Chapter 1: Chapter 1
The generator’s hum was a low, steady drone beneath the tinny sound of cards being slapped onto the crate. Arami studied her hand, the edges of the cards softened from years of use. The air in the storage room was thick with the smell of old oil and dust, cut through by the sharper scent of cheap disinfectant Valeria used on everything.
From the adjacent room, a rhythmic thudding against the shared wall punctuated the quiet. A gasp, sharp and genuine, then a low, guttural groan. Then Carla’s voice, climbing, “Yeah, right there, fuck, just like that!”
Dante didn’t look up from his cards. “She’s going for the operatic finish today,” he remarked, flicking a card down. “Three of knives.”
“Clubs. They’re clubs, you depressive shit,” Valeria corrected, not looking up from her own hand. Her medical kit was open beside her, instruments neatly arranged.
Arami shifted on her upturned bucket, the crate between them wobbling. She focused on the lines of Valeria’s freckles, a constellation across her nose, anything but the sounds. Carla’s cries peaked, a raw, shuddering shout of release that echoed in the hollow space. Moments later, a deeper, frantic grunt, then silence.
They heard the heavy bootsteps, the rustle of clothing being adjusted. The door to the front room opened and shut. A minute passed before Carla emerged, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She was pulling on a fresh pair of underwear, her slender body gleaming with a light sweat in the generator’s glow. She snagged her tank top from a nail and pulled it on, then sank onto an old car seat beside Dante.
“Deal me in,” she said, her voice a little hoarse.
Dante slid a pile of cards her way. “How many left?”
“The deal was for eight clients. So, two.” Carla fanned her cards out, her face calm. The vibrant, charismatic mask she wore for marks was gone, replaced by a flat, efficient exhaustion.
“You know,” Dante said, examining a card, “I could’ve done it. I’m the one who needs the alternator. My hands are already dirty.”
Carla barked a laugh. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, you need the part so all four of us can travel. That makes it a group thing. My turn, my rules.” She tossed a card down. “Your lead, Arami.”
Valeria looked over at Carla, her green eyes clinical. “You want me to take the next client? I didn’t finish med school, but I’m fairly sure you’re going to get a vaginal cramp.”
Carla let out a real, surprised cackle. “Does that exist?”
Valeria shrugged. “Muscles are muscles. Overexertion leads to cramping. It’s basic biology.”
“If you want to,” Carla said, her smile softening into something grateful. “Wouldn’t mind a breather. Just… stick to the script. The guys from the Garrison like it loud.”
Arami’s voice was quiet, almost lost under the generator. “I could do it.”
All movement at the crate stopped. Carla looked at her, her blue eyes instantly kind and fierce. “Arami, listen to me. If we ever need you to sleep with someone for something, we all get bitten by a crawler first. We don’t want you doing anything you don’t want. Ever.” She reached over and squeezed Arami’s wrist. “That’s not your weight to carry. Okay?”
Arami felt a knot in her chest loosen. She gave a small, grateful smile. “Okay.”
A heavy knock rattled the door to the front room. Three sharp raps.
Valeria stood up, straightening her shirt. “I’ll go.” She walked to the door, pausing to roll her shoulders back. When she opened it, the silhouette of a large blond man filled the frame. She said something low, he nodded, and she led him into the other room, closing the door behind them.
The card game resumed, haltingly. For a few minutes, there was only the slap of cards and the generator. Then, Valeria’s voice, clear and deliberately commanding, sliced through the wall. “Right there. Yes. Keep eating my cunt just like that. Faster.”
Dante raised an eyebrow. “She’s a quick study.”
Arami stared at the wall, imagining Valeria’s serious face, the concentration she brought to stitching a wound now applied to this performance.
A sharp, shattered cry from Valeria—different from Carla’s, more controlled but no less intense—was followed by a series of frantic, accelerating thumps against the plaster. The wall shook. A final, solid slam, then a long, heavy quiet.
Carla grinned, a flash of white in the dim light. “See? Team effort. One more after this, and we’re out of here with your precious alternator.” She looked at Dante. “You get that heap running, we can make it to the Green Zone before the rains hit.”
Dante just nodded, his eyes on the cards, but Arami saw the faint tightness around his mouth. He hated this part. They all did, but they all carried it differently. Carla wore it like an old jacket, Valeria treated it like a clinical procedure, Dante let it fuel a silent, smoldering anger. Arami just felt the hollow ache of it, the price of another mile, another day.
