Day 178. 11:35 hours.
The compound.
The gate.
Vasquez walked toward Big Rex.
The ground trembled with every step. Not the void. Not spatial awareness. The earth. Her earth. Responding to the woman who had just crossed the Threshold and whose power was the ground beneath her feet.
Big Rex stood three steps past the torn gate. Inside the compound. His hand still warm from tearing metal. His eyes on the woman walking toward him. The woman he had punched through a wall. The woman who had been dead.
The woman who was now walking toward him with eyes the color of soil and the ground cracking under his boots.
"What the fuck are you." Big Rex offered, his voice loud but not cocky. Not amused. Confused. A predator who had punched a woman dead and was now seeing her walk toward him. The ground moving. The woman's eyes wrong. Dark. The color of dirt.
Vasquez did not answer. Because she was feeling. The earth. Through her boots. Through her legs. Through her body. The frozen soil beneath the snow. The bedrock beneath the soil. The deep.
She could feel it all. A woman who had just been given the earth and was learning what she had. What she was. What the earth would do for her.
She raised her right hand.
The earth rose.
Fast. A pillar of frozen soil and rock erupting from the ground between her and Big Rex. Three meters tall. A wall of earth between the woman and the monster. Because she wanted it. And the earth wanted it. And the earth was hers.
Big Rex stared. At the pillar. At the earth that had been ground and was now a wall. A man who had punched through walls for five months. Concrete walls. Brick walls. Wood walls. But not earth walls. Not walls that were alive. That were hers.
"You. You are just like us." Big Rex offered, his voice loud. Not confused anymore. Angry. A predator who had just learned that his prey was not prey. Was a predator. A man who had been the biggest thing for five months and was looking at something that was bigger. The earth. Which was hers.
"I am." Vasquez offered, her voice steady. Not the steady of before. Something else. The steady of a woman whose voice carried the weight of the earth. A woman who could feel the ground through her boots and the bedrock through the soil and the deep through the bedrock.
A woman who was not afraid of Big Rex. Because Big Rex was small. Compared to the earth.
Big Rex swung. Not at Vasquez. At the pillar. His fist connecting with the earth wall. A fist that had punched through concrete. Hitting earth.
The earth cracked. But did not break.
Because the earth was hers. Connected to the ground. Connected to the deep. Connected to her. The earth held. A wall that was not concrete. Was not brick. Was living earth. Fed by the ground. Held by the ground. And the ground was hers.
Big Rex's eyes went wide. A man who had, for five months, punched through everything. And had hit something that did not break. The first thing Big Rex had hit that had not broken in five months.
Vasquez pushed. Her hand forward. And the pillar pushed forward. Toward Big Rex. The earth moving. Deliberate. Earth being directed by a woman whose hand was raised and whose will was the earth.
Big Rex stepped back. A man who had not stood his ground. Because the ground was not his. Was hers. And the earth was moving toward him. And his fist had not broken it. And the earth was bigger.
Vasquez pushed again. The pillar surged. Three meters. Four. Five. Growing. The earth rising from the ground. Feeding the pillar. Making it bigger. A wall that was not stopping.
Growing toward Big Rex. Who was backing up. A predator who had, for five months, never backed up. And was now.
"No." Big Rex offered, his voice loud. Not cocky. Not amused. Afraid. A man who was feeling something he had not felt in five months. The ground moving under his feet. The earth pushing toward him. The wall growing. And his fist had not broken it.
Vasquez pushed a third time. And the earth erupted.
Not a pillar. Not a wall. A hand. A fist. Of earth. Rising from the ground below Big Rex. A fist that was there and going up. Into Big Rex. Into his chin.
An uppercut made of rock and soil and frozen earth. A punch that was the earth's. Not Vasquez's. The earth's. The earth punching the man who had punched everything for five months.
Big Rex flew. Up. Not back. Up. A man who was seven feet and three hundred pounds and was airborne. Because the earth had punched him.
He came down. Hard. On the frozen ground. A surface that was hers. A ground that received a man who had punched a woman through a wall. And was now on the ground. Because the earth had punched him back.
Big Rex gasped. His jaw broken. Dislocated. His mouth open and not closing. A man on the ground. Not getting up. Not fast. Because the earth had punched him. And the earth was hers.
