Crucible Zero (13 page)

“I'll be right back,” he said. “Don't lock the door behind me.”

I moved away to let him through.

“Well, since the door no longer locks . . .” I said. He stepped out, and I caught the door so I could look outside.

The cleared area around the cabin was encircled by a thin, five-foot wall of flame. That trough we'd driven over must hold a pipe with some kind of flammable liquid pouring through it.

I caught a glimpse of movement on the other side of the fire, but it was sketchy and at a distance. Ferals did not like fire.

Good to know.

Abraham headed off to the right, making sure the inside perimeter of the fire line was feral-free.

I waited with the door open, the knife in my hand. Nothing jumped through the wall of fire; nothing approached the door. Within a short time, Abraham returned.

“So?”

“All clear,” he said.

“I'd still be happier with a lock.”

“I'll take care of it.”

He walked into the cabin, and I shut the door behind him.

“You know how to fix a door?”

“I've been known to be handy.” He walked off to the right, and I turned around to look at the interior of the place for the first time.

The cabin was clean and decorated with polished wood, bright whites, and a smattering of blues and yellow. A proper mudroom off to the right held hooks with clean towels, scrub brushes, a deep sink, and a bench with room beneath for boots. Past that, the place opened into one big living space that centered around a living-room area with couches and chairs; low bookshelves separated the space from the wide kitchen that took up the whole of the back of the cabin.

Half walls on either side allowed some view of the beds that were situated there, and a door to my right was open enough for me to see that behind it were the shower and bathroom.

Since the entire interior of the place was in view at once, it took only seconds to confirm that it was uninhabited. Why would a place as nice and stocked as this be empty?

Foster stood by the kitchen table, taking off his weapons and stacking them one by one onto the kitchen table. Neds sat on the couch, looking exhausted. I took a few steps so I could see inside the sleeping area, and spotted Quinten's feet at the end of a bed.

Abraham came back with a metal toolbox in one hand.

“And that fire will keep the ferals out?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“How long will it last?”

“The night,” Abraham said.

“Of course, it won't keep out mercs or stitched, or whoever else want us dead,” Left Ned groused. “Or their bullets or bombs.”

“Life is full of risk, Mr. Harris.” Abraham ran his hand along the doorjamb and studied the lock, then set down the toolbox and crouched to open it.

“Does someone live here?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” Abraham said.

“Anyone living here now?”

“Just us.”

“So this is here mostly for people who get stuck out at night?”

“Pretty much,” he said.

I walked into the cabin and tried not to groan with each step. Now that my adrenaline had washed away, I was feeling every nick, tear, and bruise. But I was no longer as dizzy, and my head was feeling a little better. A good night's sleep sounded like pure heaven.

“This is nice,” I said.

“Nice enough,” Left Ned agreed. “For the night.”

“What about the bikes? If we leave them out front, someone could take them.”

“They'd have to get through the fire first,” Abraham said as he removed the screws in the dead bolt.

“So I'm guessing we don't need to cover the tire tracks either?”

“No one stupid enough to follow us out here will live long enough to find them,” Left Ned said. “Lot of pissed-off ferals out there. Which,” he said, fixing me with a look, “you seemed more than capable of taking down.”

“Not my first day in the sticks,” I said.

“Did you come out of that bloody?” Left Ned asked.

Right Ned, who had been silent this whole time, closed his eyes, and I knew he was instantly asleep.

“Nothing bad,” I said.

“Then I'm gonna take the first sleep shift,” Left Ned said. “Wake me if we're dying.”

For the first time since we left our property, I felt like maybe I could relax.

Abraham finished with the lock and tested it, then put all the tools away.

Foster had finally emptied enough weapons on the table that he could take off his jacket. He did so, draping it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and the weight of it was visible. The jacket was made of leather, but there must still be a lot of things he'd left in his pockets.

“Are you injured, Foster?” I asked.

He shrugged one shoulder and walked over to the woodstove, which was already set for a fire. “Tend your brother.”

