Crucible Zero (11 page)

I used the clean cloth to scoop up a bit of it and spread that over Quinten's wounds. I also dragged the thread through it before sewing up his cuts with quick, even stitches, leaving room for some swelling.

A gunshot cracked the relative silence. I jerked and looked over my shoulder.

Abraham had just shot a man on a motorcycle right through the head and was stepping to the side as the vehicle wobbled, fell, and skidded down the road.

He took aim at the next rider—a woman—and fired; missed. Foster rushed forward, brandishing the machete. He swung for her head.

I turned away, my stomach and nerves not up to watching the grisly deaths. The other mercenaries must have realized we weren't yet over-the-side-of-the-cliff dead. They pulled guns and started shooting.

Abraham and Foster stood their ground and returned fire.

“Shit,” Left Ned breathed. “If those two ever decide to kill us . . .”

“Not going to happen,” I said.

“But if they do . . .” The sound of another crash, and then an engine shifting gears to turn and retreat filled the air as I finished binding first Quinten's head, then his leg.

I glanced over my shoulder again. Abraham and Foster were running—and those two big men were
fast
—after the remaining two mercenaries, one who was on foot, and one who still had his motorcycle beneath him. The road was strewn with blood, gore, and motorcycle wreckage.

Foster tackled the man on foot and then commenced to pound the guy's head into the concrete until he no longer moved.

The remaining merc fired at Abraham over his shoulder. He didn't miss. But Abraham was still running toward him. He lifted his gun, took aim, and shot the tires of the motorcycle out from under the man.

Man and machine went flying, twisting and tumbling, and landed in a mess of metal and flesh. Abraham slowed his pace, and calmly walked up to what was left of the man and shot him in the head. He stared at him a moment, then walked off to the motorcycle to see if it could be salvaged.

Galvanized are mercenaries. Dangerous
. Quinten's comments rang through my mind.
No loyalties to anything.

No kidding. There was no hint of mercy in that man, nor in Foster, even though they might have just killed people they knew.

My brain was trying to grasp the cold-blooded actions I'd witnessed and match it up to the gentle and kind people I'd known them as before. Although they had been gentle and kind to me, even in my time they had once been killing machines—super soldiers who had been deployed by governments seeking control.

Abraham and Foster were no strangers to destruction, chaos, killing. Not in that time, and, certainly, not in this.

Abraham had asked me if I'd ever killed a man before. He had told me I might not want to walk that path.

Right now, in this crappy moment beside this crappy road, dealing with my wounded, unconscious brother, I didn't think I wanted to see anyone die ever again.

“Okay,” I said, finishing putting some of the goo on every tiny scrape I could find on Quinten's body. “You're next, Neds. Where are you hurt?”

“That,” Left Ned said, pointing at Right Ned's face. “And the shoulder.”

“Anything else?” I asked as I did my balancing trick to stand on the ground that seemed to be swaying side to side.

“You're pale as a bone, Matilda,” Right Ned said. “I think we need to get a look at your head.”

“I'm fine, and stop stalling,” I said. “But it would help if you were sitting. You're a little taller than me.”

He glanced over at the road, and I followed his gaze. Abraham and Foster were dragging the bodies to the side of the road and sorting through the vehicles.

“We can't stay here, can we?” I asked.

“Dead bodies will draw the ferals within a hundred miles.” Right Ned sat down with a groan. “And we have only a few hours until it gets dark.”

Crap.
I pressed at the bruise to see if Right Ned's cheek was broken. He hissed in pain and his eyes got watery.

“Jesus, Matilda.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I don't think it's broken.” I checked the pupils of his eyes, then Left Ned's. “No concussions. Let's look at that shoulder.”

“It's dislocated,” Left Ned said.

I ran my fingers gently along the joint, and Right Ned cussed.

“You're right,” I said. “It's dislocated. I'm going to set it into place. Ready?”

They both nodded, inhaled, and held their breath.

“One . . . two . . .” I pushed his shoulder with a sharp, abrupt punch.

“Whoreson,” Left Ned seethed.

