Dangerous Days (Book 3): Die Another Day Page 9

  Curious faces lined their route, but Max had no time for any of them. He had only one thought in his head. Not Breytenbach. If it comes to a fight with the other survivors...without him, we might not win.

  10

  Chapter 10 - Logan

  Logan stared at the bite mark marring Nadia's shoulder. It was healed but recent, the scar tissue forming raised ridges on her smooth skin. “Where did you get that?”

  “Nowhere. I told you, it was just an accident.”

  He shook his head. “That's no accident. Someone bit you, and the only things I know of who'd do that, are zombies.”

  Nadia stared at him, one hand clutching the towel to her chest while the other covered the scar. Her eyes were like saucers, and her mouth worked. She looked frightened. It wasn't a look he felt comfortable seeing on her face.

  He sighed and relaxed his stance. His fingers uncurled. “Nadia. I know you're scared, but you owe it to me to tell me the truth.”

  She shook her head, tears welling up. “Leave me alone.”

  “I need to know if you're dangerous.”

  “I'm not,” she whispered, but her tone belied her words.

  Logan raised his hands. “I'll give you a minute, okay? Come to the kitchen when you're ready. I'll pour us a drink...uh...make some coffee. Then you tell me all about it.”

  After a few seconds, she nodded. Counting it a victory, he closed the door behind him and strode to the kitchen. He put the kettle on and made a cup of coffee for Nadia. After a moment of hesitation, he made a second.

  “Suppose I could use something other than alcohol for a change.” He shrugged and stirred in creamer and sugar for Nadia but left his own plain. “As black as sin and strong as a horse.”

  Logan leaned against the counter, folding his long legs at the ankles. His eyes drifted toward the hallway. The whole situation was a nightmare. “There I was, minding my own business, happily drinking myself to death and now...this. I'm stuck with an injured half-human, half-zombie teenager, who's full of shit and mouthy to boot. God, help me.”

  It was all bluster, though. Logan hated to admit it, but he'd grown attached to Nadia. As much crap as she gave him, it was nice to have someone around. He'd even begun to feel protective of her.

  The thought brought him up short when he remembered Morgan. The last time he'd cared about someone, his heart had been ripped out, leaving a gaping void that could never be filled. Never. He stared at the cup of coffee in his hands, bitterness and anger welling up inside.

  “Fuck.” His voice scraped through his throat, raw emotion tearing up his chest. He flung the cup at the wall. It shattered, a brown stain spreading across the tiles.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeated. In a sudden rage, he slammed his fist into the nearest kitchen cupboard, punching a hole straight through.

  Logan.

  There it was. That damned voice that never left him alone. That whispered into his ear whenever he thought of her. Her voice.

  “Fuck―off,” he shouted, grabbing his head in both hands, squeezing as hard as he could. Anything to get rid of it. “Go away.”

  Logan, please.

  “No,” he moaned, anger giving way to despair. “Leave me alone. Please.”

  He fell to his knees as images of Morgan spilled into his brain, one after the other. Her smile, sunlight glinting in her hair, her warm vanilla smell, her voice, long legs wrapped around him, kisses in the shower.

  Look at her. Look at what you'll never see again, hold, again, touch again, his mind taunted him.

  “Logan.”

  “Go away.”

  Hands pulled at his.

  “Logan, I'm here.”

  “Why can't you leave me alone?”

  The voice, soft and sympathetic pulled at him, urging him out of his hell. It wasn't her voice. It was different, younger.

  “Logan, it's okay. Get up.”

  He looked up into Nadia's blue eyes. They reflected his pain back at him, but there was warmth there too. Worry and concern.

  “Please, get up,” she repeated.

  He allowed her to help him to his feet and stumbled towards the nearest chair. Nadia poured him a drink and handed him the whiskey. In one gulp, he downed it.

  “More,” he said.

  With hesitation, she poured him a second glass.

  He shot it down.

  “Another one.”

  Nadia shook her head. “You've had enough.”

  “Another.”

  “No.”

