I couldn’t get it up right now if there were a thousand Amelias, but my heart flutters. I settle myself back against the arm of the couch, cushioning my head with my forearm.
She selects a small strawberry from the bowl and holds it up to my lips.
“Are you feeding me?”
“Yes.” She dimples.
I take a bite and find it sweet and juicy, just like her.
“When you were in college, what kind of classes did you take?” She dangles another strawberry over my lips.
I reach up and grab it with my teeth, and she presses her lips to mine.
“I was a freshman so most of it was the required stuff. A couple biology classes, calculus, statistics, English, psychology.”
“Psychology. Now that sounds interesting.”
“It was, actually. I—”
We both jump as a sharp knock sounds at my door.
She turns wide eyes to me. Shit.
“Go hide in the closet,” I whisper, struggling to put on my sweats. “Don’t come out until I say it’s ok.”
She’s just closed the closet door when the second knock sounds. I open it to find my upstairs neighbor, a thirty-something blond guy who can’t be more than five-ten. I’ve seen him before, but we’ve never spoken.
“S’up?” I ask.
He shoots a glance over his shoulder and shakes his head. “Look, man, I know you been banging a chick in there. Just thought you should know, I think they’re onto you. They’re coming for her.”
My breath stops, and the muscles in my legs tense.
“Right. Thanks, man. Now get out before they catch you here.”
“Good luck, bro.” He nods once and ambles off with all the confidence of a man who still has a future.
I clap the door closed as vomit kicks the back of my throat. They knew all along I had her. All I had to do was give her over, but no. I had to go back and get laid. Jesus, how could I have fucked up this bad? She fucked me up. Shit, this whole thing is fucked up.
“Amelia, get out here.”
The door opens, and she peeks out. “What’s happening?”
In a flash I’m by her side. “We don’t have much time. They’re coming for you.”
Her face goes absolutely white as she claps a hand over her mouth.
What do I do? Fuck!
My hands shake as I rip a T-shirt off its hanger, another one, and fling them at her. “Here, put these on. Hurry!” I grab a couple more shirts and sweatshirts and fling them at her.
“What are we going to do?” She asks as she pulls a sweatshirt over her head.
“You’re getting out of here, that’s what.” I’m screwed, completely screwed, but she doesn’t have to be. No one puts my girl in a concentration camp. I grab a pair of long johns and my second-favorite sweatpants.
She trembles as she stabs her feet into them. Everything’s enormous on her, and she looks completely ridiculous.
Suddenly she throws her arms around my neck. “I don’t want to go.”
I peel her arms away and give her a shake. “You have to. They’re setting up concentration camps for the survivors. You do not want to go there.”
She bursts into tears.
There’s no time for that. “Listen to me.”
I drag a box off the top shelf and shove it in her hands. “Put these on.”
She tosses the lid aside and gasps. “My boots!”
“I went back for them.”
Her forehead creases, and there they are, the tears. “Come with me!”
“I can’t. I have my career to think of. You know that.” It’s a lie. My career is fucked. If I tell her the truth, she'll stay. I know she will.
“But I love you!”
My lungs cramp up, and it’s difficult to breathe. I try to say something, but she’s stolen all my words.
I shake my head, grab a knapsack, and begin shoving food inside. “Go straight to Ashville and tell them you have news of Charlotte. Ask for their leader.”
“No. Wait, please, Jackson.”
I shove several boxes of ammo into her bag and hand her my sidearm.
“There’s a compass and a topographical map in here. Tell them you won’t talk to anyone else because it’s too important. Then spill everything you know about what’s going on here and about the Arc. You have to do this, Amelia. Tell them they’re planning reconstruction of Charlotte and Atlanta first, and then they’re spreading out. The Arc have all the assets of a Pre-Ash world, and they plan on eliminating the leaders and replacing them with their own rule.”
My little dancer cries as she shoves her feet into her boots.
I can’t look at her. How can I do this? If I send her out there alone, anything could happen to her. But if I go, they’ll find us. Like all of the other Arc soldiers, I have chip in the back of my neck that’ll lead them right to me. And to her, if we’re together.
Anyway, who knows? If I stay, I might be able to salvage something of my life. I threw all her clothes away, and she literally has no possessions. If she gets out before they come, they won’t be able to prove she was ever here. No chip to signal, no clothes, no girl.
I wipe my hand over my forehead. What kind of a shit bag lets her go out there alone?
I’m just shoving a hat on her head when the door flies open.
Amelia grabs a kitchen knife, and with a flick of her wrist, it’s embedded in the first soldier’s chest.
Holy fuck! What other skills does she have?
He falls, and the soldier behind him draws his weapon and aims right at her.
My little dancer.
I have just enough time to shove her out of the way before he pulls the trigger.
At first I feel nothing but a blunt force to the chest. Then it hits me, bad, like someone’s knifed me open and they’re ripping out my lungs. Holy shit, I’ve been shot. The guards seize Amelia. She’s screaming and kicking, and she manages to get one of them in the balls before breaking free and falling to my side. I want to say something to her, anything. Help me, I don’t want to die being the main one. Then things start fading away. I put my head down and close my eyes, and damn, it feels good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Amelia
They shot him! Oh my God, he’s not moving!
