Strain of Resistance

I was twelve years old when the world ended.

Not by any nuclear weapon, or asteroid strike, or series of natural disasters like so many doomsday soothsayers had prophesied. Nothing so dramatic. In fact, it didn't end with a bang at all. It ended with a whimper. A deceivingly harmless, crystallized mist had covered our world in a day, leaving total devastation in its wake. Maybe if we had known then what the mist had concealed, we would have taken more precaution. Maybe if we had any kind of advanced warning, more of us would have survived. Maybe.

It happened eight years ago, but I remember like it was just yesterday.

I was in the park, only a block from my house. I went to the park a lot when my father was home. He was a truck driver and away from home most weeks out of the year. But when he was home, well, he made up for lost time. The drinking began around noon, the yelling around three, and the hitting around five. Like clockwork. My mom tried to protect me from the worst of it. She carried the scars—some visible, most not—of our never-ending battle. She would quietly send me off to the park or my safe zone in the attic when it was too dark outside. She would know when he was about to be set off, almost like her spidey senses would kick in. She would whisper those dreaded words to me; “go play.” Like she believed if she kept me out of his sight, then he wouldn't hurt me. And it worked...most of the time. There had been occasions when I hadn't made it to the front door or gotten the hatch to the attic pulled up before I was yanked back by the hair of my head. It only happened a few times before I learned to be quicker. I learned to react real fast or suffer the consequences.

That day started out no different from any other. Don't even remember what set him off. Maybe he didn't like what she was cooking for dinner. Maybe he found a speck of dirt in the always immaculate house. Maybe the football game on TV wasn’t going his way. Or maybe it was just the sight of my face. Who the hell knew with him? But he was in a foul mood, so I didn't even wait for my mom's warning. I just headed for the park.

I knew I wouldn't find any of my friends there this late in the evening. In fact, the whole park was empty. No neighbors pushing their babies in their bulky, prissy carriages and taking up the whole dang sidewalk. No dogs chasing Frisbees or tennis balls across the green grass. No middle-aged neighbors jogging, trying in vain to work off their paunch. Not like usual. The only company I had was old man Heff who was the park’s resident homeless dude. He was sitting on the same park bench that he sat on every day and feeding the birds like usual. He never spoke in all the time I knew him, other than to mumble incoherent words at the pigeons. They were the only creatures he ever acknowledged. So I guess in theory, I was truly alone in the park that day. Everyone else was home with their nice families, having nice dinners and nice conversations.

Most times I envied my friends. I never could understand why my house wasn't that way, why my dad wasn't like the other dads, and why we couldn't sit down to nice family dinners and talk about our day. Laugh about silly stuff. Things Mom and I did when he wasn’t home. My mom just cried every time I asked why she stayed, so I finally gave up on asking. I gave up on a lot.

Instead I sat alone in the park, swinging on the rusted old swing set with its peeling red paint, dragging my feet in the sand and ignoring the grumblings of my empty stomach. I knew I wouldn't get to eat any time soon. Not until he passed out at least and it would be safe to go back home. Another hour or two yet. Mom would keep my dinner warm in the oven until I could come home without waking him up. We had it down to a routine now. All I had to do was wait for the sun to go down.

Across the park, the pigeons suddenly took off in flight with a ruckus of panicked whistling and fluttering wings. I raised my eyes from the ground, wondering what had riled them. I was surprised to see darkness staining the earlier clear blue sky. My first thought was that a storm headed our way. Great. Just what I needed—to get soaking wet before I could go back home.

But then I realized what was moving towards me at a rapid pace wasn't clouds at all, but a mist of sorts. A grey avalanche of fog rolled in and covered the houses and streets with an eerie, ghost-like quality. It wasn’t smoke since there was no smell. But the mist was just as heavy as the thick smoke that spewed from the smokestacks of the power plant on the other side of town.

It moved fast, swallowing up everything in its path. The lushness of the park disappeared as the crawling tendrils enveloped me and turned my world opaque. The soft wisps swirled about me, darting this way and that, almost as if they were studying me. I remember being enthralled by this ghostly dance, wondering what on earth it could possibly be. It was almost hypnotizing. Glittering crystals floated in and out of the mist...as if they had a life force of their own. It was only much later that I would learn they actually did.