Vasquez walked toward him. The ground trembling. The earth responding. An earth that was hers and was going to finish this.
— • • • —
Day 178. 11:40 hours.
The compound.
The interior.
While Vasquez fought Big Rex at the gate, inside the compound the raiders who had broken through the perimeter were inside. Ten raiders. Various powers. Various hunger. Men who had, for five months, taken. And were now inside a mansion with food and supplies and warmth and women.
Paolo was at the Atrium. The narra table. The Sailor Moon doll. The clipboard. A quartermaster who was not a quartermaster anymore.
He was not the man he had been five months ago. Jae-min's training had seen to that. The chubby physicist who had arrived at the compound with a Sailor Moon doll and four women and no muscle and no stamina was gone.
In his place was a man who had spent five months running drills. Lifting crates. Sparring. Training. Every day. Every night. The chubby was gone. Replaced by lean muscle. Broad shoulders. Arms that had been soft were now corded. A chest that had been round was now flat. A stomach that had been soft was now tight.
Jae-min had turned a physicist into a soldier. The body was different. The doll was the same.
Carmen was beside him. Her dark eyes sharp. A Glock in her hand. Esperanza beside Carmen. A Glock. Sofia at the laptop. A Glock. Three women who had been rescued twenty days ago and were armed and ready.
Lina was at the far end of the table. Stacking magazines. Rows of ten. Her hands moving. Mechanical. Her fingers on the metal. The click of magazine on magazine. The sound of Lina working.
The Atrium was warm. The geothermal heat from the Third Floor routed down through the vents. The narra table. The Steinway. The monitors. The candle-glow. A room that had been a home for five months and was, for one moment, still a home.
For one moment.
— • • • —
The raider came through the east corridor.
He did not announce himself. Did not kick the door. Did not shout. He was just there. In the doorway. A man who had come through the perimeter. Through the east wing. Through the corridor. Into the Atrium.
Without anyone hearing. Without anyone seeing. Until he was there.
He was not Big Rex. Was not seven feet. Was not three hundred pounds. Was six feet. Maybe two hundred. Lean. Fast. The kind of lean that came from five months of not eating enough and burning power on the constant.
His eyes were wrong. Not dark. Not angry. Hungry. The particular hungry of a man who was not looking for food. Was looking for something else.
His eyes moving across the Atrium. Across the table. Across the.
Across Lina.
Lina was at the far end. Stacking magazines. Her back to the corridor. Her hands on the metal. Her hair down. Her body small. Five foot nothing. Ninety pounds. The smallest.
A woman who was not a fighter. Was not a soldier. Was a woman who stacked magazines and was good at it and was. There.
The raider's eyes found her. And stopped. And the hungry changed. Became something else. The particular something-else of a man whose eyes had found what he was looking for. And what he was looking for was small.
Paolo saw the raider. Not in time. The particular not-in-time of a man who was looking at the Sailor Moon doll and was not looking at the corridor and did not see the raider until the raider was moving.
The raider moved fast. Not Enhanced-speed-fast. But fast enough. The fast of a man who had been taking what he wanted for five months and had learned to take it before anyone could stop him.
Three steps. Across the Atrium. Past the narra table. Past Paolo. Past Carmen. Past the Glocks that were coming up. Past everything.
To Lina.
His hand closed on her wrist. Lina's wrist. A hand that was rough. Calloused. The hand of a man who had been grabbing things for five months and was now grabbing. Her.
Lina gasped. A woman whose wrist had been grabbed from behind and who had not seen. A woman who had been stacking magazines and had not heard and had not known and was now caught.
"Lina!" Paolo shouted. A man who had seen. A raider. His hand. On Lina's wrist. And was not fast enough.
The raider pulled. Lina's body toward him. Off the table. Away from the magazines. Away from the Atrium. Away from Paolo. A man who was taking. A man who did not ask. Did not negotiate. Just took.
Carmen fired. Her Glock. At the raider. But the raider was already moving. Already pulling Lina. Already through the corridor. The round hitting the wall where the raider had been. Not where the raider was.
