Love in an Undead Age by A.M. Geever (good non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕
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Seffie shook her head no. A soft wash of relief cascaded through Miranda’s body.
Seffie was gripped by another coughing fit, then said, “He bragged he could get anything.”
All the annoying, obnoxious flirting that Miranda had put up with because she thought he was harmless, because she wanted the things he gave her. Her skin began to crawl. There was only one person she knew who could get almost anything: her annoying as fuck, just would not take the hint admirer, Harold.
“I should have just fucked him,” she said, her mind reeling. “It would have been cheaper.”
“Harold?” Doug barked in surprise. “Are you telling me it was Harold?”
Seffie looked up at him fearfully. “Never said his name.”
Miranda’s horrified shock began to give way to anger. “That fucking weasel! He got us the Humvees and weapons! I gave him more intel than she ever could!”
“Holy shit,” Mario said under his breath, his eyes meeting Miranda’s. His face said it all. What else can go wrong? He crouched down next to Seffie and put his good arm around her shoulders. She clung to him, weeping pathetically between coughing fits.
Doug turned to Connor. “Check those ropes again. Retie them, move him if you want, I don’t care.” He stepped in close. “You will not touch her again.”
Connor’s face contorted, anger curling his lip. “She—”
“Do you understand me?”
Connor nodded, then turned on his heel and stalked toward Jeremiah.
Doug motioned for Miranda to follow him. Painfully, she limped after him into the hallway just outside the door.
“What should we do?” he asked, still sounding stunned.
“The ambush, the lab.” Miranda couldn’t look Doug in the eye. “It’s my fault.”
“Jesus, Miri, don’t be so melodramatic. You didn’t tell him we were taking 17, did you?”
“No, but the kind of terrain I told Harold we needed to travel—”
Doug waved off her self-reproach. “They made some educated guesses and went from there. They discovered what they did about Santa Cruz on their own. I meant Seffie. What do you think?”
“We take her as far as the town,” Miranda answered, shocked that he had even asked.
“Of course we do,” Doug snapped. “We’re not leaving her out here to die, for Christ’s sake.”
Miranda waited.
Doug took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just— Jesus, we cannot catch a break! Harold a City spy? Come on,” he said in disbelief. “Now we’ve got three people to watch and guard instead of one, and you and Mario aren’t in peak condition.”
“We’ll manage.”
“Because we’ve done great so far.”
A crash came from inside the room the others occupied, followed by Seffie’s raspy yelp of surprise. A shout from Connor, followed by a thud.
“Goddamn him!” Doug hissed.
Miranda took a step toward the door when what felt like a freight train hit her in the chest. She flew off her feet and landed hard on her back. She gasped for breath, her lungs emptied by the impact.
Jeremiah ran past her, a length of rope still tied to one wrist, and disappeared into the stairwell. No, she thought, still gasping for breath. Connor followed a moment later. Miranda glimpsed blood coursing down Connor’s face. Doug sprinted down the hallway after them.
Miranda climbed to her feet and leaned against the wall. Mario appeared in the door, an assault rifle in his hand.
Seffie darted past Mario. “Come on!” she croaked.
“Give me that,” Miranda wheezed, hand out to Mario. “Was it Seffie?”
“No,” he said, moving past her to follow Seffie without giving Miranda the rifle. “Stay here. You can barely stand.”
“You should stay, too. We can’t risk losing you.”
“Just stay here, Miri.”
There was no point, no time, to argue. Mario turned and left. She watched, helpless, as he disappeared into the inky black of the stairwell.
Connor swiped warm blood and cold rain from his eyes. Thick underbrush clutched at his legs. The contours of the uneven ground reached up to trip him. He could hear the madman ahead, calling out to his undead ‘children’ for protection. From every direction, they moaned their reply.
If I’d just left the freak alone…
Furious with himself, Connor pushed harder. The knots Seffie tied were secure. He had said so himself. There was no rational reason to retie them, even less to move him, but reason had nothing to do with it. Learning that Seffie was at least partly responsible for the death of almost everyone who had left Mazatlán with them had not just clouded Connor’s judgment. It had obliterated it.
