Still of Night (Dead of Night 3) - Page 82
She jerked to a stop and stared with horrified eyes.
“Trash . . . ?” she whispered.
Time seemed to freeze into a bitter nothing as they stood there, six feet apart. He was dressed in leather now. Like them. She looked for a necklace of grim trophies, but he wore none. Dahlia wasn’t sure if that was a relief. Maybe it only meant he needed to start his collection. Which part of her would he cut off to buy his way into their trust?
Whistles in various patterns cut the air. Trash lifted his head to listen, then his eyes dropped back to meet hers.
“Dahlia,” he said.
“Please,” she begged.
He raised his whistle and put it between his lips. Those lips. The ones she had kissed too many times. The lips that had whispered such sweet things to her in the nights. The lips that had kissed her when she woke from nightmares.
“Please . . . ” she whispered and raised her knife.
He blew his whistle. Three short blasts.
“Go,” he said fiercely. “Go south. Now!”
She lingered a moment longer, see
ing the terrible pain in his eyes. Then he gave a single small, sad smile.
She bolted and ran, heading into the woods, angling south. Behind her she heard voices. The muscular woman and Trash.
“You saw her?” demanded the woman.
“Yeah,” said Trash. “Caught just a glimpse of her going north, maybe northeast. C’mon, I’ll show you. She can’t be too far ahead.”
There were more whistles and the sounds of shouting.
Going northeast.
Going away.
Tears fell down her cheeks.
“Trash . . . ” she said so softly that it was little more than a breath. She turned.
And Mr. Church was there. Right there. Four feet behind her. She hadn’t heard him at all. He had a pistol in his hands, the barrel pointing where Trash had stood. His eyes searched hers. She nodded, and after a moment he responded in kind. He lowered his weapon very slowly.
Then, without a word, he holstered the weapon, turned and led the way through the woods to where Neeko and the rest of the Pack waited.
After a long, long time, Dahlia ran to catch up to Old Man Church.
— 30 —
THE WARRIOR WOMAN
Rachael fought.
But there was one of her and six of them. Kyle, the one she’d kicked, joined the others, his face bloated and flushed, naked hatred in his eyes. He muscled his way between the others and punched Rachael in the stomach. It was an ugly, brutal blow that drove the air from her lungs and would have dropped her to the ground had the ropes not already been wound around her waist. She screamed and then gagged, trying to suck in air, but there didn’t seem to be any left in the whole world.
Kyle grabbed her face, pinching her chin between his thumb and fingers and leaned close to spit in her face. Then he gave her a grin that was beyond malicious, crossing over into true malevolence.
“I hope the walkers don’t find you for weeks, you little whore,” he said. “I hope you starve out here.”
Her legs were bound, as was her right arm; Rachael tried to tear her left free so she could stick a thumb in his eye or punch him in the throat, but the others held her.
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