Strain of Resistance (Book 1) (3 page)

This isn't the first time I've heard his snide comments against the weaker members of the 300 or so that call the Grand home. If it were up to him, the old and the disabled would be put out as fodder for the leeches. He believes if you don't contribute, then you don't belong. I could learn to ignore him if I didn't know that there are others who share his opinion. Although I can probably count them on one hand, it still makes me uneasy.

"Forget it Luke," I mutter at the tense giant standing beside me. "Don't waste any more of your time talking to that narrow minded fuck-knuckle."

"Truth hurts don't it, Bixby," Dom shrugs at me, and I bite my lip, fighting hard against the urge to punch him again.

Instead I take a menacing step and growl, "Get the fuck out, Dom! All of you—get out!"

Thankfully, they obey. Cal and Badger send wary smiles my way as they pass by. Gordon even goes as far as picking up my knife and handing it to me, but the laughter following Dom's retreat pisses me off even more. I hold my temper in check until they clear the small room, but as soon as the door closes behind them, I take my wrath out on the poker table.

"Arrrggghhhh!" Furious, I stab my knife over and over into the soft wood, growling in frustration with each blow. Luke watches silently from the safety of the other side of the table.

"I think you killed it," he says dryly, as my attack on the table finally slows down. Giving one more stab for good measure, I lean over the table with a tight grip, catching my breath.

"God, I really do hate that sonofabitch!"

"You really shouldn't let him get to you. He enjoys goading you—and you fall for it every time. You know his bark is far worse than his bite. He doesn't believe half of what he says..."

"What?" I stare at him in disbelief. "Did we not just hear the same conversation? Not to mention he pretty much called me a whore. Thanks for defending me by the way," I say.

He chuckles softly. Why is he laughing? There’s nothing funny about this situation.

"One thing I've learned about you over the years, Emma Bixby, you don't need defending by any man. Besides, the one time I did try to defend you, you nearly took my head off. I won't be that stupid again."

"Is that so?" My obvious anger only seems to cause him to laugh harder. "So not helping, Luke. And why are you even still here? I told all of you to get the hell out. That includes you, you big ape."

"Considering this is my room, I figured you would make a concession." His laughter finally dies down to a stupid grin. Folding his arms across his wide chest, he rocks back on his boot heels. "Besides, I can't leave you. You're all riled up now, and I alone know the only way to calm you down when your dander is up. Have I ever told you you're sexy as hell when you're pissed?"

He wiggles his eyebrows at me in an exaggerated leer.

"Sexy as hell?" I mock. "Really? Not the best time for one of your cheesy pick-up lines, Whitman."

"Cheesy, but true," he says, his chocolate brown eyes raking over me with such a look of heat, my knees go weak. My mouth suddenly dries out like the Sahara, as he drops his arms and slowly ambles my way. His big hands grip my shoulders with an urgency belying his leisurely approach. At 5'8, I’m no slouch, but still he towers above me. His blonde head dips toward mine and the feathery caress of his lips as they move up my neck and along my jawline sends shivers quivering down my spine.

"You're an ass," I mumble in protest, my anger still vibrating through me, competing with the arousal he’s awakening. He responds by nibbling on my neck.

"Luke," I protest again, thinking I should push him away, but my will is weakening.

"Bix," he mocks softly, before the mouth I know so well covers mine, silencing me. The arousal wins out.

His lips are gentle. Probing. Eliciting that same carnal response from me they do every time. We’ve been friends for the past five years. Ever since I’d been assigned to his group of hunters. Our more intimate friendship had only blossomed about six months ago. But if I’d known then what unimaginable delights this blonde giant in front of me was capable of giving, I wouldn't have waited so damn long.

My hands run through his thick hair, pulling his face closer to mine. His day old stubble is rough against my cheek and his skin emits a sweet muskiness, part soap, part sweat, and all Luke. That scent awakens the nerve endings between my legs with a throbbing desire.

His breath catches in his chest as I press my body into his, feeling all too well the evidence of his arousal. Growling in the back of his throat, he lifts me with his big hands and plunks my rear down hard on the table. Wrapping my long legs around his waist I pull him against me, grinding shamelessly, wishing there weren't layers of denim between us.

The kiss deepens, crushing my lips with his need to have more of me. His tongue probes mine and the groan it raises from me is primal. I pull at his t-shirt, yanking it over his head, not giving a damn that I rip it in the process. His bare chest is warm and smooth against my hands and his muscles bunch at my touch. My obvious effect on him fills me with a heady emotion I can't explain. It just deepens my need for him.

