom!
The explosion shook the ground, sending zombies sprawling and debris flying.
And off they barreled, much too fast, jouncing almost out of control. Zoë bit back a scream as the truck went into a terrifying skid, missing a tree by a whisker, then swerving narrowly past a large rusted-out metal thing.
“There,” he said, glancing at her now that he was settled back on his ass. He had a bit of a smile on his face, damn him, and seemed as unruffled as a sleeping hen. “That’s the lot of them. Where to now?”
Zoë pushed back into her seat, grinding her teeth. Fucking show-off. Sure, she could have picked off the monsters one by one, used five or six arrows that she’d have to try and retrieve, and taken ten minutes to do so…or she could let him use his fancy ass-crap explosives and do it all at once.
He looked at her again. “When we need it done stealthily or precisely, your way is the way. But you have to admit, mine is more efficient.”
“Bite me.”
That was his cue to dip his voice lower and say, Just tell me where, luv.
But he didn’t. Instead, he looked at her again and said, “I’m thinking we should head to where I saw the headlights. We can stay there and check things out in the morning, or drive on tonight and look for more gangas.”
She glared into the darkness. Part of her absolutely had to know how he made those bombs because, damn him, he was right. Again.
The other part of her was pissed off because she knew he was annoying her on purpose. And another part of her was…well, hurt.
Deep inside. She felt oddly empty and lost. Simply because he wasn’t flirting with her? Because he’d chilled?
And suddenly, she was tired. Sleep would be good—they’d been going since dawn and it was well past midnight. Her skin prickled when she thought of settling down to sleep. With Quent. Her belly tingled and shifted and her heart picked up speed. With Quent…warm and familiar. And safe.
She rerouted her thoughts. “They could have turned off their truck lights. Stopped for the night. They might still be there.”
Quent nodded. “Right. So we’ll want to approach on foot. Park some distance away.”
They drove on in silence, with Zoë only closing her eyes about a third of the time, instead of half the time. And her fingers actually loosened their grip on occasion. Progress.
“I’m parking here,” Quent said as they approached a row of dilapidated houses.
Zoë agreed with his choice: it was dark and shadowy, and when he pulled the vehicle in between two close buildings, lining it up near one of them and behind a thick bush, she agreed that no one would see it.
But when she reached to open her door, he moved, leaning over to stop her with a hand on the handle. “Wait.”
She turned and he was close. Very close. His arm, bare where the sleeve was rolled up to hug his substantial bicep, brushed her belly. Her pulse stuttered for some ridiculous reason, and it occurred to her, suddenly, absurdly, that this was the longest time they’d spent together not rolling around in bed, or slamming against the wall or sliding skin to skin in the shower.
And now, here he was. So close she could feel the gentle warmth of his breath and see the faintest outline of his cheek, tufts of tousled hair. But she couldn’t make out his expression at all. He removed his arm and settled back in his seat.
“Be careful, Zoë,” he said. “Just…take care.”
Then he turned away. She released her breath and swallowed her heart back into place.
By the time she did that, he’d already s
lipped out of the truck and closed his door quietly. She followed suit, bow in hand, pack and quiver over her shoulders, and noted that he also had his pack, and that he carried something else. The moonlight gleamed on it and she saw that it was as long as one of her legs, and slender, metallic. An iron or metal pipe of some sort.
She nodded to herself. Guy wasn’t as good with a bow as she was, he had to have something to smash ganga brains. Hot damn. Wouldn’t mind seeing him in action with that, muscles bulging and shifting, all sleek and sweaty.
Definitely not a liability, despite what she’d said earlier. Not the man who listened to her telling the horror of her family’s massacre and seemed to care, nor the one who ate her stew and enjoyed it, nor the one who had just as many—well, almost as many—right ideas about how to do this as she did. And that didn’t include what he could do with his hands and mouth and that hot-damn-and-holy-shit fine body.
They walked about two miles, sticking close to shadows and listening for the sounds of ganga moans, voices, or even the spine-chilling rumble of a vehicle. But the night was silent other than nature’s noise: the distant baying of wolves, the scuffle of nocturnal animals, the low hoot of an owl. The occasional bat dipped and dove soundlessly above them.
Zoë smelled them before she heard them. Gangas.
Quent held out an arm to stop her at the same moment, and she looked up at him. Their eyes met and he nodded. Zoë gestured to the right, where the shadows spread long and dark, and he nodded again.
As she slipped toward them, she realized how easy that had been. How…natural. Exchanging wordless glances, intent. Communicating with a partner.
And then she shoved it away, for the gangas were there, suddenly, spilling out of a building in front of them. As if they’d been in wait. The creatures smelled, and their graying flesh sagged from the burning orange eyes and open, groaning mouths.
But they weren’t saying ruu-uuthhhh as they had for as long as she remembered. They were sighing and moaning something like duu-aaane…duuu-vaane…leee…vaaane…
Ten of the creatures, staggering toward them with surprising speed. And even a bit of agility. Without a glance at Quent, Zoë fit an arrow and shot.