Enemy Inside (Defectors Trilogy) (10 page)

The moment escalated quickly. We had lost time, and who knew how much we would have. His lips were hot and anxious on mine, his fingers ghosting down my cheek and neck. I shivered.

I ran a hand through his hair, and he groaned softly, pulling me into him. He kissed a trail down my jawline, and my skin burned where he touched it. My breath came faster. Running a hand down his chest, I could feel all the perfect muscles there. My fingers itched to rip off his shirt, but I did not trust myself. With Amory, everything was more intense than I expected.

As if reading my mind and deciding to push the boundaries, Amory rocked me back against the bed. Holding his weight off me with his arms, I could still feel every part of him pressed against me. My skin tingled with longing and anticipation as my fingers sneaked under his shirt, exploring his lower back.
 

His hips pressed into mine, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I yanked the hem of his shirt up to his shoulders, and he stretched up to pull it over his head. The look of him straddling my hips startled me. His chest, shoulders, and abs were taut and sculpted to perfection. His smooth skin gleamed in the silvery light from the window and begged to be touched. I had only ever seen him this way for the necessity of bandaging his wounds, and my memories couldn’t do him justice. The one thing that was different was the row of burns from his time in Isador. They formed a pattern over his arm with the jagged scar from his CID.

I drew in a sharp intake of breath. In this context, he was even more beautiful — and somehow more dangerous. Amory’s brow furrowed, almost self-consciously.

He cleared his throat and looked at me sideways. “Do I look . . . different to you?”

I shook my head once, unable to tear my eyes away. “You’re perfect.”

That was all he needed: validation that the way I felt about him had not changed, that his time in Isador had not diminished him in body or in spirit. He fell against me, and all my senses were thrown into a frenzy.

I explored him methodically with my hands, memorizing every detail — his perfect back, broad protective shoulders. My fingers traced the soft skin at his sides, and he tensed. He was ticklish, apparently. I moved on to his chest, feeling my way down his abdomen.

His breathing was shallow against my mouth. His hands were in my hair, cradling my jaw, moving down my side and around the hem of my T-shirt. A ripple of excitement shot down my spine. We were both thinking the same thing: This was incredibly unfair.

I bit his bottom lip, and he tasted my impatience. Needing no further encouragement, his fingers brushed under my shirt and pulled it up to my ribs. Ignoring the ugly bruises from Rulon’s men, he slid down against me, kissing his way from my hip bone to my abdomen. I breathed in sharply, shivering, but a fire was burning in my core. He paused.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” I breathed impatiently.

“I just can’t control myself with you.”

“Then don’t,” I whispered.

Needing no further instruction, he pulled my shirt over my head and reached behind my back to undo my bra. Over the thud of my own heart and our heavy breathing, I heard a rattling off in the distance coming from outside.

Amory froze, both of us listening intently. The rattling persisted, the sound of metal on metal coming from the street. Stifling an inward groan, I sat up on my elbows, and Amory lifted himself over my body to pull back the dusty curtain and peer through the grimy window.

“Carriers,” he breathed. “There’s a whole horde of them out there.”

“But why?”

He swung himself off me and handed me my shirt. “They must have tracked us here hoping for food.”

My stomach lurched.
How could we have been so stupid not to cover our tracks in the snow?
Carriers were not the only ones who could follow them here.
 

I thought about all the carriers the rebels had set free during the riots. Now that Saint Drogo’s had been destroyed, the carriers the PMC didn’t kill were on the loose. For a fleeting moment, I felt a surge of pity. Being free in Sector X could hardly be better than being a prisoner. They had nowhere to hide, nowhere to seek shelter from the freezing cold. Almost all the old buildings in Sector X had been destroyed. And we had walked right into the only neighborhood that seemed untouched.

Silently, I pulled my shirt over my head, stuffed my feet into my boots, and scrambled to find a pair for Amory in the pile of dirty, mismatched spares.

“They must be starving,” I said.
 

