Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  “That’s pure silver, bitch,” she told him, drew her hell dagger from its sheath, and plunged it into his heart.

  Man died and demon fled with one last, startled gasp. The eyes dimmed, and the corpse fell back against a tree trunk; her blade slipped free, dripping red, viscous blood, and she was turning back around before the body had toppled to the forest floor.

  Gallo was still down, and the conduit was twitching.

  Rose loaded her gun with a fresh magazine, holstered it along with her daggers, all save one slender, wicked blade that she kept in her grasp, and plunged down the hill into the stream.

  She fell the last few feet, sliding in the mud, and hit the water with a splash. The cold of it shocked her all over again; she clenched her teeth against it, and set off through the chest-deep current. It wanted to drag her farther downstream; each step was a fight; she lunged through the water, straining for the far bank.

  It seemed to take an age. When she arrived, gripping a tree root with the white knuckles of one hand, body slumping forward with exhaustion, she knew she couldn’t afford to take the rest she needed. Gallo was bleeding, the conduit was healing.

  Where the hell were Lance and the others?

  She started to climb, slipping here and there, not willing to let go the knife, nor to sink its perfect tip down into the mud and use it for a handhold. Beck would turn in his – well, not grave – on his spit? Where he roasted in hell?

  She gritted her teeth against a growl, and kept going, hand over hand, the rifle heavy on her back, the weight of her soaked clothes dragging at her. She reached the top, and called on one last burst of energy to heave herself up and over the edge, muscles screaming where they weren’t numb from cold.

  No time, no time. She rolled to her feet, heaving for breath, knife still clean in one hand.

  Gallo had slid down, sitting on his backside in the mud, spine curved forward in a protective, vulnerable C. He cradled the stump of his left arm in his hand, fresh blood bubbling between his fingers as quickly as the rain could wash it away. His face was bone-white, his eyes wide and hectic; it was with a child’s terror that he looked up and her, and whispered, “Rose. Please.”

  A plea for help? For mercy?

  She knelt and managed to swing her pack around; dug out one of the tourniquets they all carried in their gear. As she cinched the belt tight above the wound where his elbow had once been – he whimpered and closed his eyes – she noted the cleanness of the stroke. If he didn’t exsanguinate, the wound would clean up well. The arm, she noted, as she finished, and stood, lay on the wet leaves, the hand half-curled, its palm full of rainwater.

  The sight of it, the flesh already dead-looking, sent a hard shiver of fear through her. A pulse of helplessness – this was terrible, it was so awful, and she didn’t, she couldn’t–

  She shoved it down, dumped her pack, drew her hell dagger, and stalked toward the remaining conduit.

  The woman twitched in erratic pulses: arms, legs, fingers curling, eyelids fluttering over rolled-back eyes, only the whites showing. Her cap had come off, and she ground her short, pale hair into the mud as she jerked like she was having a stroke.

  Rose went down on one knew, and lifted her dagger.

  The conduit’s eyes reverted to normal, suddenly, gaze hard and fixed on her face, and her hand shot up, no longer twitching, but steady, accurate. She latched onto Rose’s throat.

  She’d bought two bracelets, and a collar that day at the market. The short, but terribly sharp silver spikes pierced the conduit’s palm and fingers. Rose felt the too-hot trickle of conduit-powered blood on her neck.

  The conduit hissed, but her hand tightened, thumb and collar pressing into Rose’s windpipe.

  Rose gasped, unbidden, and felt something in her neck trying to give. Her vision tunneled, a sudden blackness sweeping in at the edges. The conduit’s other hand reached for her wrist.

  But too late.

  Rose stabbed the woman in the belly with her sharp little pig-sticker, and in the heart with the hell blade.

  A sucking inhale, an exhale like a howl, and the eyes flashed. The hand went limp and dropped away from Rose’s throat, and she fell back on her ass, choking on the air that rushed down her throat on the first inhale.

  “Greer!” A thunderous shout, barely heard above the rain – falling harder now, faster, louder.

