Pestilence: The Calling Series

by Faulks, Kim

  “Everything okay?”

  Kenya flinched with the words. The smile was slow, tentative, twitching the corners of her mouth. She patted her jacket pocket and stared at the ground. “Yeah, fine. Just had some things I had to grab inside…stuff for Damon.”

  An ache raced, tearing like lightning across my chest. And in that second, I realized two things with blinding clarity.

  One; Kenya was the worst liar on the face of the earth…even worse than Mom, and that was saying something.

  And two; that secretly her world was falling apart—and she knew it.

  It was more than the sneaking around at night, more than the lies. This woman leaked desperation. She’d honed the edge of need like a razor, one that would cut both ways.

  Her shoulders curled. She leaned toward me, as though she needed to touch, needed to hold—or be held. I sucked in the dry air as the thought took hold. She was scared of something, or someone—and right now she didn’t know who to trust. Not even with me.

  She glanced at the road, to where the asphalt just fell away over the rise. “They’ll be expecting me.”

  My fingers twitched around the grip as we made for the rise. Lost Boys…The Mighty. They were all the same, weren’t they? Barbarians trying to rule what was left of this desolate world. Scraps, that’s all they fought for, scraps of something that had once been beautiful…and now…now it was nothing more than a ruin.

  “Stick close to me,” she growled, her breath harsh now. “They won’t touch you if you’re with me.”

  And here was me trusting once more. It was becoming a goddamn habit, one I couldn’t wait to shed.

  I tightened my hold, the steel warm against my palm. Kenya worked the lid of a steel canteen and lifted the rim to her lips and then passed it to me. I took a swallow, lifting the bottle high and stared at the brightening sky. A sickening yellow was replacing the darkening gray. The water was cold, and perfect, carrying through the dust I’d sucked in. I swallowed, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and handed the canister to her once more.

  “Not far,” she called over her shoulder, and nodded toward a towering building.

  I took in the hulking steel goliath. It’d been some kind of office building…once. Remnants of that life still lingered in the smashed desks and chairs piled outside on the ground. But it was changed now, like all things in this new world—it was guarded.

  A corrugated fence ran from the side to the front gates. Barking of dogs followed, lots and lots of hounds, they yipped, and snarled, some lunged against the gate, charging the metal, testing the chains.

  I glanced at the sides of the fence, looking for cracks…was this where Pitt had escaped from? The thought sent a shudder. Not here, please, not here. Not kept like a beast. Not made to fight the other dogs for food, for love…for there was none here. No love, no laughter. There was only a pack.

  The deep cut across her shoulder filled my mind. It could’ve been made by the edges of a metal fence, could have been made by a knife, or a razor—and the cruel edge of a human’s hate.

  The sides of the building were blown out. Metal sheeting ripped like strips of paper from the sides, leaving the belly open to the weather…I could see them standing at the edge of never, staring out into this world. A head snapped up, sight strained on us as we crested the rise. A sharp call came from a watcher, and seconds later a flurry of movement filled the space.

  Hard boots smacked the concrete, as in the distance the calls of warning became a war cry. I shouldn’t be here…shouldn’t be with these people, I should be at home, in the safety and in the quiet. I should be protecting myself against people like them, like…her. People who lie, who keep the truth hidden—who use.

  The building seemed to rise out of the valley. I could see inside now, all the faces, old and young, that stood at the edge of never and watched us come closer.

  “That’s close enough!”

  It was a call of warning. A command that stopped us dead in the middle of the barren road. Kenya raised her hands, palms out, submissive, and slid the straps of her pack from her shoulders. She eased the bag to the ground, then turned and stood once more. “I’m expected!”

  “You are, but not her!”

  He came from what was a parking garage, rifle raised, muzzle pointed at me.

  “Your gun,” Kenya growled, “draw the weapon out and put it on the ground.”

  It was the only weapon I had. The only thing I could depend on. I gave a shake of my head, the soft flesh of my palm smashing into the patterned grip. “No.”

