The World Without a Future (The World Without End) Page 5

  “I’ve got peanut butter and chocolate, and tropical fruit,” I say, reading them. “You can pick, as long as you don’t want chocolate.”

  I grin at him—and freeze. His expression, which has been neutral for most of the morning, is cold, icy and remote, and I shiver involuntarily. It draws his gaze, which flicks over me with a touch of heat that defies the coldness in him.

  “Finn?” I ask, my voice cautious.

  His gaze goes back to the road, and his voice is deliberately easy. “Chocolate. I don’t eat tropical fruit shit.”

  I hesitate, and he holds out a hand, like he can snap his fingers and I’ll immediately cave.

  That they are his energy bars doesn’t really matter much. I open the chocolate bar, and the smell slams into me. My stomach rumbles alarmingly, and Finn laughs, a sound that tickles my belly and sends butterflies to flight.

  I break the bar and hand the smaller portion to him. Finn’s eyes narrow, and he gives me a disbelieving stare. I shrug. “I’m a girl.”

  He opens his mouth to answer when it happens. The pop is loud—deafening in the silence of the desert—and the Porsche spins, skidding under the blown tire. My seat belt snaps me back as Finn curses, fighting for control of the car. Dust explodes around us as we skid off the road, into the soft dirt of the desert, and I close my eyes as we come to a stop.

  “Fuck!” Finn snarls and explodes from the car. He’s moving fast, and I struggle to keep up.

  “Do we have a spare?” I demand, and he grunts, already half under the Porsche. I couldn’t imagine him out in the Wide Open without something as basic as a spare tire.

  A screech jerks my attention away from him as the tire slides out from under the car. I whip around and see them—four infects. Two large men, a girl who could have been my age when she turned, a little boy no older than eight. They move with an eerie beauty and grace, and aside from that initial scream, they are silent as they race toward us. I pull my snub-nosed revolver, line my sights and fire.

  The little boy falls, and the girl freezes, staring at his prone body. Something twists in her expression when she looks back up, a snarl on her lips. Finn emerges from the car, breathless, and I snatch his crossbow as he throws it up at me. “Hurry,” I urge and bring the weapon up, firing twice in rapid succession. The male in the lead squeals when the first bolt lodges in his shoulder, and then the second embeds in his eye, spinning him around and killing his cry as he goes down like a sack of bricks. His pack mates hesitate, hissing, and I take a deep breath, aiming.

  The scream the girl let out is so loud, and so unexpected, I jolt, firing inadvertently. It slams into her chest, and her scream gurgles off in a furious whine. Her eyes are full of hatred when she meets my gaze, a hungry, unthinking hatred that hits me like a hammer.

  "Focus, Ren," Finn orders from near my hip, and it jerks me from my paralysis. Putting the other two down is easy after that, though the female lands disturbingly close to Finn's boot-clad feet. I step over, straddling his legs as I watch the puffs of dust on the desert. There are a lot—more than I think I can handle, and they're getting closer.

  Drawn by the infect's angry scream.

  "Hurry, O'Malley," I snap, and he grunts. Then the zombies are here—close enough I can put them down. I keep count for the first eight. After that, there are too many, too close, and as fast as I fire, there are more. The world seems to slow when I empty my clip. I drop the gun next to Finn's boots and pull my knives as the zombies swarm me. I shove the blade into the first's eye and grab him, pulling his limp corpse close to shield me as I attack the others. For a few minutes, straddling Finn, embracing a corpse and killing the infects, I think I can do this. Then one lunges at me from atop the Porsche and I scream as I duck away from her teeth. Her long fingers catch in my shoulder, and I feel the skin tear, feel the burn of the wound. Rage crystallizes into icy precision, and I hurl the zombie away from me and slam my blade into the infect that jumped me. "O'Malley, we gotta go!" I yell, reaching for and hurling my throwing stars. I’m running dangerously low on weapons, and I can’t fall back—they are already trying to slide past me, attack Finn where he is defenseless on the ground. Retreating would be a death sentence.

  "Two minutes," he yells, and I kick the face of a infect who fell near him, scrabbling for a booted foot.

  "Now!""

