Midnight (9 page)

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Authors: Ellen Connor

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Romance, #Fantasy

BOOK: Midnight
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EIGHT
 
The next day at the general store, Chris glanced at Rosa. She stood beside him with her arms crossed as they waited for Wicker to appear. Her nose angled sharply down, possibly indicating native blood. Such a strong profile. Nothing about her was weak. She’d set her sights on creating a petty kingship out of the old ashes. Chris admired her resolve, but she was nuts if she believed it would last.
But Valle was an easy place to grow comfortable. He could see why people settled here: good food, a strong community, a sense of purpose, and order out of chaos. The few patients he had already treated voiced nothing but respect and gratitude for
la jefa’
s strong hand.
“How long have you been here?” he asked. Call it intellectual curiosity. He couldn’t help but wonder how she and her people had succeeded.
“Five years. Since just after the Change hit this area.” She aimed an inquiring look at him. “You’re impressed.”
“Yeah.”
“Is there . . . ?” Rosa frowned and shook her head. “Never mind.”
She seemed to pull away, although her body remained still. Chris reached out. The temptation to touch overwhelmed good sense and her distinct boundaries. Wrapped in the cotton sleeve of a faded T-shirt, her biceps tightened beneath his fingers. She flicked a lethal gaze toward that point of contact. He could have predicted as much. Touching her was like grabbing a rattlesnake. What did surprise him was the flicker of fear across her expression. She glanced around the empty store, almost reflexively checking whether anyone had seen them.
Chris let go. While the old world slowly, inexorably fell to dust, he had studied wildcats for nearly two decades. A scarcity of females always caused trouble. Fighting followed. And death. Sure, some would survive, but that wasn’t much of an option for humans when so few remained. Rosa, as a leader and a woman, must have realized early the tenuous nature of her position.
But touching her. Touching
anyone
. Some things were even more primal than good food and a safe place to sleep.
He fisted his hands behind his back. “What were you going to ask me?”
He could see it behind her mahogany eyes, how she worked, probing him for sincerity. But she took her duties as leader seriously. With information as valuable as supplies, he might as well be the morning edition. Too bad. She would be disappointed by how often he’d eschewed human contact, even before the worst of the Change. Other wayfarers undoubtedly knew more.
“Is there any place out there like ours?” she asked.
Again with the hope. How the hell did she wrangle that fickle bitch every day?
“No. Not even close.”
She offered her toothy smile again—the scary one. “No wonder you stare like a kid at the base of a skyscraper.”
“I stare when I like what I see.”
“Save it.” She pounded on the counter with her fist. “
Oye
, Wicker.
¿Dónde estás, mano?
”
The old shopkeeper finally ambled out of the back room, his face slack as if he’d just been awakened from a nap. “So, we finally get to see what you have. Eh, Doc?”
Chris swiped the sweat from the back of his neck, surprised to find himself grinning. But he needed to get his mind off Rosa and back on negotiations that would determine his immediate future. “Medicine, mostly. Antibiotics. Some asthma inhalers. Painkillers. Electrolyte powders. Hell, even lice shampoo and athlete’s foot cream.”
Wicker and Rosa wore matching expressions of surprise. “What’d you do,” she said, “knock over a drugstore?”
“Near enough. I met a guy who did. He was a walking pharmacy.”
“Did you kill him?” Wicker asked.
“Didn’t need to. He could hardly breathe when I found him under a tree. In exchange for his stash, I let him use my Beretta.”
Wicker shrugged as if he’d seen or done worse. Chris wouldn’t be surprised. He had too. But Rosa was wearing that peculiar look again, the one that said
he
was the one to be feared.
Mason had been a scary character. Jenna too. And even the teenage delinquent, Tru, when he manned up. Somewhere in the last few years, Chris must have crossed over to where he deserved suspicious scowls and a wide berth. Funny. It took being around relatively normal folk to hold up that mirror. Out there, he hadn’t noticed it happening.
“Well, with that stockpile you can have your run of the place.” Wicker stepped behind a counter and spread his hands. “The best mankind has left to offer.”
Chris parsed out a few of his less vital medicines and traded for a pile of small luxuries: a bar of homemade soap, two pairs of socks and plain cotton boxer shorts, a handmade toothbrush and a few sachets of powder, a face towel, and a mini sewing kit with safety pins—the stuff of royalty. Negotiating for a pair of homemade jeans, a new shirt, and a pair of sturdy cowboy boots took longer. That cost Chris his stockpile of six hairbrushes and a working pocket watch he’d found outside of the parched, tumbledown remains of Las Vegas.
“No razors?” he asked.
“Nope. Those go quick. Gonna have to ask among the bravos.”
Damn. He wanted a shave. Walking around like a mountain man hadn’t bothered him when he lived alone. But back in the company of people, he felt the need to clean up properly.
“And ammo?”
“None to spare,” Wicker said, wearing an expression made for gambling. “Sorry.”
Chris noticed how quiet Rosa remained during the whole exchange. Her interest in his choices was obvious. Would he hand over lifesaving antibiotics in exchange for two liters of premium vodka? Not likely. Chris had become a different man since the Change, but he had yet to consider himself reckless or self-indulgent.
“What do you have by way of real luxuries?” he asked.
Wicker cocked his head. “Like what?”
“More than basic hygiene and vice. What about books?”
A look as quick as a lizard over noontime rocks passed between Wicker and Rosa. “No books,” the man said curtly.
Whatever.
He’d forgotten how opaque human politics could become. If they wanted to keep their secrets, fine. But that didn’t mean he had to like being shut out.
“And what about women?” he asked.
