Dark Future (4 page)

Chapter Seven

O
h God, this is it!

A burn sliced across my neck. I wrapped my hands around my throat to stem the flow of blood.

A warm wetness trickled down my skin, my palm, in between my clamped fingers. I was afraid to swallow, afraid to feel my blood slip away as I died. I gasped at him, my breath rapid and shallow. This man had killed me, cut my throat like some animal left to choke on its own fluids.

Tears of self-pity blurred my vision. For some stupid reason I’d never thought he’d hurt me. Terrify me—yes. Manipulate me—yes, but never murder. I blinked to clear my sight, tears squeezed from the corners of my eyes. I was beyond caring that he would see me cry. What was pride when you only had seconds to live?

I clenched down on my hitching sob. I never thought I’d die like this, in some dank, gray room, wearing coarse, military clothing, my only companion a psychotic maniac.

ConRad eased back and released my hair. His hand curled around to the underside of my jaw. The course pad of his thumb dried the wet trail on my cheek. His glanced down at his thumb and forefinger as they rubbed together seemingly puzzled by the moisture. “My job is tough, and I offer no apologies or excuses, but I had to be sure. Aliens don’t bleed like us. I needed to know you were human.”

A murderer with a profound sense of responsibility. Wonderful.

“So you killed me!” I shouted. I placed two fingers against my carotid artery and took my pulse. Was the rhythm racing or . . . thready? Were those white lights in the distance? Had it become harder to breathe?
The end, the final finale.

“What?” He stepped back and wiped the blade on his pant leg before sheathing the knife in its holster. A
tsk
sound came from between his closed lips. “Barely a scratch. You won’t even see the mark i Nensonn> soun a few days.”

I pulled my hand away from my throat and glanced down, amazed at the thin smear of blood on my fingers. With hurried movements I palpated my trachea, then the cartilage around my larynx. I swallowed a few times. All seemed to be in normal working order. The cool breeze of relief swept through me, followed by a blister of hot rage that sprang forth and flamed my face.

“You complete jack—” The words I used to describe him wouldn’t have been fit for even a hard-core rapper to use. If my mother had heard me, she would have reached for a bar of soap. And I was just getting started.

The Commander must have thought so too. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, was that all in English? There were names I don’t even think I know the meaning of.”

A small smile played across his face, crinkling the corners of his brilliant blue eyes. It had a way of making him appear younger, almost charming. But then again, the Devil is said to appear as an angel of light.

“Well, next time you think someone just killed you, let’s see how you react,” I snapped in my defense.

He nodded. He had justified himself once—he wouldn’t do it again.

My heart still thundered as I pulled in my first full breath. I rubbed my hand across my chest. Was I up to these life-or-death situations? Forget monsters or murders—I would die from a common old heart attack.

I needed space. Proximity to this man put me on edge. He seemed to drive me to my boundaries and then test my resistance. My hand raised and pushed on his chest. I needed room. I needed space to breathe without his scent—soap, metal, heat—flooding my nostrils.

ConRad didn’t budge. His chest was as unforgiving as any rock mass. Then he stepped closer. My arm, worthless against such power, bent and became trapped between our bodies. His gaze locked with mine, nostrils flared, eyes focused and heated. His larger frame hovered and crowded.

Something happened; something had changed. He was on the attack. My belly twisted and my throat dried. His face so close, lips within licking distance. His breath fanned my cheeks. His scent made my mouth water.
Just a taste . . . just one taste.

“What if I’m wrong? What if the aliens are more advanced than even I thought? Or maybe . . .” his voice turned rich and deep, like a red wine, “I’m just lookin Sm j/p>

He spoke the last under his breath, almost as if he was being pulled along against his will. I could sympathize.

He was so tall I put a creak in my neck to watch his expression. I placed my palm flat against his broad chest, and I could feel his muscles shift as his arms came to either side of my head, pressing his hands against the wall.

Trapped again.

“A reason?” I swallowed. I couldn’t seem to follow a simple train of thought. Primal words diffused through my brain . . .
open . . . more . . . yes.

His mouth parted, a tongue swept along his full upper lip leaving a shimmer of wet behind. “It’s been a long . . . long . . . long time since I’ve had a woman.”

