Patient Z (8 page)

“Sure,” Cal said. “I’m an expert in the way of the knee to the balls and the eye gouge.”

“A dirty fighter, eh?”

“Fighting with rules isn’t fighting; it’s just a rougher version of ballet.”

Mitch chuckled, then realized Cal was entirely serious.

“Look, man,” Cal said. “Why are we doing this? Who the hell fights hand to hand with a zombie?”

“I have,” Mitch said. “And yeah, I wouldn’t want to if I can possibly neutralize it before it comes close. But you might have to. Anyway, it’s not only zombies. You know that. What about that group that took you prisoner?”

Cal nodded. “Okay, I guess you’re right.”

“Do you know how to fall?” Mitch asked.

“Yeah, mainly for men who aren’t good for me.”

“I mean fall without hurting yourself,” Mitch said, not biting.

“Of course. Slap the mat. I’m not an idiot.”

“Then let’s go.”

He pounced, enjoying the moment of panic in Cal’s eyes as he grabbed him and took him to the mat. Cal didn’t slap it, taken by surprise. Well, that was more like the real world. Cal was down and on his back, Mitch’s weight pinning him before he could react. Mitch grabbed him around the throat, not hard, not throttling him, but making a point. If he closed his hands, Cal’s struggles would start to weaken quickly. And Mitch wasn’t
that
big a guy. They’d encountered bigger on trips ashore. Cal had to know how to get away from them and fight back.

“Fuck you,” Cal snarled, and he raked his fingernails along Mitch’s bare left arm.

“Shit!” Mitch grabbed at the bicep, stunned Cal had really scratched him. Cal’s fist smacked into his ear, and as Mitch fell away, Cal scrambled out from under him, rolling away, up onto his feet and coming at Mitch fast, raising his arm.

And stopping. Mitch looked up at him from on his knees, heart pounding with the thrill and shock of it.

“Cal,” he said. His voice came out as a croak, and he cleared his throat. “That was pretty good. Though we might want to talk about the rules of sparring.” He rubbed his ear. “The ear punch was good, but there’s a better way to attack the ears. Come here.” He sat and then lay down. “Get on top of me. Ah…straddle me, I mean, like you’re going to strangle me.”

Cal looked down at him, frowning like a man unsure if he was in a dream. Then he shrugged, stepped over Mitch, and dropped to his knees, lowering his weight carefully into Mitch’s body. He didn’t rest it all there, instead supporting himself on his knees, holding back, not really pinning Mitch. He couldn’t pin Mitch anyway; Mitch had a good twenty pounds on him.

“Okay, imagine you’re in my position. Your hands are free because he’s trying to strangle you. Lean forward; put your hands around my neck.” Cal leaned forward, and his hands briefly touched Mitch’s throat, but then he let go with one and rested it on the floor. The other stayed lightly in place, not squeezing. So he did have a problem with sparring. He was an all-or-nothing guy. “From this position you can grab his ears and twist them.”

“This is for human attackers, right? Not zombies.”

“That’s right.” Mitch reached up and touched Cal’s ears. One of them had a small silver cuff in it, on the curve of the top of the ear. Nothing in the lobes. He resisted the urge to stroke the ear. Cal’s hair tickled his fingers. It was newly trimmed, neater than when he’d arrived. He’d obviously found one of the hairdressers among the residents. “Zombies wouldn’t feel anything,” Mitch went on, trying to concentrate on something other than how good Cal’s hair looked. “And their ears would probably come off in your hands.”

Cal’s eyes widened. “Thanks for that image. Right, ear grab. Anything else?”

“Box the ears. Keep the hands flat and stiff and slap them hard over the ears, both together.” He demonstrated the move, slowly, not striking, just bringing his hands close. Cal flinched as if expecting Mitch to hit him. “Another move: sides of the hands, chopped into the neck.” He demonstrated the position again. Cal didn’t flinch his time, though his body was very tense. “And my personal favorite. Break the little fingers.” He reached up with both hands, though Cal only had one hand resting on his neck. “Grab them and twist up as hard as you can. You’ll almost certainly break them. That one works from behind too.”

“Sounds like police brutality to me.”

“If a man has his hands around your throat, you be as brutal as you like.” He’d trained all the women, not only the soldiers. Almost anyone could effectively put a guy off his stride and get away, if they knew the moves and had the confidence to use them. Knowing the moves gave them the confidence to use them. It was a virtuous circle. People froze when they didn’t know how to deal with the situation. Mitch taught them to deal. Nobody would hurt any of his group again without consequences.

