Chapter 7
SEVEN
PARIS
I kill my flashlight, and the storage room plunges into darkness, broken only by thin slivers of light from around the door frame. The engine grows louder, then cuts off. Car doors slam. Voices. Male, at least two, drift through the broken front window.
“You sure this is the place?” The voice is deep, gravelly.
“Map said corner of Elm and Third.” This voice is higher, nasal.
“Got company,” says Gravelly Voice.
Heavy footsteps approach the shop front, followed by the distinctive sound of blade meeting flesh. A wet squelch, then a thud as something heavy hits pavement.
Like a watermelon splitting open.
More shuffling outside. Another squelch-thud, but this one’s different—a metallic ping follows it.
“Goddamn it, Alex, you’re gonna dull that machete,” Gravelly Voice says.
“Like it matters with these soft-headed fucks.” Nasal Voice—Alex, apparently—laughs.
Footsteps crunch on broken glass. They’re inside. I ease backward, deeper into the shadows, trying to mold myself into the wall.
“This ain’t no watch shop.” More glass crunches as Gravelly moves around the front area. “It’s some fancy food place.”
“Let me see… Shit. You’re right.”
“No fucking kidding I’m right. There’s a goddamn cheese knife on the floor.”
The storage room door is ajar. If they decide to explore, they’ll find me in seconds. My hand drifts to the katana strapped across my back. The weight feels reassuring, but taking on two men would be risky.
Please don’t come back here. Please don’t come back here. Please don’t—
“Hold up,” Alex calls. “I think I switched it up. It should be a street further. Lexington and Third.”
“You serious right now? We’ve been driving around for three hours because you can’t read a fucking map?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault everything looks the same in this shithole city.”
More crunching glass. A third voice calls from outside: “Yo! What’s taking so long? We’re burning daylight!”
“Nothing here,” Gravelly shouts back. “Alex fucked up the directions. Again.”
“Did not. The map—”
“Save it. Let’s go and keep your eyes open.”
Footsteps retreat, glass crunching a final staccato as they exit. Car doors slam. The engine roars to life, then fades as they drive away.
I remain frozen for a full minute, counting heartbeats, before I dare move. My legs tremble as I stand, pins and needles prickling from crouching too long.
“Well, that was fun.” I wipe cold sweat from my forehead. “Really fucking fun.”
I finish stuffing noodles into my backpack, hands steadier now that the danger has passed.
It’s funny, sad funny, not ha-ha funny, how I can stroll past zombies without them noticing, but humans? Humans will always be the real threat.
I don’t know which would be a bigger concern.
No. Scratch that.
Men.
I sling my overstuffed backpack over my shoulders and peek out of the storage room, scanning the shop’s interior. Clear. At the broken window, I pause to check the street. They should be gone.
The trek back to the penthouse passes in a blur of a few zombies and bone-deep weariness. My mind ping-pongs between worrying about Knox discovering I left and what I’ll say when he inevitably asks where I’ve been. I’m not used to having someone monitor my comings and goings.
I slide my key into the lock and turn it as quietly as I possibly can. The door swings open—and everything inside me freezes.
Knox thrashes violently on the sofa, his head whipping from side to side, limbs flailing against invisible enemies, while sweat slicks his face, his borrowed t-shirt clinging to his heaving chest, and his jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding from across the room.
“Fuck!” I drop my backpack with my katana and race toward him, the door closing shut behind me. “Knox!”
His eyes remain shut, unseeing, lost in whatever nightmare has him in its grip. He throws a punch at nothing, nearly toppling off the couch.
“Sarah! Sarah!” His voice is raw, desperate. “Get out—get—”
I hover near him, hands outstretched but not touching. My brother used to have night terrors when I was little. Mom said never wake someone suddenly during one.
“Knox,” I try again, softer. “It’s just a dream. Wake—”
He jerks violently, a wounded sound escaping his throat. “No! Please—”
“Knox.” I risk touching his shoulder. “Wake up.”
His hand snaps up, fingers clutching my wrist with bruising force. His eyes fly open. For a terrifying moment, they remind me of zombie eyes, present but unseeing. Then awareness floods in, pupils contracting as he orients himself.
“It’s me,” I whisper. “Paris.”
His grip loosens but doesn’t release. “Paris?”
“Yeah.” I try for light, miss by a mile. “Bad dream?”
He lets go of my wrist, pushing himself upright. His eyes land on me, taking in my clothes, then shift to the backpack and katana by the door. “You went outside.”
No apology. No embarrassment.
“I—” The lie dies on my tongue. “Supply run.”
“Alone?” His voice sharpens.
“No, I took my invisible army.” I step back, rubbing my wrist. “Yes, alone.”
“What the fuck, Paris?” His jaw works, something dangerous flashing behind his eyes. “You shouldn’t have gone without me.”
“You were asleep. And injured.” I gesture at his ankle. “Besides, I’ve been doing this without your permission just fine. Got noodles, by the way. The good kind. You’re welcome.”
He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, muscles tensing beneath his t-shirt. “What if something had happened to you? I couldn’t even help—couldn’t even fucking know where—Fuck.”
Foolish warmth blooms in my chest at his words. “I can take care of myself.”
“Against zombies? Maybe. Against other survivors? The kind who’d do worse than kill you?”
