‘Your boxers are white?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘They look through when the water go on them.’
A pause, a moment to decipher. ‘See-through?’
‘Yes,’ he says gravely.
‘Right.’
‘We go shop.’
‘What? We’ve just spent all morning searching…’
‘Okay. I no swim. I watch,’ he says with that same gravelly voice while somehow conveying a great air of sadness.
‘No,’ she sighs. ‘We’ll find some…come on…’
Another search and she sweats on, letting the gown hang open as they back through the rooms where she tuts and scowls at the mess and state of those that were in use.
‘Dirty pigs,’ she says. ‘Don’t you ever be a dirty pig,’ she tells the boy jumping on a bed while she roots through a suitcase as Gregori stands nearby trying not to look at shape of her arse through the gown. ‘I know it’s the whole of the world thing and they’ve been here for like two weeks but seriously? Basic hygiene rules still apply don’t they?’
Ten minutes later she treads water in the pool, relishing the coolness of it as the boy splashes in the shallow end, jumping to catch the ball she just threw. Motion at the side and she glances over to see Gregori walking from the changing room wearing a white fluffy gown and slippers while carrying his clothes neatly folded and his pistols resting on top. ‘The shorts fit okay?’ she calls out.
‘Got it!’ the boy shouts out, grabbing the ball. ‘Casseeee, I got the ballie ball…’
‘Well done…Gregori? Did they fit okay?’
‘Yes,’ he says deeply, placing his things down before stepping free of the slippers then undoing the belt to slip the gown off and stare down at his bright pink flowery shorts. Cassie stares too. But not at his shorts.
‘Jesus,’ she whispers.
‘Is bad,’ he grunts, still staring down.
She swallows at the sight. She’s seen him with his top off and caught glimpses here and there but now, in the pure light of the swimming room she can’t help but gawp. Every muscle in his stomach doesn’t just show but bulges out, pushing through the skin. The striations in his chest and the bulk of his shoulders. The shape of his arms and the veins here and there. The narrowness of his waist. The muscles in his thighs, not too dense, not too bulky. She’s never seen anyone look like that in real life. Only in movies and magazines, on pop videos and telly programmes and she doesn’t blink when the boy throws the ball that smacks into her forehead and bounces off.
Scars too. Puckered dots of flesh where the bullets went in. Jagged slashes now faded and old where the blades bit and when he turns she gasps at the old faded white lines on his back from where they whipped him as a child. A tapestry of wounds. A walking history of conflict and violence. He reaches the edge of the pool and stops and despite the muscles and the injuries, he looks vulnerable and exposed. That this is new territory for him and Cassie finally gains an understanding that he simply doesn’t know how to be other than when he is guarding or protecting, or fighting, or being active in some way.
‘Come in,’ she says with a genuine smile. ‘It’s really nice.’
He nods once, pauses again then dives forward, moving like an Olympic athlete with perfect grace to slide into the water, going deep and far and she laughs at seeing him pass underneath and turns as he surfaces a few feet away.
‘Gregoreeee, throw the ballie ball…’
They play catch in the pool. A simple thing. A simple game. The boy in the shallows with Cassie in the middle and Gregori at the deep end. Three people enjoying the coolness of the water while outside the sky darkens with the first hint of the storm clouds coming, and a few hundred metres away, in the treeline bordering the luxury boutique hotel and spa, Daudi, a former supermarket worker, stands with his arms at his sides and his red bloodshot eyes staring forward while behind him the people that were surviving in the same hotel do the same. A back door left open by one of the survivors who popped out to smoke.
A rustle and Daudi looks over to see another one joining them. A few minutes later and another one arrives. Only a few score now but more will come. A trickle feed from a slow march across fields and through thickets of trees. All of them staring ahead across the grounds to the big picture windows of the swimming room and the three people inside clambering out of the pool to wrap towels round waists before they go off to find food.
They eat in the restaurant. Food taken from the larder and stores. Tinned fish, crackers, cheeses. Simple foods but delicious after the exercise taken and Cassie continues the slow light-bulb moment of awareness she gained as Gregori stood at the edge of the pool.
