Afterglow: An Apocalypse Romance (2 page)

Could it really be this simple? A grin spread across her face at this small victory. Finally something was going right! She’d grab them all, bring them out to the garage to figure out which one worked. Hurrying across the kitchen, she was almost at the keys when out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow, a shape leaping out at her.

There wasn’t enough time, though, to react. A hard blow to her right hand forced her fingers open, her gun flying across the room. And then, even before she could see her assailant, something heavy and solid rammed into the side of her head. And she was out.

–Creed–

Fuck
,
uttered Creed, for at least the millionth time that day. The nausea and cough were almost gone, but he still had to force himself to eat, his appetite completely nonexistent. The only way he’d get back the energy and strength to figure things out, though, was if he took care of himself. So he took another bite of beef stew straight from the can, then chugged as much water from the gallon next to him as he could stomach. He swore as soon as he was back to feeling normal again he’d have a beer. It’d be warm, but it wouldn’t matter.

And as soon as he was feeling normal again he’d need a plan. Unless sitting at the window scouring the streets for signs of danger counted as a plan. As the days passed, he saw fewer and fewer people, though. His best guess was that deaths from the virus were still occurring, dead bodies still piling up—wherever they were being taken.

At first, ambulances had come to remove the sick. Then the hospitals filled up, and people had been instructed to leave dead bodies outside in the street for the CDC to pick up. He’d seen huge vans drive through, hazmat-suited individuals coming out and loading the bodies into the back. He imagined the vans filled with dead people. Where were they brought? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. But he was glad he’d taken care of his family, burying his sister and niece in the back yard when they died so they didn’t end up in a pile with all the discarded, rotting corpses.

He still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to dig the holes, sick himself too, weak and sweaty and shaking. But he’d done it, then resumed his position by the front window to keep watch as he rolled in and out of delirium. He was lucky nobody tried to break in. He was lucky he didn’t accidentally shoot himself. Mostly, he was damn lucky he hadn’t died from the sickness like everyone else he knew.

He still couldn’t get his mind around how quickly things had gone south, how fast the world had gone from... well, from the world he knew to this. This place where everyone he loved was dead from the virus, and he was alone defending his sister’s house.

And for what? What was the point? He needed a plan, he thought again. One that involved more than keeping watch over a mostly vacant street, eating beef jerky all day long, and, though he was still too weak to do them properly, forcing his body through sets of sit-ups and pushups so he could at least stay strong. For whatever happened next. It killed him, though, that he didn’t know what that was. He hated not knowing what was coming next.

A noise. Out by the garage. The sound of wood splintering.
Goddammit
. He pushed himself off the chair and moved silently to the bathroom, which had a small window overlooking the side yard and the garage. A figure dressed in all black was creeping inside the garage. Small. A kid, probably, some teenager out scavenging. Well, there was nothing in the garage worth stealing, except his bike, and he’d shoot whoever tried to leave with that. His guess was the person would leave with nothing, and Creed could go back to sitting in the chair and trying to will himself to get better quicker.

A few seconds later the person emerged from the garage, black skull cap pulled down low, and slunk around to his back door. The intruder held a gun, a revolver from the looks of it, and Creed’s heart rate accelerated. He’d known it would come to this eventually. Fights, with weapons. Death, either his or his opponent’s. But he’d hoped it would wait a bit until he was back to 100%. He supposed, though, that in an apocalypse nothing waited for you. You either had to keep moving or die, and he was planning on staying alive for a while.

A knock sounded on the back door, and Creed crept into the kitchen, keeping watch from behind the pantry door. When a rock smashed the window next to the door, Creed thought one thing:
I’m going to kill this asshole
. He crouched down, muscles taut, ready to leap out at the intruder and mentally kicking himself for leaving his gun in the front room, and within seconds he had his chance.

