Night Resurrected

by Joss Ware

  Grief welled inside him. Grief and guilt and anger. He channeled it into control. “I hope it works out for you,” he managed to say. “The comparison.” He turned to get the hell away from Remy.

  “Um . . . Wyatt.”

  Damn. He needed to keep walking. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. It was the tone of her voice: husky and yet peremptory at the same time. It was like a massive magnet, pulling him back, turning him to face her even as he knew he needed to get the hell out of there.

  “What?” he said from between clenched teeth. Trying not to look at Remy, her lips, still full and soft and glistening from the kiss. Ignoring the silvery slide of moonlight over her long bare neck and creamy shoulders. And he was definitely not looking down at the deep shadowy vee between her breasts—the ones that had just been smashed up against him. He tried and found it damn near impossible to swallow when he thought about that long curvy body plastered against his.

  Remy hesitated, then looked toward the party. “It sounds like the ceremony is starting,” she said, obviously revising whatever she’d planned to say. “Are you going to go watch?”

  No, he wasn’t going to go watch. He was going to find himself a nice dark corner with a big-ass beer; the biggest fucking beer he could find—maybe a whole keg—and be alone. Blessedly alone. And then later he might see if Kellie from the Irish pub was around. She didn’t talk too much, she sure as hell didn’t argue, and she didn’t want anything but a good time.

  Best of all: being with her didn’t make his knees weak.

  “I’d better go with you,” he heard himself saying. “In case Marck tries to get that crystal from you again tonight.”

  Dammit. He knew he should have stayed in his room.

  Remy juggled a glass of Pete’s mead in one hand and a napkin-wrapped piece of cherry pie in the other as she and Wyatt made their way toward the stage. Dantès had been put inside in a safe place with a couple of teenage boys who were playing cards, Wyatt told her. He’d thought it best to keep the dog safe from the discarded chicken bones and other garbage generated by the party that could make him ill. And apparently the teens were much more interested in cards than survivors.

  The crowd was too thick for them to get very close to the stage, but Wyatt pulled her through the throngs so they found a place to stand off to the side but near enough to see and hear. She wasn’t certain what to expect, but she thought it was an interesting and appropriate idea to honor the survivors who’d helped rebuild the city.

  “Have you been to this before?” she asked her companion—the man who was at war with himself, and, it seemed, everyone around him. Including her.

  Still, he was here with her, and although she wasn’t certain how she felt about it, his reasoning was sound. She wasn’t fond of the idea of running into Ian again tonight. What little trust and affection she’d felt for her former lover had disintegrated. She might not be in physical danger from Ian, but he was still ruthless and determined. And since she now had the crystal again . . .

  In answer to her question, Wyatt shook his head. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and leaned against a tree. His white linen shirt shone like a beacon against the dark trunk, the rest of him muted in shadow. “Nope. I only arrived in Envy a little less than a year ago.” Despite his relaxed stance, his voice sounded tight.

  “If Lou were here, he’d be honored, too, wouldn’t he?” Remy asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

  “I’d expect so. Too bad he’s still in Yellow Mountain. I would have liked to have seen him up there.”

  She would have responded, but Vaughn Rogan was speaking into the microphone, introducing himself and explaining the idea behind Survivors Day.

  As Vaughn called up one of the survivors onto the stage, a cool breeze stirred the air and an unexpected shiver took Remy by surprise.

  “It’s no wonder you’re cold, wearing that,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have a sweater.”

  “I’m fine,” she replied, sipping her wine, holding back another tremor. It got chilly rather quickly, here by the ocean. She was surprised when Wyatt left the tree and actually moved in closer behind her. He stopped short of actually touching her, but warmth emanated from him anyway.

  “I don’t have a jacket, and I’m sure as hell not taking off my shirt,” he said.

  Thank God, she thought. She wasn’t sure which would be worse: wearing his warm, masculine-scented shirt or having that muscular bare chest in close proximity. A little shiver caught her by surprise.

  “If you took your hair down, it might help. But it looks nice up.”