He squinted against the rain, saw a glimpse of Jeremiah’s silhouette against the lighter background of one of the buildings ahead. Connor pivoted to follow and tripped, an ensnared foot dragging him to the ground. He started to push himself up when he heard a raspy hiss, like air leaking from a tire. He snapped his head toward it. A rush of decay hit him full in the face. His eyes widened in horror at the skeletal face inches from his nose, almost invisible in the dark underbrush. Connor reared away, crab-walking backward. Over his initial panic, he stopped and kicked his heel into the writhing zombie’s face. He reached for the machete on his hip. It wasn’t there. He had set it aside so that Jeremiah couldn’t make a grab for it while he moved him.
Another zombie came toward him from the tall grass to his right. He sprang to his feet and started to run.
“Connor, wait!” a voice called out.
Connor looked away from the zombie to see Doug closing the distance between them. “I’ve got it,” Doug said as he approached the staggering cadaver. Connor heard a dull thwack. The zombie dropped.
“This way,” Connor said, gesturing in the direction he had last seen Jeremiah.
The moans of the zombies grew louder. The torrential downpour seemed to marry the faint sound of Jeremiah’s voice with that of the zombies’ moaning. A damp rustle that the rain could not account for sighed from the overgrown trees and underbrush.
“I’ll go around to the north of that building, in case he heads that way. Keep going east,” Doug ordered.
“I don’t have a weapon. I just took off after him.”
Doug produced a bowie knife from a sheath on his thigh. He handed the knife hilt first to Connor but did not let go when Connor gripped the hilt.
“Don’t fuck up again.”
The wind picked up, pelting the stinging rain against Connor’s face. He slowed as he approached the building ahead. He poked his head around a corner, praying Jeremiah wasn’t poised with a zombie to set loose on him. There was movement ahead.
A hand gripped his shoulder. Too tight. Too cold. Connor knew it was a zombie before he turned around. He shoved the zombie against the wall as he turned toward it, using its grip on his shoulder as leverage. The zombie lurched at him again, catching Connor’s shoulder and elbow in its hands, its grip so tight Connor almost dropped the knife.
The zombie didn’t moan, but its jaws snapped with a nasty clicking of teeth. Connor fought to raise the hand that held the knife. The zombie’s grip tightened. Its jagged fingernails scraped against the chain mail protecting his elbow, twisting the metal against his skin.
With a grunt, Connor kicked. His boot connected with the zombie’s knee. The vise-like grip he had struggled against loosened. He wrenched his elbow free and jammed the knife into the creature’s eye. He pulled the blade out and sent the zombie crumpling to the ground.
He rounded the corner. There were zombies everywhere. Staggering figures distorted by the rain: ahead of him, behind, closing in from the exposed side not sheltered by the building. A few more minutes of this and he was done for. He had to find the Prophet or retreat. Not retreat, he thought, fail. If he did not capture Jeremiah, it was over. The whole world would be doomed because of his stupidity.
Connor heard a snatch of a human voice from across the clearing. He charged toward it. Zombies snatched at his clothes as he ducked and shoved, deflecting their attack with elbows and punches. He didn’t try to kill; that would slow him down. He had to reach the voice of the lunatic, not just to capture Jeremiah, but to save himself.
Then he saw a lone figure inside a ring of zombies, maybe ten feet away. The zombies lurched toward the central figure, only to be repelled when they got too close. For a moment, it seemed as if Connor’s and Jeremiah’s eyes locked, even though Connor could not make out more than a shape and white shirt. He could feel the insanity behind Jeremiah’s golden eyes pulse like a beacon before Jeremiah pivoted away.
Jeremiah broke for the tree line. Connor strong-armed the closest zombie, knocked another to the ground with a shoulder check. If Jeremiah made it, he would get away. Desperate, Connor leaped over the nearest zombie and dove, stretching his body as far as he could. He hit the ground with a tooth-rattling thump. His fingernails scraped against Jeremiah’s bare ankle. Scrambling on the sodden ground, Connor lunged and caught Jeremiah’s
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