  “Now!” he roared.

  Nadia flinched and backed away, stumbling when he ripped the bottle out of her hands.

  Logan sloshed the amber liquid into the glass, spilling onto the table. He threw it back then closed his eyes and waited. The alcohol took hold with numbing force, smoothing over the sharp edges of his grief. He sighed, thankful when the memories receded.

  His eyes opened, fixing on Nadia who watched him with wary caution. With a wave, he indicated the chair across from him. “Sit.”

  She edged around the table and sat down. They stared at each other in silence. On the wall, a clock in the shape of a rooster ticked, each second as loud as the gong of a bell.

  Nadia spoke first. “What happened to you?”

  Logan said nothing.

  “It must have been pretty bad.” She barked a short laugh. “You're even more messed up than I am, and that's saying something.”

  Logan still didn't reply, and her eyes dropped, fixing onto the scarred wood of the table top. For the briefest of moments, he considered opening up to her. But no, he wasn't the sharing type. Morgan lived now only in his memories.

  “Say something,” Nadia said.

  “You don't need to hear my story. Tell me about the bite. Should I be worried?”

  Nadia's lips opened, hesitant. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe how?”

  “I...” she took a deep breath and folded her hands. “Let me start at the beginning.”

  Logan sat back, waiting.

  “When the outbreak hit, Brandon and I were out having pizza. It was such a fun night. So normal, and I was just happy to get out of the house.” She paused, smiling at the memory.

  To Logan, it was a telling moment, to see her so relaxed. The usual prickly demeanor was gone, replaced by the real Nadia. She's just a kid really.

  “A customer came out of the bathroom. He looked awful. Like death. That's because he was dead.” She snorted with disbelief. “Anyway, he took a chunk out of the waitress. Then he came for us. We barely made it out alive.”

  Logan felt sympathy stir inside. “What then?”

  “We ran home, but it was too late. Our families were gone. Dead or undead, it doesn't matter now. We got into a car and drove out of town, eventually hooking up with other survivors. We stayed together on a wine farm.”

  “One day, Brandon and I were outside, patrolling. We hadn't seen a zombie in days, and I guess we got careless. It attacked out of nowhere and bit me on the shoulder.” She rubbed the spot in remembrance. “I thought I was dead. Done for. But the truth was so much worse.”

  “Go on,” Logan coaxed.

  “After the bite I got sick. Real sick. The others said they'd wait for me to die before putting a bullet in my head. They were kind.” Nadia swallowed. “Too kind.”

  “I didn't die. Not that night or the next. The wound healed. Sort off. And I got better. Of course, everyone was shocked. Nobody had ever heard of anyone being immune before. I was lucky. Or so I thought.”

  “Immune,” Logan mused. “Who'd have thought?”

  Nadia shifted in her chair. “Can I have a cigarette, please?” she asked, voice hoarse.

  Logan pushed the box across the table. She removed one, lighting it then taking a deep drag. The tendrils of smoke drifted toward the ceiling and shrouded her face.

  “Then what?”

  Nadia looked at him, her voice flat. “I killed everyone.”

  “How?”

  “Five days after t
he incident, I was back to normal. That night, Brandon kissed me.” She ran a thumb over her lower lip, eyes distant. “In the middle of the night, I woke to screams. Brandon shared a room with two other guys. During the night, he turned, killing one and injuring the other. That's how it began.”

  Nadia took another drag, staring down at her hands. With her nails, she picked at the wood of the table, digging out a splinter. It pricked her finger, but she didn't seem to notice.

  “I got away, and I don't think anyone else made it. You see, I'm a carrier. I carry the disease inside me, inside my blood, my saliva. When Brandon kissed me, I infected him.”

  Silence fell, thick and heavy. A single tear trickled down Nadia's cheek. Logan leaned forward, turning the idea over in his head. No angle he looked at was in any way favorable either for her or anyone close to her.

  “How long ago did this happen?” he asked.

  “I don't know. Months.”

  “And you've been alone ever since?”

