Chapter One
It felt so good, so solid and familiar against the curve of
her cheek. Warmed by contact with her skin, smooth and hard. Lena knew just how
to hold it, just the right touch to make it respond; knew how it would fit her
body the same way every time. Comforting and exciting all at once. It never got
old.
The weapon was also hot pink, a feature that never ceased to
annoy her male colleagues. She had even painted little flowers on the stock.
Bonus annoyance. She was getting to be almost fond of pink, although she had
always hated the color when she was growing up.
Lena cuddled the AR-15 into her shoulder a little more
snugly when she heard the crackling noises again. There, just there at the
forest’s edge, she could see two of them stopping to sniff the wind. In the
infrared scope they looked less human, not that she cared anymore if they
looked human or not. You couldn’t care. You had to just aim and shoot, aim and
shoot, never hesitating because if you hesitated you lost, and that was
literally a fate worse than death unless you had the stones to finish yourself
before the virus activated.
Just aim and shoot…
Crack!
Aim and shoot…
Crack!
“Yes! You got both those motherfuckers!” The hiss of acclaim
came from a few yards to her left. Lena shot a disgusted glare into the gloom
of the underbrush where her newest trainee was crouched.
“Respect, Gilford. Those were people once. It could be you
out there. Never forget that, not for one second.”
The boy made a noise of dismissal. “Did you see that big
one’s head explode? Booosh! Awesome. When do I get a gun?”
She stared at the youth for about another second then shook
her head. “Jonesie?”
“Yeah, boss?” Jonesie materialized from the darkness—all six
foot four of him—with the stealth of a woodsman born and bred.
“Take Gilford back home. Tell Watson I said, ‘Hell no.’”
Turning to the boy, she nodded in the direction of the encroaching gray glow
that marked dawn’s arrival. “You’re out. Go now. No arguing. If you want to
talk about it, I’ll see you when the patrol gets back.”
“Just say, ‘Yes ma’am,’” Jonesie advised before the stunned
boy could respond.
The kid looked from the soft-spoken giant to the stony-faced
woman in front of him and made the wisest choice available.
“Yes ma’am.”
She didn’t wait around to watch them go. There were still
vital minutes before the last of the light-shy prey went to ground. Lena lifted
her binoculars and resumed her slow scan, looking for that one last kill with
the usual mix of anticipation and dread.
* * * * *
“We’re running out of recruits, Lena.”
“He was making sound effects, sir.”
Tom Watson winced, knowing how that particular behavior sat
with his finest scout. “I do warn them about that, you know.”
“This one must have been absent that day.”
“No. Just not paying attention. He doesn’t get it. None of
these new kids do.”
She nodded. “He’s what, sixteen, seventeen? He can’t have
been any older than five or six at Zero Hour.”
“And how old were you?” Watson asked with a shrug. “Not that
much older yourself.”
“Twelve. Old enough.” It was the set of her face, not
chronology, that told the story of her experience. The name “Zero Hour” might
have been assigned retroactively by the survivors who pieced together when and
where the plague had first struck, but any survivor past a certain age could
never forget the months following that fabled hour. A quick, clean disaster
would have been kinder than the slow, lingering, hideously painful death of
society they had witnessed.
The world had changed forever at that single point in time,
but they hadn’t realized it right away. Now they dated everything from Zero
Hour, but it was those nightmare times afterward that really counted. The times
that had slowly killed the last vestiges of hope.
“I’ll send him down. The farms can always use another hand,
or
It felt so good, so solid and familiar against the curve of
her cheek. Warmed by contact with her skin, smooth and hard. Lena knew just how
to hold it, just the right touch to make it respond; knew how it would fit her
body the same way every time. Comforting and exciting all at once. It never got
old.
The weapon was also hot pink, a feature that never ceased to
annoy her male colleagues. She had even painted little flowers on the stock.
Bonus annoyance. She was getting to be almost fond of pink, although she had
always hated the color when she was growing up.
Lena cuddled the AR-15 into her shoulder a little more
snugly when she heard the crackling noises again. There, just there at the
forest’s edge, she could see two of them stopping to sniff the wind. In the
infrared scope they looked less human, not that she cared anymore if they
looked human or not. You couldn’t care. You had to just aim and shoot, aim and
shoot, never hesitating because if you hesitated you lost, and that was
literally a fate worse than death unless you had the stones to finish yourself
before the virus activated.
Just aim and shoot…
Crack!
Aim and shoot…
Crack!
“Yes! You got both those motherfuckers!” The hiss of acclaim
came from a few yards to her left. Lena shot a disgusted glare into the gloom
of the underbrush where her newest trainee was crouched.
“Respect, Gilford. Those were people once. It could be you
out there. Never forget that, not for one second.”
The boy made a noise of dismissal. “Did you see that big
one’s head explode? Booosh! Awesome. When do I get a gun?”
She stared at the youth for about another second then shook
her head. “Jonesie?”
“Yeah, boss?” Jonesie materialized from the darkness—all six
foot four of him—with the stealth of a woodsman born and bred.
“Take Gilford back home. Tell Watson I said, ‘Hell no.’”
Turning to the boy, she nodded in the direction of the encroaching gray glow
that marked dawn’s arrival. “You’re out. Go now. No arguing. If you want to
talk about it, I’ll see you when the patrol gets back.”
“Just say, ‘Yes ma’am,’” Jonesie advised before the stunned
boy could respond.
The kid looked from the soft-spoken giant to the stony-faced
woman in front of him and made the wisest choice available.
“Yes ma’am.”
She didn’t wait around to watch them go. There were still
vital minutes before the last of the light-shy prey went to ground. Lena lifted
her binoculars and resumed her slow scan, looking for that one last kill with
the usual mix of anticipation and dread.
* * * * *
“We’re running out of recruits, Lena.”
“He was making sound effects, sir.”
Tom Watson winced, knowing how that particular behavior sat
with his finest scout. “I do warn them about that, you know.”
“This one must have been absent that day.”
“No. Just not paying attention. He doesn’t get it. None of
these new kids do.”
She nodded. “He’s what, sixteen, seventeen? He can’t have
been any older than five or six at Zero Hour.”
“And how old were you?” Watson asked with a shrug. “Not that
much older yourself.”
“Twelve. Old enough.” It was the set of her face, not
chronology, that told the story of her experience. The name “Zero Hour” might
have been assigned retroactively by the survivors who pieced together when and
where the plague had first struck, but any survivor past a certain age could
never forget the months following that fabled hour. A quick, clean disaster
would have been kinder than the slow, lingering, hideously painful death of
society they had witnessed.
The world had changed forever at that single point in time,
but they hadn’t realized it right away. Now they dated everything from Zero
Hour, but it was those nightmare times afterward that really counted. The times
that had slowly killed the last vestiges of hope.
“I’ll send him down. The farms can always use another hand,
or
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