The Survivors: Book One

by Angela White

  “We will have her!” Dean confirmed ruthlessly. “You can’t protect her forever.”

  Marc stayed silent, aware of their tactics (hadn’t Warren thought to do the same thing?), but also sure they meant every word they screamed. Unlike the scarred man from her hallway, these two could back it up.

  Out of sight now, Marc wound through tall oaks and high bushes, leaving muddy prints in the grass. The wolf kept pace, and the big animal was inside the second he opened the door of the Blazer. Dog headed for his place in the backseat.

  Marc slid in and started the engine, and the radio immediately lit up, making them both flinch from the unfamiliar sound. “You there, Brady?”

  He shifted and hit the gas as he keyed the mic. “Be in your mirror in a click. I see your lights. Turn them off and stay close.”

  The bright red and white tattles disappeared. “I will.”

  Marc only slowed a little as he went around her on the gravel road, seeing she had left room for him to take the lead. When she fell in tight behind him, he let his training and knowledge of the area take over, eager to lose the brothers and be alone with her.

  Glad that the ground here was dry, but not dusty enough to leave tracks, he swung them onto an old dirt path that would eventually bring them out well away from the vengeful threats they were leaving alive. Ignoring his gut that said doing so was a disastrous mistake, Marc lit a smoke and lowered the window. Angie hadn’t wanted it, and the last thing he needed was for her to start off thinking he was a hardened killer…even though he was.

  Marc sighed. The damp air rolling in warned of rain soon, a lot of it, and he told himself to relax, that between their injuries and the weather, he and Angie should be able to get at least a good night’s sleep before they had to start watching.

  Moving quickly, they drove down streets and dirt roads that Angela didn’t have time to look up on her map before they were turning onto a different one, and she kept her doors locked and eyes on the Born Free & Die that Way! bumper sticker that she could only read when he hit his brakes. They moved through the thick, silent darkness with his eyes to guide them, and her stomach was full of butterflies, pulse racing. He was here! Brady had finally come for her!

  Marc kept one eye on the winding dirt road and one on the vehicle in his mirror, glad she copied his movements exactly as they rolled around downed trees, burnt-out cars, and wireless telephone poles - damage that he was almost sure had been caused by an earthquake. She was following him as he had followed her, trusting the choices he made, the way he had as he’d followed her back trail, and it occurred to him again that some of her decisions had been risky, reckless. Finding her had been easy because she was taking not the easiest or most reasonable path, only the quickest - like the water crossing in Geneva. They’d both been lucky that bridge had held.

  Marc wanted to pick up the mic, wanted to tell her how happy he was she’d called, but resisted. This was not the time or place, and not only because of anyone that might be listening. He had to get himself under control first. His mind flashed back to the image of her bathed in firelight, no longer the innocent young girl of his dreams but a full, rounded woman. He felt the pain keenly in his heart. Slender curves, a pale, flawless face, midnight black hair…it was suddenly easy to remember how silky it had felt under his trembling young fingers.

  One single, unforgettable weekend fifteen long years ago, and he had never gotten close to it again. The occasional barracks bait he’d succumbed to had been blue-eyed, with long dark hair and he had loved them in the dark. Searching for what he’d lost, he was always unsatisfied and regretful when it was over. Seeing Angie for just these few minutes had reminded him of that, of how lonely he’d been, and unless he could hide it, she would know too. He’d never gotten over her.

  Nerves began to settle onto Angela as the miles slowly passed, and she found herself hoping he would keep going all night. She was more than grateful for the rescue, but she had expected to have at least one more day to figure out what to say to him. What she needed was dangerous and she was crazy to think she could guilt him into it with something that had happened so long ago. It would never hold him through all they would face.

  "Then just tell him the basics and let him make his own choices," the Witch advised her, and Angela tried to relax. That's exactly what she would do and hope the rest would take care of itself.

  "Start with how good he looks," the old Angela ordered, and while she pushed the idea away with a grimace, the image remained vivid.