  Remy’s eyes widened. An actual compliment? Really? She reached up to touch it automatically and felt parts of it sagging. A flicker of heat licked her inside. That was from Wyatt. From the kiss. From his hands, all over her, shoving up into her hair, loosening the pins, sliding down over her spine . . .

  From the stage, Vaughn was speaking again. It took Remy a moment to drag her thoughts from the man behind her and focus on the ceremony.

  “Our next honoree is Mangala Kapoor. Unfortunately, she’s no longer with us, but her granddaughter Zoë is.”

  Remy grinned as Zoë stomped up onstage, reluctance evident in every bone of her body. She could see Quent standing near the front, his tawny head highlighted from the lights onstage.

  “Who got ahold of Zoë?” Wyatt murmured. His voice was low and rough near her ear, raising little prickles over her skin. “That must’ve been a battle. And holy shit, I can’t imagine what the other woman looks like.” There was amusement in his voice.

  “Flo’s just fine. I think Zoë got the worst of it, so to speak.” Remy managed to respond coherently despite the warm tickling sensation near her ear.

  “If that’s the worst, that’s pretty damn good. She looks different, but very ho—nice.”

  She had only met Zoë twice, but Remy agreed: the other woman had never looked better. Her choppy hair had been tamed into a sleek sophisticated look that curled up at the ends and was tucked behind her ears. Two tiny jewels sparkled in its darkness. She was wearing the black tube top along with white slacks and white shoes. Flo had been on a white streak today, apparently. Even though she was five months pregnant, Zoë’s belly was hardly more rounded than Remy’s, and even with that curve, she looked long and crisp and sleek. At the same time, she appeared spectacularly uncomfortable as Vaughn ushered her to stand next to him.

  “Mangala Kapoor was a mechanical engineer. She was instrumental in not only maintaining and developing some of the mechanics that kept water running and electricity on hand in one of the small outlying settlements, but she also made a point of collecting seeds and, through years of trial and error, propagated a variety of non-native plants and spices. If it weren’t for Zoë’s grandmother, we wouldn’t have access to food like cinnamon or peanuts and almonds any longer.”

  The applause was loud and boisterous, and Zoë made her escape from the stage as quickly as she could. Remy could see her complaining as she stepped off, and she could imagine she was griping about why she had to go up there and stand in front of everyone for a total of two minutes, dressed like this, and so on. At least she wasn’t wearing the skirt Flo had threatened her with.

  When she got to the ground, Quent snatched her up in a big bear hug that had Remy smiling wistfully. Apparently, even bad-tempered people had someone to love them. Of course, that meant the bad-tempered person had to actually allow themselves to be loved.

  She watched as they wandered arm in arm away from the stage and toward her and Wyatt. When they came close enough to see them, Remy saw the surprise in Quent’s face. Whether it was because they were together or simply because of Wyatt’s unexpected presence, she didn’t know.

  “Fucking glad that’s over,” Zoë grumbled, bending over, her arm jerking vigorously. She suddenly became about three inches shorter and Remy chuckled when she straightened up, holding the white heels. “All that crapload of hassle—hours of getting fussed on—for two measly min
utes. I am never doing that again.”

  “Oh, yes you are, luv. Especially when our children are old enough to understand what their great-grandmother did for humanity. Just think . . . without her, we’d never be able to have peanut butter. Or cinnamon buns.”

  “Bite me,” was Zoë’s reply.

  Remy heard Wyatt snort behind her and murmur something to Quent. The other man laughed and the two spoke in low voices, leaving Remy to marvel at Wyatt’s altered mood. He seemed to be in unusually good humor.

  But as Vaughn read off a few more names, Remy felt Wyatt beginning to get restless behind her. She was just about to see if Zoë wanted to get another glass of mead when the mayor spoke into the microphone.

  “We have one last honoree tonight. An unexpected pleasure, for he’s a newcomer to Envy and traveled here just to join us today, for the first time, on Survivors Day. Recently arrived from Glenway with his daughter, Cat, he previously lived in Tyrell Valley—a hundred fifty miles east of here and too great of a distance to even know about our celebration. Tonight I’d like to introduce you to a survivor who was only eight when the world was Changed. Living in the remains of the city of Denver, Colorado, David Callaghan survived by . . .”

