I woke up in a strange, unfamiliar place. To begin with, I was laying in a bed. An honest to God bed, complete with box spring, mattress, sheets, blankets, and pillows. The last time I could remember sleeping in a bed had been when I was still living at dad's before – No. Stop thinking about that. Think about the bed instead. Beds were good.
So I did. Long, thoughtful minutes were spent reveling in the way my body was cradled by the mattress, how toasty warm the down comforter was, how soft and fluffy the pillow under my head felt. Autumn in Pennsylvania could be nasty. Sure, there were blankets in the safe rooms with the other supplies, courtesy of CEDA and the United States military, but they were musty, scratchy olive drab wool blankets. Leftovers from the Korean War, Bill muttered, just like the goddamn K rations we ended up eating when there was nothing else available. There was usually at least one blanket for each of us, but no padding to lie on, no pillows or anything like that. Sometimes we were even one or two blankets short if the previous safe room occupants had gotten greedy. Jerks.
I had taken to stretching out beside Francis at night, especially if there weren't enough blankets to go around. That practice had started about a week ago. Louis had thought he was coming down with a cold, so Francis had given his blanket to Louis and had gone without. He effectively managed to destroy the goodwill of the gesture by threatening to leave Louis and his "goddamn vampire flu" behind if he ended up getting sick too. I wasn't fooled though. Even if he would never ever admit it, would deny it with his dying breath, Francis had a hidden streak running through him that didn't quite fit the ruthless, badass biker image he wanted us to see.
Francis made a show of rolling his head around and popping his neck, then flexing his shoulders before settling his back against one of the cinder block walls. Big tough guy, yeah, yeah, yeah. Quietly, I laid down on the floor with my blanket not too far away from him and waited for him to start snoring, which with Francis, was inevitable. Once he had fallen asleep, I had crept over to him and carefully curled part of the blanket around his shoulders. I had to wiggle a little to get comfortable against the hard wall, but when I rested my head on his shoulder, it didn't take long for me to start drifting off again. Before my eyes closed, I saw Bill lift his head up to see what was going on. When he saw that I had curled up against the mule-headed Francis, Bill gave me an approving little nod. Outflanked and outmaneuvered, he would have said.
When a thin, watery beam of sunlight hit my eyes and woke me up the next morning, I found that my legs had been rearranged across Francis's lap, his arm was squeezing me against him, and my head was tucked underneath his scratchy jaw. The blanket was still draped over the both of us and the incredible body heat he was throwing off had warmed me thoroughly, even deep inside where the marrow of my bones had started to ache ever so slightly from the persistent cold damp weather. Francis was already awake, probably had been for a while and was most likely impatient to get moving as usual, but he had let me sleep quietly against his shoulder until I was ready to awaken naturally. When he caught an opportunity where the other two weren't looking in our direction, he dropped a quick kiss on my temple and hugged me until my ribs creaked before proceeding to insult my morning breath and telling me that my loud snoring had kept him up all night. It was a classic Francis tactic – deliberately and gleefully ruining yet another Hallmark moment.
Ever since that night, however, I curled up next to Francis to sleep, even if we both had our own blankets and didn't need to share. At some point during the night – or daytime, if that's when we took shelter, I ended up with my back pressed up against his chest and his heavy arm thrown over my shoulders, pinning me in place. It was comforting, it was a ritual, but we never, ever talked about it. If we talked about it, things would get too weird, I guess. So I had become his cushion – there were times when he rolled right over on top of me and squashed me flat into the floor until I pinched or elbowed him. And Francis had become my own personal heated blanket. I was never cold at night with him beside me.
Francis was missing right now, though. I was very nearly sleeping, and Francis should have been there. Vaguely, in a part of my brain that was still working logically, I knew that I must have been given some pain pills. My brain felt fuzzy, muddled, and I couldn't quite remember what had happened that warranted the guys doping me to the gills.
Gills. It would feel weird to have gills. Did Hunters have gills? Or Smokers? How did they breathe with all that tongue …?
A soft knock sounded and the door was pushed open after a moment. I sleepily rolled my head over to see who was there.
"Hey, Louis. Whatcha doin'?"
He grinned when he found me awake and goofy from the nice drugs. "Damn, I didn't think it was possible for somebody to sleep that long. You been out for nearly twenty-four hours."
I squinted at the bedside clock. No electricity. Damn. I'd been hoping for a hot shower one of these days. Cold water sucked.
"What time izzit?" A small frown wrinkled my nose and caused a dent to appear between my brows. "And what the hell happened to me? I can't remember anything," I said plaintively.
He replied, "It's about eleven AM on a Tuesday, we think, and I'll let Francis tell you the rest." That sounded promising.
