Night Resurrected (4 page)

aimed thrusts in their direction to run

them off. They lumbered awkwardly into

the darkness.

By then, sweat trickled down his

temples and chest and his hands were

uncomfortably warm from the flaming

tree’s heat, not to mention cut and

scraped up like hell. Most of the

branches had burned off and the fire was

eating at the trunk, making its way

toward him. He looked around for

somewhere safe to put it, knowing how

quickly a whole forest could go up in

flames from one small fire.

Had he seen any water? Had they

passed anything . . . ?

He tried to think, then remembered

seeing the gleam of a shallow pool in the

indentation of a car’s hood. But where?

He heard Remy shout after him—

something obvious like
Where are you

going?
—and ignored it, running off with

the ever-flaming branch. Water or

concrete or something that could contain

the fire . . . He peered, hard to see in the

dark, and not more than ten yards from

the truck cab found a pool of water.

Dropped the branch in, rolled the fucker

around as it sizzled into nothing, and

then, dusting off his abused hands,

headed back to Remy.

“How is he?” Wyatt asked, hoisting

himself up into the truck cab. He

slammed the door behind him and turned

to Remy. He had a moment to realize that

this was a full sleeper cab, with what

had been bucket seats in the front of the

rig and in the back a compact living

space.

But then he saw Dantès, lying on a

pile of something, and Remy crouched

over the dog’s head. Blood gleamed in

the low light, but Dantès moved, giving a

whine of greeting and lifting his face as

soon as he saw Wyatt.

“This,” Remy said, looking up at him,

tears glistening in her eyes, “is precisely

why I left him behind—where he’d be

safe
!”

“Don’t be a fool,” he snapped. “If he

hadn’t been here, this would have been

you.
And then what would have

happened to that damn crystal of yours?”

Chapter 2

R
emy

jolted,

her

hand

going

automatically to her navel. Of course he

knew she had the crystal, that she wore

it. But he didn’t know what it was or

why it was so important. How could he,

when she didn’t even know?

“Let me see him,” Wyatt was saying,

his attention refocused on Dantès. “I

need

light,”

he

added

in

that

commanding way of his that made her

want to box his ears.

No thank-you for giving him the torch

that saved their butts, no appreciation for

forcing open the truck door so he could

climb his sorry, stick-up-his-ass
ass
up

into it, no concern for whether she’d cut

or scraped herself when he shoved her

up into this messy place (which she had,

thank you very much) . . . all after

showing up unexpectedly and uninvited,

calling her a fool and snarling at her . . .

and now he was ordering her around

asking for a light.

He really was a dickhead.

Do it for Dantès, she reminded

herself. And dug out a small, manual-

powered flashlight from her pack,

ignoring the streaks of her own blood

that made it slippery. She wiped her

hand on her pants near another

bloodstain, then, with three quick cranks,

produced enough energy for a decent

beam of light. She shone it onto her

beloved pet.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought of

the light before Wyatt demanded it, but

she didn’t have the chance to get to it. It

wasn’t an easy task helping an injured,

ninety-five-pound dog up into a door

five feet off the ground . . . especially

when she was only five-foot-eight and

135 pounds herself. It was the cut along

her thigh, deep enough to slice through

her cargo pants, that protested the most

and gushed a little harder. Damn. She’d

have to sew up the tear too.

Remy looked down at Dantès,

watching Wyatt’s large hands moving

gently over the dog as the canine rested

his head in her lap. She knew one thing:

the ever-angry Wyatt might despise her,

but he loved her pet as if it were his

own. He’d do anything for Dantès, as

evidenced by his actions tonight and the

tension emanating through him as he

examined the dog. At least she had that.

But there was a lot of blood. Her

insides tightened and fear burned inside

her. He couldn’t die. He
couldn’t
.

“Well?” she asked when the silence

had stretched for too long. Her fingers

clasped tightly over the flashlight while

her other hand stroked Dantès’s soft

head as she waited for her companion’s

diagnosis. She’d done a thorough

examination before Wyatt appeared, but

she was too upset to be confident in her

estimation in this case. She wanted

someone else to tell her what she thought

she knew.

“He’s going to be fine,” Wyatt said.

She saw his tension relax, and so did

she. “Aren’t you, bud?” His fingers

spread wide, he gently stroked his hand

along the length of Dantès’s torso. “Just

need a little fixing up and some rest.” He

looked up at Remy, meeting her eyes for

the first time. “He’s hurt, there’s a lot of

blood, but I didn’t find anything serious.

Nothing that shouldn’t heal up.”

She nodded, relief shuttling through

her. “That’s what I thought, but . . .”

“There is a lot of blood,” he said,

reading her mind. “But it looks worse

than it is. He’s a good fighter.”

So are you.
She looked back down at

the dog before those words slipped out.

She guessed that deep-seated anger he

always carried was good for something.

