After The Virus (23 page)

He leaned back — thereby easing the pressure on her neck but still attempting to keep her thighs pinned — to slip the knife beneath her underwear.
 

Rhiannon smashed her forehead into his nose.

Already off balance, he stumbled. Nose smashing was quickly becoming a signature move for her.

Unfortunately, the knife went into her thigh as he pulled her with him off the bed.

She wasn’t about to be raped by some fucking unknown player; she was the fucking lead in this fucking story.

She grappled for the knife.

Meat tried to gain his feet, but got all tangled in her limbs. He fell on her, and therefore onto the waiting knife, but it took three more stabs to mortally wound him.

∞

Sometime later, Rhiannon was aware of his attempt to climb off her and toward where she thought the door might be, but she was beyond care.

∞

She slept for a little while.

∞

She was hurt badly enough that she didn’t think she’d be getting up. She knew Snickers would find Will, that Stupid would make sure of that.

Will inspired loyalty.

∞

She drifted.

The building rumbled, and some dust, or dirt, or drywall, or plaster tickled her cheek. She hated things touching her face…
bugs… rain…

She shifted her head in hopes of shaking the dust off her cheek, and the resulting jolt of pain brought her back to painful semi awareness. She momentarily longed for the bliss of near death… this complacency frightened her into action better than any rallying speech could have.

She shifted again.

Some of her hair was stuck to the carpet with what might be dried blood, and she wondered how long she’d been lying there. Then she really hoped it was her own blood, because the thought of lying in the blood of some would-be dirty rapist made her beyond ill.

So she decided to get up.

She had always been better on her feet than her back anyway — and, ultimately, it was more flattering aesthetically. Plus, Snickers would insist on looking for her, and the child didn’t need to find her dead by some guy with his ass exposed to the rafters.

∞

Something squawked and she momentarily thought a crow was attacking her, though she found she wasn’t concerned about how a bird would have gotten inside…

∞

By the second squawk, she realized she was hearing a two-way radio attached to the dead rapist’s belt, which was currently around his knees. Would-Be-Rapist, which was a better name than Meat, must have turned down the volume, so as to not be disturbed when stalking and raping her.

The radio squawked again as she reached to retrieve it. An unsexed voice, oddly quiet, screamed bloody, terrified murder on the other end.
 

Supposedly the city was under attack: an army on the main street, gunfire, and “what were they to do? Why wasn’t anyone picking up at H.Q.?”

No one to answer your call, dumb-ass,
she thought about replying, but then decided that Radio-Voice had never done anything to deserve her lip.

The building rumbled again; the walls creaked, and she decided the source of the boom seemed farther away now. Not a bomb or earthquake.

She almost tossed the radio, but then thought better of it.

Her throat killed.
What was it with assholes and strangling?
This wasn’t the first time some guy tried to wrap his hands around her neck. She wondered if she could even talk, but felt too raw and bruised to attempt a test. Even an involuntary moan hurt her something nasty.

She realized, even after deciding to stand, that she’d been crawling around.

Her dress was shredded.

She attempted to stand.

It didn’t go well.

She’d lost her shoes but didn’t worry about it when she recalled where she’d left them behind — one buried in the Boss’s neck —
though
maybe not anymore
? She wondered if she had short-term memory loss. Maybe she’d be lucky and only lose all the bad memories. This made her think of Will.

Suddenly, she had a feeling that if she only got Snickers back to Will and he forgave her for…
Well, maybe the bad shit wouldn’t matter
. Actually, thought of in that light, maybe the bad shit never did matter…

∞

She was standing, unaware of how she came to be on her feet and how long she’d been on them.

She stood swaying in the middle of the room.

She took a couple of steps, found them easier than she’d anticipated, and so she took a few more.
 

Something was dragging behind her, though.

She turned her head as little as she could and saw that half of her dress, ripped and heavy with blood, was leaving a red trail as she moved.
 

