Damage in an Undead Age

by A. M. Geever

  Brock’s elbow connected with Doug’s jaw, the force snapping his head back. He brought his own elbow down on the top of Brock’s head and rolled away, stumbling to his feet. His fingers closed around the first thing his hand came into contact with—a metal stool. Brock was halfway to standing when Doug slammed it into his face.

  A hollow crunch that sounded like a gunshot penetrated the roar of blood in Doug’s ears. Blood gushed down Brock’s beefy face. Doug slammed the stool into Brock’s face again, and again, until Brock fell to his knees. Doug swung the stool in a low arc into the side of Brock’s head, and he toppled like a tree. Doug dropped down, straddling Brock’s chest, and clamped his hands around Brock’s corn-fed neck.

  All of Doug’s rage rushed into his hands. He leaned into them, tightening his grip on Brock’s throat, heedless of the blood dripping over them from Brock’s broken nose. Brock’s face began to redden. His hands pulled on Doug’s wrists like Skye’s must have done to his own before. Doug squeezed harder, savage joy rushing through him when he saw fear creep into Brock’s eyes.

  “Doug, stop! Stop!”

  The voice sounded far off but broke through the haze of murderous fury. He looked up into Skye’s face.

  “Doug, stop! Please! Stop!”

  He looked down at Brock, at his hands around his neck. It was almost as if he did not know how they had gotten there, except that he did. He didn’t want to let go. He wanted to kill Brock. The asshole deserved it.

  But Skye was kneeling beside him crying. Hysterical. Pulling on his arm and begging him to stop.

  Skye.

  He released Brock’s neck. The downed man’s chest still rose and fell. Skye knelt nearby, quivering like the papery rustle of a birch tree in the wind. Her terrified eyes hit Doug like a sledgehammer. He pushed away from Brock and wrapped his arms around her. She pressed her face into his chest, tremors racking her body.

  “You’re all right, you’re safe,” he said, holding her tight, rocking her back and forth.

  His right arm felt sticky against her back. His brow furrowed when he saw that it was covered in cuts and scratches he did not remember getting. He buried his face in her hair, so silvery-blond that it looked like the silver bark of birch trees, and his rage morphed. Like a chunk of carbon becoming a diamond, it transformed into something that could never be undone, unforgivingly hard but clear and true. It flooded him with a hunger to protect her, never leave her, so deep it would never be sated.

  He would do anything for Skye. He knew that now.

  When Brock stirred behind them, Doug realized that the battered man had been gasping and hacking for air, had been trying to sit up for some time, but his brain had not registered it as important. He looked over his shoulder. The son of a bitch was in no shape to do much of anything.

  Voices and the echo of pounding boots in the hallway. Mario, then Rocco, skidded to a halt in the doorway.

  “Holy shit,” Mario said, at the same time Rocco said, “Jesus.”

  Doug took in their alarmed faces. “Get this piece of shit out of here, Mario. Before I change my mind and kill him.”

  More voices from the hallway, more people in the room. Hushed murmurs and whispers, a coat draped over Skye’s shoulders. Someone helped Brock up, righted the stool, brushed the broken glass aside. All Doug cared about was in his arms. The rest was background noise.

  His lips brushed Skye’s ear when he whispered, “It’s all right, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

  Ninety minutes later, Doug walked down the darkened corridor to the room where Skye was spending the night, making as much noise as possible with the least amount of movement. Which was fucking hard when almost every part of your body hurt, but he did not want to startle or surprise her. As bad days went, this one was right up there, but his portion of it was nothing compared to what Skye had been through.

  Dim light spilled into the hallway from her open door. At least he would not wake her. Unless she had already fallen asleep and left the light on and he had just woken her up, which made him feel like a thoughtless ass. But if she was awake, she might want the company. Or maybe she wanted to be—

  Stop it, he said to himself.