  She fought her lungs, and managed to get up on her knees, and turn to look.

  Here came Lance, loping effortlessly across the slippery terrain, Tris and Gavin right behind him.

  Where were you? she thought, savagely. Where the fuck were all of you?

  But when Lance skidded to a halt in front of her, hectic gaze visible even through his rain-splattered goggles, she said, “Gallo’s hurt. He’s lost half an arm.”

  “Jesus,” Lance breathed. Tris and Gavin rushed past him, and went to kneel on either side of Gallo, who was rocking back and forth now, whimpering brokenly like a small, frightened animal. “Jesus – are you, the conduits? Are you okay?”

  “The conduits are dead.” She pushed to her feet, and staggered; would have fallen if Lance hadn’t gripped her shoulders and righted her. “And I’m fine.”

  ~*~

  Twice, she thought the helo would succumb to the weather on the rough ride back to the tarmac. The wind picked up, the rain lashing sideways, and once, she swore the rotors stalled.

  They’d strapped Gallo in tight. Tris had done a quick field treatment: flushed the stump, bound it up with lots of padding and gauze. They’d piled him with reflective, thermal blankets, and he was blessedly unconscious now. His lips were blue, his skin clammy and waxy-looking.

  Tris sat closest to him, his normally-hard expression locked into newly harsh angles. Rose watched as he pressed a hand to Gallo’s forehead, his frown deepening, muscle in his jaw twitching.

  Medics were waiting when they landed at the base, a gurney ready. The building sat squat, spare and gray against the ever-deepening gloom as evening set on, and the rain gained a whole new intensity: shifting whiteout curtains that blew and rippled across the tarmac.

  “We’ll overnight here,” Lance told her. “With this weather, and with Gallo.” He shook his head, face nearly as gray as the building.

  Rose hopped out of the helo and followed the gurney inside, leaving her superior officer behind.

  ~*~

  There was a thick glass window that looked into the operating room from the small lounge beyond it. With all the draping, and medical staff milling about, Rose couldn’t see much of the surgery, but the idea of dinner or a hot shower had repelled her when she watched Gallo’s lifeless form wheeled into the med bay. She sat in a hard plastic chair beside a water cooler, pitched forward, her hands laced together loosely between her knees.

  Tristan sat three seats down, in a similar posture, staring at the window, his jaw carved from marble, save the way it flickered with lean muscle each time he swallowed.

  Poor Frankie, Rose thought. He’d finally captured the attention of his idol, but he’d lost an arm in doing so.

  A clock ticked up on the wall, but she never bothered to check the time. Finally, the hustle and bustle beyond the window seemed to slow. A sheet was pulled up over Gallo – Tris sat up, his chair creaking – but only to his chest, to keep him warm. A tech checked all his monitors, and secured an IV in his arm. Rose saw them prepare to wheel the gurney away – out of the OR and down a far hallway, to the recovery rooms.

  A doctor came out in the act of untying his mask, his face lined and weary, but satisfied, she thought.

  Tris stood, abruptly. Tense all over, as if he’d braced himself.

  The doctor glanced between the two of them. “I was able to save the joint, and about two inches below that. It should make prosthetic attachment – if he chooses to have one – easier, eventually. We cleaned, cauterized, and closed the area with a skin graft from his back. If it takes, he should be ready for a prosthetic fitting in three months.”
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br />   Tris jerked a nod, and left the room.

  The doctor lifted his brows, a single jump of whatever. He’d seen a lot, no doubt, in this line of work. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and turned back to regard Rose. “You should get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia.”

  “Bacteria and virus cause pneumonia,” she said, flatly, stubbornly. “Not wet clothes.”

  He smirked around the cigarette he’d just hung on his lip. “Yeah, but didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

  She stared at him until he gave another eyebrow shrug and went back into the OR, and through to the recovery ward, pneumatic doors sliding shut behind him.

  Rose remained sitting – because she had to. Battling the conduits, helping get Gallo into the basket the helo sent down, the harrowing flight back: adrenaline had carried her through all of that, better than any external stimulant.

