by Joss Ware
Remy moved along rapidly and with more confidence than Wyatt expected, being in the dark and in an unfamiliar place. Maybe Dantès helped. Nevertheless, he stayed close behind her, pausing occasionally to look back and listen, then easily catching up.
They were hiking through a junglelike forest, but threaded through it were remnants of the world Wyatt had left behind. Cracked and overgrown slabs of concrete that once could have been parking lots, building foundations, or even roads. They passed rusted-out cars, often sprouting the eerie shapes of trees or bushes growing through the windows. By the dearth of buildings, he figured they were on an old two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere. Fifty years ago this had probably all been desert. But since the Change, the climate and environment had been altered, turning Nevada into a tropical jungle. He wouldn’t have believed it if he weren’t living it.
And there wasn’t a day went by he wished he weren’t.
Wyatt kept an eye out for a possible hiding place, but the problem with charging into an old building in a hurry was a question of safety. They didn’t have time to determine whether the floors were stable and could hold weight, or if the roof would come crashing down at the slightest jolt or vibration. Aside from that, any structure that was a potential sanctuary from the zombies would have to have access to a second level—and then again, there was the problem of stairs and whether they’d hold his 190-some pounds.
All at once Dantès stopped and began barking. His attention was fixed on something in the darkness.
Crap.
“What is it, Dantès?” Remy stopped, looking into the darkness. His ears were up at full triangulation, and his barking became a threatening growl. An animal threat, then, not human.
Wyatt automatically moved in front of Remy, thrusting an arm out to shield her. He had a Glock tucked in the back of his waistband, courtesy of the dead bounty hunter named Seattle. But he had only a little ammunition, and a handgun was of little use against the large predators that roamed this wild, overgrown world. Liberated from zoos and circuses during the catastrophic events of the Change, all sorts of non-native wildlife were threats to humans. A handgun bullet wouldn’t stop a lion or tiger if it attacked. The pain would just make them angrier.
Dantès’s growling became more intense, verging on barking. His ears were angled forward, and from the shape of his silhouette, Wyatt could tell his scruff was standing upright. Not good.
Remy bumped against him. She had her gun in hand now and had eased up to stand next to him. He didn’t waste his breath explaining why that wasn’t a good idea. The damn zombies were coming up from behind, and whatever it was in the brush was coming from the left. They didn’t have many options. He scanned the area with new purpose, his eyes recognizing familiar shapes, calculating options.
“This way, slowly,” he said, pulling her to the right. “Into that truck there. And for God’s sake, don’t make any sudden movements.”
She muttered something that sounded like duh! and disengaged her arm from his grip. Dantès stayed in place, guarding the area, as Wyatt nudged Remy toward the only thing that looked like a safe bet. It was an old semi-truck cab. High enough to dissuade the zombies or a pouncing cat, strong enough to withstand a battering rhino or elephant. He hoped.
Still eyeing the shadowy forest, Wyatt reached for the metal handle of the truck cab’s door. It was too much to hope it wouldn’t be rusted into place. It was, but the window was missing most of its glass. “I’m going to have to lift you up through there,” he said, glancing back at the dog. “Watch the glass.” Dantès had backed away from whatever he saw in the shadows and stopped growling. Bad sign.
Ruuuu-uuuthhhh . . . ruuuu-thhhhhh.
“They’re getting closer,” Remy said, and he wasn’t certain whether she meant the zombies, whatever was in the woods, or both. To his surprise, she actually sounded nervous.
Suddenly, Dantès erupted into a frenzy of chaotic barking and Wyatt saw a long, low figure slinking from the shadows. The moonlight dappled over its face, spots, and triangular cat ears. A jaguar. Just fucking great.
Without another word, he scooped up Remy by the waist and launched her at the cab’s window, just above his head. He couldn’t worry about pieces of glass stuck in the frame; that was her problem if she wanted her ass saved.
