The World Without a Future (The World Without End) (11 page)

I shrug her off, and she retreats to her side of the car. “Can you drive like a sane person?” she grumbles.

“Can you put a seat belt on?”

"Where are we going?"

The endless fucking questions. I think I could handle all of the reasons why fucking Ren is the worst idea in a long line of bad ideas—if it weren't for the endless fucking questions. I ignore her, steering the Porsche through the quiet streets of Haven.

I like 18. Always have. Maybe because I visited here, before the rising. Before the walls and the guns and the decay. I shut down that line of thought—it doesn't do any good to think of that time. It's over. It's been over for twenty years.

Shady trees shiver in the breeze floating off the ocean. A few women are clustered in a shop, bartering.

There are no children wandering Haven 18. Sometimes, there is such a lack of them, I start thinking the plague took them as well.

It's not true—our children are hidden deep in the Haven, behind every wall and defense we can manage, protected by the best guards, with three ways of escape in the event of a breach.

Not that it saved the children of Haven 8. Not that it will save them here.

But the defense measures make nervous mothers happy while their fathers Walk the walls.

Idiots. The idiots shouldn't breed if they're going to risk themselves like that—although, I don't see much point in it at all. Not in this world.

Although—fucking is fun. Maybe that is the point.

"Finn?"

Her voice is sharp and sweet and fills the confines of the car. I'm already surrounded by her scent and thinking of sex and all of it makes me want to pull over, drag her onto my lap, and sink into her until she's screaming.

I slide a look at her—she looks irritated. Whatever she sees in my eyes makes her pale, lick her lips. I wonder if she's thinking of the kiss.

I wonder how long I can make myself wait before I kiss her again.

"Fuck," I growl, jerking my eyes forward again.

The car grumbles under me, and I turn sharply. She curses and I smirk—I love hearing her curse. One of the best things about her is that she curses so damn well.

"Stop doing that," she grumbles. I ease the car to a stop in front of a small house and kill the engine.

"Wait here," I order, stepping out of the car. There's maybe a twenty-five percent chance she'll listen to me.

Her door slams shut behind me, and I throw her a glare. “Don’t waste your breath,” she mutters as she comes along side me. In her heels, she’s as tall as I am. And gorgeous, all sex and leather. I catch her arm. “Same rules, Nurrin. Mouth shut and do what I tell you.”

“Who are we seeing?”

I start walking again, striding up to the little house. I can smell the oil and paint, pungent and mixing with the zombie repellent that soaks the haven.

Jesse grins when he opens the door. I nod briefly, stepping past him. I see the flash of curiosity in his eyes a heartbeat before he stifles it. His attention swivels back to me, professional and doing his damned best to ignore the impatient, curious girl radiating sex.

I wonder if I can kill him for looking at her.

Would be a hassle—finding a good mechanic in the western havens is never easy. But if she says anything to encourage the interest in his eyes, I’ll break his fucking neck.

The thought amuses me, and a smile twitches my lip. “Sit down, Nurrin.”

Jesse’s eyes widen, and I shift, slightly. Shielding her. He’s never had ties to the Order, but trusting Ren’s safety to anyone but Collin is impossible. Hell, trusting Collin with her is hard.

“The Porsche looks like shit. What did you do to it?” Jesse ask, breaking the tension.

At the table, Ren laughs. I don’t turn to her, don’t drink in the smile that’s curving her kissable lips. “The Wide Open didn’t agree with it. Can you get it cleaned up?”

“To your standards?”

I shake my head. The car was flawed—attempting to restore it to what it was is a waste of time. “Find a buyer.”

Nurrin shifts, and I step away from her. “How is the Harley?”

Jesse’s gaze slides over Ren, and I glance back at her. She’s smiling, a fuck-me tilt to the lips, her eyes sleepy.

“She’s not really dressed for the bike, Finn.”

“She’s none of your damn concern,” I snap, and her eyes flick to me, amused. “Get the bike. I’ll meet you in the garage.”

There’s a moment of hesitation from Jesse, but he’s used to following orders, and he knows my temper. He leaves.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask without looking at her.

She moves, standing lithely. I stay very still as she comes up behind me, her breath whispering over my skin as she says, “Scratching an itch.”

I grab her as she struts away. Her eyes are filled with amusement and a challenge. “No.”

An eyebrow arches, and she laughs. “Why not?”

My jaw clenches, and something flickers in her gaze. Disgust.

Why did I have to obsess over the girl who couldn’t be happy with a good fuck? Why the one who needed to know
everything.

I release her. “Fine. Scratch away. Have him bring you home—and my bike.”

She opens her mouth to say something—probably ask another bloody question—but I ignore it, ignore her yelling my name as I leave.

Every Haven has a Wall. And every wall needs Walkers. I stalk there now, ignoring the curious faces of Haven citizens, the mourning incense still hanging like a pungent cloud over the city.

There is very little I dislike more than Day One and the subsequent days. She’s at her most vulnerable then. For a heartbeat, I hesitate. Leaving her with Jesse is making all of my protective instincts scream. But I kissed her last night—if I keep up with the over-protective alpha-male routine, she’ll bolt. I make a face. This long game might be worth the end reward, but there’s something to be said for instant gratification. Namely, that it’s instant.

There are a few Walkers in the barracks, and I nod at them. “Help you?” one asks.

I smile lazily. “Haven 8. Chief Walker of the Western sector.”