Esperanza fired. Her Glock. Down the corridor. At the retreating shape. The round hitting the wall. Sparks. Not flesh. A shot that missed because the raider was already around the corner. Already in the east wing.
Gone. With Lina.
"Fuck!" Carmen pressed, her dark eyes sharp. Her Glock up. Aiming down the corridor. At the nothing. At the empty. At the gone.
Sofia was up. From the laptop. Her Glock in both hands. Her dark eyes on the corridor. A woman who had been looking at a spreadsheet and was now looking at the place where her sister had been.
"She is gone." Sofia offered, her voice quiet. A woman who was calculating. Not panicking. Thinking.
"Lina." Paolo breathed, his black eyes wide behind his cracked eyeglasses. His hand on the Sailor Moon doll. A man whose hand was on a doll because the doll was the only thing that was there. And Lina was not.
"She was here." Carmen offered, her dark eyes sharp, her Glock up. "She was right there. Stacking magazines. He came through the east corridor. He grabbed her. He was fast."
"Which way." Paolo offered, his voice not low. Not shaking. Not afraid. Something else. Cold. A voice that was not Paolo. Was a man who was going to.
"East wing." Carmen offered, her dark eyes on the corridor. "I heard something. From the east wing. A scream. Small. Lina screams small."
Paolo's black eyes went flat. Not wide. Not afraid. Flat. A man who was not a quartermaster. Was not a physicist. Was not the man with the doll. Was something else.
He set the Sailor Moon doll on the narra table. Carefully. A man putting down the only thing that had been his for months. Because Paolo's hands were going to need to be empty.
"Cover the Atrium." Paolo directed, his voice cold. Not Paolo's voice. A soldier's voice. Jae-min's training in the vocal cords of a physicist. "If more come, you hold. Do not follow me. Hold."
"Paolo." Carmen pressed, her dark eyes on him. A woman who had been rescued twenty days ago and was now watching the man who had rescued her walk toward a corridor that held a raider who had taken one of her sisters.
"Hold." Paolo repeated. And moved.
Not walking. Not running. Moving. A man going toward the east wing. Toward the scream. Toward Lina.
The east corridor was dark. The candle-glow not reaching. A corridor that had been lit and was now dark because the raider had knocked over a candle rack on his way through. The candles on the floor. Still burning. Small flames on hardwood.
Paolo did not stop for the candles. Did not stop for the dark. Did not stop. His boots on the hardwood. His breathing controlled. Jae-min's training. A man who had been taught to breathe. To move. To not panic. In the dark. In the corridor. Toward the scream.
The scream came again. Small. Lina's. Not loud. Not a yell. A whimper. The particular whimper of a woman who was small and terrified and was making the sound that small terrified women make. Because the sound was all she had.
The scream came from the storage room. Third door on the left. A room that held supplies. Blankets. Rations. A room that was not meant for what was happening.
Paolo reached the door. The door was closed. Not locked. The raider had not locked it. Had not needed to. Because Lina was small. And the raider was big. And the door was closed.
Paolo's hand found the handle. Cold. His fingers closing. A hand that was not shaking. Was not trembling. Was steady. A hand that had been trained by Jae-min to hold a weapon. To hold a spear. To hold. Steady.
He opened the door.
— • • • —
Day 178. 11:42 hours.
The compound.
The east wing.
A storage room.
Lina was against the wall.
The raider had torn her shirt. Not off. Open. The fabric ripped from the collar to the hem. Cloth pulled apart by hands that were rough and impatient and did not care about the cloth. Did not care about the woman inside the cloth. Cared about getting to the skin.
Her bra was visible. White. A bra that had been hidden by a shirt and was now exposed. A woman whose shirt had been torn and whose body was there. Under the candle-glow from the knocked-over rack in the corridor. The light coming through the door. Falling on Lina. On her skin. On the bra.
The raider's hand was on her breast. Over the bra. Groping. Squeezing. Not gentle. Rough. A hand that was taking. A hand that did not ask. Did not negotiate. Just took.
The hand squeezing the breast through the fabric. Working its way down. From the collarbone. A hand that was going to go under. And was working its way there.
Lina was crying. Not screaming. Crying. A woman who was small. And terrified. And against a wall with a man's hand on her breast and a man's mouth on her neck. A mouth that was there. Licking. Up. From her neck. To her jaw. To her. A tongue on a woman's face.
