Strain of Defiance

The building is quiet. Too damn quiet. The kind of quiet that always precedes the bad guy's unexpected, shit-your-pants moment of arrival in the movies. That exact instant when Freddy Kruger materializes out of the mattress, or Jason's goalie mask pops out of the proverbial empty closet. I am so regretting my childhood obsession with horror movies at the moment. Although coming face to face with either of those nightmare icons is still preferable to stumbling upon a leech-human hybrid.

Pressing my back against the crumbling wall with its peeling wallpaper, I listen for any sign of the rest of my group. But all I hear is my heart jackhammering in my chest and the shallow breaths that don't seem to be anywhere deep enough to provide the oxygen I need. Where the hell is everyone?

The pungent, musty odor of mold and decay fills my nostrils, and my stomach rolls in protest. Why are we even in here? This building is empty. Dead. There's nothing here for us. We need to leave. Now. But I can't find anyone to tell them that. Where is Luke? They should have been back already.

The floorboards creak overhead, jolting me with the realization I'm no longer alone. I grip my knives tighter in alarm as I glance up. No one said anything about going up to the next floor. They're supposed to be clearing this level only. I shrink back into the shadows on silent feet and peer through the hole in the ceiling. All I see are the bare pipes and exposed beams of the ruined floor above. Probably just a rat or …

Jesus!

I smother a scream as a blurred face stares down at me for a brief heartbeat before it pulls back and disappears into the shadows. The quick glance is enough to know it's no damn rat. And it's not any of my people either. They wouldn't do that and not acknowledge me. That means the building's not so empty after all. Fucking awesome.

Ignoring the voice in my head telling me that what I'm about to do is a really bad idea, I start inching along the wall toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. I don't know where the rest of my group is, but I need to make sure what I'd just seen is not a threat to us. I need to know who's up there.

I scamper up the concrete stairs as quietly as I can, but the broken bits underneath my boots crunch and make me wince with every step. Halfway up I'm greeted with the echo of running footsteps fading into the building’s innards. Whoever is up there doesn't seem that eager to meet me either. Or maybe it's just a trick, and they're waiting to ambush me at the top of the stairs with an axe and chop me into bits. Fuck. Why do I do this to myself? Shaking my head to clear away the bloody image of me chopped into bite size pieces, I force myself to keep going.

I pause at the top. Worms of fear wriggle in my belly, causing me to almost puke. What is wrong with me today? Why am I being such a scared little bitch? Before I can chicken out, I step around the blind corner.

I find nothing waiting on the other side of the stairwell other than a long hallway and empty door frames. Most of the doors had already rotted away from exposure to the outside elements, providing numerous hiding places for my unknown prey in the shadowed rooms beyond. But I don't have to worry about searching each and every abandoned apartment for the mysterious somebody. A set of fresh footsteps mar the two-inch thick dust covering the floor, leading straight to the end of the hall. Unless this nameless someone has suddenly sprouted wings and flown away, then I know exactly where he or she went.

My mouth suddenly feels as gritty as sandpaper, and I lick my lips trying to get some saliva flowing. My hands are slick with sweat and I tighten my hold on the handles of my Bowie knives. The urge to run overwhelms me; I want to get away from this unseen presence. I don't understand the consuming fear. I haven't felt this way since I was a kid. Wiping the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my hands, I stare down the dismal hall.

"Come on you, chickenshit. You got this," I scold myself, even though I'm pretty sure the rapid breaths and wheezing in my chest probably means I'm hyperventilating. Fighting against the black spots swimming in front of my eyes, I take my first step into the hall.

My feet hit the floor like iron weights, making my insides quiver like jelly. What the hell? I force myself to take another step. It takes an incredible amount of effort to move my legs and I have to force the momentum. My chest tightens more; every breath accompanied by pain. Is this what an anxiety attack feels like?

Concentrating so much on walking, I don't even realize I've covered the entire length of the hall until I bring up solid into the windowless wall. End of the line.

The footprints veer sharply here into the black abyss of the condemned apartment on my right. Funny. This one still has its door attached, as badly decayed as it is. The numbers on the door are long gone, but their painted outline remains. Apartment 13. For some unknown reason the number sends a chill over me, and goose bumps erupt under the sheen of sweat covering my skin. As much as I don't want to, I know I gotta go in. And like I'm some puppet on a string being commandeered against my will by the puppet master, I push the door all the way open and step inside.

Darkness swallows the room. I know it's still daylight outside, but not one iota of light manages to filter through the boarded-up windows. Fumbling at my waist, I sheath one knife and pull out my flashlight. Its tiny beam breaks up the shroud of blackness and reassures me that there's no hiding leech waiting to rip my neck open.

I swing my beam around the diminutive kitchen I find myself in. The rusted refrigerator—minus its door—has been tipped over on the kitchen floor and is empty. Not even so much as a box of baking soda left in it. The stove hasn't fared much better. My beam passes quickly over the graffiti covered cupboards and cratered walls. Cockroaches scuttle away from my intrusive light—the only sign of life. Whomever I'm following, they're not here in this room. Unable to stop myself, I venture further into the uncharted darkness.