“Sorry,” I said. “Sorry. Let's get that in a sling.”

“No time,” Left Ned said.

“Wrong. We'll make the time.” I dug around in the duffel, then looked through Quinten's stuff and was surprised and happy to find a sling folded in a small canvas bag. I pulled it out, looked over the buckles, and helped Neds into it, adjusting the straps for his wider shoulders and chest.

“How's that?” I asked.

“Hurts like hell,” Left Ned said.

“Better,” Right Ned corrected. “It's better.”

“Can you take pain pills?”

“Let's save them for later,” Right Ned said. “We need to get to shelter before nightfall.”

“How are we going to do that? Our bus went over the cliff, and Quinten is unconscious.”

“I think the clanks have a solution,” Left Ned said.

I turned to get a look at Abraham and Foster, overshot how fast my head could handle my moving, and ungracefully fell forward, away from Neds.

Crap.

“Matilda?” Right Ned said, startled.

“I'm fine.” I pushed back up while the world did a hard spin and made me want to puke. “Just a second.”

“You're injured and stupid,” Left Ned said. “Hold still.”

He helped me roll onto my back, my head near Quinten's knees, the tree we'd been deposited by spinning lazily around the edges of my vision.

I closed my eyes. “Spinning. But no roses. Never thought I'd hate the smell of roses.”

“You're babbling,” Right Ned said. “Just rest. Let me see how bad that hole in your head is.” He paused. “Well, I'm not gonna lie. This is going to sting.”

He was wrong. It didn't sting. The cloth he pressed against my scalp burned like a thousand angry bees had nested in my head.

“Ow. Sonofa— That really hurts,” I said.

“Baby,” Left Ned said. “You've had worse.”

“I know I have.” I opened my eyes, because I always dealt with pain better with my eyes wide open.

Right Ned frowned a little. “You have?”

“Bullets hurt more than this. Getting chewed up in an explosion while time smashes you apart hurts a lot more than this.”

Left Ned sucked air through his teeth. “You sure did come up odd, didn't you, Tilly?”

“More than you know. How's Quinten?” Talking was helping me keep my mind off their fingers poking and prodding at my head. How could a man with only one hand suddenly have a hundred poking fingers?

“Still out. We'll get smelling salts after we get this cleaned.” Right Ned frowned, and then his pretty blue eyes flicked downward to hold my gaze.

“You have a cut and it's swelling. I don't think stitching it is going to do you any good. So I'm going to pack it with the medicine, then wrap your head. I might need to cut some hair.”

“Shave it—I don't care.”

Right Ned shook his head. “No, I just need to make sure I can get enough medicine on the wound. I am sorry.”

“It's okay. It will grow back. And I've always thought going really short would be fun.”

He pulled out Evelyn's small, sharp sewing scissors; cut away some of my hair, trying not to pull too hard on it, which was sweet but mostly unnecessary; and then spread a thick layer of the tin-can balm on it.

To my great relief, the medicine numbed and soothed. I sighed.

Then he pulled out a pad of cotton and the binding. “I'll need your fingers. Think you can manage?” Left Ned asked.

“I just set your shoulder,” I said. “I can manage a square knot.”

He got to work placing the cotton, which I helped hold in place, since he was one-handed right now. Even one-handed, it didn't take him long to wrap my head to his satisfaction.

I felt like a mummy, but he'd stretched the bandage around my head a couple times, careful to make it tight enough to hold the medicine and pad in place and to not slip into my eyes.

“Good?” I asked.

“Enough,” Right Ned said. “I'll see if I can wake Quinten. Rest a minute.”

He moved away from my line of vision, and even though I knew we had to get moving before the ferals showed up, and we needed to be either somewhere safe or at least in a defensible position before nightfall, I was more than happy to lie there for a moment and pull myself together.

We'd traveled only half a day outside our property and had already been shot at, driven off a cliff, and almost killed.

Slater had shot me.

I suddenly understood how comforting a nice, walled fortress might actually be.

“Matilda?” Abraham said.