"Stop." Lina breathed. A woman who was saying the word and knowing it would not stop anything. Because the man was bigger. And stronger. And the word was small. Like her.
The raider did not stop. A man who had been taking for five months and had never stopped for anyone. For any word. For any anything.
His other hand found her waist. Pulling her toward him. A hand pulling her hips into his hips. A body pressing against Lina. Grinding. A man who was going to.
Lina's hands were on his chest. Pushing. Hands that were small. And not strong enough. A woman who was five foot nothing and ninety pounds pushing against a man who was six feet and two hundred pounds. The pushing was nothing. Hands that were trying. And failing.
The raider's hand went under the bra. Fingers that found skin. A breast that was not covered anymore. A hand that was on her. Fingers that were squeezing. On skin. On a breast. On a woman who was crying. And pushing. And not strong enough.
"Please." Lina breathed. A woman who was saying the word and knowing the word would not stop anything.
The raider's mouth went lower. From her jaw. To her neck. To her collarbone. A mouth that was going lower. Kissing. Biting. Teeth that found skin. On the top of her breast. A mouth that was there and was going lower.
Lina closed her eyes. A woman who was not there anymore. A woman who had gone inside. Retreating. A woman who was not there.
And then.
Paolo was in the doorway.
He saw.
Everything.
A man standing in a doorway and seeing. Lina. Against the wall. Her shirt torn. Open. Her bra exposed. The raider's hand under the bra. On her. The raider's mouth on her breast.
Lina's hands on his chest. Pushing. Failing. Lina's eyes closed. A woman who had gone inside.
And Paolo's everything stopped.
Not breathing. Not thinking. Not anything. Just seeing. Lina. Crying. And the man. And the hand. On her. And the mouth. On her. And the torn shirt. And the exposed bra. And the.
Then.
Rage.
Not anger. Not fury. Rage. A man seeing the woman he loved against a wall with a man's hand on her breast and a man's mouth on her skin and her shirt torn and her body exposed and her eyes closed and her hands pushing and failing.
A man who had four women and loved one most. And the one was against a wall with a man's hand on her. And crying. And the torn shirt. And the.
— • • • —
Paolo's hand went out. Not to a weapon. There was no weapon. A quartermaster who had distributed everything and had nothing.
But.
Ice.
A power that had been there for five months. Unused. Because Paolo was a quartermaster. Not a fighter. A physicist with a doll. Not a man who used his power for combat.
But now.
The air changed. The temperature in the storage room dropping. Not the Oblivion cold. Not the minus-seventy. Something else. Paolo's cold. Coming from his hand. Coming from his power.
A man who was not a quartermaster. Was a fighter. A man whose rage was cold. The particular cold of a rage that did not burn. Froze.
Ice formed in his hand. Not a ball. Not a shard. A spear. Growing from his palm. Extending. Out. A shaft of ice. Solid. Clear. Four feet long. A weapon in Paolo's hand. A spear made of ice.
Born from rage and cold and the particular cold of a man who was going to kill the thing that was touching the woman he loved.
The raider did not see him. Not yet. A man who was focused on Lina. On her breast. On her skin. On the licking. On the biting. On the grinding. On the taking. Not paying attention to the doorway. Not paying attention to the man with the ice spear.
Paolo looked at the spear for one moment. One. A weapon in his hand. Not a Glock. Not a clipboard. Not a Sailor Moon doll. A spear. Made of ice. His.
Jae-min's boot camp. Months ago. When Jae-min had trained the household in combat. In weapons. In spearmanship. Everyone trains. Everyone. Even the quartermaster. Even the physicist with the doll.
And Paolo had trained. In spearmanship. Because the arnis was Jae-min's. And the katana was the woman in white's. And the jian was Yue's. And the spear was what Jae-min had given Paolo. A skill in Paolo's body. In his muscles. In his everything.
The muscles that Jae-min had built. The shoulders that had been soft and were now broad. The arms that had been round and were now corded. The core that had been soft and was now tight. The body that had been a physicist's body and was now a soldier's body.
