The Last Uprising (Defectors Trilogy) (27 page)

As he turned his head, I saw the patch of scarred, destroyed flesh twisting up the back of his neck like a braid. This man was no stranger to carriers.

I grabbed my knife and turned to the two lumbering toward me. My near-death experience seemed to have given me a second wind, because I went at the carriers with renewed ferocity.
 

But the other rebels’ energy was flagging. We needed to end this fight soon or retreat to the farmhouse to shoot them long range.

I stabbed another carrier and felt the warm blood soak my sleeve. I shoved her aside and watched her twitching on the ground. I shuddered, wishing it wasn’t real, but this was my life now — fighting hand and tooth just to stay alive.

I was so engrossed in the fight that I hardly noticed the eerie silence spreading through the trees. The horde was nearly exterminated, and a few stray carriers had retreated into the woods. I didn’t like to let them go, but we were all exhausted.

I dropped the bloody knife on the ground and realized my hands were shaking. I couldn’t fight anymore.

As I watched the man who had saved me dispatch the last carrier, I had the sudden urge to cry. The moon had emerged from behind the clouds, bathing the forest in a sickly silver light.
 

Dead carriers were piled on the forest floor, blood soaking into the soil. One had taken a few bites of me with him to the grave, and another might have killed Roman. The cost of World Corp’s manipulation was high.
   

“Oh my god, Haven,” gasped Logan. “We have to get Amory to look at you.”

I shrugged, feeling strangely detached from the wound seeping blood into my shirt.
 

“How did it happen?”

I shook my head, unnerved that the carrier had snuck up on me. “I don’t know . . . but he saved me.”
 

I nodded at the man with the tattoos and scars who was cleaning his blade on a dead carrier’s tattered rags.

“Switch?”

“Is that his name?”

She eyed him warily. “No. But that’s what they all call him. He fought off a horde all on his own during the riots with nothing but a switchblade. He’s a scary guy.”

“He saved me.”

Logan let it drop but dragged me through the trees back toward the house. The lights were on in the main house but not in the kitchen. I quickened my pace, wondering why Amory wasn’t treating Roman.

My neck was throbbing, but I ignored it. I couldn’t think about that now.
 

I didn’t think the carrier that bit me had been stage five, but truthfully, I couldn’t be sure. I tried not to imagine the virus ripping through my veins, turning me into one of them. I’d watched Logan grow weaker and lose herself a little more each day, and I didn’t think I could handle what she’d gone through. It was too horrible to consider.

We came through the back door. I looked around, but there was no sign of Amory, Greyson, or Roman anywhere.

We took the stairs two at a time. Roman’s door was cracked, and light flickered from inside. I knocked softly and pushed the door open.
 

Roman was lying in bed with his eyes closed, looking deathly pale. If he hadn’t been so badly injured, the sight of his huge overgrown body in the tiny twin bed might have been comical, but he had bandages wrapped around his neck and chest, and he was breathing slowly and painstakingly. Three long parallel scratches ran down the left side of his face, the blood caking like muddy tire tracks.

Amory was hovered over him, injecting a clear liquid into his beefy arm.

Greyson was standing in the corner, looking at Roman with a grim expression.

“How is he?” I asked. I was startled by the scratchy croak that came out of my mouth.

“He’s —” Greyson glanced in our direction and then did a double take. “Holy shit. What happened to you?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. How is he?”

Greyson’s eyes were huge. “Not good.”

Amory looked up. The relief that flashed across his face was quickly replaced by panic when he saw me from the side.

“Oh my god! Haven!”

He crossed the room in two strides and put his hands on my arms. He turned me gently to examine the bites, and I heard Greyson and Logan’s collective intake of breath.

“What stage was it?” Amory asked. His normally strong voice was shaking, and that sent a wave of fear through me.

“I-I don’t know. He didn’t have the sores yet.”

Amory squeezed my arms and stared into my eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Go up to my room,” he said. “I’ll be up in a minute to clean those.”

