The Future Without Hope (14 page)

Chapter
2.
Aftermath

I’M
LYING ON MY BACK, Nurrin a half-inch or so away. We’re both naked. I can feel
her still—which makes the distance yawning between us so fucking disconcerting.
She hasn’t spoken or moved since I slipped free of her and collapsed on my side
of the bed.

She
wanted this. I wouldn’t have touched her if she hadn’t. I heard it from her
before I touched her.

“Why
did you hate me?” she asks, and I blink, pushing up on my elbow to stare at
her.

It’s
very hard to not be distracted by her naked body. But I manage. Barely. Force
my expression to take that smirk she hates so much. “Always with the fucking
questions.” Her expression flattens with disbelief and I laugh, softly.
“Because hating you was easier than wanting this.” Her eyes widen, and I fall
back on the bed, refusing to look at her. Saying this is hard enough without
looking at her. “I can’t keep you safe if I’m too close to you. It’s what
happened with Kelsey—I took my mind off keeping her safe, and started to worry
about how much losing her would devastate me. And that’s when I lost her. I was
stupid and young and I fucked up.”

And
she’s dead. There’s that inescapable truth—and I’ve tried, so often, to escape
it.

“I’m
not her, O’Malley.”

My
heart twists, and I hear Kelsey again, so confidant and young as she smirked
and told me nothing would happen to her. Nurrin sounds like her, in this
moment. Fear flashes through me, icy cold and waking me up.

I
nod, and sit up. We need to get dressed—there is still a president to infect,
and her people to take care of. I frown. “Are you serious about going with Omar
to the East?”

She
nods, and pulls a t-shirt on over her head. It musses her already tousled hair,
and I can see the press of her nipples through the thin material.

I
want her naked and panting, squirming under me as I drive her mad.

Which
is fucking ridiculous, since I just finished fucking her. This should be out of
my system by now. My lips twist—she’ll never be out of my system. I knew that a
long time ago. It’s why I never did—why I’ve kept myself away from her all
these years.

The
best way for me to keep her safe and alive is to stay away.

I
grab my clothes and tug them on, zipping my jeans up and reaching for a shirt.
I can feel her watching me, and I ignore it. I ignore her. I’ve become so very
good at ignoring her—but this is different.

“Finn?”
she says, softly. A question in her voice that pulls at me.

I
know what she wants. Me to tell her that everything is fine, that we’re fine,
that I’m not pushing her away—that this will change things.

But
I can’t tell her that. I can’t lie to her—nothing will change. I can’t let it.

“Come
on, Nurrin. If you’re committed to this insane idea, we should go ahead and get
started with it.”

She
opens her mouth, and I stare at her, my face blank. Her eyes harden and she
gives me a single short nod.

Just
like that, the lines are redrawn. She’s on her side of it, where I can keep her
safe. And it feels like she’s as untouchable as she’s ever been—I grit my teeth
and remind myself that this is for the best.

The
hallway is filled with people, all of them young enough to be apocalypse
babies, all wearing that damned white I found her in.

“Oh
my god,” she whispers, pressed against my side. I slide a look at her.
 

At
least twenty Firsts crowd the hall, some looking terrified, some looking
confused. One—a guy with long, dark hair pulled back at the base of his
neck—looks furious. “What the hell is going on?” he snarls, glaring at the
little acolyte, trying to make sense of the madness.

I
almost let her.
 
Almost walk away and
leave this shit for her to deal with. It’s not our problem—and I don’t give a
fuck about a handful of furious Firsts. Nurrin has other plans. Of course she
does.

"Get
them food and whatever else they need," she snaps, staring at the acolyte.
The kid's eyes bulge. Firsts aren't normally the ones giving orders here. I
shift a little, and her gaze flicks over me. Then she nods quickly, and hurries
away, muttering under her breath.

I
glance down at her, my face blank. "You're creating problems for us, you
know."

