Nightfall (12 page)

Mitch fired. “Get back here!”

Mason met him behind the pit. They stood back-to-back. In a moment of surreal stillness, he watched the monstrous pack disembowel Thomas. Then a pair broke for Axel, tugging the other man from different sides, working in tandem, dragging him to the ground. Limbs became strips of meat. Waving air currents danced above them as if directly above a campfire. Hypnotic. Almost alive.

Mitch elbowed him hard. “Wake up, kid,” he said, face streaked with dirt and sweat. “Aim for the head. Gut shots don't keep 'em down.”

The older man knelt, forming two-tier coverage. But no matter how many times they reloaded and fired, the monsters kept coming. Mason's ammo ran out first. He used the butt of his rifle like a club as the last four animals closed in. Mitch swiveled on his knees and fired, blowing one's brains to bits.

But to protect Mason, he turned his back. The beasts didn't miss their chance. They grabbed the older man by his calves and pulled.

“Mitch!”

Mason stomped on the back of one putrid canine neck, then smashed down with the rifle. He kicked and punched, railed and grunted, as the demon dogs continued their frenzy. But when the last beast lay twitching and dying, Mitch was a clawed-up wreck.

Breathless, Mason stumbled over to where his mentor lay fighting for each intake of air. He took Mitch's head in his lap.

“Hey, kid.” Mitch coughed up blood, his chest a gaping wound. Bone pushed into the sick shadows. “Damn, I wish I had a cigarette.”

“Can't help you,” Mason said, bile in his mouth.

“A favor, then.”

“Anything.”

Mitch's face went pale, the blood a nasty, dark contrast. “Save my Jenna, okay? Whatever it takes.”

He'd heard about the little girl before. She had to be, what, twelve now? No way was she ready for this shit. Maybe she'd never need to be. Maybe Mitch was wrong in thinking the grim magic would push west.

Maybe.

“I promise,” he said thickly.

“Then get out of here. Go west. Get some book learning, kid. Don't die like me.”

Mitch raised his hand to look at where his skin had been shorn back. His entire body trembled. Convulsions overtook him as his systems shut down in quick succession. Release came mercilessly fast, but then he didn't have far to go between those injuries and death. He didn't deserve this.

A noise from the other side of the trees shook Mason out of his grief. He'd die like the others if he didn't get out. But dying wasn't an option. He had a promise to keep. On full alert, he pulled to his feet. Fire burned through his injuries. He didn't know how much fight still pulsed inside, but this last one wasn't taking him down.

He grabbed the enemy with his bare hands.

Where the hell was his gun?
Son of a bitch.

“Damn, Mason, let go of me!”

Echo. Reverb.

Monsters don't talk
. The world shivered and flared black, then came back into focus through white-hot sparks.

He found himself in the garden room. The person he held fought back.

A shimmer of awareness skated along Mason's skin, that same awareness he'd used in the woods to push his mind outside of itself, to see things his eyes couldn't see. Except this time felt more foreign. Farther out. Images stretched and warped like a string of taffy. At the end of it waited a fracturing, volcanic power he couldn't begin to identify.

And with a lion's roar, that bright power pushed back.
Hard.

Mason yanked back into himself and let go of Tru. Forcing the adrenaline out of his bloodstream, he concentrated on breathing through his nose. When people got jumpy, others got killed. Welsh had nearly proven that. He sure as hell wasn't going to do the same.

“Did you have to grab me?” Tru glowered and shoved dark hair out of his eyes. “I didn't think you swung that way.”

“You should know better than to sneak up on me.”

Tru looked down at his boots. “Sneaking? In these? Are you high? Maybe Harvard's growing weed in one of these things.”

He wore a white button-down shirt that was slightly too big, the sleeves lined with neatly ironed creases. Mason raised an eyebrow. “The doc's wardrobe?”

“Yeah, but don't make a big deal of it, okay?”

“I won't.” His pulse settled. “And I'm sorry. What are you doing here anyway?”

Tru's face turned an uncomfortable shade of pink. “Nothing, man. Forget it.”

