Abandon The Night (13 page)

Quent grinned. “You have my word.”

Zoë snorted. “Not sure how much that means.” She looked him over. “Well, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Uh, one more thing,” Quent said easily.

“What?”

“I need to get a few things.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You blackmail me into taking you with me, and now you want me to wait while you pack a damned suitcase?”

Quent stepped closer to her, and reached to skim a hand down her bare arm. “I’ll make it worth your while, Zoë. I have a feeling it’ll be the last soft bed and hot shower either of us see for a while.”

“Well, if you put it that way…I might as well get
something
out of the damned deal.” She leaned into him, cinnamon, curves, warmth, and all. He suddenly felt light-headed, and wondered if this was good idea after all.

She was right about the distraction.

But it was too late. He was lost. “Whatever you want, luv,” he managed to say as she plastered herself to him and his world sunk into hot, sleek, strong kisses and Zoë.

Always, only, Zoë.

ca. 15 July 2010

Early after sunrise

It’s over. Whatever it was, it has ended. By my calculation, it has been more than a month since that day it all began. This is the first time I’ve desired to sit and put my thoughts on paper. There were days of paralysis and terror, and then numbness. Now, we are bent on survival.

There is now only one other survivor besides Devi and myself. A young man named James.

After the first earthquakes and terrible storms, many of us gathered together at the elementary school. We thought it was merely something we could wait out. But then three days, maybe four, after the events began, people began to die.

Devi tried, and I helped, and so did others, but they fell as well. Devi could find nothing wrong with the people who died, and my beloved doctor was worn ragged and weary by his inability to save any of them.

Now, weeks later when the grief is not so raw, he theorizes that it was some sort of poisoned gas or biochemical event caused by the physical upheaval of the earth and its storms.

It appears that for some reason, Devi, James and I were immune to whatever it was.

A miracle, perhaps. Or perhaps it is not a miracle to have been left to live when so many have died.

But I cannot deny that still having Devi with me is a miracle of grand proportion.

We have no access to the Internet, to cell phones. Even a radio, running on electricity from a small generator, gives nothing but static or silence.

—from the diary of Mangala Kapoor

What the fuck was I thinking?

Zoë had been asking herself that question, in various ways and laced with an assortment of expletives, since she and Quent had left Envy.

Barely had the sun’s glow begun to lighten the sky—for they’d returned to Quent’s room just as twilight settled over the city and the rest of the night had been spent in a variety of pleasurable activities—when she’d eased from the bed. He was snoring the sleep of a man well sated; his sleek, golden body sprawled amid the tangled sheets.

The image was temptation enough for her to slide back in next to him, but Zoë knew better. Then it would be noon before they left, and she had work to do.

Work that had gone terribly by the wayside in the last few days. The thought made her itchy inside—a different itch than the one Quent seemed well able to scratch—and even a little nauseated. Zoë knew that every night she spent doing something other than hunting the zombies, somewhere, one of them was attacking and tearing someone apart. On the orders of Raul Marck.

Someone’s grandmother, father, sister, friend, lover…As long as he was alive, he was demolishing people and families with his rotting-fleshed monsters.

The very thought fairly destroyed her, made her crumble inside and turned her world dark and empty. There was no other purpose, no other reason she’d been left alive other than revenge—to rid the world of Marck, and as many
gangas
as she could, one at a time.

Zoë had no time for the sort of distraction Quent provided, as satisfying as it was. It would be even worse if he was with her all the time.
What the hell is wrong with me? I work alone. I live alone. I
am
alone.

So she crept around the room as she’d done several times before, gathering up her things, hardly daring to breathe. He’d be furious, but she owed him nothing.

She’d already saved his damned life. What more did he expect? He should be the one doing
her
a favor—and leaving her the
hell
alone.

Zoë didn’t allow herself to glance toward the bed a last time, though her heart was heavy. She silently turned the doorknob, careful not to let it clunk, and slipped out into the hall. Pulse pounding, palms slick, she eased the door shut and started off, slinging the quiver over her shoulder.

