Page 55

“Does the water keep the aphids out?”

He paused at an alcove in the sewer. “Mostly.”

Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing from one end of the tunnel to the other.

“Mostly?”

He crouched at the rear of the recess where the shadows concealed a portal secured with a large oval submarine door. “Seems some of the mutants are adapting their skills. Some can crawl through these pipes without touching the water.” He shrugged. “Some can’t.”

“Are you sure?” Evolving skills would explain the aphid battalion at the pub.

“They’ve been maturing in the last few months.” He ran his hands along the seal around the door.

“What is this?”

“It’s me dodgy bunker. Bugger is”—he removed something from the seal and opened the door—”it doesn’t lock from the outside. A bloody bother. So I rig it a bit.”

He held up a small square box wrapped in plastic with dangling wires. “Just a wee explosive to let me know if any gits been faffin’ about.” Then he bowed. “After ye.”

Hand on my back, he guided me through the dark. His hand moved away, a rustle of clothes, and light flooded the room.

The entry opened into a large domed room with exposed beams and pipes.

My inhale filled the silence. “Electricity?”

“Solar. Lashings of panels on the houses we passed above.”

“You built this?”

He closed the door and turned a wheel that slid three heavy bars in place. “It was here. Built pre-outbreak by some paranoid fanatics.” He chuckled. “Not so paranoid, em? I spotted the panels from the overpass and traced them here. Thought I was a bit of a mentaller, but I eventually found it.”

The room’s stone walls compassed a bench press, free weights, a stationary bike and other sundry weight machines. At the apex, a heavy bag hung from the ceiling.

He eyed my boots again. “Did ye manage without a posser?”

I held up a foot for a closer inspection. “A what?”

A grin sprouted on his face. “A wet foot, bonny girl. Ye get a wet foot dabbling through the pipes?”

“Oh.” I wiggled my toes. “No wet feet.”

“Right then. Follow me.”

We trudged down a long passageway, boots squeaking on the concrete floor. It emptied into a one room spread.

A metal island overwhelmed the left side. Behind it, a concrete counter lined the wall, littered with propane burners. A worn plaid couch sprawled in the center. Stacks of books and newspapers scattered around it. On the right, sat a single bed. Next to it, a three-foot crucifix hung above a prayer bench, surrounded by drippy candle sticks.

He dropped his duffel on the island and pointed to a doorway beyond the bed. “Round back is the bog with running water. But water wen’ be hot till morning.”

My jaw dropped. “How is it done?”

He leaned a hip against the island and removed several wrapped Bushmills bottles from the duffel. “Tomorrow.” He pointed to the bed. “Now ye sleep. I’m taking the couch.”

His glare told me arguing would’ve been fruitless. Besides, I didn’t have the energy. My chest felt cold and wet. I still needed to deal with that. “Do you have a needle and thread?”

He headed to a rack where his clothing hung. “I have plenty of clothes. I’m sure somethin’ fit ye.”

“It’s for a…cut. I need to stitch a cut.” Unless the infection was lingering.

Eyes wide, he reached my side in two long strides. “Where? I didn’t know ye got scratched—”

“No.” I waved him off then glimpsed his hand clutching the pommel of his sword. Shit. “It wasn’t tonight. I’m not infected.” I stretched my jaw wide and stuck out my tongue. Closed it. “We good?”

A beat. A grin. “Sorry. Right.” He backed away. “I’ll just get the first aid kit. We’ll take a gander.”

Shit and fuck. “No, it’s…uh, my breast. I can manage myself. If you have a sewing kit?”

He dug through the kitchen and procured a dull needle and a black thread. Then he handed me a dram of whiskey. “It’s all I got. Ye sure?”

“I’ve got it. Thanks.” I shut the bathroom door and stared longingly at the bathtub. Did he say hot water in the morning? I couldn’t believe it.

I sipped the whiskey, removed my sweatshirt. The turquoise stone lay on my bare chest. No bra. Not since my father’s house. Under the stone, raw florid skin edged the C shaped gash from my collar bone around my tit. I was relieved to see the bacitracin from the pharmacy and iodine from my first aid kit had killed the last of the infection, which meant I’d be sewing after all.

I rinsed away the blood, threaded the needle and splashed the whiskey on my chest.

The task was grueling. Every poke through the skin, every pull on the string, grew more tortuous. When he tapped on the door, I had no idea how much time had toiled by.

“Evie?”

I clenched my teeth. “Hmm?”