Night Resurrected Read online

  They both thought Dantès could accompany them for what Wyatt said wasn’t a difficult walk, so the three set out. Instead of going east toward the dead body, or north to the lake, Wyatt took her in a western direction. Remy realized they were traveling along an overgrown road. The concrete was hardly noticeable, though, for trees, bushes, and grass grew up through the cracks and buckles.

  Part of the reason no one traveled by motorized vehicle any longer was because of the rough terrain. It was easier to ride a horse or even to walk than try and navigate the potholes and chunks of road or naked ground. Aside from that, whatever stores of gasoline might have been available in the years immediately following the Change had disappeared: used up, combusted, or leaked back into the ground. The art of auto mechanics had died out through lack of need, so there were few people familiar with running cars either. And if anyone dared try to resurrect a vehicle, they risked being found out by the Strangers or bounty hunters.

  “Here,” Wyatt said after they’d walked about three miles. He gestured to an oblong structure, half buried in the ground, obstructed by a clump of trees and covered by vines and moss.

  “What is it?” she asked. It looked a little like a train car that had fallen into a crevice in the earth, but it had a huge tire sunk into the ground.

  “It’s a semi-truck trailer.” When she looked at him, not quite certain what that was, he explained, “The thing we’re staying in is the front part of a semi-truck. This is what would have been pulled along behind it on the highway.”

  “Oh,” she said, and edged toward it. “Did you look inside?”

  “Of course.” That impatient note was back in his voice. “That’s why I thought you’d like to see it. There’s a lot of salvageable stuff in there. You might find something you want.”

  A spike of enthusiasm shot through her. She’d kill for some new underwear and socks, even if they didn’t fit right. “That would be great.”

  “Dantès, stay. Guard,” Wyatt told him, then navigated his way to the trailer, pulling a large sapling out of the way. “This is the best way in. I had to pry the door open.” He climbed up onto the narrow exposed side and flung open a large metal door. It clanged against the wall, leaving half the back end open.

  From where Remy stood, the inside looked dingy and deep, slanting into darkness. She glanced at the front of the trailer, noting that its nose was buried in the ground. It wasn’t going to slip or slide down into an abyss.

  Wyatt held out his hand. When she took it, he clasped it around her wrist then pulled her up quickly and smoothly. He lowered her just inside the doorway as if she were no heavier than a child, then slid in beside her.

  “I trust you made sure there weren’t going to be any surprises in here,” she said, looking around the dim space. The floor tilted underfoot, angling down toward the ravine. “No snakes, no—” She bit off a shriek as something skittered over her foot, and then another herd of creatures took flight, zooming in a wave of flapping wings over her head and out. Startled and agitated, she slipped in something squishy on the slanted floor and landed on her ass.

  “Sorry.” His voice sounded tight, or maybe just tense. As if he were trying not to laugh. “I couldn’t clear everything out. But at least the grumpy bear is gone.”

  “Bear?” Remy froze, then realized he was teasing her. Which was a first. Or . . . maybe he wasn’t teasing her. A bear could have been living in here. And Wyatt definitely wasn’t the teasing type.

  She pulled herself to her feet, her hand smashing down on something soft and damp in the process. Her enthusiasm waned. It was filthy in here, with lots of rubble, rubbish, and animal leavings and remains. “This is like that scene where Luke and Leia and Han Solo are trapped in the trash compactor,” she muttered.

  Suddenly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to start digging through the mess, and in the semidarkness. Who knew what she might put her hand into . . . or what might grab back at her, or slither out . . .

  “Here.” Wyatt slapped something floppy at her. “Rubber gloves. Found ’em in the first aid kit.”

  Remy pulled them on, stretching her fingers inside the elastic gloves. Huh. So this is what they felt like. She’d seen people wearing them in DVDs, especially shows with doctors or detectives, but never in real life. And she’d definitely never worn them. They felt odd. Hot and tight, and a little sticky. But she loved the idea of protecting herself this way. How handy.

