After The Virus (17 page)

“Girl’s fine, you’ll see soon.”

“And your man?” Buddy jeered. “You don’t ask about him? Don’t wonder if he followed you into the river? Guess any old man will do you.”
 

She, silently and deliciously, in a sick, sick way, added Buddy to the list of people to kill before she died.

Plus, she knew Will was all right. There wasn’t any other way for it to be.

CHAPTER THIRTY

WILL

There was no damn way the goddamned tank was going to fit through the fucking tunnel.

∞

Big tried suggesting another route. That all they had to do was back track and come through another, higher pass. Will declined.

∞

They tried to stop him, but seeing as how they didn’t seem willing to actually tackle and tie him, he continued to climb into the tank.

He’d been patient.

They cleared the oncoming lane.

They measured the tank.

They told him it wouldn’t fit.

By six damned inches.

Backtracking would take, at minimum, another day. He had a bad feeling he’d lose the girls if it took him another two days to get to them.

Besides, what the hell was a tank for if not ramming its way through concrete and steel?

∞

They shouted, arms waving, about responsibility, suicide missions, and killing them all as they ran ahead of the lurching tank. Will wasn’t too smooth at the controls, but he could see the goal line; so though he might have been slow, nothing was going to stop him from getting there.

They ran through ahead to the relative safety of the other side, because there was no question he was going to take the tunnel down with this stunt. The only question was whether he’d make it through to the other side or end up a hundred feet below in the river with the tank on top of him.

He waited until last minute to decide where he’d find that extra six inches, inside pillars or outside? It was Boomer who made up his mind.

Boomer ran ahead, not as far as the others, and more than once looked back over his shoulder with the most wicked, almost pained grin. Will’s own descent into insanity was echoed in Boomer’s face. He hoped, if he lived, he’d find his way back from that edge before they hit the city.

Just as the tank was about to ram through the mouth of the tunnel, Boomer reached up and patted an inner pillar as he ran by, so Will cranked right.

He half-smashed the first pillar.
 

The tank lost speed.

He hit the gas, death-gripped the stick to stay his course, and hit the second pillar.

He kept his eyes on the road ahead, ignoring the rather large — earth-shattering, someone more poetic might say — concrete slams behind him.

Six more pillars to go.

‘Course, the terrified looks on the guys, who all kept stumbling back farther and farther away from the tunnel’s exit, didn’t help his confidence.

Hitting pillar number three made him lose control, and suddenly, the cliff was way too close on the left.

He cranked the stick opposite.
 

The tank was moving like… well, like a damn tank moving through a massive vat of molasses.

He almost had the behemoth back on track when something hit the back end hard.

He’d lost momentum.

The tunnel collapse was catching up.

Will flung his entire body against the gas and stick, knowing extra weight usually didn’t matter in such situations. The tank screeched.

He was pretty sure he was bleeding from his hands because his grip felt slicker than just palm sweat. He added his voice to the tank’s cry. He swore. He promised blood, sacrifices, vengeance, and obedience, but he wasn’t praying, not to God. He was begging the tank.

The tank, Delilah, found her feet. She grabbed, tore the concrete below, and busted away from the weight attempting to crush her from behind.

The scream of triumph that ripped his throat did lasting damage to his vocal cords, and afterward, he always croaked when in higher octaves.

United, they lurched forward.
 

Gaining more momentum, they blew through pillar four, then five.

Delilah ate concrete for breakfast and lunch.

Ahead, Rav, realizing the tow truck was in the path of destruction, ran to and jumped in. The others scattered after him.

Will was a disaster in the moment of its greatest carnage.

He realized he was laughing, a little insanely, as the tank smashed through pillar six.
 

A voice, not his own, cautioned this behavior; he ignored it, urged on Delilah — who was the one in control anyway — and took out pillar seven.

The exit of the tunnel was right there, maybe twenty feet away now. A little belatedly he realized they hadn’t cleared enough cars. These cars — God, he hoped there were no bodies in them — actually flipped up and over the tank as Delilah slammed through them.

