The Survivors: Book One

by Angela White

  Marc fell into a conversation with the man about the wolves, he and Angie quietly keeping track of each other.

  “Everything's a’gin us now,” the mountain man stated, cracking his knuckles impatiently.

  “But so many? Packs are never more than ten or fifteen,” Marc observed.

  “We killed the world. They hate us enough to band together.”

  “Surely that can’t be?”

  The man grunted, spoon already in his beefy hand as Lenore set his deep bowl down with a heavy thud. Angela looked away from the mats of dark hair on his forearms as he began scooping up huge bites of the steaming stew.

  “Tis not just the wolves. Rats, snakes, ants. People’r the enemy.”

  Marc was frowning at the picture, and Lenore’s eyes stayed on him. “Must not be that way where you came from?”

  He shook his head, military mind calculating the odds of mankind if that were true. “No.” Slim to none.

  “How far have you come?”

  “So many miles I can’t feel my ass anymore.”

  Lenore’s eyes lit up and she leaned closer, sharp intelligence clear. “Tell me. Is it safe? When were you there?”

  Wondering if it was the wolves that had scarred them up or something older, Marc eyed Angela. “Wrong one to ask.”

  Lenore produced a tight, grim smile - satisfied - and turned to Angela with approving eyes, “He’s well-trained. We can make some deals, trade. I’m Lenore. He’s Maxwell. Welcome to the killin' fields of Nebraska.”

  6

  “Ohio, huh?” Lenore grunted, handing her a thick slab of cornbread, and they both ignored the loud belch and male grunt that echoed from the table. “Never been past the Missi'sip.”

  Angela closed her eyes, smiling in delight. Marc frowned when the man’s gaze went to her face, lingered there.

  “This is so good!”

  “Missus makes the best,” Max stated gruffly, eyes now on her chest. Angela held her ground though she had the urge to put her sweater back on.

  “You’ve been here since the War?” Marc asked the man and wasn’t surprised when he looked to his wife first.

  “Tell ‘em what ya will. I see no harm.”

  Lenore ducked through a heavily-curtained doorway that held a long, oddly decorated horn Marc thought was probably the wolf caller.

  When Angela turned to see what he was staring at, Max waved a hand. “She’s checkin' their breathin'. Corn fumes.”

  They both frowned, confused, and the man finished his last bite before explaining.

  “We have the corn. Keep it from the rats. Fumes build up while it sets. Poison, o’ course, so we sleep in shifts. People start coughing and puking, we get out the guns and open the windows till it airs out.”

  Angela was horrified. “Why?”

  The big man’s tone was rough, but his eyes said he too hated it. “Why? To eat. Can’t hunt anymore. Damn wolves get ya or there’s no meat close enough cause o’ them. Gotta eat. Gotta last ‘em out.”

  “You could leave,” Marc suggested, which was met with silence.

  Angela shook her head when he would have repeated himself. “Not our business. Maybe you should look at their radio now.”

  It was enough to fool the man, who immediately responded to the tone, getting up. Angela hid a grin at the warning look Marc slid her way. Up to a point, this could be fun.

  There was quiet except for the wind outside, but all of them tensed suddenly, sure the wolves were out there. Angela turned to Lenore as she stepped back through the curtains. “You vent the corn?”

  The woman handed her a list. “Yes, but the generator is out of diesel. This is what I need and what I have to trade. I’ll throw in cornbread only if you got the last one on there.”

  Angela went over the list quickly. When Lenore handed her a pen, Angela understood the male here wasn’t allowed to know how much of what they had. To keep down thievery? Control was more probable, and the fact that Max had none, was likely more responsible for his impotence than the diabetes.

  “I can spare this much of each, and you can find that one here. This one, I haven’t seen in over a month.”

  Lenore creased her brow. “And the last?”

  Angela grinned. “Six months worth sound good?”

  The giantess’ eyes said it would go faster than that. “Deal. I’ll bake while you sleep with your man.”