  “They’ll tear easily, so watch for sharp edges,” Wyatt warned, already digging through some of the rubble. “But they’ll keep you clean if you’re careful.”

  “You have any light?” she asked, feeling a lot more confident.

  “You have any patience, sweetheart?” he said, and suddenly a match flared. He lit two candles and wedged them into some metal ribbing along the inside of the trailer. Now a soft glow illuminated the space, and Remy could see all sorts of lumps buried under moss, rotting debris, and even a pile of white bones in the corner. She didn’t mind the bones. It was rotting flesh and animal dung she’d prefer to avoid.

  “The shipping boxes will have long rotted away,” Wyatt was saying, digging through some of the mess. “But anything wrapped in plastic that’s still intact will be salvageable. From what I can tell, this truck was probably taking a load of orders from a warehouse or courier to the shipping company. So there could be some good stuff here.”

  How did he know all this? Remy shrugged and began to sift through the debris, happy to have her hands protected and hopeful that she might find some real treasures.

  Wyatt was right. There were a lot of items here. Many of the plastic bags had been slit open by animal teeth or claws, so the contents were destroyed, rotted away or mildewed. But she found several that weren’t, and by the candlelight, used a pair of scissors from Wyatt’s pack to cut open any airtight plastic. She was particularly interested in soft bags that could contain clothing.

  “We won’t be able to take everything back, but we can make a few trips and store the good things in the truck,” Wyatt said, rummaging deep in the bowels of the trailer. “Once I get you to Envy, I’ll come back with Quent and Zoë. Oh, hot damn!”

  He must have found something worthwhile. Filled with hope and delight, Remy slit open a flat plastic bag. Inside were articles of clothing wrapped in clear plastic, as pristine as the day they were packed up, fifty-some years ago.

  As she carefully pulled out the contents, Remy wondered what it would have been like back then: to have clothing, whatever you wanted, delivered to your house. She couldn’t imagine not to have to go to a seamstress and be fitted for something to wear—or to sew something herself. Sometimes the clothing she wore was made new, but other times it was made from scraps or refitted from original pieces. Occasionally, a peddler or salvager would come through a settlement with a cart of discovered, traded, or retailored items. About ten years ago she’d traveled with one such peddler for a few months. Everyone would rummage through the peddler’s wares, looking for something that had been repaired or was otherwise usable.

  She wasn’t surprised that this particular treasure trove had remained unnoticed for half a century. There were stories about people finding such caches, so she knew they existed—just like the buried treasures of old. One of her friends in Redlo had found an old suitcase inside the trunk of a car and salvaged a pair of black boots and a leather coat. But she’d never come upon a collection herself, and certainly not one this large.

  Remy stifled a gasp of delight as she pulled a midnight-blue lacy thing from a small plastic bag. Impractical, but lovely. Please let it fit me. Please let it fit me.

  She held it up and saw that it was a very revealing shirt or a nightgown. Regardless, it was much too large for her frame. Damn. But she could alter it, so she set it aside. A little while later she found a package of socks and crowed with delight. Clean socks. Without holes!

  The deeper she dug, the more damp and disgusting was the debris. Not a surprise, for the top layer would have d
isintegrated sooner over the last decades, slowly exposing the bottom items to the air and damp. But she found a thick plastic package with four tank tops that looked as if they’d fit—and in great colors too: sky blue, red, white, and black. And . . . she almost cried when she found two bras that were the right size. And panties! Pink leopard-skin design, blue diamonds and black and white stripes. A fourth was the weirdest pair of panties—at least she thought they were panties—she’d ever seen: there was no fabric covering the butt. Just a sort of T-strap. It looked uncomfortable, but she decided to keep it anyway because it was black and lacy. Salvagers couldn’t be choosy, and someday there might be a reason for her to wear something so pretty under her clothes.

  “Wonder who Victoria was,” she said aloud, looking at the packing slip that was inside the plastic bag that had held these treasures. And what was her secret? So far, that package was her best find, but she had hardly touched the surface of the truck.