  “Pretty much. I saw survivors once but hid from them. If they found out what I was they'd kick me out, or worse. I mean, who'd want someone like me around? I'm dangerous. Evil.”

  “You're not evil, Nadia.”

  “Yes, I am. I killed him. I killed everyone. How am I supposed to live with that?” she asked, burying her face in her hands.

  Logan had no answers for her.

  “Every day it eats at me, the guilt.”

  “Is that why you cut? You're punishing yourself?”

  “That...started before all of this, but yeah, the cutting helps. It makes the pain inside go away. I don't know how to explain it.”

  “I drink,” Logan replied, waving the bottle at her.

  She lifted an eyebrow, an echo of her usual self appearing. “I've noticed. Does it help?”

  Logan shook his head. “Not really. It numbs the anger, though. Stops the voi...” He cut himself off abruptly.

  “The what?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Forget it.” Logan stood up, dragging the whiskey bottle with him and walked past her. “Time for bed. We can talk again tomorrow. Discuss your options.”

  “Options?”

  “Yeah, you can't stay with me. I'm no good to be around, but maybe you can stay at my old camp. They're good people.”

  “What happened to you, Logan? You're gonna have to tell me sometime or other. You can't run from it forever.”

  “Yes, I can and trust me. I don't have forever.”

  11

  Chapter 11 - Nadia

  After Logan left, Nadia sat without moving. Options? What options? The people at his camp would be scared of her, hate her. Who'd want her around their place―their sons―if she could kill with a kiss?

  But maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't be like that. Maybe they'd be willing to take her in, accept her. She was so tired of being alone. All I need is a chance.

  Nadia got up and tossed the cold coffee Logan had made for her down the drain. After grabbing another cigarette, she lit the gas stove and boiled the kettle, making a fresh cup.

  The cuts on her hands and forearms throbbed in time to her heartbeat, but she welcomed it. It meant she was still alive. Crickets sang as the night deepened outside. Nadia stared through a gap in the boards, remembering.

  ***

  “I can't believe it. You're immune, babes.” Brandon gripped her shoulders, pulling her into an excited hug.

  “Let's not be hasty. Maybe...”

  “Don't be silly. It's been five days!” His eyes shined, highlighted by his mega-watt smile. “Nobody has ever lasted that long.”

  She desperately wanted to believe him, wanted to think she was okay, but fear nagged at her. What if?

  For days she'd suffered. The first forty-eight hours, her wound had burned like acid while a terrible fever raged through her body, rendering her semi-conscious.

  Nothing she ate or drank stayed down, coming up the moment it hit her stomach. Black lines crept outward from the bite wound while her face grew pale and haggard.

  She was sure she was going to die, that she was turning into one of those things. Hell, after two days of sheer agony, she even wished for it.

  But on the third day, the fever subsided, the black lines receded and she could hold down a little water. She slept, really slept, for the first time since the attack. By the fourth day, she was back on her feet, and her appetite had returned.

  Everyone was amazed. She should have turned by the end of day two at the latest. Yet, there she was, pale and thin, but okay. She didn't feel okay, though. At the back of her mind loomed the thought that at any moment, the virus would return, and she'd become a zombie.

  “What's with the sad face? You're fine, babes.” Brandon drew her closer. His lips brushed over hers. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling. It was warm and comforting. His lips were as familiar as her own.

  The kiss grew deeper, and Nadia clung to Brandon with desperate intensity, trying to convince herself that nothing had changed, that she was still the same. A desperate hope.

  The sound of someone clearing their throat pulled them apart. Nadia blushed when she saw it was Joshua, the group leader.

  “Hate to break up you two love birds, but Brandon is up for sentry duty and you, my dear, need your rest. You've just recovered from a zombie bite. Don't push it.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Nadia replied, hanging her head.

  “See you later, babes.” Brandon gave her a quick peck on the cheek before rushing outside to report for his shift. Nadia decided to follow Joshua's advice and took herself off to bed.

  “Hey, Nads. You feeling better?” Andrea greeted when Nadia walked into the room. She was lying on the lower bunk, reading Watership Down.