She cringes to herself, thinking back to just a couple of nights ago when she wore the low cut top with no bra and how he glanced but didn’t react, and how he did nothing when she pushed and rubbed against him. It was too much. Too full on. Whatever life he had before this formed a mindset that in many ways is incorruptible. The slightest gesture or word that puts him back into that mindset and he becomes rigid and stern to the point of an extreme.
Now though, when she is relaxed and doing nothing other than chatting and eating, she catches him stealing glances at the front of her gown sagging open as she sits, and he snatches those glimpses like a shy teenager rather than a filthy dirty pervert.
She flirts but softly. She smiles often, reaching out to touch his hand. ‘Hmmm, try this,’ she says, holding out a cracker loaded with cheese. He goes to take it, but she pulls back. ‘Not all of it greedy,’ she says, making the boy laugh. ‘Take a bite…’ she waits, watching as he frowns, and that vulnerability comes back before he leans forward to bite the cracker held in her hand and the temptation is to send the boy out of the room so she can fuck him senseless right now, but instead, she smiles and carries on eating and chatting with the boy.
‘So is this a late lunch or an early dinner?’ she asks.
‘Early lunch and late dinner,’ the boy laughs, swinging his legs.
‘Silly,’ she tells him. ‘Look at that sky outside…I’m telling you now, we’re not driving back in a storm. We’ll stay here tonight. Fancy that? Staying here?’
The boy nods eagerly, ‘can we do swimming and the ballie ball and…’
‘Do we need to go back at all?’ she asks, looking at Gregori and letting the question hang for a minute.
‘Is things there,’ he says. ‘Computers. The drawing things for Boy…’
‘We could bring them here, just a suggestion, we’ll worry about it later…now, I don’t know about you, but I am sweating my ti…I’m really hot so back to the pool? But no swimming for a bit. Can’t swim after eating. Very dangerous…’
More wife. Less whore. That’s what she tells herself as they clear the food away and head back to the spa. More motherly-type. That’s what he needs. That thought makes her think of the boy and in turn, she feels her heart soften and a surge of love rush through. She never thought for one second she would ever have a maternal instinct, especially not for someone’s else’s bratty, precocious fucked up savant child but with the boy it’s there in buckets. Just the mere thought of him being hurt prompts a sense of dread.
Back to the pool and back to the cool waters easing the heat from their bodies and back to Gregori and Cassie snatching glances at each other’s forms and shapes. Gentle and easy. Nice and pleasant. A seduction by another method.
The first drops of rain hitting the window go unnoticed and it’s only when the pattering grows louder that they look over to see the sky now filled with low dark clouds and that energy in the air ramping higher and higher. Static everywhere. The feel of it. The weight of the atmosphere pushing down.
‘Oh my,’ she says when the rain hits proper. Lashing the windows with a fury building outside. She bites her bottom lip in thought of the things she guesses will be nearby. ‘I hope anyone out there finds shelter,’ she says clearly, looking at the boy. ‘Out of the rain and wind…’<
br />
He stays quiet, looking at her and there it is, the thing inside that’s not him, that’s not the boy.
Still the rain comes harder and the swimming room grows darker, but they stay in the water, bobbing up and down as they watch the storm building up outside. The big picture windows giving a perfect vista of the sky. The noise grows too. The sound of the rain hitting the roof, the edges, the eaves and drains, the waterfall as it rushes from corners and the drumming against the glass. Solid and sustained.
‘Wanna drink,’ the boy climbs out, going to the tables nearby to glug his juice while watching the windows. He sits down on a lounger, yawning and sleepy then lies back on Cassie’s robe, seemingly content to watch the show in comfort.
‘Bless him,’ she whispers, still in the pool and turning back to watch the windows and listen to the wind howling with a ferocity that grows every few minutes. The light now nearly gone and in near darkness she moves closer to Gregori floating at the edge with his arms stretched out on the inner lip to keep himself still. ‘Bit scary,’ she whispers.