She muttered something rude as she slammed up into the steel, but caught an edge of the window anyway. Still watching the frenzied Dantès, Wyatt gave Remy another good boost, neatly avoiding grabbing her ass by levering her off a foot instead, just as the cat pounced. Dantès’s barking choked off into a snarl as he met the jaguar in a ball of fury.
“Dantès!” Remy screamed, her head popping out of the open window.
Wyatt was already looking around for a big stick. Between that and his Glock, he might be able to help before the dog was injured too seriously. He was a good-sized canine and a match for the jag, but Wyatt was taking no chances.
He’d lost enough of what he loved.
Ruuuthhh . . . ruuuuthhhh . . .
“Stay there, dammit,” he shouted at Remy, who was actually trying to climb back out of the damn truck cab.
The animalistic snarling was now interspersed with squeals and whines. Something . . . need something. Wyatt saw shiny blood in the mix of two frenzied animals, and, suddenly terrified he would be too late or ineffective, he whipped the Glock from his jeans. He wasn’t going to stand there and let Dantès die while protecting them.
But as he was about to flick off the handgun’s safety, the sounds of zombie moans rumbling ever nearer, Wyatt saw a large, fallen branch illuminated by the moonlight. He lunged for it, shoving the gun back into his pants, and swung it up.
As thick as his biceps, eight feet long, the branch was actually a dead sapling. It still had its countless branches and dried leaves, and without hesitation he charged toward the chaotic mess of snarling teeth and sharp claws. He slammed the heavy branch onto the back of the jaguar as hard as he could. The cat yowled as Wyatt jumped back, ready to protect himself. He could see too much blood.
“Dantès, come!” Remy shouted, fear pitching her voice high.
He didn’t spare a glance to see if she was still in the truck or if the daft woman had climbed out after all, for the cat had separated from her victim and now faced him, snarling and spitting.
Dantès growled, but the sound was more feeble than before. He was still on four feet, his hackles up, but Wyatt could see him trembling.
The jag spared the dog a glance, then turned to the new threat of Wyatt, who still brandished the small tree. He was ready, holding it in front of him to keep the cat at a distance like a lion tamer with a chair. After a moment’s hesitation the cat turned and dove toward Dantès.
“Oh no you don’t!” Wyatt growled, using both hands to thrust the heavy tree at the cat again.
The jag hissed and twisted toward him in a breathtaking midair snap, but Wyatt didn’t have the luxury of admiring it. He was now the target and the beast was pissed. He rammed the tree toward the furious cat, angling himself around so he and his weapon were between the jaguar and Dantès.
Ruuuuuuuthhhhh . . .
Surely the zombies were close enough by now to smell him and Remy. Damn it. Now they were really screwed.
He heard a creak and metallic thuds behind him and suspected Remy was clambering out of the truck. He wanted to shout at her but dared not let his guard down with the jag. The cat fixed him with green-yellow eyes that glowed in the moonlight, bisected by a vertical black iris. Her tail twitched like an angry whip. Along with streaks of blood, he could see the outline of her shoulder muscles in a stripe of moonlight. Damn. He’d be appreciating her sleek beauty and strength if he wasn’t half certain he’d be dead in a few minutes.
“Get back in the damn truck,” he shouted over his shoulder as he lunged toward the cat, catching her in mid-leap with the widespread branches of the tree. It connected with solid muscle and furious fur, and he grunted with effort from the force, t
hen shoved it back as hard as he could. A few branches snapped but there was still plenty of brush between him and the cat as she tumbled backward, landing on four paws. As long as he could hold her off . . .
“Dantès!” Remy called behind him. “Come, Dantès! Wyatt!”
A little out of breath, still hefting the thick branch, Wyatt looked over at the panting dog, who still snarled and growled, ready to leap back into the fray. “Go, Dantès. Go!” He edged backward, urging the dog to move with him, still using the tree as a shield against the cat.
Ruuuuuthhhhhh. Ruuuu-uuuuthhhhh.
Something crackled in the bushes and Wyatt whipped around to look. He saw heavy, clumsy figures outlined in black against the dark gray of night, staggering through the trees. Their orange eyes glowed eerily.