My blood pounds in my ears as one of the soldiers stoops over the guy I knifed. He glares down at me. “You could have killed him!”
“Let me go, you son of a bitch!” I struggle against the grunt who’s dragged me against his chest and is trying to cuff me. I squirm too much for him to get a good grip. No one pays any attention to the only man I will ever love, and blood spreads out in a pool around him. “He’s dying. Help him! You’ve got to help him!”
The one who’s trying to cuff me bends to speak in my ear. “It’s what he gets, bitch.”
“He didn’t do anything! I did it!” My heart is racing, and the whole thing seems unreal.
He spins me around and belts me in the face. My head snaps back, but I don’t go down.
“Please! I’ll do anything. Get him to a doctor!” I wrench myself free and go for Jackson, but the guy just pulls me back.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, giving orders? We ought to just kill you here.”
“You can’t do that!” But he can; he definitely can.
“You’re just some scrap. No one will ever notice you’re gone.”
“Oh yeah?” The voice sounds familiar. All heads turn, including mine, and I spot an older blond guy in jeans and a parka. “If she’s nothing, then why did the commander tell Martell this morning that he wants this girl?” He indicates me with a flick of his head.
“Who the fuck are you?” demands the one trying to staunch the fallen soldier’s blood.
“Captain Michael Bjorn.”
“Sir!” The men snap to attention, including the one holding me. “Our orders were to capture the scrap hiding in Martell’s apartment and bring her in. That’s all.”
“Did the
y tell you to bring in a corpse?” The captain angles his head toward the one with the bloody hands. “Now get on the horn and alert the commander we’ve got the girl.”
I did knife that soldier. I shouldn’t have done it, but it was instinct. When I was in that cave all those months with nothing but food and a book on survival, I spent months trying to master the techniques outlined there. I practically memorized the entire manual. Now there’s a knife sticking out of the upper right chest of a man. I shudder and bite my lips.
“What does he want me for?” I ask, swinging back to the captain.
“I’m not in on the big picture.” There’s an apology in his expression.
The pug-nosed soldier with the bloody hands pulls the communication unit from his head. “They say if she cooperates, they’ll maybe—maybe—allow her into their labor class.”
“I don’t care about your labor class. I don’t want it.” I stomp on the kneecap of my captor. He releases me with a howl, and I dart to Jackson’s side. His eyes are barely slits, but I think he sees me. I bend to his ear. “I meant it. I love you.”
“That’s the offer,” warns the bloody pug guy.
“Get him to a doctor!”
“That’s not the deal.”
“Then you tell whoever you’re talking to this: I won’t give you anything—anything—unless I see him in a hospital bed, bandaged up, with tubes sticking out of him all over the place. And he’d better be breathing.”
Pug narrows his eyes. “We can always kill you.”
I flick my chin at the captain. “Not until after I’ve been questioned, apparently.”
I realize now the captain is the voice I heard, warning Jackson to get me out. What’s his deal?
Pug Face gets back on his walkie-talkie. A moment later he grits his teeth. “They’re sending in a medical unit. Come with me.”
I squeeze on to Jackson’s hand like I’m locking us together. “I’m not giving anybody anything until I see he’s been stabilized.”
I stroke back his hair, and I swear his eyes are focused on me. “Jackson, sweetie, it’s going to be okay. They’re sending help.”
My original captor attempts to pull me away.
“I’ll chew your dick if you don’t get away from me,” I spit.
Captain Bjorn sighs. “She’s not going anywhere. Let the commander deal with her.”
It feels like hours before a big Jeep-like truck pulls up. I didn’t realize they had actual vehicles. I mean, anywhere. But I’m glad, because Jackson’s loaded into the back, and an IV of blood is already hooked up to his arm. I get in back beside him.
“Captain Bjorn,” I call.
He turns his head.
“Feed Charlie!”
“Who’s Charlie?” he returns.
Before I can answer, we’ve already pulled out.
They drop Jackson off at what looks like a small hospital and escort me into a lighted office building in the center of those single-level buildings they threw up a few months back. I’m left seated at a table in an electrically lighted room with no windows. It’s a scene I’d have imagined in a cop show on TV, except there’s no two-way window. I study the corners and spot a coin-sized black dot. A camera? If they have Jeeps and electricity, I’ll bet they have cameras.
My knees shake, and I rub my arms. I know things don’t look good for me, but Jackson has to live. Whether he took me or not, I’d never have reached my twentieth birthday. I don’t have to like it, but those are the facts. Jackson had prospects. If you ignore the slightly nutso part of him, he’s smart, compassionate, and funny. Every night he told me about something new just because I asked. He tickled me and made me food. My need for him is basic and elemental. I cannot face any type of future without him.
It isn’t an act. I love him.
These people don’t care about him. To them he’s just a grunt. What I do now will determine whether Jackson lives or dies.
The door swings open, and a slender blonde woman, in her thirties, I’d guess, enters and takes a seat opposite me.
She bends her arms on the desk and leans toward me. “You injured one of our soldiers.”
