The Other Brother (Snow and Ash Book 3) (27 page)

“What street is this?”

“Fuck if I know.” I study the map. Most of the buildings in Charlotte, North Carolina, are rubble. They’re so shelled out I can’t even tell what half of them used to be. Traffic lights are long gone, as are most of the road signs. I bunch up the useless piece of paper and stuff it in my breast pocket. “All right. Let’s head on down this way. Looks like some of the buildings are still standing.”

The three of us keep our rifles ready as we search for signs of life amidst the blown-out windows and piles of bricks. The street is wide enough to have been a four-lane road, once. I catch a brief flicker of green at five o’clock, and I raise my fist, signaling
freeze.

Holub and Jacobs scan the rubble until Jacobs makes the “okay” sign. Then he takes aim while Holub and I scan the area for others.

Jacobs fires, and the guy in the green parka goes down.

“Yeah! How ’bout that, Martell?” Jacobs holds up his hand for a high five, but I ignore it.

“Celebrate later. Make sure he doesn’t have friends.”

The three of us keep our rifles raised as we move toward the fallen figure. We approach the side of the weather-stained garage, and there huddled next to the fallen body is a kid. He can’t be more than five. He doesn’t cry, but his face is mottled up and he’s looking at the fallen man like the worst thing in the world has happened. I’d bet my ass that’s his dad.

Holub takes aim, and the kid’s eyes go round as he flinches back.

“Holub!”

Cocking his head, he lowers the rifle

“No kids.”

He shakes his head. “Orders, man. Kill the scraps, they said, all of them. No one mentioned anything about leaving kids.”

He’s right, goddamn it. I rub my hand over my forehead. “Well I’m giving new orders. Get out of here, boy. If your mother’s still around, tell her to get you out of Charlotte.”

The kid scrambles to his feet and takes off.

Jacobs raises his rifle, and I give his shoulder a shove. “That was an order, Private.”

He glares at me. “Jesus, Jax, what are you doing? They’re a bunch of goddamn cannibals!”

“That would be ‘Sargent,’ not Jax. Did you not hear me? No kids. Someone that age has no idea what he’s eating.”

Jacobs seethes. “I’m reporting this, Sarge.”

I thin my lips. “I’m reporting your repeated refusal to follow orders. I’m watching you, Jacobs. Now get moving. We have this entire block to cover.”

Shit. This deployment to Charlotte is my one chance to get out of security detail, and I can’t afford to fuck up here. If I can’t control my squad, no way is the Arc going to give me more responsibility.
 

Three hours later I’ve scored two kills and Holub one. Jacobs holds the best score at four.

It’s my job, I remind myself. I don’t give a shit if I kill a bunch of flesh-eating freaks. As far as I’m concerned, the moment they took their first bite out of a human, they became bullet bait. Little kids, though. I mean, little ones. They don’t get to choose. I’m a sick bastard, I know that, but not when it comes to children.

We’ve been sent by the men in the Arc, a top-secret complex built into Mounts Craig and Mitchell in North Carolina. So far as I’ve been able to figure out, a bunch of old-moneyed bastards got wind that something was going down with Yellowstone long before it happened, and began construction. Then they proceeded to save the
right
people. Billionaires like themselves, scientists and engineers with staggering IQs, and anyone else they liked.

I got lucky. I ran into one of them during the bombing of Atlanta and gave him an armed escort to the mountains. In return he allowed me and my companions to serve in their exterior security detail. I’ve never been inside the Arc, but they gave us a comfortable bunkhouse and three square meals a day, so I considered myself luckier than most. Now that they’ve deployed me to Charlotte, they’re giving me a chance to prove myself. This is the first city they’ve tried to reclaim. Provided it’s a success, they’ll send me on to the next city at a higher rank. Right now I oversee four teams of men, three to each team, and we wipe out the freaks in the former Elizabeth, Cherry, Dillner, and Myers Park areas. Problem is identifying where the hell we are. Right before the US government fell, they bombed Atlanta and Charlotte in an attempt to contain the rising cannibal problem. Now all that remains are some high-rise towers uptown and a vast area of half-demolished buildings in the surrounding neighborhoods. Our maps are useless.

We approach a block of offices and banks. Some of these still stand, a testament to the contractors who spent the extra bucks to build something decent.

I point to one of them. “Jacobs, take that bank. I bet a vault makes a great place to hide.”

Probably impossible to break into as well, so that should get rid of the shit bag for a while.

