The Night Sweeper: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 1) (12 page)

Somehow, the dome looks more massive on the inside than it did on the outside. We stand in the entrance way gaping at the sight.

Lush, wild vegetation covers the floor for acres. To our right, the river runs into the building through a thick grate and rushes through the landscape into the distance to emerge on the other side, its ebb and flow musical and surreal and peaceful, offsetting the very real dangers this place may hold.

Towering trees stretch to the dome high overhead. Once, a long time ago, they wouldn't have been tall enough to reach the top, but now, they press against the steel latticework and transparent panels, nature trying to force its way through man-made confines.

“Wow,” Cray whispers beside me.

But it's not the landscape he's referring to. In the trees is a city. Or village would be more accurate. One that appears at first glance uninhabited. Tree houses dot the trees in every direction. A maze of walkways spans between them, some platform bridges, some rope bridges, with no rhyme or reason other than to connect the structures.

They're elaborate, intricate structures, but again, with primitive materials. They stand in stark relief against the steel and glass of the dome itself.

Something scampers through the brush to our left and we both crouch defensively.

“Well, it didn't sound big,” Cray quips after a moment.

I'm not reassured.

“We may be able to find shelter here for the night,” I say. “Maybe even some supplies. But we need to make sure it's clear.”

“Agreed,” he says.

His back is still bleeding, but he stands like a statue, ready for anything.

“I'll take the trees,” I say. “Are you okay to clear the ground?”

“I'm fine. You be careful.”

I start to point out that of the two of us, he looks more like a tenderized side of beef, but think better of it as he sets off without looking back.

If there was an easy way up into the elevated village, it’s gone now, so I have to climb to the first tree house the old fashioned way. I scout them while Cray scouts the ground level. We need supplies, but more importantly, we need to know there aren’t any more nasty critters waiting in here for us.

It takes about fifteen minutes. Several walkways have collapsed and I sometimes have to jump thirty or forty feet from one structure to the next, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

I'm careful, aware that danger could be lurking in the next house or room, but I'm awed by what I find. Each house is a microcosm of rudimentary living, but not recently. Thick layers of dust cover everything. Hammocks hang from ceilings. Some have beds fashioned from planks and ropes with straw mattresses. All contain chairs and tables. Most have some form of plumbing, and many are adorned with artwork, carvings, even elaborately woven rugs.

Fireplaces and cleverly crafted stoves are in most, and I notice that piping crisscrosses above the homes. Usually three to five homes are connected by pipes which run to openings in the dome above or one of the platforms leading outside, a place for the smoke from each to escape without gathering inside the dome itself. The whole place is amazing.

After I’ve scouted them all, I drop back to the ground beside the river. No predators so far.

I set off to find Cray, passing several varieties of fruit trees in the process, the apparent remnants of a time when this place was occupied and doing the job it was built for. Insects buzz around the ripe produce that’s fallen to the ground. At least we’ll have food.

After a few minutes, I hear my name softly from a darkened doorway to my left. I walk over and squint until I can make Cray out in the darkness.

“Any wildlife?” he asks.

“Nothing major.”

“Me neither.”

There are large shapes in the darkness, but I can’t distinguish much.

“What is this place?” I say.

“A control room,” he says. “The hub of this whole thing.”

I start to walk farther in, when on a whim, I reach over and flip the light switch by the door.

We both blink in surprise when the lights in the ceiling of the room flash on. Several are burned out, some are broken, but there are enough to see with no difficulty.

We look at each other, both of us wearing the same shocked expression.

“I’m not sure if I’m glad or worried that this place has power.”

I know what he means. If this place has been abandoned as long as it appears, one would think whatever was supplying power would have been drained or fallen into disrepair.

“Hydroelectric? From the river maybe?”

He shrugs. “Perhaps.”

Now that the lights are on, I see that the large shapes in the darkness are actually enormous banks of computers. All of the screens have been smashed as well as the hard drives. Looks like someone didn’t want the information that was stored here accessed by any future passersby.

We look around the room for a while, but find nothing of use or interest.

“What did you find in the sky village?” he says. “Anything we can use?”

“Sure. It’s basic, but they’ve got most everything you could want in a cozy little place. Beds, furniture, even fireplaces.”

He shakes his head. “No fires. We can’t risk smoke giving our position away in case Johnson is looking for us. But I do think we should use one to crash for the night. Besides, I’m thinking they were up there for a reason. Probably to keep out of the reach of animals.”

“You’ll have to climb. You feel up to it?”

He gives a humorless grunt. “No, but I’ll do it anyway.”

I smile at him, but I’m anxious to get off the ground. I’ll feel a lot safer tucked away in one of those houses overhead.

“I found fruit,” I say. “We can grab some on the way up. But we need to get your wounds cleaned first.”

“And yours,” he says.

He stubbornly insists I clean my wounds before he’ll let me look at his. I climb back into one of the near tree houses and retrieve some old blankets. I give them a good shaking to remove the buildup of dust, then drop back to the ground.

He turns away, keeping alert for trouble, while I remove my trousers and wade into the river, careful to brace myself against the strong current. The water is clear and cold and exhilarating, but I don’t have time to savor it. Safety is paramount. I quickly scrub the blood stains from my thigh, wash the gashes on my hands, splash water on my face and hair, then walk back up the bank.

He is holding the blankets I brought down, and puts one behind his back for me as I approach. I take it and begin to wrap it around my waist, but not before his eyes wander quickly to my legs and away again.