He turned to go, shifting something from behind his back. Mason caught his arm and tugged. For some reason he didn't want to examine too closely, the idea of Tru hiding things from him sat heavy in his gut.

“What do you have?”

“Nothing, damn it.” Tru yanked his arm but couldn't break free.

Mason snatched a box from his hands. A first-aid kit. He went still. “You hurt?”

“I said, forget it. I don't need your help.”

Shaking his head, Mason released the kid's arm. Tru could run if he wanted. But maybe he'd stay.

He did. Warily.

“I didn't ask if you needed help,” Mason said. “I asked if you're hurt, because I'm concerned. If you saw someone with a first-aid kit, you'd wonder the same thing.”

Tru opened his mouth as if to protest, then dropped his eyes. “So?”

“So tell me.”

He recognized Tru's reaction, when kindness looked like cheddar in a trap. Before he joined the military, he'd felt as suspicious when Mitch wanted to help him for no apparent reason. People just didn't offer something for nothing.

But at least Tru seemed to consider his options. He slumped against the nearest wall and slid to the floor, sitting there with his arms draped over bent knees. Then, his eyes focused on an indistinct middle distance, he unbuttoned one pristine white cuff and rolled the sleeve up to his elbow.

Swallowing, Mason glanced at the first-aid kit he still held. “Can I see?”

Eyes averted, he nodded.

Mason simply walked over and knelt. Maybe the direct approach, something man to man, would save a scrap of the kid's pride.

But the injuries he found weren't the slashing, random, bloody scrapes of the dogs' claws. Instead a dozen evenly spaced, two-inch razor-blade cuts climbed the inside of Tru's forearm like the slats of a ladder, all of them scabbed over. Two or three had crusted with a layer of pale green infection.

Déjà vu washed down Mason's spine. In the cabin, he'd known the kid was a cutter. But how? Stereotypes and worst-case scenarios aside, how had he
known
?

“Normally I can keep them clean.” Tru's voice sounded strangled. Every tense angle of his lean body spoke of utter humiliation. “But not lately. And I didn't know what that junk from the pit would do, you know?”

“Yeah. Same on the left one?”

Tru rolled up the other sleeve and presented both arms like a perp waiting for handcuffs. “Pretty sick, huh?”

“We all have our ways of coping. You can do it yourself, or I can help. Your choice.”

Studying the med kit in Mason's hands, he nodded—both permission and silent request.

Mason worked in silence, using peroxide to clean the cuts. Although the boy flinched on occasion, he never said a word. No hiss of pain. Pride was an amazing anesthetic. Then Mason applied the antibiotic ointment, wrapped the area in gauze bandages, and busied himself with closing up the first-aid kit as Tru rebuttoned the cuffs, concealing the scene of the crime.

“Where's your blade now?” Mason asked quietly.

“You gonna confiscate it?” The kid had donned his armor again, standing up and glaring. But most of the bite was gone. He looked almost relieved.

Mason shrugged. “Nah. It's your choice.”

“Good.”

“But would you do something for me?”

Tru stopped but didn't turn away from his chosen flight path, back through the Omega Garden. He simply stood there, shoulders hunched, waiting for the inevitable recrimination or scolding. God, he was young. Mason felt the urge to drop-kick whatever asshole had instilled that cringe in him.

“What?”

“There's only six of us, right? Jenna, me, a mom and her kid, and a jumpy scientist—these are
not
the makings of a first-rate combat unit. We need you, and we need you healthy.” He paused, hoping his tacit request would sink in. “Got it?”

Exhaling slowly, Tru lost his whipped-dog posture. He looked Mason in the eye and tossed him a nasty grin. “Got it. But that means you stay away from the ganja.”

“Men stink,” Jenna said.

Angela glanced up from the nature magazine she'd found stashed in a corner of the lab. Jenna lay slumped onto the opposite bunk. Together they used the room as a lounge because Penny lay sleeping next door, curled around her teddy bear. She'd finally dozed off after Ange realized she could use the rest more than food. Jenna hadn't needed to point it out, either, which was a good sign.