Her
tone is frosty. "Then take the ZTNK and get out of here. I'm not making
you stay."

I
wince as she turns away, and focuses on the small crowd of Firsts.

I
knew she would be pissed that I fucked her and pulled away. Hiding behind my
blank unemotional mask won’t work for long, not with her. I just have to get
through this—and Nurrin angry with me isn't that unusual, in the end.

"Who
the hell are you?" the kid with the hair snaps

Nurrin
smiles at the gruff question, even as I stiffen. Part of me wants to break the
kid's neck for his rudeness. I'm not allowed to hurt him. The instinct is
prodded by that savage internal voice that the remains of our civilized society
would tell to shut up. It’s the one that keeps me alive, so I don’t really give
a fuck what civilization thinks. .

I
rarely silence the things that keep me alive, and my gut feelings, the ones
that really dislike this angry First staring at Nurrin, have kept me alive more
times than I can count over the years.

I
wish I could say the same for all the people I've cared for.

"I'm
Nurrin Sanders, previously of Haven 8. Finn O'Malley." She nods at me, but
offers no more information than that. Smart girl.

His
eyes narrow even more, and then, grudgingly, "Ethan Matlock."

"How
long have you been here?" she asks

"One
hundred and ninety eight days," he says, "What the hell is
happening?"

Nurrin's
gaze slips to me, but I shrug. This is on her to answer—she let the dude out.
She can handle his fun questions too.

"How
much do you know about the Order?" she asks, and I step back. Most of the
gathered Firsts are listening, even if they still seem absorbed in their own
personal crises.

"Enough
to know that they're crazy as fuck and I want to be as far away from them as I
can." he says. "Much more than that is suicide for a guy like me. We
tend not to care, as long as we can stay away from them."

Nurrin
nods. "I understand that," she says, quietly.

Something
shifts in the kid's gaze, and he straightens a little. "You’re a
First," he says, a statement more than a question.

A
flush is crawling up Nurrin's neck. Something I haven't seen in her since the
night in 18, when she chased me into my shower.

Before
that, it was because of Dustin and his bumbling, idiotic interest in her.

I
grit my teeth and remind myself that I can't kill this shithead.

"I
am. The Red High Priestess held this Outpost, until she was killed. Now it's
held by the High Priest, and the Black sect has no interest in killing firsts.
You’re free to go."

Her
words are met with utter silence and then Ethan laughs. "Every sect wants
us dead, Nurrin."

She
nods. “But this sect wants something else more than it wants a bunch of blood
on Third Day. I’m giving it to him. He’s giving me your freedom. You’ll each be
taken to a Haven of your choosing. What you do—how you live—that’s up to you
now.”

The
Firsts are silent, staring at her for a long moment, and I touch her arm,
ignoring the way she flinches away from me. They need time to process, and we
have other places to be. “Nurrin, we need to go.”

She
gives me a dirty look and I shrug. Just because she dislikes the truth doesn’t
it make it any less valid.

“I’ll
be back. And the acolytes will be getting you sorted out—you have some time to
decide what you want to do next. Take a minute and figure it out.”

“And
you? What are you going to do?” Ethan challenges, and she gives him a quick,
darting smile.

“I’m
going to do what I can to end this.”

Chapter
3.
Facing Our Past

KENNY
BUCHMAN DOESN’T LOOK LIKE THE SAME MAN WHO GREETED ME ON THE WHITE HOUSE LAWN, not
so many weeks ago. His hair is dirty and hanging in his eyes, stubble covers
his cheeks, and bruises—bright purple and blue—cover the fading yellow ones.

He
looks like a man who’s been through hell, and that makes me inordinately
pleased. Nurrin makes a soft noise of surprise when she sees him, and her gaze
finds me.

“What
happened?”

I
shrug. "Kenny's life was the price I paid to find you. Omar wanted him
dead before he moved against the Order and I was more than willing to help him.
Especially since I knew the fucker had a hand in your disappearance."