A clump of crystals danced in front of my face like swirling snowflakes, and I reached out and tried to catch them on my fingertips. I laughed as my touch triggered them to break apart and scatter, changing formation. Then without warning, they converged and swarmed me, covering my mouth and nose like a wet cloth. With every breath I felt them scratching at my throat and I panicked. Wrapping my hands around my neck, I coughed and spat and tried desperately to get rid of the blockage. I couldn’t suck in any oxygen. I fell out of the swing and onto my knees, my vision fuzzy around the edges. The threat of blacking out was all too real, and I was terrified I was going to die. And then just like that, it was over. The crystals clawed at my throat as they made their way back up, making me gag. They trickled out of my mouth and into the air. The mist surrounding me reabsorbed them like a thirsty sponge, and then it just moved on. As if the crystals decided I wasn’t worth their time.

I sucked the sweet air into my starving lungs, spitting out the oily aftertaste in my mouth. Still on my knees in the playground dirt, a cold shiver passed over me and I couldn't help but feel I’d just had a very narrow escape. But from what? 

I watched as the wet mist slithered away from the park; the ominous gloom now moving to the other side of town. It didn't look like a harmless cloud anymore. The way it moved, slinking over the roads and houses, it appeared to be filled with malicious intent.

What the hell was that?

Suddenly remembering old Heff, I scanned the park looking for him. I needed to see if he’d been attacked the same as me; because even as young as I was, I knew what happened had been an out-and-out attack on my being. I found him lying on the ground under his bench, unmoving. I wanted to go to him and see if he was okay. I tried standing, but my wobbly legs had other plans. They refused to support my weight, and I fell back into the dirt. Staring after the mist with frightened eyes, I prayed silently to God that it wouldn't change direction and return.

I don't know how long I stayed crouched in the dirt. Five or ten minutes, maybe. I knew I should get up. I should get the hell out of there, but instead I stayed down like a shivering mass of spineless jelly. Movement at the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I almost cried out in relief as Heff sat up.

Then I saw his eyes.

A dark liquid oozed from them. Blood. Blood was coming out of his freakin’ eyes! My mind screamed at me to run, but my body turned to stone and rooted in the dirt. His eyes opened slowly, the whites contrasting sharply with the red. My own eyes threatened to pop from their sockets as my heart slammed painfully in my chest. Fear soon escalated to terror, for what I witnessed burned in my brain and haunted my dreams for years to come.

His mouth opened wide as if his jaws had hinges, causing the corners of his lips to split open and blood to squirt out either side. His very flesh tore apart. I heard it tear with a sickening rip, and my stomach rolled violently as I gagged. Strips of bloody meat flapped over his now exposed gums and teeth. My brain refused to define what was happening as a gray, thick tentacle clawed its way out of his mouth and exploded into the air with a fresh spurt of blood. For some insane reason, the sped-up clip I had watched in biology class last week of a sunflower seed sprouting from the dirt popped into my head. This looked exactly the same. Like the tentacle had germinated and sprouted out of the old man’s throat.

A shrill keening pierced the air. The sound caught the creature's attention, and the disfigured head turned my way. Horrified, I realized the sound spilled out of me. I covered my mouth with my hand, trying to strangle the scream. But it was too late. In response the worm-like thing splayed opened and from its black, inky innards, silver teeth glinted in the evening sun like dozens of tiny blades. Teeth clearly made for ripping and tearing flesh.

I didn't wait to see any more. As much as I was in denial, my honed survival instinct kicked in. I lurched to my feet and ran.

My twelve-year-old legs were much shorter than my pursuer’s, but the sound of thick, wet gurgles following me down the street had me practically flying the block to my house. I didn't even think to stop at the nearest house. My house and my mother were the only thoughts in my head.

I ran up my front steps and fell through the door, slamming it behind me with enough force to rattle the windows. I didn't even care that it would be sure to draw my father’s wrath. In fact, I hoped it did. Let him deal with the monstrosity outside.

I stumbled away from the door, my heart threatening to burst out of my chest. I stared at the door in dread, fearing any second for it to crash open and that thing that was once Heff to barrel through. But it remained intact. With bated breath, I listened for any telltale sign that that thing hovered outside. I heard nothing.

Gathering up my last bit of courage, I peered cautiously through the narrow window that bordered the door. The thing was still standing in the street. And that's all it was doing...just standing. It wasn't looking at my house trying to figure out some fiendish way to get inside. It wasn't looking about at all. It was just standing. Almost as if it had forgotten it was chasing me.

I watched as Heff stumbled away, like he was drunk. What was that thing my mom always said? Out of sight, out of mind. The thing that undoubtedly wanted to rip me apart only minutes ago appeared to have forgotten about me. Or maybe it was because it couldn't see me anymore. Either way it was no longer chasing me, and I sobbed a little in relief.

I rubbed at my eyes, wiping away sweat and tears. Crying was a weakness I hadn’t given in to in years, yet here I was bawling like a baby. My body convulsed like I’d been slam dunked in some icy river. My teeth knocked together, and I clamped my lips to keep from biting my tongue. Wrapping my arms around my chest, I tried to hold myself together. I needed to find Mom. I needed her to tell me everything was going to be okay.

