The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V

by Claire C. Riley

  I’m so lost with who Shooter and Gunner are talking about. There’s so many names that it’s just confusing, but I try to follow along as best I can.

  “Nitro?” Gunner asks. He stuffs his gun into the waistband of his jeans and then starts tying his shoulder-length hair back from his face. “Where is he?”

  Shooter shakes his head. “Gone for a few days. Who the fuck knows where. But if he’s got any of that sixth sense that he’s always talking about, he’ll get his ass back here.”

  “Gonna have to put the Rejects to ground at some point, Prez. Can’t keep doing this,” Gunner says.

  “One problem at a time, brother,” Shooter replies after several tense seconds. Shooter looks over at me, as if remembering that I’m still here. “Gonna need your help, Nina, if that’s okay.”

  I think it’s one of the first times he’s actually used my name and not called me woman or bitch, and I don’t know what to make of it. Or him. He seems softer than he did with me earlier, like he trusts me enough to get things handled but also hates having to bring me into it.

  “What can I do?” I reply.

  “We need to go get rid of her body,” Shooter continues. “Need her bones hidden real good.”

  “Yeah,” Gunner agrees. “And right the fuck now before someone comes lookin’.” He reaches down and grabs Mary’s ankles. “I’m taking it you got a plan, Prez?”

  Shooter nods. “I do, but it ain’t gonna be pretty,” he says, his expression as grim as his tone. “Let’s get her away from here first. Up to the Hut.” He finally looks at me, his normally bright blue eyes right now looking darker than the night itself. “Keep the women away from here until we’ve cleaned up the mess. A dead lady ain’t no good for business.” Shooter grabs Mary’s arms and they start to walk away from me, going deeper into the woods.

  “Wait,” I yell to them both, my voice sounding petulant.

  They stop and Shooter turns around to face me.

  “What the fuck, Shooter?” I say in disgust. “I mean, seriously. What. The. Fuck? Business? Are you fucking serious?”

  “Yeah, business. Now keep your fuckin’ hollerin’ down, woman.”

  “Seriously? That’s your thought process? You’re worrying over business?” I scowl, feeling like I’m drunk or trapped in some really messed-up movie, because this doesn’t make any sense to me.

  He huffs impatiently, like I’m a sullen child taking up too much of his time, and I wonder where the man from earlier—the one that pulled me up and kissed me fiercely before telling me that I’d kiss him back one day—has gone. Because he sure as shit isn’t anywhere around here at the moment.

  Shooter takes a step forward, and then another. The light of the moon causes a shadow to cover half his face, making his eyes seem like bottomless black pits. I swallow, wondering if he’s going to kill me now. If I’m going to be the next Mary.

  “Her dead body will cause panic, among everyone. This is Mary, goddamn it. She was one of the first!” He raises his voice but then manages to lower his tone before carrying on. “The trust of this place will be compromised, and no one will look at each other the same again if they know that Mary betrayed me…them. They won’t trust each other, and they won’t trust me. And without trust I ain’t got nothing to work with. I can’t get these men to keep following me if they don’t trust me, which means I can’t protect these women.” He turns away from me and looks out across the lake. “You don’t get it. You didn’t see them when they got here. The state they were in.” He shakes his head. “My brothers and these women.”

  I shake my head and scoff at his words. “Trust me, I’ve had more than my fair share of torture and worse. I’ve stared pain in the face and gritted my teeth against it before laughing and walking away. These women are strong and they can do the same.”

  Shooter looks at me before moving toward me so quickly that I panic and take a step backwards and out of his reach.

  “Someone hurt you?” he snarls.

  “You’re missing the point,” I manage to get out, though I feel like all the air in my lungs is being squeezed out of me from the intensity of his stare.

  “No, I’m not. Men like us, we’re not good.”

  “Like you?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

  I see him swallow, the nervousness flash across his features. I respect that he doesn’t bullshit me when he answers.

