Lust Plague (Steamwork Chronicles) (2 page)

She forced a harsh laugh from her throat. “Poor you.”

His eyes shone bright. His teeth showed.

She quailed inside.
Bad taunt, Kaysana.

With finger and thumb, he gripped her chin, jammed her cheeks onto her teeth, forced open her mouth. He stuffed in the panties, then wound a rope about her face and knotted it, tight. “Be silent while we play.”

Kaysana blinked moisture from her eyes and fought down rising panic.
There’s always a way out. Always
. Her thoughts faltered as she surveyed the three men waiting behind him.
Except for now.

Held in an X position, with her weight dragging at wrists and ankles, she cringed as Ling tented up the fabric of her bustier, inserted the knife tip, and cut away circles of cloth from over her nipples. Here and there, pain spiked when the knife tip hit skin. She bit down on the rope between her lips, clamped her teeth tighter with each stinging nick. When she gasped, air hissed cool over the saliva-moist rope.

He laid the cold metal flat across one bared areola. “I have something for these.” Like some evil magic trick, he opened a hand to display a bundle of thin wiring with a clip at one end.

No
. Fear wriggled inside her, cold and treacherous. Those clips had teeth.

Keeping his eyes centered on hers, Ling found her nipple and pulled it out from her body until her skin ached.

Through the rope gag, the word
no
came out in a high-pitched squeak.

The clip closed on her nipple. Pain scorched into flesh. She pulled back, and the pain seared higher, hotter. No escape. Struggling tore at her skin.
Keep still. Still! Ride it out
. Tears poured down her cheeks. She gasped in rapid grunts.

“Nice?” he whispered inches from her ear. She shook her head, or tried to, for he clutched her earlobe. “Look at those men, waiting.”

Fearing what she might see, she looked, though tears of agony blurred her vision. They watched her, displayed here like some sacrifice.

“See how ready they are for you?” He stroked her neck. “See?”

Still panting, she shook her head in denial. The bulges at the groins of the men swept a tide of ice through her.
No. Never wanted this. Never.

A metallic taste coated her tongue. Frantic desire swirled in.
What’s happening to me? I don’t…I don’t want this.

I have it too. Zombie F
. Through the fuzziness invading her head, she recognized the symptoms.

Then he offered the end of the wire, and Honder stepped forward, took the wire in his fist, and pulled it to him, unrolling it as he stepped away, one yard, two. She arched her back to fight the pain, to stop her nipple from being pulled out like taffy. The wire shivered, tight as a mooring line, running from her breast to his hand. He smiled at her, the gem gleaming in his teeth.

God. No.

“They want to kill you after.” Ling dangled another wire and clip before her. She squeezed shut her eyes, then opened them again, unwilling to surrender awareness.

Inhibitions ripped away.

Lust stormed, molten and turbulent, through her veins. Whiplash quick, the room widened, shimmied. She felt the
need
of every man there. Wetness seeped between her legs.

No. No. No. I don’t want this!

Ling grasped her clit with finger and thumb and positioned the next clip over it, ready to bite down.

The launch bay rippled around Sten. Strange, he’d not had a drop of beer or any of the awful stuff they drank on board. What did they call it? Rice wine? He shifted. The lotus position didn’t suit his double-muscled thighs. He ignored the discomfort like he did every morning.
Focus
. The anger, his fuck-awful anger, was there as always. Controlling himself was an art, a skill, a habit, and he never wanted to shatter it again. Control led to serenity. Loss of control led to chaos.

Enough dead haunted him. Sten grunted, shook his head in disgust.

He’d rather be in the mountains, alone, with the world far away, than doing the air fleet’s bidding. Frankenstruct had equaled soldier-slave in the PME. Fifteen years a fucking slave for the Pancontinental Mexican Empire until he escaped, and then two months later and this Freedom Act comes through. But he’d seen the plague go from some isolated lunatic event in a small mountainous area to a nation-gobbling disaster. This was world threatening. If they thought they needed him, so be it.

He flexed his arms, heard the crackle of joints, and got up from the cold timber floor, rattling the sword on his left hip. Time to find the squad. He was late for the meeting decreed by the hail almighty Captain Kaysana—the almightily good-looking captain with the pretty body under her uniform. He mightn’t like meetings, or being on time, but he sure did like eye candy. Maybe if he eyed her like she was some kind of lollipop, he’d get a snippy reply. He grinned at the prospect of a verbal tussle with her.

