The Survivors: Book One (54 page)

CCrraack! Sswwwooosh!

The door gave way, buckling under the weight of the sopping mud that began to flow into the dark hall from a doorway. The soggy dirt was almost up to the ceiling, and pale worms the size of pencils squirmed all over each other and the debris, trying to rebury themselves. It horrified Angela. It was normal that the smallest and fastest breeding animals would begin to change first; snakes, rats, worms, but the sight was enough to wake that steel in her spine.

“Those are wrong. They shouldn’t be that big,” Angela stated with an odd tone to her voice, feet rooted to the spot as the desire to kill them flooded her. They were a future danger, an abomination. They needed to be handled.

“Not by us, Honey,” Marc nudged her further up the steep, twisted stairs. “Keep going. It’ll take a full day to go back that way.”

She turned reluctantly, and they moved to the roof’s exit door, but Marc pulled her back before she could step out, both of them listening for Dog in the light wind. “Wait. Check it out first. Always.”

“Teach me how to do this.”

He nodded, leaving his eyes on hers. She really would have made a good Marine, a strong fighter. “Stay no more than two feet away and step where I do. If I were to fall, you should come back here and start digging your way out with boards or whatever you can find.”

Angela kept her head down at the thought of losing him, and her mind flew to her gifts. She’d do what she had to, no matter how forbidden it was.

“The whole hillside’s gone.”

They stood just outside the doorway, the rest of the roof cracked, crumbled, missing in places. The Show Me state gave them an awful view of missing homes, businesses, and roads that had been between the hill and the theater. Even the reeking turkey farm and rye field beside them was now a twenty foot high pile of uneven, treacherous mud and debris as far as they could see to the east. Small puffs of smoke and dust rose eerily in the early morning chill.

“Look.” Angela pointed to a black corner, where thick, sloppy mud was still spilling around the front of the theater. “Is that a Blazer?”

Marc sounded relieved. “Mud must have pushed ‘em out. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Angela smiled. “Think we already did. I hear Dog.”

“Come on. Let’s get down from here before the whole mall collapses.”

“We need rope.”

“It’s in the Blazer with my bag.”

Marc was reprimanding himself for leaving his kit when she pointed to the dead telephone wires. “Can we use those?”

Marc frowned. “It’s the grip that’s hard. The poles and wires are sprayed with a flame retardant chemical that makes it slippery. We’ll have to braid a rope together.”

He began fishing in his pockets. “We’ll hope the pole wasn’t loosened by the mudslide.” He cut the phone, cable, and electric wires, and quickly wove them together.

“Will this work?”

He shrugged. “We’re gonna find out. If it breaks, try to go limp.”

Angela watched as he stood up, eyeing a dark patch of brackish mud that she was sure covered a deer that had been impaled by the thin branch of a walnut tree.

Marc wrapped the braided cord around his fist, and then his waist.

Angela scowled fearfully. “Is this the best we can...”

“Hang on!”

A second later she was tight against his body, feet in the air, and then they were dropping off the side of the building.

“Semper Fi!”

His shout gave her the courage to wrap her legs around him and keep her head up as the ground flew closer.

Marc had swung them toward the pole, hoping to slow their descent. He put his feet straight out so that they slammed into the wood with a jerk that had their grip on each other tightening painfully.

Legs holding them to the slippery pole, Marc’s eyes picked out a shallow-looking patch of mud and swung them for it just as the braided cord snapped under their weight, dropping them to the ground with a hard, wet thud.

They landed with her on top, legs pinned around his waist, and she winced as the layer of mud shifted beneath them, putting more pressure on her knee.

“You okay?”

His eyes were closed, and she leaned closer, muddy hands feeling his pulse. “Brady?”

Dazed, but aware she was getting upset, Marc opened his eyes and said the first thing that came to mind, “Never have I seen anything so beautiful.”

Angela blushed, fighting the urge to lean down and kiss his pouty lips in relief. “If you say so. How about getting off my sore leg?”

They were on their feet a second later, and he was reaching for her. “Let me see.”