‘Is just storm.’
The first crackle comes and makes her gasp. The searing bolt of pure white energy flashing across the sky followed by the long deep rumble of thunder. She looks around, thinking the boy might be afraid but spots him sleeping on the lounger and moves closer into Gregori’s side. ‘I don’t like storms…’
He stays still, feeling her closeness while they watch the windows. The air still so hot. The water about them still so pleasant. Another bolt of lightning brings instant light and she pushes into his side, pressing her body against his as the thunder comes, filling the sky above them.
She breathes harder as though afraid and pulls his right arm in front of her chest, holding onto him rather than the side of the pool and the rain lashes the glass and the wind howls. Her heart beating louder and faster. His the same. Static in the air. Tension between them. A shared thing to look at and she lowers her head, bringing his arm up to gently touch her lips to his inner elbow as though absent-minded and doing it from familiarity and comfort. She feels him shift position slightly but doesn’t know if that is good or bad, so she stays still, watching the windows as the storm grows louder.
The forked lightning comes again. Solid bolts that sear into their retinas, making both of them close their eyes and when the thunder comes she feels his arm drawing her in as though to protect her. An act of chivalry that she goes with. The brave warrior and the frightened lady.
Near darkness now. She pushes her arms down through the water to gently brush her fingertips across his thighs with small circles and light touches that edge closer towards his groin. Another bolt of lightning. Another huge clap of rolling thunder and his arm moves, lessening the grip and for a second she worries she’s pushed too fast and he’s moving away. Then she feels it. His fingertips on her belly. Copying her actions. Small circles and light touches. She breathes harder, her own hands tracing a route across his thighs while his hand does the same but goes up across her stomach to the sodden material of her bra. Another bolt. Another clap of thunder and he slips a hand inside, cupping her left breast like a teenager having his first fumble but she’s never known anything more erotic. He touches her nipple, his thumb moving back and forth as it stiffens and her hand finds the opening to his shorts, gently easing in.
It’s happening. It’s actually happening. Less whore. More wife. She goes slow, teasing and demure, pausing to lift his hand out of her bra to kiss his fingers before pushing it back in, all gently all slowly. Her own hand now inside his shorts, brushing his penis that responds instantly to her touch, growing in her hand and the bolts sear the sky and the thunder roars as she takes his hand from her bra and guides it slowly down into her knickers while gently rubbing his swelling cock.
‘Oh my god,’ she whispers, squeezing her eyes closed when his fingers touch her clitoris. She can’t hold back. She can’t. It’s too much. She tugs his shorts down, exposing his erection then reaches to slide her knickers off. She’s going to fuck him. Right here in this swimming pool. His hands are on her breasts, pulling her bra down, touching her, feeling her nipples. His hard cock pressing into her backside. She’s going to fuck an Albanian serial killer in a swimming pool and has to force herself to remember to be more wife and less whore.
‘Is this okay?’ she whispers, hoping to hell he doesn’t say no.
‘Yes,’ a delicious whisper comes back so she lifts in the water and reaches down to grip his cock while lowering and as the first sexual contact between them happens so the deep bang of the front doors being kicked in sounds through the hotel and she feels herself flying forward through the water as he turns to launch himself up and out.
‘Stay with boy,’ he orders, snatching his pistols up and running for the door. His feet sliding on the wet tiled floor. Another flash of lightning and a low rumble of thunder that builds louder and louder, filling the sky with a show of true power that mocks the mere mortals scrabbling on the surface of the planet.
Gregori moves fast and silent. His senses now ramped. His mind back in the world in which he was trained. He strains to listen, hearing noises coming from the front of the hotel. Footsteps, voices, males, deep and heavy. Three people. Four. More coming in. He sniffs the air, inhaling deeply through his nose to gain scents of tobacco, aftershave, body-odour and alcohol, the smells of the living rather than the smells of the infected.
Out of the spa reception to sweep along the connecting corridor to the hotel foyer and in pitch blackness he goes forward, his pistols up and aimed, his eyes fixed on the strobing light bouncing off the walls from the bolts of energy lashing the shy outside. Snatches of words reach his ears that grow clearer as he nears.