She’d thought he was dumb until he gave back as good as she threw at him.

He whistled. His wolf, Cadrach, trotted over from where he’d been sniffing at an oil can.

“Good boy.”

After a small jerk to overcome friction, the revolving shotgun slung at his back slipped out, then back into the leather holster with ease. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the scars on his back catch on the cotton fabric of his shirt.

Still—he scrubbed at the stubble on his chin before letting out a hearty burp—he was alive. Always a plus.

He set off toward the doors leading inside.

Sten looked back at the line of battle-ready gyrocopters. Silver, gold, and black with a touch of red on the double-tiered blades above their semi-open cockpits. Pretty, and he could fly most of them, pull ’em apart, put ’em back together. It was a good skill. One that had gained him nonviolent work on occasion.

Where was everybody?
While he’d meditated, it seemed the entire ship’s crew staffing the launch area had vamoosed. He pushed through the doors and halted, frowned.
Found four of them, anyway.

“Stay, Cadrach.” No point in getting him hurt. The whole ship was likely affected.

A heaving, naked body pile, sprouting limbs and heads, wriggled and writhed on the floor a few yards away. One woman, three men, all nude—or mostly. Discarded clothes lay all around.

Zombie F. Early form. No one was coming at his throat. He let out a long, calming breath and ran through what he’d been told. If you were in the middle of it, you got it or you didn’t. No one knew how it transmitted. And his squad was in there. The captain too. A lot of others who might need help. Maybe fighting off some of the more badass zombies.

Keep going.

“Pardon me.” He slipped his shotgun free, stepped over a limb sticking out from the pile, then adjusted his weapons, and his trousers, before moving on. The aura of lust was so thick in here his cock felt hard enough to dent steel.

Walking slow and careful, he turned right toward the gym, where the squad should be. No signs of shooting yet.

On the way, he directed two normal women toward the launch deck. If worst came to worst, they could evacuate on a gyro.

With the gymnasium doors in sight, he found a young blonde-haired woman struggling in the corridor with four zombified men. Their slack faces, empty eyes, and devotion to lust gave them away. For a millisecond, sadness swamped him. None of them would ever be
people
again.

The world would be so messed up if this thing took over. He let a hint of anger through.

“This ain’t right.” He reached for one man, thumped his head, let him go, grabbed another’s arm. Shivered at the fury burning up his veins.
Ice, man, ice
. Killing might be expected, but he just plain couldn’t do it.
Do not throw him toward the metal spigot
. He could see the guy’s head caving in if he hit that.

Aim corrected, Sten threw him at the wall, then stared at his hands, clenched them in tight. The pain steadied him.

At least he got to
do
something. With his blood fizzing in his veins the way it was, hitting somebody felt good.

Huh, she was kissing the last of ’em. What the…? Was she affected or not? He wrenched away the last man and clobbered him too. The woman flicked back her pigtails and looked at him wild-eyed, then leaned against the wall, panting, breasts heaving, hands at her mouth. Only her pale blue eyes showed.

Ground-up zombie, saliva, semen—none of those had caused infection, and the scientists hadn’t pinned down how it was communicated. She seemed normal.

“You okay?” He shoved one of the moaning unconscious men farther away with his boot—sending him sliding across the polished timber floor. “You like kissing zombies?”

“Yes. Um. No, I don’t like that! Oh dear. I feel odd.” Looking bewildered, she took her hands away from her face and peered wistfully down at the man she’d been kissing. She shrugged. “The…the captain. She’s in there. I’m sure I heard her scream. Please, can you help her?”

Me, the savior. Heh
. He liked the notion of championing the underdog. Thing was—did the captain count as an underdog?

Was it possible to be half infected? He checked the woman over. Her brain seemed to be mostly functioning.

“I’ll try, miss. Head for the launch deck. I sent others there. Grab a pistol.” He gestured. The floor was strewn with abandoned weapon belts. “You can shoot?”

“Yes. Thank you! I’m Emily,” she called as he shoved open the doors and looked in.

