Hot and Haunted (3 page)

Lira straightened carefully, meaning to whisper a warning to him that she was there. Before she could, the windows in the front of the pharmacy crashed inward.

Five of the risen dead lunged through the broken glass. She couldn’t tell if they were the ones from earlier or new ones. Did it matter? Not when they were coming after the man with their hands and teeth, and he was backed up against a fallen display of vitamins.

Lira didn’t even think about it, just got out her knife and waded in. The man gave her a startled look for half a second, his own knife in his hand. He was better with his than she was with hers though she might have argued that at least no Resurrected had taken her by surprise in months.

She slashed; he parried. She ducked a lunging Resurrected, and the man beside her stabbed it neatly through the throat, which didn’t stop it. When he yanked the knife up and back, half decapitating it, though, that set it on the ground pretty fast. The other four got theirs too, in a combination of knife work, punching, kicking and, finally, when Lira’s knife got yanked out of her hand, stuck in an eye socket of a downed Resurrected, the last one standing got a barbecue fork in the face instead.

Breathing hard, she looked at the mess in front of them, then at the guy next to her. “Nice—”

“Shut up,” he told her. “They’re coming.”

“What?” Already turning her head, she cut off her own question, not needing him to answer. Outside the pharmacy on the street, shadows moved.

Hundreds of them.

“This way.” The man grabbed her by the pack to turn her, earning him a curse and a kick. He paused but let her go. “You want to face that?”

She didn’t, but she didn’t appreciate being grabbed, either. So far, only a couple of them had managed to work their way up to the broken windows, but the sea of Resurrected behind them was pushing, pushing forward. She followed him toward the back of the pharmacy.

“What the hell is going on?”

“They’re being herded.”

“What? By who?” Still following, Lira ducked with him into a small back office and shut the door. The office had a door to the outside.

“The Army. They’re coming in, street by street. Tanks in places that can handle it, guys on foot in places that can’t. They’re pushing everyone and everything ahead of them toward the point.”

Lira knew he meant the point of downtown Pittsburgh, where the two rivers met.

“Why?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “They’re wiping everything out.”

This stopped her. “You mean another bomb?”

He shook his head. “No. Just anything living. Or nonliving, I guess.”

“There are still people here,” Lira said through numb lips. “I’m in a shelter with some, and I’m sure there are others. Is the Army rescuing them?”

“No.”

She sagged for a moment against the doorframe but wasn’t too surprised. “What are you, advance scout or something?”

“Something like that.” He gave her a grim look. “Let’s just say I didn’t agree with the ‘scorched earth’ policy.”

“You’re trying to warn people.” She eyed him. “How’s that working out for you?”

Incredibly, he grinned. “Not so great.”

“I’m Lira.” She held out a hand.

“Mac.” He shook hers, his grip firm. “We need to get out of here.”

The problem was, the back door to the alley was locked and wouldn’t budge. They’d closed the door leading from the store and shoved a desk and a filing cabinet in front of it though Lira wasn’t sure the things outside would try to get through a door if they didn’t have any reason to believe people were hiding behind it.

“They’re not that smart,” she said in a low voice, ear pressed to the door, listening for any signs they were going to be attacked.

Mac, busy searching through all the drawers for a key to the back door, looked up. “I’ve seen them focus on something and not let up until they got to it. Didn’t matter what you did; unless you took ’em down completely, they kept coming.”

“That just makes them determined.” Lira turned to him. She’d taken her pack off to give her aching shoulders and back a rest. “Key?”

“No.”

“Can we break it open? Or wait it out?”

Mac shook his head. “Depends. How long can you hold your breath?”

“Not that long.” Lira thought. Not a bomb, he’d said. “Why? Gas?”

He looked impressed. “Yes. It kills us. Knocks them out enough for the guys to douse and burn them. They’ve been making bonfires for days.”

“How’d you get away?”

He shrugged. “Ran.”

“You’ll get caught,” she offered. “Get into trouble?”

Mac looked at her. “What are they going to do to me? It’s the end of the fucking world. The Army out there, those guys? My buddies? Sure, they’re still taking orders for now, but who’s giving them?”

Lira’s face went numb; she bit the inside of her cheek again just to make sure she could still feel. “The government . . .”

Mac shook his head.

“Everything? Gone?”

“Enough of it’s gone,” Mac said, but before he could say more, something rapped on the inner-office door.

Soft. Hesitant. It could’ve been an accident, but for the follow-up a few seconds later, a familiar one, one-two, one-two knock that every schoolkid knew to answer with a double rap: shave and a haircut, two bits. So much for them not being that smart.

“Shit,” Mac breathed.

