Embrace The Night (19 page)

The dark, forbidding cliff face of Hell’s Wall rose to the north, looking even more threatening as the sun lowered. Simon wondered how the FCers could live with such an imposing reminder that…any moment…their world could be wiped away. Again.

It seemed odd that men who’d lived through the Change, which had been rife with earthquakes, tornadoes, and other natural disasters, would have chosen to rebuild their lives—and the human race—in the shadow of such a monstrosity. If it had been Simon, he’d have found a place in the middle of a lot of flat land.

As he ate, partly to keep up his body’s strength, and partly because the food really was good, Simon reflected on the people around him…and tried to keep his thoughts away from the woman across the table. Sage’s half sister Sharon had made sure they sat at her table, along with some of her older children and another of her husband’s wives. They were all chattering about children and babies and other feminine things that made him distinctly uncomfortable, considering the fact that he was supposed to be doing all of those things with Sage.

Rather than sitting in family units, like one might do when attending a banquet or restaurant, the children sat together at separate tables of counterparts their own ages. The adults sat in clusters—men together, women together, but not necessarily segregated by gender or table. Just, in clusters.

Sharon and the others seemed happy, or at least, content. None of the women seemed downtrodden or abused, despite the fact that they shared their husband with other women.

That caused him to think about partnerships and marriage, and what he—albeit from a distance, because of course he had no personal experience on that front—would expect from one, and how this cult turned those expectations on its head.

Was there any affection between the men and women, the husbands and wives? Or was their relationship really no more than the mechanics of breeding?

The last thing Simon had ever imagined for himself, in his life, was the sort of Hollywood marriage many people seemed to strive for—a partnership built on respect and trust and deep love. Yet, here, in this fucked-up world into which he’d been reborn, perhaps something like that might be possible even for him.

Because, here, there was no Mancusi. There were no “projects” or “deletions” or “taking care” of things.

There was no gun to his head—literal or figurative—and there were no longer those golden handcuffs of forced loyalty, fear, and obligation.

But, yet…Simon found it unimaginable.

Just then, he noticed a sort of ripple of interest flutter over the large room. Conversations slowed and attention shifted as some sort of message seemed to filter through pockets of people.

“Tomorrow?” Sage repeated, leaning close to Sharon, who, in turn, was leaning toward the table behind them. “They’re coming here?”

“It’s been nearly a year,” Simon heard someone say. Excitement, and perhaps a little trepidation, laced the comment.

As he scanned the room, he noticed the diners’ attentions seemed to gravitate toward that massive cliff—glances and stares, then animated discussions.

He caught Sage’s eye from across the table and raised a brow in inquiry.

“The Strangers are coming tomorrow night,” she said. “The ones who protect the settlement from Hell’s Wall.”

A variety of questions exploded in his brain, but Simon withheld them. He merely shrugged, met Sage’s eye in a “we’ll talk later” glance, and continued eating.

But now Simon sharpened his attention even further and listened more closely to the conversations around him. To his disappointment, the talk eased into mundane topics about children, the crops, some problems with repairing a refrigerator, a recent birthing, and, of course, who was ovulating and who wasn’t. For fuck’s sake.

When Simon glanced up from his second piece of cornbread—complete with fresh butter—he saw Sage looking at him with what could only be described as a smirk. That lovely little freckle danced on the top of her lip and the twitch at the corner of her mouth curled enticingly.

He raised his brows coolly, even though his breath had caught. “Something amusing?”

Sage leaned forward—not a great move, because then he could see down the vee of her T-shirt, and how could he not look when it was right there?—and said, “I think someone’s got their eye on you.” And then she sort of lifted her chin and gestured with her eyes toward the right.

Simon glanced over and saw a group of young women—hell, no, they were teenagers. No older than fifteen or sixteen. They were all watching him, overtly,
very
overtly.

He looked back at Sage, who had an expression on her face that looked as if she were about to burst. Her eyes danced with humor—something he’d never seen before today—and those damn lips twitched.

