Love in an Undead Age by A.M. Geever (good non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

“Forty-five minutes.”

“It’s been over an hour.”

His mouth settled in a grim line. He was covered in dirt and muck and dust. The fabric strips of his sling had been a light color once, but not anymore. His face was pale and drawn with fatigue.

“You can take your hand off my head,” Miranda said.

She half hoped he wouldn’t. He’d only been shielding her, acting on instinct, but the warmth of his hand felt…nice. Like something she would not mind him doing again if they survived. He was so different from Connor, whose attempts to be protective felt smothering. Mario’s protectiveness felt matter of fact. If she was barefooted and had dropped a glass, he’d tell her to stay put while he swept it up because that made sense. Connor would insist on switching to plastic tumblers.

Mario pulled his hand away. “We should go back.”

They walked carefully through the racks of clothes in the darkened shop. Apart from the front window, this building was intact despite the shelling. It felt strange watching zombies roaming an area that showed signs of human life. She was used to seeing them in abandoned ruins, but the buildings along Pacific Avenue were tidy and well cared for, inhabited. Thanks to the shelling and the influx of zombies that resulted from it, destruction stretched in all directions.

Mario stopped short of the shop’s back door to the alley. Following closely behind, Miranda ran into him, almost knocking him against the door.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

Mario looked back at her, exasperation plain on his face that she would make such a rookie mistake.

Miranda put her ear to the door, then stepped back. “Better give it a minute.”

Mario leaned against the wall beside her. Miranda wiped her hand over her face, feeling the grime and grit, wincing when she touched her swollen cheek. If she lived long enough to take a bath, it would be at least a week long. She looked over at Mario.

“What?” he asked, voice pitched low.

“Just thinking how filthy we are.”

One corner of his mouth quirked up. “You wear it well.”

In a heartbeat, he was in crystalline focus: his dark-brown eyes, the straight Roman nose, and curve of his lips. Miranda reached for him before she knew what she was doing. The feel of his lips brushing against hers, his hand alongside her face, the weight of his body pressing her against the wall. She felt like she was drowning, falling, diving into him, unable to get close enough even if she could burrow under his skin. She arched her neck as Mario trailed kisses along her jaw, felt his groan of desire tingle across her ear as her hips rocked against his. She tangled her fingers in his hair to pull him back to her mouth, but Mario pulled away.

“No,” she protested, breathless, then understood as the high whine of an incoming mortar pierced the haze of desire enveloping them. The mortar wasn’t close enough that they were in danger, but close enough to bring them back. Mario brushed his hand lightly against her face, as if to smooth back hair that was no longer there to fall into her eyes. She saw her own longing mirrored in his eyes. Her entire body thrummed with the need to reclaim him.

“We should go,” he said but didn’t move.

Miranda unwound her fingers from his hair. Mario stepped back, but his eyes never left her own. Then he shook himself and slowly opened the door. Miranda pressed her hand against her mouth, still tasting him on her lips, and followed him into the alley.

Two slanted doors sprouted from the ground to attach to the building’s foundation like lichen on a tree. Mario tugged one door with his good arm. Dim light radiated up at them.

Miranda descended the uneven steps. They’d found a medical kit in the root cellar earlier with ibuprofen seven years past its expiration date. She had taken eight, along with one of her few remaining Percocet. To her surprise, the ibuprofen still worked. Now her knee only looked slightly swollen, instead of horribly. She was most definitely not healed but compared to how her knee had felt before, every step she took seemed to be lubricated with oil.

Connor and Jeremiah were huddled against the far wall of the cramped root cellar, sitting on bins of potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and beets. Mario sat down on the floor beside the battery-operated camping lantern. Delilah hunkered low to the floor near the bottom step. Her tail thumped against the concrete block wall as Miranda settled herself on the bottom step and petted the frightened dog’s head. Delilah had not stopped whining since they took refuge in the confined space.

Miranda felt sure she was telegraphing the past few moments for all to see. She looked over at Connor. He smiled, unaware of the needful urgency of her body, craving for someone else.