  "Get in the car," he orders a heartbeat—a lifetime—later, and I laugh outright. No way in hell.

  "Damn it, Ren, you promised!" he snarls, rolling to his knees and pulling his gun. The noise will draw more infects, but at this point, it might kill enough for us to get away, and that matters more than silence.

  "When I said that, we weren't under attack."

  He mutters something, and there's a brief lull in his firing before I hear the door swing open. An infect rushes me, and I swallow a shriek of pain as the exposed bones of his fingers break the skin, my blood spraying in a rush.

  The remaining infects screech, and I slam my knife into the zombie's eye. A warm arm wraps around my waist, and I do scream as Finn pulls me into his lap and slams the door behind us.

  I don't even have time to scramble out of his lap before he floors the gas and we explode from the horde in a burst of decaying bodies and dust.

  Chapter 18

  Somewhere Safe

  My hands are shaking, adrenaline coursing through my body, and a random, awful thought hits me: is this what it’s like for the infects?

  A laugh burns in my throat, and I swallow hard, trying not to let it out, trying not to throw up. My arm and back are itchy, burning, and I jerk around so violently it jars Finn.

  I’m still in his lap. How the fuck did I forget that I was in his lap? His arms are around me, holding the steering wheel. His face is close—close enough that I can see the tiny freckles I never knew he had, the muscles tightening in his jaw, the stubble, dark like his hair, on his jaw. His gray eyes flick up to mine, hot and hungry and furious. Startled, I almost fall off his lap and into my seat. He shifts a little. “You weren’t bitten.”

  It’s a statement, and I’m not sure if he’s denying it as a possibility or stating something he’s observed. Either way, I shake my head. I wasn’t. “But I was scratched.”

  He holds out his hand, and I give him my arm without saying anything in complaint. He examines the claw marks, the deep grooves that are still leaking blood, and I flush, trying to pull away—it’s revolting. Finn’s grip tightens, almost painfully, and he looks at me, furious.

  “I told you to get in the car.”

  “You could have died,” I answered, without thinking. “Those zombies were trying to get to your feet, your legs. You couldn’t have gotten clear of them.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and I twist, digging in the bags to find the first aid kit. I drop down into my seat with it and rip open a handful of alcohol wipes. They aren’t the best thing to use—acid would be, I think—but they’ll do for the moment. The wipes burn, and I hiss, my eyes watering. He’s still staring out the windshield, his jaw tight, and I sigh, wrapping a bandage around my arm. The bleeding has begun to slow, and I think it’ll be enough to tide me over until we get to Haven 18.

  Maybe.

  “You could say thank you,” I say, reaching around to swipe at my shoulder blade ineffectually.

  Finn stares at me for a solid thirty seconds, and I realize what an idiot I must look like, before he finally shakes his head and looks away. “I told you, Nurrin. I won’t thank you for risking your life. Follow your damn orders before you get us both killed.”

  He gentles the words, a little, by taking a clean wipe and rubbing my wounds. I gasp at the ruthless cleaning, but then he drops the wipe, and his fingers ghost over the cut before he pulls his hand back abruptly.

  “You’ll have a scar. Two of them.”

  I shrug and look away. “I’d have a lot more, if I walked the wall.”

  A grin tugs at his lip, and I shiver under the gray gaze he sends my way. “
You want to be a Wall Walker?”

  “Why not?”

  “Collin would never let you.” He laughs, like I’m an amusing joke. Or his best friend’s little sister, playing with the big boy’s toys. Heat flares through me, and something makes me shift in my seat, leaning over until my lips hovered a few inches from his ear. He is still—so still it seems obscene that we are moving.

  “I didn’t need Collin to sponsor me. And I didn’t need you, O’Malley. I would have walked on my own.”

  His gaze is dark, his lips so close to mine I can feel the air move when he demands, “Who the fuck was sponsoring you?”

  I drop back into my seat and shrug, a little. “I would have found someone.”

  He gives me a disbelieving stare, and I lean my seat back a few inches—as far as it’ll allow me to. “Wake me up when we get…there.” I wave a hand vaguely at the desert sprawling before us, and then I curl over on my side, tugging Collin’s shirt around me as I fall asleep.