As soon as the person stepped into the kitchen, Creed flew from his hiding place and landed two hard kicks. The first sent the revolver flying, and the second, to the side of the asshole’s head, knocked him out and down. Creed stepped over the person on the floor and retrieved the gun—a pretty Ruger .38 snub nose. After checking that the hammer was in the safety notch, he stuck it into the waistband of his jeans, then stalked back over to his intruder.

With his foot, he prodded the person lightly and heard a moan, unmistakably feminine.
What the hell?
He crouched down over the body, and now he could see it was in fact a girl, her face, despite the instant swelling where he’d kicked her, undeniably beautiful. Her eyelashes, resting on her cheeks, were long and dark, and her lips were full and perfect. He leaned over and, in one quick motion, pulled the cap off her head, releasing a cascade of dark red curls that fell onto his kitchen floor around her head.

Well, fuck
. A chuckle left his lips as he stood for a few seconds staring down at her. In what new reality was he that, in the middle of the probable end of the world, a girl like this broke into his house with a gun? And got kicked in the side of the head by him?

He couldn’t let his guard down, though, so he quickly rolled her body to the side, grabbed the kitchen twine from one of the drawers, and tied her wrists together behind her back. When he picked her up, she let out another small moan, and even though it was completely inappropriate given the situation, his cock throbbed once. It sounded so sexual, like the kind of moan she’d probably make if he were touching her...
Nope
.

He wasn’t going to go there. He couldn’t let his dick lead the way right now. He needed to keep his wits about him, especially since he didn’t have all his strength back yet. With new resolve, he walked into the living room and deposited her onto the couch. Then he turned the armchair sideways, so he could watch both the outside of the house and the girl.

In a few minutes he heard her gasp, then struggle to sit up. Her hands were still tied behind her, but she managed to do it, her big eyes focusing on him and her revolver, which he now pointed directly at her.

“You... don’t hurt me.” Her voice trembled, but he could hear more than a little anger too. It occurred to him that in addition to being scared she was probably pissed that he’d taken her out.

“Looks like I already did. You shouldn’t break into people’s houses.”

“I knocked first.”

“And because I didn’t answer, you assumed it was OK to break in?” Creed checked her out. Awake, she was even more beautiful than when she’d been asleep. Or unconscious, if he were being honest with himself. Her hair danced around her head when she moved it, and her eyes were a gorgeous pale green. Like light passing through a Heineken bottle. He should fucking write poetry, he thought to himself, one of his lips turning up in a half-grin at the thought.

“This isn’t funny. Untie me!” An angry blush tinted her cheeks.

He just stared at her impassively. “I don’t think you’re really in any position to be making demands.”

“Please? If you untie me, I’ll leave. I’m sorry I broke in. I didn’t think anyone lived here. I won’t come back.”

Glass shattered outside the front window before he could answer. Adrenaline surged through his body as he scanned the area. A raccoon caught his eye, sifting through garbage and throwing objects out in the process. A damn raccoon. In the middle of the day. Things really were going to hell.

Relieved, he stuck the girl’s revolver into his waistband, turning back to her.

She leapt off the couch, hands somehow untied, and sprinted for the front door.

Creed grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her from behind. He hissed into her ear, “No way, sweetheart. You need to tell me what you were after in my garage before I let you go.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, writhing to get free.

He grasped her tighter, but she kicked back, the heel of her boot connecting with his kneecap. He swore as pain shot through him and he inadvertently loosened his grip a bit.

The girl wrenched her body in his arms, and though he held tight she got enough room to free one arm. By the time he noticed the knife it was too late, the blade cutting deeply into his left bicep.

He cursed, letting go and grasping his arm in surprise and pain. Blood rushed up between his fingers. “What the fuck?”

The girl backed up against the front door, poised to fight with her blade out. She looked ready, eager even, and he could tell she was tough. Though he towered over her at practically twice her size, apparently she could hold her own. He reached over to his waistband for the revolver he’d taken from her.