She
shivers. "But he's alive."

I
nod, fury rippling under my skin. "Omar decided at the last moment that
the figurehead was a good idea to keep around. I wasn't happy, but he was still
giving me what I needed--you. In the end, that's what really mattered, so I let
the matter drop."

She
licks her lips, and I clench my hands to keep from reaching for her. Her eyes
are glassy when she says, "He had a picture, of the sacrifice. The one
from the Stronghold."

I
know what she's talking about instantly. It's hard to forget the bloodstained
blonde girl who mutilated herself trying to get away from the infected. She was
drugged—all the sacrifices are, before the Order shoves them to their deaths.
But in the end, no drugs are enough to kill the terror of being torn apart.

Watching
her die would have been hard under any circumstances. But watching, knowing
that Nurrin was destined for the same fate, knowing she was thinking the same
thing as she watched that little girl being torn to pieces, that had been
gut-churning and fucking horrible.

"He
gave that girl to the Order," she says, and her voice is tight and
violent. Furious. I touch her arm gently, and her gaze swings to me, irate.

"I
want him fucking dead, O'Malley."

This
is the thing that is most infuriating, and the thing that never fails to draw
me in. Nurrin is a survivor. When push comes to shove, she'll always do what it
takes to survive, and if that's dirty and horrid, she'll deal with that shit
later, when things are safe.

But
when there is a choice—when life isn't quite on the line and she can think
about options, she will always champion the underdog. It doesn't matter if the
underdog is already dead and turned. She'll fight for it anyway.

It's
infuriating, because when she's like this, there's no reasoning with her—she's
blind to the danger around her. But it always captivates me because I don't
understand it.

I'm
not that guy. I'm not the guy who survives, but has a good heart underneath it
all. I know who and what I am—I'm a bastard. Manipulative and untrusting and
impossible to work with under the best of circumstances, and let’s be honest—we
haven't had those in a long ass time.

No.
I'm not a good guy under a shitty exterior looking to be redeemed by an
impossible situation. I'm just a guy trying to survive in a world falling
apart, and willing to do whatever it takes to keep my promise.

I
don't care who gets hurt, as long as it's not Nurrin.

She
would hate me if I ever admitted it, but I’m glad that it was Collin I found
infected. If I had to find one of them that way, I would always choose Collin
before Nurrin.

Because
it meant she didn't. He took that danger, and he eliminated it before it could
threaten her.

And
I miss him. The man was my partner for years, and we Walked together—I spent
more time with him than anyone, including his sister

But
I would kill him myself if I thought he was a threat to her.

He
trusted me to do that. He expected it. And that kills a part of me. Because I
knew I would. Because I embraced that savage side.

Because
I would never be furious on behalf of a girl long since dead and betrayed.
Never mind that the same asshole who killed that nameless girl had also
kidnapped and sold her to be exterminated because of an accident of birth—that
doesn’t bother Nurrin.

She's
not furious because she went through hell. She's furious because someone else
did.

In
that moment, I understand why she's championing the East. Why she'll fight for
something we can't win. Without letting myself think, I reach for her hand and
squeeze it tight.

"We'll
see him dead, Nurrin. Don't worry about that. I will see him dead and his head
at your feet." I say, soft and intent.

She
makes a startled face, and for a moment I wonder if I took it too far. Then she
gives me a rare, approving smile and I know I didn't.

Omar
is standing in the room, talking to Kenny. We can't hear him through the
soundproof glass, but it doesn't matter. I know what's being offered.

A
long syringe and needle lay on the table between them.

"Will
he take it?"

"No.
Not voluntarily. Kenny isn't stupid. He knows that the cure is a joke at best,
and a death sentence at worst."

"But
Omar," she starts.

"Omar
will do whatever it takes to keep you happy. So he'll inject the serum. He
doesn't give a fuck what a baby president wants." She slides me a glance,
and I look at her, seriously. “I want you to stay behind the glass, and out of
the way when we bring in the infect. Omar wants my help. I want you safe.”