"I'm fine." Angela moved back, turning away as she slung mud from her hands. “Let’s see about Dog.”

Marc followed her, frowning. Another side effect of her man or the life she’d had?
"Neither,"
his heart whispered.
"She feels the attraction too. She’s not scared. She’s interested and feeling guilty about it."
That made sense. Angie and loyalty went hand in hand.

While Marc let the anxious wolf out, Dog eagerly rushing to check them both over, Angela took a minute to scan what was left of the town for people, for survivors. She still hoped they might be able to help if someone was stuck, or leave food, but there was only silence. Kirksville was a ghost town, and it made her think of the History Channel. All the bodies that had to be buried under that mile-long stretch of thick mud - would archeologists find them hundreds of years from now and try to figure out what had happened?

“We got lucky.”

Angela nodded, but didn’t say anything, sure it was more than luck. Fate had allowed both of them to survive again and again. Was it because it wanted something from them, something bigger than just their tiny lives?

The two Blazers were mud-splattered, the glass on Marc’s side window cracked, but other than dents in the fender and bumper, both vehicles had held up despite being shoved through the glassless windows by a wall of mud. They climbed into driver’s seats with squelches, grimaces, and shared grins. They were alive and on the move. It had been a good day.

As they drove, Angela’s mind was on her reaction to Marc reaching for her. She had wanted to step into his embrace! She was no longer able to ignore the closeness that was growing. He’d broken through her walls, and the old Angela was now wide awake and longing. They had traveled well together, even with the occasional awkward looks and searing tension that sometimes happened. He was still a good man.
"Your man?"
the Witch questioned and Angela was glad when Brady interrupted.

“You okay back there?”

She flashed her lights in response and saw he wanted to say something, but wouldn't. She’d been a fool not to call him all those years ago.

“Ready to go till dark?”

She smiled, picked up the mic, “And then some. You lead, I’ll follow.”

“Copy that.”

They had been traveling together for a month now. Five hundred miles of heartbreaking, gut wrenching, unbelievable horror, and Missouri was no different than Indiana, Virginia, or Ohio. Except that the ground here felt bad; smelled and looked worse. They had even seen their first mutation yesterday. Only a single ant, pitch black and the size of a baby’s shoe, all six of its eyes had watched them alertly as they went by.

When she’d stopped, Marc hadn’t said anything, just waited while she squashed the freak under her tires. It had been a powerful moment for him, seeing Angie so appalled by something that she would decide it didn’t have the right to exist, and he had never felt closer to her than at that moment. It was how he’d spent most of his adult life.

“Three o’clock, down low.”

Angela narrowed her eyes and immediately hit the brakes, looking for a clear way over.

“Use your gun this time,” he instructed and Angela didn’t fight the urge to destroy, the need to do something overpowering. She’d had to let the worms go. These she wouldn’t.

“Slow down. Don’t scare them off.”

The small pack of mutated ants didn’t stray from their slow, disorderly course through the dying switch grass, and didn’t seem afraid of the tires and engines that moved closer, but the Witch said they were aware, that she could feel the scent of alarm coming from them. Angela slid her window down and took the safety off her gun.

“That’s close enough.”

The Witch frowned at the distance, but Angela nodded. She could hit them from here if she really tried, and he knew it, wanted her to use this as a lesson too.

“My how we’ve changed,”
the Witch commented as anger and revulsion took over her trigger finger.
“Not a killer, huh?”

Angela ignored the hurtful jab. These mutations were in reach and couldn’t be allowed to endanger more of her people, couldn’t be left free to turn America into a cheap slasher film.

Angela opened fire and ants began falling. They tried to flee, squealing, and panic-stricken and she took a savage, guilty pleasure in their destruction, getting the last one with her tire as it darted for cover under the Blazer.

Marc was impressed, turned on, and he struggled to keep it from his voice as he keyed the mic, “Very good. Ready?”

“Let’s roll.”

4

They traveled until it was almost dark. The land around them was wet, deceitful-looking, and by the time they hit higher, dryer ground, the mud had molded to them like a second skin. Marc had chosen to make camp out in the open, on a flat, almost deserted stretch of highway because of the mud, and their only cover was two moss-dotted dogwood trees, both without a single bloom.