He shifts his stance and scowls at me. “I’m not going in there alone. What if they have weapons?”

“You’re wearing a Kevlar vest.”

“Fuck that.” He spits. “There could be a dozen people in there.”

“Get your useless ass in there or I’ll shoot you myself.” I jerk my head. “Holub, go with him.”

“Sure. You okay by yourself, Sarge?” Holub has no problem killing kids, but apparently he still respects authority.

I raise my eyes to the sky—a dark gray mass of clouds that never clears. “I’m good. I’m headed to the office building over there.”

Jacobs looks me up and down, then pivots and heads for the bank. Holub follows.

The peeling sign on the front of the four-story office reads NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF AGRICULTURAL ENGINEERS. The windows are all smashed, and from the debris spilling out the east side, I’d bet it took a direct hit. This wouldn’t shelter anyone, not from the cold anyway. I almost move on to the next building, but I pick up a soft
thump
.

I gotcha, you flesh-eating prick.

I move quietly, careful not to step on any broken glass or pieces of brick, and peer into each window. Through the first one, I observe a large hole in the ceiling, and a patch of sky is visible. I was right, the east wall is half-gone, and with half the roof missing, the interior is lit by an unusual amount of light. When I get to the fourth window, I come to a halt. A mess of useless computers are piled in one corner. Paper and files are strewn about the edges of what I estimate to be a fifty-by-fifty-foot room. The center space is clear except for one slight figure. She’s dancing. Ballet, not that I know much about that shit. It has to be with those sweeping hand motions and dainty pointed toes.

It’s…well, beautiful. I haven’t seen anything but snow, weapons, and blood in five years. I almost forgot things like this existed.

But she’s a scrap. If there’s someone out here other than a soldier, I’m to shoot it. I can’t afford any more exceptions, not after that kid.

I position my rifle against my shoulder.

I didn’t know anyone’s back could bend like that. She crosses her hands like butterfly wings and draws them to her chest, and at the same time she sinks low. It’s like fucking art. Every movement is perfectly smooth. She moves like liquid; each posture, each step flows into the next.

I take a breath and adjust my stance as she does this leap that makes her tits bounce. My dick twitches. Bouncing titties, no bra. I’m in heaven. Actually they’re pretty average, but with the rest of her so tiny, it’s hard to miss ’em.

Her waist is small, and the ass on that bitch is fucking phenomenal. I’ve got a raging boner. I’d definitely hit that.

Such a waste. She’s dirty, and her hair hangs around her in actual strings. I remember passing the homeless back before the Ash. They stank like old piss. She’s got to be just as bad, if not worse. Just another scrap.

I raise my rifle.

How can anyone balance like that? How can she raise her leg that high without popping a joint? I peer through the scope and find her face. She can’t be more than twenty. She’s thin to the point of being gaunt. High cheekbones, arched brows, and a small, pointed chin, and those lips… Jesus. Full and soft looking. I can easily picture those lips wrapped around my cock.

How the fuck am I supposed to shoot that?

No way. I blow this, and I can forget ever rising above sergeant. I went to Cornell, goddamn it. On scholarship. I roll my shoulders and reposition myself. Peering through the scope, I take aim at her head. She’s just rising from some bendy thing, and her smile reveals a crooked tooth. She’s not perfect. She’s not even human. She’s a canni—

The dancer spots me and freezes.

The breath stops in my chest as I look into wide blue eyes, so dark they’re almost navy, framed by the thickest set of lashes I’ve ever seen. She recoils with this pleading, defeated look on her face. I can’t move. I fucking can’t move.

It’s happening.

My heart slams against my chest, and the hair rises on the back of my neck. I clutch my hands around my weapon, but I have no intention of firing. I’m fixed on her, the sweet outline of her tits, that graceful bend, and those eyes. I’m not just hard. I’m gone. I need to fuck her. I need to run my tongue over those peaks; I need to feel her legs wrapped around me. I need to bury my cock in her so deep she’ll never forget she’s mine.
 

Jesus Christ. Not again.

CHAPTER TWO

Amelia

Never count on anyone taking care of you. This advice came from my father, and it’s the only thing I carried with me into the Post-Ash world. That and my dancing. Ballet is something I could never give up. It’s the only thing that brings me peace. It’s the only thing that lets me feel hope—even if it’s false hope—that something in me remains human.

It also keeps me flexible. Being able to contort myself through tricky places helps me ditch the occasional pursuer.