“This
was my idea,” she says quietly.

“And
I’m indulging it because you want this, for whatever reason. But we’ll do it by
my rules. You obey. No questions.”

Anger
flashes in her eyes for a moment and then she nods. “Fine.”

I
release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, slow enough that she doesn’t
notice, and I turn with her to watch the Black Priest inject our president with
the cure.

Omar
steps out of the room a few minutes later, and I hear Kenny screaming at him.
Nurrin’s fingers are flexing and unflexing on her knife, and have been for a
solid five minutes. I don’t think she’s even aware of it. “Does he know why
this is happening?” she asks, suddenly.

Omar
shrugs. “He thinks there’s been a restructuring of the power in the Order, and
he’s a casualty of it. Close enough to the truth that I didn’t bother to
elaborate on the finer points.”

Nurrin
makes a choked, furious noise. Dammit.

I
catch her arm as she starts to push past me, and I shake my head. “No, Nurrin.
It’s not happening.”

“There
isn’t a threat right now,” she protests, not looking at me.

I
growl and shake her. Her head snaps back and forth and then her green eyes are
boring into me, furiously. “
No,”
I
repeat.

“Fuck
you,” she hisses, and yanks herself free.

She’s
in the room before I can catch her, and Kenny’s eyes widen as he stares at her,
and then me, over her shoulder. He laughs, a hysterical noise. “Are you fucking
kidding me?”

“Not
what you expected, Mr. President?” she asks, her voice sticky sweet and so
fake. I swallow my laugh.

“This
shit was you?” he demands. “All of this for her? Why? She isn’t Kelsey!”

Nurrin
flinches, and I realize, suddenly, that being compared to a girl from my past
has to sting. I wonder why she’s never bothered to tell me that. Or maybe she
has with her actions, and I’ve just been too fucking stupid to pick up on it.

I
think that’s probably closer to the truth. Nurrin is staring at Kenny, though,
and right now there isn’t a dead girl haunting me or him. There is
just
her, and her fury. “You remember,
when we were at that fucking restaurant, and I told you that he would kill you,
slowly, for hurting me?”

I
jerk, startled. She hadn’t mentioned that, when she skimmed the details of what
happened to her in the time we were separated.

Fear
is in his eyes, something that surprises me. In all the years I’ve known Kenny,
he’s never been smart enough to be afraid. But this girl has managed to scare
him.

She
steps closer, careful to stay out of his reach. “I lied. He won’t. But he took
your power. Your presidency. And now, you’re nothing. A fucking puppet for the
Order. You’ll either die from infection, or you’ll live in chains and be
trotted out when Omar needs a sound bite.” Kenny pales, and she leans down, and
whispers. “I fucking did that, you shit. Remember that. Remember it was the
girl you sent to die who destroyed you.”

Rage
flashes across Kenny’s face, and I pull her away as he jerks in his restraints.
“You might have destroyed me, but who will fucking want you now? Now that my
men and half the acolytes in the Outpost have fucked you. Who the hell will
touch you? I may have lost everything, First, but you have lost just as much.”

Nurrin
sways, the ugly words—the truth we’ve both been avoiding—slamming into her like
bullets.

It’s
one thing to suspect. But to hear it laid out, that plainly—to know that she
was raped. I make a low noise in my throat, and jerk forward a step. Nurrin
catches me as I lunge for Kenny, and her little body is a heavy weight that
freezes me in my tracks. Because no matter how furious with this bastard I
might be, I can’t hurt her. I won’t set her aside while I beat the shit out of
him—not right now.

“Stop,”
she whispers. “It’s done. We’ve taken everything that matters. And the infect
will take even more.”

She
looks at me, and I see myself reflected in her eyes. Not my tiny reflection—but
the darkest, dirtiest parts of who I am. The savage violence that repels so
many. It’s there—fury and a yawning pit that demands revenge.