Sure enough, looking out the window, I could see a few carriers overturning trashcans in the street, pawing desperately through the filth for some scrap of rotten food. But there were at least a dozen outside our window: men and women in late stages of the virus. Most were stage five, with the horrible oozing sores around their mouths and withered skeletal frames.

As we watched, a scuffle broke out. It was a pitiful match between two stage five men whose strength was so depleted they could hardly swing at each other. They were grappling over a smashed Styrofoam container of leftover Chinese food. One of the carriers went down, and another joined the fray. The commotion seemed to rouse the others, who spotted the food and rushed the first victor.

“We have to find another way out,” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene. “There are too many of them.”

Just as I said it, another carrier noticed the fire escape ladder.
Why hadn’t we pulled it back up?
 

He stared at it for a moment and then hoisted himself clumsily up the shaky rungs. The sound of rattling metal seemed to attract the attention of the others, who watched with mild interest as the carrier climbed up to the landing. Then another made a horrible wailing sound and followed.

My heart pounded in my chest. “They’re coming up here. Why are they coming up here?”

Amory drew in a sharp breath. His eyes had gone dark. “They know we’re here. If they find us, they’ll find food.”

He strode out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where the rifle was lying across the table.
 

“Where are your extra clips?” he asked.

“With my uniform.”

“We’re going to need them.”

I hesitated. “We can’t shoot them, Amory.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like it, but —”

“It’s not that. If any PMC officers are patrolling, gunshots will lead them straight here.”

His eyebrows knitted together. He knew I was right.
 

“They must have other weapons here.”

We split apart, overturning dresser drawers and rifling through the closets. Finding nothing, I moved to the kitchen. I threw open one cabinet after another, rifling through drawers.
 

“Here!” shouted Amory.
 

He was standing over a chest in the living room. Inside was an assortment of knives, several handguns, and a dozen grenades. Amory handed me a holster, and I quickly fitted several knives into the belt. My stomach contracted, remembering the last time I had stabbed a carrier. Its flesh was soft and rotten. The thought of it made me feel sick.

As I watched, Amory tucked one of the handguns into his holster. I raised an eyebrow.

“Just in case,” he muttered.

Weighing the options of death by carriers or death by PMC officers, I thought maybe the latter would be less painful.

I followed Amory to the door of the apartment. Before opening it, he spun around and grabbed me by the tops of my arms. He kissed me forcefully, and my heart pounded.
 

I pulled away, placing a hand on his chest to hold him back. “Stop. We’re going to be fine.”

He shrugged, looking distressed. “Just in case. I want that to be the last thing I think about.”

Throwing open the door, we stuck our heads out into the hallway. It was silent.
 

We moved wordlessly back toward the door of the empty apartment we had climbed in to. The only sound I could hear was Amory’s careful breathing. Standing outside the door, I drew one of my knives.

In one swift motion, Amory kicked the door in and flew backward.

The room was dark, but I could see several shapes hulking in the shadows. The closest carrier — emaciated, balding, and with loose yellowish skin — turned and blundered toward us into the hallway. Amory backed away, looking satisfied. He wanted to control the fight — draw them out one by one rather than fighting them all in the apartment.

As the carrier stepped into the hall, my breath caught in my chest. I couldn’t see his features clearly, but I could smell him: the rotten stench of death and decay. He turned and started toward Amory. I didn’t hesitate.
 

While the carrier’s back was turned, I jumped up behind him and plunged my knife into his back, aiming for the heart just as Logan had taught me. The knife sank into the flesh too easily. It was rotten — the consistency of ricotta cheese below the surface. My stomach twisted with disgust.

The carrier screamed, his knees buckling, and I yanked out my knife. He fell forward, blood oozing from the festering flesh and staining the carpet.

Another carrier had emerged from the door, howling like a banshee. Her face was almost consumed by raw red oozing sores, and her eyes were yellow and bloodshot. She had gone bald.