The sound of the TV blaring from the den was almost surreal as I tiptoed past. Now that the other monster was no longer a threat, I still didn't want to poke the one living in my house. Veering off to the kitchen, I was brought up short by the smell of burning food. Mom never burnt anything. She wouldn't dare. Hurrying before it got his attention, I grabbed the oven mitts and turned off the oven. Pulling out the tray of now charred chicken and potato wedges, I dropped the hot platter on top of the stove and waved at the smoke with my gloved hand.

"Mom?" I whispered at the haze filled kitchen. No answer.

The smoke filtered out the cracked kitchen window, and the sight of it hit me like a punch to the gut. The window was open. Open to let anything that had been outside, in.

Where was she? The lump of dread in my stomach made me almost want to puke as I stepped hesitantly into the hallway. The old shag carpet sucked at my feet like some marshy mud, refusing to let me turn back. I stopped walking and peered around the corner into my bedroom. It was empty and just as I had left it this morning. My gaze was caught by the evening sun glinting off the silver framed picture on the nightstand. The picture of me and my mom. It suggested normalcy. I knew today was anything but.

I checked the bathroom—also empty. Mom wasn't in there. That left my parent’s room at the end of the hall. The door to that bedroom seemed to grow in front of my eyes the longer I stared at it. I suddenly felt like Alice in Wonderland after the Drink Me potion. I'm shrinking. I'm shrinking. The words bounced around in my head with an echo of madness.

I didn't want to go anywhere near that door. My gut was telling me to run. Get away. But I needed to find my mom. The door stood slightly ajar. I took a shaky breath and pushed it open the rest of the way.

The first thing I saw was my father's gun lying by the dresser, like someone had tried to take it out of the top drawer where it was kept but had dropped it in the process. The second thing I saw was his back as he hunched over mom's body lying across the bed. Only her dangling legs and head were visible; his stocky frame hid the rest of her from me. Her face was turned toward me, and the look of terror captured forever in her now unseeing eyes chilled me to my core. The wet, smacking sounds that filled the room and the wide stain of red soaking the white bedspread told my mind that hope was already lost for my mom, but my heart refused to believe it.

"No!" I screamed, as I lunged at my father's back. With one swipe of his arm, he sent me flying across the room and I crashed into the dresser mirror, smashing it on impact. I slid down. Brutal pain tore through my jaw as the jagged glass sliced me open. But there was no time to wallow in my pain, for the creature now turned to me. Through my haze of fear, I saw the hideous worm-thing protruding from my father’s mouth, flapping in anticipation as it smelled more blood.

Terror. Pain. Grief. They all combined into one agonizing scream that threatened to take me under. The creature lurched toward me and I tried to back up, but with the solid dresser behind me there was no place to go. I reached out blindly, searching for anything I could use as a weapon. My hand connected with cold steel. The gun.

Shaking my head to keep the blood out of my eyes, I aimed the weapon and tried desperately to remember what Mom had taught me. I pushed the safety down with my thumb knuckle and squeezed the trigger, firing at the creature. He jerked with the impact of each shot, but still he came at me. I kept shooting, my screams in sync with the gunshots. I lost track of how many times I fired, but the clicking of an empty chamber finally registered. No more bullets. With a pathetic last attempt at self-defense, I threw the useless gun at him. It bounced harmlessly off of his chest. Closing my eyes in surrender, I waited for the pain to come. Please let it be over quick, I prayed fleetingly as I covered my head with my arms and tried to shrink into the dresser.

Nothing happened. There was no attack. No pain. I opened my eyes a crack, expecting to find the creature preparing to rip my face off. What I found was my father's body lying at my feet. The bullets had done their job. He was crumpled over sideways. Not moving. The grisly abomination hung lifelessly from his mouth.

The ensuing silence was peppered by my frantic breaths. I kept staring at the thing on the floor just inches from me, but still it didn't move. The gray monstrosity had done the same thing to his face as it had to Heff. My father had been considered a handsome man once, but not anymore.

Funny, I didn't feel anything as I stared at the dead man that helped give me life. I didn't check to see if he was okay. Instead I kicked at him, trying to push him—and it—away. Images from all the old horror movies my mom and I used to watch jumped into my head, and I kept expecting the creature to suddenly come to life and crawl toward me. The monsters in those movies always made one last attempt to get you before they died. But the worm-thing remained as still as the body it possessed.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound clawed its way into my consciousness, pulling my eyes from the dead thing and toward the bed. I was thankful I could only see the top of her head from my position on the floor...but it was enough. The sound of my mother's blood as it trickled from the saturated bedspread to the hardwood floor was the last straw. I couldn't take anymore. The wailing started again as I let the waves of pain wash over me. I screamed until I had no voice left and then finally lay there in numbed shock.