A dilapidated couch sits in the middle of the living room; its insides spill out over the dirty floor like chunks of sponge vomit. It’s the only piece of furniture left in the otherwise empty room. My flashlight beam roves over the couch, only to get swallowed up by the thick darkness beyond. The narrow light does little to penetrate the gloom, but it's enough to catch a sudden movement. Doing a double take, I jerk the beam back to the hidden recess. Yup. Someone is standing there in the dark.

My body suddenly goes weak. Like what I'm about to see is going to scare me shitless. I want to turn around and get the hell out. But the damn puppet master takes control again and moves me closer to the shadowy form huddling in the corner. My steps echo like firecrackers in my head, drowning out the nagging voice yelling at me to get the fuck out.

The figure shifts and I stop. Breathing is forgotten about as the shadow person turns around; its face eerily highlighted by the light.

It's a face I remember well. The face I've dreamed of, cried over, and longed to see again. The face that means everything in the world to me.

And it terrifies me to no end.

Sam.

This is impossible, right? Sam is dead. Gone. He can't be here in this crap-ass room in front of me. But he is.

He raises his hand in front of his eyes, shielding them from the light. But I don't lower the flashlight. I still can't quite believe this is real.

"Sam?" I question, and my voice cracks with uncertainty.

The figure moves from beyond the couch, stepping my way.

"Bix?"

The voice is raspy...like it hasn't been used in a while, but I'd know it anywhere.

"Is it really you?" I ask, still unable to accept this as reality.

Sam takes another step toward me. The lips that had kissed me a thousand times spread wide in a beautiful smile, and my knees go weak.

“Sammy,” I cry as he comes closer. It’s him. He’s here. Somehow, he's here!

I want to run to him. To pull him into my arms, but my puppet master has other ideas. I'm rooted in place, unable to move. Happiness threatens to burst my heart into a thousand fragments as the man I've missed for so long stands in front of me.

We simply stare at each other, grinning like two idiots. Then Sam's smile widens to impossible proportions. His jawbone unhinges with an audible snap. His teeth lengthen, sharpening to blades. The hand shielding his eyes changes and distorts as his fingers morph into claws. Terrifying and dangerous claws.

"Sam?" My scream is filled with disbelief and horror, but it's cut short as the claws swipe down across my neck and dig into my flesh with excruciating pain. Blood spurts out of the severed artery and arcs in the flashlight's beam like a morbid scarlet rainbow.

"Sammy," I try to scream it again, but it comes out more as a gurgle as my throat fills with blood, cutting off my air supply. I gag and cough, choking on it.

The puppeteer yanks on his strings with maniacal glee, and my body convulses with sheer fear. The claws swipe at me again, and this time they slash deep into my belly. An agonized moan escapes my lips.

The Sam creature pushes me back with the claws attached to my intestines and pins me against the wall. I can't move. Stuck solid, my knife long gone, I lash out desperately trying to get away. I know I'm dying. Sam is killing me.

"Bixby," he yells at me, his voice shrills in my ear. I try to pull back, to get away from the deadly teeth, but he holds me even tighter and starts shaking me.

"Bixby. Wake up."

"Let me go." I push at the constraining hands and strike out with a fist. My knuckles connect with solid flesh, and I hear a low grunt as I roll away from my confinement only to fall into nothingness. I hit the floor hard, smashing my elbows and knees as the sound of my scream echoes in my muddled head.

"Bix." I'm lifted from the floor with gentle, comforting hands. "It's okay. You were just dreaming. Calm down."

My hand moves to my throat to staunch the flow of blood, but there’s nothing. Had it all really been a dream? It felt so fucking real. The pain. The blood. Sam.

"Shit," I swear softly as realization kicks in, and I come to my senses. It was a dream. I'm okay. I'm in Luke's room. In Luke's arms. I'm not bleeding and gutted. That wasn't real. Sam wasn't real.

Luke holds me close, running his rough palms up and down my bare arms, soothing my heart rate and breathing back to normal.

"Christ. What a nightmare," I say to him finally, as I run a shaky hand across my face. "Thanks for waking me up. Sorry about the punch."

He shrugs his broad shoulders at me as he drops me back on my feet. "You hit like a little girl, sooooo no harm done."

"Hey, I take offense to that." Ignoring my weak-ass attempt at humor he sits back down on his bed, scratching his bare chest and staring up at me. His piercing brown eyes study me as if waiting for some elaboration on what just occurred. When none is forthcoming, he says with uncomfortable bluntness, "You were dreaming about Sam...again. You were calling his name. Screaming it, actually. You wanna talk about it?"

Crap. I was kind of hoping I hadn't said anything out loud, or at least Luke would ignore it if I had. So much for that hope.