  “Yeah, men like me…” His voice trails off and he looks away. His expression looks pained as his forehead creases up in thought. “Like I said, I wasn’t just talking about the women, Nina. I was talking about my crew.” He looks back up. “You didn’t see what I started with—the type of men they were before, the things they would do. I’ve helped change them and mold them into something better, but if they think I’m falling apart, that this place is…then they will too. I can’t let that happen. For everyone’s sakes.”

  He falls silent and I look for some words to fill the void left by him, but nothing seems adequate. Everything he said makes sense to me now, and I know that I have to do what he says. It’s not about me, or just the women. It’s not even about the men. It’s about all of us now. This thing that Shooter has created here, this thing that he’s desperately trying to keep hold of, it’s bigger and more important than all of us.

  “You’re a good man, Shooter,” I say, shocked by his words.

  He shakes his head and laughs grimly. “No, I’m not.”

  “We’ve all had to do things we hate to survive,” I reply with conviction.

  “I didn’t do those things to survive, Nina. I did them because I could—because I wanted to.”

  He takes a step forward and I see the spark of the devil in his eyes. The evil that lurks inside him. And I’m not too proud to admit that it scares me, and he sees that in my expression.

  “I may not be a good man, and I may not have done good things, but like every other man here, I’m tryin’.” Shooter turns around and abruptly starts to walks away.

  I call after him, but he doesn’t turn to look back at me this time. Instead he calls back to clean up the mess, and then he’s gone, going to do whatever needs to be done to get rid of Mary’s body.

  I think about what would happen if anyone found out he killed Mary—what the consequences would really be—and I try to decide if he was exaggerating. I mean, surely everyone would understand his reasoning. But then I know they wouldn’t. People are too quick to judge. Too quick to bail out to save their own asses. And once that started to happen, this place would implode on itself. It was already built on rocky foundations; though I knew many of these men would now be considered good, they were also born of violence. How quickly would they turn back to it if it meant their own survival? How quickly would their willpower crumble if they didn’t have their crew—their president and their brothers—to back them up?

  I go back to my cabin, passing Amara and Anne’s on the way and checking that they’re okay. I don’t have the strength to go and check on Michael right now. I don’t wait around to talk to Shooter about training the women because I know that he’s going to be tied up for a long time. And besides, tonight doesn’t seem like the best time to talk about prepping these women for war.

  I don’t know how long he’ll be hiding the Mary situation, or what kind of mood he’ll be in when he gets back. Besides, I’m not entirely sure I want to see him again tonight. I’m a huge problem for him, that much is for certain, and I’m not stupid enough not to recognize that he’s putting a lot of trust in me right now.

  Because if I were to tell anyone what I saw out there by the lake, not only would this place come crashing down around us, but little boy crush or not, I’d also have a price tag on my head.

  Of that I have no doubt.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s really late by the time I get back to my room. I mean like so late that it’s basically time to get back up. My head has barely touched my pillow when I hear the voices of the other women I’m sharing the room with. I t
ry to drown them out as best I can, but no matter how tired and exhausted I am—and be under no illusion, I’m really fucking tired and my body is aching like I’ve gone twelve rounds in a boxing ring—I can’t drown these women out enough to get back to sleep. I cut my losses and sit up with a stretch and an obnoxiously loud yawn. A couple of women turn to look at me, but most continue on with whatever gossip they were discussing.

  I didn’t even get undressed last night, only kicking off my boots and sliding out of my jeans before getting into bed, so it’s an easy job to get dressed again. I head for the bathroom, but then decide my dog breath can wait because my stomach is screaming out for food and water. I’m used to being hungry, and thirsty. In this world it’s pretty much a given that that’s going to be your constant friend now. But since being here at the Highwaymen’s base, I have been eating and drinking plenty. Not enough to put any meat on my bones yet, but enough to take away that constant ache in my stomach.