The door to the front room opened. Bootsteps again, retreating. A moment later, Valeria walked back in. Her red hair was slightly mussed, her lips swollen. She walked straight to her med-kit, took out a bottle of clear liquid and a cloth, and began meticulously cleaning her hands and face. Her expression was the same one she wore after setting a bone: focused, distant, done.
“One left,” she said, her voice even. “He’s getting a beer. Said he’ll be two minutes.”
Carla stood up, stretching her arms over her head with a groan. “My turn to close the deal, then. Let’s finish this.”
Arami gathered the cards, her fingers tracing the faded patterns. The generator hummed. Somewhere outside, in the ruins, her raven croaked. They were almost done. They had what they needed. They were still together. For now, in this oil-stained room with the sounds of survival still echoing in the walls, that had to be enough.
For now, in this oil-stained room with the sounds of survival still echoing in the walls, that had to be enough.
Carla stretched, her joints popping. “Right. We’re down to scraps. Dante, you’re on water filter duty. Check the east pump. Val, the medic hut owes us for those antibiotics from New Haven. Go collect. I’ll sweet-talk the quartermaster for some extra ammo.” She looked at Arami. “You okay to hold the fort? Just pack up our shit. We move at first light.”
Arami nodded. “I’ll get it sorted.”
They filed out, the heavy door groaning shut behind them. The sudden silence was a physical thing, thick and weighted. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on her worn backpack. Her phone. She’d had it earlier, tapping along to the sparse songs Dante had managed to load onto it—a precious relic he’d jury-rigged into a music player when the networks finally died.
It wasn’t in her bag. Or her pockets.
A sharp kraa sounded from the doorway. Baby, her raven, hopped on the threshold, his head cocked, black eyes glittering. He let out another insistent cry, bobbing towards the other room—the client room.
“Did I leave it in there?” she muttered, rubbing her temple. The thought of going back in made her skin crawl. But it was just a room. Empty now. And the music on that thing, the haunting folk songs from before the Fall, were a tether to something softer. She couldn’t lose it.
“Thanks, Baby,” she whispered, and stepped past the bird.
The room was darker, lit only by a single dust-caked window high on the wall. The air was close, saturated with the smell of sex, sweat, and stale beer. The bed was a crumpled mess of thin blankets. She moved quickly, scanning the floor, the lone crate serving as a nightstand. Nothing.
She got on her knees, peering into the shadowy space beneath the iron bedframe. There, nestled against the far leg, was the familiar cracked black case. She stretched her arm, her fingers brushing the edge, hooking it, and pulling it towards her. She clutched it to her chest, a small victory.
As she rose, turning to leave, she collided with a solid wall of muscle and tactical gear.
A scream ripped from her throat. She stumbled back, her legs hitting the bedframe, and she flailed, sure she was going down. A large hand shot out, clamping around her bicep, steadying her with terrifying ease. Her gaze travelled up the broad chest, over the straps of a loaded harness, to the face concealed by a black balaclava. Only the eyes were visible. They were a sharp, clear grey, like winter storm clouds, and they were fixed on her.
“I… thank you,” she stammered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The man gave a single, slow nod. “Reaper.”
His voice was a low rasp, gravel over stone. It took her a second to process the word as a name, not a threat.
“Oh! Arami,” she said, pointing weakly to herself.
Another nod. Then his hands were on her, not rough, but inexorable. One still on her arm, the other finding the small of her back, guiding her, turning her, until the backs of her knees met the mattress and she sat down hard. He loomed over her, his presence swallowing the dim light.
“Wait, no, no,” she babbled, understanding dawning with a wave of cold dread. She pushed against his chest. “It’s not me. It’s my friend. Carla. She’s the one you… the arrangement.”
Reaper let out a sigh, the sound weary behind the mask. “I know they pay you extra for that virgin role-play shit. I’m not in the mood for it.” His gloved hands came up and covered her breasts, kneading them through her threadbare tank top. The pressure was shocking, intimate. A traitorous spark of sensation flickered deep in her belly.
