Chapter 2
Two
T he deep, accented voice from behind me sends chills down my spine, or maybe I’m giving him too much credit, and it’s the gun poised to blow out my brain that has me frazzled. I battle through my jumbled thoughts and grasp on to one of the many survival lessons Josh taught River and me as children.
Not everything requires force, I hear my uncle say inside my head. I hope he’s right because I’m outnumbered. Even if I shoot one of them, the guy behind me is going to take me out. I have no choice but to reason with them.
“How do I know you guys aren’t delusional and trying to save him from a bite?” I ask the gunman.
“Because we’re not.”
I roll my eyes. Even he has to see how stupid his answer is. “Well, that settles it, you must be telling the truth.”
The man behind me presses the gun more firmly to my head.
In response, I lock my elbows and tighten my grip on my gun, keeping my aim steady on his friends. “Again, I’m going to have to ask you guys to leave, or I’m afraid I’m going to have to shoot your sick friend.”
“Don’t test me,” the gunman growls.
My palms sweat, and my outstretched arms slightly tremble. This has the potential of becoming bloody, or even worse… deadly. It’s a battle I’m not sure I can win.
“No, don’t test me , or this arrow finds a new home in your lungs,” says an all too familiar voice from behind us.
The gun wavers at my head and my lips lift into a cocky smile. “You never listen.”
“Nope,” River replies.
I step to the side, snatch the weapon from the guy behind me and point it at him. All the while, I keep my gun on the sickly one. I spare a glance at the gunman. He’s a disheveled mess like the rest of them—his brown, wavy hair hits just short of his shoulders, and his five o’clock shadow does little to hide the ticking of his jaw. I meet his green eyes, and for the briefest of seconds, they speak of despair before shifting back to fierce anger.
“There is nothing in the gun,” he spits, walking past me toward his friends.
“What the hell,” I whisper. With one hand, I open the chamber of the revolver and let it spin—there’s not a bullet in it.
River enters the room with an arrow nocked in her bow, and we watch the gunman squat in front of his sick friend, placing his hand on his forehead. “He’s burning up.”
And with those words, I know we’re in trouble.
“What’s wrong with him?” River asks. Like a moth to a flame, the girl is unable to look past those in medical need.
“The flu, I think. Aiden hasn’t been able to hold anything down for days,” the gunman says, taking off his thin hoodie and wrapping it around his friend.
“Quinn,” River gently warns, placing her hand on my arm and guiding me to lower my gun.
I hate that she wants me to drop my defenses. Every cell in my body is telling me not to trust these guys. But I hold my gun at my side for her.
“Can I speak to you for a second out in the living room?” I say with a fake smile.
River flashes a real grin at our unwanted guests. “If you guys will excuse us for a minute.”
We step out of the room, and I leave a crack in the office door. My gaze darts between River and what I can see of the men. I harshly whisper, “They can’t stay.”
“But he’s sick.”
“Yeah, but with what?”
“He doesn’t have the virus, and none of those guys are dressed to go back out there. They’re wearing torn up hoodies and their shoes have holes in them. It’s freezing and…”
Oh God, here it comes , I think but ask anyway. “And?”
“And it’s Yule time.”
Of course, she’d pull the holiday card. How am I supposed to argue with that? If I’m the bad guy that sends them on their way, River will worry about them. I can almost guarantee she will set food on the porch to feed them like stray animals. Which, in turn, will attract Zs.
I sigh and ask, “What do you suggest we do?”
“The sick boy needs to get someplace warm.” She holds up her hand before I can protest. “Let’s take him and one other guy with us into the bunker. I’ll search the sick one for bites, so you can rest knowing he’s not Afflicted, and you can search the other for weapons. We can lock the storage room, and you can sleep with your gun under your pillow.”
Damn her and her tender heart, and her ability to make me feel guilty without even trying. “I want it on the record that I don’t like this idea at all.”
With a winning smile, she says, “Duly noted.”
Together, we walk back into the study. All three men have now discarded their jackets and wrapped them around their sick friend who’s shivering on the floor.
Up until this point, my adrenaline has kept me warm, but the cold is getting to me. Taking note of my pajamas and combat boots, I wrap my arms over my chest, hoping certain body parts have not made our visitors aware of how cold I am. Of all the nights for someone to break in, they chose this one.
The young man lying on the floor coughs and moans. If we are going to help him, it’s time to get a move on it. We need to get him someplace warm.