“See,” she said, her voice still low, her body still leaning forward, her words only for him, “since we’re married, I’m already all set. But you, Simon, you’re fair game.”

Yeah, right.

Simon stopped himself from rolling his eyes. As if he’d be even slightly tempted to touch one of those schoolgirls. The very thought nauseated him. He looked over, but Sharon had turned in her seat and was talking to someone else behind her.

“According to Sharon and Dawn, you’re a good prospect,” Sage continued, the vee of her shirt still gapping, which gave him pretty much nowhere safe to look. Not at her mouth, not at her eyes—what might she see in his?—and definitely not down into the depths of that shadowy vee. He already knew what was down there. No need to remind himself.

“You’re young,” she continued, “and wixy hot, and you’re new here. Fresh blood, so to speak. Even though you’re a bit of a wuss, they won’t care.” Now the laughter was in her voice, low and intimate.

He shot her a dark look and wondered where this sudden burst of humor and teasing had come from. What had happened to quiet, thoughtful Sage? And he was
wixy hot
? What the fuck did that mean?

Nor did he have anything to say in response. His brain seemed to have imploded. “I’m not…in any hurry,” he said finally, aware that although the people around them were in their own conversations, they could still be overheard.

“To paraphrase Jane Austen,” Sage said, settling back into her seat with a little boob-jounce, “it is a truth acknowledged here in FC that a man in possession of one wife must be in want of a dozen more. So you are, indeed, fair game.”

And as if to punctuate her statement, she folded her arms over her middle just as a cluster of the girls—hell, some of them looked like they were thirteen!—came wandering over. Ostensibly to sit next to Sage and talk with her, but very clearly to really eyeball Simon.

They were all so young! Which of course made sense, because their older counterparts would have been married off by now. And many of them had bright red hair, like Sage’s…but not. Not quite as gloriously coppery-pinkish, not as thick and long and curling. And those blue eyes, stamped in face after face…it was like looking at Sage surrounded by a gaggle of wannabe Sages. But none of them were…Sage.

Simon was so totally fucked.

Before he could figure out how to extricate himself from the meal, one of the men whom he’d met in the kitchen approached. “How’re you at poker, Japp?” he asked.

“Not bad,” Simon replied, leaping internally at the excuse, but remaining cool on the exterior. “Got a game going?”

“This way,” said the man. Keith was his name, and he looked as if he were about Simon’s age. He had the Corrigan eyes, but not the bright red hair, and was married to one of Sage’s half sisters…Simon couldn’t remember which one. There were too damn many of them and they all looked alike.

If Simon had hoped his escape would also include an introduction to the “deserted” houses where the men watched the camera feeds and reruns of old football games, he was disappointed. As it was, by the time he got settled at a table with six other guys, he realized the poker game was a poker game…but also something more.

Turned out most of the men were fathers of marriageable daughters—marriageable-aged daughters to FCers, not to Simon. And not only did they want to see how he played poker, but more importantly, to determine whether he was worthy of any daughter.

Fresh blood. That was what Sage had called him.

Simon felt like he was on
The Bachelor
—on steroids.

Along with the cards, they had beer and some weak-looking malt whiskey. Simon had a single dollop of the golden liquid and barely tasted it, despite the fact that, as the poker hands went on and the sun lowered, he felt as though he were getting closer and closer to his own doomsday.

Which really was ridiculous.

Sage was just a woman and he’d certainly had his hands on plenty of them in many different ways. He didn’t even have to do anything.

“
There
you are,” came the words he’d somehow been expecting to hear. “We’ve been looking
all over
for you.”

Simon looked up and saw Sage standing there, and with her was the bitchy looking nurse who’d scolded Sage about not eating breakfast that morning. “I can’t believe you haven’t taken
advantage
of her
situation
,” the crazy Nurse Ratchett said to him, her voice sharp and pitched high. “When she hit the target temperature
this morning
, you should have been having
intercourse
immediately.”

