The Blood that Binds (Thicker than Blood Book 3), Page 2

  Descending the broken staircase, we wove through a maze of decrepit hallways and crumbling rooms, emerging inside a kitchen—a once striking black and silver room equipped with stainless steel appliances that were now tarnished with rust and coated in filth. My eyes immediately found the eyesore in the center, where furniture had been piled up in front of a door, beyond which I could make out the faint sound of shuffling. The stench of rot tinged the damp air, increasing as we drew closer to the barricade. My nose wrinkled—I might’ve grown accustomed to sharing my world with the dead, but I would never grow accustomed to the smell of them.

  Logan headed for the barricade and began dismantling it. The shuffling from behind the door grew louder and more agitated with every piece of furniture he dragged aside.

  “They’ve been in there a while,” I murmured, running my fingertip over the countertop, drawing a line through the thick layer of dust. Pausing in front of the refrigerator, I looked over the faded collection of the things hanging there—school photos, a candid family shot, and a business card for a lawn service. TAMING NATURE IS AN ART FORM, it read, causing me to snort. Judging by the current state of things, I thought nature might be inclined to disagree. Continuing my trek through the kitchen, I stopped in front of a wall calendar, opened to the month of April, seven years prior.

  “Logan?”

  “What?”

  “What month is it?”

  “May… maybe June. Who the fuck cares?”

  I tried to recall the last time I’d known the date. Living the way we did—on the road and in the wild—the only calendar we followed was nature’s.

  “You should suit up,” Logan said.

  “I’m good.” Tearing my eyes away from the calendar, I joined Logan at the door. Grabbing the length of pipe from my pack, I wrapped both hands around the base and planted my feet.

  Logan, having just finished with the barricade, straightened and stared at me. “Suit up, Willow,” he growled.

  I met his pointed look with one of equal measure. “I said, I’m good.”

  “I’m not opening that door until you’re suited up.”

  “You’re not suited up.”

  “I’m not the one wearing a tank top, practically begging to get bitten.”

  “It’s nine hundred fucking degrees out—what else would I be wearing?”

  “We don’t know how many are in there. Even Shamblers can get the drop on you if there are enough of them. So-suit-the-fuck-up.” He said the last part slowly, deliberately punctuating each word.

  Knowing that fighting with Logan always proved pointless, I dropped my pipe and jerked angrily out of my pack. Digging roughly through my belongings, I pulled out my gear—a worn leather jacket, a battered pair of leather gloves, and a hockey mask. Only once I was fully suited up did Logan pull his crowbar from his belt. Scooping up my pipe with a snarl, I readied to swing.

  “Stop being pissed at me and pay attention,” he commanded.

  Stop being pissed at me and pay attention, I mimicked silently.

  Logan twisted the knob; the door groaned loudly in protest. He continued twisting and pulling until it flung open with a POP. A blast of hot, putrid air rushed out to greet us as a snarling Creeper stumbled through the open doorway, tripping over Logan’s waiting foot. The Creeper, little more than a bag of bones, broke when it fell, its bones splintering and splitting through its paper-thin skin.

  “I wouldn’t be pissed if you’d stop treating me like a kid,” I countered, swinging my pipe. “I’m twenty-three, for fuck’s sake.” The steel collided with the back of the Creeper’s skull, the brittle bone easily giving way. Thick black sludge oozed from the gaping wound, revealing white-gray brain matter. The Vaal Fever, once you were infected, worked quickly to kill you, only to reanimate your brain, even as the rest of your body eventually turned to dust. Despite the working brain, the dead retained no memories of who they’d been; they were nothing more than simple-minded monsters, driven by a singular need—hunger.

  “Would it kill you to act like it?” Logan said, just as a second Creeper lurched into the kitchen, taller and larger than the first. Quickly met with Logan’s crowbar in its eye socket, its shrunken, spindly arms reached fruitlessly while Logan shoved the crowbar deeper into its head; the moment the steel punctured its brain, it ceased moving. With a grunt, Logan wrenched the tool from the eye socket and the Creeper’s body dropped to the floor. When nothing else appeared in the doorway, I flipped my mask up.