She made it to the ground, jogging down the flights of stairs without delay—of course, his room had to be on the fifteenth floor, which was a pain in the ass for a variety of reasons—before she slowed her pace.

Guilt had no place in her morning, so she pushed away the image of Quent waking to find her gone. He’d forced her into the agreement, and he’d had no business doing so. The only blame she allowed herself to acknowledge was that she’d done nothing to save her family, and that she hadn’t killed any
gangas
in the last three days. That was the longest she’d ever gone without scrambling zombie brains since she’d begun hunting them.

And it pissed her off. And it was because of Quent.

She came around the corner, heading for the exterior door, and
holy ass-load of shit,
there he was. Standing there, tall and imposing, fully dressed, vibrating with anger.

She lost her breath for a moment, then frantically regrouped.

“How the fucking
hell
did you get here?” she blurted out, hands going to her hips as she tried on a persona of annoyance. It was bullshit, because her knees had nearly given way and her belly dumped to her ankles when she saw him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

“I’m faster than you,” he said tightly. His eyes—oh, his eyes were no longer hot and smooth, sliding over her like a promise. Now they burned with fury, and stared at her, flat and sharp like brown glass shards. “And, apparently, smarter. Since I anticipated just this sort of event.”

Zoë shifted her stance. “Well, now that you’re here, let’s get the hell going.” What else could she do?
Dammit.

She strode past him, but his hand whipped out and closed over her arm, yanking her back so hard she stumbled. Zoë caught her balance and pivoted around, her own fury slicing through her. “Take your fucking hand off me.”

“Again,” he said, just as icily, but with an underlying calm, “that was not what you were saying last night.”

“Last night is over. This is serious.”

“Yes,” he said, very softly. So softly, the back of her neck prickled as if a ghost had settled over it. Her belly felt leaden and solid. “And we had a goddamned deal.”

“So, all right. Let’s get going.” She tugged and he released her arm. She still felt the imprint of his fingertips, and a glance told her that the impressions were still white on her dark skin. “Don’t touch me again.”

His response was a mocking snort-laugh. Then, with a peremptory gesture, he indicated for her to lead on.

So she did. They walked through the gates of Envy just as the top of the sun broke the horizon. And then he really pissed her off.

“Right, then. What’s the plan?” he asked, pausing beside a decrepit building that once was a house. A large square of cracked concrete sported irregular rows of grass and a rainbow of wildflowers far enough away that it might once have been the footprint of another home.

They were beyond the view of the guards, and the landscape stretched before them, hilly, green, punctuated with pre-Change buildings and signs. Farmland sat to the east, the fronds of cornstalks waving gently in the morning breeze. And beyond, mountains stretched high in nearly every direction, as if embracing Envy and its environs.

“I go where the
gangas
are,” she told him. And she rarely traveled during the day, and wouldn’t be doing so now if he hadn’t been so fucking persuasive back in the room, with the comfortable bed and his busy hands and mouth. A renewed blast of annoyance and anger had Zoë tightening her lips.
Why the fuck did I ever agree to this?

“On foot? On horse?”

“Look, Quent, if you can’t keep up with me—”

“Right, then, we’ll go my way.” His lips were pressed as flat as hers. “It’s a damned rough way to go, but we can cover ground and travel at night if need be.”

She glared up at him, ready to blast him back, but his expression stopped her words dead. It didn’t make her any less furious, but she decided for prudence. His eyes were so angry, so cold.

He walked up to the huge metal door on one side of the old house and, as Zoë watched, he lifted it from near the ground, jimmying it up with his foot, then using his arm to raise it the rest of the way. To her surprise, it bent as it scrolled up into the top of the building. But when she saw what was inside, and realized Quent’s intent, she began to back up.

“No damned way.”