I couldn't see any blood on Foster, but the dark flannel of his shirt might be masking it.

Neds had claimed the couch and were lying on it, their bad shoulder tucked against the back of it, their good hand free, and gripping the gun they'd rested on their stomach.

Right Ned was already out, while Left Ned had that unfocused look that meant he was mostly awake and on watch while his brother slept.

Foster was right: Quinten did need my attention. I walked into the sleeping area.

I pulled off my duffel and slipped out of my jacket, but left my long-sleeved shirt on. It wasn't too cold in the cabin, and the woodstove would do a lot of good to heat it up soon, but I just didn't feel comfortable taking off all my gear yet.

It was all too clear to me that we were in a very small cabin in a very large woods. And if there were as many ferals out there as I'd been told there were, I didn't want to be caught without my boots on and my gun in my hand.

The bedroom section was a cozy arrangement of two cots and a double bed. Foster had set Quinten down on the double. His color was a little rosier, his breathing even, but I would feel better if he was awake.

I set down the duffel on the floor and unzipped it. My hands were dirty with blood and soil and other things I didn't want to think about. So I went into the bathroom and washed my hands with soap and cold water until they were pink and stinging but clean. Just for good measure, I rolled up my sleeves and scrubbed up to my elbows.

Then I took care of Quinten. I removed all of his sweat – and bloodstained bandages. His head wound didn't look any better, but it didn't look any worse. If what he'd said about injuries going quickly toxic was true, I counted that as a win.

I reapplied the medicine from the tin can, rewrapped his head, and checked him for fever. He didn't feel hot to the touch. And when I shook him a little and called his name, he answered with a sleepy “Hmm.”

That was a good sign.

“Where?” he breathed, opening his eyes long enough to focus on my face.

“We're safe,” I told him. “You hit your head.”

“Tired.”

“You can go back to sleep, but I'll wake you in a bit. Rest. You need it.” I squeezed his hand gently, checked his leg, and reapplied medicine and wrap. Then I settled the blanket over him as he fell back to sleep.

“Is he well?” Abraham asked from behind me.

I turned. The words all tumbled to a stop behind my teeth.

He had taken off his shirt and stood in the doorway of the bedroom, wearing nothing but his breeches and boots.

I couldn't help but be disappointed to see that he had no tattoos on his body, no clock with keys for hands. This, then, was not the Abraham of the timeway who had called me love.

Still, this Abraham was something to look at. Muscles that were hard before were ripped and chiseled beneath a patchwork of tanned skin. He'd always had scars and stitches, and his chest, stomach, and hip bones were crisscrossed with a new array of them, the heavy black thread used to sew him together pulled so tight through his flesh, it left ridges.

He was a man stitched of bits of other bodies. Maybe it should be frightening or ugly.

But it was neither. He was strength, survival. He was raw and alive.

And I wanted him.

“Matilda?” he asked, his voice low. “Is your brother well?”

He took a step, and the slash across his stomach shifted, blood oozing from it.

That broke the spell.

“He's not bleeding,” I said, pointing at his wound and noting the cluster of bullet holes he'd recently acquired. “Let me stitch you up.”

“I'm fine. There's tea, if you want it.”

“You're bleeding,” I said. “That's not fine.”

He looked down at his stomach, then pressed fingers alongside it, which just made his wound seep more.

“Stop that,” I said. I pointed at the cot. “Lie down. It will be easier for me.”

“This isn't worth your concern.”

“I say it is. Lie down.” When he still didn't move: “Now, hotshot.”

“I am not accustomed to taking orders,” he said in a low rumble.

“Well, get used to it, stud. Move.”

His mouth twitched up at that, and a fire caught in his eyes. He finally walked over to the nearest cot and eased down onto it with a sigh.

I walked out of the room and pulled a bucket of water from the mudroom, found some clean cloths, and then took that back to the bedroom.

