The World Without a Future (The World Without End) (15 page)

“It’s shatter proof, right?” she asks, breathlessly.

I nod, and she eases away from me. Drags her gaze from the zombie that’s still battering at her window and onto the carnage.

It's a fucking bloodbath. The bodies are strewn across the Strip like trash, dead and dying. Clusters of zombies crouch over dead bodies, feasting on the bounty of the Order. At my side, Ren gags, and I grab a bag, shoving it at her as she heaves and throws up. It's disgusting and messy. It's what I would do, if I were a little less jaded. If I hadn't seen it for so many years.

Every Haven has their version of the Order—lesser chapters, small congregations. Most mid-sized chapters hold the Third Day Massacre. I want to say there’s a method to their madness, but there isn't. There’s only fucking insanity, a new, deadly kind in a world gone completely mad.

It began with Sawyer Russell. He'd been traveling with a group of survivors out of Chattanooga—everyone in the area was scrambling to get clear of the carnage spilling from Atlanta, and he landed on a hospital transport.

They had five Firsts—babies born the day Emilie Milan rose. Six more born on Day Two and Third Day.

Eleven in all. Eleven breathless, hungry, screaming babies.

The hospital transport hit a traffic snarl outside Cleveland, Tennessee, and they were left to walk. The first night, the screaming babies brought down a small pack—five zombies found the little house the group was hiding in. Sawyer was desperate, coming down off a wicked meth high. With the zombies literally at the door and a baby screaming, he did the only thing that made sense in his fucked-up mind. He tossed the kid out.

That nameless child was the first First. And when the zombies left, temporarily appeased, and his group beat the shit out of him and left him for dead, Sawyer was left to think.

He didn't die. Instead he rallied, and he found people desperate and degenerate. People willing to believe anything, any tiny lie that offered any kind of comfort.

When he said killing a First made the horde retreat, and killing them all would make the zombies die, people were desperate enough to believe him. Before anyone realized how dangerous he was, the Blessed Order was established—a dangerous, murderous group.

Sawyer took his insane followers and retreated to Vegas, raided the local army base, and turned what was left of a casino into a fortress.

All year, the casino is open. People can visit the gaming tables, the second-level clubs. The fight halls and races. On the upper floors, the strippers and prostitutes, the kink clubs.

And, in the basement, when everything is gone and you have nothing left, Sawyer and his cult of blood hungry bastards takes what little remains.

I wonder what that girl's parents had done—what they spent her lifeblood on. What vice kept them running in this pathetic excuse of a world?

The massacres are a tribute, Sawyer preaches. They're a tribute to the work that is done and being done, to God's judgment while we hesitate over killing the Firsts.

I think they're all power hungry lunatics, but I know better than to cross the Order in their seat of power. So I wrap my name up tight and drive us deeper into hell.

*

The future belongs to those who prepare for it today.

Author Unknown

**

The future is uncertain—but we will fight for our way of life. Even as it changes.

President Andrew Buchman

He says trust. He says nothing matters. He says he'll protect me.

He's fucking insane if he thinks I'm actually buying any of it. I thought this would be a quick trip—in and out, get the meds, drop the warning, and scoot back to the Hole and Dustin.

I didn't think we'd end up in the Order's stronghold on fucking Third Day.

The massacre is over. We inched down the Strip at a snail's pace for an hour or more. Then, like a switch had been flipped, the Order swarmed the streets in zom gear, picking them off with practiced precision. Within minutes, the zombie horde was slaughtered. Without acknowledging the truck we're sitting in, the Order stripped the dead of their weapons and retreated into the casino.

"We're going in there, aren't we?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady.

Finn nods, puts the truck in gear, and rolls over the dead toward the Casino.

They're waiting for us, guns bristling, and I shiver as he pulls into the parking garage and our truck is swarmed.

Finn shoots me a quick questioning look as the Order soldiers shout orders. I nod quickly, and he grins at me, shoving the door open. I slide across the seat. He tugs me down and wraps an arm around me, pulling me close as we face the Order.

"Name and Haven."

Finn grins, and his voice takes on a soft drawl. "Sean Jackson and my fiancée, Kelsey Cain."

I struggle to stand still and not react to that—it comes without warning.

"What's your business here?" the soldier demands.

Finn grins, a light expression that's out of place on his blank face. "What? I thought the Order liked visitors."

"it's Third Day, man. Not a day for visiting the vice clubs."

"Come on, dude. It took everything I had to save for this trip—and another two weeks of cajoling my girl's guardian. Don' tell me you’re gonna refuse us entrance." There's an entitled whine in Finn's voice that makes the soldiers relax, a calculating gleam in their eyes.

"You have to pass an infection test." His gaze flicks to me, and a leer touches his lips. Finn's grip on me tightens minutely. The solider whistles sharply, and a gaunt-looking man in pale scrubs made bulky with armor hurries out with a test kit. The soldier’s grip on his gun relaxes a little as the medic grabs my hand, jerking me out of Finn's grasp. He makes a low, angry noise, and I shoot him an annoyed look. The needle stabs into my finger, blood welling up. I hiss at the sting. The medic gives me an apologetic smile, then gives Finn the same treatment. As soon as the vials settle into a deep red, the soldiers lower their guns and relax.

"Welcome, Sean and Kelsey, to the Keep of the Blessed Order."