“Mitch?” Cal said, leaning closer, both hands flat on the floor. “What’s next?” He moved, his hips sliding slowly over Mitch’s belly and groin, making Mitch moan and start to harden. Cal’s eyes glowed softly in the dim light. He licked his parted lips and leaned closer still. “What’s next?”

No!

Mitch scrambled out from under Cal, knocking him off balance and onto his back on the mat.

“Fuck,” Cal muttered. Mitch got to his feet and stood over Cal, making his expression stern.

“Quit screwing around. We have work to do here. Get on your feet, and I’ll teach you some throws.”

If that didn’t make Cal too angry to want to kiss him, nothing would.

* * * *

A week after they started the training, Cal’s rifle and pistol rating was going up, Bren trusted him to actually handle small amounts of explosives, and Mitch was still pretending that their sparring wasn’t giving them both ridiculous boners, like high schoolers in the slow-dance segment at the prom.

Cal was done pretending.

He looked into their shared room after dinner. Mitch was sitting on his cot reading a book.

“Hey,” Cal said, sticking his head around the door. “Are you free for the next couple of hours?”

“Sure.” Mitch put his book down and swung his legs off the cot. “What do you need?” Cal smiled at the perfect answer. He stepped inside and closed and bolted the door.

“I need you to have sex with me,” he said. He raised a hand to silence Mitch before he could speak. Or possibly explode. “Now before you cut my head off and feed me to the sharks, just listen.” Mitch listened. Perhaps he was too angry to speak. But he stayed quiet as Cal continued. “We’re the only men here. By happy chance we both like guys. We’re both horny. We’re both hot, so what’s the problem? I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, just sex.”

“It’s never just sex.”

Great, a romantic
. “Yes, it is,” Cal insisted. “Sex for fun, for relief. To make that vein in your forehead stop throbbing.”

Mitch rubbed his forehead in reaction, scowling. “Not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.” Cal sat on the end of Mitch’s cot. Not too close, because Mitch would surely push him away. “You are as tightly wound a guy as I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of really tense guys. You need this.”

“Don’t tell me what I need. You don’t know me.”

“I share your room. I hear what you say in your sleep.” Mitch’s eyes widened at that, but Cal pressed on. “Mitch, you devote your every waking moment to taking care of other people. You didn’t even hesitate when I asked you if you were free; you were just ready to give up your time to do whatever was needed.”

“Flattery isn’t going to help you.”

“I’m not flattering you. I’m saying that you need something to help you relax and that you damn well deserve it. I want to help you.” He rested a hand on Mitch’s knee, hoping the touch would help. Activate the chemistry or electricity or whatever. But instead Mitch pulled away and stood. Cal stood too. He almost approached but remembered their sessions in the gym and how strict Mitch was on the whole unwelcome-attentions thing. Not that Cal believed his attentions were unwelcome, just that Mitch wasn’t admitting that to himself. But as long as he said no, Cal had to show he respected it. That in itself could be the way to break down Mitch’s refusal. He couldn’t resist continuing to talk, though.

“Come on, what’s the problem? Give me one good reason we shouldn’t.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation. I said no. Don’t ask me again.”

“Okay, fine.” Cal raised his hands in a placatory gesture, but he couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice. “Fine. We’ll both go slowly crazy when we could be helping each other out. Then one day when I’m gone, you’ll wonder why the hell you didn’t grab it while you had the chance.” Gone? Why had he mentioned that? He didn’t want to advertise his intention to leave once he had what he wanted from this place—putting an extra edge on his survival skills. Of course, he was still on trial here. They might toss him out after three months. And they would if he kept harassing Mitch for sex. Mitch looked back at him, going all frosty again.

“If you don’t mind, I was trying to read.”

Cal didn’t answer. He turned and marched out, heading for the gym, to do something to burn off the fire he’d just stoked.

Chapter Eight

He grew weaker and weaker. He faded. Outside it was all screaming and screaming. For days Mitch had to ignore all the screams. Screams that called him to his duty. His duty was here, watching him fade, weaken, die.

Die and come back. He knew it would happen. He knew, and he should have done what needed to be done. Should have done it on the boat before they ever brought Cal aboard. Should never have let it come to this.

