“O’Malley, don’t give the girl all my secrets,” Omar rumbles, without looking away from the child. Claire makes a small noise of displeasure, and steps forward, drawing the boy away and pressing a small bar of chocolate into his hand. She pushes him from the room, and the boy goes without complaint.
I stare at the Black Priest. Once upon a lifetime ago, he was my friend, the partner who kept me alive, the quiet rumble in our convoy that made shit make sense and settled Kelsey when she was furious and impetuous.
Which was more than it wasn’t.
And then he became something else, something so wrapped in tragedy and my own failure that I couldn’t separate my rage for it from my anger at him.
I still can’t. And everything in me—every fucking thing—screams that this is a bad idea, that trusting him will end with blood and death.
Omar straightens, giving me a searching stare. “Is she worth risking your life?”
I don’t answer, just lean back against the door and cross my arms over my chest. Omar mutters a curse. Rubs a hand over his head. “You’ll need me to help you. She’s not going to be easy to retrieve.”
“How not easy?” I ask.
“Enough that I’m not convinced this a good idea,” Omar says, cryptically. “Walk with me.”
I hesitate, and his gaze turns hot and heavy. My lips tighten just a little and I push off the door, and move to Claire. Drop down to give her a quick kiss. “I’ll be back later.”
“Be careful. I don’t trust him,” she says, loud enough that Omar hears. I hide my grin in her hair, and hug her before I step back and nod at Omar. Holly takes a step after us and Omar turns, pinning her with a glare. Her lips compress, and I see what I saw the first time I looked at her—an apocalypse baby with no idea of the world.
Omar pushes open the door, and I follow him outside.
Chapter 6. Ghosts of the Past
THE FIRST TIME I SAW OMAR, I was twelve. Five years after ERI-Milan broke in Atlanta, we were still adjusting to life behind Haven walls and the fact that there was no end in sight.
Then, we still believed in a cure. We were still fucking idiots.
Omar was larger than life. At eighteen, he was already fighting in the East. And in a battleground that spanned hundreds of miles and millions of lives, he rose to the top. He led the first foray into Atlanta after the bombing. He rescued as many survivors as he killed infects.
We had heard his legend before he ever arrived in 1. Kelsey was already slipping her handlers, disappearing with me to spar and train. Every time, it set the entire haven in a panic, but every time, I helped her.
Few things would make her smile—but that did.
When Omar first walked into our lives, Kelsey decided that he would be the soldier who would push us from training in secret to the frontlines.
He did. With his help, and her determination, we went from a couple of kids to an elite force.
And then we killed her.
Chapter 7. The Assistance of the Order
OMAR AND I ARE ENOUGH TO CAUSE A STIR IN ANY PLACE—but in Haven 1, where we both have a past and connections, we draw more attention than I’m comfortable with.
“Do you have ways out?” he asks, abruptly. I glance at him, and let a slow smile turn my lips. He makes a disgusted noise in his throat. “Your bolt-holes will bring down a haven one day.”
“They’re falling just fine without my help,” I say coolly.
He grunts, and we walk another stretch in silence. He’s steering the direction of the walk and the conversation, and I’m letting him. But when we finally reach the jogging track, where Walkers do PT and citizens can work out excess energy, I finally shift my full attention on him. “Where is she, Omar?”
“How much do you know of the Order?”
I think about the Grays in 6, and Holly here, moving the pieces to control a president. I think of Lori in 18.
“Not as much as I should,” I say, grudgingly. “Enough to know you don’t belong with a group of bloodthirsty fanatics.”
Omar’s expression sours, just a little. “They are a means to an end.”
“What end is that?” I ask, quietly.
Omar pauses, studying me for a long moment. “I spent almost ten years watching people die, fighting for the East, and then some bastard decided we couldn’t win, and everyone who died did it for no reason. There’s no fucking sense in that.”
