Damage in an Undead Age

Book 2: The Undead Age Series

by A.M. Geever

Genres: Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy; Science Fiction Fantasy; Action & Adventure Romance; Dystopian

Synopsis

It’s what you don’t see coming that kills you.

Safely hidden from San Jose’s City Council, Miranda Tucci almost believes that life can be good again. Reunited with Mario, and accompanied by her best friend Father Doug Michel, she has undertaken the hazardous journey to the Pacific Northwest. There, the trio of friends hope to recreate the vaccine for the zombie virus.

But danger still lurks in what used to be civilization, and hearts can still be broken. If Miranda lowers her guard enough to nurture a small, soft dream, can she risk losing it without losing herself?

And with the ravenous undead always in pursuit, can she stay alive long enough to see it come true?

You’ll love this post-apocalyptic zombie survival adventure! Read the award-winning series today!

Release date: June 16, 2020

Publisher: ZBZ-1 Press

Print pages: 438

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

“I’m living proof you can die of seasickness.”

Miranda rested her sweaty forehead on the icy metal of the yacht railing. The raw wind lashed from the north, needles of cold sinking deeper into her chilled bones. She clenched her teeth to stop them chattering, wiped her mouth with red knuckles, then spat into the choppy waters of Puget Sound. The bitter taste of bile still filled her mouth. Three weeks of feeding the fish. One more and she would be dead for sure.

“Miranda, come see.”

Mario’s voice sounded a thousand miles away. She did not want to come see anything. She wanted to be left alone to die in peace.

Doug’s voice this time. “Miri, you’re going to want to see this.”

She straightened up. Another wave of nausea hit her, but what she saw through the morning fog caused a dizzy head rush of relief. The white spire of Seattle’s Space Needle raced up from the earth to pierce the sky, its flying saucer observation deck hovering just below the iron-gray clouds. In the fog, the Needle’s graceful tripod legs seemed to melt in and out of focus, but the dark band of the observation deck’s windows hovered in place.

The Space Needle.

If she had not been so exhausted, Miranda would have whooped for joy. Instead, she leaned against the rail and gave Mario a wan smile. They were almost to their destination. They could start looking for a marina and meet up with the Jesuits at Seattle University. They might even get word of what was happening at home. A shiver of apprehension raced up Miranda’s spine. They did not know what had happened in San Jose after they had tried to smuggle out the zombie vaccine serum. Doug’s contacts in Santa Cruz had not heard from anyone at Santa Clara University. She wanted to know if Father Walter was all right, hear his lilting Irish brogue. That something might have happened to him sent a shot of fear through her, so deep she almost could not breathe.

Get your shit together, Tucci.

She pushed the worry and speculation aside, shoved it down deep where it could not distract her. She would concentrate on what she could control, on what they were here to do. Since they had lost the zombie vaccine serum they had smuggled out of San Jose, Mario would need to develop another at Seattle University. The Jesuits had a lab ready to go. The madman Jeremiah, with his naturally immune blood, was imprisoned below. He would make a new vaccine possible.

She looked over to Mario and Doug, standing in the yacht’s cockpit. Father Doug Michel’s skinny six-foot-four frame stood ramrod straight, as if the wind, cold, and rain did not affect him. His blue eyes were vivid patches of color against his pale skin and the grayed-out horizon. He kept tossing his head to get his sandy-colored hair out of his eyes and looked as if his restless energy might make him burst. Miranda could tell he was excited to finally get here. Mario only reached Doug’s ear but looked shorter with his shoulders hunched against the wind. His dark, wavy hair reminded Miranda of Medusa’s writhing snakes with the wind whipping through it from every direction. He watched her expectantly, his dark eyes filled with excitement, and a very different kind of shiver flitted down Miranda’s spine.

She limped over and took Mario’s hand as she carefully stepped down into the cockpit, ignoring the lurch and swoop of her stomach. He gathered her in his arms and held her tight against him, pressing his cold cheek against her own. He was beyond stubble but not quite sporting a full-on beard. It had surprised her that it suited him. She looked over his shoulder at Doug, whose beaming smile would match the brilliance of the sun had it not been so cloudy. He reached over and rubbed her auburn peach-fuzzed head like he was shining a lucky penny.

“See, Coppertop? You did live long enough to get here,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling.

Miranda grinned at him over Mario’s shoulder. “Saying ‘I told you so’ is bad form.”

“It probably is,” Doug answered, “but so is making our boat smell like a vomitorium.”

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later in their cabin, as she watched Mario getting ready to leave, Miranda thought, I just got you back. Mario stopped zipping his jacket and looked up, his brown eyes filled with concern.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yeah,” he said, and smiled, just a little.

He sat next to her on the edge of their berth, his warm callused hand slipping comfortably around her cool red ones. She had grown tired of taking off her gloves every time she threw up over the rail but was paying the price. At his touch, she could feel her dread lighten by the tiniest fraction. He looked haunted for a moment, as if the years they had spent apart were waiting to pounce and snatch her away again.