  Her dreams had kept some things alive in her memory - like the shorter, feathered black hair, those dark, sexy blue eyes, an his full, pouty lips - but she had forgotten about his hard, tanned skin and the way a couple days stubble was so attractive on him. He looked like a modern day cowboy now, with wider shoulders and lean hips inside dusty jeans and scuffed boots. He wore a wide-brimmed, faded black hat, and of course, there was the outline of dog tags beneath his shirt and long black trench coat. He also sported a gun on each hip, crisscrossed gun belts accenting the great shape he was in.

  Her Brady was all grown up and she hoped (feared) that what had once been between them would make him help her when anyone else would walk away. They had been true friends once, lovers…maybe even soul mates. She was counting on those feelings and his sense of honor, and yet worrying about how to protect her heart from all the need in his beautiful blue eyes. She would have to be careful not to even accidentally encourage or imply anything she had no intentions of restarting. The past was done. They couldn’t go back.

  2

  By 2 a.m., storm clouds, thick and white, were rolling overhead, and Angela was ready to stop, too tired to worry about talking. She wiped at her blurry eyes as they turned onto yet another weed-dotted, gravel road and a street sign flashed by too fast in the darkness.

  They went past small, empty-looking and feeling buildings she recognized as restrooms and showers. A campground of some kind she assumed, maybe even the back of the state forest she had been in. They were on a dirt path and his brake lights stayed lit as he came to a stop in front of a wide log house with a two car garage that boasted a single, dark, second floor window. A caretaker’s home, maybe? Garbage littered the area, and the trees were more spaced out, spots still cleared for tents and campsites, but only oddly-colored weeds grew in those neatly rocked off circles. It was spooky and she jumped when the radio lit up.

  “I need to check it out. Stay close, okay?”

  “Yes.” Angela shut off her engine, but didn't get out. She wanted to watch him, wanted to see if the Marine took over the man the way it did with Kenny, but she (and the Witch) also needed to know where her enemies were, and she closed her burning eyes, searching for the evil twins she’d stopped Marc from killing.

  3

  Dillan and Dean were acting as if they hadn’t been bested, bloated egos unable to accept the fact that one woman and man had hurt them so badly, but inside they were humiliated, furious, and on the hunt. They were familiar with black magic, understood what possessing the Witch could do for them, but it was the humiliation that would keep them following.

  They were tracking the couple with their lights out, blood-soaked pants and jackets sticking to the seats of their jeep, and the two identical Blazers were easy to see as their brake lights flashed like red beacons in the darkness. Without speaking about it, the brothers both accepted now that this woman was different and required a more aggressive approach.

  When they saw where the Witch and her man stopped for the night, the brothers had backed off to plot, and tend their injuries.

  “You have gas left?” Dean asked, staying low as Dillan watched their prey through the binoculars. They had followed separate trails for the first two days, being careful not to lose her, until tonight, when they’d come together for the attack.

  “Two gallons, you?”

  Dean smothered a cry, fingers digging deep into his thigh for the bullet. “Four. Wait until they’re asleep and send them both to h
ell?”

  Dillan’s face was a mask of hatred as he rewrapped his mauled wrist. “Just don’t shoot unless you have to. I wanna hear her scream while she burns.”

  4

  Marc frowned as he came out of the garage, seeing she hadn’t moved from the Blazer that was even the exact same shade of mud-splattered black as his own. Able to feel the hum of raw energy, he stopped himself from reaching for the handle, knowing instinctively she was looking for the brothers.

  When she opened the door with dazed, far-away eyes, he stepped closer, thinking she didn’t look 30 years old. He, on the other hand, knew he was five years older than that by the age lines and grey hair starting to show up in his mirror. His birthday had been just eight days before the War, and he suddenly wished he had celebrated it this time. “Everything okay?”

  Angela shrugged, slowly coming out of the looking zone. “For now, I think, but they’ll come for us…for me.”

  Her voice doesn’t sound right, Marc thought.