  The car slowing wakes me, and I jerk upright in the seat, my hand reaching automatically for my weapon. My heart stops when I remember, and I can't help the hiss of air.

  "What?"

  He doesn't bother to ask if I've slept well, and I sort of resent that. He's above mundane trivialities that seem to dominate the lives of everyone else.

  I answer anyway, "My gun. I left it there, when we were attacked."

  He doesn't even look away from the road. "You can get a new one at Haven 18. Or use one of mine—I have plenty."

  I don't tell him that isn't the point—that this gun is special because Collin gave it to me, that it was the first thing he gave me after our mother turned. That it was hers. That it told me, more than words ever could, I was safe and loved and not alone in this fucked up world.

  I shove those thoughts aside and look around. We're approaching a field of windmills, and I wonder if that's where we will rest for the night.

  That we will stop is beyond dispute. I can see exhaustion pulling at Finn like an anxious lover and feel the shadows shifting with bodies ripe with death and disease.

  "Where are we going?" I ask, more to ease the boredom than from any real desire to know.

  Finn glances at me briefly. "Somewhere safe."

  I want to pry, to ask for more than that, but I’m too tired, and I ache. It’s a deep, uneasy feeling in my shoulder and in my arm, and I want to scratch at them.

  I wonder if Finn would notice, if I did. His eyes are firmly on the road, but that means very little when we’re talking about Finn.

  He drives through the windmill fields, past the great turbines that power the western Havens, and turns into a forest.

  It makes my breath catch, and it hits me suddenly that we aren’t in the desert anymore. The trees press up against the car doors, making me anxious for my gun.

  “It’s safe,” Finn says, and I look at him. He shrugs. “At least, as safe as anything can be.”

  The lake startles me. It gleams in the moonlight—night is settling on the forest, the last light slipping from the sky and giving way to darkness. I stare at the water and wonder what the hell he plans to do. We skirt the lake for a mile or more, and I laugh when I see the houseboat. It's small, but it'll take us into the water, and that's really all we need.

  Infects avoid water.

  Finn eases the car up to the dock and reaches behind us, pulling our bags from the depths of the car and into our laps. I peer into the darkness, but aside from the trees and tall grass, its quiet, an eerie peacefulness that makes my stomach churn. What's out there, in the darkness?

  "You ready?" he asks, and I shift, adjusting my bag and reaching for my gun. He stops me, handing me a long machete instead. "Keep it quiet."

  I nod, and we slip out of the car and into the surprisingly cool night. Faster than I could believe possible, Finn is at my side, herding me toward the boat. The dock is short—a dozen yards—but leaves me feeling itchy and exposed. I breathe a sigh of relief when I step onto the houseboat, feeling its slight shift under me. Finn tosses me his bag, and I swallow down a scream of pain as it yanks at my torn arm.

  The boat is quiet—it barely makes a noise as we pull away from the dock and idle out to the exposed open water of the lake. I feel the shore receding—and some of my worries with it. Here, at least, we're safe for a few hours. Here we can both sleep and not set a watch. Here, there are no threats.

  Finn is finally satisfied with our location in the lake and kills the motor. We bob slightly as he throws an anchor out, and then silence settles over the lake and forest again.

  Finn stares out over the water for a long moment. I wonder what he is thinking, but when I shift, he looks up.

  "Let's get below and get your wounds stitched up.”

  I freeze, staring at him. “You aren’t stitching me.”

  Finn gives me a dark smile, and I shiver from the menace in it. I clutch my bag tighter and head for the stairs. Six short steps down empties me into a small room—small enough that there is little room to move around the bed that dominates the space.

  “Sit down,” he says, and without thinking, I obey, dropping onto the bed in exhaustion. He rifles around the miniscule bathroom and brings out a first aid kit.

  The sting of antiseptic on my shoulder makes me hiss in a breath and tense under Finn’s fingers. He pauses, and a small flask appears in front of me. “Drink this,” he murmurs. I take it from him and try to ignore the sound of him opening and prepping a suture kit while I hastily swallow some of the brandy. It’s hot and smooth as it slides down my throat, leaving a flare of fire behind it before it fades into a pleasant numbed warmth.