“If your knee was okay, you would be going with Doug to make contact with the Jesuits, not me,” he said. “I know you would rather do anything else than be the one who waits.”

She sighed. “How’s that for karmic payback?”

In the grand scheme of things, the guy who could make a new vaccine was far more valuable than she was. Mario would never be going with Doug to find their allies if she was not still recovering from her sprained knee and hairline-fractured shin bones. She had lost fifteen pounds if an ounce since they started their voyage. Being sick all the time left her weak, which made her feel useless and helpless. To add insult to injury, she had to mind whack-job Jeremiah. Life wasn’t fair sometimes, but she already knew that.

“I promise, Miri. I’m coming back.”

Miranda gave herself a mental shake.

“Of course you will,” she said, but her forced cheerfulness sounded hollow.

She stood up as Mario shrugged into his backpack. He pulled her close, and when his lips brushed hers, the feeling that she would never see him again overwhelmed her. She wanted to hold him tight and never let go. She wanted to pull him to their bed and make love, knowing it would be the last time, so she could commit to memory every contour of his body, the firm and the soft, the rough and the smooth. She wanted to feel their bodies move together one last time, feel the gratitude that they had found one another again crackle and snap as it ricocheted between them until it could not be contained.

When the kiss ended, she took a step back and smiled at him. “You should go. Doug’s waiting. Don’t get dead.”

 

* * *

 

When she heard the moans, Miranda knew they were in trouble.

She had known for hours that the day was not going to plan but had made herself ignore it. The sun would be setting in thirty minutes and the moans were the first sign of anything since Mario and Doug left that morning. No calls on the radio. No flares. Not even a fucking smoke signal.

She climbed to the highest point of the yacht’s deck above the cockpit seats, keeping hold on the canopy rail, and raised the binoculars with her free hand. The moans were faint but growing louder. She could not tell how serious the trouble was from their slip at the end of Bell Harbor Marina’s pier. Across the roadway, cookie-cutter low-rise condos blocked her view.

“We hear Our children!”

Jeremiah’s voice, coming from the parlor below deck. He must have heard the zombies moaning.

“Your blasphemous treachery against Us will end, and God the All-Father will judge you as you deserve,” he continued. “But first We will teach you submission and obedience! Perhaps We will keep you for Ourselves if you can learn. You will be an example of Our power and truth...”

Ignore him, she said to herself as he kept ranting. The moaning might not mean anything. The zombies could be chasing a shadow for all she knew. The growing noise did not mean squat. Not yet.

Sure it doesn’t… Just keep on telling yourself that.

She strained to see beyond the condos, standing on tiptoe as if it would help her catch a glimpse of the streets between or see through the tall buildings that climbed the steep hills of Seattle. Improvised bridges—ladders, fire escapes, scraps of metal, rope, or combinations thereof—connected clusters of buildings. People had lived there at some point, but she had not seen any signs of life so far.

Farther up the hill, walls snaked out of sight. Most seemed intact, but one had a section that had collapsed a long time ago if the weeds and saplings growing among the jumble of fallen concrete blocks were any indication. Along the waterfront some buildings were intact while others, like the aquarium, had caught fire at some point. The aquarium wall facing Puget Sound had fallen in. The roof was gone. The steel beams that had supported its weight sagged despite being relieved of their burden. Seattle oozed emptiness and decay. Without people to maintain them, the artifacts of civilization that had seemed so permanent when humanity fell almost eleven years ago had begun to fall apart almost immediately. Miranda’s knee twinged as she set her foot flat again. She looked up the mast. Another fifty feet of elevation might let her see enough to make the difference between—what? She had no idea. But she knew she had to hurry or she would lose the light.

She limped to the other side of the yacht and stepped into the mast-climber harness, securing it around her hips. She shoved her feet into the foot straps, then bent her knees and straightened them.

“Son of a bitch,” she hissed, tears springing to her eyes at the sharp slice of pain that bisected her kneecap and shot down her shin. She winched her way up the static line attached to the mast, opening and closing the top line clutch, the pain worse every time she pushed against her body weight. It still beat how old-time sailors had done it: free-climbing hand over hand with their bare feet shimmying along the ropes.

Midway to the top of the mast the wind picked up, threading its way through the fibers of her clothes. She thought she saw movement beyond the harbor-front condos. The setting sun behind her cast long orange and pink shadows between the buildings. The wind gusted, and the harness twisted right, away from the city.

She fought the swiveling harness as she cursed everything: this boat, the unknown city, staying behind to watch Jeremiah, Mario and Doug being gone so long, and the fucking zombies that had made all of this happen. Finally, two more pushes up the static line and she was sure. A dark shadow of zombies, a tidal wave of putrefaction, staggered toward Puget Sound. They weaved and reeled, stumbled and shuffled, unsteady yet determined like a group of drunk revelers intent upon reaching the dilapidated Ferris wheel at the south end of Waterfront Park.