Inside sat one of those big black vehicles that Raul Marck and the Strangers used to get around in. It gleamed maliciously as she watched Quent walk up to it. He hesitated for a moment, then opened one of the doors as her mind jumped to the past and the night she’d first seen one. The cutting lights in the dark, the low creepy rumble of its motor, the crunching of its tires on the ground as it drove away from the destruction its occupants had wrought.

That same growl of a motor erupted now, in the daylight, and she heard the change in its noise as the vehicle began to move out of the house—the thrust of power and then the squeak as it stopped with a subtle jerk.

Quent opened the truck’s door, got out, and closed the scrolling door of the house. “Let’s go, Zoë,” he said. “Climb in.”

Zoë realized her hands were ice cold. Her pulse stampeded through her body. How could she even sit in something that big and black, something that rumbled and roared and grumbled? She’d be trapped. Inside.

He walked up to her and she stiffened, keeping her face blank.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was marginally softer, his eyes the faintest bit questioning. But he still held himself stiffly, and she knew his anger was merely banked and not departed.

“I don’t like those. I’d rather walk.”

“We’ll find Raul Marck faster. It’s the most efficient way to go—that’s why the Elite still use them, even though the roads are completely buggered up.”

Zoë looked at the evil black thing, drew in a deep breath, and walked over to its other side. It took her longer than it should have to figure out how to open the door, and then she realized it was so tall she’d have to climb onto a step to get in…but she held her breath and forced herself to do it.

Her belly squished with nausea as she settled in the chair of worn and split leather, sliding her quiver and pack onto the floor. The interior smelled like…something. She didn’t know what. But it was unfamiliar. After a moment, she realized she had to reach to pull the door closed. All the while, Quent said nothing. He didn’t even seem to be watching her.

He must be pretty damned pissed.

Well, so the fuck was she.

Zoë swallowed hard when he reached in front of her to grab something—a strap—from behind her right side.

“Buckle up,” he ordered, then proceeded to fit the strap’s metal link into a holder with a sharp clip. All without even brushing against her.

Zoë realized she was high off the ground, and that she could see much farther than when on foot. She gripped the edge of the seat as the vehicle started off with an unfriendly lurch, then proceeded to jounce and jolt along.

A wave of panic rushed through her and she drew in a deep breath. Quent might be blind with fury and wordless with anger. He might never touch her again—which was fine—and he might even leave her somewhere. But she didn’t
fear
him.

He might look like he was ready to kill her, but he wouldn’t. She just knew it.

So Zoë settled in her seat and gave him directions to the place she’d found Remy. Since that was the last place she’d seen Raul Marck, they’d start there.

And, she had to admit grudgingly, they’d arrive much sooner in this black behemoth than if they’d gone on foot. Or even on horseback.

God, it just fucking figured that, on top of everything else about him, he had to be right about this too.

For the remainder of the day, Quent could hardly allow himself to look at Zoë although he was fully aware of every damn breath she took, every time she moved. But the ice inside him, the emptiness in the pit of his belly, kept him distant.

Burned, his eyes now fully opened, he retreated.

They’d driven—if one could call the rough, bumpy motion driving—to what had been a small downtown area in a sort of Main Street
USA
, where Zoë had seen Raul Marck and rescued the woman who turned out to be Remington Truth. Arriving there just around noon, they had full daylight to search for and locate tire tracks, which they’d followed east as far as they could before the trail of matted-down grass and broken branches disappeared. It had been excruciating, getting out of the vehicle every few yards to see which direction the ambiguous trail went, but Zoë did it and she was damn good at it.

And Quent had the added pleasure of being able to eye her perfect arse in those low-slung pants she liked to wear when she bent to examine the trail.

Once they’d lost the path, their only plan was to keep traveling in a circuitous route from where the trail ended and try to pick it up, or, when night fell, see if they could locate the headlights of a vehicle that might be—or lead them to—the Marcks. Now, it was near twilight and they’d settled in a middle-class suburban neighborhood for the evening to wait, and hunt.