“Yes.”
She straightens. “Why?”
“I thought he was arresting me.”
She nods. “He was. It was your duty to submit.”
I snort. “No, it isn’t. I’m not a subject of the Arc. I’m a free survivor, and there are no laws for us.”
“There are now. I have some questions for you.”
“Fine.”
“I’m glad you’ve seen reason. I was told you wouldn’t cooperate.”
“I’ll answer five questions each day, and after each set I want to see Jackson. If I don’t find him alive and well, I won’t answer any more questions.”
A hint of a smile crosses her lips. “That’s not how it works.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Listen here, Miss…what is your name?”
“Is that question number one?”
She presses her lips together, gathers her files, and stalks out of the room. When she returns half an hour later, she sets a single sheet of paper in front of her and asks her first question. She wants to know about how I survived.
I tell her about the cave I found in the wilderness where some survivalist stashed his stuff. I tell her about memorizing the book there on survival since I was only thirteen and I had no idea what to do. I tell her about Greensboro, Ashville, and finally my home in the basement. When she asks what I ate, I tell her how I scrounged for food, grew plants, and hooked up LED lights. I tell her about the batteries I made. When she asked about meat, I refuse to answer.
“You’re out of questions,” I say when she scowls.
After she leaves, two guards take me to the hospital building and allow me to look at Jackson through a window. He lies in a bed wearing a hospital gown, and he’s hooked up to an IV of blood and something else with clear liquid in it. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his chest rises and falls, and a heart monitor shows a pulse.
They let me pee, and they escort me to another building where a six-by-six room awaits me. The only thing in it is an electric bulb, a plastic chair, and a narrow spring frame with a thin mattress on it. I’m sure they think of it as a cell, but if I’d had this before they came, I would have thought I’d struck gold. There’s a tray of food sitting on the chair. I give it a sniff. Meatballs and gravy over mashed potatoes. The gravy touches the peas. I drink the bottle of water and leave the rest.
The pillow they’ve given me is thin as a pot holder, so I peel off several layers of the clothes Jackson put on me and use them to cushion my head. I can’t sleep, though. I told him I loved him a million times, at first because it was something he wanted to hear, something that got him off. At the time they were just words. I’m not sure when the words became truth, but tonight when I told him I loved him, I meant it. In the three months I spent with him, he never said I love you once. Tonight was the first time it hurt.
When I finally do fall asleep, the shelling is as loud as it always is. Matthew’s head gets smashed, Mom dies again, and her frozen eyes stare at me just as they always do, year after year after year. This time there’s no one to calm my screams.
The following day, Blonde Bun-Head Woman returns for more interrogation. This time she wants details on how the cannibals operate. I’m more than willing to tell her. Personally I’d die before I ate human flesh, and those who do are without souls. But she’s already used her five questions when she asks me how I learned to identify who’s a cannibal and who’s not.
“I can’t answer that.”
“Why?”
“That’s your sixth question.”
“You know, you’re really not in a good position here. How you behave now will determine your future here.”
“I don’t intend on having a future here.”
She raises her brows. “Then where do you picture yourself in five years?”
“That’s question num
ber seven.”
She grits her teeth and leaves. Five minutes later two guards come in, cuff me, and take me to Jackson’s window. He’s still unconscious, but there’s more color in his cheeks and he’s still hooked up to tubes.
There’s a doctor just exiting his room.
“Is he going to be all right?”
She flicks a look to the guards and then at my cuffs. “I can’t share that information with you.”
Heat mottles my face, and my hands ball into fists. I peer up at my guards. “Make sure you tell the blonde woman that tomorrow she gets four questions.”
I should be scared of these people, I guess, but I’m not. I’ve faced cannibals who wanted my flesh and survivors who would kill me just to get my boots. These people are nothing.
The taller of the two soldiers frowns down at me. I hold his stare.
Dinner consists of what looks like chicken breast, green beans, and rice. I eat the green beans and rice.
Like last night, I wake up panting, sweating, and convinced I’m thirteen and I’ve just watched my mother die. No one comes to comfort me.
On day three, when Blonde Woman takes her seat, she wears this pinched look on her face.
“You only get four questions today,” I tell her.
“So I hear.”
“If the doctor gives me an honest update today, tomorrow you can have six.”
She leans back in her chair and frowns. “You’re awfully self-assured for someone so young.”
“Age means nothing when there are no calendars. I dare you to go out there and try to survive for one week. Just one week. You won’t make it. I did it for years. I’m the strong one, not you. What’s your first question?”
She passes a hand over her forehead and avoids my eyes.
We continue on about the cannibals, how they hunt when they’re alone versus in packs, how they stalk their prey, and the fact that they don’t eat the ones who died in the initial bombing.
“They wouldn’t,” I tell her. “Those are graves.”
“Graves?”
“It’s indecent. Everyone has loved ones who got murdered when the government killed Charlotte. The bodies in the rubble are the fallen, and they’re sacred. No one touches them. The cannibals didn’t go after the people in the towers either. Although those ended up being taken away.”
Five O'Clock Shadow: A Standalone Dark Romance (Snow and Ash) Page 12