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist. “Find what you were looking for?” I say with a playful lilt.

Even through the stubble, his cheeks burn as red as fire. I walk in front of him and take the second blanket, smiling up at him to let him know I’m not offended.

“Sorry…” he blubbers. “I didn’t meant to…kinda instinct, you know?”

“It’s okay.” I place a hand on his forearm for the briefest moment, then walk around him without waiting for a response.

I rip several long strips from the blanket and roll them into rags. I dip them both into the river, allowing the frigid water to soak them through. I squeeze them out a little, but leave some excess, retrieve my trousers and the fruit we picked, then help Cray up into the trees.

I lead him into the house I got the blankets from, then get to work.

He faces away from me, and gingerly pulls the tattered shirt over his head. I turn him to the window, a large open rectangle with a retractable covering, where the bright moonlight filters through the treetops. It’s sufficient.

The gashes on his back are ugly, deep, and run from his right shoulder blade, through the medical tape that had been wrapped around his torso for his ribs, and end on his lower left side right above the line of his pants. Most of the bleeding has stopped except for some oozing in places, but the wounds are a mess. They’re caked with dirt, and where the claws ripped through the tape, shreds of it have been pushed into the flesh. I wince in empathy.

“Brace yourself,” I say.

I begin pulling away the tape, moving as slowly as possible, careful to remove all of the remnants of it from the edges of the wounds. He groans.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know this hurts.”

He huffs. “So what else is new? Keep going, I’m fine.”

I’m impressed with how well he can handle pain, but it’s obvious from looking at him that he’s had a lot of practice. I look again at the scars covering his torso, the same ones I saw in the old house, but now I can see more of his back, and it’s even more scarred than his chest. A lone warrior, that’s what he is. A master of death, accustomed to suffering in isolation.

At first I felt sorry for him, being all alone like that. I believe his job makes him feel disconnected from the world around him, but I now realize he’s also a lot stronger emotionally than I gave him credit for.

Once the tape is gone, I pick up one of the improvised rags. I raise it to his shoulder blades and squeeze, letting the water pour down his back, washing away the loose dirt. He moans again and I pull my hand back.

“No,” he says. “It actually feels good.”

I grab the other rag and squeeze it as well. It helps, but there’s still a lot of soil smeared in, too thick to be easily washed away. I set to the task, gently rubbing and working. It takes ten minutes before I’m satisfied. By now, most of the excess water has dried. I run my hands down his skin, feeling for any moist spots, but no longer intent on the job at hand, I’m suddenly distracted.

His skin is soft, hot to the touch, feverish from the wounds. Strong muscles tense at the contact, and I can feel the power coiled within them. His body is like a fine-tuned machine, and there’s an overwhelming pull to wrap my arms around him, to feel his strength, his warmth. But I’m afraid of scaring him away. He’s had a tough time opening up to me. I see how he looks at me, but I don’t want to push him too hard.

But despite myself, I trace my fingers down his sides, allowing the nails to brush against his skin, and for the briefest moment, I let my hands linger at his hips, the intimate touch tantalizing. He gives a slight shake as if he’s had an electric shock. His breath catches, then speeds up. I’ve overdone it and start to pull away, but he turns to me suddenly, indecision written across his features. I see the internal struggle in his eyes, the self-doubt, but the animal pull is there for him too, warring against the fear.

“Listen, I…” he begins and trails off, uncertain how to voice his thoughts. I take a calming breath, feeling my heart beginning to beat rapidly. He looks into my eyes and I see the terror, the inadequacy. I smile at him and place my hands on his arms, a welcoming gesture.

I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. I want him to know that I want to be close to him as much as I know he wants to be close to me. At long last, that brave, impervious side of him wins the struggle, and he tentatively puts his arms around my waist, pulling me slowly, uncertainly to himself. For a moment we stand there, pressed to each other, his body shaking, his breathing rapid. Then our lips meet, softly at first, testing, and then building with the intense passion of the moment as he lets go of his anxiety.

The walls of self-doubt crash to the ground as he realizes my acceptance. I get lost in him, squeezing my arms tighter around his back, longing to break down any barrier between us, to be as close as possible…until his body stiffens and he clenches his teeth, grunting in pain, stepping gently back from me as I release my grip in horrified realization.

“Oh, Cray…” I start, but he sees the agonized expression on my face and smiles.

“It's okay,” he says, and reaches for me again.

But this time, instead of kissing me, he pulls me to himself and nuzzles his face into my neck. We stay that way a long time, lost in the embrace.

He sinks gingerly onto the little bed, the blankets we used earlier now covering the ragamuffin mattress. He eases himself back and lies on his side. He moves slowly, but doesn't seem to be in as much pain as before, and for that I'm thankful.

I walk over to the window and lower the cover, securing the latch. We're plunged into complete darkness, but it's safer that way. I feel my way back to the bed and lie down facing him. I can't see him, but he's close enough for his breath to tickle my cheeks. His lips find mine and brush them softly. From time to time, we kiss gently, but for the most part, now that we’ve stilled, we’re both too exhausted to move. After some time, I begin to be able to see him as my eyes grow accustomed to the minimal light.

“I owe you an explanation,” I say. He doesn't question it. He knows what I mean. But he surprises me.

“No, you don't,” he says, his voice a tender whisper. “I can't deny I would love to know everything about you, but if you need more time...”

“No. I don't need that. I trust you.” And I do. It isn't just a platitude. I feel safe with him. “Where do you want me to start?”