I nodded and took one last glance at Roman lying in bed. Despite his size, he looked so weak and fragile, strangely exposed with us watching him sleep. If he were conscious, he would scowl and tell us all to go to hell.

I left the room, and the full pain of my injuries washed over me. The blood had started to dry around the wound, leaving it crusty and stiff.

Instead of heading for Amory’s room, I went into the bathroom and started to fill the tub. I undressed, peeling my ruined shirt away from the destroyed flesh and nearly screaming as a piece of skin ripped away.
 

I put a shaky leg in the tub and sank into the lukewarm water. I dunked my head in first, washing away the spattered blood and sweat. I cleaned away the grime until my wounds stung in protest and the bathwater had turned an ugly shade of gray.

Once I was clean, I wrapped myself in one of Ida’s fluffy towels and climbed the small flight of steps to Amory’s room.

Someone had already lit a lamp, and there was a small pile of clothing on the bed. I smiled at Logan’s thoughtfulness and quickly pulled on the clean sweatpants. I finger-combed my hair and sank down onto Amory’s bed, covering myself with a towel so Amory could clean my wound.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Amory opened it slowly. He looked nervous, though I didn’t know why.

“Do you think Roman’s going to make it?” I asked in a scratchy voice.

Amory sighed. “It’s hard to say. His wounds are serious, but he’s one tough son of a bitch.”

I tried to smile, but it was hard to ignore the exhaustion and hopelessness in his voice.

“The truth is,” he continued, “I just don’t think there’s anything more I can do for him.”

Amory sank down next to me on the bed and ripped open a package of bandages.

“I think you’ve done more than was fair to ask of you,” I said.

“I just feel like I’m letting everybody down. If this had happened a few years later, I’d know a lot more, and I’d be able to
do
more.”
 

He looked up to examine the wound and sucked in a stream of air through his teeth.

“Is it bad?”

“I really hate those things,” he said, avoiding the question. I was startled by the note of anger in his voice. Usually when Amory was treating a wound, he was calm and collected.

“I have to disinfect this,” he murmured. His warm breath tickled the exposed skin of my back. “It’ll sting.”

I smiled at Amory in doctor mode, but it quickly disappeared as the alcohol burned. Amory worked quickly to clean the torn flesh from the top of my spine across my shoulder blade and up the back of my neck.

“I’m going to look like Switch,” I said. “He has a horrible scar all along the back of his neck.”

“The scar won’t be that bad,” Amory murmured, a smile playing on his lips again. “Not after a while.”
 

He was quiet for a beat. “I’ll still find you beautiful.”

My stomach did a funny little backflip. Turning to look at him over my shoulder, I saw he looked a little flustered. He was staring at the spot where my shoulders met my spine, and I watched his eyes trail down to the small of my back.

“Are you checking me out?”

Amory’s eyes snapped up to mine, heat rushing to his temples. “Uh . . . yeah, I guess I was.”

I turned slightly, ignoring the painful tug of my wound, and found his lips with mine. He returned the kiss with fervor and then pulled away with a smile.

“Sorry. That was really unprofessional,” he whispered.

“Good.”

He grinned, and I saw a little shiver pass through him as he tried to return to the task at hand, spreading ointment over my wound and pressing a bandage into place.

“Haven?” He pulled a piece of hair back over my shoulder and sighed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I didn’t stop this.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I whispered, pulling the towel a little tighter against the chill of the room. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

His eyes were burning with regret. “It won’t happen again. I’ll be there next time.”

“You don’t have to be,” I said gently. “I can handle myself.”

He grinned. “I know you can. But I still want to be there to watch your back.”

Now that I was looking straight at him, I felt extremely exposed under the towel. Amory seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because he was looking at me as though he was about to jump off a cliff into rough, icy water.
 

Then there was a knock on the door, and I heard Greyson’s muffled voice. “Hey! We’ve got company. You’ll want to see this!”

Amory was on his feet before I could draw a breath, and he shuffled uncomfortably with his back to me until I was dressed and ready to go.