  His only regret about almost killing Brock was the almost part. Doug could still feel Brock’s fleshy neck in his hands, his windpipe under his thumbs. See the fear that had started to creep into Brock’s eyes. Feel the blind rage that had blocked out everything but his desire to kill that motherfucker.

  He should have finished it.

  Doug gave himself a mental shake, banishing the thoughts from his brain. The last thing this mess of a world needed was a homicidal priest. If he even was—

  Stop it.

  “Skye,” he said, pitching his voice so it carried. “You still up?”

  “Yeah,” she said, sounding breathless.

  As Doug neared, he heard short, regulated exhalations. He reached the open door and saw why. She was doing push-ups next to the cot. He resisted the urge to tell her to rest, even though he wanted to.

  Push-ups made sense, since it was Skye. She would feel in control, the focus and intensity, even the pain from her injuries, clearing her mind. He leaned against the doorjamb and waited. She did fifty more by his count before rocking back onto her heels in a crouch. Her tank top clung to her body, glued in place by a fine sheen of sweat. Reflected in the lantern’s low light, her pale skin looked luminous.

  “How many?”

  “Two hundred,” she said, her voice raspy from being choked.

  “Just warming up.”

  Her wet hair was tied back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her shiner was worse than his. That fucker had stepped into the punch, gotten his weight behind it, unlike the one Doug had taken. The fury percolating just below the veneer of Doug’s calm sought a fissure to travel, to push against, so that it could erupt. His hands prickled, needing something to smash. He would murder that—

  Stop it.

  Skye picked up the worn towel on the cot as she got to her feet, blotting the sweat from her face and neck, wincing when she touched tender spots and the cut on her jaw that had needed stitches. Silence filled the space between them for so long that Doug began to feel uncomfortable.

  “How are you feeling?”

  She shrugged, wincing when she tried to smile. “I tried stepping in when he grabbed me but…”

  It took Doug’s brain a moment to catch up and process her words. “Jesus, Skye,” he said, dismayed. How could she joke about this?

  She sank to the cot, her movements stilted. Absent was the supple grace that always made his breath catch in his throat. She seemed to have folded in on herself, as if to present as small a target as possible.

  “Thanks. For before.”

  Doug gaped at her. “Skye,” he finally said. “You don’t… I…anyone here would have helped you. I…I’m just—”

  She looked up at him. Her furrowed brow made her aspect seem almost wistful, except for the anxious, vertical line between her eyebrows. Doug’s stomach did a backflip.

  “Not anyone would have killed him. And you would have if I hadn’t stopped you.” She coughed, then cleared her throat, a grimace of pain flitting across her face. “That’s how it seemed, anyway.”

  Doug realized he was shaking. Not from anger, but fear. Fury, rage, the need for vengeance, he craved them like a junkie craves smack because they pushed away the fear. They subsumed it below their imperative to act, and giving in to that impulse would save him from feeling the bone-deep terror of what had happened, had almost happened. And how he had not been there to protect her.

  Doug had never felt a helplessness this profound. She was not okay; anyone could see that. He wanted to take her in his arms, rock her back and forth, tell her that she was safe, that it would be all right, for as long as it took her to believe him. But now was not like before, when you did that kind of thing without thinking, on instinct. When no one noticed or cared that you were a priest holding a beautiful woman in
your arms or suspected that you never wanted to let her go.

  She swallowed hard, holding back tears, the deepening purple-black bruises engulfing her eye and skirting her temple, accentuating just how fragile she was. That angered him, too. Brock had robbed Skye of her confidence, of the strength that Doug knew she still possessed, but she didn’t believe it anymore. It was written all over her.

  He almost asked her to tell him what she needed, but how would she know? Why should she have to tell him? He should be able to figure it out, but the wretchedness he floundered in made it impossible.

  Or I’m just a fucking coward.

  Skye had been as vulnerable as a person can be. Completely at the mercy of Brock’s pathetic, violent need to control her, as if she were a thing and not a person. When Doug had held her in his arms, she clung to him as if her life had depended on it. Maybe it had. In that maelstrom of emotion, he knew that he would do anything for her. He had also had time to think about what that meant.

