Chapter 1 #2
A low growl rolls out from inside the bus. “Nobody fucking moves unless you want a bullet in the back of your head!” The voice is thick, scratchy, phlegm-clogged.
A second later, Santa’s reject steps off the bus, his potbelly jiggling with each step. “What the hell was that?” His yellow teeth flash, and he clutches his gun to his chest like a lifeline. The sight of him almost makes me gag.
Shotgun Guy spits to the side. “Does it look like I know? Go check it out.”
Charlie sneers, the folds of his neck shifting like raw dough. “Why me?”
Come on. My leg jiggles with anticipation, the pent-up energy coiling tighter with every second. I press my back against the bus, my fingers flexing around the hilt of my knife. Breathe. Deep inhale. Slow exhale. Steady, girl.
Shotgun Guy steps up, jamming the barrel of his weapon into Charlie’s chest. “Listen, fat man,” he sneers. “You’re lucky I don’t carve you up right here and leave you for the runners. But since the boss tolerates you, I won’t. As long as you do. What. I. Say.”
Each word is punctuated with a hard jab to Charlie’s sweaty forehead, and the way he winces makes it clear this isn’t the first time Shotgun Guy’s put him in his place.
Shotgun Guy is built like a scarecrow—tall, lanky, all sharp angles with a gaunt face that makes his hollowed cheeks look even more severe. Dirty-blond hair sticks out in tufts, greasy strands matted together in places like he hasn’t washed it in weeks.
And yet, the elves are running the show because Santa grumbles but obeys. With an exaggerated huff, Charlie starts a waddling shuffle toward me.
Step.
Step.
Step.
His boots scuff against the pavement, his breath a ragged wheeze. Damn, is he already winded? The closer he gets, the stronger his stench—sweat, rot, something stale clinging to him like a second skin, and I force my stomach to stay put.
Almost there.
My breathing evens, syncing with his sluggish pace. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Step.
Step.
Bye-bye, Charlie.
The moment his foot crosses the threshold of the back of the bus, my hand clamps over his forehead, yanking him back until his spine collides against my chest. A startled grunt rumbles in his throat, but it never has the chance to form into a scream.
I drive my knife into the left side of his thick, sweat-slick neck. His whole body seizes, a violent shudder rippling through his bulk as steel bites through flesh.
A wet, sucking sound fills my ears as the blade carves its way across his throat, severing muscle, sinew, everything that keeps him breathing.
Warm blood bursts over my knuckles, gushing in thick waves, coating my fingers, my wrist, my arm.
The scent of iron crashes over me in a suffocating wave.
His choked scream gurgles into nothing as his own blood drowns him.
His hands claw at me, sluggish and weak, nails scraping against my forearm in a pathetic attempt to fight back. I keep him upright, pressing into him, letting gravity do the work as his weight sags against me. His life drains fast, each failing breath rattling, struggling, until—nothing.
I hold him a second longer, feeling the last tremors of his existence flicker out. Then, with a sharp yank, I rip my knife free and let him drop.
He crumples in a heavy, wet heap at my feet, blood seeping into the cracked pavement, pooling around the edges of my boots. The tips of my long blond hair drip crimson. Loose strands cling to my face, my neck, soaking into my clothes. The warmth of his death attaches to me, seeping into my skin.
I don’t wipe it away. I don’t move. I just breathe—steady, measured—as the world steadies with me.
Not done yet, Charlie boy. Gotta sell it.
The image of the little girl’s tear-streaked face burns behind my eyes, fueling the fire in my veins.
I lunge forward, straddling Charlie’s lifeless body, and let loose a raw, unhinged scream that rips through the morning like an animal gone rabid.
My blade arcs high, then plunges deep, over and over, the sickening crunch of steel meeting flesh and bone drowned beneath my frenzied howls.
Blood sprays hot across my face, splattering my lips, my chin, dripping from my lashes, but I don’t stop.
Hell, I should’ve been an actress. My throat burns from the force of my screams, but I keep wailing, painting the perfect picture of a crazed survivor gone completely off the rails.