“Bit far from your sector, sir,” he says, politely questioning my right to be here.

I hate questions. Despise them. Why don’t people get that questions are just a way to lie. The answers don’t mean anything—they aren’t earned, they’re given for nothing. How could they mean anything? “Just need a bit of a distraction. Do you mind?”

He eyes me for a moment then shrugs. “A Walker’s a Walker, no matter where he hails. Try not to get yourself killed up there.”

I flash a sharp smile, but don’t say anything in response. He steps aside, and I jog up the steep stairs.

The Wall is twenty feet thick, a hundred feet high. On the inside, it’s braced by buildings and barracks, small businesses that cater to the thrill-seekers.

On the outside, there is nothing. A sheer, smooth drop directly to the ground, no vegetation or growth sprouting along the Wall. No trees within fifty yards. It’s like a great big hand carved away all of nature’s beauty and dropped a fortified city in its place.

It gleams white in the morning light, the stink of zom repellent still filling the air. It’s a familiar scent, on the Wall. Almost as familiar as the scent of blood and decay.

I see a small herd milling around a fallen deer. Infects prefer humans—if they can get at a healthy human, they’ll bypass any wild game for a shot at spreading the disease. But when hungry and desperate enough, they aren’t terribly picky.

Any meat will do when they’re starving.

Aside from the infects feeding, it’s a quiet morning—the border is empty. I lean against the wall, my finger tapping incessantly. This isn’t what I need. I’m too edgy, anxious. “Do you have a patrol scheduled?”

The Walker at my left shifts, surprised. “Sir?”

I flick my head, annoyed. “A patrol. Scouting parties.”

He stares at me blankly, and I growl, clattering down the stairs and approaching the fortified gate. It’s a stone door that slides directly into place, which lets Walkers into the Wide Open to patrol beyond the Haven and clear the wall.

“I’m going out,” I say, digging into their armory and finding a crossbow and a wicked-sharp axe. It’s a personal weapon, one that requires close quarters. It’s perfect. Now I just need an infect. “Open the gate.”

“Sir, you can’t go out there,” one of the Walkers objects.

I give him a long look, and he finally flushes, looking down. “Open. The gate,” I repeat flatly.

There’s a screeching sound of metal on metal, and a narrow gap appears. I slip through it, putting the gleaming white of the wall behind me. The open air teases my skin, carrying the scent of wild pine and infects.

“You’re crazy, you know.”

I glance sideways at the Walker who followed me out of the Haven. I give a tight smile, and then a low moan draws my attention.

The herd with the deer has caught our scent, and one's head is whipping around, her moan an angry call as she searches. I pull my bow up, slowly, and carefully draw the string back. There’s a sharp twang, which draws the others’ attention. Then the quarrel catches her in the forehead, spinning her around as she falls.

“Incoming,” I say, and the Walker shoots me a disbelieving look—the amusement in my voice has to disturb him. The zombies take all my attention, and for the first time since I left the Hole, I’m not thinking about her. I’m not thinking about anything but the arrow I’m aiming, the putrid body bag bolting across the clearing toward me, and the axe in my hand as I swing it around. The zombie screams just before my blade slices into its neck, and I smile, a mad hatter grin, as I go to work.

The scream draws more—five infects burst from the tree line at a dead sprint as the Walker puts down the last of the first pack. I hiss—I’m tired and running low on arrows—before jerking the crossbow up and taking aim. I drop three, and the Walker picks off a fourth. As I line up the sights of the fifth, I hesitate—her long blonde hair is still shiny, her face almost untouched by the infection. She’s new and furious, awkward with the disease rampant in her blood system. The ends of her gold hair are bloody.

She reminds me, for a heartbeat, of the past. I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger, breathing out as the bow bucks slightly. I hear the muffled thud of the body, finally dead, hitting the ground. Sudden exhaustion sweeps me as I survey the carnage—it was senseless risk, and I’m sure I’ll hear all kinds of shit from Lissel later. But it did what I needed, until that last biter. A little annoyed that she ruined my high, I stalk around the dead, ripping arrows from their skulls. The Walker paces alongside me, eyeing me as he keeps watch.

“Have something to say?” I finally ask, bored. I jerk another arrow free and take the gore covered bolts back toward the Wall.

“We all have our ways of dealing with the Turn.”

I stare at him, a smile ticking my lips up. He pales. The fucker shot down a rampaging horde, took point while I retrieved shit we could do without—and a smile from me makes him nervous.

I don’t address his statement, the truth in it—or the fact that this isn’t a yearly blowup.

This is my life—everyone’s—every day.

She’s back. I know, even before I push open the front door, that she’s back—the air feels slightly different when she’s sharing it with me, a subtle tension fills it that only I seem to be aware of.

I take a deep breath and open the door, letting a blank expression fall over my face.

I don’t need it—she’s asleep, snoring slightly, curled on her side on the couch. A blanket has slipped off her, exposing the soft curves of her breast and ass, still encased in the outfit I gave her.

I start to walk past, and she make a little noise, halting me in my tracks.

Damn her for the ability to do that. I kick the couch, and she snaps upright, her gun trained on my head. I keep my face straight, despite the urge to grin. She’s always ready for an attack. Collin trained her well—but then, he would. He’s lost too much to risk his sister.

“The door was unlocked,” I say, and she blinks, relaxing a tiny bit when she sees it’s only me.