They couldn’t get the back door open. No key, no way to break the lock. Lira looked at him as she shrugged back into her pack. She pointed to the steel shelves along the back wall, stocked with cleaning supplies.

“Those will burn.”

Mac looked at her, a slow smile breaking over his mouth. “You’re something.”

“And I want to stay that way.” Lira grabbed a bundle of cleaning cloths and the handle of a broom tucked into a corner. After dousing them in cleaning fluid, she squared her shoulders at him, jerked her chin toward the door. “Got a light?”

They fought.

Knife and flame, fists and feet, Mac and Lira fought with whatever they could get their hands on. Broken fingers scrabbled at them; mouths bit. Monsters in the movies were afraid of fire, but not these. They came at Mac and Lira head-on, which only made it easier to shove the burning cloths down their throats or into their eyes, their rot-soft guts. There was no way to kill a hundred creatures hell-bent on destroying them, but all they had to do was make a path big enough to get through. They’d almost made it out the front doors of the pharmacy when one of the Resurrected hooked an arm through the loop of Lira’s pack and yanked her back.

She was already exhausted and off-balance, and this took her right off her feet. Like a turtle on its back, she swam against the air, trying to fight off the snapping jaws in her face. It was too much, she thought, as she pushed as hard as she could against a chest gone concave with decay beneath a designer suit. This was all too much.

Then the thing disappeared. Mac grabbed the front of her jacket and pulled her to her feet. “Run.”

Could she run? What did she have left? Not much, not even the desire to live, really, but somehow Lira found a few more minutes of strength to follow him out the doors and into the street. She didn’t have the energy even to cry out at the sight of more of them, huddled masses of the Resurrected, with more in the distance. From far off, she thought she heard the sound of engines roaring, but she hadn’t heard anything like that in so long, it might’ve been the sound of blood rushing in her ears.

Then all she knew was running.

Chapter Three

L
IRA WOKE IN
darkness so thick she couldn’t be sure she’d opened her eyes. She remembered running ahead of the swarm, Mac leading her down side streets and alleys with unerring efficiency. He took her into this building, up the broken stairs, and past barricades of furniture, into this apartment.

She was on a bed.

A soft bed, oh, God, compared to the thin mattresses in the synagogue basement, this was like lying on a cloud of marshmallows wrapped in cotton batting covered in memory foam. Soft, not scratchy sheets, faintly perfumed with fabric softener. Her hands traveled over her body—she was clean from what she remembered as the coldest shower she’d ever taken. She wore a cotton T-shirt and boxers, utter luxury.

She sat up, aware of Mac’s steady breathing beside her. He’d brought her here and made sure she was taken care of. Somehow, they’d managed to escape the Resurrected and stay ahead of what he’d assured her was the slow but inexorable progress of the soldiers cleaning the streets one by one. She hadn’t asked him how he knew about this apartment, in one of the few buildings that hadn’t suffered too much damage. She’d seen the photos on the wall in the living room. This was his place.

She hadn’t asked him, either, about the woman and little girl with him in the pictures. She could guess what had happened to them—what had happened to so many. Instead, Lira had let Mac feed her, give her a place to wash up, clothes, and a bed in which to sleep.

Skin on skin. It had always worked for her, the release of orgasm washing away at least some of the terror and pain. Mac had given her a lot already. She could give him something, too.

She rolled onto her side and pressed herself against his back, her hand on the flat, muscled plane of his belly. Mac had the body of a soldier, all lean and hard. She couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup by his face, which had been both dirty and constantly shadowed in their brief acquaintance, but that body . . .

He was awake instantly at her touch; she could tell by the way he tensed. When her hand slipped lower into the waistband of his pajamas, he muttered something that sounded like a protest. She ignored it.

He was already hard when she touched him, and that made her smile as her face pressed against the warm, salty flesh of his shoulder. She stroked him firmly, but not fast. Up. Down. Her hand twisted on the head of his cock, and he groaned a little under his breath.

He’d pulled her from under a pile of the Resurrected. They’d run together. Fought together. She shouldn’t have been surprised at his strength or agility, but when he rolled to press her beneath him, her knees gripping his sides, she still cried out. His mouth sealed hers, taking the sound. His tongue stroked inside. Her fingers gripped his shoulders as he pushed his erection against her. It hit her just right over her clit, back and forth, sending waves of pleasure all through her. Mac left her mouth and slid his body down hers, shoving her T-shirt up to get at her bare breasts beneath. He tongued her nipples, one after the other, suckling too hard for pleasure but not quite hard enough for pain. Then lower, over her belly, pushing down the boxers he’d lent her to get at her skin beneath.