She limped toward me, and I backed away. I raised the knife in my hand, but suddenly Amory’s hand wrapped around her throat, slicing her jugular with cool efficiency. Blood gurgled wildly from the wound, and he brought her to her knees with another stab to the back. The carrier slumped forward, but he stabbed her again.
 

“Amory!”

He turned just in time to stop the carrier emerging from the room behind her. Grabbing another knife, Amory skewered him in the gut from both sides. The carrier lumbered forward, and Amory caught him across the face with a vicious slice.
 

Two more carriers crowded out of the room behind him, and I ran forward. One came behind Amory, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was too focused on delivering another gash with his knife down the first carrier’s chest.

What was he doing?

I rushed forward just as the carrier behind Amory wrapped an arm around his neck. With as much force as I could muster, I stabbed the carrier in the back. I had intended a clean wound to the heart, but I had missed. The other carrier was getting closer, and I slashed my knife through the air. It jerked out of reach, backing away from Amory.

The carrier still gripping him screamed. Amory bucked forward, trying to shake him off, but he held on too tightly. As they thrashed around, it was difficult to aim another clean jab with the knife. I couldn’t tell if I’d hit his heart, but it was enough for the carrier to loosen his grip and stumble. Amory turned and stabbed the carrier in the gut, twisting his knife and shoving him to the ground. Then his lip curled into a snarl, and he aimed a forceful kick at the carrier’s head.
 

That was when I saw it. Amory’s eyes had gone cold and dark. His face was twisted in a hateful scowl, every muscle in his body rigid with a focused, murderous rage.

I was so busy watching Amory that I hadn’t noticed another enormous carrier push his way out of the apartment. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of them. Before I could react, he grabbed me around the shoulders, squeezing me like a boa constrictor. I choked, partially from a lack of oxygen, and partly due to the putrid stench that filled my nostrils. The carrier smelled like body odor and rotten fruit.

I bucked forward, trying to throw him off balance, but he held fast. I tried to break the hold as Logan had taught me, but I was shaking with panic and exhaustion.

Amory finally finished with the other two. To my immense relief, he turned and flew toward the carrier holding me. The carrier wailed, and I felt warm blood pouring around my shoulder. He had sliced the carrier’s jugular. The carrier’s hold on me loosened, but he fell forward, bringing me down with him.

The weight of the carrier — the weight of a fully grown man — smashed me into the ground. I was trapped — pinned beneath a writhing, half-dead monster twice my size. I jerked my head, watching Amory, but he did not help me. He stabbed at the carrier on top of me, and the carrier shuddered against me as the knife entered his heart.
 

“Help!” I cried, but Amory didn’t even glance in my direction. I could feel the carrier’s warm blood pouring down my sides, and the smell of him was almost enough to knock me out. The carrier shook, gasping and thrashing on top of me. Horror and dread seeped into my stomach like poison. Amory was going to leave me under this dying carrier. He was so heavy. I couldn’t get out from under him.

The carrier’s death was not as swift as it should have been. I watched with a detached horror as Amory stabbed another carrier and then another. They kept getting closer, growing in number, but he never seemed to tire. Bodies of the dead and dying piled up around him, but he did not stop or glance in my direction.
 

The expression on his face was one that I had never seen: cold, ruthless, and vacant. He was a killing machine. He never paused in horror or remorse as one of the carrier’s tears ran with the bloody slash across her cheek. Her dying cry was so hauntingly human that I felt myself shaking with dry sobs.

The carrier on top of me was still breathing his last gurgling breaths. Warm blood trickled down my neck and the collar of my shirt. Finally, with a painful quiver, he stopped.

The hallway fell quiet. No more carriers emerged from the apartment. All the bloody bodies on the ground were silent.
 

The only thing I could hear was the sound of Amory’s labored panting. Covered in blood and shaking with fatigue, he looked positively insane. His eyes were still cold — sharp and silver like a predator’s. I laid my cheek against the filthy carpet, breathing in the stale smoke, mold, and blood. I wanted to die.

A small gasp made me look up. Amory was still standing there, but he looked wild, suddenly afraid.