Orpheus: Homecoming (The Orpheus Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

“Shit, yes, I'm in the mood. And in your parents' house, too. Naughty.” He pushed her against the wall and let his hands roam over the still-familiar territory. He was as ready as ever. He felt her hands at the bottom of his shirt, tugging it up. Something that Marty had told him clicked in his head, and he stopped her abruptly.

Her hand dropped away. “I'm sorry, Cam, I was being selfish.”

“No, no, not that. I just didn't want you to be surprised.” He began to pull his shirt up, but paused. “Seriously, don't freak out, okay?”

"Just telling me that freaks me out. What?"

He pulled his shirt off and let it drop to the floor.

She gasped when she saw his knife wounds. He'd been stitched up by a doctor who owed Trager a favor. The guy had done a great job, too, but they wounds were still ugly, and numerous. “Oh, my God, what happened? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Really.”

“How did that happen? Are those from a knife? Are you telling me that zombies use knives?”

He chuckled. “There were … other survivors.”

“Yeah, I know. I was one of them.”

“Other survivors on the island, Jac.” She stared at him, blinking. “Let's sit down and talk. Fair warning, this is probably going to be a real mood killer.”

He moved her to the bed and they sat on the edge. “What are you about to tell me?”

He squeezed her knee. “Everything. There's no point trying to keep it from you.”

Holt spoke for nearly an hour. He started with the barbecue, and ended with the helicopter ride out. In between, he told everything that he thought mattered. He also related what he knew about Ethan's time on the island, as limited as his knowledge of those events was.

Through it all, Jackie didn't make a sound. Her first words came a full minute after he had finished. During that time, Holt noticed that she was crying softly. He understood; he was close himself. “Your friends who died at the hospital. What were their names?”

He cleared his throat. It was harder to say their names than he thought it would be. As far away as Lost Whaler Island now seemed to be, it had been less than a week since their harrowing escape. “Mutt and Sam.”

“Mutt and Sam.” She swallowed hard. “They saved my family's life.”

“They did at that.”

“And I'll never get to thank them.”

“I didn't, either, but they knew. At least, I hope they did.”

“We should do something for them. For their families. Go to speak to them in person, do a fundraiser, build some memorial, something.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “That's a great idea.” He pulled the covers back, and they both slid underneath. “Let's just get some rest.”

She nestled into him, her back to his chest. He draped an arm over her shoulders, and they began to drift off together for the first time in too many months.

Sleep had almost fully embraced Holt when Jackie whispered to him. “Cam?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Are you going to let it go?” To an outsider, that question would have needed clarification. But it spoke volumes to Holt.
Will you please let the people responsible for this get away with it? I just got you back, and I don't want to lose you again. Please act against type. Please swallow your instincts and your anger and your pride. Will you please just let this go? For me?

“Yeah, I will. I can't win.”

She nestled even closer. “Thank you. I love you.”

He kissed her shoulder. “I love you, too.”

They both fell closer to sleep, each knowing that he was lying through his teeth.

"Hey," a sleepy voice drifted to his ears.

"Hmmm?"

"Love the tattoo."

O

Even in the safety and comfort of his wife's bed, the undead wouldn't leave Cameron Holt alone.

The nightmare constantly shifted. The location changed, the number of zombies varied, the people at his side … Ethan, Rachel, Mutt, Sam, Tim, Fish … appeared in different combinations. One thread ran through all of them: ultimately, everyone else died, and he was alone. 

He snapped awake from the nightmare, not yelling or sitting bolt upright, but with a small gasp and wide eyes. That belied his racing pulse and the sweat that ran in rivulets down his temples. He willed himself to lay there, unmoving, while he got himself under control. He concentrated on his breathing.

A hand fell on his knee, and he nearly hit the roof. “Can't sleep, Cam?”

“Not really.” The words were truthful and a lie at the same time.

“Me, either.” The hand slid up his thigh and teased him. Things happened quickly. He pulled her underwear off and moved between her legs. He freed himself and pushed into her smoothly, and she welcomed him.

They made love slowly at first, wanting to get used to each other again. Once they had, it was as good as ever. Better.

Jackie snuggled into Holt's shoulder and placed her hand above his heart. Her hand rose and fell with each breath. “I just can't believe you're back, Cam.”

He dragged his fingers lightly up and down her arm, unsure how much of him actually was back.