“I—” Lie, Paris. Do it. You can do it. “Ran into some, actually. They didn’t see me.”
“You could have been—”
“Killed? Raped? Eaten?” My voice comes out brittle. “Trust me, I’ve played that highlight reel in my head on repeat since day one.”
“And yet you still went out alone.”
“What choice do I have? Sit here and starve to death?” I march to my backpack, yanking it open and tossing the Batman comics onto the coffee table.
His eyes flick down, then back to me, something shifting in his expression.
“Brought you something to read,” I say.
He picks up the top comic, thumb brushing over the cover. “You risked your life for Batman?”
“Not for Batman. For—” I snap my mouth shut, heat crawling up my neck. ‘For you’ doesn’t seem like the right answer here.
He sets the comic down, eyes never leaving mine. “Who’s Poti?”
The abrupt subject change knocks me off-balance. “What?”
“Is it the pot? Creative name.”
I gather the Batman figurine from my pocket. My fingers close around it protectively. “That’s none of your business.”
“Paris—”
“No. You don’t get to have nightmares about someone named Sarah, then interrogate me about who I talk to.”
His face hardens instantly.
“Sometimes I talk to things.” I place the figurine on the shelf near the TV. “To myself. So what? It’s a stupid coping mechanism. You probably have healthier ones, right?” I glance back at him. “Like the thrashing and screaming in your sleep?”
A vein pulses at his temple, and we glare at each other in a silent battle.
“Sarah was my fiancée.” His voice is flat. “Did you ever have to choose between killing someone or letting them become one of those things?”
Oh.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t find a single fucking thing to say that won’t sound empty or stupid or both.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“I know.” He deflates, staring down at his hands. Strong hands. Hands that killed zombies. Hands that killed someone he loved. “We went for supplies.”
I sink onto the arm of the couch, not touching him but close enough that I could. “Knox—”
“She was bitten because I reached her too late.” His fingers twitch, like they’re remembering the weight of a gun. “Fever hit fast. She asked me to… before she turned.”
My throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
I weigh my options, a mental scale tipping back and forth. Tell him. Don’t tell him.
Fuck it.
“Zombies don’t see me,” I say. “Never have. So you don’t have to worry about me, if that’s why you’re so angry…”
He stares. “What?”
“That’s how I’ve survived alone for over a year. That’s how I can walk outside without getting torn apart. That’s why I went without you.”
“If this is true—”
“It is.”
“—then why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because the last guy tried to bleed me dry for it?
” I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears.
Funny how I refer to my father now with ‘last guy.’ “Or maybe because it’s not exactly first-date conversation material.
‘Hi, I’m Paris, zombies think I’m invisible, how’s your pasta? ’”
“Give me your wrist.”
I cradle it against my chest, rubbing the tender skin where his grip left marks. “It’s fine.”
“Paris.” He sighs. “Let me see your wrist.”
“Why? So you can feel bad? No thanks.”
His eyes hold mine, not challenging but something else. Patient. “Please.”
Ugh.
I scoot over, close enough that the heat from his body radiates against my side. Our thighs almost touch. Almost. I look away, focusing on the Batman figurine across the room as I extend my arm, offering my wrist like some kind of sacrifice. “There. Happy?”
His fingers brush my skin, removing the glove before circling my wrist. Not the grip of a soldier but the touch of someone handling something fragile.
“Shit.” He turns my wrist gently. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing. I’ve had worse… paper cuts.”
“That’s not the point.” His thumb traces a circle over my pulse point, sending tingles up my arm.
“What is the point then?”
“The point is—” He cradles my hand between both of his, warm and calloused. “I hurt you. Didn’t mean to, but I did.”
“You were having a nightmare.”
“Not an excuse.”
My skin feels too tight, too sensitive where he touches me.
His breath ghosts over my skin. “Does it hurt?”
“No.” I risk a glance at him. His focus remains on my wrist, his brow furrowed. “I’ll live.”
“I’m sorry, Paris.” He says my name like it means something, and god help me, I want it to.
“For grabbing my wrist or for yelling at me about the supply run?”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Both.”
My heart races like I’m hanging off the side of a building.
In another scenario, I probably wouldn’t mind the grabbing.
“My mom used to do this.” He lifts my wrist to his lips and presses a gentle kiss against the red marks his fingers left. “Said kisses make everything better.”
Electricity races up my arm, short-circuiting the last of my brain function.
“Did it work?” I manage, voice embarrassingly breathy.
“Never.” His eyes lock onto mine. “But I liked the attention.”
“Well, I’m not feeling better either.” I’m feeling something, but ‘better’ isn’t the word.
“No?”
“Maybe you need to try harder.”
A smirk forms on his lips. “Is that right?”
“For science.”
He kisses my wrist again, slower this time, his lips lingering, and my skin buzzing.
“Better?” he murmurs.
“Getting there.”
His eyes never leave mine as he turns my arm, pressing another kiss to my palm. “How’s that?”
“Perfect.” No. Wait! I stand abruptly, wrenching my arm free. His intensity is too much, like staring at the sun, and the warmth lingering like a ghost that haunts you until the rest of your life… and in the afterlife. “I’m going to make porridge. You hungry?”
His gaze follows me. “Starving.”