Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve)

by Godwin, Pam

  Pans pinged across the kitchen floor. A scream followed then died. The absence of candlelight blanketed the dining room in black.

  “Roark, can you see them?”

  The glowing bugs paused and pointed their profiles in my direction. I tightened the carbine against my shoulder, wincing at the twinge in my damaged chest.

  “There’s movement in the shadows.” His voice rasped at my ear. “Let’s flit to the door.”

  We’d never make it. “Aim for the eyes. How many rounds do you—”

  The priest hissed and steel whistled. A sword? His attacker fell headless at his feet.

  Exhale. Squeeze. The vhoomp of the spring recoiling in the buffer tube soothed me. With the clanking of the priest’s sword behind me, I slaughtered my way across the pub to find Lloyd.

  An aphid blocked the kitchen door. It straightened its legs, rising to its full six-foot and many more terrifying inches. A spray of flinging drool drenched my face.

  The aphid sprang and hooked a claw around the carbine. Metal clanked the floor. What the fuck? I freed a dagger and buried it between the eyes.

  Another aphid filled the doorway. Oh hell. That one was bigger than the last. It bent over the body at my feet and screamed. Its mandibles flexed and trembled. Was it mourning its fallen comrade? A moment of hesitation slipped by. A moment of sympathy.

  But I didn’t subscribe to sympathy. Not if I wanted to survive.

  I drew the pistol. The bullet aimed true. Vile black matter rained from the eye socket and it crumpled upon its friend.

  Did I imagine the aphid’s show of emotion? I hadn’t quite worked through that answer when I located my pack, the Maglite, and pointed the beam on the last mutant flailing under Roark. His fists thudded. Smack. Smack.

  My lips twitched. Funny just a year earlier I thought I’d never look at a man like that again. Then I’d found Jesse. And there I was, adjusting the Maglite so I could watch Roark’s biceps move under his priest uniform. There was substantial muscle on that broad frame, enough to heave steel through dozens of necks without breaking a sweat—

  Fuck. He was a priest. As in the celibate kind. If I didn’t wipe the hungry look off my face, I’d find myself alone again. I lowered the light. “Lose your sword?”

  “This one”—smack, thud-thud—“wanted it the hard way.”

  I crouched before them. The skull crunched under each blow, the jaw snapping open and closed, the tusk missing. He must have sliced it off, removed the risk.

  I held up a knife. “Time to end it.”

  “Right.”

  I plunged the blade and sat back on my heels. “Not that I’m complaining but what do you have against guns?”

  “Who says I do?”

  “You didn’t use your gun. Seems like it would’ve been easier than”—I swept the beam across the decapitated bodies—“the alternative.”

  “Gun ownership was strictly regulated in Ireland. Never held one till the outbreak. I prefer me sword.”

  “I see.” I didn’t. “Can you see them in the dark? You know, do they glow?”

  He skimmed the carnage and looked back at me. Frown lines marked his forehead. “Glow?”

  “This pub has no protection. I checked the perimeter for hours before entering. Where the hell did they come from?”

  “Right. I kept this area clean. Ye seemed to have brought them with ye.”

  “No. I—”

  A groan bellowed from the kitchen.

  “Oh, shit. Lloyd,” Roark breathed as he ran to the bar and lit a candle. I hurried after him, clenching my teeth at the soreness on my chest. The bodies led us to the back room.

  Lloyd’s mouth hung open, foaming into a gory puddle. Sightless orbs fixated on the ceiling. His torso twisted in alien contortions. I drew the blade. Roark’s hand caught my wrist.

  I pulled away. “We have to—”

  “The Extreme Unction. I need to administer Last Rites.”

  “Oh.”

  He gestured toward the front. “Will ye stand watch? I just need a moment.”

  I nodded and went back to the bar. A few minutes later, Lloyd’s cries quieted.

  Roark emerged in the doorway and thrust a thumb over a slumped shoulder. “This way.”

  We stepped around Lloyd’s headless body on the way to the back door. I dug my nails into my palms to distract me from the fist of remorse punching my gut.

