Murray's Law: Urban Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The Night Blind Saga Book 2) Read online

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  Sometimes, it takes losing everything

  To find what you’ve been missing

  One

  “Gonna try for three miles tonight?” Gideon crouches beside me and brushes my cheek with his thumb.

  “Yeah, I think I can do it.” I yank my laces tight and tug at my socks to adjust them beneath my grandma sneakers.

  “I do, too, baby.” He kisses my lips, and for one still breath I’m lost in him, and the whole mad world disappears. Even momentary solace in Gideon’s warm, deep pool, is more than I could ask for.

  But another Boeing 747 flies by overhead, ripping me from that pool. A living, breathing relic from the pages of a society that once was before it buried itself. The plane’s white underbelly shines unnaturally, the only blinking lights we ever see anymore. It’s a foreign object now. It doesn’t belong.

  “One minute,” Gideon says. “Get ready.”

  After a few neck rotations, I touch my toes and do a straddle-stretch to release the tension from my calves. Nauseous, I take Gideon’s offered hand, and he helps me to my feet. He sets the silver stopwatch acquired from a local sporting goods store, and I zip my hoodie, then tie my long hair up in a ponytail. I tighten my AK strap and take my stance, knees slightly bent.

  “What is that—about once a week, now?” I ask.

  “Huh?”

  “The planes.”

  “Oh—yeah, they have been more frequent.”

  “I wonder what they’re doing,” I mumble.

  “No clue. But come on, we’re burning nightlight.”

  For the past two months since we’ve been here, Gideon’s insisted on going on supply runs alone at night, and when I threatened I’d sneak out after him, he made a deal with me:

  “Cardio, muscle building, and self-defense,” he’d said. “We’ll work on those for three weeks, build up your strength, then . . . we’ll see.” And he’d grinned at me. He can’t keep me locked up here forever; eventually, he’ll have to let me go with him.

  “Ready,” Gideon says. “Set. Bang.”

  I take off at a steady pace on the balls of my feet, the way he showed me. Not only faster, but also quieter. Tonight, like every night, I run the semi-secured fortress of our current home, Wipeouts Water Park, replaying my life’s sorrows and joys. I think about Aislynn and foster care, and my birth mother, who I struggle every day to forgive. I think about Eve, Eileen, Henry, and Corbin; the men who raped me and Eve, and made us say yes to it. I think about Murray, and Hao, and how I must be completely insane, and I cry sometimes while I run, crushed by the weight of it all.

  Tonight, though, I’m strong.

  My feet barely make a sound as they thump the pavement. My muscles warm and no longer hurt. Once again, I’m surprised by how fast my body took to rigorous exercise. I really am a new woman. The world may have ended, but through a strange turn of acid-and-rage-induced events, I’ve been reborn.

  No longer am I the girl who plays small and feigns affection and love. No longer am I hiding that light from myself. No matter how dark it gets, that brightness shines in Gideon’s eyes. It shines in my sadness around memories of those I’ve loved and lost. My humanness is apparent now, more than ever. For too long I tried everything to further alienate myself from society, and from those around me. Everyone since Aislynn, minus Evie. She had a way of breaking through my wall. I wish she were here to see me getting stronger. I wish she were here getting stronger, too.

  With that, though, comes guilt because of Gideon. In a perfect world, we could have a happy little three-way marriage arrangement, but . . . this is far from a Utopia. And that I can’t say who I’d choose over the other, if given that option, makes me even guiltier. I love them both for different reasons. But the fact is, Eve loved Ophelia, and Ophelia no longer exists. Nor does Eve. Which leaves only one clear option. Still, I can’t shake the guilt. I hope it fades with time.

  Running helps. It’s one of my healthier coping skills, that’s for sure. Never in a million did I think I’d enjoy running, but I do—I’m loving it. My stamina improves every day; I don’t get tired as quickly anymore.