  But now, after sitting so long, chilled to the bone, soaked through to the skin, the strain of all she’d done had caught up with her. For all that it had been raining, she was dehydrated, she knew, and that was making her full-body muscle cramps all the worse. Everything hurt. She was trembling internally, and the room tilted if she turned her head too quickly. She needed to eat, to take a hot shower; pop some aspirin and climb into bed.

  But that meant getting up first, and though she could face a conduit without blinking, something as simple as exhaustion threatened to lay her low, now.

  She gripped the edge of her chair – even her fingers ached, the joints sore and the tips raw from climbing – and was gathering herself, when the outer door slid open, and Lance stepped into the room.

  She whipped her head toward him, ready with all her usual shields – but the room spun, her stomach lurched, and she felt herself sliding out of the chair.

  “Whoa.” Lance appeared before her, blurry and see-sawing as her vision wavered. His hands were large and strong on her arms, and he lifted her easily to her feet – which by some miracle managed to hold her, though all her muscles screamed in protest.

  She hissed in pain, and hated herself for the slip, but she didn’t seem to have much control of her body at the moment.

  “Greer? Rose?”

  She closed her eyes a moment, and when she opened them, she could at least see clearly – the notch between Lance’s brows, the worry plucking at his mouth, and pressed into the lines around his eyes. She took a deep breath, and even if it hurt, she steadied herself.

  He steadied her, too, his thumbs, she realized, rubbing back and forth along her biceps.

  “Why are you still sitting in here?” he asked. “You’re still soaking wet. Come on, you’ll–”

  “Don’t say ‘catch your death.’”

  He frowned. “You’re too cold,” he insisted. “I can hear your teeth chattering.”

  He could? She guessed, upon self-reflection, that they were.

  “I wanted – wanted to make sure – that he pulled – through surgery.”

  His expression softened, and that was dangerous for reasons she refused to examine in her current state, or any state, really. “He did, thanks to you.”

  She frowned at him, and she thought he almost smiled, but checked it.

  “He was down for the count, and you stepped in and got the job done. Got it done impressively. There were two of them.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  She regretted it the moment she said it; it was petty, and unfair, and coming from her own fatigue and pain, and the ghost of grief that boiled up. Because when she’d heard Gallo screaming, she’d wondered if Beck was screaming now, down in hell; if every day he was being torn apart and put back together just so it could happen again.

  But the way his face fell, expression cooling and closing off, pushed her to add, “You’re really good at that: showing up after everything’s gone to hell – sometimes literally.”

  His hands tightened on her arms.

  “Showing up after the fact to fix things doesn’t count for much. Some things can’t be fixed.”

  He stared at her a long moment, jaw clenching. She watched him swallow. Watched his gaze track back and forth across her face, searching; whatever he hoped to find, she wasn’t going to give it to him willingly.

  Finally, he nodded, and moved around so he could slide his arm around her waist.

  “What are you–” she started to protest.

  “I’m guessing if you can’t stand up, you’re not in any position to walk,” he said, curtly. “We’re going to get you a shower.”

  Her face burned, and she wanted to upbraid him for making such an assumption – but she really wasn’t in any shape to make it there on her own. She staggered forward, letting his arm support a shameful amount of her weight, and pressed her lips shut tight against a torrent of insults.

  This base wasn’t heavily-populated – was really more of an outpost, a fueling station, and a facility where military medical research could be conducted in relative peace – and, thankfully, they didn’t encounter anyone else on their slow, unsteady progress down the concrete and metal corridors. They reached a unisex locker room that offered walled-off showers and changing rooms for privacy’s sake; toilets were all tucked away in their own individual closets. The rest of their company must have already showered – Lance included, judging by his clean fatigues and the faint scent of their harsh, chemical soap – because the air was warm and humid, and wet footprints had been tracked across the tiles, leading from the changing rooms to the lockers.