"Peachy," I muttered.
Quickly he helped me when I started to wriggle around to detangle myself from the covers. Maybe sleeping with blankets only wasn't all that bad, I thought. No sheets to trip you up or strangle you. Shakily, I pushed myself up and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
Suddenly my bladder trumpeted its full state to the forefront of my consciousness. Holyshit where'sthebathroom?
Urgently, I asked, "Uh, where's the ladies' room in this joint?"
"Can you walk, or should I pick you up?" he asked hesitantly. His hands made a sort of circling motion in my general direction as he tried to decide where the best place to pick me up would potentially be. Back, no. Front, no. I shook my head in the negative. I'd hoof it.
"Just get me on my feet and help me walk there, please, Louis."
Louis extended his hands down to me and pulled me up gently and smoothly. For that, I was grateful. Instinctively I knew any jerky movements would hurt. We shuffled down the thankfully short distance to the bathroom. Louis conscientiously helped me in and over right next to the toilet. When he stood there awkwardly, I smiled wanly and flapped a hand in his direction to shoo him gently but firmly away.
I used the facilities and fumbled for toilet paper, but soon discovered that I just couldn't get back up again. I was too exhausted and sore and woozy from the pills for my traitorous legs to work. Well, shit. After a few minutes, the low drone of masculine voices filtered in through the wooden door. The door cracked open after a moment of silence and reflexively, I crossed my arms across my lap.
"Uh, Zoey? You, uh, okay?" It was Francis, who sounded just about as uncomfortable as I'd ever heard him. I sighed and replied, "Yeah. I just can't get up again."
"Can I, you know, come in? Is there anything, um, showing?"
Oh, for Pete's sake. "No, there's nothing showing. Just get your ass in here, you pansy," I said crossly.
His head peeked out cautiously from behind the door and a relieved expression spread across his face when he did in fact see that nothing was showing.
Francis slithered in sideways, studiously avoiding looking at me and held out his hands. I gripped them and levered myself up, then yanked and adjusted my clothing into place. Somebody had found some sweatpants and a Grateful Dead t-shirt for me to wear. That meant somebody had also undressed me… One thing at a time. One – thing – at – a – time, Zoey.
"Okay. I'm decent. Thanks," I tacked on as an afterthought.
"Um, you're welcome, I guess."
He sounded so freaking uncomfortable I asked acidly, "What did you guys do, flip a coin to see who would have to come in here?"
A flash of irritation shot across his face before Francis manfully swallowed it down. "No. I offered myself up as a goddamn virgin sacrifice," he fired back, but there was no real heat behind it.
"Virgin. Right." I sighed and apologetically tilted my head up at him. He was only trying to help. "I'm sorry, Francis. I hurt, I'm tired as hell, and I feel like I was hit by a freight train."
Francis snorted. "You LOOK like you were hit by a freight train. Here." He put his hands around my hips and easily boosted me up so I was sitting on the cool slick surface of the bathroom counter.
"Don't move. You fall on the floor and I'm leavin' you there," he ordered sternly.
"Gee, thanks," I grumbled. It was nice to know he cared.
Francis rustled through a cabinet beside the old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub and started pulling stuff out. Willy-nilly, he chucked objects over his shoulder until he found a pale pink washcloth. He turned one of the handles in the tub and I was very, very surprised to hear the water come on, and even more surprised to see him say "ouch" and shake his hand at the sting of the steaming hot water as he bent to wet the cloth.
"Hey!" I protested indignantly. "I thought the power was out."
Francis looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face. "Nope. Power's still on here. Probably won't be for much longer though, Bill says."
I groaned. "Oh my GOD, I'm so taking a shower. Fire it up. Pleeeaaase, Francis."
Francis grinned sardonically over his shoulder. "No fucking way, sweetheart. Not unless I'm gettin' in there with you. You can't even sit straight right now without weaving like a drunken whore."
The allure of the hot, steamy water was strong enough to make me eye him consideringly and ignore the brilliant opportunity to turn the drunken whore crack into a jab at his mother. If I kept my bra and panties on, I could just take a quick shower, be in and out before he could even really see anything, right? Mournfully, I shook my head and decided against both the shower and the mama joke. Francis arched a brow when he saw me thinking so hard.
He shook his head mockingly and braced a hand against the sink on either side of me. "Zoey, Zoey, Zoey. You slide in there with me and I'll see to it that washing up'll be the last thing on your mind," he said lazily. It was amazing how he could make the word 'slide' sound so utterly suggestive and wicked.