And
a cold, cold stare.

I
know this girl. I know her because I have seen that look in myself so many
times before.

I
nod, and Nurrin’s body loses some of the tension. “Out,” I murmur, and she
nods. Follows me out of the little cell.

“Nurrin,”
I say, reaching for her.

She
jerks away, her expression sharp. “Don’t,” she snaps. I go still, and then I
nod. Because there is too much fear in her eyes for me to push right now.

“Stay
here. I’m going to get the infect in there.”

She
hesitates, and then, “Make sure it doesn’t kill him.”

I
smirk—I want to ignore that order, and everything I know we’re doing. Instead,
I nod an acknowledgement of her words, and I slip from the little holding room.
Giving her a little bit of breathing room.

Omar
isn’t far. Of course he isn’t. The bastard has never been far, when my life
went to complete shit. He’s always been far enough that nothing touches him—he
always comes out clean as a fucking lily.

But
he’s close enough to watch the devastation, and for me to hate, when none of it
hits him. It happened in Columbus and it’s happening now. His Order kidnapped
and tortured her, his people raped her, drugged her so senseless, she can’t
even remember it.

But
Omar—he steps in after all that, with a cure and a fanatical belief, and I’m
supposed to let all the shit that’s come before go, supposed to forget.

Supposed
to forgive.

Claire
said I would, when I got a little distance from Kelsey’s death. When I had
enough time to think shit through and realize that Omar couldn’t have known we
were walking into a slaughter, a horde that rivaled the one in New York City.

And
part of me knows that—logically.

But
we told him. We staked out the city, and watched the movements. We knew long
before the mission was ever approved that our people were dead, and that the
odds of making it out whole were non-existent.

We
told Buchman, and the advisors, we told Omar and the generals. We told fucking
everyone. But when they gave us our marching orders, Kelsey didn’t even bat an
eye. She smiled, the little idiot. And all of her men nodded and did exactly
what we knew was a bad idea, because she wanted it, and we all gave her what
she wanted, and trusted each other to get her out alive.

Omar
knew that. And he used it—her stubborn refusal to see danger, and our loyalty
to her—to push a mission that was fucking suicide.

And
she’s dead because of it.

“Ready?”
he asks, and I stare at him. All that anger and years of bitterness welling in
me. I nod, and some of the tension in Omar’s shoulders ease. He beckons and I
follow him up a narrow flight of stairs. The air tastes different here.
Cleaner. We’re topside again, and I can hear the infected screaming outside.

I
don’t remember much about the trip here. I know we followed the train tracks,
and Omar had one of his black priests driving my ZTNK, while I sat in a
windowless van, checking and rechecking weapons.

I
don’t know where we are or how to get back to 1.

I’m
not used to that kind of vulnerability. If it had been anyone else demanding
it, I would have balked completely.

But
it’s Omar, and I might hate him, but I know him enough to know he wouldn’t
trick me when taking me to my death—he’d do it honest and clean.

"Where
the hell is this place?"

Omar
shoots me a look. "Somewhere safe."

Cryptic
bastard. I swallow my annoyance, and follow him. The little building is dirty
and dusty, and I can feel the wind rattling through the shitty walls. "How
have they not torn this place to shreds?"

Omar
shrugs. "We don't spend enough time in here for the infects to care about
it—once we’re downstairs, they lose interest because the scent is gone. Any
more questions, or do you think we can get this done?"

I
flash a dirty smile and he smirks, and pushes the door open.

I'm
out first, my bow up in front of me as I bring down an infect. The pack screams
as they see me, and lurch into motion. They're on me fast—they've fed recently,
their movements jerky and unnaturally quick. I dodge a reaching hand, and swing
my bow over, releasing. The quarrel passes through smoothly, and the infect
drops as it flies free to embed in the ground, covered in black brain.