  He helped her to a dry section of floor, and pushed the swinging door to a changing room open. Inside it was small, with a bench, and pegs for clothes, and a mat to stand on. Beyond, through a frosted, sliding door, was the shower.

  She noted a folded set of dark blue sweats stitched with the Gold Company emblem waiting on the bench. A wrapped bar of soap, a bottle of shampoo. And, on the ground, a pair of orthopedic flip-flops. The flip-flops were much too small for any of her fellow Knights. They were for her, and she knew the clothes were, as well. They’d been set out for her: warm and comfortable things, soft and welcome after being bedraggled.

  At another time, Gallo would have been the one to think of her. But Gallo was waking up from anesthesia. And she knew that neither Tris nor Gavin had done it. Which left Lance. Lance had found clothes, and those absurd and rare flip-flops, and shampoo, and soap, and had come to fetch her, to make sure that she showered.

  It would have been so easy to chalk it up to duty: a commander had to look out for the rest of his company. What good was a Knight too feeble and sick to wield a weapon? But she knew, in this instance, that the gesture had been meant as a kindness.

  And she hated that.

  Her anger came to a sudden, red-hot peak – and then burst, and fell, and faded, leaving her only shaken, and grateful, and hating him for the simple fact that he wasn’t Beck, and that he hadn’t saved Beck, and that he would never have been able to at all.

  Her eyes and throat burned, and she swayed within his grasp.

  “Do I need to help you?” he asked, tone still gruff, still mad at her – but worried all the same.

  “No,” she said, not sure at all if that was true.

  But when he carefully withdrew, she was able to shuffle forward, and reach for the buttons of her jacket.

  “I’ll be out here,” he said, like a warning. “If I hear you fall, I’m coming in, naked or not.”

  Too weary to even nod, she kept working on her buttons, aware of his deep frown before he closed the outer door.

  It took an age to undress, her fingers clumsy, her clothes half-dried to her skin. She nearly fell, stepping out of her pants, and slapped a hand against the wall to catch herself.

  “Greer?” Lance called.

  “Fine.”

  Teeth chattering even more violently, covered in gooseflesh, she hobbled into the shower stall and cut on the water.

  She groaned in relief when the hot jets hit her body. Took longer than she ever did,
the handle cranked all the way to hot. Fuck waste, fuck indulgence. She’d watched her friend get his arm lopped off today, and she felt wretched, and damn if she wasn’t going to stand under the hot water until she thawed. By the time she set about washing her hair, her fingers had loosened, and it was easy to pick the knots and tangles loose. She woke up, a little; the despair and grief pressed back by simple human comfort.

  When the water threatened to cool, she shut it off, and dried off with the towel Lance had left her. There was even a pair of underwear, she noted, when she unfolded the sweats: simple black cotton. She pulled them on, and then the sweats, stepped into the flip-flops, and left her wet hair in waves down her shoulders, as she finally left the safety of the changing room and shuffled out toward the lockers.

  Lance was still there, as promised, sitting on one of the long benches, head tipped back against the locker faces. He straightened when she emerged, and his face was softer, now. His pique had melted, just as hers had in the shower. Now he only looked tired, and melancholy.

  His brows lifted. “Better?”

  “Much better.” She plucked at the hem of the sweatshirt. “Thank you, for this.”

  He shrugged with one shoulder. “They had ‘em in the stockroom.”

  “But you went looking for them.”

  “I did.” His gaze turned appraising, a gentle challenge.

  She sighed, and went to sit on the bench opposite him. Her muscles were still deeply sore, and would grow more so over the next few hours, but she was looser from the heat of the shower, and could settle with only a little wince, and no chance of passing out. Her stomach growled, though.

  Loud enough for Lance to hear, apparently. He leaned sideways and snagged something she hadn’t yet noticed: a steaming cup of instant noodles with a plastic spoon stuck in them.

  She accepted them without any pride or resistance, too hungry to protest, and fell on them like a starving woman. The broth was beef-flavored, and a few sad peas and carrots bobbed along the top, and it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.