"No, I don't wanna talk about it.” My sigh is weary as I drop back down on his bed and flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. "I just experienced a terrifying nightmare. Last thing I want to do is hash it over. Plus, my elbows hurt like a sonofabitch where I fell on them."

Luke falls back beside me on the stiff blanket, propping his head up on his elbow and clucks at me with fake sympathy.

"Nawww, baby got a boo-boo? You gonna cry about it?”

“Well, I was until you said it like that,” I mutter at him crossly.

He grins at my crabbiness. “Let me see."

Raising my arm, he studies the skinned elbow.

"Just grazed a bit. You'll be okay."

"But it hurts," I whine, expecting far more concern.

He twists my arm with gentle fingers and raises the elbow to his lips. A tiny kiss lands on my bruised skin.

"That better?"

"No."

His lips move to the inside of my elbow and flutter, causing an outbreak of goose bumps.

"How about now?"

"Still not better."

The lips meander up my arm, nipping playfully. Soft, silken kisses trail along my collarbone and down my naked chest. His tongue circles around one nipple in teasing strokes. It stands at attention, but he intentionally ignores it, as much as it begs for his touch. The exquisite contact changes direction- up my neck, along my jaw, and stops on my ear. Dammit. Not the ear. He knows me so well. Me and my fetishes.

I can feel his breath stirring my hair, but he doesn't do anything. He just hovers for a bit, his breath tickling my neck. My body squirms in anticipation, waiting impatiently for the contact. A slight flicker of his tongue on my earlobe starts a wave of heat burning in my abdomen. The wave quickly escalates into a full-blown tsunami as he starts nibbling on my ear, flooding my body with desire. God, I fucking love it when he does that.

Impatient with his slow seduction, I push at his shoulders, flipping him onto his back with me on top. He grins up at me as I straddle him, knees on either side of his waist, and the evidence of his desire pressing hard against my butt.

"That must have made it better, I take it?"

"Mm-hmm, all better now," I whisper as I crush my lips onto his. He kisses me back but then draws away, putting a slight distance between us.

"You know as enticing as this is, I can't help but think..." he starts, but I cut him off with another kiss.

"That this is kind of—" I kiss him harder. "...awkward considering you were just..."

I pull his bottom lip between my teeth.

"...dreaming about Sam. Ow!”

My teeth clamp down hard. I don't mean to bite, but hearing Sam's name throws me for a loop.

"Seriously?" I question as he pulls away from me, glaring at me and rubbing his bleeding lip. "What the fuck, dude? Why you bringing up another guy's name when I'm trying to get funky here?"

"You drew blood," he says in disbelief, staring at the red smear on his finger.

"Well, you shouldn't be throwing that name at me while I'm trying to get in your pants."

"Considering I'm not wearing any pants, it shouldn't be that hard to do. And admit it. I'm only saying what we're both thinking. You're trying to chase Sam's ghost away with sex. Which is kind of awkward and insulting, really."

I stare down at him, mouth agape. "What the hell? You do realize you started this? And no, I don’t find it awkward or insulting at all. What I do find it, however, is downright mood killing."

I swing my leg over him and launch myself off his stomach, ignoring his winded oof. Reaching for my tank top on the floor, I shove it over my head hard as I search for my jeans. There's no way I'm staying the rest of the morning here now that he's pissed me off again. Why does he always do that? And where the hell are my pants? What did he do with them when he ripped them off last night? I circle the small room looking for the damn things, but they're nowhere to be found.

"As cute as your fine derriere looks stomping angrily around my room, why don't you just get back in bed?" he drawls, but I refuse to look his way.

I know he's still laying on top of the blanket, his fine toned body on display for my viewing. I'm a sucker for his beautiful nakedness. I'm not looking. I'm not.

And I look, dammit. He sends me a beseeching smile and pats the bed beside his long legs. I can feel my resolve weakening as my eyes drink in his still obvious arousal. I swallow hard but pretend to have some willpower. And dignity.

"You promise not to mention...you know who again?"

“Voldermort?”

“Hahaha. Funny, douchebag. Promise not to bring him up again and we can finish what we started.”

I expect him to agree. I mean, he certainly looks up to the task. But his smile drops away as he eyeballs me like I’m some strange bug he’s trying to figure out and covers himself with the blanket.

"Why do you always get so uptight when I mention Sam?"

I lift a brow, throwing him some shade. "Why do you think? Why you gotta bring him up? You ask me, that's just fucked up. Bringing up my dead boyfriend when we're about to have sex is all kinds of wrong, don't you think?"

"Why you asking me? You were the one yelling his name," he fires back, his voice tight. The previous mirth vanishes from his eyes. I suddenly understand what's bothering him.

"Are you kidding me with this? You're jealous. You're jealous because I had a fucked-up nightmare where Sam became some hybrid and tore my throat out along with my guts? Yeah, I can see where that would make you jealous."

He sighs and rubs his hand wearily along his stubbled jaw.