  Unprepared for the probing comment, Angela flushed and saw the woman’s eyes light up with speculation. She hurried to distract.

  “You have room?”

  “Too much. You’ll stay?”

  Angie didn’t like the hungry look the woman gave Marc, as he removed his coat to work on the radio, big arms flexing. “Yes, but let’s have this clear now. The man is not for trade.”

  Lenore studied her coolly. “Things not for trade are often taken by force.”

  Angela felt the Witch surge forward and knew it showed in her eyes when the woman paled. “And often, people die in the trying. Perhaps Mankind will be smarter this time.”

  Lenore grunted, her voice bitter. “Not the men.”

  Angela let a bit of the heat come into her words, “And maybe not the women either.”

  The giantess flushed at the pointed tone, but didn’t back down. “But, if he’s not yours...”

  “He is!” Angela cut her off curtly, prepared to fight if she had to.

  Marc was listening intently, ready to help, and both of them were relieved when the woman sighed resignedly.

  “I’ve mistaken, maybe. Forgive me?”

  Angela waved it away, hoping this was the end of it. “My first time in control. I overreact.”

  “First one’s always the best. They still have a hope it will change back.” Lenore grinned, clapped her on the arm again, and this time, adrenaline kept Angela on her feet.

  7

  Hours later, as Marc finished changing parts inside the radio, Lenore led Angela through a dark, and blanket-covered room where at least five adult women and three kids were sharing a very large bed.

  As Lenore pushed open a back hallway door, she saw Angela’s look and shook her head. “You’re putting no one out. They sleep together for warmth now that their men is gone and the snow comes unexpected.”

  Angela heard and understood the tone of betrayal in Lenore’s words. “The Draft?”

  Lenore recognized a fellow victim. “Aye. Yours too?”

  Angela’s eyes were haunted. “My son. I’m on my way to get him back.”

  The giantess raised a surprised brow. “Just the two of you?”

  “Yes. No one will keep me from my blood.”

  Respect laced the woman’s voice. “My prayers will be with ya. Not that God listens any more now than he did before.”

  Angela smiled her thanks, suddenly tense as the wide bed, lit by a candle in each corner, came into view. She hid it, and closed the door with relief. A few minutes alone at last!

  8

  “Coming in,” Marc called softly, as he stepped in and then locked the door. Dog went straight to Angie, and then began exploring the room. Covered in dust, it sported a rickety bed, one end table, a plush, dusty chair below a window, and a long, cluttered dresser with no mirror.

  Marc frowned when he saw she had a row of medical supplies spread out on the dresser. “You hurt?”

  Angela didn’t look up from the needle she was threading. “You are.”

  Marc gave her a sheepish look at the dry tone and began taking off his coat and sweat-stained shirt. He tried not to wince as the cloth peeled painfully away from the wound, the blood long-dried.

  “When did I get you?”

  Marc shrugged out of the gun belts and laid them on the stand near the bed as Dog curled up under the front corner. “First few shots. It’s just a trim.”

  Angela rolled her eyes at the crusted, three-inch furrow along the underside of his arm, “I’m always hurting you, Brady. I’m sorry.”

  He noticed that she had cleaned her
self up and put on the jeans and black shirt from her emergency bag. They’d gotten lucky to have them close by when the wolves attacked. “Mistakes happen.”

  “I could have killed you.”

  Marc tensed as she cleaned the wound with alcohol pads, and Angela found herself watching the way his muscles flexed.

  “This world is full of chaos. It was your first real fight. I think you did great.”

  She met his eye, needing to know how true it was. “Really?”

  "Yes," Marc said, his tone revealing that he wasn’t blowing smoke and Angela smiled, fighting the urge to reach out and run a soft hand along his lightly-bearded jaw.

  “You learned well.”

  Her eyes darkened, and she looked down at his injury, letting the Doctor take over. “Hope it’s enough.”