“Wyatt!” Remy shouted, as if he didn’t notice the damn creatures. “Wyatt!”
He didn’t bother to look back, but moved more quickly now, easing backward, shoving the branch at the spitting jaguar. The feline swiped a massive paw at the branch, jolting it in his grip and snapping several more branches. There was hope that when the zombies arrived, the cat would become their target or at least be distracted by them . . . but then again, he’d never seen an animal attacked by a zombie.
They preferred human flesh.
“Wyatt!” Remy cried again, and he finally looked over at her, a furious retort at the ready, but then stopped.
Damned if the woman hadn’t lit a fire from something and gotten the truck door open. She was brandishing a blazing torch and gesticulating wildly with it. Her meaning was clear, but he was already moving toward her while holding off the jag and didn’t need her explanation.
“Get back in the damned truck,” he snarled, grabbing the torch from her and nearly tripping over Dantès as he spun back. Fire in one hand, hefting the branch in the other, he rammed toward the wild cat once more, trying to give Remy the time and space to get her injured dog up into safety.
Then he had an idea. If he could set the branches and leaves of his branch on fire . . .
The zombies were in full view, but the jaguar didn’t seem to notice. She was intent on the man who’d infuriated her, and in one breathtaking move launched herself in a long, sleek pounce from atop a fallen tree. This put her higher and sent her farther than before, and she would have landed on top of his branch if Wyatt hadn’t dodged away. He tripped and nearly lost his balance, dropping the torch as he caught himself. It rolled out of reach. Damn.
Heart pounding, he swung quickly and connected with the cat, then realized his error was an opportunity. Distance gave him the chance. He jammed the dead tree and its dry leaves at the flaming torch, still circling around, keeping it between him and the jag until suddenly it burst into flames.
Now he had a massive torch, and in the breadth of a moment it was blazing wildly.
The sight terrified the cat, and she backed away, still hissing and spitting as Wyatt charged after her. Heat from the flames radiated toward him and he could feel the trunk beginning to warm. But he had two threats to attend to. No sooner had he chased off the cat than, trying to avoid inhaling the smoke, he turned to the zombies. They, too, were afraid of fire, and it took him only a few well-aimed thrusts in their direction to run them off. They lumbered awkwardly into the darkness.
By then, sweat trickled down his temples and chest and his hands were uncomfortably warm from the flaming tree’s heat, not to mention cut and scraped up like hell. Most of the branches had burned off and the fire was eating at the trunk, making its way toward him. He looked around for somewhere safe to put it, knowing how quickly a whole forest could go up in flames from one small fire.
Had he seen any water? Had they passed anything . . . ?
He tried to think, then remembered seeing the gleam of a shallow pool in the indentation of a car’s hood. But where?
He heard Remy shout after him—something obvious like Where are you going?—and ignored it, running off with the ever-flaming branch. Water or concrete or something that could contain the fire . . . He peered, hard to see in the dark, and not more than ten yards from the truck cab found a pool of water. Dropped the branch in, rolled the fucker around as it sizzled into nothing, and then, dusting off his abused hands, headed back to Remy.
“How is he?” Wyatt asked, hoisting himself up into the truck cab. He slammed the door behind him and turned to Remy. He had a moment to realize that this was a full sleeper cab, with what had been bucket seats in the front of the rig and in the back a compact living space.
But then he saw Dantès, lying on a pile of something, and Remy crouched over the dog’s head. Blood gleamed in the low light, but Dantès moved, giving a whine of greeting and lifting his face as soon as he saw Wyatt.
“This,” Remy said, looking up at him, tears glistening in her eyes, “is precisely why I left him behind—where he’d be safe!”
“Don’t be a fool,” he snapped. “If he hadn’t been here, this would have been you. And then what would have happened to that damn crystal of yours?”
Chapter 2
Remy jolted, her hand going automatically to her navel. Of course he knew she had the crystal, that she wore it. But he didn’t know what it was or why it was so important. How could he, when she didn’t even know?
