It was Liz Blackwell, her shoulder-length hair touching the collar of her traditional white lab coat. Her movements were brisk and with purpose, none of which was a surprise. The brunette always seemed to carry a sense of urgency everywhere she went.
Liz turned toward Krista and picked up speed, arriving with flared eyes. “Where’s everybody else?”
Krista didn’t have a chance to respond before Liz leaned to the side and peered at the truck, firing another question. “Where’s Stuart?”
Krista slid in front of Liz, hoping to keep the physician calm. “He, uh—”
“Did something happen to him?”
Krista paused for a beat. “Liz, I’m so sorry—”
Liz gasped, then used an outstretched arm to leverage her way past Krista. She ran to the back of the truck, sidestepping a pair of arms reaching out from a blindfolded Horton. Lipton was in hand-waving-frenzy-mode too, the maintenance crew escorting him with the two armed guards covering them from behind.
It was the first time Krista had ever seen Liz zip past a wounded person and not stop to treat them. It seemed like that woman was always on duty, no matter the situation—except right now, today.
Krista caught up to the doc about the same time as the woman swung the tarp open on the back of the truck. Krista grabbed at her elbow, trying to pull the healer away before it was too late.
Liz shook off her grab with a flash of her arm. An instant later, reality must have set in, as the expression on her face vanished, leaving behind only a stiff slate of numbness. The doctor’s arms and legs froze into place as well, her eyes fixed on the corpse inside.
“I didn’t want you to see him this way,” Krista said, choking on the words as tears welled in her eyes. She wasn’t prepared for any of this. Not the doctor’s unexpected arrival on the surface or this meeting at tailgate. “I was going to get him cleaned up first.”
Liz didn’t respond, her eyes transfixed and energized.
Krista moved a step closer, within an inch of the physician’s shoulder. She brought her arm up, planning to wrap Liz in a hug, but she stopped before making contact. She wasn’t sure if an embrace was appropriate. They weren’t that kind of friends and she wasn’t that kind of woman—a woman who knows how to comfort someone in need.
Krista let her arm drop and stood at the ready in case Liz became overcome with grief. The doc’s knees might buckle or she could faint. Either way, Krista would have to act, no matter how awkward it felt.
Yet Liz didn’t pass out, nor did her legs fail. In fact, she did just the opposite, standing even more firm, resembling a bronze statue that had just been forged. Straight. Strong. Resolute.
Krista figured it was shock.
Liz turned to her with her jaw jutting out and her eyes held tight as she pushed a barrage of sharp words through her clenched teeth. “What the hell happened, Krista? Was it those prisoners? Did they do this? Or was it that dog?”
“No, it was Frost. I wasn’t able to stop him.”
“So you were there?” Liz asked, sounding both disappointed and pissed.
Krista couldn’t hold back the tears. Or her emotions. They came out of nowhere and took over, making her hands shake and her voice crack under the strain. “Yes, I was. When the Scabs attacked the Trading Post, we made a run for it. That’s when Frost stabbed Stuart—during the commotion. I never saw it coming, Liz, and I should have. That’s my job. I should’ve been the one Frost killed. Not Stuart. I’m so sorry. I failed everyone.”
CHAPTER 6
Franklin Horton took an unplanned step forward after someone tugged hard on his elbow.
He didn’t know who it was, not with the blindfold covering his eyes. In fact, he didn’t know much at all after being captured when their ambush failed on the road.
The lack of sunshine warming his face told him he wasn’t outside. Plus, there wasn’t any wind either, leaving only one answer: he was inside a building.
Probably Edison’s stronghold, he surmised, a secret location that Simon Frost had wanted to find for years. Eight years, if he remembered right.
The throbbing in his ankle had tripled since they’d dragged him out of the back of the transport truck, each of his heartbeats igniting the nerves around the dog bite.
Yet that wasn’t the only pain escalating in his body. The restraints around his wrists seemed to be growing tighter, too, digging into his skin the farther they walked. Maybe it was the constant yanks on his arm by the guards, casing a ripple effect down into his hands.
The escort leading him put a hand on Horton’s chest, stopping his advance. “All right, take it slow. There are steps heading down. Eleven of them,” the man said, his tone sounding older.
“Where are you taking us?” Horton asked.
Only silence was heard from his escort.
“He’s right. We demand to know this very instant,” Lipton said.
“Quiet!” a forceful voice said from behind, just as Horton heard an awkward foot plant and the rustle of equipment.
The sharp retort obviously came from one of the guards holding up the rear, precisely where Horton would have been if the roles had been reversed. The guard must have shoved Lipton when he delivered his last command, making the scientist stumble.
Horton took his time with the first four steps, his senses on high alert. There’s nothing quite as unnerving as descending an unfamiliar staircase while blindfolded and restrained. It’s not just the instability; it’s also about being helpless, relying on a complete stranger to keep you from stepping off a cliff—or walking feet-first into a woodchipper.
Since he’d already found himself at the mercy of a woodchipper today—one named Sergeant Barkley—he’d prefer not to land a leg in another one.
Just then, the air around him changed in temperature and humidity. It went from brisk and dry to warm and moist. Damp warmth, actually. And it was stale. Musty, even.
The facts told him he’d just entered an area of recycled air. Probably an underground shelter, he figured, confirming what Frost had suspected in one of their mission briefings a few months earlier.
If Horton had to guess, Edison and crew must have stumbled across one of the doomsday bunkers built by paranoid preppers back in the day, long before The Event.
Or Edison had constructed one himself, using his ability to fabricate something out of nothing. It was a well-known skill, one that had kept the Trading Post in business for years. And Frost’s camp, if one cared to be accurate, filling the gaps in technology when Lipton’s efforts failed.
Despite Lipton’s self-aggrandized view of his talents, the man carried plenty of shortcomings, none of which Horton figured Lipton would ever admit out loud.
“You need to realize that I have a problem with confined spaces,” Lipton said right on cue, as if he could hear Horton’s thoughts and had decided to rebuff the self-aggrandized assessment. “Unless you’re hoping to see a grown man lose it and vomit uncontrollably, I’d suggest you remove the blindfold and liberate my hands so I can deal with the situation head-on.”
One of the guards laughed. “Just keep moving, asshole. If you blow chunks, you’ll be the one cleaning it up. With your tongue.”
“Why, I never—” Lipton answered, not finishing his sentence.
Horton ignored the rest of their useless banter, turning his focus to another task—listening for the Scab Girl. He hadn’t heard any of Helena’s usual grunts, or her short, powerful breaths since they’d gotten out of the truck.
Perhaps the nose-less cannibal had been taken elsewhere, given that it was impossible to hide who and what she was. That idea made sense since her mere presence would have super-charged the anxiety level of those in sight.
It’s one thing to risk bringing members of your rival gang into camp, assuming that’s where they were at the moment. But it’s an entirely different matter to allow a flesh-eater to mingle with your population. A population that Horton knew included kids.