Abandon The Night (17 page)

Nothing. Neither of them saw anything. No unusual sounds. And even the sense that someone watched and waited eased.

“I’m going in,” Quent said, gesturing to the window. “Coming? Or want to stand guard?”

Zoë, surprised that he’d even thought to ask her opinion—she wouldn’t have—considered. Separating was a good and bad idea—she could watch from here, and if they were separated, they couldn’t be trapped together. She could see what he was doing inside while keeping a watch out here…“Go.” And maybe she’d have a chance to dash over and pull a few arrows from scrambled brains.

She watched Quent climb through the window, the gun gleaming briefly in his hand before he slipped into shadow. Standing near the building, she looked around and listened, and sniffed for
gangas
. Nothing.

“Nothing,” Quent called softly from the other side of the wall.

Zoë nodded and, still holding her bow with an arrow in place, moved toward the zombie carnage a few yards away. She glanced back toward the window, saw Quent moving around, and bent to pluck up an arrow.

When she pulled it free and flung the last bit of glop aside, she happened to look past another old car down to her right…and saw him. Standing no more than a long arrow flight away. His moonbeam hair, brushed back from the gaunt face that haunted her dreams, his slender, skeletal body.

He didn’t notice her at first; she was hidden by the rusted-out vehicle. He faced another person—smaller, slighter, and with a crystal glow in his chest. Now Zoë heard the soft sounds of flesh and bone against flesh and bone accompanied by quiet grunts of exertion as the two men fought.

Heart pounding, Zoë looked toward the window where Quent was still moving around inside, and tried to catch his attention. She could shoot her arrow in there, but that would be a waste. Instead, she scooped up a rock and tossed it toward the open window, then turned her attention back. The smaller man—the Elite—seemed to be struggling with Raul Marck.

Where’s the third guy?

But their battle or argument seemed a good enough reason to move in. To fix her aim on the man who’d taken her life. She duck-walked closer, staying low and quiet, and watching as the Elite swung out with something gleaming, slicing at Zoë’s own damn target.

No you don’t! He’s fucking mine!

She nocked the bow…he was a little too far away. This shot had to count.

The Elite’s arm had moved sharply and Zoë saw Raul stumble back a little, but then lunge for his opponent again.

Something moved behind her, a shadow slinked in her peripheral vision, and she nearly fainted before she saw the hint of blond hair and realized it was Quent. He must have interpreted her signal and come out to join her.

Still a few yards away, he settled into the shadows too. Zoë ignored him. She had to.
You’d just shoot him in cold blood?

Fuck yeah.

She inched closer, settled the arrow in place, holding her breath hoping that Raul was too distracted with his own battle to notice that she was sneaking up on him. The arrow fit nicely.

She was close enough…she could see blood streaming from Raul’s arm, and just as she lifted the bow, drew in a deep breath, the smaller man sliced again at Raul. Stumbling back, Zoë’s nemesis gave a loud cry as the smaller man took off into the dark.

Zoë looked in Quent’s direction, but he’d sunk deeper into the shadow and she could no longer see him. She looked back at her target, who’d moved closer. Now he was near enough that she could see the collar of his shirt, the flipped-up cuffs of his sleeves, and the dark stain spreading over his shirt.

Close enough that her shot would count.

She drew back on the bowstring, bringing it past her ear, steady…eyes clear and cold.

Don’t you want to know why?

It doesn’t matter. He took everything from me.

And she released the arrow.

19 September 2010

9:00 p.m.

It was a beautiful day today, and the first one in months that I have truly felt lucky to be alive.

The seeds I managed to save and to find, and the cuttings salvaged from my garden and other places have found their homes at last. If all goes well, we will have a large garden of vegetables and fruits, herbs and even some spices.

Devi watched me dig in the soil with that affectionate, bemused smile on his face, and I was happy to feel its warmth once again. He has not smiled in many months. Nor have I.

But the sun was alive and steady today, and we have had much more rain than the desert has in the past. Greenery has begun to sprout everywhere, and even a limited array of flowers are budding.

Perhaps I should note that six weeks ago, Devi, James, and I packed everything we could into three large vehicles (again, I cannot quite call them stolen, for the Babishes and the Ytrezes and the Gladwins no longer have need of anything) and drove to the southeast, hoping to find other survivors.