Kee-
rist
.

Simon tossed his cards on the table. “Fold.” And stood.
Get me the fuck out of here.
He glanced at his whiskey, but, much as he wanted…oh, God, he
wanted
…to reach for it, he didn’t.

“There’s no further time to
delay
. Your window of opportunity is
closing
,” lectured the nurse, as if he weren’t moving fast enough. Well, actually, Simon was taking his time. She might say jump and he might pretend to do so, but he sure as fuck wasn’t going to ask how high.

“Come on darling,” Sage said. “Let me help you. I’m sure your leg is still hurting.”

Before he could react to that subtle teasing, and the little smirk that seemed to have become a permanent part of her expression, she scooted over and put an arm around his waist. As if he needed her help to walk.

But her arm was warm and delicate against him, and her leg brushed against his hip and thigh and Holy Mother of God, he was taking her back to pretend to screw her. On camera.

Maybe he really should slam that whiskey.

September 16

About three months after.

Our number of survivors right now is about 750. Many of us were here in Vegas when it happened, but over the last few months, the lights here have attracted other survivors. They tell a story similar to ours—the earthquakes and great shaking, then the horrifying storms, and then the sudden mass deaths three or four days later.

Something odd has happened. The bodies have begun to disappear. Ones that were lying on the street or in the corner of a building one day, are gone the next.

The task force on shelter has been working on building a wall to protect the livable part of the city, to keep out the wild animals that try to come in and scavenge.

So there’s also talk about creating a governing body, which makes sense. Some sort of city council and mayor.

Last night when we were gathered for what they call Community Night (sounds so weird, doesn’t it?)—a movie on the big screen in one of the hotel theaters—we heard a strange noise…sounded like someone calling for Ruth. I wasn’t going to go out and investigate, and neither was anyone else. Too creepy.

And I’ve met a man who seems nice. He’s a little older than me, and his name is Kevin Corrigan. He’s got the reddest hair I’ve ever seen and an identical twin brother. They were both here for a builders’ convention when everything happened. He’s got some good ideas about how to rebuild our world—literally the buildings, but also society. He’s very passionate about reinventing the human race. He doesn’t remind me at all of Drew.

Which is good.

—from Adventures in Juliedom, the

blog of Julie Davis Beecher

Sage opened the door to their room, and Simon, who’d pulled away from her teasing support as soon as they were out of sight of the iron-haired nurse, stepped back until she walked through.

As she heard the door close behind, all vestiges of humor and lightheartedness evaporated, leaving Sage feeling nervous. She bumped into a corner of the low table that sat beneath the dog picture/hidden camera and, rubbing her hip, moved across the room before Simon could notice her klutziness.

“Well,” she said, “I guess she told us.” Sage tried to smile, but found even that effort dying on her lips. Instead, she felt her heart pounding and realized that the room had suddenly shrunk.

“Get in bed,” he said. Not unkindly or angrily, or even as a command. He didn’t look at her as he limped over to the bathroom. The door closed behind him with a deliberate click.

Sage stripped off her cargo pants, then hesitated. After a brief contemplation, she dug in her duffel bag, grabbed what she needed, and pulled off her shirt and bra. With her back turned to the camera, of course. Bundling up the items she’d dragged out of the duffel, she slipped under the blankets and pulled on a pink skinny-strapped camisole that Jade had found in an old store on one of her missions. She hoped that it wouldn’t show up on the camera. And then, for good measure, she flung the extra pair of panties she’d grabbed so that they soared across the room—in front of the camera—and landed by the bathroom door.

She swallowed. Simon was going to come through that door and climb into bed with her. He would be close and big and warm, and her heart was pounding like crazy, and her palms had gone damp, and she wanted…really
wanted
…to know what it would be like to touch him.

Maybe even more.

The door to the bathroom opened and Simon came out, still fully clothed. He froze when he saw her lingerie on the floor and the expression on his face went even more blank. “Sage,” was all he said.