Jae-min had built it. And Jae-min had trained it. And the training was in the muscles. And the muscles were holding a spear. And the spear was made of ice. And the ice was Paolo's.
Paolo raised the ice spear. And charged.
— • • • —
Three steps. Across the storage room. A man who was not fast. Was not speed-enhanced. Was a man running with a spear. A man who had been trained to close distance. Jae-min's training. A lesson that said: close the distance. Do not hesitate. Do not think. Close. Strike.
The raider heard him. Boots on hardwood. The third step. The last step. A man who was there.
The raider turned. A man who was taking his mouth off Lina's breast and his hand off Lina's body and turning toward the sound.
The raider saw Paolo. A man with an ice spear coming toward him. Fast. Not speed-fast. But fast enough. Because the raider was turning. And the turning was not fast enough.
A man who had been focused on Lina and was now not focused. And the not-focused was a mistake.
The spear entered the raider's back.
Not the chest. The back. Because the raider had turned halfway. Not fully. And his back was there. Open.
The ice pierced through the back. Through the shirt. Through the skin. Ice that was sharp. A spear tip going in. Through the muscle. The latissimus. Tearing.
Through the ribs. The intercostal space. A gap between the eighth and ninth rib where the ice found room. And went through.
Into the chest cavity. A space that was not supposed to have ice in it. And now did.
The ice kept going. Through the chest. Through the lung. An organ being pierced. Tissue tearing. Alveoli bursting. Air sacs releasing air into the chest cavity. A pneumothorax forming. The lung collapsing. An organ that was not working anymore.
The ice kept going. Through the lung. Through the chest. Out the front. A spear tip protruding from the raider's chest.
Four feet of ice that had gone through his body and was now sticking out. Through the sternum. Bone cracking. A breastplate giving way to ice.
The raider looked down. At his chest. At the ice. Protruding. A man who had been licking a woman's breast and was now looking at the ice in his chest.
The raider's mouth opened. Blood. A lung that had been pierced. Blood coming up. From the chest. Through the throat. Out the mouth. Dark. Frothy. Blood that had been in a lung and was now in the mouth. On the lips. On the chin. Dripping onto the floor.
Paolo twisted.
The spear in the raider's chest. Not pulling. Twisting. A weapon doing more damage. Ice grinding against ribs. A shaft rotating inside the chest cavity. Tissue being shredded. Lung tissue and blood vessels and a heart that was close.
The raider screamed. A man whose chest was being destroyed from the inside by a twisting spear of ice. A weapon that was not stopping. Because Paolo was not stopping.
A man whose rage was in his hands. And his hands were on the spear. And the spear was in the raider.
"Paolo." Lina breathed. A woman who was seeing the man she loved killing the man who had touched her.
Paolo did not hear her. A man whose rage was deaf. A rage that was only the spear. And the twisting. And the raider.
The raider's hands went to the spear. Hands trying to pull the ice out. Hands slipping on the blood. Wet. Not gripping. A man who was dying and knew it and was trying to not.
Paolo twisted one more time. A man who was finishing. A weapon finding the heart. A tip piercing a wall of muscle that was giving. A heart being pierced by ice.
A weapon through. A thing in the heart. And the heart. Stopped.
— • • • —
The raider dropped. A man whose heart had been pierced by an ice spear and was not beating. Dead. A man who had torn Lina's shirt. And put his hand on her breast. And put his mouth on her skin. And was now on the ground with an ice spear through his chest and through his heart.
Dead.
His hands fell off Lina. Hands that were not on her anymore. A thing that was over. A man who was dead and not touching her anymore.
Lina slid down the wall. A woman whose legs were not holding. Legs giving out. A woman who had been standing against a wall with a man's hand on her and a man's mouth on her and was now not standing.
Was on the floor. Against the wall. Her torn shirt open. Her bra exposed. Her eyes open. Wet. Seeing Paolo standing over the raider with an ice spear in his hands and the raider on the ground and the blood on the floor.
Paolo pulled the spear out. The ice coming out of the raider's chest. A sound. Wet. Sucking. Ice on flesh. On bone. A wound releasing the spear.
Tissue that had been holding the ice and was now not. Blood. Not much. Because the heart was stopped. And the blood was not pumping.