  “I'm okay. Just tired.” Nadia pointed at the book. “You reading that again?”

  Andrea peered at her through her spectacles. “It's my favorite. You know that. If you'd read it, you'd understand.”

  Nadia shook her head. “Nu-uh. Reading's not my thing.”

  Andrea lifted an eyebrow. “But piercings, tattoos, and leather are?”

  Nadia winked at Andrea. “What can I say? A girl has got to get her sexy on even if it's the end of the world.”

  “I'm guessing your mother had a tough time keeping you under control.”

  Nadia's face darkened, and she crawled onto the top bunk, flopping down to face the ceiling. “My mother didn't give a shit about me.”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you.”

  “It's fine. Forget about it.” Nadia turned onto her side until she faced the wall and whispered, “It's not your fault she was a drug addict. Probably never even realized Terence was eating her face off until it was too late.” A single tear trickled from the corner of her eye. Stupid bitch.

  Pieces of her past flashed through her mind forming a tapestry of shitty memories. Her mom, passed out on the couch, a needle dangling from her arm. Her step-dad, Terence, throwing another one of his violent, drunken fits. The two shouting at each other in front of two frightened kids huddled in the corner.

  “Nadia, I'm scared.”

  “Shh, Bobby. It's okay. I'll protect you.”

  Another piece―this one two years in the future―thrust itself into her consciousness with all the clarity and cutting edge of a knife.

  “Mom.”

  No response. Mouth slack, eyes dulled in a stupor too deep to be penetrated by mere words.

  “Mom, where's Bobby?”

  Nothing.

  “Bobby?” Her schoolbag went flying to the side. Fierce haste as a sense of urgency took hold. “Bobby, where are you?”

  The patio door stood open, the curtain fluttering in the wind.

  “No.” A hopeless whisper. A dread that went bone-deep.

  Running.

  Crying.

  Begging.

  “Bobby? Bobby, no. Bobby, please.”

  Shoes slipping on tiles.

  A small shape floating face-down in the pool. Motionless but for the
gentle lapping of the water.

  “No! Bobby, no!”

  A harsh tearing cry that took her heart and soul with it. A single scene from her childhood that encapsulated everything about her life. Fear, rejection, horror, failure, pain. Most of all, guilt.

  The pillow beneath Nadia's cheek grew damp with the tears that ran silently across her face, sinking into the rough cotton material. “I'm sorry, Bobby. I should have been there.”

  Exhaustion finally banished the terrible memories, and Nadia sank into oblivion, tense muscles melting into the lumpy mattress as sleep took hold.

  Screams.

  Shrill, strident peals ringing in her ears.

  “What the...?” Nadia bolted upright, pausing when her head swam from the sudden movement. She blinked, trying to clear her head. The room was pitch black, and she couldn't see a thing.

  The screams weren't stopping.

  They were coming closer.

  “Nadia,” came Andrea's quavering voice from below. “What's happening?”

  “I don't know.” Her friend's fear snapped Nadia out of her funk, and she came wide awake. “Andrea, switch the light on. Now.”

  “Okay.”

  It was a temperamental little thing―only deigning to work when it felt like it, regardless of whether it had a full charge or not. Luckily, this time, the small solar lamp next to the bed flickered on, casting a reluctant glow on the scene. Nadia groped beneath her cushion for her gun. She never slept without it.

  It wasn't there.

  “Fuck.”

  Brandon must have taken it when she fell ill. He was the only one who knew about it. Her fingers groped at her clothes, frantic, and came up empty. She was defenseless.

  Not defenseless.

  Her hand closed around the cross that hung around her neck, and she slung it over her head in one smooth movement, wrapping the chain around her wrist.

  “Andrea. Do you have a weapon? A gun, knife, anything?”

  “No, I...”

  The door burst open. A snarling infected charged into the room. Nadia recognized him as one of the boys who shared a room with Brandon. His throat had been ripped out. Muscle and tendon gleamed with the richness of fresh blood.