  Remy felt Wyatt snap to attention behind her. He made an audible sound, a shocked, choked noise of unadulterated disbelief. He pushed past her, suddenly walking toward the stage.

  “Bloody buggering hell,” Quent whispered behind her.

  “What the hell is up his ass?” Zoë demanded as she and Remy turned to look at him.

  “David Callaghan . . . that’s Wyatt’s son’s name.”

  Chapter 15

  Wyatt felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on him, and then as if he were shoved into a burning building. Icy cold then flaming heat. The chill of disbelief. The rage of hope.

  Everyone and everything fell away as he slogged through a heavy, murky world, as if he were wading through an ocean of gray Jell-O. He couldn’t get there fast enough, but he felt as if he wasn’t moving either.

  He got to the front just as David Callaghan took the stage, standing next to Vaughn. Wyatt didn’t hear anything they said, nothing about the reason for the honor, nothing at all. His ears were filled with a roaring sound. Everything around him was dark except for the light shining on the man onstage.

  He stared up at the man there, next to Vaughn. Was it possible? Could it be possible? He realized he was shaking.

  There were—had been—a million David Callaghans in the world. Hundreds or even thousands of them near Denver in 2010. And probably dozens or more of them had been eight in June of that year.

  He wanted to jump up there, to look this man in the eye, to see if it was him . . . but the longer he waited, the longer he could hold onto the hope.

  That forgotten feeling of hope. Of light.

  So he watched, waited, prayed. Tried to get a good look at the man’s face from his position on the ground. Tried to imagine what the boy of eight would look like now at nearly sixty. Tried to keep himself from seeing resemblance where there might be none.

  Applause broke out just as Wyatt felt someone move in behind him. A rush of awareness penetrated his murky world and when Remy touched him, he tensed, but didn’t pull away. He didn’t even wonder what she was doing there. He just . . . let her, allowing himself to appreciate it.

  Then as the applause died down, as David Callaghan waved then began to walk offstage, a new sound filled the air.

  Distant at first, then growing louder. A tdt-tdt-tdt-tdt that came from overhead. Wyatt recognized it immediately, but he knew he was one of the few who would. The sense of alarm was so strong, it washed away the shock and hope and murkiness about the man named David Callaghan.

  This couldn’t be good.

  Silence fell over Envy . . . a sudden, arrested reaction as everyone looked toward the sky. Beneath the moon-stoked clouds, the large vessel came into view like a monstrous bird. Wyatt heard the collective gasp, the intake of breath, as the helicopter centered over the city.

  A white beam of light shot down in the middle of the crowd, and people stumbled back from the illumination as if afraid it would burn them.

  The air whipped up now, sending the canvas walls of tents flapping and dust whirling. Yet, aside from that, everything was eerily still. Tdt-tdt-tdt-tdt . . .

  A disembodied voice boomed from above, carrying over the thrumming beat of the rotors. “Remington Truth.”

  Somehow, over the noise, Wyatt heard the gasp at his shoulder. He reached back blindly and angled an arm around her, shoving her behind him, holding her there as he looked up, shielding his eyes from the beam of light and the clouds of dust. His mind raced even as the voice continued.

  “Turn Remington Truth over to us and Envy will be spared.”

  Wyatt tightened his arm around Remy, holding her immobile. He could feel her shock and trembling, the jerking breaths she was trying to control. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move.

  He felt her shifting, tensing against his back, and he grabbed her arm, trying to keep her quiet without drawing attention to them. Surely she wasn’t crazy enough to announce herself, to give herself away . . .

  “You have forty-eight hours to produce Remington Truth,” declared the clear, booming voice. “This will be your only warning. Our conduits will arrive tomorrow for the acquisition of Remington Truth. And this is only a precursor to what will happen if you do not comply.”

  The beam of light was suddenly extinguished as the helo rose . . . and then something streaked from the mechanical bird in a glowing red arc, flaming to the ground.