  Sometime around age fifteen, Eileen had recommended running. I’d had a stint of self-harm and she said it would do me some good. I hated running, but took to long-boarding instead, and got good at that. Did that for about three years until it wasn’t fun anymore. And that’s the extent of my experience with self-induced exercise.

  But those things out there—they run—so if I want to stay alive, I have to run, too, and faster than them. I’m getting stronger every day, which makes me stronger on the inside, too. While Gideon’s number one mission is to protect me, mine is to get in the best shape I can, to protect him in return.

  I jog past the racks that once held inner tubes, or life jackets, past the kiddie pool pirate ship area and snack bar, then circle around to my favorite part of Wipeouts. I assume it was a river of some sort that ran through the park, probably for the inner tubes. But nature has run its course now and the thing has become a true lagoon of wildlife. Vines hang over the entrance and exit of the tunnel, a little creepy at night, but beautiful during the day.

  Gideon scored me a tiny flashlight I keep strapped to my wrist, practicing the one-click-on-off technique to place where I am and where I want to go without spotlighting myself for too long. We’re nocturnal now, which means we have to adjust to living our lives at night and shift-sleeping our days away.

  I swipe the hanging vines at the tunnel and click my flashlight on, then off again. All clear. When I come out the other side, a frog hops from the pathway and into the water to my left. There’s a family of frogs here, a few lizards, rats, possums, and various birds, but other than them, and us, no one has tried to come into the park yet. It both scares and relieves us. With people, come dangers, though most of those left behind were children and young adults. The likelihood of them being taken by the Suits, or eaten by the dead, is great. I hope the children who survived found safe places to go . . . but not here. After Corbin . . . I just can’t.

  I circle around to the south side of the park, past more waterslides and a wave pool that has become a thick, green swamp, and I spy my signal up ahead. Gideon and I have been learning Morse code for when we need to communicate from a distance without being seen or heard. He blinks the flashlight at intervals of long and short patterns—three seconds of darkness between words—as I make my way toward him another few hundred yards ahead of me.

  Two to go, his message says.

  I steal a kiss as I pass him, and he returns to his claimed “chin-up” bar—a support beam beneath our waterslide tower. I could never get enough of watching those muscles flex, supporting their own weight with ease. Gideon could easily use his strength to overpower me and take what he wants. But that’s the thing: he doesn’t want that. He uses his strength to protect me. To prepare me. To pleasure me. Things I’ve never experienced before.

  One more time through the tunnel and my stamina is still going strong. Weeks ago, I was almost dead. Now, look at me. I click the light on and off again at the tunnel, but freeze in my tracks when there are voices on the other side. I tiptoe to the tunnel exit, peeking through the vines. F
rom the other side of the fence, there’s whispering—two, maybe three people. I can’t see them, though, so its hard to tell if they’re armed or trying to get in.

  Through the tunnel entrance, I click on my flashlight a warning signal of my change of direction. Gideon responds with a wink from his, and he sprints to meet me halfway.

  “What’s up?”

  “There’s a group over there.”

  He swings his AK around and slips through the shadows, a cat on a hunt. I follow him along the twelve-foot-high fence line that we’ve scoured many times looking for weak spots. He stops, and I crouch behind him, with the sounds of voices up ahead. But then there’s the scuttle of feet and loose gravel on pavement, as if they split in a hurry. A few seconds later, a mass of snarling corpses shuffles past, emitting the echoes that haunt my dreams. One of many nightmares.

  It could be hundreds of them. They bump the fence and growl, and I watch their feet and shadows pass in that three inches of open space between the bottom of the thick, black plastic on the fence and the ground. My legs tingle and grow numb beneath me, and I can’t catch my breath, growing dizzy from squatting, and I panic. But one move could be detrimental, so I hold my position, balanced and still, until minutes of silence pass.

