Chapter 11 #2
When she’d told him about Brandon, it had been a relief to know the whole of the story despite the way the details had kicked him in the stomach.
Hearing about how she’d been treated, how close she’d come to dying, alone and weeping in that trunk, got that rage inside him twisting all around, begging for an outlet.
The way she’d shared the story, though—that was proof that she trusted him.
He wished he’d been forthright enough to tell Allie about Laurel before she’d had to ask.
What he’d told Allie about not wanting to spoil their happiness in the bunker was true, but that wasn’t the only reason.
He’d been a coward, afraid that Allie might think less of him, or worse, might blame him for Laurel’s death.
Somehow, though, Allie didn’t seem to blame him the way he blamed himself. She still seemed to want him, to want to stay with him. Yet another miracle. Her steadiness warmed him, even as the weight of the St. Christopher medal reminded him of how he’d failed with Laurel.
He would not fail with Allie. He couldn’t.
No pressure, right? Jesus, dude.
Cam was terribly afraid that living in this crapsack world without Allie would feel a hell of a lot like trying to walk around underwater—eventually, the constant pressure of her loss would drown him.
He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, willing a lurking stress headache to back down. The first obstacle would be loading the truck. That was his first task, and he was damned well going to do it without incident. Quick and quiet.
To that end, he and Allie first spent time studying the feed from the security cameras, and they saw no movement except an occasional straggler lurching past their field of vision. When more than five minutes went by without a sighting, Cam looked at Allie.
“It’s as clear as it’s going to get, I think,” he said.
Allie bent, squinted into the screen. “There are blind spots, Cam. And the ankle-biters...”
“Hey. Allie-cat.”
She stood and cast him a startled glance. “Allie-cat?”
Damn it. He could feel his cheeks begin to heat. “I thought it sounded... Well, it’s a possible nickname.”
Thank God her lips were curving up. “Hmm. We can test it out.”
He grinned, stepping behind her to plant a kiss on her neck. “Shall we test it out right now? Give the bedroom one last hurrah? Play one last round of rummy, double or nothing?”
“Nice try, plebeian. I’m the Ruler of the Rummyverse. Deal with it.” Allie relaxed back into him. “As for the rest—we’re already burning daylight.”
“I know.” He sighed, tucking his chin against her neck, eyes on the screens. “All right. It’s time. Right?”
She turned her head and slid one hand up to pull him into a brief, caressing kiss. “Right. But... Cam.”
“Yeah?”
She swallowed then kissed him again. “Be careful.”
Less than five minutes later, he had a handgun on his hip, a hunting knife in his right hand, and a bulky pack on his left shoulder—and Christ, that pack was heavy.
They knew they couldn’t count on having the pickup or usable diesel for long, so they’d had to make sure they’d be able to carry it while walking or riding bikes.
“We’ll switch to bicycles when we need to,” Cam had told Allie.
“That’s how most of us travel, anyway. A good mountain bike is about the best transpo.
Electric cars are great, and the Plant has some, but they just use them for short cargo runs to nearby settlements—the only place to charge them is at the Plant. ”
Cam readjusted the straps on his back, remembering the way she’d smiled over the idea of using electric cars in the zompocalypse. Someday, he hoped they would become more viable as a way to connect the settlements. At least, that was one of Malcolm’s long-term goals.
But for now, they would drive the truck until they ran out of fuel, then they’d find bikes. Carrying the pack will be easier on the bikes. As the pack on his shoulders was his, it was packed with the heaviest supplies.
They would make it work.
Cam headed up the stairs and out into the early-morning sunlight. He emerged slowly from the entrance and squinted as he scanned the perimeter. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the light.
It took another second for him to register the nearly naked Z crawling toward him.
Instinct, not yet deadened by his time underground, kicked in.
He had a few seconds before it reached him, so he eased the door shut behind him then took a step forward and struck.
The hunting knife sliced into the skull with a dull sound, then the zombie slumped to the ground, leaving Cam’s knife wet with black gunk.
Change that “Days Without Incident” chalkboard number from seven to zero.
Cam checked the perimeter again. He heard a few noises—more ankle-biters were out there.
Vacation time was definitely over.
He wiped his knife blade on what remained of the zombie’s tattered clothing and turned toward the truck, more determined than ever to get this over with and get on the road.
Welcome back to the real world, Cameron Hale.
Watch your fucking step.