“Let me see him,” Wyatt was saying, his attention refocused on Dantès. “I need light,” he added in that commanding way of his that made her want to box his ears.
No thank-you for giving him the torch that saved their butts, no appreciation for forcing open the truck door so he could climb his sorry, stick-up-his-ass ass up into it, no concern for whether she’d cut or scraped herself when he shoved her up into this messy place (which she had, thank you very much) . . . all after showing up unexpectedly and uninvited, calling her a fool and snarling at her . . . and now he was ordering her around asking for a light.
He really was a dickhead.
Do it for Dantès, she reminded herself. And dug out a small, manual-powered flashlight from her pack, ignoring the streaks of her own blood that made it slippery. She wiped her hand on her pants near another bloodstain, then, with three quick cranks, produced enough energy for a decent beam of light. She shone it onto her beloved pet.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought of the light before Wyatt demanded it, but she didn’t have the chance to get to it. It wasn’t an easy task helping an injured, ninety-five-pound dog up into a door five feet off the ground . . . especially when she was only five-foot-eight and 135 pounds herself. It was the cut along her thigh, deep enough to slice through her cargo pants, that protested the most and gushed a little harder. Damn. She’d have to sew up the tear too.
Remy looked down at Dantès, watching Wyatt’s large hands moving gently over the dog as the canine rested his head in her lap. She knew one thing: the ever-angry Wyatt might despise her, but he loved her pet as if it were his own. He’d do anything for Dantès, as evidenced by his actions tonight and the tension emanating through him as he examined the dog. At least she had that.
But there was a lot of blood. Her insides tightened and fear burned inside her. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t.
“Well?” she asked when the silence had stretched for too long. Her fingers clasped tightly over the flashlight while her other hand stroked Dantès’s soft head as she waited for her companion’s diagnosis. She’d done a thorough examination before Wyatt appeared, but she was too upset to be confident in her estimation in this case. She wanted someone else to tell her what she thought she knew.
“He’s going to be fine,” Wyatt said. She saw his tension relax, and so did she. “Aren’t you, bud?” His fingers spread wide, he gently stroked his hand along the length of Dantès’s torso. “Just need a little fixing up and some rest.” He looked up at Remy, meeting her eyes for the first time. “He’s hurt, there’s a lot of blood, but I didn’t find anything serious. Nothing that shouldn’t heal up.”
She nodded, relief shuttling through her. “That’s what
I thought, but . . .”
“There is a lot of blood,” he said, reading her mind. “But it looks worse than it is. He’s a good fighter.”
So are you. She looked back down at the dog before those words slipped out. She guessed that deep-seated anger he always carried was good for something. From her safe perch in the truck, she’d watched him with a combination of horror and admiration, saw him swinging a small tree as if it were a sword, dodging and feinting and jumping, always a step ahead of the snarling jaguar, then going back for more.
Wyatt’s accusation rang in her memory: Don’t be a fool. If Dantès hadn’t been here, this would have been you.
But he’d misspoken. If he hadn’t been here, this would have been both her and Dantès.
“By the way, nice job with the torch,” he said, and rose to his feet. The ceiling wasn’t quite tall enough for him to stand fully upright, but he only had to bend his head a little.
Remy felt a wave of guilt for her earlier irritation; after all, he had clearly been distracted by worry for Dantès. She was about to thank him for saving them when Wyatt added, “Next time, don’t keep screaming my name. It’s distracting.”
“Next time?” she retorted, her blood racing again. “God forbid there should be a next time.” The sooner she could ditch him, the better.
She thought she heard a muffled snort, but he’d turned away and was examining the contents of the room or space they were in. She couldn’t figure out exactly what this thing was. It looked like the front of a huge truck, like a larger size of the Humvees driven by the Strangers and bounty hunters, but behind the two seats in front was something like a small room. Almost like a tiny house or bedroom.
There might have been a mattress once, but the years and animals had done a number on it, and all that was left were the frame and springs. Cupboards, two small chairs, and a table were made from some woodlike material that was still fairly intact. They took up about half the space behind the driver’s seat and its partner.