Night Resurrected Page 3

  The only windows were in the front of the trucklike thing: one on each side, and the big one over the front. The glass was only gone from the one side, though, and although it was shattered, the front window was still intact. Both windows were filthy with mildew and dirt. Nevertheless, it was a safe place to hole up for the rest of the night. The zombies couldn’t get up there, and it would be nearly impossible for the jaguar or any other animal to launch itself through the window. She guessed it was well past midnight and moving on toward dawn by now, though the night was still dark as pitch.

  Dantès was going to be all right. She was safe. She could relax.

  Except for him.

  Remy shifted out of the way, arranging her flashlight as a general illuminator as Wyatt inched around the room, half bent, digging through the contents. He made one satisfied grunt and many disappointed noises, dropping things into piles that seemed to be useful versus nonuseful—the latter pile much larger and including gnawed away upholstery and other trash. While he did that, she moved up to the front of the truck and opened her pack. She had an extra shirt that could be used to wash up some of the blood, maybe even bandage Dantès’s worst injuries. Eventually, she’d need to get more clean water, but she had some in her canteen. And so she’d be less one shirt, but in the grand scheme of things . . . At least the slice alongside her wrist had stopped bleeding, for the most part.

  Despite what Wyatt might think about her being a fool, she’d planned her departure from the settlement of Yellow Mountain carefully, packing a good number of supplies. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to make a quick escape. She was used to it.

  And when Dantès showed up yesterday, she suspected Wyatt wouldn’t be far behind. Which was why she’d altered her route, going in random directions. Trying to lose the man.

  Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked.

  Casting a glower at him, Remy extricated the shirt and a small blanket from her bag and crawled back to Dantès. He was no longer lying on his side but was half upright and panting with interest at all the activity. That had to be a good sign. She poured a small dish of water for him and he drank noisily and sloppily, splashing all over as he was wont to do. Then she fed him a few pieces of cheese and some dried meat she’d gotten from Vonnie, the lady who cooked at Yellow Mountain.

  Just then Wyatt sucked in his breath in an audible, delighted sound. She turned to see him pulling out a plastic tub from one of the cupboards.

  “Oh, baby—airtight and clean as a whistle even fifty years later,” he murmured like a man to his lover.

  She couldn’t help it, she had to investigate, even though it meant acknowledging his existence again. “What’s in it?”

  He had pulled off the top and was taking things out. “Hot damn. A first aid kit. Matches. A screwdriver set. Some emergency glow sticks, even. And duct tape!” He rustled through several other items, pulling out a blanket four times larger than the one she had, a pair of scissors, and some other things Remy didn’t see.

  She didn’t wait for an invitation but took the first aid kit and dug through it. “Antibacterial ointment,” she read, aiming her flashlight onto a small tube in order to see. “Hmm.” It sounded important, but it was awfully old. And she wasn’t sure what it was.

  “Can’t hurt to try it,” Wyatt said, holding a ring of silvery tape in his hand. “It’s been locked up airtight. Put it on the deepest cuts and then bandage them up.”

  Remy glanced at him, then back at the tube. All right. She set about doing just that, using the scissors to cut away some of Dantès’s fur. Then she squirted out the tube’s contents and gently rubbed it on her pet’s leg, his shoulder, and the worst bite mark, which was on the left flank. He whined softly and licked at her in gratitude as she ministered to him.

  “Christ. I meant on you,” Wyatt said, suddenly looming over her. That anger bristled all over him again.

  She looked up. “What?”

  “Put the ointment on your cuts,” he said impatiently. “Especially the one on your leg. Dantès doesn’t need it as much as you do. He’ll clean his own wounds. Dogs are built that way to heal themselves. You, on the other hand . . . you don’t want to get an infection from that filthy glass.” Shaking his head, he turned away, pushing past her in the small space to move to the front of the truck.

  Remy looked down at her hands, at the gash oozing along the side of her right wrist and the blood seeping around the tear of her pant leg. Then she glared at the back of Wyatt’s head as he knelt next to the driver’s seat, doing something under it. Why did he always have to be so angry?