It takes another two hours to be sorted through the security and assigned a room. Finn pays the extravagant price with a remarkable amount of bitching, and finally, finally, we're escorted to the sixth floor, where our room is waiting. It's clean, done in white and gold, with sharp lines and one large bed. I stifle my sigh and Finn smirks.

As soon as the guard shuts the door behind us, he drops our bag and drags me into the tiny bathroom.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hiss as he presses me against the door and reaches to turn on the shower.

"The room is bugged. We can't act like anything but our cover stories—do you understand?"

He stares at me, and I remember what he said downstairs—I'm supposed to be his fiancée. I bare my teeth and snap, "You’re fucking insane, you know that?"

The smile he flashes me holds more than a trace of crazy, and I think he knows it.

"Fine. What's the plan?"

"We need to get the eye of High Priest."

I shudder. I've spent most of my life avoiding that very thing. To be told now that I'm going to do the opposite—it's enough to make my blood go cold. Finn eases back, giving me space, and stares at me. "You can do this, Nurrin. Two days—less if we put on a good show tonight. We get what Lori wants and we go back to the Hole."

Back to Dustin and Collin—back with the medicine that
could
save their lives. I nod, and he gives me a rare, approving smile.

Two hours later, I'm really wishing I'd gotten more details before I agreed to this. I stare at the dress and shake my head. "No. I'm not wearing that."

Finn makes an impatient noise. “Quit whining and get ready—we’re already late.”

I give him a dirty look. He returned with the dress five minutes ago. I stare at it and then him and ask the question I've been avoiding, "Where are we going?"

Finn doesn't answer—surprise, surprise—but he does give me a dark smile before pushing me into the bathroom and closing the door.

I stare at the dress. I hate it, but my mouth waters a little. It's gorgeous, a fall of black silk and satin, flowers and spirals in jet beads, twisting up the side. It's got a high neckline and thin shoulder straps. The shocking part is the midriff, which is a sheer black material that rises in knife-like points. They rise up and around my breasts, drop low to brush my navel and hips. The back is completely sheer, dropping in a sharp point at the tip of my ass.

The dress is demure and daring, sexy as hell while keeping everything important tucked away.

Its eye catching and attention grabbing and everything I need to be tonight—in this dress all eyes will be on me. There's no way to float under the radar. The High Priest is sure to see us.

I heave a sigh and strip out of my clothes and underwear and shower quickly. I pull my hair up and apply my makeup. I use a light hand, making my lips almost a natural pink, and no blush. My eyes are dramatic, smudged and smoky, the blue jumping out. Then I dry my hair, leave a few curls hanging down, and pull the rest up. I add the peep toe heels and straighten, smoothing the wrinkles free and taking a deep breath. Then I open the door and step into the main part of our suite.

Finn is leaning against the side of the window, drinking something golden from a small glass. The sun is setting behind him, and for a heartbeat, framed by the opulent rooms and the sun, in a black suit, black shirt, with a startling silver tie—for a moment, he makes me freeze, emotions that make no sense kicking around in my chest.

It's Finn. Finn O'Malley. The man who annoys the shit out of me, who refuses to answer a simple yes or no question, the one who made my brother keep secrets from me.

The one who saved my life. Three times now.

I shove that thought down and take a half step toward him. Of course he looks good. He's in a suit and tie—even in blood stained-workout clothes, Finn looks good. In a suit, looking out on the world like he owns it and fuck the zombie apocalypse for getting in his way? Then he looks positively edible. It doesn't
mean
anything.

His gaze swings to me as he takes a sip of his drink. I flush as he does a slow sweep over my floor-length gown. His eyes are like a hot, physical touch, sweeping me from head to foot and lingering on all the interesting bits in between. I clear my throat, and his gaze, sardonic and amused, snaps to mine. "Do I meet with your approval?" I ask, cocking out a hip.

He shrugs and finishes his drink. Straightens his cuffs. When he looks back up, his gaze is cool and remote, as blank as he ever is. "You'll do. Let's go—we're late."

He leads me down the brightly lit stairways, and I try not to think of the last time I clattered down a stairwell with him, the alarms of Hellspawn chillingly quiet. He’s holding my hand—part of the stupid façade—and I want to tug free and bolt the rest of the way down, until we’re on level ground, with enough space to shoot anything that approaches.

Where memories don’t echo off the tile and white walls.

His grip on my hand tightens, and it steadies me. Running would be weak. And if there is anyone I don't want to be weak in front of, it's Finn.

There's a third-floor restaurant, a place full of pristine tables and white tablecloths, beautiful women escorted by flawless men. He leans close and murmurs, "Follow my lead."

I slide Finn a look from under my eyebrows, but I don't respond as he steps slightly in front of me and speaks to the hostess. "Reservation for Sean Jackson and guest."

I bristle that all I am is a ‘guest,’ but the hostess smiles slightly and leads us to a small table, secluded to one side of the restaurant. She waits until Finn is situated comfortably next to me, and then smiles again. "The show will begin in a few minutes."

My mouth goes dry, and I lick my lips as she walks away. "What show?" I whisper.

"We're supposed to be in love."

"What show?"

"It's normal—a lot of newly engaged couples go to them. And looking like that, there's no way we'll slip under the radar. Especially not at this show."