The pounding of boots barely registers before I’m yanked off the body, tackled hard into the pavement.
The air whooshes from my lungs as my cheek smacks against the burning asphalt.
I thrash, kicking wildly, snarling through gritted teeth, but one of them drops his weight onto my legs, pinning me down.
Another twists my arms behind my back, wrenching them at an angle that makes pain bloom up my shoulders.
Cold steel presses against my temple, biting into my sweat-damp skin. My breath heaves, ragged and manic, as Charlie’s dead, vacant eyes stare back at me, blood still pouring in sluggish waves from his shredded throat.
Boots—scuffed, brown, worn from miles of violence—step into my line of sight, stopping just inches from my face.
“Well, lookee here, boys. We got ourselves a crazy one. And she’s a looker too—under all that mess.”
The shotgun barrel lifts from my temple, giving me just enough room to suck in a breath before a fist tangle in my ponytail and yanks back, hard.
My neck strains, my scalp stings, but I don’t flinch.
Shotgun Guy crouches close, and his yellow-toothed grin spreads, lazy and lecherous, eyes raking over me like I’m nothing more than a prize to be claimed.
“You know, I should thank you,” he muses, his grip tightening as he leans in. “I’ve been wanting to gut that piece of filth for a while.”
An easy, sweet smile stretches my lips, and I meet his gaze with something far sharper than fear. I summon every ounce of spit I can muster and hurl it straight into his face.
The glob lands with a wet smack, sliding down his cheek toward his sneering mouth.
He recoils, cursing, his grip slipping from my hair as he wipes at his face like he can scrub away the humiliation.
Laughter rips from my throat, wild and unhinged.
I let it echo, let it crack the air around us like gunfire.
A boot slams into my ribs, knocking the breath from my lungs. Pain explodes through my side, sharp and unforgiving.
“Think you’re funny, bitch?” Shotgun Guy snarls, his voice tight with rage.
Rough hands grab at me, yanking my arms back.
Thick, coarse rope coils around my wrists, biting into my skin as they yank it tight, securing the knot with jerks meant to bruise.
My fingers tingle from the cut of the rope, but I don’t struggle. Not yet.
Underestimating me will be their biggest mistake today.
My hair yanks back again, harder this time, my scalp burning as strands threaten to tear free. The pain sharpens, but I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“You’re gonna regret that,” Shotgun Guy sneers, his teeth flashing as he jerks my head back farther, his grip like a vise in my ponytail. He motions to the others with a flick of his head. “Get her on the bus.”
The weight on my back vanishes, and rough hands haul me to my feet.
The bearded one shoves me forward, forcing me up the metal steps.
My balance wavers, and before I can brace myself, I’m hurled into a seat.
My temple smashes against the steamed window, the impact rattling through my skull.
A sharp sting radiates through my cheekbone, but I barely register it because a tiny whimper behind me sends a bolt of ice through my spine.
The little girl.
A single inhale steadies me as my gaze scans the other passengers—expressions hollowed out with fear, ages ranging from early thirties to late sixties. An older man’s face is smeared with dried blood, some of it tangled in his graying hair.
Shotgun Guy saunters onto the bus, his swagger dripping with arrogance. His gaze locks on to me, heating with something ugly.
Before he can take another step, a rustling at the back of the bus draws his attention.
The older man slowly rises. Determination hardens his features as he pushes himself upright, swaying slightly but standing firm.
“Let the women and child go,” he demands, his voice rough but steady. “You don’t need them. Do what you want to me, but let them go.”
“Sit down,” Rat Tail snarls, driving the butt of his rifle into the older man’s shoulder with a sickening thud.
A chorus of gasps ripples through the bus. The man staggers, his face contorting in pain, but he doesn’t go down. He reels back, eyes blazing with defiance, ready to charge despite the odds.
The guard cocks his gun and swings the barrel toward the head of an elderly woman sitting across the aisle. “Try it,” he taunts, his finger ghosting over the trigger.
The older man freezes. His fists clench so tight his knuckles go white, his whole body taut with rage. But the woman—kind eyes set deep in a wrinkled face, cropped white hair trembling with each shallow breath—lifts her hands as if to help him.