His words rolled through me, seeping into my raw nerves like a rum punch. My mouth eased forward. The promise of his flavor . . . consuming.

His eyes burned, transfixed on my neck. He bent his knees, lowered, and rubbed his hips against mine. His hands slid to my scalp, massaging. Then he grasped my hair and tilted my head exposing my neck—stretching my wound.

My breath escaped in a pant. My mind warred with my body as my muscles unfurled, preparing for surrender. He looked at me as if I was dinner . . . no dessert. He was a man kept alive on bread and water for so long, pushed to the edge—on the brink of rushing the line.

He lowered his head.

Time lingered. Heartbeats ceased. Then a tongue, warm . . . wet . . . slow, licked my wound. A sting erupted as his tongue drew across leisurely from one end to the other. More suggestive than a caress, more intimate than a kiss. The gesture reeked of possessiveness, of ownership, of a . . . branding.

He lifted his head and rolled his tongue around his mouth. “You taste like human.” He said, and then ground his hips into mine. “You feel like human.”

My God,
he’s crazy.
But I couldn’t stop my legs from going weak. My arms clutched around his shoulders, afraid my knees would buckle if I let go.

“Silly little girl, found all alone in the dark.” His mouth was beside my ear.

Addicting chills spread at his seductive tone.

“You cost my men their lives all because you were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or were you? Maybe it’s all a trick, maybe they’ve found a way to make you look, feel, and taste like a human. But I wonder . . .” He whispered as he gently kissed the corners of my mouth. His tongue bathed my parted lips.

I licked the moisture; savoring the flavor of salt, metal . . . blood. My body went from hot to cold to . . . burning. A smoldering fire began in the pit of my stomach, scorching its way south.

“I wonder,” he began again. “I wonder if they made it possible for you to come like a human.”

An emotion of the purest form swept through me, an uncontrollable urge to weep. A low moan escaped from the back of my throat.
Please ConRad, it’s been so long. I thought I lost you.
Something cool and smooth dragged underneath my shirt, lightly past my ribs. His knife. The blade skimmed my skin down to my waist. With a small flick of his wrist, he cut the belt holding up my fatigues.

A shock of cold air hit my bare thighs, and my brain snapped awake. I didn’t know this man, and another realization following hard on the first—I wasn’t wearing underwear.

Warning bells triggered. Not just ordinary “hey, wait a minute” alarms, but all out
Halt!
Stop!
Warning bells. “Wait!” I squeaked, but to no avail.

His hand clamped down on my bare behind. His breath came in gasps—body trembled.

“God, you’re so soft . . . so very . . . female.” His words . . . reverent. His mouth . . . everywhere. My temple, neck, and hair were bathed in prayerful administrations. His hands slid down my bare legs and hiked them around his waist—removing my pants with a decisive snap. One calloused palm rounded my hip and settled deep between my thighs. He groaned, bit my lip, and tugged. “You’re so wet. So ready for me.”

I wanted to deny the accusation, but couldn’t. Not when his fingers slid deep inside me—easy, willing, no resistance. My hips bucked against his hand. How could I be doing this? How could I have let this go this far?

Then his fingers moved . . . and I ceased thinking at all.

Hips rocked, forcing his hand deeper—drawing him closer.

Don’tcomedon’tcomedon’tcome.

My mind reared back from the loss of control. A roaring tidal wave of pleasure swept through my body, jolting me to the core. A moan slipped past my lips.

He covered my mouth with his hand and buried his face in my neck. He growled, animal-like, visceral.

And damn me to hell because I responded.

I shook, the spasms of my orgasm rippled through me. Reds and blues shot through the darkness behind my eyelids. My muscles, strained to the breaking point, finally shattered. Sweet relief rushed through my body. Tears threatened again, but this time from the feeling of safekeeping, of being in a place I never wanted to leave.

Only our ragged breathing broke the silence. Neither of us moved. My legs wrapped around his hips, his hand across my mouth—my face flamed, ears burned. He gazed into my eyes and for the first time saw me . . . really saw me.

There was a sense of déjà vu, of familiarity, then something else that went way beyond. I could see myself through his eyes, but as if looking in the past. Like each life was a reflection, and I stood peering down a hall of mirrors.

