A man with a chiseled jaw, crooked aquiline nose, and messy dark blonde hair ambled toward me. His skin was darker than most Northerners I had seen, only a few shades lighter than mine, and he appeared younger than expected, maybe in his early thirties. A thick winter coat padded his broad chest. His left pant leg narrowed, loose fabric rippling in the breeze to outline something far thinner than the muscular thigh on the right side. A bionic leg.
On the upside, he was not currently sipping tea. On the downside, he had a rifle strapped over his shoulder, and he was reaching toward a sheath at his hip to pull out a...
Was that a fucking machete?
Horror washed over me as I stared at the sharp edge of the blade. The Infected at least did not play around. They devised no plots for vengeance and took no pleasure in pain. They just wanted a fast meal. And even the Cutthroat Crew only mutilated other survivors when they had something to gain.
But this man... who knew what the mystical Recluse was capable of.
When he swung the machete, I flinched away, causing the net to sway. Then the rope snapped, and I tumbled to the ground. I struggled to free myself from the knotted web, but I stopped at the metallic click.
Recluse had sheathed the machete and now leveled the rifle at my chest.
My eyes fell shut, and my thoughts froze, awaiting the inevitable bullet that would end my life. When nothing came, I peeled one eye open to see my soon-to-be-killer. He studied the space just beyond his fence, but I wasn't sure what he was looking at. The woods lay silent and still. Maligg had disappeared; apparently, even the Infected were afraid of him.
My mind ricocheted between possible responses before landing on one: play innocent. I lifted my hands, breaths spilling steam into the air. "Wait, don't shoot! I'm not Infected!"
"I know you're not Infected." His voice rattled with rust. "The Infected never steal."
My stomach somersaulted. "Steal? I wasn't..."
I cut off with a gulp as my eyes flitted down to the rice sack sliding halfway from my sweatshirt and the can bulging in my tattered pocket. Dragging in a breath, I changed course.
"Look, I'm sorry. Just lower the gun, and I'll give everything back." Then I forced my gaze from the gun to his face and flashed a winsome smile.
He looked unimpressed. Actually, he looked like fucking stone. Hard brown eyes returned my gaze, as cold as the frigid air around us.
"Hmm," he said. "You will give back everything you've stolen from me all winter?"
I stiffened. "All... all winter?" I cursed the squeak in my voice. "I don't know what you mean."
His lips hooked in a sneer. "We could possibly work something out for the food and blankets you stole, but stealing all of my ammunition? That could have cost me my life, and it will cost you yours."
I knitted my brow and shifted my arms down to wrap my shivering chest. "I never stole any ammunition. I swear, I don't even own a gun."
"Then you admit to the rest?"
I licked my cracked lips, but the wind immediately sucked away the moisture. "That's not what I said. I mean, it's not not what I said, but... um..."
He folded his arms over his chest. "Do continue."
My one solace was that my father could not hear my next utterly pathetic words. Another thing he had taught me, perhaps, but not one I was proud of. "What do you want me to say? Just tell me that, and I'll be happy to say it."
YOU ARE READING
Human Bait
Horror"It's true what they say about you, isn't it? You really did sip tea and smile as you watched humanity fall apart." "Nope," he said. "I sipped whiskey." Eight years into the Infection, a spunky idealist convinces a hardened recluse to help him save...