Exhausted and terrified, warm blood gushing down the side of my face, I just wanted to let go. My body felt heavy—like it was filled with lead—and I fell over pulling my knees up to my chest. I wanted to sleep and forget everything. The bright pink of my mom's favorite t-shirt peeked coyly at me from the bottom drawer of the dresser, and I yanked at it until it came loose. Balling it up, I placed it under my cheek and pressed the cloth into my wound. The smell of the familiar laundry soap pierced my heart, and tears filled the corner of my eyes. They tickled as they fell across my nose. I allowed them to take their course. I had no energy to wipe them away.

I knew I should move. My brain was shrieking at me to go. To try and find other survivors. Anyone that could help me. But the heaviness in my body took over, and I didn't care anymore if an army of those worms were heading my way. All I wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep.

I didn't know how long I lay there on the floor. Minutes. Hours. Days. Time lost all meaning as I passed in and out of consciousness, only to wake up to the same repeated horror. Every time I opened my eyes, it was to my mom's puddled pool of blood. So I simply closed my eyes and welcomed the darkness again. Maybe, I kept telling myself, maybe if I slept long enough, it would all go away.

* * *

"...in here..."

"...she's alive..."

"...search the rest of the house..."

The voices sounded so far off, and my eyelids felt sewn shut as I fought with them to open. Was it my mom and dad? Were they fighting again? I should go to the park. No! The park was a bad place.

The thoughts all jumbled together in my head. I didn't remember anything. Where was I?

"Hey, little one." This voice was alarmingly close, and I pried my eyes open. A huge shadow loomed above me, and I lashed out on instinct. Strong hands stayed my flailing arms and swept me off the floor with ease.

"It's okay. You're safe now."

Safe. Safe from what? Then I remembered the mist. The worm things. My mom. A wail of anguish welled up in my chest as I fought against the strong arms holding me.

"Hey now, everything’s going to be okay. You've lost a lot of blood, but we’re here to help you." The kind voice, the gentle arms—someone was here to help me. To save me. The painful grip binding my chest loosened and a slight whimper escaped. I wasn't alone.

The arms cradled me like a baby. I could hear the stranger's heart beating with a steady rhythm against my ear. It had a calming effect. I stopped fighting as all the tension flowed away, and my body went slack. I looked up into a bearded, tanned face. Warm brown eyes stared back at me.

"That's it, no need to fight anymore. It's gonna be okay. What's your name, little one?" He kept up the inane chatter as he removed me from the dark room, shielding me from the awfulness I knew was on the other side of him. He carried me through the house I had lived in my whole life. If I had known I would never see this place again, I probably would have insisted on taking something of my former life. But I was too numb.

The soothing babble continued all the way outside. I closed my eyes against the blinding morning sunlight, but a sudden shot pierced the air, forcing them back open again. The bearded face leaned over me, blocking the sun.

"Don’t worry. Just look at me." His voice demanded my attention. Kept my focus on him. In the back of my head, my mind registered far off sounds—screams and gunshots—but he kept talking.

"Do you know your name?" he questioned again. My name. My name? For the life of me, I couldn't remember. I stared back at him with wide-eyed panic. Surely, I must know my name. But I drew a blank.

He smiled at my bewilderment.

"Don’t sweat it, kiddo. Sometimes I wake up and can't remember my name either. I've had a few mornings like that."

We passed by the beat-up mailbox, dented from years of run-ins with the bumper of my father's truck. The stranger pointed his chin toward it.

"Says here on the box, ‘Bixby.’ Is that your last name, Bixby?"

Bixby? Yes. I nodded in agreement. This caused excruciating pain to shoot through the side of my damaged face and I bit my lip, stopping myself from crying out. He saw the grimace and concern furrowed his brow.

"Sorry about the pain, kid. But we’ll have you fixed up in no time." He stopped at the curb in front of an idling white pickup truck. I hadn't even noticed it there. Its door stood wide open, and he handed me off to the blonde woman inside. I automatically reached out for him at the loss of contact. The little time I had spent in his arms was the safest I’d felt in a very long time. Responding to my whimper of protest, he took both my grasping hands in his giant palm and squeezed them reassuringly.

"This here is Olivia. She's gonna take real good care of you. Olivia, this is Bixby. Now she's been a real brave soldier so far, but I think she's gonna need our help from here on out. We'll keep you safe, little Bixby, I promise. Or my name isn't Captain John Cooper."