Then Doug and Mario burst into the open from the shadows below the elevated freeway, hauling ass, the dipping sun illuminating them with a translucent pink glow. Miranda nearly choked as they slowed when they saw what lay ahead. They glanced at one another before they turned northwest on Alaskan Way, toward the marina, and picked up the pace.

They had emerged on the roadway just a few seconds ahead of the great mass of zombies descending on the Ferris wheel at Waterfront Park. Retreat to the south was cut off. On the path to the marina, from every street that tumbled down the hillsides of Seattle, zombies spilled onto the road the two men sprinted along. When they disappeared from view behind the aquarium, Miranda released the top rope clutch and worked her way back down the static line. If she cast off and got the boat moving toward them, maybe she could get close enough to make a difference, to help them make it.

I should never have stayed behind!

She wriggled out of the mast-climber harness and released the docking rope, knowing the sentiment was ridiculous. She just hated how helpless watching them made her feel. Jeremiah’s zombie repellant effect would have let them move safely through the infested city, but Doug had not been willing to risk Jeremiah’s escape. Doug had made the right call. Besides, she would not be able to run for her life the way they were now.

She cast off the mooring ropes keeping the yacht at the dock and hurried back to the cockpit. She looked at the controls, her hands slick with sweat.

You can do this.

Since she always got seasick, Miranda avoided boats, which made her the least experienced piloting watercraft. She pumped the shift lever and made sure the boat was in neutral.

She turned the key to the on position.

Nothing happened.

“What the fuck!”

She looked up at the shore. Zombies began to stumble up Piers 62 and 63, one pier down from the marina. With a city’s worth of the undead coming from three sides, Piers 62 and 63 were the closest, most direct route for Mario and Doug to get to the water. She fought against panic as the moans grew louder and more excited.

If you panic, you cannot help them.

She checked again. The motor was in neutral; she had pumped the shift lever. She pumped it again and turned the key.

Nothing.

Then she remembered the kill switch.

She almost laughed out loud with relief when she saw it was in the off position. She turned it on. This time the motor began to power up. By rights she should wait half a minute to let the engine power up all the way. Instead, she applied a little choke, then some gas, and let out the throttle out in five seconds. The sputtering from the motor sounded awful because she had rushed it, but it did not stall. She depressed the button on the shift lever and pushed it forward. The motor’s hum gained strength, and the yacht slid through the water.

When she looked up, she felt the blow to her stomach as if she had taken a punch. At least fifty zombies were on the pier, sniffing the air, trying to locate the men. She turned the wheel away from the dock as Mario and Doug came into view. At least as many zombies were on Alaskan Way, between the two men and the pier.

It was the most helpless moment of her life, being consigned to the role of spectator while Doug and Mario fought for their lives. With that many zombies, the fact that both of them were vaccinated against the ZBZ-1 virus did not matter. If they stopped for anything, if they even slowed down, they would be ripped limb from limb.

Blurs of motion. Decomposed figures lurching and swaying. Flashes of metal that glinted in the setting sun. Doug and Mario were trying to push, duck, and deflect rather than stop and fight. A knot of zombies stopped, churning together like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Was one of them down? She gaped at the pier, struck dumb at the idea that one or both of them might be gone. Then a sudden burst of movement, black blood spurting in all directions, and both men surged into view. They hurtled down the long pier with the zombies swarming close behind.

They’ll follow like lemmings, she thought, impotent anger rising at the relentlessness with which the zombies pursued them.

They’re both wearing chain mail, she remembered, her heart sinking even more. She did not think Doug would have a problem with the extra weight. Normally Mario would not either, but he was recovering from a gunshot wound to his arm, and his shoulder on that same side had almost dislocated. That had been almost two months ago, but he was still not back to normal.

She jammed the shift lever forward, and the yacht sped up, eating the distance to the pier. She eased off thirty seconds later, not wanting to get too close to the zombies that would soon be in the water.

Doug and Mario jumped. As they splashed into the water, the first zombie fell off the pier. A torrent of the undead followed, churning the water, but she still had not seen Mario or Doug surface.

“Where the fuck are you?”

Miranda kicked off her boots and grabbed a life ring. She hurled it over the side, climbed over the handrail, and dove into the dark, choppy water. Every muscle in her body contracted from the shock of cold, but by the time she surfaced, her limbs were cooperating with her brain. She stuck her arm through the life ring and looked toward the pier.

The water churned with the zombies’ flailing limbs. They lacked the coordination to do anything besides splash, but they could still bite, or depending on how waterlogged, drag a person under. Lack of mobility never stopped them being dangerous.

Just as she was starting to panic because she still had not seen anyone break the surface, Doug’s head bobbed into view. His dark clothes blended into the water, making him hard to see.

“Over here,” she shouted, waving the life ring over her head. She swam toward him.

Doug shouted back. “Where’s Mario?”

She was now close enough to shove the life ring at him. He latched on to it. “I can’t see him!”