  It scared him shitless.

  He was afraid of how easy it would be, because Miranda was right. It wasn’t the end of the world if he wanted something different for his life. If zombies had not been the end of everything, then the future of Father Doug Michel sure as shit wouldn’t be. He was afraid he was failing the people at home who counted on him, but what about Skye? She had captivated his imagination almost from the moment they met. Watching her struggle to keep herself together felt like someone had sawed his sternum in two and was cranking on a rib spreader without bothering to put him under.

  She looked up at him as her face crumpled, the shimmer of tears finally overspilling.

  “Do something, or leave me alone,” she whispered. “Don’t just stand there.”

  Her words challenged him to make up his mind. Of course she did. She didn’t have time for bullshit.

  “Neither do I,” Doug whispered, and the fierce love that had twined around his heart swallowed him whole. The fear and uncertainty that had felt paralyzing just moments ago, irrelevant. If this was out of bounds, pushing him closer to something he was not supposed to want, he was powerless to stop it…and he didn’t want to.

  Doug went to her, the rightness of his decision growing stronger with every step. Skye curled into him, finally surrendering to the need to get it out. Sobs racked her slender frame. The viselike grip that terror and worry had clamped around Doug’s gut began to ease as he folded her into his arms. Tension drained from tendons and ligaments connecting his muscles and bones. He needed the reassurance of her body against his, soft and warm and strong, at least as much as she needed his.

  He could not—he would not—explain it away anymore. This thing between them, his feelings for her, were real.

  He stroked her wet hair, his shirt growing damp where her head rested on his shoulder. The antiseptic scent of the lye soap that she had tried to wash this violation away with still lingered on her skin.

  “I’m here, Skye,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

  25

  Commander Smith’s shocked voice crackled over the radio. “Is Skye okay?”

  Next to Miranda, Mario snorted derisively and muttered under his breath. Rocco scowled, his eyebrows drawing together as he answered.

  “He beat the shit out of her, Anna! She’s got a concussion for sure, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got fractured ribs. I’ll feel better once River checks her out. If Doug had been a minute later, he would have raped her, so no. She is not okay. Her breathing seems normal. I don’t think she’s got a collapsed lung. She isn’t showing signs of internal bleeding, thank God.”

  Smith didn’t respond right away, but voices could be heard murmuring in the background. “Do you know how he got inside?”

  Rocco said, “We found an open door on the west side of building. No one is fessing up to leaving it unlocked, but someone did. If I find out who…”

  “Where is Brock now?” Smith asked.

  “Under lock and key,” Rocco said. “But I want to bring him back right away. I’m afraid Doug might—”

  Rocco stopped, shooting a quizzical glance at Miranda, a question in his eyes. She nodded yes.

  “We need to get him out of here unless we’re okay with not guaranteeing his safety,” Rocco said.

  “Okay, here’s the game plan. You’re going to take Brock to P-Land.”

  “No!” Miranda, Mario, and Rocco said at the same time. Rocco looked over to them, as if he appreciated the backup.

  “Hear me out,” Smith said. “My next radio call will be to P-Land. They will be in the loop by the time you get there. Brock did this on neutral ground. Jurisdiction isn’t clear cut.”

  Miranda grabbed the handset from Rocco. “He beat her up, tried to rape her, and might have killed her. We ought to be taking him out back and putting a bullet in his brain, not worrying about jurisdiction!”

  “I understand your frustration, Miranda, but there’s a reason there’s never been a serious conflict between LO and P-Land. We’ve always worked together, unlike a lot of places. I am not going to jeopardize that now, no matter how terrible the crime.”

  Smith’s response was calm. Reasonable. And it pissed Miranda off. She felt hot all of a sudden, as if her blood had begun to boil. It must have showed because she felt Mario’s hand on her shoulder.

  “This is not our first violent crime,” Smith’s voice continued. “Brock will be punished. Of that I can absolutely assure you.”