She meant to protest again, but the words died as he squeezed, his thumbs finding her nipples and pressing down in slow, deliberate circles through the fabric. Her breath hitched. It had been so long since anyone had touched her with any kind of intent. A low, distracted noise escaped her. He took it as encouragement, hooking his fingers into the neckline of her top and tugging it down, exposing her. The cool air pebbled her skin a second before his bare hands—he must have removed the gloves—covered her again, skin on skin. His palms were calloused, rough, mapping her softness. He pinched a nipple, rolling it, and a sharp bolt of pleasure-pain shot straight to her core, making her hips jerk.
Reality crashed back when she felt the button of her cargo pants pop open, the zipper rasp down. She clenched her thighs, but he was already between them, a hand sliding into her waistband, pushing the fabric down over her hips. She felt utterly exposed.
“Wait! I’m a virgin!” The declaration was a frantic, true thing.
He paused, his head tilting. Those grey eyes scanned hers, looking for the lie. He leaned in, his voice a hot murmur against her ear. “If you’re a virgin, then I should prepare you.”
He pulled the bottom of his balaclava up just past his mouth. She had a glimpse of a strong jaw, a lower lip bisected by a thin scar, before he bent his head. He nuzzled against the thin cotton of her underwear, his breath scalding through the fabric. Then his tongue, broad and wet, pressed against her. He licked a slow, firm stripe over the center of her. A helpless moan tore from Arami’s throat. Her hands flew to his shoulders, not to push, but to clutch.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of her underwear and peeled them down her legs, discarding them. He didn’t hesitate. His mouth was on her, directly on her, his tongue seeking out the sensitive bud hidden in her folds. She cried out, her head falling back, her braids scraping against the rough blanket. It was too much. It was everything. The slick, rhythmic pressure built a heat that spread from her center to her fingertips. She was panting, a low, continuous whine in her throat.
He slid a finger inside her, just the tip, testing. He groaned against her, the vibration making her seize. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick. “You’re so fucking tight I almost believe you.” He worked the finger deeper, a slow, burning stretch that made her gasp. He curled it, finding a spot that made her back arch off the bed. He didn’t stop licking, sucking, his finger moving in a steady, penetrating rhythm alongside his mouth.
The coil inside her wound impossibly tight. Her thighs trembled, clamping around his head. A wave of pure, blinding sensation shattered through her, wringing a ragged, broken scream from her lungs. She pulsed around his finger, her vision spotting.
While she was still shuddering, breathless and boneless, he moved. He loomed over her again, his weight settling between her thighs. She felt the blunt, insistent pressure of him, hard and huge, at her entrance.
“Without the mask,” she whispered, her voice raw.
He stilled. “If you want it.” He reached up, gripped the edge of the balaclava, and pulled it off in one swift motion.
Arami’s breath caught. His face was a landscape of violence. A thick scar ran from his temple, skipping his eye but carving through his cheek to his jaw. Another puckered line tugged at the corner of his mouth. His hair was cropped short, dark. The scars should have been frightening. They were. But his eyes, now fully revealed, held a stark, weary honesty that disarmed her completely.
Hesitantly, she lifted a hand. He didn’t flinch. Her fingertips traced the longest scar, feeling the raised, smooth tissue. He closed his eyes for a second, a muscle in his jaw feathering.
When he opened them, he caught her hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her palm. Then he lowered himself, aligning their bodies. He kissed her mouth, deeply, swallowing her gasp. As his tongue tangled with hers, he pushed forward.
There was a moment of impossible, seizing pressure. A sharp, tearing pain. She whimpered into the kiss. He froze, buried deep inside her, his entire body going rigid. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. The storm-grey was wide, shocked.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, the words filled with a kind of horrified awe. “You weren’t lying.”
He didn’t pull out. He stayed there, joined to her, as the truth of it settled between them in the silent, filthy room.
He stayed there, joined to her, as the truth of it settled between them in the silent, filthy room.
Arami gasped, the fullness of him a stark, burning reality. Her body trembled, a confused mix of pain and a terrifying, mounting need. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, the words shocking her as they left her lips.
Reaper didn’t move his hips. Instead, he brought his hand between their bodies, his thumb finding her clitoris. He began to stroke it in slow, firm circles, his eyes locked on hers.
Arami didn’t look away from his eyes. She watched the storm in them, the focus, as a new kind of sensation built, separate from the dull ache inside her. She began to pant, soft whimpers escaping with each exhale. The pleasure sharpened, coiling tighter and tighter, a bright wire of feeling that began to sing. She came with a silent, open-mouthed scream, her body clenching rhythmically around his still, embedded length, waves of release washing through her, softening the pain into a throbbing, warm aftermath.