  The first stab of the needle whips through me, and I scream involuntarily. Finn fists a hand in my hair, pulling me back against him, a hand clamped over my mouth, and I bite it off, swallowing down the agony, the scream. The pain recedes under the feeling of his arms around me, until that is all I can feel—that and the warmth of the brandy, sitting like a lit coal in my belly.

  “Be quiet,” Fin hisses in my ear, and my panic fades in the face of fury. I elbow him in the gut, even angrier when he releases me without comment.

  “I told you, keep your hands off me, O’Malley,” I say, but my voice is shaky and weak, and he laughs.

  “Do I need to gag you?” he asks, his question sliding across my skin. I shiver.

  I shake my head, and he smiles—I feel it where his lips are almost pressed against my skin. Fury floods me, hot and choking, and my cheeks flame. “You can curse me after, Nurrin. For now, hold still.”

  It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I manage it. He watches me for a few seconds when he comes around from behind my shoulder, his eyes slipping down to the lip I’ve bitten raw and the sweat that has beaded above it. Something shifts in his gaze, and he nods at the flask. “Take a little more, Nurrin.”

  I swallow two large gulps, clench my fist, and nod. He gives me a faint smile, ducks his head, and begins. Twice, I whimper, and he pauses, letting me gather myself, drink some more of the brandy. Once, he stops and wipes away the blood trailing down my chin. His gentleness is unnerving. I shift, moving slightly away from him.

  He doesn’t stop again, and stabbing burn, followed by a sharp tug, repeated over and over, makes me want to gag as he closes the wound.

  When he’s finally done, Finn lets out a deep breath. He stands, washing his hands quickly in the bathroom then coming back and throwing a bottle of pills onto the bed next to me. “Antibiotics,” he says. “Neural inhibitors.”

  “What the hell are you doing with these?” I demand. “The CDC controls them.”

  He gives me a cold look, and I roll my eyes. “That’s right. Finn O’Malley, man of mystery and endless questions. Why would I think you’d answer a simple question?”

  “Answering questions wasn’t part of this,” he says, stripping off his shirt. My mouth goes dry. “You wanted to come, you’ll do it blind—I don’t believe in answering questions.”

>   I stand. “What do you believe in, O’Malley? From what I see, the only thing you believe in is yourself and my brother.”

  And that bothers me. It always will.

  Finn pauses, hands on his belt, and cocks an eyebrow at me. “Does it matter? I’ll keep you alive. I’ll keep Collin safe. And I’ll get Dustin’s meds. Beyond that, does it matter?”

  He hesitates, watching me, and I finally shake my head, because he’s right. It doesn’t. Something flickers in his gaze, before it’s gone and he nods. Then he slips into the bathroom, and I curl on my side, trying to sleep despite my racing thoughts.

  When he comes out of the bathroom, Finn is wearing a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms and nothing else. He throws his clothes into the corner of the room and wordlessly crawls into the bed.

  I almost land on my ass in my haste to scramble out of the bed.

  Finn doesn’t even turn on, but his voice floats out of the darkness. “Get a shower and get some sleep, Nurrin.”

  “I’m not sleeping with you,” I say, my voice shrill.

  That does make him move, and his lips twist into a sinful smile as he peers at me over his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

  My mouth goes dry, and I breathe a curse on a shaky voice. He laughs and settles back on his side of the bed. “Sleep in the bed or the on the ground—I don’t care.”

  His laughter follows me, faintly amusing, into the shower.

  I end up sleeping in the bed. The floor is too hard, and the lure of a good night of sleep outweighs the distaste of sleeping next to Finn.

  I can feel the steady pressure of his gaze in the morning. It’s what wakes me—the warmth of the sunshine on my hair and his gaze on my face. I lie still, pretending to sleep, and for some reason, he lets me.

  Finn O’Malley, who tolerates no dissembling or lies.

  I relax a little when he slips from the bed, and I listen to him move around the small room then the sound of his feet on the stairs. The fresh scent of clean air hits me, and I groan, stretching. My stitches tug a little, in time with my throbbing head.