Eight years later "Straight flush!" I yell and spread my cards triumphantly across the scarred wood of the tabletop. The tiny room echoes with the sound of my undisguised gloating. Cackling with glee, I drag the loot of still sealed batteries, bags of MRE pretzels, and the candy to my side of the table. The five other faces illuminated in the watery glow from the naked bulb hanging above the table don't seem to be as pleased as I am.

"There's no way you're this good at poker all the time," Cal says in disgust as he throws his cards down. He scowls at me over black-rimmed glasses held together in the center with a dirty mound of tape.

I stop hoarding and stare back over my pile of winnings at the newest member of our group.

"You accusing me of cheating?" I say with quiet menace, narrowing my eyes.

"Uh-oh," Badger mutters as his skinny frame vacates his chair in a hurry, leaving an empty spot at the table between Cal and me.

"I’m not accusing you of anything other than being extremely lucky. Maybe that's what we should call you from now on—Lucky."

I shake my head, not quite sure if I heard him right.

"You think I, of all people, should be called Lucky? Are you fucking kidding me?" I quickly pull one of my knives out of its leather sheath and practically leap over the table, jamming the tip in the soft fold underneath his dark chin before he can move away. The eyes behind the glasses open wide in shock.

"Maybe I should change your definition of lucky then. Maybe I should cut you open and put you outside the gate, see how many leeches you can outrun. If you live, then that...that would be real lucky, and we get to change your name. How 'bout that?"

"Jesus Christ, Bixby! I wasn't being serious," Cal hisses through gritted teeth, holding his chin high off my knife. His eyes dart around the table, pleading for help.

"Come on guys, tell her to back off."

Blank stares meet his plea.

"Sorry, Cal, man. You accused her of cheating. Bix don't like that. That's what Sellers did, and well, why do you think we needed a new hunter?"

His frantic dark eyes flit back to me. I don't back off an inch. They let him stew for a bit before they finally crack up laughing.

"Don't get your panties in a knot, Cal. She's just shittin' with ya." Luke laughs as he slaps Cal on the back, causing him to lurch forward, and the tip of my knife digs in slightly. A tiny bead of blood forms at the entry point.

"Ah, dammit, Cal. Look what you did. Now you done messed up my knife."

Pulling it away from his chin, I wipe the blood off on my pants leg with disgust as Cal watches me with wary eyes. He dabs at his chin with his sleeve.

"You’re as crazy as what I heard," he mutters, then quickly tries to backtrack as my head snaps his way. "I mean, others have said..."

"Why don't you just leave it at that, Cal," I warn softly. Picking up a silvery bag of pretzels from my loot pile, I toss them his way. "Here. No hard feelings."

The bag hits him squarely in the chest, but he snags it before it can hit the floor.

"Thanks, I guess, since those were mine to begin with."

"Hey, all’s fair in love and poker," I say with a shrug.

"If you're gonna give Cal back his shit." Dom reaches for another of the silvery packets, and I jam my knife into the table, missing his grasping fingers by a hair.

"Don't even think about it," I snarl. He yanks his hand back in a hurry.

"Jesus. PMS'ing much, Bixby?" His lips curl in anger but his flaming face reveals his embarrassment at everyone's laughter.

"Just as much as you, bitch," I toss back with a sweet smile. "We must be on the same cycle."

Out of the five other hunters sitting around the table, Dominic is the only one who can push me to this level of bitchiness. There are a couple reasons why. Number one, he’s a male chauvinist pig. Doesn't matter that I’m a much better hunter than he will ever be, all he sees when he looks at me is a girl. And the way he looks at me sometimes, it makes my skin crawl. I'm glad I can't see into his twisted thoughts, since I'm sure just a tiny taste would be enough to give me nightmares.

Number two, he’s an all-around asshole. And for the life of me I can't figure out why he’s even assigned to our group. He would make a much better guard than a hunter. He has that “my shit don't stink" vibe about him that most guards at the Grand seemed to attain after a while. I mentioned to Cooper a few times about Dom not fitting in as a hunter, but he just laughed at me and told me it was good to have someone around to challenge all my decisions. That it would keep me on my toes.

Luke also doesn't seem to get Dom's nasty side. He tells me often that Dom isn't really that bad of a guy, and I make him out to be worse than he really is.

Luke is a dumbass. A beautiful, caring, giant of a man, but a dumbass just the same. He refuses to see the bad in anyone. He always says there are so few of us left in the world that we need to believe everyone is basically decent. There are times I want to rip those rose-colored glasses right off his damn face. Mostly though, I'm grateful for his calm demeanor. He keeps me grounded.

I watch him now as he clasps Dom on the shoulder, turning the other man’s anger away from me.