I stare at him, not sure I believe what I’m hearing. “We can’t win that battle. You know that—we fought it. We know what the numbers were like. The population was too dense.”
That was the real problem in the East. For every one we evac’ed, another didn’t make it out. Too many died too fast, in too small a space. There was no way to put them all down, because every solider who died came back. We didn’t have the manpower or the weaponry to take it back. There was a theory that they didn’t migrate west as we ceded the battle because the dead were territorial—they died and stayed where they died.
It was a stupid fucking theory. They didn’t chase because they were dead fucking walking, and they didn’t have that kind of thought process. They only knew to chase flesh and when we pulled out, it was fast and clean—there was nothing left to chase.
Omar’s eyes gleam, fanatically bright. “We can take it back. The Order, the Walkers and the army. If we work together—we can win the East back.”
“Omar, the same thing that was true ten years ago is still true. We can’t face them with large numbers—it will mutate the ERI in us. That’s what started this in Atlanta.”
“You aren’t listening,” he snaps, and I hate that part of me wants to jerk to attention, a muscle memory even after ten years.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. If you want her back, it matters a helluva a lot.”
I go still, staring at him. “What the fuck is this going to cost me?”
He looks away, walking again, and I fall in beside him. “I know where she is. And I can retrieve her—but it’ll either cost me my position in the Order, and a chance to recover the East, or there will be a regime change.”
“What will that entail?” I ask, softly.
“One assassination,” he answers. “Lori is dead—we confirmed it. 18 fell a week ago. The Red sect doesn’t have a High Priestess, for now. But there is someone with enough power to threaten my hold on the Order.”
I stare at the track. “Is she safe?”
“For now,” Omar says, his voice blank. “But this offer has an expiration date, O’Malley. If we do this, we do it now. If not, I go away and wait for the right opportunity, and you walk away without the girl.”
One death. One person to kill, and I can have her back, can keep the promise.
In the end, it’s not even a choice.
I nod. “Who do I have to kill?”
Chapter 8. Assassinations
I SIT ON THE EDGE OF THE WALL, my feet hanging down. The sun set hours ago, and 1 is shutting down, closing in on itself and the darkness.
Even now, twenty years after the zombies rose and took Atlanta, the fear of monsters in the dark is an instinctual thing.
There are few things I can say with certainty I am good at. I was seven when the world changed, and all my childhood dreams died with my mother in Atlanta. I never had the chance to be good at anything.
And in the changed world, the options are limited. I am good at surviving. I’m good at knowing what the hell is happening and getting the fuck out of the way. At annoying Collin and pissing off Ren and keeping my own council.
And I am good, very good, at killing.
I click my magazine into the gun, and let out my breath as I stand. The air is turning cool, early for the onset of winter, but not unexpected. It catches my mood. I glance up at the moonless sky, and I pray. For the first time since Columbus and everything went sideways, and before that, when Atlanta fell and my mother died, leaving me an orphan for all intents and purposes.
I pray t
hat this one last life is enough to buy back Nurrin’s freedom. That trusting the Black Priest won’t prove to be as deadly a mistake as it did ten years ago.
That wherever and whatever Kelsey is now, she isn’t watching me now.
Then I shove all of my maudlin shit aside, and jog silently down the stairs, off to kill a president.
Chapter 9. The Order’s Price
EVEN THE PRESIDENT WILL STOP FOR THE ORDER. That is how Omar set it up.
It’s not unusual for the Order’s presidential puppet to meet with a visiting High Priest. Kenny will hate to be manipulated into an unexpected meeting, but he’ll come. He’ll have no choice.
Which is why I'm crouched in a dim hall, waiting for the arrival of a man I hate. Doing favors and wet work for the man I don't trust. I always knew my life was fucked up, but this is a new low, even for me.
Ren's somewhere with the Order, though and every fucking time I think about that, my blood runs icy. One more death. One more, and it's over.