Drive is not the most accurate of terms for the sort of all-terrain traveling we did, for the quakes and storms wreaked havoc on the roads and signs and bridges.

After two days of driving a total of fifty miles, stopping often to look for signs of life, we did find a group of five living in a restaurant and we were invited to stay with them. Devi and I found a small house that had sustained little damage and we have taken it as our own.

The high school’s football field has become our farmland.

—from the diary of Mangala Kapoor

Still inside the building, Quent watched from the shadows as Zoë raised her bow. She’d hardly taken her eyes from the slight, white-haired man struggling with another slender figure, about thirty meters away. An arrow fit into place, and he could barely make out the determined expression on her face.

She’s going to do it.

For a moment, he thought about stopping her—about stepping out from the shadows and drawing attention to himself, exposing their presence. To keep her from that burden of taking a man’s life, and to have his own chance to pummel the information he wanted to get from Marck. How to find Fielding. Where to go.

From what Quent had heard about Raul Marck—not only from Zoë, but also from Jade, who’d known the bounty hunter during her captivity by the Strangers—it would be no loss to this world for such a mercenary, ruthless man to be killed. No worse than snipers taking out terrorists before they blew up another car or nightclub.

No worse than destroying the man who’d help annihilate the human race.

But…Zoë. Despite her acerbic manner and strength, she had a fragility about her that he’d only recently begun to recognize. Something under the surface, something that lurked deep in her eyes. Something he’d noticed when he’d looked at her when they weren’t dusting up the sheets together.

At that moment, Quent saw a shadow move, slinking from beyond where Zoë crouched, creeping up to the tree just behind her. A cold chill washed over him before he submerged the rush of fear, then he steadied when he saw that the newcomer’s hands were empty. Tightening his fingers around the handle of his own gun, feeling the comfort of its trigger, he eased himself closer.

Zoë pulled back on the bowstring, steady and intent as, meters away, Raul Marck cried out from what looked like the stab of a knife, somewhere vital. His opponent took the opportunity to stagger into the darkness, but not before Quent saw the hint of a faint glow near his shoulder. An Elite, fighting with Raul Marck?

A soft
thwang
broke the night and the sleek arrow shot through the air.

And just as it left her bow, the shadow behind her moved. A split second too late, coming out of the darkness more quickly than Quent anticipated.

She whirled at the sound, hand going automatically to the quiver over her shoulder and whipping out a new bolt. But she wasn’t fast enough, and the imposing man stood barely a yard away. Pointing a gun at her that he hadn’t had in his hand a moment earlier.

Aw, hell.

Quent edged along the darkness, moving closer so he could get a good aim, as the newcomer spoke. “You again. Hunting for my father.”

Even in the dark, Quent could see the cold look she aimed at him. “A little damned late, weren’t you, Ian?” She lowered her bow a trifle. “Or was that the way you planned it?”

Quent glanced along the street and saw the dark shadow of Raul Marck on the ground. Unmoving. Even from his distance, he could see a glistening pool on the man’s skin and ground. If not dead, then very close.

Ian Marck laughed. “Ah, Zoë. You’re about the coldest bitch I’ve ever met.”

She laughed back. Just as meanly. “Worse than Remy? She lured you in, then took you down. I saw it.
She’s
a cold bitch. At least I never fuck and run.”

Oh, really? I must have imagined your streaking out of my bed so fast the sheets fluttered.
The anger that had slipped into admiration and lust when he saw her fighting off the
gangas
now came back in full force.

Ian seemed surprised at her comment, but he also appeared to know what she was talking about. “So that
was
you, two nights ago.” Whatever had happened, the reference pissed him off. He stepped closer, gun gleaming in the moonlight as he gestured to her bow. “Put that down.”

“And you’ll want to do the same,” Quent said, stepping into view, the barrel of his gun aimed at Ian.

The man didn’t move, barely leveled a glance in his direction as his lips formed a silent, but very obvious,
fuck.
“What happened to traveling alone?” This comment was still directed at Zoë.