Cal, dead and walking around, picking off the women one by one. Not sparing the children. Leaving Mitch with no other choice. As he’d had no other choice with Dex. He’d waited too long then, but this time other people were in danger. Were dead. And they’d all come back too, if he didn’t do what had to be done. To Bren, to the other women, the children, to all of them, until he was alone in a dead world. This time he really would finish it, as he’d been ready to do once before. He stood on the helipad and raised his weapon to his head.

“Mitch, no!”

Cal, grabbing him. Still moving, ready to make Mitch like him.
God, no, never. Never let that be
. He tried to pull away, but Cal caught and twisted his wrist, and the pistol dropped from his hand.

It clanged to the floor. Not to the deck of the helipad, but to the floor of his bedroom. Cal shoved Mitch down onto the cot, pinning his arms at the wrists.

Cal. Not trying to bite him. Not dead.

“What’s happening?” Mitch struggled against the hold.

“Are you awake?” Cal sounded desperate. He was staring wide-eyed. “Do you know me?”

“Of course I know you, Cal. What’s going on?”

“You were crying out,” Cal said. “I figured you were having a bad dream. I put on the light, and you were on your feet. Sleepwalking, I guess. You didn’t hear me when I shouted at you. Then I saw you had your gun.”

The sound of it clanging to the metal floor came back to him. Real. Not a dream. The gun was real. He’d been going to…

“I thought you were going to shoot me,” Cal said. “Then I thought you were going to shoot yourself. Fucking hell, Mitch, you scared the shit outta me!” His voice was thin and breathless, and he let go of one wrist to punch Mitch hard in the arm. It hurt. All or nothing, no sparring. The pain helped dispel the last traces of the dream.

“I’m okay,” Mitch said. “It was a dream.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, my heart’s hammering like a fucking piston.” Cal dropped his head forward. He was panting and shaking. Their legs were tangled together, and both wore only boxer shorts.

Mitch raised his free hand to touch the left side of Cal’s bare chest, to feel the pounding heart inside. As soon as he touched it, he knew why he had. Proof of life in that beating heart. Cal was not a zombie; he was alive and beautiful. His warm, naked skin pressed against Mitch’s. Cal raised his head and looked down at Mitch. Mitch read the desire there, read the question Cal asked him every day with his eyes. There was proof of life in his desire too. Like hunger and thirst, they were all proof of life.

The cold, dead Cal in the dream had only one desire—to bite. This warm, alive Cal had better uses for his mouth. He dipped his head as Mitch raised his, and their lips met.

Cal sighed into his mouth and freed Mitch’s other wrist. Mitch raised both hands, sliding them over the sides of Cal’s face, into his hair, pulling him closer. Cal relaxed, his body settling down on top of Mitch’s, heavy and comforting. It was so good to feel the weight of a man on him again. To smell that distinctive scent of a man. To feel bristles scrape his skin. Why had he denied himself this? He might have so little time to enjoy it. Cal might leave at any time. He would be gone, and Mitch would never know how good it would feel to be with him. Cal slipped his hand under the waistband of Mitch’s shorts. He ran his fingers through coarse hair, over delicate skin, and…

“Hey! Mitch!” Horrible clanging from the door. Bren’s voice, sounding alarmed. “Hey, everything okay in there?”

“Fuck,” Cal muttered. For an instant, Mitch froze, and then abruptly he shoved Cal away, toward the wall. Cal swore some more. As Mitch rolled off the cot, Cal snapped, “Tell her to go away!”

Mitch grabbed a shirt as he ran to the door, fearing Bren would try to break in. Dammit, of course she’d heard the yelling. The room she shared with Inez was right next door. He threw back the bolt and opened the door. Bren stood there with a few women behind her, all looking nervous. Inez was clinging to her arm, eyes huge.

“Bren, it’s okay,” Mitch said, hoping he didn’t sound as freaked out as he felt. By God, he’d really been about to do it. Cal’s hand had been an inch from his cock.

“I heard screaming,” Bren said. “And not the fun kind.” There were some giggles, and Bren turned on the crowd behind her. “What is this, a sitcom? Go to bed!” They scattered at her order, some more slowly that others, giving Mitch speculative looks. Or a disapproving frown in the case of Dolores. She eventually turned and swept away with some drama, in her voluminous full-length dressing gown. Only Inez stayed, still holding Bren’s arm.