“Looking for this?” She pulled it out of her holster. Somehow, when he’d been struggling with her, she’d not only cut him but also retrieved her gun.

“Get. The fuck. Out of my house.” He sank down into the chair, dizziness overcoming him.

“OK.” Her voice wavered, like she wasn’t as sure of herself as she’d been. “Look, I’m sorry I cut you. I was scared.”

“Get out.”

“It’s really bleeding.” She took a step closer.

He glanced down at his arm, where blood pooled in the crook of his elbow. “Go. Now,” he hissed.

“Sorry,” she said, and she was out the door.

He watched her run down the street and turn the corner, keeping close to the cars as she did. Who the hell
was
she? He could almost believe he’d imagined her, imagined the break-in. Except for the throbbing in his arm and the fact that his T-shirt was getting soaked with his own blood.

He felt like shit. Weak from being sick. Shaky from not eating enough. But he forced himself up to look for the first-aid kit.

* * *

He cleaned the cut and covered it with gauze, then a bandage. It needed stitches, and he could take care of that himself, he was pretty sure, but not yet. Right now he needed water and rest. He popped some Advil just for good measure, then sat back in his chair to watch the front yard.

At first he thought he was hallucinating as he saw her. That redhead again. Approaching his house with a backpack on. This time she wore a baseball cap, her long hair pulled back into a ponytail that stuck out through the hole in the back of her hat. She looked like the girls at college, waking up late after a morning of partying, and once again, his dick stirred. Clearly his dick had no idea that this was the end of the world. Unlike the college girls, though, she was staying low, hiding below the level of the parked and abandoned cars, darting between them as she made her way closer.

She rapped twice on the door, tentatively.

“What do you want?” he growled through the wood.

“I, uh, brought some stuff.”

“What the fuck kind of stuff?” He wasn’t in the mood for games.

“Stuff for your arm. Because I cut you.”

“I took care of it.”

“Just let me in. Please? I don’t like standing out here. It’s dangerous.”

That was probably true, and begrudgingly he pulled the door open, allowing her to enter.

“Sit down,” she said, pointing at the floor next to the coffee table.

“So, what? You come into my house and start ordering me around?”

“If you want me to help you, do what I say.” She took her cap off, tossing it onto the couch, and set her backpack down on the floor. She proceeded to pull out a first-aid kit, fully stocked, from the looks of it. She placed an ice pack on the table, the kind that needed to be cracked to get cold.

“What’s the ice for?” he asked.

She looked at him for a long moment, then raised her eyebrows as she said, “It’s for my face. Someone kicked me. I’m getting a black eye.”

“Right. My apologies, sweetheart,” he muttered as he sat down, back against the coffee table.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Sweetheart?” So she didn’t like terms of endearment. He’d have to use them more often then.

“I’m not sweet.”

“I don’t know,” he drawled, teasing her. “You came back here with your first-aid kit after I kicked you in the head and tied you up. That’s pretty sweet.”

“I’m just here to get my revenge,” she muttered as she started to arrange some supplies on the table. “Let’s see how sweet you think I am when I’m sewing up your arm.”

“You think I can’t take a little pain?”

“I’ll make sure it’s more than just a little.” She’d suffused her voice with fake sugar, and he laughed out loud until she stood up and took off her leather jacket.

Underneath she was wearing a fitted black T-shirt, its V-neck giving him just a tiny glimpse of cleavage. Worn denim hugged her ass and thighs. Though she was short and small, her body was sheer perfection. Rounded breasts, a slim waist, then hips that curved just enough that he could imagine exactly how they’d feel with his fingers digging into them as he drove into her from behind.

He shifted, the wood of the coffee table hard against his back. She’d better start sticking that fucking needle into his arm soon so he didn’t get a full-on hard-on that he couldn’t hide.

“I’m ready,” she said. “Oh wait. One more thing.” She rummaged around in her backpack for a second, then pulled out a pair of handcuffs.