Catching Red (4 page)

“So it’s just a normal sink but a third the size.” She lowered herself onto the edge of the trough. “Why is it on top of what I assume is a toilet?”

He put toothpaste on his plastic brush and handed it to her. “Gray water drains into the toilet tank. That way, we don’t waste clean water when flushing.” He tapped the small drain on the concrete floor with his booted foot. “The same goes for bath water, but you need to pump it up. That’s what the third lever over there is for.”

He grabbed the plastic jug resting on the sink, scooped up some of the liquid, and placed it next to her on the ledge. “The sink water is freezing, so use what I just warmed up. Do you need help taking off the rest of your clothes?”

She reached for the handle with her injured arm and winced. “I think I can manage.”

He ignored her statement and got down on one knee in front of her. “You don’t have to worry about me, Red. Until you’re in fighting shape, I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

She frowned. “What’s a gentleman?”

He took note of the odd question but decided to shelve his curiosity for later. “In this context, it means I have a rule against taking advantage of helpless females.”

Her lids lowered. Thick russet lashes fanned over her cheeks. After a moment’s pause, she glared at him. “Touch me, and I’ll stab you in the neck.”

He glanced at the toothbrush in her hand. “To do any damage, you’d need to sharpen it first.”

For the briefest moment, her cheeks dimpled. “Try me.”

Since his recent estimation of her strength had been consistently off the mark, he erred on the side of caution. Crossing his arms, he challenged, “Why don’t we make a bet? If you can get your sneakers off all by your lonesome, I’ll leave you to it. If you fail miserably, you’ll let me give you a hand.”

She reached for her laces, her expression mulish. Her dominant arm was out of commission. Her fingers trembled. Despite her valiant efforts, she couldn’t undo the series of knots holding her battered shoes in place. Her chest heaving, she yanked her hand back, sat up straight, and whipped her head to face the wall.

He made quick work of her shoes before attending to the belt and zipper. When he peeled the denim over the wound on her thigh, her entire body tensed. She didn’t make a sound. “There’s no reason to act tough. You’ll be screaming and crying as soon as the immunoglobulin gets into your system.”

He pulled the garment off her. His stomach turned at the sight of her slim legs. He had thought the bruises on her arms were bad. They were nothing compared to the ones covering her thighs and calves.

When he looked up, he found her staring at her fingernails. He opened his mouth to ask her about the marks before deciding against it. At this stage, she wasn’t going to tell him anything. He needed to establish trust. Only then would he be able to glean useful information.

“I’ll be okay from here.” Her voice was just above a whisper.

He nodded and picked up the discarded garment. “Don’t worry about your clothes. I’ll get them later. I’ll leave something for you to change into by the curtain. Holler if you need help.”

She gave him a jerky nod. Her cheeks had turned bright red. Though he was reluctant to leave her alone, her evident discomfort convinced him to give her some space. He drew the curtain shut as he walked out.

Marcus’ blade hovered a few inches from the redhead’s throat. “This is going to hurt like hell.”

Dressed in his T-shirt and boxers, she appeared smaller and more fragile than his initial impression. Bravado and self-possession had a way of making people seem stronger than their physical limits. While she still had both qualities in spades, she was fading fast. Her lids were heavy. Her dark green eyes were wide and vulnerable. She didn’t look like she could heft the backpack she brought here, let alone endure what was about to happen.

Her cheeks were snow-white. Her lips resembled ash. Dampened, her hair was the color of blood. The shoulder-length tresses clung to her cheeks and neck. They snaked around wounds old and new, combining into a tapestry he feared portended her demise. Injuries aside, her chances of surviving this treatment weren’t high.

Her next words didn’t do much to bolster his confidence. “I’ve been through worse.”

Sweat coated her forehead. Her entire body shook. The fever had begun. Delaying the injections any longer would be counterproductive. She was clean, dry, and reasonably comfortable. Hers would be a better death than many others he had seen.

Sedation was recommended prior to administering the vaccine. He had been told combating the Undead Reanimation Virus was akin to being eaten alive. All nerve endings fired to signal pain, which compounded into waves of molten torment. She was about to fight off the actual virus, not the weakened form used for inoculations.