  She realized Wyatt had been quiet for a long while. No noise, no rustling, no sounds at all.

  Remy looked over, toward the darkest part of the enclosure. He was still there but he wasn’t moving. He just sat there, with something in his lap, head bowed, his hand raised to his eyes as if pinching the bridge of his nose.

  She watched for a moment, but he still didn’t move. Had he been bitten by a hidden spider or scorpion? Frowning, her heart thudding harder in her chest, she rose to her feet. Her legs were sore and prickly from being in the same position for too long, and she was a little unsteady picking her way back toward him.

  “Wyatt?” she asked as she approached, careful not to take another awkward spill. Especially on top of him. Or where there could be lethal spiders lurking.

  He didn’t move at first. He was so still and stiff, he could have been frozen. But when she got closer, he seemed to sense her presence. All at once he erupted to his feet and the books on his lap tumbled to the ground.

  “I’m going back,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I’ll leave Dantès here with you.”

  Remy gaped at him as he navigated past her with stiff, abrupt movements. She only caught a glimpse of his face, but what she saw was frightening. Stark and taut, like a horrible mask. His eyes were like dull, angry stones, his mouth compressed into a flat line.

  A moment later he was gone—outside the trailer and into the daylight. Remy heard him speaking to Dantès, and she stared after his exit, uncertain how to react. What the hell?

  She turned from the empty rectangle of daylight that was the doorway and looked at the books that had been in his lap. She picked them up. Good Night, Moon. I Love You, Stinky Face. Make Way for Ducklings.

  Children’s picture books? She looked down at them, thoughtful and unsettled. Had these bright-colored stories upset him, or was it something unrelated? How long should she wait before returning to the truck?

  He’d looked furious. No, actually, it wasn’t anger she’d seen in that momentary flash of his expression.

  It was hatred. Pure, unadulterated loathing.

  Chapter 4

  Remy had her hands full, carrying back her loot from the truck trailer. She could hardly believe her good fortune, with new socks, bras, panties, tank tops, and her favorite: a short blue sundress and a pair of sandals, both in the same package.

  Before falling into his mood, Wyatt had obviously found some things too. They were stacked neatly next to where he’d been sitting: various articles of clothing, a few pristine books, tools, and some DVDs. She gathered them up and brought them back as well, leaving the children’s books behind for now.

  When she and Dantès headed back to the truck rig, the sun was below the tree line. She must have been in the trailer for hours, and although it would be another hour or two until dark, she was glad she’d left when she did. She wondered if Wyatt had come out of his funk yet.

  As she emerged from the thicker part of the jungle and the truck came into view, she saw Dantès standing at the base of their temporary home. He was up on his hind legs, front paws scrabbling at the metal door, yipping and barking for attention. When Wyatt didn’t appear, Remy’s heart began to thud nervously. How long had it been since he left her at the truck trailer? Two, three hours?

  She hurried over, putting all of their treasures on a nearby tree stump, then flung the door open. She winced when Dantès leapt up by himself. He wouldn’t have made it except she gave him a last second boost, then followed.

  Her pounding heart slowed when she saw the figure sitting in the dark, leaning back against the wall. He was being greeted by a whining Dantès. The smell of whiskey hung thick in the air.

  “Back already?” Wyatt said. His voice was rough and sandpapery.

  Remy turned away, half disgusted, half unsettled. She’d come to know Wyatt during her stay at Yellow Mountain—more than a month. She’d never seen him drunk.

  Actually, she’d never seen him anything but coldly competent and completely in control, albeit distant and reserved.

  “I’m going to make something to eat,” she mumbled, and edged back out of the dark toward the waning daylight. She wasn’t certain whether Dantès would follow her, but she didn’t summon him. In the faulty light, she’d seen Wyatt’s arms lock around the dog’s neck as he rested his forehead in the thick fur. Holding on as if for dear life.