  Having attended to Dantès, she cranked the dimming flashlight back to full brightness, then turned her attention to herself. She knew the dangers of infection, but hopefully she’d bled freely enough to wash away any serious germs. And she did have a small bottle of alcohol in her pack for just such an emergency, but there wasn’t that much of it. This ointment could help, if it didn’t kill her from being so old.

  She glared at Wyatt again, ignoring the fact that his shoulders were so broad they hardly fit between the two bucket seats in the front. He was still scrabbling around in there at the base of them, grunting and muttering under his breath with effort. She refused to ask what he was doing, even when there was an ominous thud. She hoped he’d dropped something on his foot.

  “Don’t turn around,” she said, aiming her words to the front of the truck. “I have to take off my pants.”

  Wyatt didn’t deign to respond, but she knew he heard her. Turning so her back was to him, she stood and undid her cargo pants. The blood had dried, plastering the lightweight material to her leg and its wound, and it stuck as she tried to pull them off. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she peeled them down, dragging away the newly formed scab.

  “Sweet . . . Jesus . . . Christ,” Wyatt breathed in a worshipful voice.

  Enraged—and yet, oddly delighted by his reaction—Remy whirled so fast that, still tangled in her pants, she nearly lost her balance. But he wasn’t looking at her. The driver’s seat was flipped up toward the steering wheel, revealing a storage space beneath it, and he was gazing down at something he held in his hands.

  “Jameson’s. A whole damned bottle, unopened. The paper’s still on the cap.” He sounded as if he were about to cry.

  “What is it?” she was compelled to ask as she wrapped the small blanket around her waist and tucked it in tightly. No need to flash him, especially since her panties had seen better days. Good underwear was hard to come by.

  Wyatt looked over, holding up a dark glass bottle. “Irish whiskey. Good Irish whiskey. Sonofabitch, I can’t hardly believe it.”

  “Alcohol? That’s great for cleaning wounds,” she said, understanding his delight. “It’ll sting, but—”

  “Are you crazy? I’m not pouring this stuff anywhere but down my throat. There are alcohol pads in the first aid kit. Use them. I,” he said, clambering back toward her, “am going to open this right about now.” He barely glanced at her as he settled onto the floor next to Dantès. “It’s been a hell of a long day.”

  Remy considered pointing out that it was his own fault for being here—and thus creating his “long day”—but decided her best course was not to engage. There was hardly enough room in the small space for both of them plus the massive chip on his shoulder, so she pointedly ignored him as she finished tending to her cuts. She kept the blanket close around her waist, opening it just enough to see to the slice on her thigh. The cut was ugly and crusting over, and, with a twinge of concern, she slathered it with a good amount of the antibacterial ointment. She also used some of the alcohol pads—little cloths wrapped up in foil packets, still damp and smelling of astringent even after half a century—and cleaned the cut.

  “Does it need stitches?”

  She was startled when he broke the silence. Sitting against the wall as far from her as possible, he was little more than a shadowy silhouette. As she watched, he lifted the bottle and drank, then settled it back
between his long, jeans-clad legs. They were extended into the small room, and she could see his bare feet nearly brushing the opposite wall.

  “No,” she replied immediately. There was no way she was letting him near her to stitch anything up, especially after the last time he had to help her. She reached beneath her shirt to touch the crystal, back in its place at her navel. Only days ago, at Yellow Mountain, it had started to glow and heat, burning her skin unbearably. Wyatt had been the only one around, and he’d had to use those long, elegant fingers to help her unfasten it from its piercings.

  And how had he seen the cut on her leg anyway? He hadn’t given her the barest of glances since climbing into the truck. She frowned and shifted subtly so her back was to him.

  Silence reigned again, broken only by an occasional whuffle from the sleeping Dantès or Remy’s own rustling through her pack. If she were alone, she’d change and try to wash up a little. But with Wyatt here . . . After a while there was the soft glug of whiskey, then the dull clink as he set the bottle back down.