  Her eyes widened as she wrenched her head toward me. I could almost draw a map by the veins in her eyes, and the road would lead me to Hell. I maintained my stance, watching the determined bastard creep closer. He was young, not much older than me, short and stocky, with bulging muscles. Sweat gleamed on his skin…in another lifetime I would’ve snuck a second glance…I would’ve felt the faint flush of attraction. But not now, now I just felt the rising tide of fear.

  He motioned the muzzle toward the sidewalk. “Gun on the ground, now.”

  My heart thundered, my palms grew slick with sweat.

  “You wanted to come,” Kenya snarled. “You knew the drill.”

  Don’t give in. Don’t trust. The warnings were ingrained. My finger slipped from the trigger to rest against the slide as I dragged the weapon free. “I get it back, right?”

  He stilled, brows narrowed, one quick glance over his shoulder to the first floor, and he turned to me. “When you leave…if you leave.”

  I waited for a second, listening to the thunder in my chest…waiting for the Calling inside me to guide the way.

  But there was nothing but an empty echo, a beat that contained no words of wisdom or comfort. I gave a slow nod and stared at the curled crook of his finger around the trigger. “Okay,” I whispered. “Easy now, I’m putting the gun down.”

  My fingers were slick as I knelt and placed the Sig on the asphalt. My Dad was in that gun. He was in everything that kept me alive, in the words inside my head…the warnings, the drive. He was in my veins, running parallel to the whisper of God.

  The soldier moved fast, striding forward to kick the gun out of reach. “Hands! Do it now!”

  Fingers splayed, still it did no good. His grip was cruel, clamping on my forearm, squeezing, wrenching until I hit the ground. The road burned, searing the skin on my cheek, and near my eye. His hands were everywhere, spearing into my pockets, gouging their way along my stomach, groping my chest. He didn’t know what he was doing—he had no fucking clue. I ticked off all the places he missed as he yanked my arm, rolling me over onto my back. My spine, my jacket, the inside of my mouth…all the perfect places to hide a razor, or a shiv.

  Those things kept you alive. Those things evened the damn score. Dad taught me that.

  But not with him. He went for the places designed to make me cringe, the places that should’ve made me cower…between my legs, fingers spearing, sliding the crease of my jeans. I lifted my head and stared into those eyes. The flicker of smugness was consumed by regret. His eyes weren’t just blood-shot…they were blood-filled.

  Crimson drops seeped from the corners of his eyes as he leaned in close, sliding down the outside of his nose in a weeping trail. His eyes lifted from the torture of his fingers as he met my gaze. Dark brows furrowed. He stilled, breath trapped…just like he was trapped. He yanked his hand from my breast as though I were the one diseased and rotting. “What the fuck.”

  His boots skimmed broken bits of asphalt as he stumbled out of reach.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” Kenya murmured. “Brendan…Brendan. Look at me…” Kenya stepped close, reaching out.

  But it was no use. He saw what he wanted to see…through a haze of blood. The muzzle rose as I pushed against the blistering road and climbed to my feet. There was no sense in lying, no sense in keeping secrets to myself. The Lost Boys were sick…just like everyone at the lab was sick.

  Everyone, e
xcept for me.

  “Brendan,” a deep voice called out behind him. “What the Hell is going on?”

  “Miles,” the sneering wannabe muttered. “You gotta see this.”

  The guy who emerged from behind the hick with a gun was older. Not as old as Dad. Still, there was a hardness—a battle-weariness I didn’t see in the guy with the rifle. His gaze skimmed Kenya, and then settled on me.

  He wasn’t as sick…not like Mr. All-goddamn-hands here. His skin was weathered, cheeks and chin covered with the makings of a beard. Piercing blue eyes scanned me up and down. His eyes were blood-shot and red rimmed. But there was a darkness in the perfect blue, one that seemed to rise to the surface as he neared. “What do we have here?”

  “She’s with me, Miles. We’re here—”

  He wrenched his head toward her to snarl. “I know why you’re here.”

  Worry filled Kenya’s gaze. She was off-balance, stumbling for a step, even though she stood perfectly still. “Miles…what’s going on?”