  Gideon signals to head to the hideout. I crouch low and move along the darkest part of the pathway, pins and needles in my legs, beneath the cluster of various types of waterslide towers. Runaway Mountain—the log ride; Geronimo—the steep ass waterslide; The Wacky Racer—five slides all twisted around each other that shot you through these tunnels at, like, seventy billion miles an hour onto a Slip’N Slide.

  My childhood dream came true. I got to come to Wipeouts Water Park, and I’m working on getting each ride off my bucket list. Though riding in some of these slides at night is more terrifying than being on the other side of that fence. You never know what you might find in them.

  Climbing the steps of our home is a great act of cardio in itself. Two hundred and twenty-six steps may not sound like a lot, but when you climb it a few times a day on little calories, it gets taxing.

  Gideon gives my butt a playful slap as I climb the steps above him. “That is one fine ass.”

  “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.” I wink at him.

  “Seriously, though, those squats are starting to show. Shit. You are one beautiful woman. Inside and out.”

  “Are you just saying that because you know I’m tired as fuck and I wanna stop for a rest?”

  “Not just because of that.” He steals a quick kiss to my neck as we climb the last stretch of steps. With one final sweep of the covered stairs behind us, he lifts the black tarp, and we go inside. Gideon fastens the tarp down and clicks on the dim, battery-operated night light that’s about on its last leg.

  Over the past few weeks we’ve been fortunate enough to have good weather for the most part. Fortunate, because the roof is horrible and doesn’t really keep out the elements. When it gets too hot, cold, or wet, we’ll have to find a place indoors.

  But for now, our bed is comprised of rows of found pillows of various shapes and sizes, layered with two comforters and a thick fleece blanket to cover up with. We’ve got food, a cooler of bottled water and soda, clothes, medical supplies, a deck of cards, a couple of books, and Gideon has scored us seven various weapons so far, including a matching pair of katanas with etchings on the blade, that must’ve cost someone a fortune.

  I miss my Suki, but I doubt I’ll ever see her again. If I do, a Suit will probably be aiming her at my head. But what I wouldn’t give to hold her and Jesse again . . .

  “You were doing good. I bet you would’ve made the three miles, easy,” Gideon says, grabbing a twenty-ounce Dr. Pepper from the cooler. He hands me a water.

  “Thanks.” I crack the lid, taking a couple of swigs before closing it again.

  Gone are the days of pouring half of the thing on your head and downing the other half in seconds. That was a fantasy life I must’ve only dreamed about. These days, we ration, take what we need. Even in these few short weeks since society as we knew it ended, a new set of survival skills has kicked in, as if it had been there all along, waiting for us to get back to our roots.

  Sooner or later we all go back there, to that place in the ground where we originated from, in one way or another.

  “So, Grace . . .” Gideon sips his Dr. Pepper, sets it aside. “I’ve gotta go out for a bit tonight.”

  “What? No, we have plenty of sup—”

  “Please. There’s . . . something I need to do.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t tell you, it’s a surprise.”

  “Gideon—”

  “Trust me, please, baby. I promise I’ll be fine. And I’ll be back in a few hours—five at the most.”

  “Five is cutting it close.” I check my new black leather wristwatch that I had to adjust to wearing and winding. Gone are the days of cellphone, satellite, and Wi-Fi.

  “It’s already after ten,” I say.

  “I’ll try to make it in four.” He guides me down onto our pallet, kissing me softly. “Trust me. You’re hard to be away from.”

  “Am I?”

  He nods.

  “Then when will you let me go, too? I think I’m ready.”

  He stares off to the side, and I see the thought in the clench of his jaw muscle, its release, followed by a sigh of concession. “After tonight.”

  Adrenaline flares up in me. “Really?”

  He takes my hand, weaves his fingers in mine. “I hate it, but yeah. I hate being apart from you even more.” He rubs himself against me, and I feel him getting hard.

  “Ugh, you’re gonna get me all horny, then leave?” I slip my hand under the blanket, beneath the hem of his shorts and boxer briefs, and grip his beautiful, now fully erect penis. “That’s a nice handful,” I purr in his ear.