"Chill out, my friend. No harm, no foul." He smiles at Dom and whispers, "Women," under his breath like that’s the answer for everything wrong in the world. But it seems to appease Dom, and he grins in agreement. I get a quick wink from Luke before he stands up, blocking Dom from my view. The wink seems to say, 'no offense, Bix,' but I don't take any. I'm just glad the situation was defused before it escalated into one of our heated debates. It's been a hard week, and I don't think I have it in me right now to argue with Dom.

Luke, the peacekeeper. I'm sure Dom and I would have torn out each other’s throats by now if it weren't for him. He is our unofficial leader: level-headed, cautious, and methodical. Everything I'm not. Only a couple of years older than me, but experience wise, he’s a grizzled vet. More than once he’s gotten us out of an ass-ripping in the field, whereas I would’ve just gone balls-to-the-wall to escape the leeches. His instincts are infallible. We’ve never lost a man under his watch, and I'm lucky to call him friend. And lover.

"Come on, Bix. You can keep the damned batteries, but at least share the rest of your loot. It's movie night. Gotta have snacks for movie night, and you took all my shit." This is from Gordon—the youngest member of our group. Barely seventeen, his freckled face and slight stature make him look far younger than his years. But the kid is a super-fast runner, which is one of the most important requirements of a hunter. Sometimes it's all that keeps us alive.

"Movie night?" Shit. I’d forgotten. Amy is going to be pissed at me. I promised to come see her before movie night. That had been what—a week ago? Yup, she’s going to be upset. I'm hoping my newest acquirement for her collection will be enough to lighten her mood.

"Yeah, they're showing Raiders of the Lost Ark tonight. Love that one!" The irony of the boy’s eagerness is not lost on me. That movie had been out long before we’d even been born. Gordon has probably seen it at least twenty or thirty times since the Grand's entire movie collection consisted of a handful of titles, all shown on an old-school projector and movie reel. Yet he's still as excited as if it's a brand-new release. And since new movie releases have gone the way of the dinosaur, we've all learned an appreciation for the classics.

"Did you know-" he continues eagerly, "-in that movie, Harrison Ford kept losing his hat, so at one point they stapled it to his forehead? I read that somewhere." He looks around at us all like he’d just revealed the secret of the Lost Ark itself.

"Yeah, we did," Dom grounds out. "And I still don't give a shit any more than I did the last five times you told us."

Even though I actually agree with Dom on this one, I'm sure as hell not about to say that. Instead I ignore him and sigh at Gordon, tossing a bag of candy his way. "What's the point of beating your asses if I'm just gonna hand it all back to you losers?"

He snatches the bag out of the air and grins at me, taking no offense at Dom's rudeness. The kid really doesn’t take offense to much, although whether he’s too stupid or too young to care, I’m not sure. "You know you're only doing this ‘cause somewhere in that hard shell you call a heart, you’ve got a soft spot for us all."

I join in with his laughter. He has this happy-go-lucky way about him that always cracks me up. But then the snide comment hits my ears.

"Yeah, go figure Bixby would have a soft spot for morons. Not to mention the oldies, cripples, and 'tards, that live here as well. The biggest non-contributors to our survival. As far as I'm concerned, they should all be put outside the gate and—"

Dom doesn't get to finish that sentence. An intense wave of hate floods my body, literally making me see red.

I lunge at him before he can dodge. Taking him down to the floor, I land on top of him, straddling his chest. Laying my left forearm heavy across his throat, I hold my knife inches above his right eye.

"Take that back you ignorant prick, or I swear I will cut your fucking eyeballs right out of your head and pop 'em like grapes!"

Dominic's eyes narrow in undisguised fury as he spits in my face. The spittle runs down my cheek and drips from my chin, turning my anger into a raging inferno. I drop the knife like a hot potato, hitting fast and fierce with three quick punches to his face. Blood spurts from his split lip, but the sight of it only fuels my wrath. I need to inflict more damage. I pull back for another punch, but my anger makes me sloppy. Dom quickly recovers from the surprise attack and lurches to the side, throwing me off of him. My head hits the nightstand next to the bed, and the blow stuns me. Dom takes advantage of my confusion and flips me onto my back, grabbing my arms as he stares down at me.

"Don't you ever threaten me again, bitch," he snarls.

I yank my left hand up to my face, pulling him over me. Not giving him any chance to retaliate, I place my right knee between us and brace my left foot against his hip, pushing with all my might. It forces me out of his grasp, and I roll nimbly to my feet. He's still on his knees, and I move in for a good swift kick to the balls. Nothing I want more than to see this asshat squirming in pain.