  Marc twitched at the needle as it sank into his skin, and Angela moved faster. It occurred to her that she now had stitching in both of his big arms. How many more times would he be put in the line of fire for her? The wind outside picked up suddenly as if responding, and Angela shivered.

  “Damn. It got colder. How would they keep warm in these back rooms?” Marc mused.

  Angela kept her tone light, but flushed at the pictures running through her mind. “They don’t use them. They all share one bed for body heat.”

  Marc‘s eyes showed understanding: that explained all the people in one sloppy tangle in that center room, and it made him think of how the big woman had held his arm as she led him through, fingers caressing. Lenore had whispered of being a good master if he was unhappy with his current one.

  Angela turned to look at him, anger making the demon’s red eyes bleed through. “She made a move on you when she brought you back here?”

  Marc said nothing and Angela moved to her side of the bed as she dried her hands and controlled her rage. She had no real claim to him. If he wanted to sleep with the woman, he could.

  “I don’t.”

  Her eyes flew to his in time to see him grimace as he tried to pull on his shirt.

  “You sure?”

  Marc’s eyes were amused, and it calmed her. “Yes.”

  He began trying to button the emergency shirt, but with only one arm and pain shooting through the other, it was slow going.

  Angela waved a hand at him. “Leave it open or you’re gonna rip out those stitches.”

  “You could do it for me,” he suggested, feeling the throbbing increase.

  She frowned, thinking he wouldn’t ask for a painkiller, but he’d take it if she said to. What was it with men and their pride?

  “There’s Vicodin in my bag, top left side. Take two, leave the shirt as it is, and go to bed, will ya?”

  Marc raised a brow at the curtness and Angela sighed. “Damn. I’m sorry, Brady.”

  He moved slowly towards her bag. “You wanna tell me what’s got you on edge?”

  Angela turned toward the window, glad for the bars on it as she spotted shadows padding restlessly outside. “Besides the wolves out there? I’m not sure. “

  Marc saw the V on the bottle and dry swallowed two of the tiny blue pills without really looking at them, thinking she sounded restless.

  “Nerves from today. You wanna talk it out, play some cards? Both?”

  She shook her head, shivering. She wasn’t anywhere near ready for that bed, either. “No.”

  Marc sat in the chair and began working on their guns, hands always sure and steady.

  He was right, it was just nerves from the battle, Angela agreed, starting her own nightly rituals, but she was very aware of the man pretending not to watch her. This was their first time in a real bed together since they’d made a baby, and the old Angela was harassing her with memories of how good their time together had been. The mating had been sweet, soft and beautiful, and she’d forgotten none of it.

  Marc knew she was thinking about him, but kept quiet, sure he was out of time. If she said her man was close, then he was and that meant this was their last night alone together. His heart was already breaking, missing her, and Marc burned to remind her of what it was like to be made love to, instead of being taken.

  The sparks in the room thickened, and Angie felt him tense when she unbraided her long, black hair and began to brush it.

  “Can I do that for you?” he heard himself asking, thinking his heart was pounding harder than it should be.

  When she hesitated, Marc smiled. “Please.”

  Angela couldn’t deny him or herself. The need to get close to him tonight was undeniable. When he stepped behind her, big body warm and hard, she snapped her eyes shut and held herself in place.

  The feel of her curls running over his calloused hands was like silk, and Marc took his time, using his fingers to gather it, brushing her neck softly.

  Angela heard the brush hitting the bed behind them, felt his big hands go to her shoulders, but instead of moving away, she allowed him to rub her. The heat from his touch was like heaven.

  “That feels good,” she moaned, and Marc breathed in deeply of it before moving back a bit, his body hardening.

  Angela knew it was teasing him and surprised them both by letting him continue, even when his fingers brushed the curve of her breast, and sent little chills into her stomach. She forgot to listen to the voice of fear as his thumb brushed her again, the sensation rushing into her gut like a bullet. “Mmmmm…”

  Marc’s eyes snapped shut at that sound, liquid heat flooding his gut. He moved his hands away from her ribcage, sending them to her waist, her slender hips.