So she ripped the rest of it off, mourning the lovely fabric only slightly as she tossed it away.
Never could get blood out of silk anyway.

She was a little bit pleased that Would-Be-Rapist had gotten his pants down, and not just because pawing at his dick had distracted him. She didn’t have to move him much to steal his pants, and with the help of his belt, those jeans fit better than they should have.

She sneered at the idea that some scrawny-legged asshole with weird meaty hands had thought he could take anything from her. He hadn’t gotten her body or life, and she was fucked if she’d give him her future.
 

Thus, she rallied to move with the pain instead of despite it.

First, before redressing, she remembered to bind off the knife wound on her thigh; seemed like stemming the blood loss was a good idea.

Then she clasped the radio to Would-Be-Rapist’s belt, and stepped over his corpse to once again find Snickers, freedom, and her future.

CHAPTER FORTY

WILL

Storming a city was pretty much what it sounded like, though perhaps a little more organized; no disrespect to Mother Nature intended.

He had only blacked out for a few minutes, but it felt like hours to his exhausted system. And although according to Rav, he’d lost quite a bit of blood, Will actually felt rejuvenated by the involuntary nap. The encounter itself served to reinforce his drive to protect the people he would like to consider his future, his family.

So they made it over the bridge, and in a few miles, hit clear sailing on the highway to the city. It was kind of someone to have cleared it. ‘Course, they then figured out where all the cars were: piled at the mouths of two of the three bridges they tried to use to access downtown.

So One Ear’s map had been accurate, and he had wasted precious time not trusting it.

At the Burrard Street Bridge, they found first resistance, but once they regrouped with the tank out front, the bad guys ceased fire quickly.

A mortar shot convinced the defenders that mere bullets couldn’t stop the invasion. Will was relieved the tank could still fire after his tunnel stunt.

They actually laid down their arms, walked out of their outposts and surrendered, often smiling and laughing, which baffled him even further.

Why shoot at them in the first place, only to surrender, smiling, when they figured they were up against a superior force?

Later, he found out Big’s rhetoric had preceded them.
 

‘Course, that was exactly what he had asked them to do via the bullhorn. But still, he was surprised at the token resistance.

Why follow the so-called Boss in the first place?

∞

They got over this bridge and soon realized they’d invaded a city in the middle of civil war.
 

Red Jackets seemed pretty willing to kill anyone.

They, or the Resistance as Big was calling them, lost men.

They refused to leave their wounded or dead behind. Men were assigned to carry these few back to waiting flatbeds. ‘Course, those men often got wounded in their rescue attempts. They were really going to need a doctor, better sooner than later.

The tank spoke a few more times. Boomer angled as high as he could and took out the tops of buildings, hoping that people chose to hide lower.

It was difficult to argue with a tank, and after an endless stretch of time — ten minutes in actuality — even the Red Jackets began to surrender.

Among them was a doctor, who they immediately put to work tending the wounded as they continued to carve their way deeper into the city.

While bullets flew and the tank tore through asphalt, Will calmly dictated terms via bullhorn.

He offered amnesty, freedom, and choice.

He never thought to just ask for Rhiannon or Snickers. That would’ve been too simple; later, he understood it also would’ve probably worked.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

RHIANNON

She made it out to the street only to retreat into the very next doorway. She wasn’t getting between gun-firing Red Jackets and their targets.

Also, it soon became apparent just by rotating her aching head 180 degrees, that the fucking city was littered with fucking Starbucks. She saw two across from each other in the next intersection, and another sign one-and-a-half blocks west as well.

Lacking energy to the nth degree, while trying to dissect what she understood of Stupid’s thought process and having no understanding which way was north, Rhiannon chose the coffee shop closest to her. But one corner of it — the corner that had most likely held the glass entrance — was crumpled. She’d have to figure out if there was an interior entrance.

She glanced back at the hotel. It was definitely broken into three slumped pieces. The Red Jackets must have tracked her there, and when they got a location but not an exact room, decided a bomb or three was a precise enough weapon.