"God, Bix. I love you." He moans hotly against my lips. His hands and mouth cover me everywhere, like his admission has only fueled his desire. But the effect it has on me is quite the opposite. It's as if someone has suddenly doused me with a bucket of ice water. I still under his frantic touch. A knot forms in my belly, displacing the hot need. Instinctively I push at his chest, trying to form a gap between us.

Why did he say that?

As if just realizing what he's said, he pulls away from me slowly. His eyes reflect the hurt at my instant rejection.

"I told you never to say that again," I whisper through my swollen lips. Struggling to untangle myself from his arms, I try to move away but he won't let me. His strong arms hold me in place.

"I don't care what you told me, Bix. It’s true. And I'm tired of trying to hide it. I love you. What's so wrong about that?"

"Let go of me, Luke," I plead dully as my eyes drop from his. I don't want to look at his eyes anymore, for in them I can see the undeserving truth of his words.

"Bix, it's been a year and a half for Christ's sake. Let him go already." I can hear pleading, frustration and concern in his voice-but all it does is piss me off.

"I said let go of me." I shove hard against his chest. He stumbles back a couple of steps but he doesn't try to stop me as I slide off the table and walk away on unsteady legs. I head for the bed, grabbing my backpack from where it’s been sitting on Luke's floor since our return from the field yesterday. I had spent the whole night here in his arms, making love and feeling content. But now that one single word changes everything. I need to get out of this room; away from Luke. Away from my still thrumming desire. He says nothing as I go back long enough to scoop my winnings into my bag, avoiding eye contact with him. Turning my back, I stride to the door and yank it open with enough force to send it crashing into the wall. His soft voice follows me into the hallway.

"Run all you want, Bix, but I'm still gonna be here. I'm not going anywhere, you may as well get used to it. Just as much as you need to get used to the fact that Sam is never coming back."

CHAPTER THREE

The
Grand had undoubtedly been the epitome of elegance back in its prime. Wide hallways and mahogany floors decorated with luxuriously soft Persian carpets. Expensive leather chairs and sofas, placed strategically in side alcoves, all for the comfort of the hotels well paying guests. Commissioned artwork adorned the cream-colored walls, with decorative crown moldings and white marble columns.

            Little remains of that elegance. Years of the Grand being used as a base for our eclectic group of survivors has diminished its beauty.

The carpets are now stained and mildewed from dirty boots and inadequate heating and ventilation, the floorboards underneath rotted in spots. The leather seats that remain, tattered and shabby from years of use. The cream paint blistered and peeled from the walls like old wallpaper. The paintings are long since gone; looted and torn from their gilded frames. It isn't much to look at any more, but it’s our home. Basically rebuilt and fortified, it’s kept us safe for the better part of these last eight years. Ever since the world had gone to hell in a hand-basket.

Lone light bulbs flicker dully every five feet or so, adding to the dilapidated look and providing just enough light to help you avoid the weak spots in the floor. Most of the carefully monitored solar electricity is used for the kitchen or common areas. I’m actually glad for the low lighting at the moment, since it hides the hot tears burning in my eyes.

Why did Luke have to say those damned words again! Why did he have to bring up Sam? And how dare he tell me to get over it. Yeah, I'm well aware it's been a year and a half, but does he really think grief has a time limit? Just saying Sam's name in my head makes my heart tighten painfully in my chest. Wiping angrily at the tears with the back of my hand, I scold myself for my weakness.

"Stop being a fucking crybaby and pull yourself together, you stupid bitch," I mutter to myself before almost stumbling upon the shadow lurking in the hallway by one of the rooms. I start at first but the soft voice of Mrs. Darby floats through the murkiness.

"Is that you, Bix dear? Are you talking to me? Sorry, I didn't quite make out what you said for I'm sure it couldn't possibly be what I thought I heard. You know me and my hearing."

In spite of my hurt and anger I can't help but snort quietly at the old lady. Mrs. Darby has the eye site of a hawk and the keen hearing of a dog. Nothing happens in the Grand without her knowing about it. She plays the feeble old lady well, but it's a complete bullshit act. This is just her way of admonishing me for what she calls my 'potty mouth.'

"Sorry, Mrs. D," I call to her ruefully. "Didn't mean for you to hear that."

"Hmmm, yes, well if I had a dollar for every time you apologized for your unladylike behavior, I'd be a very wealthy woman. Is there something bothering you, dear?"