  Sword drawn, he walked the back lot. Thanks to the mysterious sensor that rattled my insides when aphids approached, I knew there wasn’t an immediate threat, but I wasn’t about to announce it.

  He stopped behind a dumpster and rolled out an enduro.

  “What is that?” It was more than a dirt bike fitted for street riding. Olive-drab paint, knobby tires, a weapon carrier and luggage rack?

  “Ah, now this is a bloody Harley Davidson MT 350E army bike.” He smirked and regarded the ground. After a few moments, he met my eyes. “Ye must be knackered. Come with me. You’ll be safe. It’s dodgy, but—”

  “Do you live alone?”

  His nod gave me the answer I needed. I didn’t think I misjudged him, but I wouldn’t want to be outnumbered if I found out I was wrong.

  I had to ditch Jesse’s bike miles back because the sound attracted aphids. Was riding Roark’s bike worth the risk just for the chance at a full night’s rest under the protection of a sword toting priest? “Yeah. That would be nice.”

  He saddled the bike and patted the seat behind him. “Just a few kilometers up the road.”

  I hugged his waist and clenched my thighs around his. Heat spread through me. Was it from the sharing of body warmth? Or was it a sudden surge in my libido?

  He sped out of the lot. The moldering bones of the surrounding buildings chipped away in the absence of life.

  Where was Jesse? A void resonated in my chest. A wanting wrenched my gut. He was a piece of me and that piece wasn’t where it should be. At that moment, that piece could be anywhere, fighting to stay alive, or already dead.

  As the wind whipped past us and battered my body to exhaustion, I clung to the priest and what was left of my composure.

  Roark slowed the bike on a narrow street lined with skinny double story pads set a few feet from the road, all connected with single garages. He throttled the motor. We coasted in front of their brick facades and picture windows bordered with frozen flowering baskets. The bike stopped at a white garage door, which looked identical to all the others in the row.

  He lifted the unlocked door. Once inside, he locked it behind us.

  I paused at an uncovered window. A graveyard of flies and gnats littered the sill. Brittle legs curled against dried up bodies. How different were their humanoid adaptations?

  “How long do they live?” I turned to find him staring at me.

  “Who?”

  “Aphids.”

  His expression transformed from quizzical to pained, taking me with him. “I den’ know.”

  Did anyone know what we were up against? “Can they starve to death?”

  He pushed a ropelike braid behind his ear. “I should bloody well hope so. This way.” He pulled a large duffle off the bike’s luggage carrier and strode to an opaque corner in front of a short bed Nissan truck.

  His broad body folded into a graceful squat beside a lid on the concrete floor. “It’s gonna be a wee bit baltic.” He slid the lid to the side and eyed my feet. “But your stonking boots should keep ye dry.”

  A ladder receded into a dark cavity under the garage floor. “What the hell is that?”

  “No foostering. We’re not safe till we’re through the tunnel.” He threw our gear in the hole and descended. From the bottom, he shouted, “Pull the lid back on your way down.”

  An underground tunnel was not what I expected. If Darwin was with me, I’d know if I could trust that man. I eyed the enduro. What I needed was clean clothes to redress my wound, and a good-night’s sleep. The priest was my best option.

  I drew a knife from each
arm sheath and dropped in the hole.

  The bore at the bottom stretched six feet in diameter and held about a foot of water. I followed the priest through the tunnel system. For the first ten minutes, I kept a map in my head of the paces between left and right turns, but as we sloshed on I gave up.

  “Does the water keep the aphids out?”

  He paused at an alcove in the sewer. “Mostly.”

  Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing from one end of the tunnel to the other.

  “Mostly?”

  He crouched at the rear of the recess where the shadows concealed a portal secured with a large oval submarine door. “Seems some of the mutants are adapting their skills. Some can crawl through these pipes without touching the water.” He shrugged. “Some can’t.”

  “Are you sure?” Evolving skills would explain the aphid battalion at the pub.

  “They’ve been maturing in the last few months.” He ran his hands along the seal around the door.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s me dodgy bunker. Bugger is”—he removed something from the seal and opened the door—“it doesn’t lock from the outside. A bloody bother. So I rig it a bit.”