Down the hall, the door swings open, and I can hear the boots of Kenny's personal guards. I wonder, listening to him move closer, if he thinks they are like us. Like the ones who followed Kelsey into hell and back out again, damaged because we came out the other side without her to keep us whole.
Even the survivors died, in ways. None of us were the same, after.
And isn't that the fucking theme song for this world.
Kenny and his guards walk past me, into the room. I swallow the curse raging in me. I don’t want to do this shit with his people in the room. I want it clean and quick—but that’s why I’m here. Because Omar knew it wouldn’t be clean or quick.
The Black Priest had never been good at either. Messy was his specialty.
I wait until I can hear the voices from the other room settle into conversation, and then I slip from the empty hall.
This isn’t how I would have chosen to do this. I’d have slipped into his room at night, opened his throat and vanished.
That would be easy and clean. And for a moment, reaching for my knife, I hesitate. Because the whole setup rubs me wrong. Killing is one thing, and necessary. Making Omar’s statements—that’s another fucking thing entirely.
But this is his price, and I’ll swallow just about anything to find Nurrin. I pull my knife and slink out of the shadows.
There is a guard at the door, his back to me as I slip it open. Omar’s eyes flick over to me and then back to Kenny, his expression never changing. I slip in behind the guard, and I feel him stiffen, a heartbeat before my hand clamps down on his mouth, and I jerk him back, dragging my knife across his throat. The man makes a startled, muffled noise, and Omar shifts, speaking over Kenny as blood sprays in a wet arc. His body goes limp and I lower him slowly, keeping my hand tight to his mouth as I do.
I’m good at what I do. The man’s eyes are already drifting closed as I lay him out. Without looking away from the table, I stab him again, high in the thigh. The answering spread of blood is deep and red—I hit the femoral artery I was aiming for.
He’ll be dead before his boss.
I shift, coming to my feet silently. There is still one guard, at Kenny’s back, and I prowl forward, pulling my bow silently around. It will happen fast—so fast. And I’m not stupid enough to think Kenny is unarmed.
I crouch a few feet behind them, and release a breath, focusing myself. And release the bolt. The quarrel whistles through the air, and embeds in the guard’s skull. He’s dead before he hits the table.
“What the fuck!” Kenny shouts, jerking away from the table and I pull her gun, rising smoothly. My bow clatters against the ground, forgotten as I advance on the president.
I’ll be executed for this. Not even exiled—treason is still an offense punishable by death. An assassination is about as treasonous as it gets.
There is a smile on my lips, a sick certainty that I’m signing my own death warrant as I lift the gun and press it to Kenny’s temple.
“Where the fuck is she?” I growl.
I hate Kenny. And he has always hated me. Because I was the one Kelsey chose, every time there was a choice. Because I was the one in Columbus with her. Because when it all ended, I was the one who grieved, and the one the world—what was left of it—saw grieve.
Kenny was forgotten by me, and Kelsey, the world—his father. And he never forgave me for it.
“She’ll be dead before you get to her, O’Malley. My people will have her killed before you reach the fucking Walls.”
I punch him, and he stumbles into the table. I could shoot him. Put an end to all of this shit—but hitting him feeds a visceral need in me. I grin, and Kenny growls, lunging at me. I catch his weight and bring my elbow down into his kidney. For a moment, he freezes, and I grab him by the hair, slamming his head down on the table. I hear bone crunch, and Kenny shouts, a grabled noise as I pull back and slam his head down again.
Hands pull me back, and I snarl at Omar. “What? You wanted a dead president. Back the fuck off!”
I shake him off and Kenny rolls to his back. His face is a mess of blood and broken teeth and his hands are up, the universal gesture of surrender.
“I can help you,” he slurs. “Don’t kill me. I can help you. I’ve worked with your Order. I can give you a platform to further your sect’s agenda. You wouldn’t be the High Priest without knowing how to help yourself.”