Lucky for him, I don't connect. Gordon and Badger jerk him to his feet and pull him out of reach. He struggles against their confinement, but they refuse to let go of his arms. I don't protest their involvement; all the easier for me to kick his damn ass. I know it's a dick move to attack an unarmed guy, but I’m beyond caring right now. He so deserves an ass whooping. I leap at him, but I'm plucked out of the air mid-jump.

"Let. Me. Go." I huff at the arms binding me like a vise, but Luke doesn't let up on me in the least. His lips bury in my hair as he quietly hisses at me, "Calm down, Bix. Calm the hell down."

"Get your hands off of me," Dom says as he pulls his arms free. Gordon and Badger back off, but only after they’re convinced he's not planning to retaliate.

"Bix?" Luke questions quietly, and my nod is abrupt. He still doesn't let go.

"I'm done!" I snap, and he finally releases me. I shake him off as I move away. No one says a word as I wipe the remaining spittle from my face with the back of my sleeve and stare at Dom in hatred. Luke finally breaks the heavy silence.

"What the hell was that?" Even after the drama that just unfolded, he sounds so calm and in control. I, on the other hand, am still pissed to no end.

"You know damn well what that was—Dom being the complete jackass that he is." I turn my glare from the moron across the room and stare pleadingly at Luke. "You just heard him. You heard what he said about the old folks and Amy and Cooper. He's not joking. He truly believes the shit spewing out of his own mouth, so why is he still a part of this group?"

"You know that's not up to me—" Luke begins his usual defense, but I don't want to hear it. Not this time.

"But you can talk to Cooper. He will listen to you," I say in frustration.

"Why don't you go see Cooper yourself, Bixby?" Dom's eyes are as black as coal as he dabs at the blood on his lip with his sleeve. "From what I hear, you have him just as pussy whipped as Thor here."

"That's enough, Dom," Luke growls a warning and I can tell by the throbbing vein at his temple he’s trying hard to hold his temper in check. For a moment, I think do it. I want him to lose control. But right away I feel guilty, since my dislike of Dom isn't Luke's problem.

"What? You don't want me saying out loud what the rest of us already know about your girlfriend, Whitman?" Dom goads, his words filled with insinuation.

"It's not like that," Luke is using his best don’t-fuck-with-me tone, but it only makes Dom snort sarcastically. The laughter grates along my spine like nails on a chalkboard.

"Says who? Her? Like she's gonna tell you the truth. Word has it she's been sleeping with Cooper and you both at the same time. I wouldn't be surprised to find a few more names on that list, either."

"Except for yours," I fire back. "Is that what this is about, Dom? You jealous ‘cause you're feeling left out?" My fists curl again, just itching for some more contact with his leering face. But I know from experience it's pointless. Dom never changes his opinion on anything, no matter how warped that opinion is. I found that out the hard way from our numerous arguments over the years. Why he’s even allowed to live at the Grand with us is a mystery to me. Cooper shares Luke's mindset, believing every life essential. Too bad Dom doesn't feel the same way.

This isn't the first time I've heard his snide comments against the weaker members of the three hundred or so souls that call the Grand home. If it were up to him, the old and the disabled would be put out as fodder for the leeches. He believes if you don't contribute substantially, then you don't belong. I could learn to ignore him if I didn't know that there are others who share his opinion. Although I can probably count them on one hand, it still makes me uneasy.

"Forget it, Luke," I mutter to the tense giant standing beside me. "Don't waste any more of your time talking to that narrow-minded, fuck-knuckle."

"Truth hurts, don't it, Bixby," Dom shrugs at me and I bite my lip, fighting hard against the urge to punch him again.

Instead I take a menacing step and growl, "Get the fuck out, Dom! All of you—get out."

To my relief, they obey. Cal and Badger send wary smiles my way as they pass by. Gordon even goes as far as picking up my knife and handing it to me, but the laughter following Dom's retreat pisses me off even more. I hold my temper in check until they clear the small room, but as soon as the door closes behind them, I take my wrath out on the poker table.

"Arrrggghhhh!" Furious, I stab my knife over and over into the soft wood, growling in frustration with each blow. Luke watches silently from the safety of the other side of the table.

"I think you killed it," he says dryly, as my attack on the table finally slows down. Giving one more stab for good measure, I lean over the table with a tight grip, catching my breath.

"God, I really do hate that sonofabitch."

"You really shouldn't let him get to you so much. He enjoys goading you—and you fall for it every time. You know his bark is far worse than his bite. He doesn't believe half of what he says—"

"What?" I stare at him in disbelief. "Did we not just hear the same conversation? Not to mention he pretty much called me a whore. Thanks for defending me by the way," I say.