He hit the brakes, couldn’t figure out if they worked, and in that second, couldn’t decide if he preferred a river or rock death.
 

Delilah chose the cliff face option, and mounted another car as she veered toward it.

He must have blacked out, because the next thing he was aware of was the blood in his eyes and the guys cheering and pounding on the tank.

Overhead, Boomer, still grinning madly, wrenched open the hatch and reached his hand down to offer Will a lift.

He remembered to turn Delilah off.

∞

Then he was sitting on top of a tank, which was on top of a car, which was wedged against a cliff face. He breathed the sweet summer air.

He noticed he could see through blood, that the concrete dust hadn’t settled yet, and that no one else seemed to think he was insane. Though they had accused him of just that, when he’d shared his plan.
 

He thought about smiling, so he did.

The men clapped him on the back.
 

There was nothing he wouldn’t destroy for the girls. ‘Course he’d never collapsed a tunnel before; that was a first, but it wouldn’t be his last obstacle.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

RHIANNON

At some point they blindfolded her, like it was something they were supposed to do right way but the riled crowd threw them and they forgot. Before they put the silk tie over her eyes, she figured they were in the center of the city’s business district. The use of the tie as a blindfold, which smelled strongly of men’s cologne, maybe Obsession, felt overly planned and very deliberate. She felt like there was a clue in that choice, but never had been particularly good at working out puzzles. She preferred her shades of gray dark and her plotlines action oriented.

The sun was almost set. Not that that knowledge helped at all; even after fleeing it, she had no idea how the city was laid out except that it was surrounded by water. Which certainly made it harder to escape — or invade — which she imagined was the point of trying to settle here.

Why was it that megalomaniacs arose out of disaster? Maybe humans were, by nature, a herd animal and had an ingrained need to follow? But why follow insanity? Why do they not only allow themselves to be led to the edge of the cliff, but also jump off on command?

∞

The Jeep stopped so abruptly she almost smacked her head on the seat in front of her. The car shifted, and a whoosh of air indicated her door had opened.
 

She turned to step out, blind. They didn’t touch her more than necessary, and after she got out, they took her blindfold off in a hurry.

She was in a parking garage with every expensive car she’d ever seen in existence. In fact, this might be the sum of all expensive cars ever in the city. Wet concrete indicated that the gleaming cars had been recently washed. The fluorescent overheads worked, but waned every so often.

Buddy, Stupid, and the driver stood in an almost-huddle and stared at her. Well, Buddy wasn’t actually making eye contact, unlike the others.

She pulled a pin from her hair. Grunt had made Mandy glue a tracking bug underneath the rhinestone heart. She offered the pin to Buddy.

“I’m not here to cause any chaos, any more chaos. Please, will you just take me to the girl?” She never did like pleading, but was afraid not to in this case.

Buddy took the bug with a snort, and without speaking — actually none of them had spoken for a while — crushed it under his boot heel. Then he eyed her, rather distastefully.

Perhaps he had a hate-on for all women?
 

Having made some assessment, he then said, “Follow me.”

He turned toward a stairwell and Rhiannon followed, all the time knowing it wasn’t going to be this easy.

Stupid brought up the rear.

∞

A couple of sets of steel fire doors and one set of stairs later, they entered what was obviously the lobby of a five-star hotel, not a chain. Except when everyone had been dying, those five stars had meant nothing to pillagers — or rather, the survivors — so the fact that this hotel was in such pristine condition was definitely odd.

They crossed the plush carpet — her heels actually sunk in — towards the bathrooms. Buddy opened the door to the women’s and she frowned.

“You want me to use the washroom?” she asked, as disdainfully as possible.

“I want you to throw up the bug they probably made you swallow,” Buddy retorted.
 

She racked her brain, rapid-fire, for an excuse. “My lipstick —”

“Don’t worry; he’ll have that exact one, I’m sure. He expects perfection, not just from you.” Buddy wasn’t taking no for an answer. “You’re an expert at upchucking, aren’t you?” He attempted a taunt, but was too invested to make it really sting.