  Angela didn’t tell him she had seen only darkness. She slowly eased out of the Blazer, trying not to wince at the pain in her back and gut.

  As she moved, Marc saw she had a Therma-Care patch stuck to her seat and smiled. What a great idea. His eyes went over the .357 on her hip. Her random firing at the twins told him she didn’t know what she was doing with the six-shooter. It was probably too big for her hands, chosen because it was pretty. Marc sighed inwardly. She’d be better off with his old piece of shit12...though really, the M9 in the bottom of his kit didn’t fit that old USMC nickname. He’d had more respect than that.

  “We’ll make some real distance in the next few days, and lose them for good.”

  Angela nodded, as the fog cleared from her eyes, hoping he was right. The two men were dangerous, and she should have let Brady take care of them…Brady. They were together again.

  She looked up, becoming aware of the thickness between them. Marc staring at her in stunned happiness, and she tensed as he moved closer, already knowing he was going to hug her, and she was going to react badly.

  Marc felt like he was in one of his dreams, and he didn’t register the fear on her face as his arms came up, nor the rigid body he wrapped them around with a groan of longing. “God, I’ve missed...”

  “Let go of me!”

  Marc jumped back from the fear in her voice as if burned. Angie was afraid of him?

  “Not at all,” she lied, hoping he hadn’t seen her hand plunging toward her gun. “I just don’t like to be touched.”

  Since when? His eyes narrowed with questions he knew she wouldn’t answer yet.

  “Is it okay to go in?”

  Marc nodded, feet moving back as she buttoned up her long black sweater, and then slung two big duffle bags over her shoulder. “Yes. Window’s covered so our lights won’t be seen.”

  Angela hit her rear latch button, and closed her door, not looking at the decaying bodies of two wood thrushes near her tire, or the man she’d dreamed about almost nightly for years. During the day, she’d been careful to keep Kenny from picking anything up, but the dreams were hers and she’d used them to remember.

  “Get out what you need, and I’ll take it in.” Marc wasn’t surprised when she shook her head and stepped by him.

  “I’ve got it.”

  He went to get his own gear, stealing little looks that he could feel her returning when he glanced away. When he saw her step into the dark garage without hesitation, it surprised him. The Angie he had known was very afraid of the dark, terrified even. "This isn’t her," his heart said, "Go slowly." He would.

  As he stepped in behind her, she moved quickly to the far side of the small, mostly empty room, the pen light on the chain around her neck shining dimly. He watched her fire up a lantern and put it in the corner, and knew she was very aware of him standing in the doorway, staring. She looked…tense.

  “Figured we’d use the loft. It’s a good vantage point,” Marc said matter-of-factly, and she slid her bags back over one shoulder without argument. He was unable to keep his eyes from her ass as she deftly climbed the ladder and disappeared into the darker shadows of the second floor.

  She came back down less than a minute later, and he said nothing about her almost cushioned movements as they brought their vehicles inside without talking. Was she in pain? Injured?

  Angela backed her muddy SUV in first, him holding the garage door. When they switched places, he rolled by her with a silly wave and smile that reminded her of the past, when he had been willing to try anything to pull a laugh from her.

  Instantly sad, Angela headed back to the loft and set up the heater. She sighed in relief as the red glow came on and began to warm her fingers. She had chosen the far, back corner, the side that was just bare, dusty planks, and was making her bed in the corner as he came up the stairs. Knowing from her life with a Marine that he would want the spot closest to the door, she unrolled her bag with a frown, thinking one of them had to say something soon just to cut the tension. It was awkward, sad. Once they had been so...

  “Where did you find a heater that runs on batteries? I kept finding the cylinders, but no actual heater.”

  His tone was impressed and Angela tried unsuccessfully to pretend it wasn’t relief filling her heart at the sound of another human voice. “The basement of a Goodwill. It’s great to have.”

  Marc was watching her, she could feel him looking for clues to why she had called, and she began to set up the Coleman stove he had brought in, still not sure how to start that conversation. Outside, the rain began to fall heavily, drowning out the hard new world on the other side of their four small walls.