My stomach did a voluptuous little shimmy and I could feel my face, throat, and chest flush in response to the ich flare of heat in his dark, teasing voice. I looked around desperately, anywhere but at him. Down, girl. This is Francis. He scratches his butt and he burps and farts and tries to trap you in baked bean-fueled Dutch ovens. But that little voice in the back of my head that always tries to get me in trouble whispered, But Zoey-girl, he has a body that would be worth showering with just to ogle. And possibly touch just a little bit… My cheeks turned even redder, if that was possible. I must be overmedicated if I was thinking of Francis in that way. I couldn't prevent myself from cautiously making eye contact with him again, only find that his cheeks were a touch on the pink side too. Ha. Served him right.
"Hold still, Zo. You sure smell like you need a shower." He grunted obligingly when I poked him hard in the stomach with my fist. It was just fine with me to have Francis to change the subject. The moment had thrown me totally off balance.
Carefully, he took the washcloth and wiped my face and neck for me, then pressed it into my hand. It was undignified to do in mixed company, yes, but I scrubbed my teeth as thoroughly as I could inside and out with the cooling washcloth and dropped it into the sink basin beside me when I was done. He grinned at my performance and ceremoniously offered me an industrial size bottle of mouthwash, so I took a big swig and swirled it around in my mouth to kill the remaining cooties, then squirted the green liquid into the drain.
Then Francis looked at me and I looked at Francis and we both wondered what next? I wasn't expecting to see anger flare up in his eyes and for him to lock his jaw in not-so-suppressed irritation. It took me by total surprise. All I could do was stare at him stupidly as he stalked forward the three paces between us and squeezed my upper arms with his hands.
He shook me slightly, then frowned and stopped shaking when I winced. "Zoey, you ever pull a stupid fucking stunt like that again and I'll kick your goddamn ass myself," he said fiercely. "I mean it!"
Dryly, I recovered some of my rattled wits and said, "Louis mentioned something about you telling me off. Care to enlighten me some? 'Cause I don't remember a damn thing."
"No? You tackled a fucking Smoker out of a second story window. Nothing ringing a bell yet?" he asked sarcastically when I just looked blankly at him. Huh? I did what?
Some of the piss and vinegar left him then and he propped his hip against the sink right next to me and sighed tiredly.
"What's the last thing you remember, Zo?" he asked neutrally. His whiskey-brown eyes met mine curiously, guardedly.
I frowned and tried to recall something – ANYthing. "Umm, houses. We were crawling through houses. Yeah. As a shortcut," I added.
A quick image of a hideous orange floral sofa swam in my mind for a second before, thankfully, disappearing. I grimaced. That had been one butt-ugly couch. I peeked uncertainly at him and saw him nod slowly in confirmation.
"Okay. What next?" He crossed his tattooed arms over his chest.
It hurt to think, but I tried anyway. After the couch had come a … bedroom? With a young couple…
"The newlyweds," I said quietly.
They had obviously just gotten married. Lacy negligees and bikinis and Hawaiian shirts and other honeymoon-type clothing was half-packed into suitcases. A bouquet was lovingly placed on the vanity in the room and a wedding dress was hung on a hook next to it, all frothy lace and gracefully flowing train, a pure, glowing white except where the chunks of brain and skull and blood had stained it forever. A pistol was lying between them on the bed, evidence of one last, brutal act of love. It looked like the bride had been attacked, bitten, and they had chosen to ... yeah.
When he saw my face fall, Francis pulled me against him in a tight one-armed hug and murmured into my hair, "I'm sorry you had to see that. Can't say I wouldn't do the same, though."
I shivered and rubbed my bare arms. It had really hit close to home for me for some reason I truly couldn't pinpoint. But the rest of the sequence of events was coming back to me now, filing neatly back into order in my mind.
We had been picking our way through the upper stories of the closely-built houses, trying to evade the waves of infected that had been noticeably thicker than usual that day. Bill had taken point as he always did, Francis next, then me, and Louis bringing up the rear. Bill had momentarily disappeared into side room to look for any supplies, Louis was examining the music collection on a shelf, and I was trying to work a little rock or something down into the toe of my Converse where it wouldn't irritate me as much. Francis had been standing with his back facing the avenue that ran in front of the building, his shotgun dangling casually from one hand. A small roof was outside the window behind him, covering the tiny enclosed porch below.
We didn't hear the warning cough until the Smoker suddenly appeared in the window, standing on top of the porch. Quick as a wink, the long, mottled, prehensile tongue had snaked through the broken window and wrapped itself around Francis's shoulders and neck, yanking him backwards and unceremoniously interrupting his insult towards Louis's taste in music. Francis fell on his butt and fought to grasp hold of anything that would stop him from being pulled outside.