  He never answered, only turned those haunted eyes back to me. A shiver raced along my spine. I knew who he was now…who stood before me.

  The leader of the Lost Boys.

  “You’re not sick,” he murmured, taking one step to the side. “Your eyes aren’t blood-shot, skin not jaundiced. Not…infected.”

  Kenya flinched and took a step. “You’re not infected either, Miles.”

  He came fully into view, lunging toward her. His grip was cruel, fingers gouging flesh to find bone. She whimpered, spine bowed as she fought his hold. But there was no fighting, not for Kenya, not anymore.

  “Aren’t we?” Miles snarled. “Aren’t we?”

  He took a step, dragging her by the arm as he headed for the compound. She never fought, only tried to keep up as he towed her inside. Fighting was useless. I lifted my head to the men and women who looked down, watching me.

  A hard jab in my side made me wince. I glanced at the muzzle. I could take him, he’s sick…and I’m not. I could fight him—my fist curled, middle knuckle shifted forward—I could hit him in the throat, just like Dad had taught me. My heart hammered as Brendan motioned towards Kenya’s pack. “Pick it up and follow them.”

  I stepped closer, kicking the side of the pack before kneeling. This wasn’t the welcome we were expecting—not by a long shot. I gripped the straps and lifted, glass clinked together as I heaved it higher. The breeze picked up, carrying the faint clip-clop of hooves. My jaw muscles bulged under the strain. “Not now…”

  “Yes. Now.”

  The jab in my side came once more, hard steel found my ribs. Pain stabbed deep, making me wince. Don’t show weakness…don’t give them the damn satisfaction. I gripped the pack as he bent and snagged my Sig from the ground. “I’ll want that back, just so you know.”

  “Then move,” he snarled, shoving my shoulder.

  I stumbled, dug in my heels and slowed my pace. The gate was thin, very thin…the hard thud behind the corrugated iron was followed with a sickening snarl. I could see them, flashes of brows, black, and white. But they weren’t the only beasts here…I scanned the lower level, and glanced left to what had once been the driveway to the underground parking garage.

  How many of them were here? I scanned the exposed levels as I neared…thirty…fifty?

  Too many…my heart clenched tight—too many to fight—too many to kill.

  “Faster.”

  The punch came at my back, shoving me forward. Shadows waited, but these weren’t the sweet, cold nothing of the train station—hunters waited in there. The flare of a lighter chased away the dark for a second, cold, killer eyes found mine as the male lit a cigarette and killed the light. Shadows moved, the scrape of a boot to my right, a sigh and a grunt to my left.

  The pounding in my head was all I could hear.

  Clip…clop…clip…clop. A shadow reared, too tall to be a man, rising up before me like a mammoth horse. The glint of an emerald shone before it was gone. Shadows rose as the soft nicker filled my head.

  My steps stuttered, my insides clenched tight. I wrenched my gaze over my shoulder. Silver glinted in the bastard’s hand for a second before it was gone. My gun…I slowed my steps, waiting for the punch at my shoulder.

  If I could just get to my gun.

  A heavy breath sounded against my ear. I yanked my head left…finding nothing but shadows. He was here…tormenting…teasing.

  Come…. a voice slithered through the air at my right. We’ve been waiting…

  “I said move. Are you fucking deaf?” The punch came again.

  My head snapped forward. Teeth gnashed, but it was the shadow that held me…the shadow that seemed to ride out of nothing. A hard breath, followed with a snort. One that flicked the hair from my face. One that had me reaching in the dark. Cold kissed the tips of my fingers as I reached. The shadow of a horse reared. Hot breath blew in my face. It was just a vision…just a figment of my imagination. So how could I feel the heat…how could the strands of my hair dance with the gust of its breath?

  How could he be here…unless…

  I stumbled up the first flight of stairs, darkness bled away for the light, climbing higher and higher, until the second floor opened up.

  “Keep going.”

  My lips curled at the command. I kept on moving, climbing one stair after another until my thighs burned and my lungs were on fire. The steel railing wobbled under my grip, but it was all I had to hold onto as I passed the third floor, and then, slowly, the fourth. My muscles were warming, relaxing, moving past the initial hurt to the power underneath.