The room wasn't much bigger than a prison cell, just cots the naturalists could use to catch a few winks in between bouts of obsessive research. Jenna found it awkward to share such close space with strangers, even after all they'd endured.

“Yeah, they do,” Ange said heavily. “Which one are we talking about, by the way? Squirrelly, half grown, or scary?”

Jenna quirked a smile. “Scary, I suppose.”

“So what did he do?”

She scowled. “Nothing.”

“Doesn't sound like nothing.”

“He's infuriating. He growls if I don't do exactly as he says, even if my way saves his ass.”

Ange shrugged and set the magazine aside. “Maybe he doesn't like seeing you put yourself at risk, especially for him. He seems like he's used to being self-sufficient.”

“You suck at this,” Jenna said in disgust. “You're supposed to tell me I'm right, no matter how dumb I sound, and then offer me chocolate.”

“Crap. No wonder I don't have any friends. Oh, wait, that's because I'm a single mom with a shitty job. No joke, by the way. I empty bed pans.”

“Not anymore,” Jenna murmured. “As far as I know, we're all continent. But we have bigger worries now.”

She gazed up at the ceiling, weary beyond all bearing. The air seemed different outside since Mason had stolen her from Culver. Each breath snapped with an odd electricity. It tingled in her throat, like the first tickle of a cold or a chemical burn after breathing disinfectant fumes.

“Tell me about it,” Ange said. “But there must be other survivors, right? The east wasn't decimated. We still get trucks now and then from the O'Malley corporation.” She was obviously thinking aloud. “So if we could find them, maybe things would get better.”

“We'll just have to learn the new rules.”

“I have no idea what I'm doing here,” Ange said softly.

That plaintive tone of voice offered clear insight into her way of thinking. She was scared. Maybe even too scared to continue. And she was silently asking for help, but Jenna had none to give. She could only do what she'd always done in the face of disappointment and difficulty. Keep trudging. Hold back the emotion that clouded thought. Her parents hadn't left her with too many other options—Mitch because of his irresponsible gallivanting, and her mother for always waiting for him to come home.

She stretched on her bunk, deciding that Ange needed a quick change of subject. “If this was a decent girls' night, we'd have liquor. Wait, hold that thought. I'll be back.”

Jenna liked the woman well enough, though she was nothing like the friends she'd left behind. The fact that Ange was a mom—and quite a bit older—made for an interesting variety in perspective. Aside from those last few months caring for her mother, Jenna had never needed to put anyone's needs above her own.

But all things considered, she could have done worse for end-of-the-world companions.

She hurried down the hall to rummage through the cabinets in all the rooms. Then she found what she had hoped to find.

“Jackpot,” Jenna said as she came back into the room.

Ange raised her magazine in greeting. “Did you know that the Pygmy elephant may have separated from the Asian elephant as long as three hundred thousand years ago?”

“No.” She grinned. “Did they try marital counseling first?”

“Cute. What've you got?”

“Party in a cup. Well. More or less.” Jenna swirled a fat celloshaped bottle. Cognac glowed a rich, deep amber as she held it to the light.

“Hennessy. Nice.”

At one time, years ago, this bottle ran a hundred and fifty bucks, easy. Well, it
would
have. Now it could very well be priceless. Replacing it might be damn near impossible. Doubtless someone had stashed it for celebratory purposes, intending to drink to a breakthrough after years of research. This wasn't liquor you guzzled to get drunk; it should be sipped from a fine crystal snifter.

Jenna offered a beaker instead. “Feel like having a drink?”

“My ex was a mean drunk, so ordinarily I'd say no. But under the circumstances, I'm not sure it matters. Count me in.”

“Yeah, and ordinarily I'd be worried about keeping watch and making sure my head was on straight, but right now, I just don't
care
.” Her voice shook with frustration. “I'm so damn tired of all this.”

“Don't you wish you could have a little-kid-style meltdown?”

“I never did that, even when I was little.” Her mother had always been too fragile to take much by way of nonsense. The first and only all-out tantrum Jenna threw in a supermarket had resulted in as many tears from her stricken mother. Shaking out of the past, Jenna filled the two beakers and handed one to Ange. “But right now it almost sounds tempting.”