Is it normal for a medical researcher to giggle this much?
"Dr. Gwan, Dr. Corbin." Perez nods. "Nice to meet you. We can do full introductions later, but for now—allow me to introduce the three vampire warriors of the Blue City area. This is Darius, from Slaygate, Chandra of Bastion, and Atlan of Deathcastle."
"Vampires," whispers Dr. Corbin, clasping her hands. Her eyes shine as if she was a teenage girl meeting her favorite boy band. "Wonderful. Just wonderful. Exactly what we need. Come with me, please."
She and Dr. Gwan lead us into a huge elevator and we descend, the gears screeching from disuse. "Pardon the noise," says Dr. Corbin, with an apologetic little shrug. "We haven't used the elevator in a while."
It's a short ride—just a few stories down. The elevator opens onto a couple of hallways—one stretching out straight in front of us, and the other running perpendicular to it, extending to the left and right.
Two more people stand in the hallway ahead—a husky man with big round glasses and a gaunt woman with small rectangular ones. They watch us, cautious and calculating, without saying a word.
"This is the rest of our crew," says Dr. Corbin. "Dr. Krupin and Dr. Rousseau."
Frowning, Sergeant Perez glances at one of the soldiers, Corporal Andrews from Slaygate—the only other semblance of military leadership in our group. He shrugs, eyebrows raised.
"We were told you had a dozen people needing extraction," says the sergeant.
Dr. Corbin chuckles lightly, her hand fluttering over her frizzy hair. "Well, we did say that, but it's not exactly true, no—no it isn't. We wanted to make sure you'd send enough, you know, enough bodies. Enough men—soldiers, I mean. To carry the—" She waves her hand frantically as if she can't think of the word. "Crates. We have big crates. Crates to take with us, and special coolers—you mustn't, mustn't open them, no. They have to stay intact, locked, sealed, yes? Yes. So you'll carry them, and we'll go now."
"Hang on a second." The sergeant places a hand on her shoulder. "We've been traveling non-stop to get here, and we've had a rough couple of days. I'd appreciate it if we could stay here overnight, and sleep. We'll get going first thing tomorrow."
"Oh. Oh, I see. Tired—yes, of course you're tired. We have rooms—lots of rooms, empty rooms."
"Great." Sergeant Perez gives the doctor the side-eye, then glances at Corporal Andrews. He shrugs again, and I roll my eyes. Some help he is.
So I speak up. "We should communicate with Deathcastle as soon as possible, and let them know we arrived."
"Excellent thought, Miss Mars." The sergeant nods to me, and I suppress a pleased smile. I didn't even know she knew my name. "Do you have radio equipment I can use?" she asks Dr. Corbin. "How about the rig you used to contact Deathcastle?"
"That?" Dr. Gwan clears his throat. "Oh, that's not working anymore. No, we needed a part from it, for something else."
"Hm. Okay."
"And you can't use your radios down here. But tomorrow, when we leave—when you're above ground—you can radio then, yes? Okay? Good enough?" Dr. Corbin nods eagerly, insistently, and begins sidling down one of the hallways. "Come on. We have some food. In packets, and cans."
"We brought some with us as well," Corporal Andrews ventures. "We even have some fresh produce, if you're interested."
Dr. Corbin stops short. "Do you have bananas?"
"Um, no—but we have some apples—"
"Oh yes," she breathes. "Crisp, sweet, delicious—just the thing. We'll have a feast, that's it. A feast."
I've encountered my share of strange individuals since the Gorging—and honestly, even before the zombie apocalypse became a thing. But this is a new level of odd behavior. It's clear to me that the isolation here, the desperation, the lack of sunlight, and maybe the work—all of it has combined to drive Dr. Corbin just slightly insane. Nothing she can't come back from, I'm sure. Give her some time outside the labs, in the sun, with proper nutrition and social interaction, and she'll be good as new.
The "feast" is an awkward meal of MRE Full Meals and canned food, warmed in a couple of stain-splattered microwaves. Corporal Andrews brings out our supplies to share, and we all sit awkwardly in the bunker's version of a mess hall, which consists of a long counter, a few burners and microwaves, a fridge, and some white metal tables and chairs. There aren't enough chairs for everyone, so I stand in a corner beside Atlan, my arm brushing his. He's alert, tense, mirroring the obvious caution in Sergeant Perez's stance. Even as the sergeant talks with Corbin and the other doctors, her eyes keep jumping from face to face around the room, locking on the door now and then as if to make sure the exit is still clear.
