Shut Up and Kiss Me Read online

  Reminiscences were for the weak. And dwelling on the shit you couldn’t change was a waste of time and a good way to get yourself killed.

  I wasn’t weak and I didn’t dwell; I did what had to be done. I stayed focused on tomorrow, and on ensuring that I would live to see it by whatever means necessary, damning to hell whatever got in my way.

  Whatever helps you sleep at night, the voice sang, mocking me.

  * * *

  I didn’t sleep that night. Like most nights, I ended up tossing and turning, falling in and out of my usual stream of nightmares until morning brazenly seeped into my home. I cracked open one bleary eye then the other, glaring at the sunlight streaming obnoxiously through the torn and battered blankets I’d nailed to the wall in lieu of curtains.

  “Fuck you,” I muttered, and turned my face into the mattress. I’d never been a heavy sleeper, but since the end of the world my insomnia had only worsened. At the tiniest noise, I was up and out of bed, weapons blazing.

  Good for survival. Bad for my sanity.

  For five more minutes, I attempted to sleep before rolling off the mattress and getting to my feet. Still in the same clothing as yesterday, including my boots, I only had to strap on my weapons and grab a quick drink of water from my supply. Then I was out the door, heading toward the makeshift garage at the far end of the compound—my home away from home.

  My truck had been running a little noisy yesterday, probably because it hadn’t been used in so long, so I’d sent it in for maintenance. Much like food and water, having a working vehicle was a necessity, more so when that vehicle was built especially for surviving in today’s perilous living conditions.

  Ten minutes of walking through thick brush and I’d reached my destination. At the garage, a slouchy and squat structure in even worse condition than my own housing, I pulled back the tarpaulin that was the door and stepped inside.

  Oil and grease greeted me, their sharp, pungent odors infiltrating my nostrils as I inhaled deeply. I’d always liked the smell of a working garage, feeling far more at home around metal scraps and engine bits than I ever did around people.

  Two trucks were parked inside the small building, mine and another without tires, both of them on lifts. A pair of work boots peeked out from beneath my truck, and as I made my way toward them, the body attached slid out from beneath the underbelly of my truck.

  Ademar, better known to the people of Purgatory as Adam, sat up on his creeper cart and gave me a mock salute. Grease was smeared across both his cheeks, making his Latino skin appear even darker. The sight reminded me of the dirty, scrawny, half-starved boy he’d been when he found us here.

  Adam had been a pretty boy, working odd jobs as a model to pay his way through college when the infection had hit. A few people here, women mostly, had even recognized him, having seen him on the cover of magazines and Internet ads, usually posing in his goddamn underwear. He’d been a stranger to hard work at the time, especially manual labor. That had all since changed.

  Bare-chested, Adam stood up, his height not quite matching mine. Wiping his hands on a rag hanging from his back pocket, he sucked in a breath and ran a dirty hand self-consciously across the scars, both long and short, that crisscrossed his torso. They were from his fighting days when he’d first arrived.

  Like everyone else without a useful skill set, he’d had to fight to earn his way when he first arrived here. Usually, though, few who’d survived the fights had lived to keep telling their tales. One too many punches to the head usually rendered them little more than piles of muttering jelly. Sometimes, consumed with guilt for the many lives they’d taken, they ended up eating a bullet.

  But Adam had survived. He wasn’t the same afterward, not even close, but neither was he damaged. After Liv had allowed him out of the ring, he’d taken up with Tony, one of my boys and the head mechanic, and had been working in the garage ever since.

  “It’s fine now.” Adam yawned as he absentmindedly scratched his stomach. “Yo, Mensa!” he shouted. “Bring me my coffee.” Turning away, he glanced over his shoulder and gestured me forward. “Follow me.”

  As I trailed Adam around to the front of the truck, I noticed a large plastic bucket filled with thick black goop. “What the fuck is that?”

  “That was your oil,” he said, accepting the coffee mug that Mensa handed to him, “and this bitch purrs like a kitten now.” Taking a sip of his coffee, he slurped it down noisily and shook his head. “Wish I had some cigarettes to go with this.”

  I took the mug that Mensa handed me, watching with amused disdain as he mumbled something incoherent then quickly turned away and scampered off toward the back of the garage.