Several weeks passed, almost none of it normal. Despite being only one of the group known as the “Z-11,” he had become the most famous survivor. This was due in no small part to one Martin Trager, who was every bit as good as his word. He showed up when he said he would, and lent his considerable media skills to the cause. It was his idea to make Holt the face of the island apocalypse.

Holt had resisted at first.

“Listen to me, Cam. Yeah, I used your first name. You Cam, me Martin, at least in public. You've got to be the guy.”

“Why? Why me? Why anyone? I just want to melt back into the shadows and forgot that this shit ever happened. I hate the spotlight even more than you love it."

Trager tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “That's because you're short-sighted. I know you want to be anonymous, but it ain't gonna happen. When people see you, they see the badass leader who got a bunch of people through something that, until a few months ago, existed only in horror movies and nightmares. People know your name. They'll get your military records. They'll find everything that's ever been posted on the Internet, and they'll talk to anyone who knows you in the slightest, or even pretends to. They'll find out shit about you that you don't even remember, and it still won't be enough. People will want all of you. You're already famous; if you pull a Salinger, you'll become a full-grown legend and you'll come home to crazies in your living room. Embrace it, and it will eventually burn out. If a lifetime of damage control has taught me anything, it's that eventually people stop giving a damn about anything. Someone has to do it, and the only person who matters is you.”

Jackie stopped chewing on a nail to ask, “What about Ethan and the others?”

“If people have an icon to worship, they won't give a shit about the B-listers, and everyone else can have their lives. Cruel as it sounds, you're George Michael, and everyone else is that other Wham guy. Which is good, because there are a couple of people I want to keep off the radar for completely selfish reasons.”

“Who?” Jackie asked.

Trager said, “How much have you told her?”

Holt spoke for the first time since Trager had launched his speech. “Everything I could remember.”

“Okay, then. Tim and Lena. They're my inside people, and I'd prefer if they weren't easily recognizable.”

Jackie leaned forward and placed her hands on her knees. “Inside where?”

Holt recognized her posture as her Suspicious Pose. “Don't worry about it, babe. It's nothing.”

“It's that company. Charon whatever.”

Trager seemed to sense what was going on, and ran interference. “It was my call, Jackie. We're just keeping an eye on things. Your husband has nothing to do with it.”

“Uh-huh. I bet.”

Holt drove his palms into his eyes for a moment, then said, “Assuming I agree to this … “

“ … and you will ...”

“ … what are we talking about here? A few interviews and I'm done?”

Trager turned to Jackie. “Is he always like this?”

She raised her eyebrows in a way that said
pretty much.
“If it's something that makes him uncomfortable, yeah.”

“Uncomfortable? Did you forget what you were doing during the last several months? How can anything involving living people possibly make you uncomfortable?”

“The zombies I could shoot.”

Trager looked at the ceiling and held a breath. “Jackie, did I see an espresso maker in there?”

She nodded.

“Would you kindly? It's been forever since I had a real cup.”

“Of course.” She moved to the kitchen.

“Thank you, darlin'. We'll take it on the deck.” She stopped in her tracks and half-turned, graciously giving Trager a chance to catch his mistake. “Sorry, sorry, not my assistant. Force of habit. Pretty please?”

She smiled and curtsied. “Right away, Mr. Trager, sir.”

The two men watched her go. Holt, wide-eyed, said, “Wow. She must really like you, because you're still upright.”

Trager reached the back door and pulled a cigar travel case from his jacket pocket. “You coming?”

O

Jackie handed a glass mug to each man, steam rising off of each and mixing with the tendrils of cigar smoke. Trager offered her the seat next to him, but Jackie balked. "This feels like the kind of conversation you two need to have, and I have no desire to be gawked at by the lookie-loos. I've already got a bottle of red breathing inside, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and not be here." She walked back inside.

Holt closed his eyes and exhaled, savoring the rare Cohiba Behike. He thought that this cigar alone was worth knowing Martin Trager. It almost took his mind off the dozens of reporters and cameramen who were doing whatever they could to get a look over the high fence. The reporters were, mercifully, quiet because they had learned in a hurry that they were going to be ignored. Now they were just trying to eavesdrop. “So, what did these set you back?”