  He held up a small square box wrapped in plastic with dangling wires. “Just a wee explosive to let me know if any gits been faffin’ about.” Then he bowed. “After ye.”

  Hand on my back, he guided me through the dark. His hand moved away, a rustle of clothes, and light flooded the room.

  The entry opened into a large domed room with exposed beams and pipes.

  My inhale filled the silence. “Electricity?”

  “Solar. Lashings of panels on the houses we passed above.”

  “You built this?”

  He closed the door and turned a wheel that slid three heavy bars in place. “It was here. Built pre-outbreak by some paranoid fanatics.” He chuckled. “Not so paranoid, em? I spotted the panels from the overpass and traced them here. Thought I was a bit of a mentaller, but I eventually found it.”

  The room’s stone walls compassed a bench press, free weights, a stationary bike and other sundry weight machines. At the apex, a heavy bag hung from the ceiling.

  He eyed my boots again. “Did ye manage without a posser?”

  I held up a foot for a closer inspection. “A what?”

  A grin sprouted on his face. “A wet foot, bonny girl. Ye get a wet foot dabbling through the pipes?”

  “Oh.” I wiggled my toes. “No wet feet.”

  “Right then. Follow me.”

  We trudged down a long passageway, boots squeaking on the concrete floor. It emptied into a one room spread.

  A metal island overwhelmed the left side. Behind it, a concrete counter lined the wall, littered with propane burners. A worn plaid couch sprawled in the center. Stacks of books and newspapers scattered around it. On the right, sat a single bed. Next to it, a three foot crucifix hung above a prayer bench, surrounded by drippy candle sticks.

  He dropped his duffle on the island and pointed to a doorway beyond the bed. “Round back is the bog with running water. But water wen’ be hot till morning.”

  My jaw dropped. “How is it done?”

  He leaned a hip against the island and removed several wrapped Bushmills bottles from the duffle. “Tomorrow.” He pointed to the bed. “Now ye sleep. I’m taking the couch.”

  His glare told me arguing would’ve been fruitless. Besides, I didn’t have the energy. My chest felt cold and wet. I still needed to deal with that. “Do you have a needle and thread?”

  He headed to a rack where his clothing hung. “I have plenty of clothes. I’m sure somethin’ fit ye.”

  “It’s for a…cut. I need to stitch a cut.” Unless the infection was lingering.

  Eyes wide, he reached my side in two long strides. “Where? I didn’t know ye got scratched—”

  “No.” I waved him off then glimpsed his hand clutching the pommel of his sword. Shit. “It wasn’t tonight. I’m not infected.” I stretched my jaw wide and stuck out my tongue. Closed it. “We good?”

  A beat. A grin. “Sorry. Right.” He backed away. “I’ll just get the first aid kit. We’ll take a gander.”

  Shit and fuck. “No, it’s…uh, my breast. I can manage myself. If you have a sewing kit?”

  He dug through the kitchen and procured a dull needle and a black thread. Then he handed me a dram of whiskey. “It’s all I got. Ye sure?”

  “I’ve got it. Thanks.” I shut the bathroom door and stared longingly at the bathtub. Did he say hot water in the morning? I couldn’t believe it.

  I sipped the whiskey, removed my sweatshirt. The turquoise stone lay on my bare chest. No bra. Not since my father’s house. Under the stone, raw florid skin edged the C shaped gash from my collar bone around my tit. I was relieved to see the bacitracin from the pharmacy and iodine from my first aid kit had killed the last of the infection, which meant I’d be sewing after all.

  I rinsed away the blood, threaded the needle and splashed the whiskey on my chest.

  The task was grueling. Every poke through the skin, every pull on the string, grew more tortuous. When he tapped on the door, I had no idea how much time had toiled by.

  “Evie?”

  I clenched my teeth. “Hmm?”

  “Ye okay?

  “Yep. Fine.”

  “Let me help. I’m a priest. I wen’ molest ye.”

  I flinched at the suggestion. To be honest, I did trust him. But I hid deeper wounds. If he prodded around this one, he’d likely stumble on others I wasn’t ready to lick.

  I hollered through the door, “Almost finished.”

  Hell has three gates: lust, anger, and greed.