“There,” Doug said, pointing.

She saw Mario’s head slip beneath the choppy water. She dove for him, unable to see in the dark water. Then a light flickered, descending beneath her.

His flashlight!

It was him, had to be. She swam after the light, lungs burning, kicking harder, and caught an arm. She held it tight and pumped her legs hard, but with his pack and the chain mail, it wasn’t enough. She flipped back and caught him under both arms, then kicked her rigid legs to propel them up, toward the fading light above. The weight of Mario’s body got heavier the higher they climbed. Her lungs pushed against the inside of her rib cage, the instinct to breathe impossible to resist. Her head broke the surface. Icy water rushed down her windpipe as she opened her mouth to suck in air.  She gasped and coughed, struggling to keep her head above the surface, and pulled on Mario as hard as she could. He broke the surface beside her, his head lolling to the side.

Miranda’s arms and legs were jelly, all strength depleted. She couldn’t stop coughing as she flailed, and she felt Mario slip under the water again. She couldn’t keep him up, didn’t have the strength, and felt herself going down.

Doug shoved the life ring at her and pulled her arm through. She clutched it feebly, wrapping her other arm around the opposite direction, violent coughs still racking her body, throat and lungs raw. Through the dark water splashing in her face, she saw Doug pull Mario to him. Mario coughed, then retched up water as Doug slipped his arm through the life ring. Miranda clung to the life ring, unable to do anything but let Doug do the work for all of them.

Miranda’s whole body shook by the time they reached the yacht, her body heat wicked away by the frigid water. Doug heaved himself over the edge of the swim platform, then reached back for her. She kicked her legs feebly, trying to help him get her out of the water, only now noticing how much her knee hurt.

“You’re in my way,” Doug said, pushing her aside when she tried to help him get Mario on board.

Delilah barked from the cabin below deck. Miranda’s teeth chattered, in counterpoint to her shaking body, as Doug heaved Mario onto the swim platform. She could see he was shielding his shoulder, holding his arm tight to his body. They all lay gasping, muscles depleted from the cold and the sudden subsidence of adrenaline. Mario reached out and caught her hand.

“Th-thanks,” he said.

“Y-you two o-okay?”

Doug pushed himself upright, squirmed out of his backpack, and pulled himself up the guardrail to his feet. “Never b-better.”

Mario pushed himself up to sitting and started to speak to her, but Miranda cut him off.

“I already k-know, babe,” she managed through her chattering teeth. “S-Seattle’s gone.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

As they dropped anchor near Bainbridge Island, Miranda looked back at Seattle’s dark skyline one last time. She could just make out the shapes of the oversized letters attached to the skeletal frame over Pike’s Place. The last time she had seen the giant PUBLIC MARKET sign, it had been illuminated in pink and red neon. Now it was dark and almost unrecognizable if you didn’t already know what it was.

The warm water of the shower felt almost sweltering, like tropical rain. She thanked God again that they had this swanky yacht, not some basic sailboat. She stood underneath the light but steady stream, soaking in the heat. She heard Mario enter their cabin, then the suck and plop of removing his wet overclothes followed by the metallic slurp of wet chain mail hitting the floor. The shower curtain pulled away, and he stepped into the small shower stall with her. She shifted to make room as he wrapped his cold arms around her.

“That was close,” she whispered.

Mario nodded, his cold lips pressed against her shoulder, and held her tighter.

 

* * *

 

After the shower, Miranda inspected Mario for cuts and bites. She trailed her fingers over the welts on his arms and legs from zombie bites that the chain mail had fended off. A welt on his calf dribbled blood from a tiny cut, and there was a hole in Mario’s chain mail in the same spot that needed to be repaired. There was no way to be certain if the cut was from a bite or from the chain mail. Mario was vaccinated—they all were—so if it was a bite, he would not become a zombie. He would need to take antibiotics, however, because zombie bites always went septic. They had a pretty decent store of antibiotics for now.

Her hollow stomach twisted inside out at the thought of not having any, of watching him die of septic shock. She took a deep breath, shoving the morbid thought aside.

“You’ve got a cut on your right calf. More antibiotics and chain mail repair, but you’ll live,” she said, taking his hand.

He grinned at her, and she felt the familiar flutter in her chest. What would she do without him? He kissed her, then pulled away and shrugged into a robe.

“I need to look Doug over.”

“Naked priests. They never let a girl have any fun.” She pulled on a pair of sweats, then a t-shirt. “As his best friend, I’m deeply wounded.”

She gave it five minutes before heading to the lounge area. Mario stood in the galley, sucking down a bottle of water while nimbly avoiding Delilah’s uncanny ability to be underfoot when there was any possibility of food. She kissed the back of his neck as she squeezed by, trying to ignore the swooping sensation in her stomach when she leaned over to catch the dog’s collar and pull her out of the way.

Doug huddled under a blanket on the long built-in couch. Miranda sat beside him, stealing some of the blanket and snuggling close. When he protested, she said, “Payback for choosing Mario to inspect your hot bod.”