  I leave our room and scowl at the bright day beyond, but my scowl turns a little cheerier when I see something wrapped up in dirty cloth just to the left of the door. I’m wary about opening it, but happy as a pig in shit when I finally pull of the string and unwrap it and see what’s inside. Wrapped in the package is a sharp-as-hell machete and a leather sheath for it. Carved into the leather sheath is the letter N. The sheath is attached to a black leather belt, and I wrap the whole thing around my waist and pull out the machete to get a better look at it. It’s a little larger than I’m used to but I have no doubt that I’ll be able to handle it once I’ve had a little ptractice. I look around to see who the gifter of this beautiful machete could be, but no one is around—not even Gunner, who’s normally stationed at our door. I’m guessing it’s from Shooter, and I make a mental note to thank him later for it.

  I keep on walking, feeling stronger and more confident with the slap of the sheath against my leg, and I head to the kitchens to get something to eat, or to see if I can help in any way. The kitchens are barely open after everything that happened last night, and it’s not a woman working in there today, it’s a man—Balls. His afro is pulled back into a small bun today, and the look suits him.

  “Nina, right?” he says, looking up from what he’s doing.

  Come to think of it, what is he doing?

  “The one and only,” I reply, going closer so I can see what he’s up to.

  Balls laughs. “You’re probably right about that.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “About what?”

  “About being the one and only Nina. Ninety percent of the world is dead—you may very well be the only Nina left.” He chuckles again, like he’s just told the world’s funniest joke, and even when I don’t join in laughing he doesn’t stop. Instead his laughter dies off naturally, like a rat eating poison and having a seizure. Seriously. Balls lights a cigarette and starts having a coughing fit, and I have to grab him some water before he throws up everywhere.

  “Well that was hygienic,” I snark, wondering if what he has is contagious and already taking two steps backwards.

  “Cancer,” he says taking a heavy drag of his cigarette, which—by the smell of it—is menthol. “Lung cancer, to be precise.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry, Balls.” And I am, though it pisses me off that he’s smoking and has lung cancer. I mean, what kind of crazy asshole is he?

  He sees my stare and smiles. “Funny story, I never smoked until I found out I had lung cancer. Started to get this weird taste in my mouth that I just couldn’t clear until someone suggested menthol cigarettes. Now I do love my menthols.”

  I stare at him dumbfounded, pondering over his incredibly shitty luck. I bet he’s a really good guy too. That’s how it always seemed to work out. The assholes of the world lived healthy and long, if not wretched lives, and the good people—the ones who walked old ladies across the road and gave to charity every month, the ones who ate organic and didn’t smoke or drink—they were the ones that got sick and died.

  Fuck you, humanity, right?

  Well, fuck you, world, right back at you.

  I guess the apocalypse puts everyone on a more even playing field now.

  “Don’t look so sad. Life happens, death happens, but in the end, none of it really matters because we all end up the same regardless,” Balls says. He reaches over, and I think he’s going to touch the bottom of my chin but at the last moment he stops himself and turns away.

  “Sorry,” I say. “The odds are just shit, I guess.”

  He shrugs and goes on setting up for breakfast. “We live, we die,” he sighs. “I’m no more worried about dying than I am about living. And you shouldn’t be either.”

  I think about that for a minute, and decide he might be on to something. I mean, life is so short, right? And you never know when the end will be, especially in this world, but you can’t live your life fearing what’s going to happen.

  “Do you need any help there?” I ask him, deciding that the morbid turn in the conversation was too much so early in the morning.

  “Err, yeah, actually. Most of the women are too afraid of coming out of their rooms after what happened last night, but we’ve been up all night fixing the walls and fighting the dead so we need something to eat. I’m a good cook,” he laughed, patting his stomach, “and an even better eater, but I don’t know what shit is kept where.”

  I head around the counter and take a look around. “Well, I don’t either, but I’m fucking starved so let’s work it out between us.” I begin opening cupboards and drawers and eventually find the canned food. There’s a tall pantry in the back that houses breads and pastas and tons of home-canned food. My stomach rumbles at the sight of it all.

