Blood of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 2)

The desolation in Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois was the same as all the other places I’d been since the plague scored its toxic claws across the earth. Vegetation rappelled the sides of buildings, human skeletons scattered the roadside, and tangling nets of dense shrubbery formed canopies around houses and alleyways. The deterioration offered countless hiding places for aphids, men, and hell only knew what other carnivorous creatures.

But passing through ecosystems of decaying bodies and flourishing ivy with Link behind the wheel was a far different experience. He didn’t hide from the desperate eyes of survivors. No, he stopped the van, jumped out without his crossbow or other visible weapons, and approached them.

Like he was doing now, striding across the cracked urban street in some city in southern Illinois, headed directly toward an office building. He stopped at the gaping hole where the door used to be and shouted something indiscernible. He’d said there were men in there, but I didn’t see movement.

The chilly November air lingered in the van long after Link slammed the driver side door. I knelt between the front seats, my hand on Jesse’s thigh where he’d moved behind the wheel. He curled his fingers around mine, his eyes locked on Link through the windshield.

“He’s insane,” I mumbled.

Darwin’s wolfy head pushed its way under my arm. I nudged him behind me, coaxing him with an ear scratch to keep him out of view.

“He’s doing me bloody nut in, the mentaller.” Roark climbed over me and lowered into the passenger seat, folding the edge of his dark red trench coat over his scabbard.

We’d plundered supplies from a number of desolated stores along the way, searching for warmer clothes and more food. Hunter did most of the gathering, but we’d chosen our own wardrobes. I found it mildly amusing that Jesse and I dressed alike, both decked out in black leather pants, motorcycle jackets, and boots.

The cargo areas of our six vehicles held our stash, as well as Shea and Darwin, me and my guardians, Link and the five men we left Charlottesville with, and eighteen others Link had enlisted along the way.

Twenty-nine people comprised our expedition, and we needed more.

We needed an army.

Traveling for two weeks now in a caravan of vans and trucks, the diesel engines ran surprisingly well on Paul’s plastic containers of cooking oil. My house in Missouri was a thousand miles from Charlottesville, a drive I could’ve made in two days before the plague. But now, the highways buckled in a crumble of asphalt and rusting metal, and the search for restaurants with fat fryers was an endless effort of stop, security sweep, collect, and go.

Then of course, there were the delays that came with recruiting.

Which was why Link had left us parked on the side of the road as he set off toward the cluster of tall buildings, the glass fronts shattered and blanketed in green waves of kudzu vines. He used varying tactics to gauge a person’s ethics, claiming the face of a moral man in the civilized world no longer existed, and while indicators of integrity in this world were difficult to detect, they were there if one knew what to look for.

Hard to argue that. Two years ago, I would’ve stopped to help a bleeding man on the side of the road. Now? I’d hit the fucking gas pedal and not look back. Did that make me a bad person? No, man, it was called survival.

Since I could only see out the windshield, I shifted around Jesse to steal a glimpse at the side mirror. It showed no movement or signs of life amid the abandoned cars and overgrown sidewalks.

Beads of sweat formed on my temples. “Where’s the rest of our caravan?”

Jesse kept his eyes on the windshield. “They pulled off when we entered the town so that some could follow quietly on foot.”

I took his word for it. He had a better view from the front passenger seat, where I saw nothing riding in the windowless rear with Roark and Darwin.

Every town had a few survivors and ten times as many aphids. Which was why I’d wanted Shea to ride with us. Keeping her in sight would’ve eased some of my anxiety. But she’d stubbornly refused, preferring to stay with Paul and Eddie in one of the trailing vehicles.

Link stood outside the broken glass door of the building. There was no cover to protect him from bullets. No shade to hide his expression. Only the glare of the sun, the blades I assumed he concealed beneath his denim jacket, and my stabby fingers, which were currently sliding to my arm sheathes where they fit snuggly beneath my sleeves. Not that I could do any damage at this distance.

“He’s ballsy.” Jesse gripped my hand and returned it to his thigh, his eyes on the back of Link’s bald head. “But not insane. He has snipers with crossbows there.” He glanced at the twisted shell of an overturned semi down the road. “And more surrounding our van.”