They all looked up at the high whine of an incoming shell, but from the muffled report of the explosion, Miranda figured it had landed several blocks away. Doug had gone to meet his contact, the man who would help them. Delilah began to whine even louder. A moment later the door behind Miranda opened.

“We’re back,” Doug said as he came down the stairs.

A large bear-shaped man pulled the cellar door shut. Miranda scrambled out of the way, scuttling over to the empty space on the bin where Connor sat.

“It’s okay, Liley,” Miranda said. She patted the front of the bin to indicate where Delilah should sit next to her. Delilah hovered a foot from Miranda’s feet, whining, before squirming into the corner next to Mario.

Connor coughed, deep and wet. Miranda looked at him more closely. Dark circles pulled at his eyes. His face was flushed. She felt his cheek with her hand.

“Are you all right?” she asked, even though his skin felt just a little warm under her hand. “You look terrible.”

“Don’t look so hot yourself,” Connor answered. He kissed her palm, then folded her hand into his.

She felt like a fraud, or at least a keeper of secrets, having just moments ago been wrapped in Mario’s embrace. Even now she could see what a good life she could have with Connor if she chose it: he was kind and sweet and loved her. He would quit being overprotective eventually. He would never lie to her, either, but something would always be missing.

“You look like you’re getting sick,” she persisted, genuinely concerned.

“Just exhausted, Miri. When this is over, I’m going to sleep for a week.”

“Sorry it took so long,” Doug said. “The wall along Bay Street near the lagoon took a direct hit. Zombies are pouring in, worse than on the other side of town. This is Philip.”

Miranda’s first impression of a bear turned out to be apt. Philip stood by the bottom step where Miranda had been, but his shoulders were so broad he filled the width of the steps. A bushy beard and mustache hid his face. When he spoke, Miranda detected the faint lilt of an accent she could not place.

“This is everyone?” Philip asked.

Doug nodded.

“I’d rather do this by vehicle, but with the shelling, I think we’ll make better time on foot.” As if on cue, Miranda heard the high whine of an incoming shell. Philip looked the group over. “We have almost a mile to cover before we can get to a truck and up to Davenport. Doug tells me you all aren’t so dumb that if you threw yourselves on the ground you’d miss. Don’t make a liar of him, because I would like to survive this favor long enough to regret it.”

As everyone stood, a low buzz sounded. Philip dug in his front jeans pocket and pulled out a slim phone. He tapped the screen.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“What is it?” Doug asked.

“Looks like those Navy assholes are getting ready to send in a landing party. Loading up four landing craft, one’s just launched, heading for the beach at the boardwalk. Come to finish what they started, or looking for you all, or both.”

“Do you have any way to repel them?” Doug asked him.

“Not after the shelling,” Philip answered. “They might not realize that they blew out the wall by the lagoon and it’s letting zombies in. That might slow them down. Goddammit.” Philip looked at Doug as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t think what. “We better get moving.”

“Wait a minute,” Doug said. “From where they’re moored, they can’t see that breach in the wall. If we could hold up those zombies so that it looks clear enough to get off the beach, and then get them moving toward the boardwalk again—”

“Doug, no,” Mario interrupted. “Whatever you’re thinking, we can’t risk it.”

“Philip,” Doug asked, ignoring Mario, “how long will it take them to get to the beach?”

“I don’t even know what kind of landing craft they’re using,” Philip said.

Sounding more agitated than before Mario said, “Doug, this is a bad—”

Doug talked right over him. “Can you set up coverage so they wouldn’t be able to retreat to the beach? Put some snipers up on the roof of the boardwalk’s arcade? If we can pin them down between the zombies and the boardwalk, the zombies will do the rest.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Philip asked. “We can’t just send people into a horde to cover a position. I’ve shifted zombies before. It takes days to set up.”

Oh fuck, Miranda thought, catching on to what Mario had already realized.

Doug wanted to use Jeremiah.

“Doug,” she said. “Mario’s right. We have to finish our mission.”

“What the hell are you all talking about?” Philip demanded.

Doug held a