“Here’s the deal, we have an area downstairs that’s heated. You—” I point to the blue-eyed man “—can stay with him and us down there for the night. And you—” again I gesture to the one with brown eyes “—can help carry him down.” Lastly, I turn to the gunman. “You can wait for your friend to return at the top of the stairs.”
The gunman nods in agreement. It is a testament to how desperate he is to save his friend. There is no way I would leave River’s side, and I definitely wouldn’t do it with strangers. But what other choice does he have?
River steps toward them, asking, “Do you mind if I look him over?”
The three men shift back with their eyes locked on her. It’s not just their apprehension that has them fixated. River is beautiful, blessed with an onslaught of perfect features—full lips, big gray eyes set against smooth, light brown skin, and topped with a wild mane of curls. The stresses of the life we’ve lived for the past eighteen months don’t show on her at all.
River checks the sick man’s pulse and feels his forehead. “I’m going to do my best to help you, all right?” She needlessly assures him, brushing his blonde hair from his pale face. “His name is Aiden, correct?”
“Yes,” answers the man with brown eyes.
Turning to look at each of them, she says, “I’m River Ellery, and this is my cousin, Quinnten.”
“Quinn,” I quickly correct her, crossing my arms.
The brown-eyed man reaches out and shakes River’s hand. “Noah Oliver.”
“Westin, Wes MacVey,” says the man with blue eyes.
With a clipped tone, the gunman says, “Ryland Shaw.”
River stands, and they follow suit, lifting their friend from the floor. When we reach the basement door, Ryland stops and watches as we descend the stairs without him. Maybe I should feel sorry for leaving him out considering their circumstance, but I’m still a little salty about him pressing his gun against my head, and I don’t trust him or his friends.
Aiden’s limp body is maneuvered through the maze of boxes and chairs until we reach a dead end. To the unsuspecting eye, it looks like nothing but a brick wall. I open a camouflaged panel and place my finger on a sensor pad. With a quick beep and metal sliding against metal, the wall next to us opens. The two men sigh when the warmth of the room greets their frozen skin, and my stomach turns in response. They’re now completely aware of how valuable our home is, and River and I are at a disadvantage .
I force down my unease and direct them to lay Aiden on the couch. River kneels beside him and goes to work removing his clothes. Noah doesn’t hesitate to abide by my rules, and with a final worried glance, he steps out of the bunker.
Turning to Wes, I say, “I need to check you for weapons.”
He pulls a pocketknife from his pants and hands it to me. With a playful smile, he lifts his arms above his head. “Have at it.”
I second guess my decision to frisk him; he might enjoy this way more than he should. But I have no choice, we’re already treading in dangerous territory. I rapidly pat him down, finding nothing else on him. As soon as I step back empty handed, he slides in next to River and assists her in undressing Aiden.
River lifts her head, meeting my scrutinizing gaze, and says, “I’m sure those guys upstairs are hungry and cold. Why don’t you grab a few of those military meal things in the storage room? There are some sweats and blankets in there as well. Stop looming over me and be useful. Wes and I are fine.”
I glare at Wes, letting him feel the weight of my distrust. It clearly doesn’t work because he chuckles and says, “Honestly, you’re at a greater advantage here. I’ve got no weapons and nowhere to go. My best mate is dying and I’m not leaving his side. I won’t harm you.”
The sincerity in his words hit me straight in the chest. His circumstance is worse than mine. At one time I would have been sympathetic to his situation. Not anymore, not when it is so desperate. The things people have done for just a bite of food are unthinkable. No one is the good guy anymore.
“Go help them, Quinn,” River snaps .
I grumble my disapproval while walking to the cabinet containing my clothes. Yanking out something more appropriate to wear, I slide through the door next to the bathroom. The storage room is lined with shelves full of nonperishable food items and our small armory of weapons and bullets—items my family collected when a zombie apocalypse simply made for a great horror story.
I change and gather the supplies for the two men upstairs, stuffing them into a duffle bag. When I step back into the living area, I find Wes sitting on the floor devouring our bag of cookies, his gaze locked on River as she sponge bathes Aiden on our couch. They seem so calm in each other’s presence, so unconcerned with the unknown. I don’t know if that makes them stupid, or if it makes me a bitch because I can’t seem to find any reason to trust them.