  Bhagavad-Gita

  CHAPTER TWENTY: THREE GATES

  I shivered awake. For a fleeting moment, I didn’t know where I was.

  A wooden Jesus hung from a huge cross on the wall. Two worn imprints dented the cushion on the prayer bench below it. A flame stood still on a single candle. Across the room, folded blankets lay on the empty couch. Muffled thuds clapped from the hallway. Roark?

  Blood crusted my jeans, which were wadded on the floor. I pulled up the drooping neckline of his borrowed tee and covered my shoulder. If the hem at mid-thigh didn’t make me feel vulnerable, the fact that I’d discarded my last pair of panties in Dover did.

  A wool robe draped a chair by the bed. I kicked off the blankets, grabbed the robe and stabbed my trembling arms through the sleeves.

  Thump. Thump-thump.

  I stilled. What the hell was he up to? A hiss echoed every hit. Ah. The heavy bag.

  My rumbling stomach led my feet to the kitchen. A can of coffee and a coffee press sat behind first cabinet door I opened. I sucked a breath through my teeth to keep from drooling. Within minutes, I pushed solar heated water through the grounds in the press. The rich roasted beans enveloped me with the sweetness of Saturday mornings with Joel and the A’s…I swallowed back the lump in my throat and rifled through the next cabinet. Rolled oats. Brown sugar. Canned pears. The makings of an actual meal.

  While I savored the coffee, I flexed my arms, twisted out the kinks in my back, and massaged my sore thighs. My muscles, joints and mind exhibited a liquidity and clarity only a rested night could bring.

  Rhythmic thuds marched down the hall. Each jab hit in a pattern. His vigor never faltered. The sweat was probably beading across his broad back. I bet his blond curls were damp with it, clinging to his flushed cheeks. Shit. I rubbed my hands on the robe and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  A note was adhered—with chewing gum?—to the bathroom door.

  HELP YOURSELF TO A SHOWER. HOT WATER WILL RUN 10 MINUTES.

  Coffee and a shower? I had to be dreaming.

  Despite my searing stitches, it was the best shower in memory. I finished in five minutes, hoping to have left him enough heated water. Then I borrowed some cotton pants, fixed breakfast, another canter of coffee and carried a mug down the hall.

  I froz
e in the doorway. His fist slammed into the bag. The brute force punch followed all the way through. And he didn’t look tired. Each blow landed as strong as the last. Sweat dripped in rivulets down the cut valleys of his naked back. Black workout shorts hung on his too perfect backside. I wanted to rake my fingernails down his twitching lats and press my lips against his—

  “Mornin’.” He panted and rested his gloved palms on either side of the heavy bag to steady himself.

  His shoulders rose and fell through heavy breaths. I wrestled to control my own breathing. Ugh, what a pervert. I had managed to ignore my libido for months. Why was I losing it so suddenly? He was a priest for fuck’s sake.

  A damn fine priest of masculine perfection.

  “Good Morning.” My voice was weak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I brought you coffee.”

  He kept his back to me as he grabbed a rag and wiped his face.

  “Um…I’ll just leave it by the door,” I said. “And I made breakfast and hopefully left enough hot water.” I bet my face was flushed. I turned to leave.

  “Evie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thank ye. I’ll be on me way.”

  I swept from the room with an annoying flutter in my belly.

  Showered and fed, Roark sat at the island and watched me peruse his CDs. I held up a Ramones album. “Sheena is a punk rocker.”

  “She was.” He sidled next to me on the floor. His cargos and T-shirt were a nice change from the prior night’s cassock and collar. A reminder of my filial guilt and disregard for the Catholic Church.

  His jade eyes gleamed over freckled cheeks as he regarded me.

  I fought the urge to scoot away. “Thank you for the shower. I almost forgot what one of those felt like.”

  He beamed.

  “Tell me how you keep it going. The electricity and water system.”

  His smile widened, filling my vision until it was all I saw. “Of course. There’s a network of rain collection pipes running through the neighborhood. The water containers are down here, below the freeze line. The solar panels power the electricity and heat the water. But heating the water alone takes a rake of energy.”