  Marc had taken off the long leather coat, and her eyes were drawn to his thick arms against her will, as he dug out his own bedroll. He did indeed put it between her and the ladder, and they both avoided the boxes, bags, tarp-covered bike frames, and tall mirror layered in thick dust that littered the other side of the wide, 8’ x 10’ room.

  There were a million things she wanted to say. Where to start? “Want some hot chocolate?”

  “That sounds good.”

  She handled his stove with an ease that told him she knew what she was doing, and Marc kept quiet, wishing she would meet his eye for more than a second at a time. What was her problem? Was it so bad that she didn’t think he would help? The urge to start asking questions was hard to resist, even for him, but he knew she was tired, could see it on her pale face. If she said she’d rather wait until morning to talk, he would agree, but never be able to sleep.

  Angela lit the Coleman, a twin of the one sitting in the rear of her Blazer. When she’d seen him taking his in, she left her own, and it made her think about their vehicles. They hadn’t just picked the same camping equipment. Of all the cars and trucks in the country, they had chosen the same one, even year (’93) and make. Was that just a coincidence?

  “Can you use that gun on your hip?”

  Angela turned the fire higher on the small pot of water, thinking again that he looked like a cowboy from the Old West with his silver, crisscrossed gun belts and matching, ivory-handled weapons.

  “I can load it and pull the trigger. Does that count?” she asked, dumping the packets into the mugs.

  Smiling, Marc shook his head, noticing she bagged the garbage instead of just leaving it. “Not really. You use it before tonight?”

  “No. I didn’t want to attract attention. Guess I did that anyway, but I had a flat and the flashlight wasn’t enough.”

  She turned to him then, and her eyes were hard to look at, as he read the pain and miserable years she had also spent. His dread of her story increased.

  “Thanks for coming. There’s no one else I can turn to.”

  Marc instinctively wanted to comfort her, wanted to say she could count on him, and stopped himself. “I’ll help if I can. It’s the best I can do.”

  “Hope you feel that way later.”

  Angela sighed, dumped in the hot water and stirring. When she br
ought their cups over, she set his down and moved quickly back despite his hand being out for it.

  She balanced on each foot to slide her shoes off and could feel his eyes on her, but didn’t look up. She didn’t want him to see she was terrified of being alone again at dawn. Settling herself on her bedroll, Angela pulled the blanket over her lap before easing out of her sweater to reveal a simple white T-shirt with an American flag on the front. The jeans now hidden under the quilt, were unfastened around her aching guts, had been for hours while she drove. She had been pushing herself, and now she was paying for it.

  Lips tightening at the attempt to hide her pain, Marc settled on the floor too. He busied his hands with cleaning his Colt as the rain drummed steadily and the thunder rolled, but his eyes were mostly on her and the small details that many years of training allowed him to pick out.

  There was a pretty (small) diamond ring on a chain around her slender neck, a claim of ownership she obviously still felt, or she wouldn’t be wearing it. She was thinner than he thought she should be - probably only 120 pounds - and her nose was crooked, just barely noticeable, along with the slight shadow of what was probably a nasty scar showing from under the edge of her wrinkled shirt.

  She looked scared, sick even, and instead of the guilt or anger he’d expected her to use, he sensed only sadness and felt that old concern rise up - stronger. He wisely kept his mouth shut, though, sure that anything he said would be met with scorn or sarcasm. This was her show until he agreed and he hadn’t done that yet.

  Angela looked over at him, their eyes sparking, hers flinching away. There was joy and pain in that brief glance, and once again Marc admitted to himself that there was little she could ask for that he wouldn’t give.

  Angela took in a deep breath and then picked another question to stall. “So, are you really a Marine or do you just like being a moving target?”

  Marc grinned, a bit surprised she knew he was military and what branch. Most civilians didn’t, and he wondered what had given him away. His tag wasn’t visible.