Of all the shit she had done, regularly regurgitating meals wasn’t on her long and embarrassing — embarrassing in the face of the-end-of-the-world — list.
 

Damn, she really did hate throwing up, and never, ever believed that it would make her feel better, even as a tummy-aching child.

“I’d be happy to stick a finger down your throat for you,” Buddy threatened with a pleased smile. He gleefully anticipated this possibility.

Buddy eyed her, and then followed part way as she crossed to a stall. The doors were wood; the floor and counters, marble.

“We’re not stupid. We know, he knows, you’re bait. Doesn’t mean we’re gonna get caught taking you.”

Rhiannon snagged two white terrycloth towels off the counter as she passed. She placed one on the floor in front of the toilet bowl and carefully knelt. The other she draped across her chest and over her shoulders. She contemplated the toilet; it was cleaner than anything she’d seen in a while. She was going to ruin her makeup, perhaps her manicure, and seriously damage her tooth enamel.
 

Buddy’s restless feet squeaked on the tile.

She felt petty for debating forcing herself to vomit with a chance to rescue Snickers, but she couldn’t be a saint every fucking minute.

She shoved her finger down her throat, triggered her gag reflex, and threw up: water.

Fuck
!

She was going to have to heave her guts again. Maybe if someone had thought to feed her. She gagged again and again, and finally the little black bug sunk to the bottom of the bowl.

“Done?” Buddy prodded after only giving her a moment’s breath.
 

She stood up and took the toothbrush kit he offered. She brushed her teeth and watched Stupid and Buddy in the mirror. They didn’t speak; in fact, Stupid looked to be blocking Buddy from the exit. Not that she was interested in their drama; she just wanted Snickers and to flee, and she hoped, fiercely, that that was still a possibility.

She felt bad about spitting in the sterile sink, and carefully swished any remnants away, all the while wondering when she’d gotten so… soft.

She turned to Buddy and opened her arms wide. “Anything else?”

Buddy made a sour face.

Stupid supplied the words. “Aren’t supposed to search you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Searching involves touching,” Stupid elaborated.

“The Boss’ll take care of that part all by himself,” Buddy sneered.

Even though she was often guilty of it herself, Rhiannon decided she didn’t like it when people smiled at you but meant you deep, dark damage.

“If you’re done chatting, perhaps we can get on with this, then. I don’t imagine your Boss is the type who likes to wait.” She didn’t smile.

Stupid stepped away from the door. Buddy, who didn’t slap her like he obviously wanted to, led the way back out into the Lobby.

∞

An older woman, dressed in a chef’s uniform, scurried by the native-carved pillars and around a massive floral arrangement toward Buddy.

Where the hell had they found fresh flowers? Maybe they were silk? Nope.

“What are you doing here?” Buddy snarled at the Chef’s approach.

“I… I… I… the… the dinner,” she stuttered and cowered, but also managed to glance numerous times at the breathtaking movie star.

“Has nothing to do with me,” Buddy spit as he yelled.
He should work on breathing technique,
she thought,
though maybe he didn’t mind a little extra saliva.

“I… I… we… we… don’t have any asparagus,” the Chef continued despite her terror, voice dropping into a whisper. “He’ll… he’ll kill me.”

“He must have a thing for greens.” Rhiannon couldn’t help the sarcasm under the circumstances.

Stupid stifled a laugh.

Buddy darted dagger eyes.

The chef gaped at her like she’d just offered to suck the Pope off or something, but Buddy forcefully called her attention back.

“He’s not going to give a shit what’s on his plate once he has her,” he bellowed.

“But, but,” the chef persevered, “He wants it just like —”

“He’s going to be more pissed that you delayed us, that you left the kitchen, that you laid eyes on her, isn’t he?” Buddy raised his hand. The chef actually squeaked and then scurried off, presumably in the direction of the kitchen.

Buddy also took off, but towards elevators.

They didn’t need to wait for an elevator; one was waiting for them. Buddy muttered about chaos as he pressed the button for the penthouse.