"I'm sorry about the nightmare. I really am, but this is the third time this week you've called out to him in your sleep. And the first two times weren’t because of any nightmare.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off. “Look, I know you can't help what you dream, and I know it's due to what we've been through these past few weeks and he's on your mind more than usual but..." He runs a hand through his sleep-tousled blonde hair. "Hell, Bix. It's kind of demoralizing to me that I'm the one making love to you at night, but he's the one you call for in your sleep. It's like deep down, your subconscious is holding onto the hope that you're still going to find him wrapped up in one of those pods like a damn butterfly, even though you know he's as good as dead anyway. And I know that's real fucked up, being jealous of a dead guy, but I can't help how I feel."

Ugh. And there he goes being all honest and open again, getting under my skin. Making me feel bad for him when I'm supposed to be angry. How does he manage to do that every time?

Letting go of my anger in one drawn out sigh, I put my hands on my hips and nod his way. "Yeah, you're one messed up bastard, Luke Whitman. Freud would have a field day with that one, I'm sure."

He refuses to rise to the sarcastic bait. Instead he pins me with a stare, his eyes filled with concern and hurt. "You need to let him go, Bix. You need to move on, else he’s going to haunt you forever."

"Tell me something I don't know," I mutter at him as I rip my gaze from his and resume my search for my damn pants. Seriously, how far could they have gone in this tiny room?

"So stop being so damned stubborn, and let me in. I can help you heal. But you have to want it."

Does he really think I don't? Does he truly believe that I don't want my shattered heart to repair and heal itself so that every thought or mention of Sam doesn't feel like a blade cutting out another piece of my soul? But like always, I go tongue-tied when admitting to any sort of emotion, and my shortcoming makes my anger resurface.

"You know, Whitman, you really need to get over this Messiah complex. You can't fix me or the world, so I don't even know why you bother to try. Give it up already."

"And there it is. Your typical response to me bringing up Sam. Anger and sarcasm. Although that's a first, being told I have a Messiah complex. At least that's original."

His laugh holds no humor. The laughter tapers off quickly, and we study each other across the room. How do I respond to what he's just said? How do I tell him that I know it drives him crazy to hear me calling out the name of the man my heart just can't seem to let him replace?

A knock on the door prevents me from having to say anything, and I almost cry out in relief at the interruption.

"Yeah?" Luke bellows at the door in irritation, but his eyes don't leave my face.

"Luke? It's me, Gordon. Cooper sent out a message. He wants us downstairs at 0700."

"Why?" Luke yells at the door.

"I don't know why. I'm not his damn secretary. I'm just the messenger. Is Bix with you? I went to her room first, but I didn't get any answer."

"Shut the fuck up asshole, before I give you something to yell about!" Another voice floats through the door. This one is not Gordo's. This one sounded more like Luke's very big, and at the moment, very irate neighbor. Considering the sun wasn't even up yet, I can understand his irritation.

"Guys, can you let me in?" Gordo's exaggerated whisper of fear makes us both grin, our moment of tension gladly forgotten.

I head for the door, but Luke stops me.

"Bix."

I turn in question. He pulls my jeans out of the tangle of blankets. "Might wanna put some pants on before you open that door. You don't want to give the kid a heart attack."

Good thinking.

Coffee. Man's number one gift to the universe. Doesn't matter that what I'm drinking at the moment is at least eight-year-old, freeze-dried leftovers from pre-invasion days. It tastes like ambrosia right now. The one and only perk to Cooper's early morning assemblies in the Bullshit room. I head back for another cup of the steaming brew, and on impulse, pour one for Luke as well.

It’s been four weeks since we completed our mission. Four weeks since we'd blown that warehouse full of alien-human hybrids to smithereens. Four weeks of rest and time to heal while helping with the increased watch on our walls. But if there have been any consequences to our actions, we haven't seen them yet. There’s been no sign of any of those queen leeches. No indication that we hadn't destroyed them all by blowing up the warehouse and St. Joseph’s. No increased activity of leeches in the area. Everything seems normal. At least on the surface.

My unease at the thought of more of those hatcheries in the city was the first thing I'd mentioned to Cooper and the council on our arrival back. They agreed with me. They shared my belief that the warehouse we'd destroyed was no isolated phenomenon. There were most likely more.

The groups of hunters sent out over the past few weeks had a new objective now along with supply gathering. Buildings we used to avoid like sinkholes now had to be turned inside out. We needed to know if any more of those creepy crawlies were mutating in our city under our noses. We needed to take control before they became a threat. Because we didn’t stand a chance against an army of those mutated hybrids. That's not a theory. That's a fact.

It surprises me that it’s taken Cooper this long to call a meeting. We’re living on borrowed time right now. Hoping for each day not to be the day we get attacked by the hybrids. We need a plan. A survival guide. Maybe the meeting this morning means they've finally come up with a solution to our problem.

The council members are present this morning as always. Our group of hunters too, minus Cal. His broken ankle still keeps him from active duty, but the presence of the other hunters worries me. Every single one not out on a mission is here in this room, at least fifteen of us. Something big must be going down if Cooper has called everyone in.