The spear was in Paolo's hand. The raider was on the ground. The blood was on the floor. Lina was against the wall.
Paolo dropped the spear. The ice on the hardwood. Cracking. A weapon that was not needed anymore.
— • • • —
Lina.
Paolo looked at her. Against the wall. Her shirt torn. Open. Her bra exposed. Her eyes wet. Her face wet. Her body shaking.
A woman who had been against a wall with a man's hand and a man's mouth and was now free. But was not free. Still there. In the storage room. Against the wall. And the man was dead. But the hand was still felt. On her breast. On her skin. On her.
A touch that was gone but was still felt.
"Lina." Paolo offered, his voice not cold. Not the rage. Something else. Soft. Paolo's. Not the fighter. Not the rage. Paolo.
A man who was coming back. From the rage. From the cold. From the.
Lina looked at him. Through the tears. Through a face that was wet. Seeing Paolo. The man she loved. Standing over a dead man. With blood on his hands and ice on the floor.
"I am dirty." Lina breathed, her voice small. The smallest. The most terrified. Saying the thing she felt. Dirty.
Because the raider had torn her shirt. And put his hand on her breast. Under the bra. On her skin. And his mouth on her neck. On her collarbone. On her breast. And she was dirty.
Paolo did not hesitate. Not thinking. Doing. He was on his knees. Beside her. His hands not on the spear. Not on the ice. On her.
Hands that were gentle. Hands that had just killed a man with a spear and were now gentle. On Lina.
He pulled the torn shirt closed. Fabric covering the bra. The skin. The. Hands covering what the raider had exposed.
He pulled his own jacket off. His tactical jacket. A garment that was warm. And was going on Lina. The jacket going on her shoulders. Too big.
A jacket made for a man who was now broad-shouldered and corded on a woman who was five foot nothing and ninety pounds. The jacket swallowing her. Hiding the torn shirt. The exposed bra. Covering everything the raider had exposed.
"You are not dirty." Paolo offered, his voice soft. Into her hair. His arms around her.
Holding a woman who was small and terrified and crying and dirty and not caring about the dirty. Not seeing dirt. Seeing Lina. The woman he loved. Who had been hurt. And was now held.
"You are Lina. You are you. And he is gone. I killed him. And you are not dirty. You are Lina. And I love you. And nothing he did changes that. Nothing." Paolo offered, his voice soft. Into her hair. His arms around her.
Lina cried. Into his chest. Not alone. Held. By Paolo.
A man who loved a woman and had killed for her and was holding her with blood on his hands and ice on the floor and a dead man between them and the door.
— • • • —
And then the relief hit.
Not Lina's. Paolo's. The relief that came after the rage. After the ice. After the spear and the twisting and the killing.
The relief of a man who had almost lost the woman he loved. Who had been stacking magazines one moment and gone the next. Who had been in a storage room with a man's hand on her and a man's mouth on her and Paolo had not been fast enough to stop it before it started.
Had not been there. Had not heard. Had not known until she was gone and the corridor was dark and the scream was small.
The relief of a man who had found her. Alive. Not whole. Not clean. Not okay. But alive. Still Lina. Still here. Still breathing. Still crying. Still. Still.
The relief broke him.
His arms tightened around her. Not squeezing. Holding. A man whose body was shaking. Not from the rage. Not from the cold. From the relief.
The particular shaking of a man who had been holding it together. The rage. The ice. The spear. The charge. The kill. All of it held together by the rage. And now the rage was gone. And the relief was there. And the relief was too much.
"Lina." Paolo breathed. His voice cracking. Not soft. Not cold. Not anything. Cracking. A man whose voice was breaking. Because the relief was breaking him.
"I thought. I thought I was too late. I thought. When I saw. His hand. On you. His mouth. On you. I thought. I was. Too late." Paolo offered. His voice was cracking.
"You were not too late." Lina breathed, her voice small. Her hands finding his jacket. Gripping. A woman who was holding onto the man who had come through the door. "You came. You came. You —."
"I came." Paolo breathed. His forehead on hers. A man whose forehead was touching a woman's forehead. Two people who were breathing the same air. The same breath. The same.
He kissed her.