  “You going to tell me where we’re going?” he asked. His voice was quiet, and a little smoky from the drink.

  Remy’s mouth flattened. She’d like to tell him where to go, that was sure. Yet, she was a realist. And, most of the time, honest with herself. She supposed it might not be a bad idea to let him tag along; it would be hard to get rid of him anyway. God knew, he kept showing up whether she wanted him around or not. She could find plenty for him to do—like deboning any fish she caught or skinning a rabbit. Not her favorite tasks, but necessary when on the run.

  And he’d been handy tonight, fighting off the jaguar and zombies. Not that she wouldn’t have been fine on her own. But.

  “I’m going to Envy,” she said finally.

  “So the woman who runs away from everyone is heading for the largest settlement, the last bastion of human civilization. Interesting.”

  Silence again. She listened for the sound of him lifting the bottle to drink, but he didn’t. She began to clear away a place to sleep, eyeing the large blanket he’d pulled from the plastic box. Hers was around her waist and it was a little too chilly to sleep without a covering.

  “You still having nightmares?” he asked.

  She tensed. “Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’m sure at the rate you’re slugging that whiskey down, you’ll be too passed out to hear me, even if I do.”

  He gave a short chuckle that sounded more bitter than amused. “You got that right, sweetheart. Nothing better than a good drunk to keep the nightmares away. Want some?”

  “No. Someone’s got to stay awake and aware.” Oh, God, please don’t let me have nightmares tonight.

  She drew in a long, slow breath, remembering the mantra Selena had taught her to help clear her mind and to keep the ugly memories at bay.

  Another sharp laugh from Wyatt. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m a long way from drunk, and an even longer way from not being awake and aware. If it were that easy to block it away, I’d be smashed all the time.”

  “You ought to try meditating,” she said. “It helps.”

  He made a sound that could have been one of derision, or simply interest . . . it was hard to tell with Wyatt.

  “So does this.” He lifted the bottle in a sharp, jerky motion. In the wavering light, she caught a glimpse of his throat as he tipped his head back to drink, long and slow. Then, to her surprise, he leaned forward and offered it to her. “It’ll warm you up too.”

  The bottle was warm from where he’d tucked it between his legs. That and the fact that he’d just had his lips around the opening gave it an uncomfortably intimate feel, but she took it anyway. Maybe she should get a little drunk. It might help her sleep . . . and she really didn’t want to have a nightmare with Wyatt around.

  The first sip burned down her throat and immediately rushed through her in a soft wave. She took another swallow, careful not to suck down too much and cause a coughing fit. This one didn’t burn as sharply, but it was warm and rich. The heat pooled in her belly then rolled through her limbs, and Remy immediately felt more loose.

  She handed the bottle back to Wyatt, noticing he’d inched a little closer to make it easier for them to reach. He was tall and solid and took up a lot of space . . . but despite what Seattle had done to her, even in this small area, being with Wyatt didn’t make her nervous. Annoyed, maybe. But, surprisingly, not nervous.

  “Take the big blanket,” he said. “Might as well be comfortable.”

  She didn’t have to be asked twice, but she couldn’t resist a sharp retort. “Wow, aren’t you nice. The next thing I know, you’ll be offering up your very own body heat just to keep me warm.” Just as Ian Marck the bounty hunter had done when she was traveling with him. And that had, of course, led to other things.

  “Body heat? Hell, no. That’s what you’ve got Dantès for.” Wyatt slugged back another drink, then set the bottle between them.

  She gritted her teeth at the disdain in his voice. Then she snatched up the large blanket. It wasn’t musty at all and it was made of a light material that was very warm. Once wrapped up, she reached for the bottle again. He was right, it made her warm and easy. Hopefully it would help her sleep. And keep her from wanting to strangle him.

  “Why is it so damn important for you to get to Envy that you took off on your own? I figure I ought to know why the hell I’m risking my ass to get you there.”

  “I didn’t ask you to risk your ass.”