I rocked my head so I could see him, standing to one side of me. Wisely, he crouched.

“Thanks for, um . . . dragging us all out of the crash,” I said. “And killing the mercs.”

“We need to get to cover before nightfall,” he said.

“You're not one to stand on gratitude, are you?” I tucked my elbows under me and rolled a bit to one side so I could prop myself up.

Ouch.
My pulse hammered against the inside of my skull, and that bandage felt much too tight.

I thought I had been doing a fairly good job, but when Abraham reached over and helped me sit, his hand resting beneath both of my elbows in case I tipped over, I was grateful for it.

“You have a concussion,” he said.

“I know. I'll be fine. But my brother's unconscious. How are we going to get him”—I pointed, and was pretty proud that I didn't topple over—“on that?” I shifted my finger to indicate the motorcycle.

“One of the vehicles is a four-wheeler. We should be able to transport him that way. Can you stand?”

“You have no idea how good I am on my feet,” I held my hand out for him, getting ready to shove up onto my feet.

He smiled. “Love to see it,” he said. “But maybe at a later time.”

Oh.
The look he was giving me was sharp with curiosity and something else: he found me fascinating. And from the way he took my hand and smoothly straightened up to standing, his arm reaching around to wrap me in an embrace as he stepped into me, so that our bodies were pressed together, thighs, hips, stomach, and chest, I knew clearly that he was intently interested in more than a dance with me.

I should not fall in love with a killer. Should I?

With my head tipped back so I could look at him, the world was a little fluttery and dizzy around the edges, but, blessedly, without any scent of roses.

Or maybe that wasn't the world. Maybe that was just me and my wants and needs. Because even though my brain knew Abraham was not the man I had loved, my heart refused to listen. I loved him. Still. I thought I always would.

His smile was soft; his gaze unrelenting. Asking me, without words, if I understood what he was offering me. What he wanted from me. What he was willing to give.

I wanted to tell him yes. To give in to what my heart knew was true. But there was a world to save. A plague to end. My brother was wounded, and even though I had done the best I could with the supplies we had on hand, his best chance for survival would be to get him to a real doctor: Gloria.

Who would die if we didn't get to her in time.

That was a lot to do and not a lot of time left for love.

I took in a breath, and it was too shaky.

He frowned slightly and lifted one hand, his thumb wiping away a tear that I hadn't realized was there at the edge of my cheek.

“We have time,” he said softly, strangely guessing my fear.

Or did he? Was he telling me he and I had time, or that we all had time to try to save Gloria and kill Slater? Either way, I didn't think we did have time. Not as long as Slater was alive. Not as long as there was a bomb ready to take out innocent people. Not as long as galvanized were considered criminals in this world.

“Then we should spend that time on something important. Like finding a safe place for the night,” I said.

He relaxed his grip on me, held my arms to make sure I was steady, his expression closed, but his brow furrowed, as if confused at my response.

I was confused at my response too. Had I just told him my feelings for him—and his for me—weren't important? Weren't worth taking time for? I didn't mean that. The head injury was making it hard to think. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that we get to safe ground before nightfall, before ferals and more mercenaries showed up.

I walked over to Neds. Quinten was moaning softly, semiconscious. He was trying to push away the smelling salts Neds held under his nose.

“It's going to be okay,” I said to him. “We have to leave now. We'll help you up. You're going to be fine.”

Between the four of us—Abraham and Foster being the least injured, or the least hampered by their injuries—we got Quinten on the four-wheeler, with Foster carefully holding on to him.

I wasn't sure I could handle driving a motorcycle, what with my jumpy vision and dizziness, but Neds had only one good arm, and I wasn't sure he could handle a bike on his own.

In the end we decided that Foster and Quinten would take the lead, Neds would follow on his own bike, and Abraham would drive another bike that I'd be passenger on.

It wasn't the best solution, but it was the best we had. And so we pulled the vehicles together, loaded them and ourselves with as much of our gear as we could carry, then started off at a careful pace, down the hill and across the valley to House Earth Compound Five.