His soft chuckle only adds to my annoyance. Why is he laughing? There’s nothing funny about this situation.

"One thing I've learned about you over the years, Emma Bixby, you don't need defending by any man. Besides, the one time I did try to defend you, you nearly took my head off. I won't be that stupid again."

"Is that so?" My obvious anger only seems to cause him to laugh harder. "So not helping, Luke. And why are you even still here? I told all of you to get the hell out. That includes you, you big ape."

"Considering this is my room, I figured you would make a concession." His laughter finally dies down to a stupid grin. Folding his arms across his wide chest, he rocks back on his boot heels. "Besides, I can't leave you. You're all riled up now, and I alone know the only way to calm you down when your dander is up. Have I ever told you you're sexy as hell when you're pissed?"

He wiggles his eyebrows at me in an exaggerated leer.

"Sexy as hell?" I mock. "Really? Not the best time for one of your cheesy pick-up lines, Whitman."

"Cheesy, but true," he says, his chocolate brown eyes raking over me with such a look of heat my knees go weak. My mouth suddenly dries out like the Sahara as he drops his arms and ambles my way. His big hands grip my shoulders with an urgency that belies his leisurely approach. At 5'8 I’m no slouch, but still he towers above me. His blonde head dips toward mine and the feathery caress of his lips as they move up my neck and along my jawline sends shivers quivering down my spine.

"You're an ass," I mumble in protest. My anger still vibrates through me, competing with the arousal he’s awakening. He responds by nibbling on my neck.

"Luke," I protest again, thinking I should push him away, but my will falters.

"Bix," he mocks softly, before the mouth I know so well covers mine, silencing me. The arousal wins out.

His lips are gentle. Probing. Eliciting that same carnal response from me they do every time. We’ve been friends for the past five years. Ever since I’d been assigned to his group of hunters. Our more intimate relationship had only blossomed about six months ago. But if I’d known then what unimaginable delights this blonde giant was capable of giving, I wouldn't have waited so damn long.

My hands run through his thick hair, pulling his face closer to mine. His day-old stubble is rough against my cheek, and his skin emits a sweet muskiness, part soap, part sweat, and all Luke. That scent awakens the nerve endings between my legs with a throbbing desire.

His breath catches in his chest as I press my body into his, feeling all too well the evidence of his arousal. Growling in the back of his throat, he lifts me with his big hands and plunks my rear down hard on the table. Wrapping my long legs around his waist, I pull him against me and grind shamelessly, wishing there weren’t layers of denim between us.

The kiss deepens as he crushes my lips with his need to have more of me. His tongue probes mine, and the groan it raises from me is primal. I pull at his T-shirt, yanking it over his head, not giving a damn that I rip it in the process. His bare chest is warm and smooth against my hands, and his muscles spasm at my touch. My obvious effect on him fills me with a euphoria that just deepens my need for him.

"God, Bix. I love you," he moans against my lips. His hands and mouth cover me everywhere, like his admission has fueled his desire. But the effect it has on me is quite the opposite. It's as if someone has suddenly doused me with a bucket of ice water. I go still under his frantic touch. A knot forms in my belly, displacing the hot need. Irritated, I push at his chest, trying to form a gap between us.

Why did he say that?

As if just realizing what he said, he pulls away from me slowly. His eyes reflect the hurt at my instant rejection.

"I told you never to say that again," I whisper through my swollen lips. Struggling to untangle myself from his arms, I try to move away, but he won't let me. His strong arms hold me in place.

"I don't care what you told me, Bix. It’s true. And I'm tired of trying to hide it. I love you. What's so wrong about that?"

"Let go of me, Luke," I plead as my eyes drop from his. I don't want to look at his eyes anymore, for in them I can see the undeserving truth of his words.

"Bix, it’s been a year and a half for Christ's sake. Let him go already." I can hear pleading, frustration, and concern in his voice, but all it does is piss me off.

"I said let go of me." I shove hard against his chest. He stumbles back a couple of steps, but he doesn't try to stop me as I slide off the table and walk away on unsteady legs. I head for the bed, grabbing my backpack from where it’s been sitting on Luke's floor since our return from the field yesterday. I had spent the whole night here in his arms, making love and feeling content. But now that one single word changes everything. I need to get out of this room and away from Luke. Away from my still thrumming desire. He says nothing as I stay long enough to scoop my winnings into my bag, avoiding eye contact with him. Turning my back, I stride to the door and yank it open with enough force to send it crashing into the wall. His soft voice follows me into the hallway.

"Run all you want, Bix, but I'm still gonna be here. I'm not going anywhere; you may as well get used to it. Just as much as you need to get used to the fact that Sam is never coming back."