‘…broken it you dumbass, Ditmer.’
‘You tell me to kick it. I kick it, Behar.’
‘Kick it in, not kick it off…’
‘Too many steroids, Ditmer…’ another voice, deeper, harder. A few laughs.
‘I am sorry, Ylli…’ instant subservience shown.
Gregori surges out, a second ago he was ready to fire and kill without regard but he heard the words in his own tongue, in his own language. Albanian men. Big, broad and holding automatic weapons that come up to aim as Gregori comes into view. Over a dozen of them that don’t flinch or flee but they are not the types to flinch or flee. They merely aim and wait, as they are trained and told to do, as is the discipline of a trained unit.
‘Hello, my friend,’ one of the men closest to Gregori says in near perfect English. His eyes cold, his gaze hard. ‘I suggest you lower your guns…’ he says in the way of a man used to being heard and understood. A man used to authority but Gregori looks past him to the older man standing with a raincoat about his shoulders and the only one not holding a weapon.
‘Ylli,’ the older man says, his voice low and thick.
The man that told Gregori to lower his guns moves instantly back in a show of subservience as the old man simply stares through the gloom and darkness, waiting and watching. The lightning comes. A flash of pure white light. Less than a second but enough for everyone to see the pock-marked skin and the bulging eyes.
‘Lower your weapons, Gregori,’ the old man orders. ‘You are amongst friends now…’
Twelve
Day Twenty-four
Paula smiles, feeling the bittersweet tang of complex emotional reactions from all that it is to be human. Simultaneously glad that her team seem to be enjoying themselves but feeling heartbroken that Blinky isn’t here to join in.
The sound of it. The sight of it. The smell of it. The fumes of petrol and hot rubber on hot tarmac. The sheer power of the engines roaring out. Some so deep and throaty Paula can feel them in her bones. Others lighter, seemingly alive like animals. The speed of them too as they move from static to all-out charging down the dead-straight mile long stretch of wide road running outside the luxury car dealership.
‘THREE…TWO…ONE…GO!’ Dave’s voice booming from the start line. T
he small man pressed into action to give the countdown and two more cars set off. Paula doesn’t know what they are. She doesn’t really care either but knows the red one is being driven by Howie and the blue one is driven by Maddox and as they roar from the start, rapidly accelerating with engines screaming up through the gears so she starts that half smiling, half wincing, half squinting and not wanting to watch while not being able to look away thing again.
‘You’re like a mother hen,’ Clarence says loudly from her side, speaking over the noise of the engines.
‘Put’s my heart in my mouth,’ she shouts as the two cars go thundering by and catches glimpse of Maddox and Howie grinning at each other then they’re gone. Swooshing down the road and a few seconds later the brake lights show as they slow and turn and come back the same way, slowing to a stop amidst the excited chat as Howie and Maddox clamber out with Maddox grinning at the victory.
‘Like a glove,’ Paula remarks.
Clarence frowns at her words then follows her line of vision to Tappy in the middle of everyone, laughing and joking like she’s always been there and Danny too, quieter and far more serious but in with them as much as anyone else.
‘But then are we taking them to die?’ Paula asks, giving voice to at least one of the conflicting emotions inside. She looks up to Clarence, both of them standing with their arms folded.
‘Can’t think like that,’ Clarence says. ‘Danny would fight anyway so at least with us he gets trained and some safety…as for Tappy? Don’t know yet but she seems okay.’
‘Okay?’ Paula scoffs. ‘She’s more us than us.’
‘True,’ Clarence says with a deep chuckle.
‘You know the lads will want tattoos now because she’s got some,’ Paula says. ‘I guarantee one of them will mention it before tomorrow.’
‘Probably,’ Clarence laughs.
Reginald sits in his van, the back door open and facing out so he can watch the proceedings while studying, thinking and planning but at least now he can push his glasses up his nose and jot notes down.
The Undead_Day 22 Page 14