I hand Luke the cup of coffee—a silent apology—as my gaze darts curiously about the room.

"You brought me coffee? Aww, thanks, Bix." Pleasant surprise tinges his voice at the unexpected offer.

"Yeah, well don't get used to it," I mutter back. "I ain't no damn Hooters waitress."

I catch his grin out of the corner of my eye. “You? A Hooters girl? I don't think you have big enough—”

“Choose your next words carefully, Whitman,” I cut him off mid-sentence, my eyes narrowed. “They could mean the world of difference on who keeps you company in bed tonight. Me or the palm sisters.”

“Feet. I was about to say feet. Cause, you know, they gotta have big feet to stay balanced with those big boobs.”

“You're a boob,” I toss at him, shaking my head and trying not to laugh at his silliness.

His soft laughter falters as his eyes focus on something over my shoulder. I turn and follow his gaze to the brunette hunter making her way towards us with deliberate intent. I groan inwardly at her approach. Not her again. I've seen more of her than I care to admit over these past two weeks, although I've been lucky enough to avoid any sort of conversation. Seems like my luck has finally run out.

My eyes roam over her curvy form in envy as she approaches, and I can't help but compare my scrawniness to her appealing shape. She certainly has big enough... feet to be a Hooters girl.

"Bix, Whitman," she nods her head at us in greeting, and I nod back even though I'm gritting my teeth.

"Robyn," Luke says in a polite tone, and I so want to kick him in the shin for being this civil to his former, cheating lover. Where is the loathing and hate he should harbor for this woman? Or is it only me that feels that way?

“Didn't realize you guys were back already. How was the run?” Luke asks. How does he manage to talk to her so nicely? Since nice is so not one of my traits, I slurp my coffee like an obnoxious teen and try to ignore her presence.

She shrugs and tosses her sleek dark ponytail over her shoulder. "Area Twenty-five is a waste of time. Part of the reason why we came back. Great job on your mission, by the way. I've been meaning to give you kudos on that. Heard you guys had a rough time of it though. I can see it was all true. You both still look like you've been beaten senseless with an ugly stick."

Her eyes roam over me as she says it, and I bristle at her veiled insult. I can't ignore her any longer.

"Yeah, tangling with a mutant leech will do that to a person. What's your excuse for looking like shit?"

I'm lying through my teeth and she knows it. No one should look that damn good in a post-apocalyptic world. Just being near her makes me rub the scar along the side of my face self-consciously.

"Hahaha, still as toxic as always, Bix." Her laughter is devoid of humor. "I can understand why Luke finds you so irresistible."

"Is there something we can help you with, Robyn?" Luke interjects with a smile, pulling my hand away from my face and linking it in his, obviously trying to prevent the impending war of words. I don't know why I even care enough to let Queen Bitch get under my skin so much. But she always did.

"Actually, yes. I do have something I want to discuss with you two."

We don’t get to find out what that something is. She's interrupted as Kingsley and Cooper enter the room with Doc Roger and Doc Howarth trailing behind like two little, lost puppies. Their gazes avoid the council members, especially Cookie. Even though they've been living here for weeks now, working and integrating with the civilians, Cookie has not thawed in her dislike for them whatsoever. I don't know why that should surprise me. I've lived with her for eight years, and in all that time, she has only smiled at me once. And to this day, I'm still not convinced it was even a smile. Could have been a grimace of constipation, I'm not sure. Either way, other than Amy, I don't think that woman has ever been civil to anyone in her life.

Curiosity tempers the mood in the room as we wait for Coop to take his usual seat behind the steel desk. From the looks of the others, I'm not the only one eager to find out the reason behind this meeting. Weeks of R&R and being cooped up in the hotel have taken their toll. I'm ready to get back into the swing of things and get back on the outside.

"Good morning, everyone," Coop says in a cordial voice, as if we're all here for morning tea. "So good of you all to join me this morning. Hunters, glad to see you all looking rested and healed—for the most part."

I nod at him, but in my head, I'm yelling “get on with it.”

"I guess you're wondering why I've gathered you together this morning."

He ignores the murmurings and restlessness of the group, choosing instead to smile at Cookie as she brings him a cup of coffee. He takes a loud sip and savors the hot liquid before speaking again.

"As you all know, the mission our hunters accomplished weeks ago was a great success. That threat of new hybrids at least was wiped out. Our heartfelt thanks to you all." He smiles our way, but it leaves me uneasy. Like this is the old- good news before the bad news- scenario.

"However, while you few have been enjoying your well-earned rest, these two men have been filling me in on some rather interesting information." He gestures to the two docs. Now that is interesting. I thought they had come clean with us on our journey here. What had they been keeping from us?