  Rocco held his hand out for the handset. Miranda gave it to him. She turned back to Mario, whose offered hand felt comforting as it closed around hers.

  “Are you sure about this, Commander?” Rocco asked.

  “It’s not just the politics. The sound defenses are working, thank God, but problems equalizing the levels have cropped up in the last few hours. We were just about to radio you to stay put when you called us.”

  “How long to fix it?” Rocco asked.

  “Not sure,” Smith answered. “It’s not staying in the same place, so we don’t know which Station will be affected, or for how long. We still have a baseline, but the fluctuations are making presence over here hard to predict. Density is still higher than we’re used to dealing with because of that horde. P-Land is not having these kinds of problems. It’s the safer place to take him right now—for all of you. If Brock was killed, I wouldn’t give a shit. And that is not a nudge and a wink, just so we’re clear.”

  Rocco sighed even as he nodded his head. “Okay, Commander. I’m going to wait for confirmation that you’ve contacted P-Land before setting out.”

  “Give me thirty minutes,” Smith said. “Over and out.”

  Rocco put the handset in its cradle.

  “This is bullshit,” Miranda said, wiping tears from her eyes. Anger ricocheted inside her, gaining momentum, made worse by the fact that she could not stop crying. Every time she thought she had it under control, her tear ducts made it abundantly clear that she did not.

  “I don’t like it either,” Rocco said. “But she’s right. That piece of shit is not worth a shooting war with P-Land. As much as I like to make fun of them, when they need to bust out the big guns, they do.”

  “Do you need me to come with you?” Mario said.

  Miranda stiffened. With all of the commotion, they had not had a chance to talk. Mario had only gotten out of the lab ten minutes before Doug discovered Skye and beat Brock half to death. The intervening time had been consumed with the fallout.

  “No, you stay here,” Rocco said.

  “But I thought you said that the horde messed up the security detail rotation and we’re short-handed. I can go with you and not make it worse.”

  Rocco shook his head. “You’ve got important work to do. I’ll go on my own.”

  “Alicia is here to keep our experiments on track,” Mario added. “And I need a break, anyway.”

  Even though Miranda wanted to talk to Mario, it wasn’t worth Rocco putting himself in danger. “If you go a
lone and he manages to escape, do you really want to deal with Doug when he finds out?”

  “He really fucked Brock up,” Rocco said, approval in his voice. “Never would have thought a skinny guy could do that.”

  “You are not the first person who has underestimated him,” Mario said.

  “And it was Skye,” Miranda murmured.

  Mario and Rocco traded a glance. Mario then studied his fingernails, while Rocco shook his head. They both knew what she meant, but none of them—Miranda included—wanted to be the one who said it.

  Rocco sighed. “If you’re up for it, Mario, I’d appreciate the help. It would be nice to not leave it so thin on the ground here.”

  “I’ll be here! I know how to shoot a gun and do a watch,” Miranda said.

  “I know you do, Tucci. I already included you in the headcount, and it’s still thin on the ground here.” Rocco looked to Mario, grinning, as he pulled Miranda to him. He wrapped his arm around her neck as if he was about to rub his knuckles on her head. “I love this one. When she’s old, she’ll have Italian Alzheimer’s, just like me.”

  “Which is?” Mario asked.

  “When you forget everything but the grudges,” Rocco answered.

  They all laughed, perhaps more than the joke warranted, but it was nice to get a break in the god-awful tension.

  “And,” Rocco said. “Skye might want a woman to talk to.”

  Miranda groaned. “Rocco, you are the most chauvinist gay man I know.”

  “What can I say? The old school is strong with the Giorginis.” He directed his next words to Mario. “I’m guessing we’ll head out in thirty minutes or so.”

  After he had left, Mario asked, “You okay?”

  Miranda sighed. She was pregnant, almost two weeks delayed in telling Mario and arranging the abortion, and now he was going to be gone again, perhaps overnight. This was not a conversation she could cram into the half hour before he left for P-Land.