  “Jesus, Remy. Don’t you ever say anything unpredictable?” Now his words were darker, more gravelly, and slurred a bit. “That’s what I do. I risk my ass. For people.”

  “I’ll tell you when you tell me why the hell you’re so damn angry all the time,” she said, setting the whiskey down a lot harder than necessary.

  That drew a laugh from him, a short, uncivil bark. “All right, I take it back. You aren’t predictable. By the way, now I’m getting drunk.”

  “Great. How soon till you pass out?”

  Another bark. “Not fucking soon enough.” He drew in a deep breath. “Never fucking soon enough.”

  The light was flickering, so she turned it off. But not before she caught a brief look at him as she picked up the flash, accidentally—or maybe not—directing it his way. His head was tilted back against the wall, his too-long dark hair a wavy mess around his face and unshaven jaw. His eyes appeared to be closed, and she could see the outline of his cheekbones and strong nose.

  He’d be handsome enough if he didn’t have that dark, angry brood strapped to him all the time. He was built nicely, that was for sure. He wore his battered jeans well, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to show firm, muscular forearms. And he even had attractive feet, solid, strong, and elegant. They matched his hands.

  She put the flash away and settled down to sleep, her world muzzy. Hopeful she wouldn’t dream.

  The last thing she heard was the soft clink of the whiskey bottle.

  Wyatt opened his eyes to bright, warm sunshine. He was still tilted back against the wall, the bottle of Jameson’s still wedged between his legs. Damned if it wasn’t even half empty.

  Maybe that was a good thing. He’d have some for tonight.

  He stretched, capped and put the whiskey aside, and glanced over at Remy. Wrapped in the blanket, she was curled up in a ball, and appeared to still be sleeping, tucked next to Dantès, who’d lifted his head in query.

  His mouth tightened. He didn’t remember dreaming. He hoped like hell he hadn’t.

  Wyatt gestured for the dog to come with him, and moments later he was lifting Dantès down from the high door of the truck rig so they could both do their business. To his dismay, the injured canine wasn’t as confident on his feet as he’d hoped.

  “You’re not going to be able to travel today, are you bud?” Wyatt asked, kneeling next to him to examine the jaguar’s claw marks and bites.

  In the daylight, his diagnosis of a full recovery was borne out, but not without a day or
two of rest first. There was no way Dantès should be hiking twenty, thirty miles a day for a while. Wyatt glanced at the truck. He hoped Remy wasn’t in a hurry to get to Envy. Not only were they going to be delayed, but she’d been heading in the wrong direction for the last day and they would have to backtrack about twenty miles.

  He shook his head. How the hell had she managed to evade the zombies, the Strangers, and the bounty hunters—who were all looking for Remington Truth—for so long without getting herself killed?

  Of course, there was one bounty hunter she hadn’t avoided. Ian Marck. They’d been partners for a while before Ian was tossed over a cliff after having the shit beat out of him by Seattle, a rival bounty hunter, who’d then abducted Remy.

  He’d seen a lot of horror in his day, but Wyatt’s stomach still pitched when he remembered the condition in which he’d found her. Chained beneath Seattle’s Humvee, ready to be dragged off when he drove away, she’d been half dressed, beaten and raped, and God knew what else. It was a wonder she was even half sane.

  If she had nightmares last night, he hadn’t heard it from her. But back at Yellow Mountain, when their bedrooms were only a short distance down the hall from each other, he had. Fucking bastard.

  “Good boy,” he said, giving the dog a good, loving scrub at the neck. Dantès had been the one to pick up Remy’s scent and track her down. He’d launched himself through the window of Seattle’s truck and torn the man’s throat out before the bounty hunter knew what happened. “Good boy,” he said again. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as quick and merciful about it.”

  “About what?”

  He turned to see Remy climbing out of the cab. Her long black hair, tousled from sleep, shone in the sunlight, and he saw she’d lost the blanket around her waist and pulled on a pair of jeans instead. Damn, she had long legs. He wondered if she’d sewn up her cargo pants yet.

  “Giving that fucker Seattle what he deserved,” he replied.