  “Run!” cried Wyatt, shoving Remy to safety as he shouted again to anyone who would listen. “Run!”

  Now there was noise: people shouting, screaming, moving . . . and then the soft, dull pop of an explosion. He looked to make sure Remy was gone, that she’d listened to him for once. And as he spun back there was a sudden flare of light, the billowing red-gold of hungry fire.

  Wyatt hesitated only a moment, turning to see that Remy was still running. Then he ran toward the flames.

  Pushing through people, he propelled them past him as he charged toward what had become a rolling ball of flames. Someone shouted his name but he didn’t stop.

  Whether by accident or design, the bomb or whatever it was had landed on the roof of one of the tents. It took only a moment for it to surge into a blaze, and by the time Wyatt got there, the canvas was a ball of fire.

  “Water! Buckets! Anything you can find!” he shouted to the crowd at large, directing them away as he looked at the roaring fire. The familiar smell of smoke filled the air, stinging his eyes. The roof sagged, pulling down its supports, and as Wyatt watched, it collapsed into a mountain of flames.

  Coughing, still shouting, Wyatt looked for some source of water. If the fire wasn’t extinguished, it would set the building next to it ablaze. Fuck. It already had.

  “Water!” he cried again, knowing Envy could only have rudimentary firefighting tools at most. A bucket brigade. Maybe some sort of hose . . .

  He bumped into Quent, who’d somehow appeared, and Jade, and a sea of other familiar faces as someone shoved a container of water at him. Vaughn. Fence. Ana. Others he knew from the pub. The night became a blur of activity and grim intent. Shadows of more people. Pots and pails of water. A few puny hoses. The sizzle of wet on flame. The roar of fire. The crack and pop of new fuel for the blaze. The crash of something collapsing.

  “Holy hell! Look at that!”

  A column of flame tore into the sky, sending ash and chunks of burning timber tumbling to the ground. Damn. Must’ve hit one of the grease-laden barbecue pits. The golden-orange glow threw eerie shadows and discoloration over the people battling the fire, the desperate warriors gathering up anything that could be used to subdue the flames. Blankets and pieces of canvas beating on small pools of fire. Pots of water.

  Wyatt remained in the thick of it, giving orders, shouting from a smoke-etched throat, dry ey
es stinging and watering at the same time. Yet he was in his element: he knew this. It was his world.

  Then he heard it. Somehow, above all the roaring, shouting, crackling, his ears tuned in and he heard it: “. . . in there! She’s in there!”

  The terrified, desperate cries shot straight to his consciousness. A phrase he’d heard countless times before. “Someone help! Someone save her!”

  Wyatt spun and ran toward the sound—acting on instinct more than anything. He was hardly able to see through the billowing smoke caught up like a black tornado. It was a small building away from the collapsed tent. Some ash or flaming piece of rubble must have popped over and set it on fire. The roof was blazing, yellow flames licked up the wall. Black smoke, outlined by the very blaze from which it came, roiled from the sagging door.

  “She’s in there! Patty! She’s in there!” An older woman stood with black streaks on her face, wringing her hands, tears making shiny paths through the soot. Her hair was thin and gray and her face stretched in a shiny mask of shock and terror. She reached an ineffectual hand toward the fiery building that was hardly bigger than a garage.

  “Who is it?” Wyatt demanded, already dumping a bucket of water over him. Soaking his clothing and hair in an effort to keep from going up in flames himself. Because he knew he was going inside. “How old? How big?”

  “My dog. My Patty!”

  He snatched another pail and poured it over himself again, hardly noticing the frigid water. “Kind of dog? Where?”

  The woman stammered out information—enough that he knew he was looking for a mid-sized brown dog . . . but she was so terrified and upset he could hardly get details.

  Wyatt started toward the smoking black door, the cascade of water already drying from the immense heat. A strong hand yanked him back and he nearly stumbled into Fence.

  “You aren’t fixing to go in there,” Fence said. “Over my motherfucking dead body.”

  “Gotta try,” Wyatt said, shaking off the large hand.