  They had to stop now, Angela knew that, knew she’d probably hate herself later, but the feel of him was comforting, enticing… When he tugged gently, she leaned back against his hard, bare chest, wishing she had the nerve to give him what he so clearly wanted.

  Marc controlled himself, didn’t push against her ass like he wanted to. When she would have turned to get closer, he moved back, not willing to destroy the peace.

  Angela stifled a protest at his retreat, her face flushed. She hadn’t meant to lead him on, had done really well so far, but the need was on her, the Witch and the old Angela crying for release.

  Marc realized her confusion. The killing had done it for her. It was something no one liked to admit, but he’d had some of the best orgasms - alone - right after a battle where blood was spilled. “You okay?”

  Her eyes darted to the threadbare coverlet pulled across her lap. “Yeah, you?”

  Marc noted the bars over the windows, arm still throbbing. “Sure. You got that rolled yet?”

  Angela forced a grin as the temperature dropped lower in the dusty bedroom, blowing grit across the dark, hardwood floor. “It’s in your pack.”

  Marc got it and fired it up, body tight. He tried to force his mind to other things as she pulled her sweater over her shoulders. Her long curls hung around her pale skin, the smell of her was assaulting his nose, and Marc frowned at himself as erotica flashed through his mind.

  He moved to the other side of the bed, not really feeling the cold anymore, but he saw her pointed chest and knew she was. Marc got another blanket from his kit and tossed it on the pillow next to her. “Put that one around your shoulders.”

  Angela didn’t look at him as she drew on her courage. “Share it with me?”

  Marc felt the need rise up, strong and hungry, as he sat back against the headboard. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Honey.”

  He held the smoldering joint out and she took it carelessly, letting their fingers brush. Flames sparked, vanished.

  Marc felt like he was sweating, body making it hard for him to sit. He shifted restlessly, waiting for it to go away like it usually did. He had quietly pleased himself from time to time when she was asleep, but right now, he felt like he hadn’t in years, and he struggled to keep it out of his voice as he took the joint back. “You ready for tomorrow?”

  Angela blew out a thick stream of sweet, pungent smoke. “As much as I can be.”

  Marc turned towa
rd her, unable to stop his eyes from falling to her red lips. “You’ve learned a lot. I think you’ll do fine.”

  She smiled at him, in a good mood despite the wrongness here, and she tried not to let the thuds and creaks outside the ranch home bother her as the wind gusted loudly. She was with Marc. They could handle just about anything together. “I had a good…teacher.”

  Sparks flew between them, the hunger alive, and Angela felt heat flood her stomach. The passion was new to her, almost like she’d never felt it.

  When his eyes darkened, she felt a streak of heat that she knew he sensed by the way his grip on the joint tightened and the muscle in his jaw began to twitch. She should be scared, she knew that too, but this was Brady. Nothing would happen that she didn’t want.

  Marc moved off the bed and settled himself in the wide chair under the window, blowing out the candle closest to him. He left only one flickering flame in the far corner that gave off very little light, not trusting himself. He lit a smoke, body and arm now throbbing together, one pain, one sharp and sweet. What the hell was wrong with him?

  Angela was asking herself the same thing. She wasn’t some tramp and she was pushing him. Marc was a man, one with needs that hadn’t been met for a long time, and here she was letting him kiss her, rub her, touch her breast. Her face flamed at that thought, and she heard him shift in the chair, as if he picked up on the image.

  Her heart thumped as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His shirt fell open at the movement, and she couldn’t look away, wondering where that furious wave of need was coming from.

  “Angie.”

  She heard it in his voice and instead of fear, the woman inside responded. “Yes.”

  Marc’s eyes snapped open, but her guilty face had him shaking his head. “No. Go to sleep.”

  Angie braced herself. There was one last lesson to be learned. “Come back to bed, Brady.”