When administered to a vaccinated individual, URV immunoglobulin acted like adrenaline on steroids. The FMA included a few doses in all medical kits in hopes of giving operatives enough energy to hightail it back alive. Treating infected nomads violated protocol. As such, no anesthetics had been provided.

Red gritted her teeth in silence as he reopened her neck wound. When he dumped a copious amount of alcohol over the bite, her back arched and her fingers clawed into the mattress. The only sound that escaped her throat was a muffled groan.

“If you feel like you’re about to pass out, don’t fight it. The pain only gets worse from here.” He gave her a scrap of leather to bite on before stabbing the syringe into her neck. He emptied its contents to the sound of her bloodcurdling scream. He dislodged the needle just before a seizure racked her body. Anticipating the antibodies’ effect, he scooped up all nearby sharp objects and jumped off the bed.

Her muscles contracted. Spasms took her over. Holding her still would do more harm than good. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to do something—anything—to ease her suffering. Standing by and just watching was the hardest thing he had ever done.

After what seemed like an eternity, she went limp. To his surprise, those heavy lids opened and glazed eyes met his. Her ability to remain lucid despite the side effects of an immunoglobulin injection was mind-boggling. At the point of entry, the virus reacted with antibodies to cause indescribable agony. She must have been fighting to stay conscious with every bone in her body.

Her efforts were a waste. It was a matter of time before she lost the fight. If the pain didn’t do her in, the fever would soon enough. And if by some miracle neither succeeded in the next fifteen minutes, he would do the humane thing and knock her out.

“This stuff better work.” Her words were slurred. “What does it do exactly?”

Since he couldn’t bring himself to attack the next wound just yet, he answered her question. “Undead are created by a lethal virus that reanimates flesh after all brain function ceases. The injection keeps you alive until your body can fight off the disease on its own.”

“So I’m the one that kills it.” She sounded pleased by prospect.

He shook his head. “Not quite. If you survive, the virus stays inside you. Once your immune system learns how to keep it in check, there’s no danger. I have URV as well, though I was vaccinated rather than directly exposed. As long as it doesn’t kill you, exposure is relatively symptom free.”

Judging from her expression, most of what he said must have sounded like gibberish. She nonetheless lifted her matted brows. “Relatively?”

This woman had a knack for spotting verbal cues. “There are a few side effects.”

She shot up into a sitting position. “When were you going to tell me?”

He stared at her—more stunned by her ability to rise than her question. “Does it matter? The alternative is death.”

She slumped back onto the foam mattress. “Tell me about the side effects when you cut open the other wound.” She managed a small smile before continuing. “Outrage will keep me distracted.”

He was beginning to really like her, which was an unfortunate development. He would put her chances of survival at less than 20 percent. While he would prefer to render her unconscious, he respected her enough to play it her way. “The most notable symptom is rapid cellular regeneration when the infection cycle crests. Whether or not you join the undead ranks, all your flesh wounds will be healed up by the time you’re conscious. The other side effect is temporary infertility.” He reached for his knife. “After everyone in the city was vaccinated, we went through a two-year period when no babies were born.”

She waved her uninjured arm in the air. When he split open the wound, her hand clenched into a fist and dropped to her side. “So far, all I’ve heard is good news,” she managed to mutter through clenched teeth.

“In a manner of speaking, the vaccine’s fallout was fortuitous. Since they hadn’t known how long the effect would last, it caused a scare and forced the government to open our doors to refugees.” The FMA’s decision was a classic example of too little too late. There hadn’t been many nomads left. Those who’d survived thirty years in the wilds weren’t the trusting sort.

As he continued the disinfection process, she bit her lip hard enough droplets of blood formed where her teeth met skin. “Did anyone show up?”

“Not as many as we expected.” Over the past two decades the predicted influx of immigrants never materialized. Washington, D.C.’s population had been on a steady decline even before the vaccine’s discovery. Skewed demographics resulted in low birthrates. Because the majority of initial inhabitants were chosen from the military, engineering, and scientific communities, over 70 percent of them had been male.