  “Two? I suited up for two sacks of bones? I bet they didn’t even have teeth.”

  With an agitated sigh, Logan moved inside the garage. Glaring after him, I quickly stripped out of my leather gear, stuffing it haphazardly back into my pack before following him in.

  The smell of rot and decay doubled inside the dark, dank room, made worse by the stifling heat. Two vehicles sat side by side, both in various states of disarray; on the back wall hung a vast display of neatly hung tools, and on the far wall were several heavy-duty metal shelving units packed full with plastic tubs. Ignoring Logan—who was busy inspecting the wall of tools—I pulled my neck gaiter over my nose and headed for the shelves.

  Countless tubs lined the shelves; large sporting equipment hung nearby—a set of golf clubs, a pair of kayaks and matching oars, and a disassembled soccer net. Perusing the shelves, I dragged down a heavy tub, finding it packed full with camping gear—some of which we could use. Setting it aside, I dragged a second tub from the shelves. Wiping the dust from the top, I lifted the lid, revealing a container stuffed to the brim with Christmas decorations. Staring down at them, I found myself lost in a memory.

  Dad dressed in his red and green plaid pajamas, mistletoe clutched in his hand, his eyes twinkling as he stares…

  … as he stares straight through me, unseeing. A trail of blood runs across his forehead, dripping onto the floor.

  I blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears that threatened, and slammed the lid shut on the holiday decor. Shoving the tub away, I reached for another, this one labeled: HALLOWEEN.

  “Now that’s more like it,” I said, holding up a decorative skeleton with glowing yellow eyes.

  “Willow, what the fuck are you doing?” Logan demanded. “You’re supposed to be looking for shit we can use, not playing with toys.”

  I scowled at the skeleton in my hand before tossing it aside. “Yes, Sir Dick-a-Lot—right away,” I growled softly.

  Logan

  Grumbling curses beneath my breath, I looked away from Willow. If the house hadn’t already implied wealth, the extensive walls of tools before me, most of them were unused and still in their packaging, would have clued me in. Back when the world had still made sense, I’d known the type—rich people who’d had to have at least one of everything, even if they never used it. I would have wagered good money that this particular house had been a vacation spot—a grand country home that had been a wealthy family’s means of escape from their busy city lives… or an escape from the end of the world.

  After swapping some of my own tools for much-needed replacements, I moved on to the vehicle closest to me—a large black SUV with old bloody handprints smeared across its windows. Its tan interior was also liberally covered in blood, long ago dried and flaking off.

  The second vehicle—another SUV, silver in color—still had its keys in the ignition. Pocketing them, I began searching through a handbag lying on the driver’s seat, most of its contents spilled onto the floor. Finding nothing of use, I reached across the dash and popped open the glove box finding a small silver pistol glinting atop a pile of aging papers.

  “Jackpot,” I breathed.

  With the collapse of society, guns and ammunition had been among the first wave of things to disappear. We’d had a few early on, but without bullets, they had very quickly become deadweight.

  Examining the pistol, I found it fully loaded and the safety off, something I rectified before removing the clip and stuffing both pieces into my pockets. Making a mental note
to check the house for more ammo, I continued searching the vehicle.

  “Holy shit! Holyshitholyshitholyshit!”

  Willow’s shouting had me bashing my head on the roof of the car in a race to exit it. Rushing around the front of the vehicle, pulling out my crowbar as I ran, I found her surrounded by open storage bins, their contents littering the floor around her.

  “Logan, look!” she squealed. “Look at this!”

  She was brandishing a box in each hand, shaking them excitedly. I couldn’t tell exactly what they were as I was momentarily distracted by her ridiculous getup—a large feather boa, with feathers in every color of the rainbow, and a pair of green googly eyed antennae. She continued to jump around, the googly eyes on top of her head bouncing in tandem with her breasts.

  “There’s rice and pasta and fucking chocolate!”