"What is she worried about?" I whisper to Atlan.
He takes his time chewing the bite of canned chili he just spooned into his mouth. "Everything," he says finally. "She's worried about everything. Something's off here. Can you smell it?"
I have indeed smelled something ever since we got down here—the faint odor of raw sewage blended with a sharp chemical smell and a kind of warm sourness. "It smells like an old bunker with iffy ventilation and worse sanitation."
Atlan shakes his head. "Something else. Something underneath that."
"Zombies?"
"No, it's—" His nostrils quiver and flare. "I can't describe it, or identify it."
"But it's a suspicious smell."
He snorts a little, casting a smirk my way. "Okay, I know how dumb it sounds."
"Not really. I mean—hidden labs in a bunker? Half-crazy doctors? This is the beginning of a horror movie waiting to happen." I say it lightly, but dread scrapes against my spine, knocking on the walls of my heart. I shrink further into the corner, scoping out the nearest weapons, just in case. Charting a path to the exit.
Just in case.
Just in case I need to fight. In case I need to run, and save myself, and leave them all behind.
Except, I couldn't do it. Not this time, not anymore.
I did that once—chose survival over friendship. Not that I could have saved my friends back then—but I could have died with them, and maybe I should have.
I wasn't the brave defender. I was the sneaky one who hid until danger devoured its fill and passed me by. It's a pattern I've repeated over and over since the Gorging, one that has kept me breathing. But breathing isn't the same as alive.
When I jumped over the Blue City wall to fight for Harry, I broke that old pattern of mine, and I'll be damned if I ever go back to it. I have people who matter to me again. I have Atlan, my love, my—I can't even describe what he is to me. Dying with him would be a privilege, an honor. Living without him would be unendurable.
"Hey, Trouble." He elbows me. "What's up? You look uncharacteristically serious."
I look up at him, my eyes filling with desperate tears. His teasing look morphs into one of alarm. "Oh, god. Don't cry, Finley, please. What is it? I'm sure it's safe here. It's fine."
His frantic whispers are drawing more attention than my impending tears, and Sergeant Perez glances over at us. She clears her throat. "So, Dr. Corbin, you mentioned rooms? Some of us aren't used to the rigors of a military operation. We could use the rest."
"Ah. Of course. This way."
There's an entire wing of small sleeping rooms, crammed with pairs of twin beds. In fact, the dormitory hallway is so long I can't see the end of it. It's one long tunnel lined with identical beige doors, spaced about eight feet apart, with long white lights marching at intervals along the concrete ceiling. The sheer number of people who could have fit in here makes me wonder what this bunker was originally designed for.
Dr. Corbin informs us that the communal bathroom nearest the entrance is the only one working. While the others are still talking and figuring out accommodations, I duck into the bathroom and wash up. Atlan follows me, and I wordlessly lend him some soap and toothpaste, as well as my toothbrush. Pre-Gorging me would never have let anyone use her toothbrush—but Atlan's supplies were left in our truck during the tornado, and it's not like we haven
't already exchanged saliva. Desperate times, right?
I've never seen him brush his teeth. He takes special care with the fangs, stroking from the swell of the purple gums down to the sharp tips. He sees me watching him and winks.
"Can fangs get cavities?" I ask.
Both his eyebrows lift. He spits out toothpaste and says, "I have no idea."
When we come out of the bathroom, Sergeant Perez steps in front of us. "Miss Mars, I'd like to give you a choice. You can share a room with one of the female soldiers if you like, or with him." She jerks her head toward Atlan.
Being given that respect, that choice, means so much to me. "Thank you," I tell her, with all the sincerity and gratitude I can put into the words. "But—I'd like to stay with Atlan." And I interlace my fingers with his.
Sergeant Perez notes the motion, and her mouth and eyes soften a bit. "As you like. Atlan, I expect you to be vigilant tonight. We may be in a bunker, but I'd still like someone to keep watch through the night. Just an hour shift each. I'll tap on your door when it's time for your turn—which won't be 'til after midnight." Her lips twitch again as she glances at me—it's almost a smile. "Go on then. Room 10."
The room is plain—twin beds fitted with thin mattresses, thinner pillows, and a scanty, scratchy blanket each. There's a nightstand between the beds, a single bulb bracketed to the wall for light, and a couple of lockers. The walls are bare uncompromising concrete, with no hint of decoration anywhere.
Not exactly a romantic setting.
Atlan immediately moves the furniture around so that the two beds are side by side, flush against each other. Then he looks at me, uncertain. "Is that okay? I should have asked first—"
I wrap my arms around him, holding him tight, my head against his chest. He melts, the uncertainty fading as he hugs me back, resting his lips on my hair.