Interestingly, they hadn’t given a shit that she and Snickers might have still been in the building. She’d make sure to remember that slight.

She zigzagged across the street, dodging cars, crumpled pavement, and — oddly — jellybeans, to the entrance of the building that had held the coffee shop.

Fortunately, no one shot at her.

Unfortunately, she moved slow enough they could’ve easily hit her. She hoped there was an energy drink waiting for her at Starbucks. In passing, she noted the candy shop next door, which explained, sort of, the jellybeans.

The front door gaped, which made her life a little easier, and she picked through debris toward where she thought the rear entrance to the coffee shop might be. She guessed this was some sort of a bank, back when money had meant everything and before it had crumbled in the bomb aftershock.

She had to climb over a broken wall to find the Starbucks, but her sense of direction hadn’t failed her despite the building being half destroyed.

A massive round of gunfire bursted out from what seemed like a few blocks away, and the building threatened to crumble after another explosion.

What glass remained unbroken promptly broke, and Rhiannon took the moment to shield herself. Then she looked around the coffee shop.

No Snickers.

But then not even Stupid was stupid enough to hang out in the middle of some room just waiting for trouble. At least she hoped he wasn’t.

A noise came from a room behind what used to be the front counter, and she strained to hear what she thought might be soft sobbing.

She tried to arm herself with a chunk of countertop, but decided the granite — which was oddly upscale for a coffee place — was too heavy. She opted for a chair leg instead.

She moved toward the back room, perhaps an office/change area. She pushed open the door, but it took a moment for her brain to interpret the sight before her.

A pudgy — or rather, a puffy, mushy — man leaned over another man, who she recognized as Grunt. The first man seemed to be trying to resuscitate Grunt. Then she realized the mound of mush was actually eating Grunt’s neck, which was impossibly twisted. Grunt’s vacant eyes furthered her theory.

Mandy was balled under a desk and sobbing into her hands like some pathetic moron; even with the Infected blocking the door, she could have fought.

“You’re a moron, Mandy,” Rhiannon blurted. That got Mandy’s attention, though not the Infected’s.
 

It, taking one kill at a time, kept its focus on Grunt’s flesh.

She needed a sturdier weapon; a chair leg couldn’t do much damage without a lot of strength behind it, and she didn’t have any in reserve.

“Fuck, Grunt’s gun is lying right there, you idiotic bitch.” She indicated the 9mm between Mandy and the dining Infected.

Mandy just returned to sobbing.

Rhiannon wasn’t vaulting over some monster to grab a gun to save a fucking imbecile who wouldn’t even try to save herself when a gun was in reach.

She actually turned to leave, but the Infected lunged for her; seems it had noticed her, and didn’t want its prey to wander off.

She fell backwards through the doorway.

It pulled her back inside, but not before it gave her feet a sniff and actually licked one of them: the one crusty with blood from the nail.

She repositioned her makeshift weapon so she could stab it through an eye or something.

Then, out of somewhere, Stupid hollered a war cry, leaped over her, and chopped off the Infected’s head in the completion of his lunge.

He paused to look at her, said, “Sorry; had to get an axe,” and then entered the office.

She stood in time to see him chop off Grunt’s head.

Mandy shrieked and —
finally
 — went for the gun, but Stupid reached down to easily pluck it from her hands.

Then he turned his back on Mandy and reached out a helping hand to steady Rhiannon, as she was still a little wobbly on her feet.
 

Grunt’s head was slowing its bloody spin.

“Don’t think their victims reanimate like zombies, Clarence,” she commented.

Stupid shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, hey?”
 

“Guess so,” she, still quite woozy, agreed.

Snickers darted from her hiding spot and wrapped her leg in a hug.
 

“We didn’t recognize you right away.” Stupid eyed her apologetically.

She nodded but didn’t fill him in on the details. There was sure to be enough bruising and blood to tell her story visually anyway.