His tongue found her clit, his thumbs spreading her wide to his every taste. Lira’s hips bucked at the sudden onslaught of sensation—this was not what she’d expected or planned. When Mac slipped a finger inside her, curling upward to stroke a hidden spot she’d heard of but never explored, all she could do was arch against the touch. She found the short brush of his hair and couldn’t dig her fingers into it. With a mutter of frustration, she reached upward for the spindles on the headboard instead.

Mac did not take his time. He did not go slow. Mac worked her clit with his tongue and lips, now two fingers inside her, until he took Lira to the edge—and then he eased off. She let out a gasp, eyes wide and still blind but for the faint sparks of color in the corners of her vision from trying too hard to see in the darkness.

His free hand slid over her breast, first cupping, then tweaking at her nipple. Too hard, a little too hard, he pinched and twisted, and it was enough to shoot another bolt of electric desire all through her. No gentleness here. No words of love, no expectation, no disappointment. Only the firm, unyielding pressure of his tongue on her clit, driving her closer and closer to climax with every stroke. When he eased off, there was nothing soft or sweet, only the skill of drawing out her pleasure almost to the point of pain.

It was exactly what she needed. He knew it without a word from her; he took her moans and sighs and the thrust of her hips, the grip of her hands so tight on the headboard spindles they creaked and complained, and he used them to push her closer and closer without ever letting her go over the edge.

“Please.” That single word slipped out of her on a breath, so low she couldn’t be sure, herself, she’d said it.

Mac heard it. “Please, what?”

“Please,” Lira repeated, rolling her hips at the sudden loss of his mouth on her pussy. “Please, Mac . . .”

“Tell me,” Mac demanded, while his fingers slipped in and out of her, slow and easy and relentless. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me . . .”

It was the first time she heard him moan, and the sound sent her spiraling again, reaching for the stars. Again he eased off, and Lira gritted out a curse, thinking she might reach for his hair to pull him closer and remembering at the last minute she’d have no purchase. Not like Anthony. Nothing about this was like it was with him.

“Say, ‘please fuck me,’ ” Mac ordered.

She balked at that, at the command, even as the low, hoarse way he said it made her clit spasm. Still, her mouth opened to speak even if something inside her clenched and twisted at the idea of giving him a submission of that sort. Lira sighed, hissing a breath, but nothing else.

Mac’s fingers curled inside her once more, then stopped. His tongue flickered on her clit once, twice, then only the hot gust of his breath caressed her as he said, “Say it.”

She’d begun this thinking it would be for him and discovered she needed it as much. Willing, that’s what she’d become. More than willing. Craving, wanton. Mindless.

“Please, Mac,” Lira breathed. “Please, please fuck me.”

He was inside her in moments after that, his cock thick and long. It filled her, stretching, unexpected though she’d imagined herself ready for him. He held himself above her just long enough to shift a bit, settling himself deeper inside her. For a moment his thumb pressed her clit.

She almost came then, but he withdrew the pressure and held himself so still she could feel her heart beating in her cunt—or was it the throb of his pulse beating in his cock, pressed so tight inside her? Lira couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. All that mattered was this feeling.

“Fuck me,” Lira said.

He did. Hard and fast. She let go of the headboard to rake her fingertips down his back, and Mac hissed at the scrape. His hand dug into her hair at the base of her skull, pulling her mouth to his. The kiss hurt; she didn’t care. Her teeth cut the inside of her lip, and the taste of blood mingled with his flavor until she gasped for breath.

Mac rolled them both in a smooth motion, so that she was on top. But that didn’t mean she was in charge, oh hell, no. He slid his hands down her arms to grab her wrists, holding them close at her hips while he fucked into her steadily. Lira wanted to lean forward, to rub her clit against his belly, but she couldn’t with her wrists gripped by his hands. All she could do was rock with him.

It wasn’t slow or soft, but it was steady, and it was maddening. The world went away as Mac fucked her, and Lira let her head fall back, her hair brushing her shoulders.

Up, up, and over at last. Like fire, the pleasure filled her, burning away everything but the moment. She shook with it, a cry tripping from her lips. She didn’t care how she sounded. She didn’t care what he might think. Lira gave in to it and let it take her away.

Before she could come down entirely, Mac let out a low shout. His grip on her wrists had been firm, but now it became briefly painful. In the aftermath of her orgasm, the pain didn’t bother her—the pain rarely did. But she opened her eyes and gave a small gasp at the sudden extra pressure. It was gone in seconds because he let her go. When he did, Lira put her hands flat on Mac’s chest. His heart thumped against her palm. She looked down at him.

“You should come with me,” she said.