Mario joined them, sitting on the floor at Miranda’s feet. He rubbed Delilah’s batwing ears, and the dog’s leg started jiggling like crazy. Even as discouraged as the slump of Mario’s shoulders showed him to be, the way he looked at her warmed Miranda from her toes to her nose.

Carnal warmth notwithstanding, she was not able to tamp down the despair taking root behind her sternum, so powerful it ached. Mario and Doug were safe; that was what she had to focus on. She just could not fucking believe it. She could not believe that Seattle University, their safe harbor, was gone. She did not understand how she had the capacity to be surprised by this kind of setback anymore, but she was. This was supposed to be it. Their destination, their goal. The warm embrace of allies and the chance to let others mind the whack job for a little while. A chance to get off this nausea factory that masqueraded as transportation. Instead, their refuge was gone, and zombies roamed its grounds as freely as they did the rest of the city.

“You two were gone so long I was hoping it was because you were with people,” Miranda said. She leaned her head back against the cushions and concentrated on her breathing so she wouldn’t throw up.

“Just hard to move around, you know how it is. Clear one minute, a block party the next,” Doug said. His lips were still tinged blue from Puget Sound’s cold waters.

Mario tipped his head toward the fore cabin. “He give you any trouble?”

“Nah,” she said. “The asshole behaved himself.”

Delilah settled her head over Mario’s thigh with a contented sigh. He scratched her head absently with one hand. With the other he found Miranda’s foot under the blanket and wrapped his hand around the back of her heel, running his thumb back and forth over the top of her foot.

He said, “Of all the problems we might run into, I have to admit I did not see this one coming.”

Miranda nodded her agreement. “Do we set up shop here anyway? If we took Jeremiah with us, it would be easier to move around. We could see if the lab is salvageable.”

“You didn’t see the campus, babe,” Mario said. “Half the buildings were burned down.”

“I don’t want to take Jeremiah off this boat unless we have a destination in mind,” Doug said. “He’ll try to escape first chance he gets. I don’t want to risk it if we don’t have to.”

A stronger wave of nausea rose in Miranda’s throat.

I will not puke, I will not puke, I will not puke.

Mario stopped petting Delilah and rubbed his eyes. “We should try Portland.”

Despite her joy at their miraculous deliverance, Miranda bristled. “You mean the place we passed six days ago? Six days that I could have been on dry land?”

Doug leaned forward and spoke to Mario across Miranda.

“Where’s the stuff we got for her?”

“Oh, right, I forgot.”

Mario unglued Delilah from his leg and got up. He rifled through his oversized wet backpack, still in the corner where he had dropped it earlier. He pulled out bottle after bottle of pills, each ensconced in vacuum-sealed plastic bags.

“Oregon Health and Science University is in Portland,” he said. “It was a teaching hospital, and there was a vaccine institute. We’ll probably have an easier time finding the equipment we need there. I almost said something when we were approaching the Columbia River, but they were expecting us here with a lab that was ready to go. I don’t know what we’ll do for power, but, ah, here we go.”

Mario held up a huge white pill bottle, and Miranda knew she was going to be sick.

“Oh shit,” she moaned, bending double to put her head between her knees. A second later, a bucket was shoved under her face. She heaved into it, the meager contents of her stomach riding an acid-tinged wave the wrong way through her esophagus. Sweat chilled her skin as she spat into the bucket, waiting to see if any more was coming.

“Take this,” Mario said, kneeling beside her. He handed her a pill and some water.

Miranda swallowed the bitter pill. She swished the water in her mouth before spitting it into the bucket.

“What is it?”

“Metoclopramide,” Mario answered.

“Not helpful,” she said more sharply than she meant to.

Doug patted her back. “It’s prescription strength Dramamine.” He grabbed the bucket as he stood up. “We got stuck in a CVS on the way back. You’re welcome, Miri.”

Miranda sighed. They had only just been delivered from death’s door, and she was already snapping and crabby. “I’m sorry. Thank you, both of you.”

Mario pulled her to her feet and turned her toward their cabin. “You should lie down till that kicks in. You look green. I’ll be in as soon as I sort through all the meds we picked up.”

She made it to the galley before he said, “Your limp is worse.”

“I know,” she said, but did not stop.

“What happened?”

Miranda turned back to face him. Between the fear, the icy water, and her stomach’s latest act of rebellion, a deep exhaustion had settled over her, weighing her down like a heavy cloak. She wanted to lie, tell him she had tripped, but they had promised no secrets this time. It wouldn’t be a big lie, but little lies made the big ones easier. If she wanted him to hold up his end of the bargain, then she had to hold up hers.

Besides, she had a work-around.

“I jumped into Puget Sound to save your ass, that’s what.”
Mario’s eyes narrowed. “What else? Swimming would not screw it up that much.”