  Declaration delivered, Willow dropped to her knees, tearing open one box while the others tumbled away. At least a dozen individually wrapped cake rolls spilled onto her lap. Scooping up several packages, she tore one open with her teeth and ate the entire thing in three succinct bites, discarding the wrapper without care.

  “Mmmahhaddd,” she moaned around a mouthful of chocolate and cream. “It’s horrible and stale and ah-mazing.”

  Putting my crowbar away, I approached the mess Willow had made. Out of the half dozen containers she’d pulled from the shelves, two of them were full of food. Not all of it had survived, as was usually the case in regions that experienced a wide range of weather conditions. Oftentimes when canned food froze, the food inside expanded, causing the can to burst. Thankfully, among the rotten canned goods, there were plenty of bagged and boxed items that remained in visibly good condition. A little water, a little heat, and we’d have ourselves a goddamn feast.

  “Hey, what are you guys yelling about—wait, is that chocolate?” Lucas raced through the garage, dropping down beside Willow. Tearing open a cake roll, he shoved the entire thing into his mouth.

  “It’s disgusting,” he mumbled, bits of chocolate spraying from his lips. Grabbing another, he ate it twice as fast.

  “Slow down,” I said, frowning at them. “You’re going to make yourselves sick.”

  “Logan, shut up and eat something!” Willow tossed a cake roll at me; it hit me in the chest before falling to the floor.

  “We need to secure the house first,” I ground out through gritted teeth. “Luke, did you finish searching upstairs?”

  They both ignored me, content to continue stuffing their faces and making a mess of themselves. Content to continue teasing each other and laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Watching them, every muscle in my body began to tense. They really didn’t have a care in the world—not when I was the one always taking care of everything. Lucas and Willow would have been dead years ago if it wasn’t for me, and yet here they were, acting like spoiled children—impulsive and obnoxious, forever forgetting that there was important shit to do, always oblivious to the infinite number of dangers lurking around every corner. Acting like it was just the two of them.

  Acting like I wasn’t even here.

  “Make sure you finish searching upstairs,” I growled, spinning away, the fallen cake roll exploding beneath my boot, forcing me to stop and scrape my heel against the floor. Growing angrier with each swipe, I stormed from the garage, my fists clenched.

  Resuming my search of the first floor, I found myself growing angrier still. This farmhouse, as grand as it had seemed at first glance, was little more than a garbage heap, each room looking worse than the last. The collapsed roof had caused an infestation, not just of wildlife, but of mold. And once mold took root, it was only a matter of time before the entire house was compromised.

  With only one room left to search, I opened the door, startled to find its contents dry and free of mold. It had once been an office, accommodating an ornate desk and an equally elaborate chair. A bay window stretched across one side of the room, framed by bookshelves filled with hardbound books and expensive-looking knickknacks. Everything was covered in dust.

  Dropping my pack by the door, I opened one of the windows. Removing its screen, I stuck my head out into the sweltering heat, happy to find that the window was set low enough to the ground to be utilized as a second entrance or an emergency exit.

  Next, I rearranged the furniture, moving the bulk toward the door to serve as a barricade come nightfall. Using the window curtains, I wiped down the dusty contents until I was satisfied with the state of the room. Climbing out the window, I surveyed the vast property, thick with trees and so overgrown we’d nearly missed it.

  I had a vague idea of where we were. Having passed through little more than farmland and wooded areas, I figured we had to be approaching a town or possibly even a small city. Usually, we worked to avoid once populated places—places where Creepers tended to congregate—but our current food shortage was starting to concern me; we couldn’t live off roots forever. The bigger the town, the bigger the payout would be.

  As I made my way through the waist-high lawn, bugs rising from the foliage in dense black clouds, I began noticing bits of broken fencing. Toeing through the vegetation for a closer look, something else snagged my attention. I dug deeper, ripping away fistfuls of greenery, exposing the mouthwatering prize beneath—vines covered in clusters of juicy-looking grapes. Plucking one, I broke it open, examining its innards, ensuring that it was in fact grapes I’d discovered and not a poisonous impostor.

  Look at the seeds—if they’re round, they’re grapes, if they’re crescent-shaped, they’re Fox Grapes.