Standing to his full height, Wicker was almost as tall as Chris. Nearly. His age should’ve rendered him low on the potential threat scale, but arms crossed, scowl in place, he conveyed deadly intent in a damn convincing way.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean sex,” Chris said. “Surely the women here have a price.”
“No.” Rosa’s lips hardly moved as she spoke, and her hands curled into telltale fists where those cargo pants hugged muscled thighs. “Sex is a consensual exchange here. None of our women can be bought.”
Chris grinned. “We’ll see.”
“Push me on this and you’re gone, Welsh.”
“I’m gone anyway, remember? No books, no sex—a guy has to find entertainment where he can.” He stared her down for a long moment, waiting for her to back off.
She didn’t. And her quick, angry breaths lifted her breasts for his perusal.
“That’s more like it. Damn entertaining.” He took a long, slow, thorough trip down her body—and found eyes throwing flame when he returned to her face. “Seems you’re all out of what might interest me, Wicker. I think I’ll keep the rest of my stash.”
Cool metal pressed flat behind his right ear.
The raspy voice of a young man was deadly quiet. “You’ll hand over those meds.”
“Like hell.”
“Jameson, put the knife down.” Rosa’s command was as sharp as barbed wire.
Tilly’s husband?
She’d mentioned he was a tough guy, but Chris hadn’t expected a sneak attack.
“You know the rules,” Rosa said. “We granted sanctuary. He stays.
Unharmed
.” She looked Chris up and down with the same thoroughness but with a great deal more contempt.
“He’s got medicine,” Jameson said quietly, pressing the knife against Chris’s scalp. “Tilly might need it. So I don’t think I’m letting him go.”
“She might. But we’re not tearing down the rules because you’re worried.”
Rosa nodded toward where Wicker had pulled a rifle out from under the counter. Not that Chris felt reassured. Jameson’s breath said he stood close—very close. At such a range, rifles hardly distinguished between targets and bystanders. Besides, they all had reason to off him, despite what Rosa claimed.
This wasn’t like taking on Brick, one-on-one in the desert. This was a close-quarters standoff. Under such conditions, most people checked their brains at the door. He had to hope that wasn’t the case for Jameson, no matter how worried he might be about his wife.
“So you know phenobarbital from azithromycin? Dextromethorphan from sulfamethazine?” Chris shrugged his bag onto the ground. “Have at it. Then you can ask Manuel how I treated an infected cut on his heel, or Abigail about the antiseptic wash I gave her for her swollen gums. Today I mostly traded hygiene products. Luxuries, not the important medicines I’ve been giving away since I arrived.”
Rosa walked over to the counter and angled Wicker’s rifle barrel down. “Put the knife away, Jameson, and we’ll make this work.”
The man hesitated. Then his knife no longer chilled Chris’s neck.
“That wasn’t a request,” she said. “You want me to cast you out?”
“You’d send us away?
Now?
”
“I didn’t say anything about Tilly.” Rosa offered her scary smile—and Chris relaxed. She had this, though the idea of letting her handle his problems rubbed him wrong. “What do you think, Jameson? You think she’d give up this life and trek out into the wilderness with you? Risk the baby? Does she love you that much?”
Checkmate.
She went on, “I’ve made it clear to the ladies that they don’t need to do anything they don’t want to. We take care of our women.”
Jameson withdrew and Chris spun, scooping his satchel off the ground. He took a place beside Rosa, his shoulder brushing hers. Only then did he get a good look at his would-be killer, the husband of Valle’s only unborn child.
Jameson was one scary mofo.
Thin and wiry, he wore the sleeves of his white T-shirt rolled up like a street tough. His cheeks were hollowed out, his eyes deep set. The bowie knife that had just pressed against Chris’s neck dangled loosely from the man’s fingers. Another six knives of varying size hung from a low-slung belt.
“Here’s the deal,” Rosa said. “The
only
deal, because I’m not haggling. The doc will do what he can for Tilly, including the provision of any medicine she might need—just as he’s been doing. He’s already met her, checked her out yesterday when you were on patrol. You’re freaked over nothing,
mano
. And he’ll stay until the baby is delivered safely.”
Chris made a noncommittal noise. Jameson showed visible relief.
“In return, he receives room and board as long as he’s here.”
“I’m not one of those dogs, Rosa. If you want my professional expertise, you have to do better than a few scraps.”
“I see what our food means to you. Bread with honey. Wine. And you tasted Viv’s stew. Even that much is worth your time.”
Crossing his arms against the clench of his stomach, he knew she had him. But he refused to give in without a little show of resistance. “It could be weeks before she delivers.”
“True.” Rosa’s expression remained neutral, watching him. “Wicker, do you still have that spare room available upstairs?”
“Yup.”
“There you go, Doc. Even
private
room and board.”
Nice.
He wondered how many other bravos were permitted the liberty of haggling with
la jefa
, even to such a small degree.
“Why do you care so much?” About Jameson and Wicker, about... everyone. It was clear she poured her heart and soul into this place—into everyone else’s troubles.
“I want Tilly and Jameson’s baby born healthy. I want her strong afterward.” She pinned him with a hard look just this side of imploring. “It’s important for our future. They all need to see it’s possible to do more than just survive.”
What she left unsaid was easy enough to figure. A drop in morale could mean an end to her leadership.
Damn complicated animals, humans.
“Ask me,” he said.
Rosa’s softness died away. But unlike Jameson, who stood to lose all he’d gained since the Change, Chris had no ties. No weak spots.
So he waited.
“Fine,” she bit out. “Will you stay until the baby’s born?”
“May as well. Sure.”
“You’re a real son of a bitch, aren’t you?” She banged her way out of the store and stomped down the porch, muttering in Spanish about roasting men over a spit.

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