He gives her a sharp look, a minute shake of his head. A warning.
She swallows hard and slowly retracts her hands, curling them into her lap as though folding in on herself. The fear in her eyes flutters to resignation.
The older man lowers himself back into his seat, fists still clenching, his jaw grinding like he’s holding back an explosion. But he keeps his gaze moving, protective, watchful over the others and me.
A choked hiccup breaks through the tense silence.
“Mom.”
The woman across the aisle from me moves instinctively, long chestnut hair tumbling over her shoulders as she reaches toward the little girl.
Her smoky eyes flash with desperation, her fingers stretching as if sheer will alone can bridge the distance between them.
She shifts in her seat, her body tense with the urge to move.
“Let me hold her,” she pleads, voice wobbly.
Shotgun Guy stiffens, his dirty-blond hair falling into his face as he turns on her. His mouth flashes in an ugly sneer. “Did I fuckin’ say you could speak?” His voice is sharp, laced with cruel amusement.
“Please,” she says, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.
He steps forward, his shotgun dangling at his side, but his free hand lifts. His palm hovers, poised midair, a silent threat hanging between them.
“You deaf, sweetheart?” he growls. “Or just stupid?”
The woman’s eyes spark, defiance fighting against the fear tightening her features.
Shotgun Guy’s lip curls, his fingers twitching like he’s deciding whether or not to bring them down across her face.
Screw this.
“Hey,” I snap, my voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade.
He whips his head toward me, his expression twisting with irritation and something darker. “So, the little psycho finally speaks?”
I tilt my head, keeping my tone cool, almost lazy. “How about you try fucking with someone who’ll actually fight back?” I lean forward, my teeth flashing like a predator about to pounce. “Or are you afraid to be beaten by a woman, little boy?”
His grip tightens on the shotgun, the muscle in his jaw twitching, my words obviously striking a nerve. Typical fragile masculinity. What else is new?
While he’s busy glaring, the mother takes her shot.
Quick and quiet, she slides into the seat beside the little girl, wrapping her in her arms, shielding her.
Shotgun Guy hesitates, catching the movement too late.
His nostrils flare, but he must decide she isn’t worth the effort.
He lets it slide, shifting his fury back to me.
He steps in, closing the space between us, his fingers biting into my chin with bruising force.
My jaw aches under the pressure, my head forced back as his rancid breath spills over my face—hot, sour.
His gaze slithers over me, and when he leans in until our noses nearly brush, his voice drops low, thick with malice.
“Too bad you’re just his type. Otherwise, you and I would’ve had some fun tonight, sugar.”
Revulsion coils deep in my gut, but I shove it down, locking my stare on to his. I force my lips to move against the grip crushing them. “Whose type?”
I need confirmation. No one else on this bus can be sent to him. Just me.
His grip loosens just enough for him to smirk before he shifts, caging me in with his arms. The seat presses into my back, his presence suffocating as he leans down, voice barely above a whisper.
“Da Vinci.”
Bingo.
He pulls back, triumphant, mistaking my silence for fear. He thinks he has me. He thinks I don’t already know exactly who he’s talking about—the monster I thought was finally lost to the outbreak. My lips curl into a feral grin, sending a look of confusion across his face.
Before he can react, I rear my head back and slam it forward.
Crunch.
His nose explodes in a spray of blood. He howls, stumbling back into the driver’s seat, hands clutching his ruined face. His features contort with agony, shock, and something even better—humiliation.
His eyes go dark, murderous, and then he lunges. His hand clamps around my throat, squeezing hard before I can react. My air vanishes in a flash. Okay . . . maybe I pushed him a little too far.
“I’m gonna make you regret that, bitch,” he snarls, blood dribbling from his lips as he slams my head against the back of the seat.
He glances around the group, snarling at Rat Tail, “Get this bus moving.” Then he locks eyes with me, a cruel smile spreading. “I’ve got plans for this one.”
He turns toward the front, waving the others on.
Oh, I’ve got plans too, sweetheart. Just. You. Wait.