The east wall is rubble, and there’s a hole in the roof. I come to this place so I can dance in the light without the risk of being seen. I set my pack down, shuck my coat, and take off my boots. I stretch, and oh man, does it feel good. Once I’m nice and limber, I dance. I begin with all the eagerness of someone who’s been trapped inside a hovel for the last two weeks. Five minutes after I start, I achieve a perfect jeté, leaving me feeling free and exultant. But I’m hungry and I don’t have much energy, so I go adagio: the graceful, slow stuff. I work diligently to keep my movements controlled and properly executed. There’s no such thing as a sloppy ballerina; they call those former students. I’ve been dancing since I was four, but I haven’t had a lesson in years. Before the Ash my instructors said I had a future, and I so desperately wanted to be a ballerina. Every twelve year-old girl does. Dad put his foot down and said no. A dancer’s work feeds her soul. A grown-up’s work puts food on the table. That’s when he said that thing about not relying on somebody else to take care of you.

Turned out Dad was right. My arches and turnouts never were good enough, and ballet hasn’t fed me yet. It did save my life a couple of times, like that day I got chased by taints—that’s what we call cannibals:
the tainted.
They chased me all the way up to the roof of a building. There was nowhere to go but down. Or over. I took a running leap, jetéed to the roof of the next building, and got clean away. Those years of practice did pay off, but they still haven’t earned me a single scrap of food.

This is one of my favorite places to dance. The hardwood floor is dinged and scratched, but its privacy suits me perfectly. I lose myself in the moment, but never so far that I’m not listening. Allowing anyone to know where I am could, and probably would, be fatal. If not from taints, then from those strange soldiers that started prowling around a couple of weeks ago. They’ve been gunning down anything they see. Not just taints—everyone. Why? But even if the soldiers hadn’t come, I’d still have to worry about other survivors who are just as hungry and desperate as I am. At any time I could be followed to my hiding place and murdered just for my stuff. I’ve removed my boots so I don’t clunk around, but I’ve got three pairs of socks separating me from the ground. If I have to bolt, at least there’s something on my feet.

Otherwise I wear nothing more than a double pair of leggings and a long-sleeve T-shirt. It’s twenty-seven degrees outside, and I’m sweating.

I dance and awareness fades. I dance, and once again I’m just a girl, not some starved leftover of a shattered world. I dance or I die.

And then I see it. I’m staring down the barrel of a rifle, and the soldier behind it looks back at me through his scope.

I don’t scream; I learned early on that screaming brings more trouble than it’s worth. My heart may pound and my legs may feel like collapsing, but I never break eye contact. Something primitive in the back of my brain tells me to run for it, but I wouldn’t even get three feet before he dropped me. This close, with a gun like that, he wouldn’t miss.

He adjusts his stance, never taking his eyes off me. I can’t tell how long we stay like this: motionless, staring, both of us seemingly undecided. I flick a glance at the gaping hole in the outer wall of the next room. What is he waiting for? If I run, will that make him decide to shoot? I suck in a breath, and slowly I straighten.

A fraction later he lifts his head slightly, and I get the impression of dark hair and a five o’clock shadow. For half a second his jaw flexes. Twin parallel lines etch between his brows as he frowns. I flinch as he adjusts his grip on his weapon, and a terrible, stinging
this is it
spiders through my veins. Any second I’ll be splattered across the meaningless files. The Wester name dies with me, and no one will even care. I’m wound so tight, if so much as a pebble dropped, I’d pee myself. I always knew this would come. I just didn’t think it would be today. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. I’m not ready to die, but I won’t beg either.

So when he lowers his rifle, I just stare at him. He jerks his head toward the shattered wall, and I finally get it. Faster than you can say
thank you, Jesus,
I grab my coat and pack and I’m off.

I’m halfway down the debris-filled sidewalk when something sharp digs into my foot. I left my boots. My boots! The adrenaline rush keeps me running. If I take the direct route, as only an idiot would do, I could be back in my hole in ten minutes. I dart from corner to corner, peering around each for any sign of movement. I study the streets, the fallen debris, the windows high above, and when all seems clear, I bolt through to the next block. Anyone could be up in those buildings watching me. Coming here during the light was more than just careless; it was stupid. I can dance perfectly well in my basement, but I had to get greedy and search out light. My heart still pounds, and my back burns like there’s a target carved in my flesh. I don’t know how long I run, but it feels like hours.