I guess I really wasn't thinking about what would happen next, because I took a running leap, and using the sturdy oak coffee table as a springboard, dove through the window at the special infected and grabbed it around the waist. It was a perfect replication of a tackle I had seen when my Dad had taken me to a Steelers game one time. I was actually mildly shocked it worked so great. The Smoker's tongue got sucked right back into its face like some kind of grotesque spaghetti noodle – even made the same kind of slurping noise – and I swear the damn thing looked as surprised as I felt until we both hit the pavement below.
I wiggled my shoulders uneasily and all of a sudden felt every single ache and pain and twinge and bruise in my abused body. It had been stupid. But still…
"You were being hauled off, Francis. The Smoker had you. I got you free," I said slowly. I panicked anytime he – or Bill or Louis – got in trouble. My heart started pounding and my hands got all slippery and I panted and it didn't go away until they were safe and sound again. All I had been able to think about was Francis getting hauled out through the window and … well, killed. Just the thought of it made me nauseated.
He snorted. "Yeah and look what happened? I had to bail through the window after you and carry your bleeding, unconscious ass out of there before the goddamned vampires got you." He poked a stern finger in the middle of my chest.
I grabbed hold of the finger and shoved his hand away. "I don't care," I declared stubbornly. "You would've done the same thing for me, or for Louis and Bill. What's your problem?" I was starting to get angry. How DARE he tell me off for helping out a teammate? For helping HIM out?
"Fuck. You don't get it, do you?" Francis slashed his arm outward in a quick, angry motion. "If something had happened to you, if you went and got yourself killed –" He shook his head and took a giant step away from me. Despite my anger, I couldn't help but feel hurt and bewildered.
In a small, dignified voice, I said, "I'm sorry, I thought I was doing the right thing by helping you." My fingers were twisting together in my lap and I focused on them.
He was suddenly there in front of me again. Francis pulled me roughly against his chest and bumped his forehead against mine. Tentatively, I slid my hands up the front of his chest, then curved them around the strong column of his neck.
Uncertainly, I whispered, "I'm okay. You're okay. We're okay. Right?" He stubbornly refused to answer, so I prompted him again sharply. "Right, Francis?"
He leaned slightly backwards and glared down at me. "Yeah, I'm just fine. You, not so much. Now we need to hole up here until you're back on your feet." I dropped my eyes from his intense, accusatory gaze and focused on the inked pattern on the side of his neck instead. Damn. Tears prickled behind my lids and I furiously blinked my eyes. No way in hell was I gonna cry. Uh uh.
Francis cursed quietly when he saw my lids start to rapidly blink. He grasped my chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger and forced me to look up at him.
"Aww, shit. Don't cry, Zo. I'm sorry. We needed to stop for a few days anyway."
He was gruffly pleading with me, so sincere and blatantly anxious to bypass any potential feminine crying that I almost laughed. What a total 180. But it would hurt his manly feelings or ego or something, so I didn't.
Awkwardly, he enfolded me in a rough hug again and stroked my back and snarled hair. I rested my cheek against the cool leather of his vest and closed my eyes wearily. Too much had happened and my head was throbbing and swirling in reaction.
"You scared the living shit out of me, you know that?" he murmured in my ear.
Weakly, I laughed. "That explains the stench. You think I stink? Pee-yew."
Francis wrapped his arm around my head and gave me a noogie, then released the headlock and captured my cheeks between his callused palms.
"Zo, promise me that you won't jump out of any more windows."
When I stubbornly refused to say anything, he scowled down at me.
"Zooo-ey," he drawled impatiently. "Say, 'No, Francis, I won't try to kill myself again'." We'll stay here alllll day until you do."
Exasperated, I rolled my eyes and mimicked his baritone voice. "No, Francis, I won't try to kill myself again."
Patronizingly, he patted me on the head, just like a damn puppy or kid or something. I batted at his hand irritably and muttered, "You suck."
Francis lifted me off the sink and set me on my feet again. "You need to eat something and go back to sleep. Look like you're turning into a vampire or somethin', "
"Zombie. Zombie, zombie, zombie," I chanted. "Learn it, use it, love it."
He managed to get in the last word though. Francis was a grand master at that. Just before I was about to place a hand on the door handle, he snagged me by the wrist and jerked me back against his body. Wickedly, he whispered in my ear, "Let me know when you wanna take that shower. I promise I'll make it the best hour of your life."
With that beauty of a parting shot, Francis opened the door with an elaborate arm flourish and bow and slapped me sharply on the butt to send me on my way. I shot him a reproachful, indignant look but he only laughed at me. I just couldn't win, so I meekly minced down the hall to the bedroom, crawled back into the soft warm nest, and pulled the blanket up over my flaming red face.