From her safe perch in the truck, she’d

watched him with a combination of

horror

and

admiration,

saw

him

swinging a small tree as if it were a

sword, dodging and feinting and

jumping, always a step ahead of the

snarling jaguar, then going back for

more.

Wyatt’s accusation rang in her

memory:
Don’t be a fool. If Dantès

hadn’t been here, this would have been

you
.

But he’d misspoken. If
he
hadn’t been

here, this would have been
both
her and

Dantès.

“By the way, nice job with the

torch,” he said, and rose to his feet. The

ceiling wasn’t quite tall enough for him

to stand fully upright, but he only had to

bend his head a little.

Remy felt a wave of guilt for her

earlier irritation; after all, he had clearly

been distracted by worry for Dantès. She

was about to thank him for saving them

when Wyatt added, “Next time, don’t

keep

screaming

my

name.

It’s

distracting.”

“Next time?” she retorted, her blood

racing again. “God forbid there should

be a next time.” The sooner she could

ditch him, the better.

She thought she heard a muffled

snort, but he’d turned away and was

examining the contents of the room or

space they were in. She couldn’t figure

out exactly what this thing was. It looked

like the front of a huge truck, like a

larger size of the Humvees driven by the

Strangers and bounty hunters, but behind

the two seats in front was something like

a small room. Almost like a tiny house

or bedroom.

There might have been a mattress

once, but the years and animals had done

a number on it, and all that was left were

the frame and springs. Cupboards, two

small chairs, and a table were made

from some woodlike material that was

still fairly intact. They took up about half

the space behind the driver’s seat and its

partner.

The only windows were in the front

of the trucklike thing: one on each side,

and the big one over the front. The glass

was only gone from the one side, though,

and although it was shattered, the front

window was still intact. Both windows

were filthy with mildew and dirt.

Nevertheless, it was a safe place to hole

up for the rest of the night. The zombies

couldn’t get up there, and it would be

nearly impossible for the jaguar or any

other animal to launch itself through the

window. She guessed it was well past

midnight and moving on toward dawn by

now, though the night was still dark as

pitch.

Dantès was going to be all right. She

was safe. She could relax.

Except for
him
.

Remy shifted out of the way,

arranging her flashlight as a general

illuminator as Wyatt inched around the

room, half bent, digging through the

contents. He made one satisfied grunt

and many disappointed noises, dropping

things into piles that seemed to be useful

versus nonuseful—the latter pile much

larger and including gnawed away

upholstery and other trash. While he did

that, she moved up to the front of the

truck and opened her pack. She had an

extra shirt that could be used to wash up

some of the blood, maybe even bandage

Dantès’s worst injuries. Eventually,

she’d need to get more clean water, but

she had some in her canteen. And so

she’d be less one shirt, but in the grand

scheme of things . . . At least the slice

alongside her wrist had stopped

bleeding, for the most part.

Despite what Wyatt might think about

her being a fool, she’d planned her

departure from the settlement of Yellow

Mountain carefully, packing a good

number of supplies. It wasn’t the first

time she’d had to make a quick escape.

She was used to it.

And when Dantès showed up

yesterday, she suspected Wyatt wouldn’t

be far behind. Which was why she’d

altered her route, going in random

directions. Trying to lose the man.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked.

Casting a glower at him, Remy

extricated the shirt and a small blanket

from her bag and crawled back to

Dantès. He was no longer lying on his

side but was half upright and panting

with interest at all the activity. That had

to be a good sign. She poured a small

dish of water for him and he drank

noisily and sloppily, splashing all over

as he was wont to do. Then she fed him

a few pieces of cheese and some dried

meat she’d gotten from Vonnie, the lady

who cooked at Yellow Mountain.

Just then Wyatt sucked in his breath

in an audible, delighted sound. She

turned to see him pulling out a plastic

tub from one of the cupboards.

“Oh, baby—airtight and clean as a

whistle even fifty years later,” he

murmured like a man to his lover.

She couldn’t help it, she had to

investigate, even though it meant

acknowledging his existence again.

“What’s in it?”

He had pulled off the top and was

taking things out. “Hot
damn
. A first aid

kit. Matches. A screwdriver set. Some

emergency glow sticks, even. And
duct

tape!
” He rustled through several other

items, pulling out a blanket four times

larger than the one she had, a pair of

scissors, and some other things Remy

didn’t see.

She didn’t wait for an invitation but

took the first aid kit and dug through it.

“Antibacterial ointment,” she read,

aiming her flashlight onto a small tube in

order to see. “Hmm.” It sounded

important, but it was awfully old. And

she wasn’t sure what it was.

“Can’t hurt to try it,” Wyatt said,

holding a ring of silvery tape in his hand.

“It’s been locked up airtight. Put it on the

deepest cuts and then bandage them up.”