“You look like an abused dog.”

Marc grinned, moving to the rear of his Blazer. “Feel like one too.”

“Let's make a shower.”

He thought about it for a minute, then began to gather a mental list. “Got an empty gallon jug?”

An hour later, the wolf was out roaming the breezy, almost warm darkness around them, and they had tested their crude invention on the dinner dishes, sharing a tired grin of accomplishment. It had been a long day.

“Where should we set it up at?”

She didn’t answer, just tossed a blanket onto the roof of his Blazer and moved one of the jugs they had warmed to the hood. When she turned, he was frowning. “What’s wrong?”

It amused her to see his face was red in the light of their small fire. “Who’s gonna hold the towel?”

She grinned back, starting to get a bit nervous but hiding it. “I’ll pull my Blazer alongside. Once we open the doors and hang a couple of sheets, it’ll be fine.”

Thinking this was probably going to be hard on her, Marc got busy. The privacy was for her, not him. He had showered with ten other naked men in the room nearly every day for years.

When the jugs were ready, Angela climbed confidently onto the roof and sat down, supplies next to her. Marc took off his Colt’s and stepped inside the cozy little 4x4 area. As he began undressing, Angela lit a smoke, trying not to imagine his every move but failing, as she kept watch on the dark, Missouri sky.

Her sharp gaze picked out shadowy forms of mountains to the east that she assumed were the Ozarks. It looked normal from here, but she wasn’t fooled, and went back to keeping watch.

Rap-rap-rap-rap!

Angela fumbled for her gun, felt Marc's frown even though she couldn't see it.

“It’s just a woodpecker.”

“This time of night?”

“Everything's screwed up right now for them, too.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t be, just remember it. Once you make yourself familiar with the sounds of your surroundings, you’ll only react to what’s not normal for that situation. Your mind will sort it out for you.”

She smiled softly, grateful for him and all she was learning. He was the perfect teacher, never made her feel stupid, or acted like he was better, and she loved being with him. Angela heard his dog tag clink and felt her mouth go dry at the thought of his naked chest. His belt buckle was next, then a zipper, and a rustle of jeans that made her heart pound.

“Hit me, woman,” he called cheerfully and Angela slowly began pouring warm water into the “shower” they’d made, thinking she hadn’t heard any underwear. She sucked in a surprised breath when her body responded to that image. He was the only male she had ever been physically attracted to.

“Liar.”
She ignored the Witch.

“Soap, please.”

That brought a new set of images, and she was careful not to touch his wet fingers as she handed the blue cake down.

“Washrag?”

She got it quickly, wishing he would hurry. When he finally called for a rinse, her mind was glad. Too many feelings and memories were coming to her, and it had to stop. A spark hadn't been enough then and it wouldn't be now, either.

“I’m done, so you can stop drooling.”

Angela flushed, shaking her head in embarrassed denial.

Marc laughed, drying off. “Well, I thought it was funny. Come on down. Your turn.”

Angela moved slowly, fear creeping into her veins at the thought of being defenseless with a man above her.

Marc sensed it as he stepped out, pulling on his shirt. Their eyes locked, spoke.

"I’m scared."

"You can trust me."

"Prove it."

Marc nodded. “Hang on.” He pulled on his shoes and then dug out another blanket that he tossed over the opening, making her smile gratefully. “If it gets lighter, you’ll know I’m peeking.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes darkened. “Anything for you, Angie. You know that.”

Marc kept up a steady stream of chatter, from their travel plans to breakfast, and Angela hurried, her body tingling from her hands and thoughts.

By the time she finished, Marc pouring water through a very small hole, she had relaxed a lot more than either of them had thought she would. She trusted him. Marc had always been hers, and that hadn’t changed.

5

A bit later, they settled closer to each other than usual, sharing a pot of hot chocolate by the fire. Angela was trying to comb out her hair, the length making it difficult. Darkened eyes watched her while he cleaned their weapons, never looking away as the flames danced over her golden black curls and pale, white skin.