As she caught her breath, Reaper said, his voice rough, “That’s better.” He leaned down, kissed her shoulder, a brief, hard press of his scarred mouth.
Then he began to move his hips.
First, slowly. An agonizing, gentle withdrawal and a careful, deeper return, letting her adjust to the slide. She felt every inch, the shocking friction, the stretch. Instinctively, she pushed her hips up to meet his next thrust, clumsily, seeking more of that strange, full feeling.
He grunted, a sound of approval, and increased his speed.
Arami clawed at his back, her nails digging into the hard muscle, tangling in the short hair at his nape. She moaned, a wordless plea for more. Reaper moved faster, harder. Each driving stroke pushed a ragged cry from her lungs. She couldn’t contain her moans; they filled the small room, raw and honest. Reaper only panted and sighed above her, his control immense, his movements becoming relentless.
He gripped her ass, hauling her hips up to a new angle, and the next thrust hit a place so deep and startling that she saw sparks. The headboard slammed against the wall with a steady, cracking rhythm. The old iron bedframe groaned, protested, and with a final shriek of shearing metal, the legs gave way. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and blankets, but it didn’t stop them.
Arami didn’t know what to do with her legs. She wrapped them around his waist, hooked her ankles, wanting him closer, deeper, consumed. Reaper found the perfect angle, the sweet spot of Arami’s pleasure, and hammered into it. She cried out louder, each sound climbing higher, tighter, until her world narrowed to the point where their bodies joined and then exploded. She climaxed again, a violent, shattering wave that tore a shout from her throat.
Reaper followed two brutal strokes later. He drove into her, buried himself to the hilt, and let out a choked, guttural roar as he pulsed inside her.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing in the dust-filled air. They looked into each other’s eyes, the world narrowed to this ruined room, this broken bed, this impossible connection.
Suddenly, shouts echoed in the distance. Not the usual communal noise. These were sharp, panicked.
A heavy fist pounded on the outer storage room door. A man’s voice, tense and urgent, yelled through the metal. “Reaper! We’ve got a problem! Breach at the west barrier!”
Reaper was moving before the words faded. He pulled out of her, a sudden, shocking emptiness. “Get dressed. Now.”
They scrambled into their clothes, a frantic, silent dance. Arami’s fingers fumbled with her buttons. Reaper yanked his balaclava back on, becoming the anonymous soldier again in an instant. They burst out of the room just as a man—Jhonny, clad in similar tactical gear—kicked open the main depot door. He tossed a rifle to Reaper, already charging his own.
“What is it?” Reaper snapped, his voice all command.
“Crawler. Big one. Took out a whole section of fencing.”
The three of them spilled out into the evening light. Chaos. People were running, screaming, heading for the central bunkers. Across the compound, near the western watchtower, a nightmare was unfolding. A Crawler, a grotesque, hulking thing of patchwork flesh and exposed bone, roared as it swiped a pickup truck, sending it spinning. It was smashing through storage shacks, tossing debris like gravel.
Reaper and Jhonny didn’t hesitate. They moved in unison, taking cover behind a fortified water tank, and opened fire. The sharp cracks of rifle fire split the air. The creature shrieked, turning its lumpen head toward them.
Reaper grabbed Arami by her arm and shoved her firmly behind him, using his body as a shield. “Stay down!”
The Crawler, riddled with bullets, staggered. With a final, spastic gesture, it hurled a chunk of concrete slab. The slab missed the men, sailed past, and smashed into the trunk of a sickly pine tree beside the water tank. With a sharp crack, a heavy branch sheared off and flew.
It struck Arami across the temple.
There was no pain. Just a blinding white flash, then a sudden, silent nothingness. Her legs gave out. Reaper caught her before she hit the dirt, her body going limp in his arms.
He looked from her pale face to the dying creature, to the rushing defenders, then to Jhonny. “The truck. Now.”
“What about her people?”
“Later.” Reaper shifted Arami’s dead weight, cradling her head against his chest. “She’s coming with me to the base.” He strode toward an armored vehicle, leaving the chaos of the enclave behind, a new and unforeseen complication unconscious in his arms.