He unclasped my mouth and tenderly stroked my cheek. His forehead lowered and rested on mine. “I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t think it would go this far. Kris?” He hesitated.

I had no strength. No energy—he had consumed it as if he had every right. But did he? Had I at one time given him my heart and my body?

I didn’t think he hesitated often, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t pretend everything was okay and have a conversation while his fingers were still deep inside me.

“Please,” I said as I limply pushed on his arm. ConRad’s fingers slipped out of me and rounded my thighs. Wetness trailed along my hips as his hands lingered there. He reluctantly let go and lowered me to the ground. I stole a glance at him. His breath came in hard; an expression of strained control lined his face. I understood complet Sstoand lely.

I broke eye contact, slicing my gaze to my feet. I reached for my pants and pulled them around my waist. The cut belt lay useless on the floor.

I left. I picked up my clothes and shredded dignity and walked toward the door. What else could I say? What could I do? I had
seriously thought ConRad was going to kill me, and yet he’d just brought me to the best climax of my entire life, pinned against a cave wall.

Shameless.

Chapter Eight

I
flung the metal door open, ready to force my way past the two guards previously posted there. Instead, I stumbled out into the harsh orange glare of the corridor undeterred. They were gone. What had ConRad said—something about there was only one way in and one way out, which was heavily guarded.

Didn’t matter. I’d find a way.

I staggered down the concrete tunnel and tried to run, but my head spun like I’d had one too many rounds at the local bar. Smooth gray walls surrounded me, and I braced my shoulder against one, concentrating on staying upright. I had to get out of here. I needed to get back to my sugar-coated life, one that didn’t have monsters and mean men who cut me just to see if I would bleed.

The thought caused my neck to itch with awareness. My hand brushed the skin and my palm came away with a thick smear of red. The wound had begun to seep.

I was bleeding again. Which, I’m sure had nothing to do with the freaking gyrations against a damn cave wall. I closed my eyes, the vivid picture of how I must have looked with legs wrapped around ConRad seemed to have been branded into the back of my eyelids.

With my forearm I wiped the sweat that coated my skin and slicked my hairline. I wasn’t sure if the moisture was from my recent aerobic activity or the thick, heavy air that smelled like cooked eggs and wet earth. I trembled as I continued down the hall.

This wasn’t happening. My day hadn’t consisted of being sniffed by an alien, treated like a prisoner, interrogated by a mad man, sliced to assure I bled, and then brought to a withering climax. I had disastrous days before, but this one marked the official D-day of my life.

“Do you need help?” The voice was soft and melodic like ice melting in a glass of sweet tea. A young girl about sixteen or seventeen had skipped to a stop. Her straight blonde hair swung like a gold curtain past her delicate shoulders. Blue eyes widened with interest as they peered out beneath fringed bangs. She hadn’t escaped the imposed military uniform, green camouflage tank top, and army pants, except the one flare of originality—white tennis shoes instead of combat boots. She was petite, a little taller than my shoulders, but her stature was one of confidence that only the truly young, not yet beaten down by the world, could maintain.

I saw my lifeline and grabbed it.

My hand snaked out and caught hold of her wrist, pulling her in close. I placed my face a mere inch in front of hers so there’d be no confusion. “Where’s the exit? The way back home? I need to get the hell out of here!”

Her body reared back, arm twisting under my hold. Terror ringed her eyes as they scanned me from head to toe—then toe to head. I could only imagine what she saw. A half-crazed woman, drenched in sweat, and bleeding. With a death grip on a pair of overly large combat pants that, with a mere slip of my fingers, would tumble to my ankles, leaving me half naked.

Right, that’s all I need—more exposure.

I relinquished my grasp, shocked at how grotesque my bloodied palm print showed against her pale skin.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, my voice hitching on the simple syllable.

“We should get you to the infirmary,” she said leaning forward and inspecting the wound on my throat. “It doesn’t look like much, but you don’t want to take a chance with infection, especially down here.” She grimaced and held out her hand by the way of introduction. “By the way, my name’s Quinn. What’s yours?”

I swiped my dirty palm along my pant leg and shook her hand. I blinked my eyes, surprised by the sting of emotion. A few kind words and I was ready to collapse, crying on her shoulder.