  It was thanks to my mother’s green thumb that I knew what little I did—mainly what was edible and what wasn’t. Looking back, I wished I’d listened more intently to her gardening nonsense—things that had seemed so insignificant at the time but had ultimately ended up saving our lives after everything had gone to hell.

  Popping the grape in my mouth, I moved on, heading toward a small shed in the distance. Unlike my traveling companions, I actually had self-control. I could, and would, abstain from gorging myself until after our safety was ensured.

  I circled the shed before entering—it was a typical garden-sized hut, windowless and with a barn door–style entryway. The doorframe was warped and rotting, the door latch rusted over. Prying off the latch, I used my crowbar to wrest the doors open; wood crumbled, breaking off in sharp, jagged chunks as the doors popped free.

  Inside the shed, spiders hurried to climb up their silk strands, vanishing into the shed rafters. Standing in the entranceway, I surveyed the meager contents with dismay—a riding mower, a stack of dust-covered planter boxes, and a bag of topsoil.

  Closing the doors, I made my way back to the house, loud laughter and a trail of cake roll wrappers greeting me in the hallway. No matter how many times I reminded Lucas and Willow to keep quiet, they rarely listened. Sloppy, forgetful, idiotic—I ticked off their less desirable traits in my head as I moved quickly down the hall. About to turn into the room, I stopped dead.

  With her back to me, Willow stood in front of the open window, pulling her shirt off over her head. Raven black braids swayed across her back as she stretched, her softly curved form a beacon in the blazing sunset. The side of one breast was visible, the tilt of her chin exposing a sleek expanse of neck, while beads of sweat dripped down the concave center, her bronze skin shimmering in the most mesmerizing way.

  My dick twitched and hardened, much to my annoyance. It wasn’t as if this were the first time I’d seen her without her clothes on. Hell, at this point, I should be numb to it. Living the way we did, we weren’t afforded the luxury of modesty, and we’d long ago grown accustomed.

  “Are you two kidding me?” I said, barging into the room. “What if I was someone else—someone dangerous?” I pointed an accusatory finger at Lucas, who lay on the sofa, his arms propped behind his head. “What if I’d been a Creeper? We haven’t even set up camp and the two of you are already fucking off.”

&n
bsp; They’d both jumped when I’d entered—Lucas shot up off the couch while Willow hurried to finish dressing.

  “Well?” I demanded when no one spoke.

  “Calm down,” Willow muttered. “We were just about to start.”

  “Yeah right,” I bit out. “Did one of you at least finish clearing the upstairs?”

  When neither of them replied, I turned away, shaking my head. “Set up camp,” I growled over my shoulder. “I’ll be upstairs finishing what you two should be doing.”

  As I retreated down the hall, the house was quiet, the only noise from the frantic thrumming of blood through my veins.

  My return to the office was met with gloomy expressions and sulking silence; Lucas sat on the couch with his nose buried in a book, while Willow sat on the windowsill, staring off into the fading sunlight. I ignored their silence, satisfied to find they’d actually listened for a change and set up camp while I’d been gone.

  Our three threadbare sleeping bags had been arranged in a circle, our makeshift stove and canteens set in the center. Used mostly for boiling rainwater, the stove was nothing more than a large tin can with a small pot that fit over the top of it.

  Closing the door behind me, I placed my findings at my feet and began barricading the door before dismantling what was left of my gear—the tool belt I wore at my waist, the blades I kept strapped all over my body, and my steel-toed boots. Stripping off my sweat-soaked socks, I laid them out on the floor to dry.

  “Find anything good?” Lucas asked, his tentative tone and anxious expression reminding me so much of our mother when our father had been in one of his moods. As guilt swelled inside me, I gestured at the moth-eaten pillowcase I’d used to carry what I found. “Go ahead and look. Take whatever you want.”

  Lucas and Willow glanced at each other, grins spreading across their faces. Like kids on Christmas morning, they raced across the room, both of them diving for the pillowcase, briefly yanking it back and forth before dumping its contents onto the floor.