“More the fool if you believe everything that comes out of a woman’s mouth,” Quent said icily.
At least I never fuck and run
. Right, that was going to need some pointed discussion later. “You going to put that down, or am I going to have to get serious?” He could mention the fact that he’d been a champ sharpshooter at the Guesting Country Club, but it wouldn’t mean dick to this guy.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

“Not a bad idea.”

Ian didn’t waver, still pointing his gun at Zoë. “Well, I’m not going to shoot her.”

“Pardon me if I express my disbelief,” Quent said, tightening his fingers on the grip. He’d never shot, let alone aimed, a firearm at another person…but he knew that if he had to, he could squeeze one off without remorse.

“I’ve had ample opportunity to shoot if I wanted to,” Ian replied. “I just want her to put the damned bow down.”

“You’re more worried about the bow than the bullet I’m threatening to put into your head?”

Ian sent him a quick, humorless smile. “Yeah, because she’s such—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Zoë said. And she lowered her bow, dropping the arrow over her shoulder, back into the quiver. “Put the damned thing away, Ian. Your father’s dead, and you didn’t have to do it yourself. You should be kissing my ass instead of pointing a fucking gun at me.”

“Not as if you haven’t tried to get me there, Zoë darling,” Ian replied dryly. But then he lowered his weapon as Zoë gave a disgusted snort. “Perhaps I do owe you a bit of gratitude.” He looked at Zoë, continuing to ignore Quent. “He’s really gone.”

“And so’s your bounty,” Zoë said. Quent noticed that her eyes seemed wide. Was she in shock that Raul was dead? If she was, nevertheless she still copped an attitude. “Bounty stabbed him and ran off into the night.”

Ian shrugged.

“You’re not going after the bounty?”

He gave a derisive snort. “That’s not my game.”

“All right, then. I promise not to shoot you when you walk away. This time.”

Ian nodded and a flicker of a smile pulled his lips. “Same here.” And without a glance at Quent, who still, by the way, had a gun pointed at the man, he turned and melted into the shadows.

Quent eyed him as he disappeared. “You trust him not to come back and blow us away?”

“Ian? He’s pretty fucked-up about now. His father’s dead, after all. He just wished he had the balls to do it himself.”

Some of us wouldn’t have any regrets about destroying our fathers.
Yet, Quent had had more than one chance in the past…and he’d never taken it. Maybe he and Ian had more in common than one would expect.

“He doesn’t have any reason to hurt me—or you—anyway. Now that Raul’s dead.”

When she started off, he put a hand out to stop her. “What about that other person—the Stranger. The bounty?”

“Not coming back. Trust me. You get away from the Marcks, you don’t fucking test your luck and come back.” She’d already started to walk toward the unmoving body of Raul Marck, and tossed these last words over her shoulder as if they were gospel.

Not quite as trusting, Quent kept his gun out and his eyes open as he followed her.

But by the time he reached where she crouched next to Raul, he felt a bit more relaxed. Just as he approached, she pulled the arrow from the man’s chest with an efficient little twist. It struck him as a bit callous, but then again, he supposed leaving it there was just as bad.

Having no desire to dig through the man’s belongings or get close and personal with the dead body, Quent watched as she set the arrow aside and then began to feel through the man’s pockets. “Looking for something?” he asked, still scanning the shadows for any orange eyes or any other newcomers.

“He had this purple glowy thing that seemed to control the
gangas
,” she said, settling back on her haunches. “Thought I’d try and find it. Or anything else valuable. A gun.”

Just then, they heard the low rumble of a vehicle—not from the direction they’d left theirs, but closer. As one, Zoë and Quent ducked into the shadows, shoulders bumping. But as they waited, flat against the cool brick wall of a house, the rumble became fainter…as if being driven off into the distance. Quent thought he saw the faintest glimmer of light bouncing beyond the buildings around them.

“Damn,” Zoë said. “That was Ian. I was hoping we’d get a chance to search Raul’s truck too, but now he’s gone.”

“Obviously.”

She stood and looked down at Raul Marck. “I suppose we shouldn’t just leave the body here.”
So she did have a heart.
“Although it might be sort of fitting if he ended up being zombie food. After all the other people he’s fed to the
gangas
.”