“Sure. Nice to meet you, Emily,” he muttered, then blinked and took in the scene.

Like some erotic spiderweb, the woman fastened to the rope wall sprouted wire. Each line from breast, groin, and skin, led to the hand of a zombie. Least they all had their pants on. Seemed like they’d strung her up but little else. But was she infected? If she was, he’d have to abandon her. God, that notion hurt.

The tall GAM lieutenant had orange-fire eyes.
Shiny eyes and one helluva evil grin
. He rummaged through the facts about Zombie F again.

This man was some special zombie, but what was the label? One thing the PME had taught him was to take out the officers first in a fight. A lieutenant with fire in his eyes had to trump a plain one.

“Hi there, Mr. Lieutenant!” As he strolled closer, he sheathed the shotgun, draped his left hand on the pommel of his sword. Shoot in this crowd and the captain would likely get hurt.

Kaysana’s eyes had rolled back in their sockets. She breathed in and out full throttle through a gag. Uneven tremors quaked her body. For a few long seconds, he examined her. Though her wrists and ankles were secured, her back arched forward, forced into a curve by the pull of the wire on the clips fastened to her.

Seeing her like this sent lust howling through him.
How twisted am I?
He wrenched his gaze away.

But is she a zombie?

Everyone had paused to stare at him.

Four. If he was lucky, maybe they’d all be as brain-dead as those in the passageways.

“Ah shite.” He took a last stride to draw level with the fine wires—hoping like mad they were soft copper—and drew his sword with a neat flourish, ending with a high stance.

Blank stares met him.

“Welcome.” The lieutenant’s voice growled in a tone deep enough to plow furrows in the earth. Eyes brightening, he lunged for Sten.

Sten hefted the sword higher, carved the sword down in an arc that sliced the soft wires first, then through the lieutenant’s wrist. He spun, boots sliding, cut through the rope wall on one side, sending Kaysana swinging, then the other, freeing her. She thumped to the floor, her body wreathed in rope and wire.

A fine crescent of blood fell. The lieutenant screeched, staring at his severed hand flopping about on the floor.

Inches from Sten’s nose, a drop of dark blood meandered down the vertical length of sword. “Looks like you’re not immune to steel.” What the hell was it these guys were called? Upper men?

“You can’t stop me.” The man grasped his wrist stump. The bleeding slowed, then stopped, as if a faucet had been turned off. “I’m the right hand of God.”

Sten inclined his head, pointing. “Left, now, Mr. Zombie. Right’s gone.”

Like shop dummies creaking slowly to life, the other men moved in.

“You challenge me?” The lieutenant’s left arm rose.

Sten kicked him in the chest with a nice thud of boot heel on flesh. Mr. Zombie skidded ten feet and whacked into a stack of metal weights.

Departure time.

He sheathed the sword, knelt and scooped up the woman, ropes and all, then took off at a jog for the exit. Given a few minutes, the lieutenant might perk up again, and he didn’t fancy a rematch.

Shoulda blasted off his head
. His inner raw self liked to see blood, guts, and killing. Well hang it all, his
self
could take a hike. He didn’t kill anymore unless he was really
really
pushed. No zomb was going to make him kill it. These once were men.

Never again, though.

The three zombies growled but barely moved any quicker. A tortoise could win a race against them.

“Our power grows as you approach the center,” screeched the lieutenant.

“Fuck off,” Sten muttered.

The soft, naked weight of Kaysana across his shoulder and the smell of her sweat and body tantalized him. He jogged on.

He eyed the plump bottom a few inches from his mouth.
No, bad idea.

The whirling above flickered
dark, light, dark, light
. Thunder accompanied her.
An engine?
Kaysana shut her eyes, drifted away to the throb of her body, as if every cell inside her pined for something indefinable.

She surfaced again, blinked away grit, groaned. Something plucked at her wrists, then at her ankles.

“You awake?” A gruff voice. Not one she recognized. More blinking turned the blurred mess in front of her into a man. Tall, bulky, arms like, like—she blinked again—darn, big. Where’d she seen a man like that before? Black shirt and leather coat and brown leather trousers with a craggy face that said he’d
lived
. Gold wolf stud earring.
Sten
. He’d rescued her.