When we came down into the kitchen, a handful of wounded rebels were already seated around the table waiting their turn. A chill whipped down the hallway, carrying the smell of a storm. The front door was ajar.
 

It was raining outside, and a dark silhouette was superimposed against the bright headlights of three trucks idling in the driveway. I squinted. There was something oddly familiar about the figure.

She was short and slumped, draped in a heavy coat. Then she threw back her hood, revealing a mane of short, spiky black hair.

“Well don’t just stand there,” she growled to Amory, who looked just as shocked as I felt.
 

I would have recognized that gruff voice anywhere. “Shriver!” I yelped, utterly bewildered.

She pushed her way past Amory, a reluctant smile playing on her lips. “Go put some food on. We’re starving.”

“You have
no
idea how happy I am to see you,” Amory murmured.

“Well, I can see why.”

She’d just laid eyes on the motley crew of rebels slumped around the kitchen table.

Outside, I could see more figures moving around in the darkness, and Godfrey strode in after Shriver, looking more excited than I’d ever seen him.

“Godfrey,” said Amory. “Who else is here?”

Godfrey broke into a crooked grin that was oddly disconcerting. “The rebels who are going to save our asses.”

“What the hell happened?” asked Shriver, tilting one man’s head back to examine the bite on his neck.

“There’s been a carrier attack.”

Shriver rolled her eyes. “And here I was hoping the PMC had suddenly started biting people instead of shooting them. I
mean
, how did it get so out of hand?”

Amory looked at her blankly. “There were too many of them.”

“The hordes are growing in strength,” growled Godfrey. “I don’t know how, food being as scarce as it is. But they must be running together so they can overwhelm human settlements. It’s the only way they haven’t starved.”

Logan materialized at the foot of the stairs. “Shriver?”

Shriver wheeled around, tossing her head like an angry grizzly bear.

“It’s so good to see you,” Logan gushed, running up to take her coat.

“Why do people only say that when somebody’s bleeding?” Shriver muttered irritably. “None of you look too torn up,” she said to the men. “Now beat it. People gotta eat. Can’t have you bleeding all over the place.”

“I’ll . . . clean them up in the living room,” said Amory.

Shriver nodded as though this were obvious and began scooting the kitchen table toward the dining room. Clearly she had been here before.
 

Did all the rebels know Ida?
I wondered.

We’d barely pushed the tables together when the front door opened again. Greyson and Amory were busy, so Logan stayed in the kitchen to help me throw together something for the travelers to eat.

Logan didn’t really know what she was doing, so she just hovered beside the stove, talking in a fast, excited whisper and sliding between me and the counter whenever she thought I wasn’t listening. Once I had some canned green beans and a huge vat of chili warming on the stove, she seemed to grow bored with my inattention and breezed off to the dining room to talk to Shriver.
 

I peered out into the hallway and watched the travelers coming in. Most of them were in their thirties, but many had bushy beards like Godfrey’s and darkly tanned faces, as though they’d spent a lot of time battling the elements. They were dressed in snow boots and heavy coats.

I grabbed Greyson’s arm as he passed and pulled him into the kitchen.

“Who are these people?” I hissed.

“Rebels . . . from out west,” he said in a hushed voice. “Ida must have sent them.”

“Really?” My heart pounded harder in my chest. “So it’s true? There really are settlements out there?”

“Seems so,” he whispered. He was trying to sound offhand, but I could detect the hope and yearning in his voice.
 

“What sector are they from?”

Greyson shook his head. “There are no sectors. It’s all off the grid out there for a few hundred miles.”

“No,” I said, feeling skeptical. “They can’t have held off the PMC for a year and a half.”

“They have.”

I shot him a disbelieving look.

The rebels were already gathered around the elongated table, squeezing in extra chairs around the corners. They were talking in loud voices and laughing, looking more carefree than any of the rebels I’d seen before.

When they saw me carrying in the food, their voices seemed to rise with excitement. One of the youngest rebels with unruly honey-colored hair saw me struggling and ran over to help maneuver the heavy pot of chili.

“Need some help?” he yelled over the din.