Omar goes still, staring at the man I want dead. The one who kidnapped the only woman I’ve ever promised to protect.
“How can you help me, little president?”
Part 5.
The Edge of Hope
Hope rises from the ashes. It carries us to rebuild a world that the infection destroyed. It keeps us going.
President Andrew Buchman-
We all have it to start with. But hope dies in childhood—when we all learn that there is no cure. There is no way out. There is only this.
Nurrin Sanders-
Chapter 1. Broken Girl, Broken World
I’M NOT INFECTED. Of course I’m not. I’m a First. It would be too easy for me to die from ERI-Milan. The Order doesn’t believe in easy shit—it has to be painful. It has to hurt like fuck, and come only after I have tortured myself with the knowledge of what’s coming.
That’s the worst part. The anticipation.
They pump me full of drugs, and Silas orders me left in Containment. I’m not infected, but it’s a punishment. When I’m awake enough for shit to make sense, I know that it’s a punishment.
A few times, I wake, and I know someone has been here. My thin white clothes barely cover me, and it hurts to move. It hurts to breathe, and the knowledge that I’ve been touched, even under drugs, makes me violently and ill.
Occasionally he lets me see Collin.
Collin, who should be dead, and isn’t. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing to keep him alive, but I know it’s not a cure. It won’t work, long-term. Every time I see him, he’s a little worse—he’s skinny, clammy, pale. Shriveled. I can see the veins under his skin, dark with blood and infection. Every heart beat pushes him further into the sickness.
He screams, sometimes. I sit in my Containment cell, and I can hear their contained infects shrieking in hunger. I know them, the way they sound, how they move as a pack and individually.
And sometimes, when they scream, Collin does. That scares me more than anything.
No. That’s not true.
I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. Long enough that my brother should be dead, and I should be lost in the depths of the Order.
Long enough that there is no reason Finn has not found me.
Finn said once that hope is what killed us. Hope is what made us get up and keep trying, when logic said we were dead. And hope being crushed is what would kill us in the end.
I didn’t understand that, when he said it. It’s a stupid fucking emotion. Zombies kill. Emotions just make you weak.
I didn’t get it, because I was just a stupid fuck
ing haven girl.
I get it now.
Chapter 2. New Arrivals
I’M SHIVERING WHEN I WAKE UP. The drugs don’t allow for much clarity at first, but I know I’m cold and naked under my thin blanket. I usually am, after a drug dose clears. I shiver, and tuck the blanket around me as I sit up. The rooms beyond containment are empty, which is unusual. I stare at them, and don’t hear any noise. I don’t hear anything.
“Hello?” I whisper.
An echoing silence greets me.
The Outpost never gets this quiet. There are always acolytes cleaning and whispering; there is always a priest murmuring prayers, the rattle of weapons belts. I shudder, a full body convulsion as I scramble for my dress, and that’s when I realize I don’t hear the zombies.
The pet infects are quiet.
My teeth clatter together as I grab the dirty scrap of material that is my dress, and the door to Containment bangs open.
The blood drains from my face as I watch Silas step into the room, his robes immaculate. A young girl in scarlet robes steps in behind him, and I swallow hard. Her eyes sweep over me, and she smiles, a slow tight smile.
“Found her,” she shouts. Silas glances at the younger girl and she smirks. “You fucked this all to hell, didn’t you, Priest?”
I don’t know what that means, but the flash of fear in his eyes sends a rare spark of hope through me.
Omar steps through the door, and his black eyes darken a little when he sees me. His lips tighten, and he glances at the red priestess. “Stay with her. Silas, with me. Now.”
There’s a bite of fury and authority in his voice that causes my eyes to widen, and then he’s stepping back. Silas hesitates, looking like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He follows Omar from the room, and I let out the half-held breath.
The red-robed girl glances around the room, and grabs a blue robe from the pile folded on a long table. “Put this on.”
The Future Without Hope (The World Without End Book 3) Page 6