Projections still indicated a pattern leading to extinction. But macrolevel problems were far above his pay grade. For now, his contribution to the survival of the human race was limited to keeping this redhead alive. He was beginning to realize his success might not be an insignificant accomplishment.

“Is that why you’re out here roaming the wastelands? Are you looking for people to bring back?” She squeezed her eyes shut as the tip of the second syringe pressed up against the wound on her arm.

“My mission is to collect information. When we met, I was doing a risk assessment on the hospital. Medical equipment is in short supply. Now that it’s safer for operatives to traverse the wild, gathering information on what can still be salvaged is a top priority. Bite down on this.” He shoved the piece of leather into her mouth before pressing the plunger. The last thing he needed was for her to bite off her own tongue. Her recent quips amounted to more entertainment than he’d had in years.

Once the seizures subsided, he retrieved the gag. When she managed to pry her eyes open, he could see her pupils were dilated. The hold she had on consciousness was a tenuous one. “I don’t think I know your name.”

Come to think of it, they had both been too busy staying alive to be properly introduced. “Most people call me Woodsman.”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “I’m not most people. What would you like me to call you?”

He couldn’t help but wonder how troublesome she would be when she didn’t have one foot in the grave. The desire to see her survive intensified. She couldn’t die. He wouldn’t allow it. “My name is Marcus. It’s underutilized, so you can go crazy with it.”

She blew out a ragged breath. “I don’t know why using your name would drive me insane, but I accept the challenge. My name is Scarlet. You may continue to call me Red, if you’d like.”

He smoothed a stray strand of hair off her face. Gently waved, it flowed around his fingers like water. “There’s one more injection to go. This tough-gal act must be getting old. When I open the next wound, don’t fight to stay conscious.”

Her head shifted from side to side. “No.”

“Why are you trying so hard?” He traced a line down her cheek with his thumb. “You’ve trusted me this far. You must know I won’t hurt you.”

She sighed. “If you wanted me dead, I would be. That’s not what this is about. There somewhere I need to be…I can’t…”

He gripped her chin. “Until the fever breaks, you won’t be able to lift a finger. Walking out of here is off the table for at least two weeks.”

The muscles on the sides of her jaw clenched. “There are people counting on me…”

Her eyes grew so wide he could see dark lines forming around the irises. It didn’t matter what she wanted—the infection was about to win. He gentled his voice. “They’ll have to wait. You’re no good to them dead.”

He sliced his knife into the wound on her thigh. All her muscles drew taut before she went limp. He released a pent-up breath. The invisible weight on his shoulders lightened. Until now, her suffering had affected him far more than it should.

Marcus sighed. He didn’t like complications, but he had a feeling he’d just invited one in. No matter what came after, this encounter had changed his life. Red was no longer a stranger. She mattered.

* * * *

Spotting the black SUV, Marcus dismounted and slapped Gold’s rump. With a whinny, the palomino mare trotted back into the woods. He had found and tamed the horse two years ago. After the outbreak spread, a number of domesticated animals broke free to form herds. Able to graze on the encroaching wilderness and fast enough to avoid undead, the sturdier animals thrived and bred. No longer forced to travel on hard roads, the once babied species did well even without farriers, constant grooming, and veterinary care.

Not long after he left the city, he became fascinated with capturing and taming a mount. Traveling in a government-issued vehicle was a surefire way of signaling where he was from. His cover as a trader required reliable means of transportation. It was a conundrum he had been left to solve on his own. Using the FMA’s archives, which contained an electronic copy of most books ever written, he taught himself enough about the basics of horsemanship to fashion a head-collar and attempt capture.

It took countless days of pain, most of which was spent with his ass on the ground, to acquire a mount. Months passed before his thighs and calves grew strong enough to grip the animal with ease. Muscle pain after dismount was now a distant memory. Tying the animal down would guarantee death by a brain-eater, so he let Gold graze as she willed. The horse never ventured too far away, and all it took was a whistle for her to trot over.