“You don't want to know. But I have a lot of money, and the only person I have to spend it on is my favorite person: me.” Holt wanted to laugh, but there was a note in Trager's voice that made him pay greater attention.

A silence hung. Holt watched the other man, who just stared out into the yard.
Wow,
thought Holt.
He's been all about his career for so long that he really
doesn't
have anyone.
And then another thought hit him.
Until I came along.
Holt decided that the least he could do was hear the man out. “Okay, I'm all ears. What do you have in mind?”

That got Trager engaged again. “A lot of interviews. Press conferences. Speaking engagements, memorial dedications, and scholarships with your name on them. I even have the Vice Provost of your alma mater asking me if you'll teach something called 'Apocalypse Survival Theory,' whatever that is. I'm pretty sure that he made it up. I can get you endorsements. That and the government settlement that I'm sure I can negotiate will make you rich. Not as rich as I am, but you could afford my country club. And don't tell me that doesn't interest you, and that you just can't wait to get back to … " Trager waved his hand around with a flourish, " ... whatever the Hell it is that you used to do.”

“We have Charon's money.”

“You and I both know that won't last forever. The payments will stop, for one reason or the other. Hopefully, the other.” He raised his coffee mug and tilted it slightly.

Holt tapped it with his own mug, the distinctive clinking sound marking yet another agreed-upon sentiment. “I hear that. Marty, I have to know something.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you doing this? I appreciate the help, but you must know dozens of people who could handle this while you get back to your life.”

“No one's as good as me.”

“That's why you dropped everything to fly to Ohio? Really?”

Trager tapped his cigar with a practiced flick of his middle finger. The long ash, indicating the cigar's excellent construction, dropped into the ashtray. He tapped it again for good measure, trying to find the right words. He settled on, simply, “I owe you my life.”

“You don't owe me any-”

“Oh, shut up. I was a dead man. It could've been quickly, with a bullet, or slowly, in the fire. Or, oh yeah, by being eaten alive, which I imagine is pretty uncomfortable. You came back for me.”

Holt let him talk, not to hear how he was Trager's personal savior, but because he knew the man had to get it out.

“Even after all the shit I put you through, all the nasty things I said, how I used you, you came back for me.”

“I was tempted to leave you to die. But Lena said you were okay, and I trust her.”

“Well, now I trust you. Look how far you went based on nothing but trust in Lena, and maybe you can understand why I'm helping you now.”

“I get it.” He thought of Sam and Mutt's sacrifices to save him, and that was a debt he would never get a chance to repay. Trager could, at least in his own mind, where it was necessary, make amends. “Believe me, I get it.”

“Long story short, we can all agree that I'm a douche. But I'm a douche in your debt. Now let's never bring this up again, you heroic bastard.”

Holt forwent a multitude of wiseass responses. Trager had been straight with him, brutally honest about something that was probably difficult for a man like him to talk about. “Agreed.” He finished his coffee and chuckled. “That escape was fuckin' awesome, though.”

“Hell, yeah, it was.” He toasted once more.

A voice carried over the fence. “Hey, what are you guys toasting over there?”

Trager raised his glass and said cheerily, “To your health!” He followed up with a muttered, “They're like locusts with press passes.”

Holt tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table.

Trager said, “Can we just stop dancing? You know you're going to do this.
I
know you're going to do this.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you're a leader. More than that, more than anything else, you're a protector. Can't change who you are, pal, especially not at your advanced age.”

Holt sighed, defeated. “I'll try to do you proud.”

Trager smiled, warm and genuine. It was the first time Holt had ever seen it. Trager was truly happy at that moment. “I never doubted it for a second.”

“On one condition. Sit tight.” Holt walked into the living room and came back a few seconds later with a sheet of paper, which he handed to Trager. “I've been doing some shopping. Can you swing it?'

Trager's eyes danced as he scanned the items. “You're serious? You're worried it could happen again?”

“I'll never rule it out. Never.”

“Me neither. It felt like paranoia until I saw this. I'll handle it, as long as you save me a spot.” He folded the paper in quarters and placed it into his pocket. “Now, you ready to do this thing?”

“Sure, I couldn't possibly be more stoked.”

“Okay, first lesson: sarcasm is not your friend. Try to remember that ten seconds from now.”

“Why would I -?” But Trager was already heading to the back gate to let the throng of media in. “Fucker,” Holt mumbled, then followed him into the yard.