Fuck, she thought. Resigned, she said, “The zombies started moaning when you were coming back, and I couldn’t see anything. I thought I might be able to see if I climbed the mast to—”

“You climbed the mast?” Mario said, interrupting her. “Are you trying to permanently screw up your knee?”

“Of course not,” she said as Delilah began to whine. “Not any more than you’re trying to screw up your shoulder.”

Mario took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. “A bum knee might kill you.”

She could tell by his tone he was forcing himself to stay calm. “So might a bum shoulder,” she said, annoyed. She was not giving him a hard time about his injuries or how he might be making them worse. Why was he giving her one?

“Be reasonable, Miranda—”

“Be reasonable?”

If there was one thing that made Miranda see red, it was a man telling her to be reasonable because she did not agree with him. Mario was out of practice; that was for fucking sure.

“I was trying to see if I could help you.”

“Watch Jeremiah and don’t do anything stupid,” Mario snapped, shouting at her. “Jesus Christ, Miranda! That’s all you had to do!”

She took a step back, Delilah covering her retreat. The dog did not exactly growl at Mario, but the rumble in her throat was close.

Miranda looked at Mario, puzzled. She could count on one hand the times he had lost his temper like this and still have fingers free. Something else was going on; she just did not know what, but her temper was up, too. Trying to figure it out was not something she had the bandwidth for, tired and nauseous as she was. Mario and Doug had just given her the fright of a lifetime and he was giving her a hard time about saving him?

Her voice became a growl. “Don’t take that tone with me.”

“Or,” Doug said, raising his voice, “you could just admit that maybe climbing the mast was not the brightest idea, Miri, and that you’ll do a better job convalescing from now on. And you could try being less judgy, Mario, because you’re deep in hypocrite territory.”

Doug shook his head at them like they were unruly children.

“You two love each other, and unlike long-suffering Father Doug here, haven’t taken a vow of celibacy. Why don’t you do what normal people do when they’ve just cheated death and get a room?”

A pink flush of embarrassment crept up Mario’s face, despite his narrowed eyes and fierce glare. Served him right, Miranda thought. Doug smirked at her, his blue eyes brimming with good cheer.

“Oh fuck you both. I’m going to lie down.”

 

CHAPTER THREE

Mario watched Miranda hobble off to their cabin, Delilah at her heels, not quite sure what had just happened. What the fuck had that been about? He should not be surprised that her own safety would be the first thing out the window if she thought he or Doug were in danger, but he had only just gotten her back. She had forgiven him, which he didn’t deserve after what he had put her through, and he was fucking it up. Fear flooded his belly at the thought that he was driving her away. He followed as far as the galley, then stopped. If he tried to talk to her now, it would just prolong their argument.

Doug made an extravagant display of yawning and stretching. “I’m going to let Jeremiah out,”

Doug went to the fore cabin. A minute later, Mario heard him say, “You wanna stay here and mope, fine by me, but you won’t get your book.” Jeremiah muttered something Mario could not make out. “Just put the damn things on,” Doug said.

A smile quirked Mario’s lips upward. After three weeks, even Doug’s patience with their captive was wearing thin. Doug stepped backward into the lounge area far enough to clear a path from the fore cabin to the table across from the couch. Jeremiah shuffled through the door, the metal of the shackles that bound his hands and feet clinking.

Jeremiah looked smug when he said, “Your failure to impose discipline and obedience, to tolerate such willfulness, is why your woman behaves as she does. If you believed in Our judgment, in the truth of Us, God the Heavenly Father on Earth, it would be a simple thing to banish her defects of character.”

Mario sighed. The guy was like a skipping record.

“I happen to like those defects of character. They keep things interesting.”

Doug pointed to the built-in bench that curled around the table at a ninety-degree angle. A book sat on it.

“Sit. Read.” Doug put his finger to his lips. “And for the love of God, shhhh.”

Jeremiah shot Doug a venomous glare. “We shall mete Our judgment eventually, apostate. It will be swift and merciless.”

But he did as he was told, eagerly scooping up the paperback. Jeremiah’s man overboard escapade the third day out from Santa Cruz had almost derailed everything they had fought so hard for, that their friends had died for. They had clamped down hard. A few days later, they discovered they could extort him into middling-good behavior with books. It was a surprising discovery at first since there had been few books in New Jerusalem. But Jeremiah was crazy, not illiterate, even if reading popular fiction undermined his claim of rejecting everything to do with the ‘fallen world’ beyond his mountaintop cult. Luckily, the yacht’s owner had been a voracious reader. Paperback novels were crammed everywhere, and letting him read made watching him less labor intensive. Jeremiah liked thrillers and mysteries, especially Jack Reacher.

Poor Jack, Mario thought, having read some Jack Reacher books himself. He was certain Jeremiah identified with the honorable hero of the series; he lacked the self-awareness to realize he was anything but. If Jack Reacher were here, he would kick Jeremiah’s ass and not lose a wink of sleep over it.

Doug joined Mario in the galley. It was far enough away that they could keep a watchful eye on Jeremiah but still converse without being overheard.