L
IRA WAS LIMPING
by the time she got through the synagogue’s front doors. She’d been unable to convince Mac to join her, not when he was certain there were other people left to warn. She understood his need to help, but she couldn’t worry about more people when she had enough responsibility waiting for her in the shelter. She told him where they were, though.

They didn’t kiss good-bye. Didn’t hug. She’d thought about shaking his hand just to be funny, but Mac had gone so serious she didn’t think the joke would go over very well.

“You won’t be safe,” he’d told her. “The Army or whatever it’s become doesn’t care who you are. Get your people out.”

After leaving Mac’s apartment, she’d run into—What could she call them? A pack? A swarm, a herd, a flock? A nest, maybe—a couple dozen Resurrected huddled together, heads tipped back toward the sky like they were waiting for something. She’d been stupid, thinking she could slip past them, but one on the outskirts of the crowd had seen her and set off in pursuit. Its rotten fingers had snagged her backpack just enough to make her stumble on the uneven concrete. She’d skinned both her knees and her palms and twisted her ankle again. She still managed to kill it, and the four or five others that had shambled after her, before she could put enough distance between herself and the others.

She was exhausted now, even after the few hours of respite she’d had. If anything, sleeping in Mac’s comfortable bed had only seemed to make her more tired. Now she yawned hard enough to crack the bones in her jaw as she slung her pack off her shoulders, wincing. At just before dawn, she didn’t expect a greeting party.

She ought to have expected Anthony.

He came out of the shadows at the bottom of the stairs and almost earned a fist to his side for the surprise. Fortunately for them both, Lira pulled her punch at the last minute; otherwise, she’d likely have broken her hand or one of his ribs. She scowled, cursing.

“Sorry.” Anthony snagged her hand and kept her from pulling away. “I was worried. You didn’t come back on time. I thought . . .”

She knew what he thought. That he would worry so much for her safety, that he would wait and pace in the dark until she came home, even if it was a day later than she’d planned . . . Lira had known this about Anthony for a long time, but it hit her hard, now.

She’d been so stupid, thinking she didn’t want what he’d offered her, over and over. Crazy to believe she could keep herself from wanting more from him than fucking just because that was all she was willing to admit to needing. Skin on skin had always helped her forget what she’d gone through outside, yes . . . but it was Anthony who made her remember there was more to this world than pain and fear and anger.

She waited for guilt to hit her but found no place for regret. What had happened in Mac’s apartment had been necessary at the time, but it was not the real and constant thing. It was not what she wanted. It was not what she needed. Mac had given her a few hours of respite, but Anthony had always made it possible for her to keep living.

She launched herself into his arms and found his mouth with hers. Cupping his face, she kissed him, over and over again. When she tasted salt she pulled away, but it wasn’t from him.

“Hey,” he said, using his thumbs to brush away the tears from her cheeks. “Shh, you’re here, now. I have something for you to eat. You want a shower?”

She shook her head and found his mouth again. She clung to him, shaking unexpectedly, suddenly desperately cold though the temperature in the basement was always comfortable. Death was coming, not just for her, but for Anthony and everyone else in the shelter, and while Lira had faced it on her own a hundred times if once, the reality of it—of a world in which Anthony did not exist—threatened to knock her to her knees.

“Hey. Come on.” Anthony bent to slide an arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back. Cradling her, shushing her when she made a feeble noise of protest.

He carried her not to the shower room, but to the small private room he’d claimed for himself. Once it had been meant for brides getting ready for their wedding; now it contained several crates he used for his belongings and a narrow pallet. There he laid her down while they kissed. And kissed. And kissed. Her mouth felt swollen from the constant pressure of his lips on hers.

He stripped her clothes, then his, without leaving her mouth for more than a few seconds. He had her bare beneath him in a minute or two. His hands found all the places on her he’d learned over the past few months.

Lira was no longer certain she could believe in God, not with the world the way it had become, but she had seen miracles firsthand, more than once. This pleasure Anthony created with his mouth and hands and body against hers—that was a miracle. That even when she was worn-out from terror, exhausted from fighting and running, her body could still be made to feel so good, was a blessing.

And also a curse.

Swept up in the spasms of desire coursing through her, Lira gave herself up to Anthony’s touch. His kisses, always his kisses. When he pushed inside her, she held him close. She wrapped her arms and legs around him. They moved together.

“You fit me just right.” The words slipped out of her on a murmur.

Anthony shuddered and buried his face in her neck. At the press of his teeth on the soft flesh, Lira arched. She threaded her fingers through his thick, dark hair. She lost herself in him, this time not as release.

This time, as salvation.

Her climax rolled over her in waves, and she rode them. With her fingers locked in his hair, she pulled him closer. She breathed in as he breathed out. He filled her in every way.