“Kris.”

“Hmm . . . odd name,” she said with a slight narrowing of her eyes. Quinn turned and began to walk down the corridor, then glanced behind her to make sure I followed. “We take a right here, and then it’s just a little further.”

I shot a look aro [ot

“Well, now it’s like a second home, but in the beginning . . .” She shrugged, turned, and tapped her hand on the steel arches where large black numbers glistened with condensation that ran lazily down the column. It was so humid even the metal sweated.

“There are markings on each passage where they split—basically four main hallways that connect with each other. Of course, there are other side tunnels, but until you get to know the basic four, don’t bother with them. Just remember, if you get lost, always try to find your way back to tunnel one, which will bring you to the center of the compound. Here we are . . . just through these doors.”

If the two silver doors had ever been tended to, they’d long ago lost their shine. Dingy metal and dirt-smeared, they were haphazardly wedged into the side of a mountain. Surprisingly, the hinges were well oiled as the doors swung easily open. Quinn held one door back for me to follow.

My feet slowed to a stop as I stared in disbelief at the so-called infirmary.

The same lighting that hung throughout the compound was here also, thin copper wires giving off a gloomy orange glow. Each wire alone didn’t provide much light, but when numerous lines wound back and forth, the effect was more substantial. But even in the dim glare, the infirmary left much to be desired.

Below the lighting was a mesh net strung across the ceiling. The net was secured on all sides and drooped toward the middle, presumably to prevent boulders from falling and crushing recovering patients. Thoughtful.

Metal cots were overturned; some with a few, thin, dirty mattresses draped over them. Wooden tables, stained brown with dried blood, lined one wall. A few pathetic chairs stood, or didn’t, depending on the number of legs. And against one wall, a rusted-out metal cabinet, whose doors hung in a saddened lopsided way, completed the room dedicated to healing.

I had entered a furniture graveyard. I wondered if burning the furnishings would release their tormented souls. Sure couldn’t make the place much worse.

Didn’t matter, not my problem. The sooner I got patched up, the sooner I’d be on my way. My BBD might have commissioned me with a responsibility, but it didn’t mean I had to [eanhad to accept. Besides, the only one here who needed saving was me.

I walked over to the cabinet and pried open doors caked with dirt and rust. Browsing the contents, my gaze settled on a few nonsterile gauze pads, some bottles of alcohol, and a locked metal box—nothing impressive. I picked up the box and shook. It was light, seemingly empty with small pieces clacking against the sides. I searched the dented shelving for a key and saw none.

I turned to Quinn and held up the box. “What are these?”

“Microbiotics. Careful, we only have a limited supply. We need to make sure we have enough for the goddesses.”

I rolled my eyes. Goddesses—give me a freakin’ break.
Don’t ask, Kris. Not your concern. Don’t
—but, of course.  . . .

“What’s a goddess?” My voice a low monotone. I may’ve been interested if my capacity for surprise hadn’t already been flatlined.

“How do you
not
know what a goddess is?” she asked, studying me as her eyes arched in surprise.

I shot her my deadpan glare.

She quickly held up her hand. “I know . . . I know. You are sick of everyone answering a question with a question. Well, goddesses are not really goddesses in a strict sense of things. I mean we don’t worship them or anything, but they are treated like precious glass dolls, a little too carefully if you ask me.”

Quinn’s fingers entwined with the hem of her green army shirt, fraying the seam. She shrugged. “Anyways, that’s a whole other topic. Basically, the short version is the goddesses are regular women who have developed, or were born with, special gifts. Each gift is different, but they are all used to strengthen our defense against
them
.” Quinn pointed to the earthen ceiling, her tone hushed. “In fact, lately the goddesses seem to be our only defense.”

I assumed she was talking about the monster, or as ConRad said, alien. I was all for whatever was in my defense against the hideous beasts. What were they anyway? Where did they come from? I inhaled and prepared to drill Quinn with my questions, curious despite myself.

“The ironic thing is we were the ones who searched the aliens out.” Quinn plopped herself on top of a wooden table and began swinging her legs back and forth, squeaking the wood wi [g ts oth each kick. Her bare hand ran the length of the scarred wood. I barely contained shouting warnings of splinters and staph infections.