Abraham was staring at the ceiling.

“I need to clean that out and see if there are any bullets left in you. Unless you want to shower first?”

“It's fine.”

I looked around for a chair and decided the crate at the end of one of the cots would work. I tipped it over, gathered my supplies, and sat next to Abraham.

“This is going to be cold.”

“No,” he said, still staring at the ceiling. “It won't be.”

I dredged the washcloth in the water, wrung it out, and gently drew it along the outer edge of his wound.

He didn't flinch, although his skin goose bumped.

“Cold?” I asked.

“Not that I feel.”

I bit my bottom lip, pulling the wound open a little with the cloth. “I need to clean inside of this slash. And I'll need to stitch it.”

“Matilda.”

I glanced down into his eyes.

“I don't feel it. Do what needs to be done.”

“When I touch you, you'll feel it. Maybe there are rubber gloves I could put on.”

“No.” He reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around my wrist. His eyes dilated, then narrowed. I knew what skin-on-skin contact with me did to him. All the pain from those bruises, scrapes, and other assorted wounds was now clamoring through his nervous system.

“I want to feel this. Even if it is only pain.”

“That is messed up. You know that, right?”

He smiled. “Then take my mind off the pain,” he said. “Tell me about you.”

“Long, boring saga.” I slipped my hand free of his and set the cloth at the bottom of his wound. I held open the skin with one hand and squeezed water though the cut with the other.

Abraham inhaled sharply, held his breath a moment, then exhaled.

“I doubt it's boring,” he said as I continued to sluice water through the wound.

“Well, you heard the time-travel part, and that's probably the most interesting thing about me.” I finished with the water, and picked up the tin with the balm.

“That's an event,” he said. “Interesting, but it's not you. Tell me about you.”

“Seems like this isn't the kind of world where a woman should be offering up intimate details about herself to a mercenary.”

“So you're naturally suspicious,” he said. “Go on.”

“I guess so, yes. Ever since I can remember, I was told to stay hidden. Told the world wasn't a safe place for a thing like me.”

“You're not a thing.”

“I know. But I'm not exactly human either.”

“Most humans aren't all that human,” he said. “What do you do in your free time? Do you have any hobbies?”

I stopped spreading the balm and grinned down at him. “Really? That's the sort of thing you want me to bore you with?”

“It is exactly the kind of thing I want to hear.”

“All right. But you will be snoring before I get through two sentences.” I pushed the balm down a little deeper into the bottom edge of his cut, and he grunted.

“I doubt that.”

“Why? You think the pain will keep you awake?”

“No,” he said. “You will.”

I shook my head. “Hobbies?” I plucked up a curved needle and a length of thread from Evelyn's kit. I pulled the thread through the balm a few times, thinking. “I like to read. We never had a lot of books on the farm, but back . . . well, back when I came from, there was a book exchange through all the House Brown people, so I got my hands on a fair share of words. I'm also a crack computer hacker and can data-mine like a demon. That's fun.”

I threaded the needle and pressed my fingers gently alongside both edges of the wound.

“You know computers?”

“I knew them. They were pretty commonplace in my time. Everyone had one.”

“That is a skill that could come in very handy, Matilda.”

“If the programming is the same or similar to what I know,” I said, “maybe. Otherwise, it's just another thing about me that doesn't fit in with this world.”

He didn't say anything, and I was glad. I didn't want to have to defend how much I felt like I was outside, looking in at my own life. I didn't want to explain things to him I wasn't even ready to face yet.

“Food,” I continued. “I make a mad berry-pear jam that will win any contest in the country. Oh, and I am very good with knives.”

“Cooking knives?”

“Killing knives.”

His eyebrows notched upward. “So that wasn't beginner's luck out there with the ferals.”

“Not at all. They roamed the property edges at home, and every week or so, I'd have to take a few down and feed them to the lizard. Didn't like to waste bullets or mess up the meat with tranquilizers. So it was sort of a hands-on proposition.”