The kindness in her voice is almost my undoing. But never one to show my pain, I replace it with anger, like I always do.

"You mean other than the fact that we live in a shithole of a world, with fucking leeches around every corner wanting to feed on our insides? That most of our families and the rest of the world are already dead or infected by those fucking aliens? And that the few of us left, still have to live with our share of dickheads and morons? Nah, nothing much bothering me at all, Mrs. D." Then I add in my best sarcastic voice, "Excuse my French."

I can feel her disapproval through the gloom.

"I may be old, young lady, but I know sarcasm when I hear it. And wise enough to know when someone is hurting. Why don't you come in and I’ll make us some tea. I think I may still have a little honey stashed somewhere. Although don't tell Cookie. She'll be up here demanding every last drop, and you know how persuasive she can be."

The loud "Hah!" that comment elicits from me is quite intentional. Persuasive would not be the word I would have used. I have faced blood-sucking parasites and crazed killers over the years with less reservation than standing up to Maria "Cookie" Sanchez. She’s the only one in the Grand that can still make me shiver in terror with as little as a look.

Cookie had been one of the original occupants of the Grand and the first to greet us on our arrival years ago. A scared group of survivors, lured to the old hotel by a radio transmission and the promise of safety. I remember most of us wanting nothing to do with the hotel. Jaded by our inability to find a safe haven, and attacked too many times by other groups wanting our hard-earned supplies, we had all believed it sounded like a trap. But Cooper, the optimist that he was, had talked us into it. He said we had to learn to trust again. So he’d packed up his ragtag of survivors, myself included, and had headed for the Grand. If I had known she would be the one waiting for us, I probably wouldn't have come.

She had taken one look at my tear stained face and had snarled at me with her thick accent, "Stop crying! Be brutal, be tough. War means fighting, and fighting means killing. You must learn this, girl else you will not live to see another year."

I mean, who says that kind of shit to a twelve-year-old? But as much as her advice had terrified me at the time, it had worked. Best advice ever. Although, I would never tell her that. She would probably just whack me on the head with her wooden spoon and tell me to stop talking shit.

The woman's tough side is just as impressive as her ability to take whatever supplies on hand and turn them into palatable meals. No one can hold a candle to Cookie in the kitchen. Sometimes I truly believe that’s the only reason they let her stay here, because it sure as hell has nothing to do with her sunny disposition.

I soften a little at Mrs. Darby's offer of tea. I can be a real bitch at times and I really don't deserve her sincere concern for my welfare.

"Thanks, Mrs. D, but I can't. Not right now. I promised Amy a visit and I want to catch her before she leaves for movie night. You know she’d never miss that."

Mrs. Darby's soft laughter floats through the gloom, and I know she’s forgiven my rudeness.

"Yes, Amy does get a little excited for movie night. Tell her I said hello. And tell her I have some new socks for her. You know how she loves new socks."

"Will do," I agree, and move on, glad she’s not insisting on the offer of tea. Of all the things I’m feeling right now, sociable isn’t one of them.

I pass by others lounging about in the halls, some greeting me with warm smiles and quick questions. I nod at everyone, but I don't stop to talk like I know they want me to. I don't blame their curiosity. They live behind these walls 24/7, their only contact with the outside world, the news we bring back from our trips. I just don't feel like conversation right now.

Being a hunter goes hand in hand with curiosity and admiration. Hunters are key to the Grand's survival. The others that live here know that, and most don't have a problem showing their appreciation. We’re the providers of our extended family. The ones who scour the city, looking for any supplies that can be used. The ones who face leeches and crazies and cannibals on a daily basis, while clearing the way for our transporters once a cache has been found. The ones who track down what is needed to survive. Although that’s becoming a lot harder to do.

Eight years have passed since the alien invasion. Since over half of the world's population were turned into blood sucking, killing parasites. Eight years of the city being picked over by us and the other groups of banded survivors.

Most of these groups we avoid like the plague. But there’s one other civilized group in the city, much like us, that we’ve struck up a trading system with. And just like we call the Grand our home, they’ve done the same at St. Joseph's Hospital on the other side of the city.

It took a while to earn each other’s trust, but we have our bartering system down to a science now. We trade them our crops grown in the hotel's Olympic sized swimming pool and roof top hot tubs; they give us fish in return, bred in their harvesting tanks. We need medical supplies, we trade them the gut-burning hooch Jonsey brews in the hotel bar. Quid pro quo. We help each other survive.