“Way to go, slick. You better make up with her. The world is too small when you two are fighting.”

Mario sighed. “I will.”

A pause, then Doug said, “That was about the CVS.”

“Fuck me,” Mario said softly, because Doug was right. He hadn’t realized it until Doug said it, but he had lost his temper because of what had happened earlier today.

“I really thought that was it.”

“I’ve never seen you fight like that.”

Mario could still hear the plate glass window of the CVS crack and shatter, the stress of the pressing horde finally too much. When he and Doug had broken the other window to escape, he had known they were already dead. But they could die inside like trapped animals, or die outside and go down fighting.

“Knowing I spent the last few hours of my life in a moldy drugstore instead of with Miranda made me angrier than I’ve ever been.”

“Harness that, grasshopper. It saved us today.”

Mario scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “She makes me so fucking crazy. Climbing the mast when her knee is only just starting to heal? I know what she’s like, I know, but… It’s like she goes out of her way to make herself as vulnerable as possible.”

“You know it’s all about I-statements, right? No one makes you feel the way you do. It’s more like she does shit that might get her killed down the line, and then I feel afraid, but it feels safer to get angry than admit it scares the bejesus out of me.”

Mario looked at Doug for a moment, his brow wrinkled. “What are you, my therapist?”

Doug laughed so loud it came out as a bark. He shushed himself almost immediately, mindful that Miranda might be asleep. “I think of it more along the lines of a couples counselor.”

Mario smiled despite himself, but it faded almost as soon as it began.

“She has no idea how close she came to being on her own today. The pier was a breeze compared to getting out of that drugstore. She has no fucking idea.”

“Then tell her.”

Mario’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips, skeptical. “When’s the last time you shared that close a shave with someone you care about?”

Doug opened his mouth to answer, then closed it.

“Ha! I knew it!” Jeremiah said softly.

They both looked up, giving Jeremiah their full attention. He was nodding his head as he read his book, oblivious that he had attracted their attention.

“Thank God for Jack Reacher,” Doug said. “Otherwise, I’d have killed him by now.”

“Jack does tamp down the crazy.” Mario sighed. “Guess I’m sleeping out here tonight.”

“You’ll be fine. Tropical Storm Miranda never lasts long.”

A soft smile curled the corners of Mario’s mouth. Furious and intense but blowing over quickly—Tropical Storm Miranda indeed.

“I know,” he said, sighing. “But I learned a long time ago that when a woman is angry with you, if you have to ask if it’s okay to talk to her, it’s too soon.”

 

* * *

 

Mario crouched next to Anthony. The calico cat that Anthony had finally coaxed into the mudroom was nestled in the blankets that lined the birthing box. Six kittens suckled with small squeaks, continuously kneading their mama’s stomach with their tiny paws.

“See, Daddy. There are three regular calicos, one tortie, and one black and one gray.”

“I see them,” Mario said. “They’re so itty bitty.”

“She had them while I was at school. They won’t open their eyes for at least a week. See how their ears are flat? They’re so cute.”

Mario ruffled his son’s dark hair. He never tired of getting the blow-by-blow of kitten development with the latest litter of Anthony’s rescue kittens. Anthony was so serious about it. He had no idea how cute he was.

“They can’t walk yet. Like, at all,” his son continued. He turned to look at Mario. “I wanted you to see them but we can’t be in here too much at first or the mama won’t like it and she’ll move them and how can I take care of them if that happens?”

Anthony took a deep breath, sucking in air after fitting so many words into one breath. Mario stifled a laugh.

“We don’t want that,” he said.

“No, we don’t,” Anthony said, agreeing with a seriousness beyond his years.

A high-pitched squeal came from the door to the kitchen.

“Daddy!”

Mario stood and took three steps, intercepting the streak of blond hair and pure energy that was Maureen, while Anthony cried, “Stop her!”

Mario lifted the three-year-old up in the air. “How’s my girl?”

Maureen wriggled in his grip, straining to see over his head. “Wanna see kittens!”

“No!” Anthony said, sounding desperate.

“It’s okay, Anthony,” Mario said. He shifted Maureen to his hip and headed for the kitchen. “No can do, kiddo. They’re too small. So are you.”

“Wanna see kittens,” Maureen shrieked.

Behind them, the door to the mudroom closed. Mario glanced back in time see Anthony’s frowning face through the pane of glass before he disappeared.

“No kittens for you,” Mario said.

Maureen’s face had flushed dark pink on its way to deep red. Emily entered the kitchen, followed by nine-year old Michael, who had stuffed his fingers in his ears.

“What is going on?” Emily asked.

“She wants to see the kittens.”

“Oh.” Emily smiled. “Someone didn’t get her nap today.”

“Yeah, I can—”

 

Mario jerked awake.

Disoriented by the dream, it took him a moment to figure out where he was. As soon as he remembered the yacht, he felt the crick in his neck and the cramped muscles in his back, hips, and legs. Sleeping on the lounge floor had not caused the stiffness—running for his life through Seattle had that honor—but it hadn’t helped.