  “He doing good here?” I asked, jerking my head in the direction Mensa had disappeared.

  “Yup, kid’s doing good here. He’s been working on an idea for casting bullets like you wanted.” With a grimace, Adam quickly downed the last of his coffee. “Anyway, this bitch will be primed and ready for you by this afternoon.”

  Mensa, as we called him, was a skinny kid of maybe thirteen or fourteen. Clever as shit, he was one of the many orphaned children who called Purgatory their home. When people met him, most initially thought he was mentally inept due to the nonsensical shit he would sometimes say, when he decided to speak at all. And while he did have a long list of problems, he was actually brilliant. If I had to guess, I’d say it was autism that plagued the boy, some high-functioning form of it. Still, despite his smarts, I was amazed at how such a young boy, learning disabled at that, had survived on his own for any length of time. Not much impressed me anymore, but Adam and Mensa sure as hell did.

  Nodding my thanks to Adam, I set my untouched coffee on a nearby toolbox before turning to leave. As I passed Tony on his way in, the bald Italian shot me his signature conniving smile that I returned with a glare. Tony might be a great mechanic and damn near expert with all kinds of weapons, both attributes that came in handy in a world such as this, but neither meant I had to like him. If he ever outlived his usefulness, I’d be first in line to twist his bulbous head from his stout body and revel in watching the life fade from his beady little eyes.

  The sun had fully risen during my short stint inside the garage, making the air outside heavy and pungent. Today was going to be another scorcher. I debated for a moment between heading toward the main drag for food or heading for home, before finally settling on home. I’d eat later, once the majority of Purgatory was busy elsewhere.

  I was halfway home when I saw something large moving through the tall grass, far too large to be a rabbit. I froze, one hand on my gun, the other poised to reach for my blade. Whether it was food or foe, it wouldn’t have the drop on me.

  And then I noticed the foot. Easy to discern in a sparser patch of grass, a dirty foot was twitching. Not food then, and not foe either considering the foot appeared to be of the daintier variety. And from the way it twitched, I suspected that the owner of the foot was injured or dying. Still, you could never be too careful.

  I tugged my gun free from its holster and took a cautious step forward, cursing silently as the glaring sun momentarily blinded me. Hand shielding my eyes, I moved even closer, pausing when I heard a pained-sounding hiss.

  “Come out of there slowly!” I called out. Nothing happened, other than the foot continued to twitch. Keeping my eyes trained on that very foot, watching for any sort of movement, I started forward again until I was peering down at a very dirty, very bloody woman lying uncaring at my feet. I recognized her instantly as the wild one from outside The Cave, the one I’d instantly known wasn’t going to last twenty-four hours in captivity.

  Unsure if she could see me, since she appeared to be staring up at the sky while tears poured from her eyes, I holstered my gun and folded my arms across my chest.

  “Tried to run, didn’t you?” I asked, looking her over. She was sliced up pretty good, courtesy of crawling around in the underbrush, though none of the scratches appeared to be life threatening. Althoug
h, considering how filthy she was, infection was sure to quickly follow.

  As if on cue, the alarm sounded, and the wailing, warbling siren echoed through the entirety of Purgatory. It was only used if we had an impending situation with the Rotters, or to alert the community that someone or something dangerous was loose inside the gates. Everyone was to head immediately to their living quarters while the guards hunted down the threat. And from the looks of this threat, bleeding and half-starved to death, she wouldn’t be at all hard to capture.

  There was a tug on my pant leg, her thin fingers scrabbling to grasp at the material. Two wide gray eyes, red rimmed and swollen with tears, bright with pain and desperation, met my gaze.

  “Help,” she whispered hoarsely. “Help me…”

  I don’t know why I did what I did next. I don’t think I’ll ever know why I did it, yet as I stared down at her, not giving two shits about her fate, mildly amused at the thought of the armed guards who were running around at that very second, tripping over themselves looking for this lone waif of a female, I suddenly found myself bending down and scooping her foul-smelling body into my arms. She stiffened upon contact, then winced in pain as I shifted her slight form in my grasp, manoeuvring her up and over my shoulder.

  “Stay quiet,” I demanded, and then I stalked off through the grass, heading home.