But then there are the other residents of the city not quite as neighborly. The ones that will slit your throat for a can of beans. Or worse still, strip the flesh itself from your bones. Meat is a rare commodity and in high demand. And these people have taken to finding their meat supply elsewhere other than from the elusive animal kingdom.

They’re the ones who scare me most of all. Far worse than any leech. More cunning and intelligent than the invaders, but their sense of humanity long forgotten. People that were once our fellow humans now turned to cannibalism. It’s enough to give anyone nightmares.

I climb the gloomy stairwells to the fifth floor, trying to clear my mind from all my terrible thoughts and anxiety. I need to get myself under control. Somehow Amy always knows when I'm upset, which in turn causes her to worry. And I don't want to upset her any more than I know she will already be.

The fifth and sixth floors, with the bigger suites, house all the families with children that call the Grand home. Not only does it make sense, but any dangers that might possibly attack below will have to get through three floors of seasoned fighters before reaching the civilians. That's where Amy's room is as well. For some reason, visiting here always makes my heavy heart feel a little lighter.

I barely make it to the top of the stairs before I'm almost knocked ass backward as a bunch of kids flock me like seagulls at an ocean side McDonald's. How they always know I'm near is a mystery, but it's like they have a sixth sense about me. I growl in pretend anger as they swarm me and try to push them out of my way, but they don't take me seriously. They just laugh harder and crowd me, each trying to out-yell the other.

"Did you bring us treats, Bix?"

"Did you kill lots of leeches out on your patrol?"

"Did you find any cats or dogs this time?"

"Is it true you guys met an infected bear?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...one at a time, okay?" I say, giving into my laughter. I slowly push my way through to the hall, but they hang off of me like spider monkeys, all gangly arms and legs.

The yelling and questions continue, until I finally hold up my hands in surrender.

"All right already! I'll answer two questions. No, we didn't see any cats or dogs, and seriously-an infected bear? As for treats..." I pull the MRE cookies and candies out of my bag and throw the silver packets down the long hall. They release me, squealing in delight as they rush to claim their share of the goods. Their pure joy at the treats makes me laugh. Cookie would have a conniption if she saw me throwing food around like that. She guards the pantry like some pirate captain and his treasure chest. That thought alone makes it all the more fun.

Still chuckling to myself, I head toward room 512; Amy and Olivia's room. Liv is lounging outside the door, smoking what she calls Jonesy's 'crap-ass excuse for tobacco'. It’s some kind of concoction of herbs and flower petals and smells like shit, to be honest. But Liv swears even though it’s a poor ass imitation of a real cigarette, smoking it is the only thing that keeps her sane. She grins at me lopsidedly, squinting one eye against the haze circling her head.

"You know you spoil those fucking little rug rats," she says, low enough so they can't hear and pointing at them with her cigarette.

"Nice to see you too," I say, dropping a light kiss on top of her ash blonde head as I pass by. Out of all the survivors in the Grand, Amy and Olivia are the only two I allow to see my softer side. Amy because-well-she's Amy. And Liv because she’s been there from the start. Or the end. Whatever way you want to look at it.

She’d been part of the group that found me. The evening bartender just coming on duty at some dive bar when the invasion happened. Captain John Cooper had also been in that bar, drowning his sorrows at his recent breakup. They had been the only survivors out of the dozen or so other patrons. Lucky for Liv, Coop had a gun. Lucky for me, they decided to stick together and look for other uninfected.

Liv had been the one Cooper handed me off to, that fateful morning. She was the person who bandaged my cheek and treated my shock. The one who slowly brought me around, after the impact of what happened had left me damaged and speechless. Not only did she heal me, but had been the biggest contributor to my now extensive vocabulary of choice words, though she would never in a thousand years admit to that. She was the closest thing I had to a mother for the past eight years.

"Good to see you back safe and sound kiddo," she says, following me into the small apartment and closing the door, blocking out the sound of the still howling kids. "How was the run?"

"Uneventful. Found next to nothing. Area 20 is empty. Picked clean. Hopefully 21 will have more to offer. We did notice something strange though. Usually that part of the city is crawling with leeches, since it's heavily populated by ravagers. But not this time. We barely saw any. It was weird. It was almost like..."

"Bix!" The shout from the bedroom drowns out the rest of my words. The door flies open with a crash and Amy comes barreling through. Her round face is lit up with pleasure at seeing me. But before she makes it across the room, she falters and her smile fades. I can see her brain working overtime as she remembers she’s angry at me, and the smile is instantly replaced with a pout.