The dream had been so real. He could still feel the weight of Maureen in his arms, the softness of Anthony’s hair, and the serious expression in his dark eyes. Michael had been wearing a t-shirt with the logo of his favorite band, Vegan Zombies.

How the hell do I dream t-shirts, he thought.

The yearning for his children reared its head, a physical ache that throbbed in his chest. He sat up, replaying the dream in his head because he didn’t want to forget it. The slightly musky smell of the newborn kittens. The birdsong outside, the sunshine that had illuminated Maureen’s blond hair so that it glowed. Even Emily’s smile once she realized the crisis was only an overtired toddler.

Mario pushed the covers back and sat up. The chilly morning air sent prickles of gooseflesh racing over his bare chest and arms. He would never walk Maureen down the aisle at her wedding. Never know if Anthony became a vet, or what sort of man Michael would be. Better than his old man, Mario hoped. He had as good as orphaned them, leaving as he had. And while he knew he needed to go, for his safety and theirs, it didn’t ease the guilt one iota. The only person who had not been in the dream had been Dominic, his brother.

Christ, he thought, if this is how the day is gonna go, I might as well kill myself and get it over with.

His brother’s fate was the completely predictable consequence of the choices he had made, but Mario was the one who dropped him in it. Dominic was surely dead. Even though he hadn’t been involved in the plot to steal the vaccine, the rest of City Council in San Jose would never believe him. He would be guilty by association, and someone would have to pay.

“Stop,” Mario whispered to himself, taking his head in his hands. “Stop, stop, stop. Now.”

He climbed to his feet, his eyes adjusting quickly to the gloomy predawn light. He stretched for a few minutes, mindful to not wake Doug who slept on the long built-in couch. Doug had offered it to him last night, but Mario refused. Doug wasn’t the reason he was sleeping on the metaphorical couch after losing his cool with Miranda. He shouldn’t be the one to suffer the consequence. Besides, he was already sleeping in the lounge instead of the fore cabin because they needed a secure place for Jeremiah.

Carefully, he walked to the galley and got a drink of water. After hitting the head and brushing his teeth, he decided now was as good a time as any to eat a little crow.

Gently, he opened the door to his and Miranda’s cabin, easing it shut behind him. He could tell by the soft rise and fall of her breathing that she was still asleep. From the floor on Miranda’s side of the bed, Delilah’s wagging tail thumped softly against the floor, but she did not get up to greet him.

Mario stripped off his boxers and crawled into bed, curling his body against Miranda’s bare skin like water sliding around a rock. The warmth of her body comforted him. He slipped his hand over her waist. She stirred, arching her back, which pressed her hips against him. His cock stiffened, and he was overcome by the sharp need to make love. He wanted to lose himself in her, be reassured that they were both alive and whole and together.

She rolled over to face him, blinking and scrunching her eyes as she woke. Even in the dim light he could see the pink flush of sleep on her face. And the downward pucker of her lips, which meant she wasn’t mad anymore, but her feelings were hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I was out of line.”

She looked at him a moment, stifling a yawn, then said, “What happened out there?”

Every instinct shouted at him not to tell her. You didn’t burden others with almost stories, unless they were fueled by bravado and alcohol, when you tried like hell to one-up the last guy. You didn’t burden others, especially the people you loved. The rule was unspoken, but everyone knew it.

Mario choked over the words, forcing them out. “We almost didn’t make it back.”

Miranda sighed. “You think I don’t know that? I saw the whole—”

He cut her off. Now that he had begun, the urgency to make her understand swept over him like a tsunami.

“No, Miri, you don’t. The pier—fuck,” he said, tears surprising him. “The pier was the easy part. The drugstore. There was no way we could make it. No way. I still don’t know why we’re not dead.” His voice cracked, and his eyes welled up, but this time he didn’t care about the tears. “I was never going to see you again. I was leaving you on your own. I wasn’t afraid it might happen, Miri. I knew it already had.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Her comprehension of why he had acted like such an ass, the instant forgiveness that filled her eyes, bathed him in absolution. Her lips touched his, and he fell into her headlong—her caresses and soft whimpers, the silk of her skin, and the heady musk between her thighs. Her urgency matched his own, consoling him, reassuring him that she loved him no matter his flaws or mistakes, until the fiery conflagration of their desire and conciliation burned away to nothing.z

Afterward, she nestled in the crook of his shoulder, the warm weight of her body half sprawled over his. “You’re not going anywhere without me,” she murmured drowsily. “I promise.”

Mario squeezed her shoulder, then resumed stroking her hair. It was unlike her to make such a promise, one she could not be sure to keep, but he appreciated the gesture. He drifted toward sleep, the solidity of Miranda’s body tethering him to what was real, to what he could count on, but it could not quash the wisp of worry that would weave itself into his dreams.

What if they failed in Portland, too? What would happen then?