  “Someone got canning-happy,” I say, coming out of the pantry loaded down with food.

  “Probably Mary—she was the prepper out of the group. We found her holed up in an underground bunker. Stunk to high heaven when she came out, and she fought us like a wild animal, but she came around when she realized we weren’t going to hurt her.” Balls begins opening some of the cans and heating up food, and I grab a large sack of oats and start making some porridge. “She’s one of the only women here that didn’t come from a fucked-up background,” he says.

  I feel guilty talking about Mary, knowing that Shooter and Gunner have probably buried her somewhere deep in the woods and no one will ever find her body.

  “Well at least she’s been useful,” I say, hoping the guilt is obvious in my voice.

  “Yeah, more than you know,” he says.

  I’m about to ask what he means when shouting voices sound out loudly from outside the kitchen. Balls and I exchange a look.

  “Stay here, I’ll go check it out,” he says, putting down the can he was opening.

  “No,” I reply and go after him.

  We both head to the front door, with the shouting getting louder and louder the closer we get. Balls pulls out a large black gun from his waistband, and I pull out my machete. Balls glances at my machete, his eyes going wide but his mouth turning up in amusement.

  “You don’t fuck around, do you?”

  “Not anymore,” I reply dryly.

  We reach the door and Balls blocks my way so that he has to open it and greet whatever’s happening outside first, which is ridiculously sexist but whatever. He puts his hand on the doorknob and looks at me, mouthing one, two…and on three he pulls open the door.

  Outside are Amara and Gunner, and they’re arguing. He has his huge hands wrapped around her biceps and I realize that her feet are actually off the ground. His eyes go wide when he sees us and he quickly lets go of her and takes a step back. And I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen someone look so ashamed of himself as he does.

  “It’s not what you think,” Amara says quickly, immediately pushing in between Balls and Gunner. “Balls! Really, not what you think!”

  Gunner’s head is hanging low, his chin to his chest and his eyes on the ground. His arms are hanging limply by his sides, no fists clenched, no f
ight in his whole damn demeanor. Regardless, Balls steps up to Gunner with his gun raised.

  “You’ve gone too far this time,” he grits out.

  Amara looks panicked and pushes against Balls’s chest. He steps back like he’s been burned. “Balls, I said it’s not what you think. I promise, he wasn’t hurting me.”

  “Move, Amara,” Balls says, ignoring her pleas.

  “Balls, maybe you should listen to her,” I try, because I can see that the situation is off. It looks bad—there’s no denying that, of course—but looks can be deceiving.

  Balls ignores my comment, and Amara’s pleas, and instead pushes past her, almost knocking her over so he can get to Gunner. He grabs the other man by the shirt and begins pulling him away. Amara runs after the two men, tears streaming down her face.

  “Nina, help me!” she calls back before turning around and hitting Balls’s arm. Not that it does much good. Balls is a big guy and her feeble hits probably don’t even register on him.

  I look back into the kitchen and then back to where the three are still walking and fighting. People have come out of their rooms to see what’s going on, and the last thing I want to do is get in the middle of something like this. Especially considering from what I’ve already seen, I doubt I’d do much good.

  But despite the facts, I jog after the three of them. If nothing else I want to know what was going on, because Amara didn’t seem in the least bit scared of Gunner. Was that Stockholm syndrome? Or was it something else? Did we misread the situation?

  Balls has dragged Gunner toward Shooter’s building, and Amara is still crying and hitting at Balls’s arms, for all the good it’s doing. I catch up to them as they go inside and Balls begins to pull Gunner down the hallway. All the commotion brings Shooter to his door and he starts to cuss up a storm when he sees how upset Amara is.

  Balls throws Gunner to the ground, and Gunner doesn’t even make an attempt at stopping himself from crashing onto his side. He looks up from the floor, his gaze flitting from Amara to Shooter and back again.