  That image made something squeeze deep inside her. He was the very picture of desolation.

  She made a small fire and used her pan to cook the potatoes and asparagus he’d brought back earlier. Then she went back into the truck and found the can of tuna, opened it, and offered a plate to Wyatt.

  To her surprise, he took the meal and ate. He drank some water, too, but didn’t speak one word other than a short “thank you” for the food. In the dim light, his face appeared as if it had aged and gone gaunt in a matter of hours. His eyes still looked like dark, glittering pits of anger.

  Remy cleaned up, brought their loot into the truck, fed Dantès, then took him into the woods to do his business as well as her own. By then the sun was setting, but the last thing she wanted to do was climb back into that truck.

  Instead, she helped Dantès up inside, closed the heavy metal door with a groan, and sat on the ground. The fire had settled into a small, gentle blaze and she stared at it, hypnotized by the dancing flames.

  Only twenty-four hours ago she’d been sitting in front of a similar fire. Alone, except for Dantès.

  And now, here she was, with an uninvited, would-be guide in a drunken stupor. At least he’d helped her acquire a whole new wardrobe. He might be obnoxious and rude, but she didn’t have to worry about Wyatt assaulting her with anything but scornful, impatient comments.

  Remy squeezed her eyes closed in an immediate, desperate attempt to hold back the memory of horror. But images of her captivity by Seattle surged to the edges of her mind. Pain and terror and violation.

  Think of something else. Quick—think of something else.

  Ian. Think of Ian.

  He’s alive. How could he have survived?

  She settled on that puzzle, wary because it was too close to the very thoughts Selena had helped her learn to block away, but it was a safe topic nevertheless. She and Ian had been traveling together for almost three months when Seattle ambushed them and kidnapped her.

  Ian knew she was the granddaughter of Remington Truth. He was a bounty hunter, and he knew her secret identity. The very thought should have turned her to ice, but he’d never threatened her, never tried to bring her to the Strangers. And despite the fact that they were lovers, he never even seemed to have noticed her crystal, swathed as it was in silver and gold. Except . . . he did tell her point-blank he intended to keep her close at hand—whether she liked it or not. And it wasn’t because he was in love with her. It was obvious he wasn’t.

  She never learned how he found out about her identity; Ian hadn’t been any more forthcoming than Wyatt, as a matter of fact. Not that she, of anyone, should be throwing stones. Even after Wyatt had
helped her remove the blazing hot crystal and then demanded answers, she’d been stubbornly reticent . . .

  What’s going on, Remy? Haven’t you figured out by now that we don’t mean you any harm? That we might be able to help you?

  I don’t have any reason to think that—

  We know you’re Remington Truth’s granddaughter. And you’re still here, safe, with us. We haven’t turned you over to the Strangers or the zombies. Doesn’t that tell you anything?

  It tells me that you haven’t figured out what to do with me yet.

  If it were up to me, I could think of a few things to do with you.

  An image of the bare male chest belonging to that very man popped into her mind. Remy opened her eyes. Well, that certainly pushed away the hovering memories of Seattle.

  She glanced back at the truck, then returned her attention to the fire. She supposed she’d better climb back into the rig and see about getting some sleep. She was beginning to get too warm, sitting here in front of it. Especially the part of her facing the fire.

  In particular, her torso was getting hot.

  Remy looked down automatically and gasped, bolting to her feet. Sure enough, the glow shone through the thin material of her T-shirt.

  Not again!

  She was already pulling at the tiny silver wires, trying to extricate the crystal. As before, it burned her skin, singeing her fingers as if a tiny fire blazed inside it. Gasping with pain, furious with herself for not changing the way the crystal attached to her, Remy stumbled toward the truck, still trying to pry the jewel free.

  The heat had flamed quickly, going from mere warmth to searing pain. She could hardly catch her breath to call out for help, hoping Wyatt wasn’t passed out or that Dantès would waken him. The pain was so intense she didn’t have the indulgence to be mortified for having to ask for assistance from him.