"You are all aware that Doctors Howarth and Wicker have been working on finding a cure, or at least a way to fight these parasites for the past few years. They have made leaps and bounds in understanding their genetic makeup and physiology. I totally agree with their firm belief that research will be our only way to defeat these aliens that have overtaken our world, especially now that we know we can easily be infected again. This basically means for every infected we kill; another can simply take its place. It's not as simple anymore as destroying the infected and hoping someday to wipe them out. With the threat of these new hybrids, only thing probably being wiped out will be us."

A bit blunt, but Coop was never one to beat around the bush.

"What we were totally unaware of is that these few doctors are not alone in their research. There is another group of scientists and doctors that have also been working on this issue. Appears we’re not as alone in this battle as we've always believed."

There are others? Where? In the city? How come we haven't heard from them before? As if Cooper can feel the questions brewing, he raises his hands in the air.

"Please, I know you all have a million questions, but let me finish what I have to say first. We'll deal with the questions after. Agreed?"

We nod in collective agreement. We're all eager to find out more.

"Good. I'm going to let Doctor Roger Wicker take over from here. Please, I ask you show him the same respect and refrain from any questions until he’s finished."

Doc Roger stands in front of Coop's desk, arms folded as if trying to ward off some imminent attack. He looks scared witless, but when he speaks, his voice is strong and sure.

"Captain Cooper is correct when he says we're not alone in our fight. For some time now, we at St. Josephs have been in contact with a few researchers operating out of a private facility outside of the Ottawa area. A group that has stayed fairly low on the radar. One of these researchers is actually—sorry, used to be—a member of the Public Health Agency. She is an expert on parasitic infection. She and her team have been working closely with us, sharing our discoveries and theories on the invaders. It took a bit of convincing on our part, but they have finally agreed for Doctor Howarth and me to join them at their facility. The equipment and resources they have will be essential in finding our answer. They were totally shocked by our disclosure about the new hybrids. While they are quite aware of the hibernation pods, they have yet to encounter these new mutations. Ergo, they have yet to start any research on this variant of the parasite. They need our help. I think with what we have learned about the new species and their findings on the old, we can combine our expertise and come up with a solution to beating these creatures once and for all."

I guess it's good news. And hearing about the scientists, well, it does raise some hope knowing there are professionals still around and on the job. Bad news? That research clinic is a hell of a long ways away. Luke is the first to question it.

"Ottawa? You do realize that's well over three hundred miles from here? A good two and a half to three weeks on the road, and that's if you don't run into any obstacles to slow you down."

Cooper nods his head. "A slight drawback, yes."

Slight? I snort at his answer. "That's three hundred miles of congested highways, leech-filled towns and unknown territory. How do you propose the docs get there in one piece?"

I already know the answer, but I want to hear Coop's take on it.

"That's why you hunters are here. This will be a damned dangerous undertaking, getting them both there in one piece. Something I'm not willing to assign or order anyone to do. Do I want to send my people out on this massive undertaking? No. Do I think it's necessary for the Doctors to get to this facility and share their expertise and experience? Yes. Like I said, finding a way to defeat these things on a biological level will be the only way to eradicate them, so I'm asking for volunteers. I need a team to get these men there safe and sound. Who's willing to step up?"

The plan is foolhardy. Stupid. Reckless. Guaranteed not to end well at all. I'm all for it.

"Count me in," I say before anyone else has a chance to speak.

Cooper gives a slight nod at my words. Like he knew I'd be the first to volunteer.

I hear Luke sigh beside me, and I glance sideways at him. He crosses his arms, shaking his head at me as he mutters, "Should have known." I blow a kiss his way as he rolls his eyes.

"Guess I'm in too," he says dryly.

"Big surprise you gonna follow her stupid ass," Dom throws at Luke from across the room. He ignores my middle finger as he gets to his feet. "Hell, I'm getting bored as fuck hanging around here with all the whiners and complainers. I need to get away from you bunch. This sounds exactly like the distraction I need."

As much as I hate Dom, I gotta give him kudos for volunteering. Maybe he's not the wimpy coward I always thought him to be after all.

Badger is the next to step up, followed by Mike and Kelly. I agree with all the recruits. Except for the next volunteer.

"You guys aren't going anywhere without me." Gordon steps out from the back, and his older brother, Mike, stiffens in response to his words.

"Nope, not this time, Gordo," Mike says and I silently agree.

The kid is a good enough hunter, but he's no way ready for a job of this magnitude.

"Yeah, I'm going," Gordon says to his brother, puffing out his scrawny chest in defiance.

"No, so you may as well get the idea out of your head." Mike's tone leaves no room for argument, even as Gordon prepares to contest the statement.

But Cooper solidifies Mike's decision. "Your brother’s right, young man. Six volunteers are quite enough. You don't need to be included. I'll need your help here on guard duty for the wall."

I can see Gordon wants to argue with Coop, but the older man stares him down eyes of pure steel. Gordo snaps his lips shut, but his face flames with his exasperation, matching his red hair. I almost feel bad for the kid, but I know the decision to omit him is the right one. We need the most experienced hunters for this trip. He would only be a liability.