“I mean how many years did humans try to contact intelligent life-forms in outer space? Well, we contacted and
they
came, but we almost annihilated the entire human race in the process.”

Annihilation of the entire human race? This was beginning to sound like a bad rerun of a
Stargate
. I hated sci-fi.

“Here, let me help you with that.” Quinn jumped from the table and took the metal box out of my hand. She fished a key from around her neck. “ConRad gave me the key for safe keeping before he went on the mission to rescue you. I’m glad,” Quinn smiled mischievously and unlocked the box, “I conveniently forgot to give it back to him.”

Tipping the box on end, she reverently cupped a small pinkish rectangle in her palm. The pellets looked like pieces of candy, the type I had jammed in my PEZ dispenser as a kid and eaten out of Superwoman’s head.

“This stuff is great. This medicine kills all the bugs and takes away the sting.” Quinn crushed a pellet and smeared some on my neck and then wrapped a thin layer of gauze around my throat. She stepped back, hands on hips and examined her handiwork. “There, that should do the trick. You have to be really careful of infection here. The underground heat and damp encourage cuts to fester.”

“Is that what you do?” I asked, impressed with her knowledge. “Work in the infirmary?”

“This place?” She swept her hand in a circle to encompass the whole mess of a room. “No—no one works here. It’s more like a self-serve. But we lose a lot of good men down here to infection, so the know-how is just common sense.” She glanced at her feet as they traced small circles in the dust on the floor.

“And a lot of good women too,” I added. I was a feminist to the bone and it was a habit—albeit an irritating one—to always add the female version to the scenario.

“What?” Quinn raised her head, her art project on the floor no longer as fascinating.

“Women too. You know, you must’ve lost a lot of good females to infection, not just men.” I studied the empty shelves and began to take inventory. A mental supply list formed of what I would need to get this place up and running.

encot color="#000000">
Dammit Kris. Focus. You are not here to get this place going.

I glanced back at Quinn taking in her wide eyes and gaping mouth. “What?”

“Who are you?” Bewilderment colored her words.

What was I supposed to say? Whenever I told the truth, nobody believed me. I finally learned the hard lesson—I kept my mouth shut.

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?” Quinn leaned forward, her body tense, face pale. “I told you the microbiotics are for the goddesses. No woman has ever died of infection here at the compound. The women get the medicine. Oh man . . .” She shook her head and shuddered. “If a goddess ever died of infection, the Commander would have a . . . a . . . I don’t know a word strong enough to describe his reaction, but it wouldn’t be pretty.”

“I don’t understand. Are all the women goddesses? I have only seen men—soldiers and you, of course. So where are all the females?” My teeth slid edge to edge. What had ConRad said? Something about a woman being the best decoy?

“Where are you from?” she whispered as if coaxing me into confession.

“Oh, I don’t know . . . Planet Earth.” I laid on the sarcasm, but my voice rose despite my best efforts. “Where are you from?”

I was sick of everyone thinking I was some sort of alien spy. Hadn’t ConRad proved I was human? My ears heated at the memory of my pleading, his name quivering on my lips.

Quinn stared, mouth slightly open.

“Look,” I said and rolled my eyes, “if I knew where I was, I could better answer where I’m from, right?”

More staring. A bikini wax was less painful. No, correction. A full Brazilian was an easier undertaking.

Quinn stepped closer and adjusted her long hair over and around her ear. In that one moment, she looked years older than I had originally thought. She touched my neck again and shook her head. “Men, they can be so stupid sometimes. I could’ve told him you weren’t an alien. Your energy’s too bright.”

My breath hitched in disbelief. How had she known about [e kstify"> ConRad’s accusations? Did she know what had happened afterward? My ears started to pulse.

Quinn stared off in the distance as if she’d heard something. “Come on, he’s looking for you.”

“Who is?” I asked.

“The Commander, of course,” she said rolling her eyes, seeming to test the gesture for the first time.

I narrowed my own. Was she mocking me or . . . mimicking? Hard to tell.

Quinn grabbed my hand and rushed me through the swinging metal doors. “We need to hurry. He’s upset.”