  “You’re making it extremely difficult for me to leave, you know that, right?” He moans as I stroke him.

  “Yes.” I stroke faster until he’s wet with precum, and he’s gripping my breast and kissing me.

  “To be continued.” He pulls away. “When I get back.”

  My body aches for him, my mouth aches for him. My soul, my everything, aches for him.

  “You better fucking come back.”

  “I will. Promise.” And he takes the hundred-mile-an-hour exit slide down.

  Two

  I watch Gideon leave the same way he does every time, by climbing up onto the ticket booth, then hopping over the fence. To return means scaling the fence from a wrecked van and onto the ticket booth again. He’s gotten fast, and can clear both sides in less than ten seconds. The day he brought me here, though, he had to get creative, holding me with one arm and climbing with the other, gnarling stiffs at his heels.

  I keep a visual on him until he’s slurped up by the night, then I dig up a new pack of Virginia Slims Menthol 100s that he scored me last week. He made me promise I’d cut down for the cardio thing (and possibly my health, in general), so I told him I’d only smoke while we were apart. My way of keeping him by my side as much as possible. It was a good trade.

  He always tells me to rest, but I never do. I sit up in this tower and chain smoke, and think, reminisce, cry—all the things. I worry about Gideon, and the poor young souls out there alone. And I teeter between gratitude and despair that those I loved the most in my past don’t have to adapt or die in this vicious new world. They’re already dead. Was that swift removal from this hell a mercy killing?

  I nurse a bottle of chardonnay Gideon brought home yesterday. Our “Apoca-versary” he’d called it, which means every day is another reason to celebrate being alive—and alive together. He’s still not drinking, though, and I’ve finished almost the whole bottle myself, as well as the hash tea. Sometimes I can’t help drifting off to a bad place where panic, fear, and sadness rule. A place where they’re hurting you, ripping you apart; where you’re fighting for your life, for a reason to live it.


  Gideon often finds me in those places when he returns before dawn. He holds me, coaxes me with soft words, kisses, rocking. He’s learned how to nurse me through them, to bring me back, though sometimes it takes a while.

  He’d mentioned last week that he’d try to find me something for the PTSD, but the last couple of times a lot of bodies had been around the pharmacy. Not to mention, looters have cleared most of the drugs from it now. Still, I wonder if that’s where he’s going tonight. Damned mysterious man. I love it, though. It keeps things interesting, for sure.

  After half a pack of cigarettes and about four hours, the familiar silhouette slips over the fence and onto the ticket booth. He hops down, then jogs along the dark side of the pathway. No bags, which means he didn’t go scavenging. What could he be up to?

  Minutes later, there’s the patter of Gideon’s footsteps clearing the last few flights of stairs. I flip over as he lifts the tarp and climbs inside. “Hey, how’d it go?” I ask.

  “It went well.”

  “What’d you do?”

  He sits beside me on the bed to take off his combat boots and sets them aside, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you that. You’ll have to wait and see.”

  “’Til when?”

  “Sunrise.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I’ll show you when it’s time.”

  “How do you manage to make an apocalypse romantic?”

  He wraps me up in one strong arm and kisses me, clutching me to him. “Because I’m . . . madly and deeply in love with you.” He moves closer, and our eyes dance for a moment.

  “Same,” I whisper.

  I melt into his warmth, the wetness of his mouth, the scent of his perspiration. I’ve grown to crave Gideon’s tastes and smells more than food.

  “Grace . . .” He raises up to remove his shirt, which he tosses to the corner of our hideout before hovering over me in his green boxer briefs. “Beautiful, strong Grace.”

  Heat rising in me, I ogle his broad shoulders, which are my favorite part of his body, besides his light brown eyes and his gorgeous, crooked smile, his scar. Not to mention those biceps, the tattoos . . . I never realized how hot any of it was until now. Until Gideon.