  “In there,” he growled and shoved once more.

  “You know,” I spun staring him in his weeping, blood-stained eyes, “I’m getting real sick of your shit.”

  Those crimson orbs turned cold and cruel as he answered. “It’s better than getting sick, now isn’t it?”

  They blamed me, hated me…I shuffled backwards, and then turned and stepped through the door to the fifth floor.

  The smell hit me first, hot, fetid, and raw. I slapped my hand across my mouth as acid rose in the back of my mouth.

  “You get used to it after a while,” my captor snapped and shoved past.

  They were everywhere, piled in corners, two, some of them three, to a bed. The room seemed to rock with the guttural sounds of agony. One woman clutched her belly and retched over the side of a bed, only to lean back a second later, bloody spittle coating her chin.

  The words slipped from my lips. “They’re dying…all of them.”

  Miles stood to the side, while Kenya walked among the barely living, sliding a surgical mask over her mouth and nose. She speared her fingers into her pocket and yanked latex gloves free.

  “That was supposed to save us.” Miles’ steely gaze slipped to the pack in my hand as he answered. “We were supposed to be immune.”

  I flinched as his gaze met mine. No other words were needed, not for me…for I’d seen this all before.

  And I was back there in the dark, listening to my father plead…please God, don’t take her…don’t take my wife. You can have me…you can have—

  The fourth floor blurred, so much pain…so much misery.

  First my Mom…and then Sarah…

  Harlow, are you coming?

  I closed my eyes as the room tilted. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think…three years since the last wave…and there weren’t many of us left.

  “So, the question remains,” cold, hard, merciless words filled the space. “What the fuck have you been giving us all this time.”

  I opened my eyes. The sun shone in, glinting off the steel in his hand.

  Steel that whispered of the end, and was pointed straight at Kenya.

  10

  “Miles, please…wait just a minute,” Kenya murmured.

  Her fingers trembled in the air in a motion of defeat.

  “We’re tired of waiting,” the leader of the Lost Boys answered, finger slipping around the trigger. “We
’re tired of believing, of being probed, being jabbed. We’re tired of watching those we love suffer. Six days, Kenya. Six fucking days and now we have this…”

  I turned toward the room and stared at the ocean of the dying.

  “We were fine…until you came,” he growled. “You brought us food, soap. What else did you bring us, Kenya? What fucking else did you bring us?”

  Accusations were wielded like swords, ones designed to hack and maim. My feet moved on their own, working my way along the row of cots.

  “Harlow, no…” Kenya growled. “You can still get sick.”

  “No, I don’t think I can,” I whispered, even though no one would hear.

  They reached for me, torn, bloody nails scraping against my jeans as I passed. I left them behind, one after another, to stop in the middle of this living, breathing morgue.

  She was so very quiet, just a small, pathetic little thing, curled up. I could trace every knot of her spine, every jutting edge of her hips, every bloody stain from bleeding nail beds. My legs trembled as I knelt. I wanted to touch her, to ease her over onto her back…to stare at her face and see someone familiar—someone I never thought I’d see ever again.

  “Sarah?” the tips of my fingers danced over the bare skin on her arm.

  Goosebumps raced, standing the fine pale hair on end.

  “Sarah?”

  Blonde hair skimmed her shoulder as she turned her head. Perfect brown eyes met mine. “I’m not Sarah,” she whispered, a trail of crimson carved along her cheek.

  “You’re not?” I murmured, acting surprised. “I was sure your name was Sarah. I had a sister by that name. She looked just like you.”

  “My sister is dead,” the little one whispered and then turned her head away.

  Bone-crushing, soul-splitting…the room spun with the pain. Her knees curled tighter, head tucked in harder. She was a little ball of skin and bones. I leaned forward, slid one hand under her knees and the other around her back to lift her.

  “Harlow!” Kenya screamed. “No!”

  Why me?

  The question echoed with every boom of my heart.

  Why me and not her? Give her the Calling. Take away her sickness…take away her pain.