"Make that seven," a voice beside me chimes in.

I bite my lip to stop from screaming “hell no."

"Robyn?" Coop questions. "You sure? Six is plenty, and if you leave, your group will be leaderless."

"My group is a well-oiled machine, Coop. I've trained them well. You know that."

Modest much? I can't help but think as I frown at her perfect, scar free profile.

Robyn continues, "They can function without me. My skills will be needed more on this mission. Your volunteers maybe good hunters but not a single sharpshooter among them. And if these new mutants are going to be a threat, knives aren't going to do a rats-ass good in keeping the docs alive."

Is she taking a dig at me? I can feel my patience wearing thin even though I know she's right. My guys are no slouches with their weapons, but our best sharpshooter had been Kingsley's man, Wentworth. He'd gone missing on our previous mission, and although a team was sent out to search for him, there had been no sign. With him presumed dead, we need someone with above grade marksmanship.

"Agreed," Coop’s answer is fast. Almost too fast. He didn't have to agree with her so quickly, like the rest of us are chopped liver or some shit. "Thank you for stepping up. Thank you all for doing this. This will not be an easy task. Eight years ago when I showed up here with my little group of survivors, we came from outside the city. It was a horror show out there. I'm sure these past years have only made it worse. During this time, we haven't ventured far from the city's perimeter, so we really don't know what to expect. But I do know this. It’s going to get messy out there. If any of you want to back out, now's the time."

His gaze moves around the room. So does mine. I'm curious if anyone will drop out. I wouldn’t blame them if they did. Cooper’s right. This is not going to be easy. After eight years of fighting for survival and supplies, people can grow real callous and mean when their backs are against the wall. We won't find any sympathy or help out there. Just leeches waiting to rip out our throats, and others wanting to take our provisions and our lives. Not exactly a trip to Disneyland, but no one backs out.

"If I'm going to die at the hands of these creatures, I'd rather do it fighting for a chance to defeat them than have it happen while I'm cowering in a corner."

Mike speaks for us all, I think. Cooper nods in approval.

"Good. I'm going to be honest with you all; there is another motive behind this trip. Something we haven't shared with the civilians, but I’m making you all aware today. Our medical supplies are running dangerously low. Antibiotics, painkillers, hell even bandages are in short supply. The supplies are virtually non-existent, and as most of you are already aware, this city is picked over. Wiped clean. There's nothing left out there to find. The doctors in the research facility have agreed to restock us in exchange for crops. Apparently, they are smart enough to make their own penicillin but can't grow shit in their gardens. They won't make it through the winter without our help of vegetables and preserves. A fair enough deal if you ask me."

"So we will be towing a goddamned wagon? Nothing like slowing us down," Dom doesn't usually say the smartest things, but I had to agree with him on this one. If speed and stealth are our priorities, then towing a wagon full of supplies is a real stupid thing to do.

"It won't slow you down. Not with what we have planned for you."

The little half smile on Cooper's face intrigues me. What is he up to?

"Kingsley, show them the plan," he says, and Kingsley exits the room only to return a moment later, lugging a huge mountain bike through the door. He starts cussing loudly as one of the bike’s pedals catches in the door frame, halting his entrance and almost sending him tumbling over the handlebars. I would have laughed if I wasn't so stunned. A bike? That's the fucking plan? What are we, a gang of eighth graders?

I tear my eyes away from Kingsley's hilarious struggle with the stupid bike and glance at Cooper, expecting to hear him shout, “Gotcha!” But no, he's watching Kingsley as pleased as punch, like he invented the damn contraption himself.

"Um, that's a bike, dude." My dry voice breaks the lull covering the room.

"That it is," Cooper says back, grinning my way. "We've been sitting on these for a while now. Pretty much useless here in the city. But out on the open highway, they should come in handy. Cut your time down immensely. We've modified them to make them more comfortable and durable and able to easily tow the wagons. Hope you all know how to ride."

I do. Well, at least I did, but that was eight years ago. Hope it's true what they say; you never forget how to ride a bike. I glance at Luke to gauge his reaction, and his sheer size hits me with sudden hilarity. For some reason, my mind conjures up an image of his massive frame hunched over the puny bike handles like some circus clown on a tricycle and I start laughing.

He doesn't even look at me. He's still sizing up the bike with a pained expression, but his words are meant for me. "You're picturing me on that stupid thing, aren't you?"

"Yup. Ain't gonna lie," I answer, grinning like a fool.

He sighs as he crosses his arms across his chest and rocks back on his heels, scowling at the inanimate object of his displeasure. "We should look real intimidating riding through town on those."

"Well, one good thing. If there are people or ravagers watching us, they just may die from laughter at our bicycle bad-assery. Least then we won't have to fight them."

He laughs slightly in response, but Queen Bitch rolls her dark eyes my way.

"Don't know what you two are complaining about. The bikes are a fantastic idea. You guys are lucky to have them—and me going along on this mission."