"Suspicious smells or not, it's just for one night," he says. "We'll leave tomorrow, and we'll be back at Deathcastle before you know it."
I suppress a snicker, and he says, "What?"
"It's just—I never thought a place with a name like 'Deathcastle' would feel like home to me. Or that I'd be in love with a vampire."
A chuckle travels through his chest. "Yeah. The apocalypse is funny that way, I guess."
With the door of this room closed, and tons of earth and concrete blocking out the rest of the world, sinking into him is the easiest, most natural thing on earth. His coat carries the odor of death and destruction, but his skin smells faintly spicy, tinged with salty sweat and enticing heat. My palms shift under the open garment, skimming the planes of his stomach and sides. He inhales, then shrugs out of the coat, tossing it in the corner. When he tries to approach me, I hold him off for a second so I can admire his broad, beautiful shoulders, and the way his bare torso tapers down to that lean muscled waist, and how the dark pants hug his crotch.
A slow grin, predatory and primal, spreads over his face, and my breath catches at the sight of that double set of fangs.
I back up against the wall and crook my finger at him. "Come and take me."
He moves so fast I barely have time for a gasp before I'm pressed to the wall, my rear cupped firmly in both his broad hands. He hitches me up so I'm straddling his hips, and I feel that delightful hardness and heat again, through the layers of my pants and his.
We are definitely wearing too many clothes.
He kisses me, tingly burning kisses, wild wicked kisses. I press my fingers to the back of his head and crush his mouth to mine, daring to swirl my tongue over the surface of those terrible, beautiful fangs.
He growls or groans, somewhere deep inside, and sets me down. "Take your clothes off, Finley. Now."
I'm naked faster than he can get his pants off, and we crash together against the wall again, skin searing skin, hard muscles and soft curves and bones and hearts beating together, binding us irreversibly to each other. My rib flickers with pain for a second, but I don't care. This is different than the soft lovemaking we did in the hotel; this is frantic, visceral—a desperation to be closer, closer, closer still—to shift into each other's skins and find some relief for the emotion thundering inside us.
He enters me hard, his fangs denting his lower lip, blue eyes blazing into mine. The thrusts aren't gentle, and I welcome this force—I crave it. I whisper, "Yes, yes," to quiet the question in his eyes. "Harder, please—harder."
He could hurt me. He's powerful—vampire-strong. But even as he increases the pace, I can tell he's being careful of me—there's tenderness in the broad palms spanning my waist, holding me in place while he thrusts. I move with him, gripping his shoulders, breath hissing fast between my teeth, forcing down the cries of tortured ecstasy that threaten to burst out of me. Thrills of pleasure zip along my nerves—he's driving me closer and closer—so close now—my thighs tighten at his waist, my muscles taut with wanting, wanting—
Atlan's whole body convulses against mine and he gasps, closing his eyes. The heat flooding my core finishes me, and pleasure explodes through my body, shuddering along my limbs. I bite Atlan's shoulder to keep myself quiet, and even then I can't help a whimper.
"Shh, beautiful," he says in my ear, his voice shaky after his own climax. I love that I can dismantle him so completely, that I can give him such intense pleasure.
After a few seconds he carries me to the beds. We move under the blankets together, skin against smooth warm skin.
Atlan leans on one elbow, looking into my face with a soft, aching joy, a reflection of what I feel in my own heart. "I love you, Trouble."
"Love you back," I tell him.
Sighing with satisfaction, my vampire traces my collarbones with his fingers, and presses a kiss to the hollow of my throat. With a jolt I remember the slave market—the weight of the iron brace around my neck, the knot of nerves and dread in my stomach.
I was lucky that day. Lucky, or blessed, if there's anything left in the spirit realm that cares enough to bless the desperate denizens of this broken world.
I was sold to a captain. Enslaved to a vampire zombie-hunter. And then—then I was given back my choices, my courage, and my will to love.
Something about this bunker chills my blood—something beyond Atlan's "suspicious smell." And I suspect that our journey back to Deathcastle won't be as uneventful as one might hope. We're in the damn Hordelands, after all—in a place where undead swarms walk in gigantic circles and strange new zombies mimic human actions.
But I lay my head on Atlan's chest, and listen to his heart pulsing with my blood, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I'm safe with him. That we belong to each other.
We are locked together, soul to soul—and no one and nothing can ever break that immortal chain.
THE END
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Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 20