With a sigh, I grab a battery-operated lantern and hesitantly leave River locked in a room with two strange men. As I approach the study, I’m met with Noah and Ryland discussing the bunker. They sit side by side on my uncle’s leather couch, leaning forward with their elbows on their knees and heads close. I slow my steps and listen to Ryland’s line of questions about the bunker. It is clear by his need to know the layout and what’s inside that he’s as uncomfortable with his friends being down there. It’s good to know that at least one other person in this house has his wits about him.
“I brought you guys some supplies for the night,” I say, ending their conversation as I place the duffle bag on the dark mahogany desk at the front of the room. “Are you familiar with M.R.E.s?” They shake their heads, and I open one of the tan plastic bags with the knife Wes handed over to me. “They’re these ready-made meals the military uses. This one is chicken noodle soup.” I remove the lid from a water bottle and pour a bit into the pouch. “The water somehow activates this heating element, so the food should be warm in a couple of minutes.”
“It’s oxidation-reduction,” Noah says.
“If that’s what it’s called when this big bag of heat warms this small bag of food inside it, then sure,” I say, preparing the second M.R.E. I set it aside to warm before pulling out the rest of the supplies. “I brought you both some sweats to wear while your clothes are drying. You can use the bathroom next to the stairs to get dressed. There’s no running water so please don’t use the toilet. You’ll have to go outside for that.”
I don’t even finish what I’m saying before Noah jumps from the couch collecting the folded gray sweatpants and shirt from me. I hold out the lantern to him, and he takes it before quickly rushing from the room, saying thank you over his shoulder. Regret washes over me as I realize I’m alone with the man who held a gun to my head earlier.
With a long exhale, I return my gaze to Ryland. His hands are clasped together with his index fingers pressed against his lips. He stares at me like he’s devising a plan to murder me in my sleep, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I look away, uncomfortable with his intense scrutiny. As I busy myself with finishing their meals, I can feel him watching my every move.
I get it, I really do. If I were in his position, I’d be doing the same. He’s at a disadvantage. River and I know every nook and cranny of this house. We have weapons stashed here and a room to lock ourselves inside. Ryland and his friends are at our mercy. And that is exactly why I believe he is devising a plan to take us out if he must. He hasn’t remained alive without knowing he always needs to find a way to gain the upper hand.
When the soup is warm, I give it to him along with a plastic spoon and a bottle of water.
He mumbles a thank you and digs in.
I sit on the edge of the desk as he devours his meal. Greasy waves fall across his face when he leans over the bag to keep the food from dropping on him and the floor. He takes bite after bite, hardly chewing before swallowing.
The sneakers he wears are muddy with holes worn on the side, terrible for trekking the snow. His thin, black t-shirt reveals a collection of tattoos covering his arms. They’re mostly traditional nautical artwork tied together with subtle waves. The most beautiful piece is the antique compass inked in black with shades in gray on his right forearm. He wears a couple of pieces of jewelry—a silver ring and a necklace swinging back and forth from his neck. Hanging from the chain is a pendant—a sharp pointed crescent moon. It is the symbol of the continent Bangoti. I find that strange since his accent suggests he is from Giran. This all opens a new slew of questions.
The creaking of the door opening down the hall has me abandoning my assessment of Ryland. Noah returns with a bright smile on his bearded face. He tosses his dirty clothes on top of a backpack, and we exchange the lantern for the other bag of food. He digs in to eat before he sits next to Ryland.
Seeing how famished they both are, I prepare another packet. I’d intended for their second M.R.E. to be their breakfast, but I don’t like the idea of them having empty stomachs. For tonight, I want them to be full and have a warm, safe place to sleep, even if I’m uncomfortable with our arrangement. Tomorrow, they can leave rested and well-fed, and my duty to the less fortunate will be complete.
I’m not surprised by my weakness toward their hunger. For as long as I can remember, my summer vacations were humanitarian projects with my aunt and uncle. During our journeys to remote villages, I witnessed the pure pain on someone’s face when they’re starving. I hate the thought of people going hungry, especially when all four continents were close to eradicating the problem. That’s not the case anymore, at least not in Stern. Mass production farms and factories are extinct, and survivors of the Affliction are left scavenging for food while trying not to be the next meal for a Z.
If it were not for River’s and my safety, I might not have been hesitant to help these guys. I may have invited them into my home, cooked them a meal, and played a board game as we got to know each other. We could have become friends. That’s not how it is now though, and every move I make must take both River and me into consideration. Nothing is going to distract me from that, especially the four men now taking refuge in our house.