"Question? Is it hard keeping your swollen head upright?" My words are caustic, but low. I don’t want spectators to my anger, but everyone appears to be still focusing on Kingsley and the bike. Robyn’s shoulders stiffen, readying for battle at my remark but Luke intervenes once again.

"What did you want to ask us earlier, Robyn?"

She sends a pouty smile Luke's way, choosing to ignore me. "It can wait. We'll have plenty of time to discuss this now since we will be on the road together...partners."

She sashays away to join her own crew, her hips swaying with a confidence I can only dream of. I stare after her, wanting to say something blistering, but nothing comes to mind.

"Fuck," I hiss through gritted teeth. Should be a time and a half on the road with her. I wonder if there's some way to change Cooper’s mind on that decision.

"Okay people, we have a lot to discuss." Cooper’s voice interrupts my sudden vivid daydream of watching Robyn fall off an overpass and get taken down by a horde of leeches, and I pull myself with reluctance back to the present.

"Now that we've ascertained the mode of transportation, we need to focus on the best route." He nods at Alex who flips over the dusty whiteboard standing in the corner of the room. It has what appears to be an old road map attached. It's ripped and faded in spots but still readable. Where had they managed to dig that relic up from?

"Like Luke said earlier, Ottawa is over three hundred miles from here with two possible routes, Highway 401 and Highway 7." Cooper struggles out of his chair and limps to the whiteboard, pointing to the highlighted red line with his cane.

"Highway 7 is your safest bet. It's a bit of a longer route but less populated than the 401 and a much less traveled road, so hopefully there was less congestion on the day of the invasion. Not much on Highway 7 other than a few backwater towns and plenty of farmland. Should be a safer passage. Follow the highway, and you should make it in one piece."

"Famous last words," Luke mutters, and even though his words are meant for me alone, his voice carries over the sudden lull in the room. He's not happy with this new mission. I don't respond back. I don't want him to know how excited I am by this outing. Even the bicycles don't seem that bad, although I'm sure Luke would argue with that.

“That's the plan,” Cooper finishes briskly, ignoring Luke's muttered comment as he sweeps the room. “Any questions?”

“I have a question,” Cookie's clipped accent pipes up as she stares down Doc Wicker. “Why are you taking these men at face value? We have been monitoring the radio for years; we've never talked to any 'scientists' in some obscure research center. How come they know about this and we do not? It sounds fishy to me.”

Everything sounded fishy to Cookie, but I have to agree with her on this one. Why haven't we heard of this group before? We've talked to a lot of survivors over the years, and other than St. Joseph’s, none of us ever trusted each other enough to disclose our locations. We haven't survived this many years to be that stupid. Just because you can appear normal over the airways doesn’t mean you aren't some psychopath trying to fetter out the other’s weaknesses.

To my surprise, Doc Howarth is the one to answer.

“I personally know the doctor Roger told you about. She and I used to work together years ago. Truth be told, that's the only reason they probably made themselves known to us. They've kept a low profile. They didn't want to make their presence known.” He glances at Coop as if asking permission to continue, and Cooper nods in agreement. “This isn't just a normal research facility. This was military owned. These people have access to equipment we can only dream of. Trust me when I tell you bringing them on-board as our allies will be beneficial to us all.”

“So there are honest-to-goodness trained military soldiers still there?” Beth, one of the council members, asks and I can see her glimmer of hope at the news of a re-surging military power to help fight these invaders. But Doc Howarth crushes her hope with a sad shake of his head.

“No, there may be a few base soldiers left, but nothing near an army. They were attacked just as heavily as we were on that day. Nothing left there other than a few surviving doctors and old soldiers trying to make it through, the same as us. That's why we need to join forces. Together we can find our salvation. I know we can.”

Cooper nods, agreeing with the white-haired doc. “Don't go rearing any hopes of the Army saving our asses. They no longer exist. If these past years have taught us anything, it's every man for themselves. Although making a few allies along the way can't hurt. Now, Luke, Kingsley, Alex, you three stay and help me iron out the details. The rest of you are free to go.”

I'm not in the least irritated by the fact that I'm not asked to stay and help plan the mission. Last night’s festivities with Luke, plus the abrupt morning awakening is taking a toll and I’m bone tired. A nice nap in my little bed sounds more appealing right now. Let the council deal with the planning shit.

"Later," I throw Luke's way as I head for the door. But I don't quite make it. An angry, young ginger steps in front of me, blocking my escape.

"You fucking kidding me, Bix?" Gordon growls at me.

I refrain from the exasperated sigh on my lips as I see my chance for a nap disappearing. "Look, kid—"

He cuts me off by shaking his index finger in my face and fixing me with a killer glare. I back up a couple of steps with my hands raised.

“Whoa! Chill, dude.”

"Don't 'dude' me,” he snaps. “I hope you guys sterilized that knife before you stuck it in my back." Before I can retaliate, he huffs off, leaving a trail of hurt in his wake.