Not soft. Not gentle. Not the particular gentle of a man being careful with a woman who had been hurt. Not the particular careful of a man asking permission.
Desperate.
The particular desperate of a man who had almost lost the woman he loved and was now holding her and was kissing her because the kissing was the only thing his body knew to do. The only thing that said: you are here. You are alive. You are not gone. You are not his. You are mine. You are. You are. You are.
His mouth on hers. Hard. A man whose lips were pressing against hers. Not being gentle. Being desperate. A kiss that was not about desire. Was about relief.
The particular relief of a man who had found the woman he loved alive and was now kissing her because the alternative. The alternative was not. Thinking about.
Lina kissed him back.
Not hard. Not desperate. Small. The particular small of a woman who was five foot nothing and ninety pounds and had been against a wall with a man's hand on her and was now kissing the man who had come through the door.
The man who had made an ice spear. The man who had killed for her. A woman who was kissing the man who had killed for her because the kissing was the only thing her body knew to do.
The only thing that said: you came. You are here. You are not him. You are Paolo. You are. You are. You are.
Her hands on his jacket. Gripping. Pulling him closer. A woman who was pulling the man she loved into her. Into the jacket. Into the.
A woman who was not thinking about the raider. Was not thinking about the hand. Was not thinking about the mouth. Was thinking about Paolo. A man whose mouth was on hers and whose arms were around her and whose forehead had been on hers and whose voice had cracked.
Whose relief was in the kiss.
They stayed. On the floor. Against the wall. Kissing. The particular kissing of two people who were not being sexual. Were being alive. Two people who were breathing the same air and feeling the same relief and were together.
Two people who were on the floor of a storage room with a dead raider between them and the door and ice on the hardwood and blood on the floor and were kissing. Because the kissing was the only thing that said: we are here. We are alive. We are together. We are.
Paolo pulled back. His forehead on hers. His dark eyes on her dark eyes. Close. Two people whose foreheads were touching and whose breath was the same.
"You are not dirty." Paolo offered, his voice wrecked. The particular wrecked of a man whose voice had been cracked by relief and by the kiss. "You are Lina. You are you. And I love you. And nothing he did. Nothing. Changes that."
Lina's eyes were wet. But the tears were different. Not the tears of a woman who was dirty. The tears of a woman who was held.
A woman who was on the floor with the man she loved and was not dirty. Was Lina. Was his.
"I know." Lina breathed. Her fingers on his jaw. A woman whose fingers were on a man's face. Fingers that were gentle. A woman who was being gentle with the man who had been not gentle with the raider. "I know."
They stayed. On the floor. Against the wall. Holding. Two people who were not going to let go. Not yet. Not now.
A man and a woman who were on the floor of a storage room in a mansion in Forbes Park in minus-seventy in a war and were holding each other. Because the holding was the only thing that said: we are here. We are alive. We are together.
Enough.
— • • • —
Day 178. 12:00 hours.
The compound.
The gate.
Vasquez stood over Big Rex.
Big Rex was on the ground. His jaw broken. His body on the frozen earth. The earth that was hers. A ground that was holding a man who had punched her through a wall. And was now on the ground. Because the earth had punched him back.
Big Rex tried to get up. A man who was not done. Still fighting. A predator who had, for five months, never been on the ground. And was now on the ground. Getting up.
Vasquez stomped. Her boot on the ground. The earth responded. The ground moved under Big Rex. Shifted. And Big Rex slipped. A man trying to get up. And the earth moved under him. And he slipped.
Not getting up. Because the earth was not letting him.
"Stay down." Vasquez offered, her voice steady. The steady of the earth. A woman whose boots were on the earth and whose power was the earth and whose everything was the earth.
Big Rex did not stay down. A predator who had, for five months, never stayed down. Getting up again. A man whose jaw was broken and whose body was on the earth and was rising.
Big Rex swung. From the ground. A fist at Vasquez. Coming from below. Superhuman. Even from the ground. Even with a broken jaw.
Vasquez dropped. The ground opened under her. And Vasquez sank into the earth. Gone. A woman whose power was the earth and whose earth was holding her inside.
Big Rex's fist hit air. A punch not connecting. Because Vasquez was not there. Was in the earth.
And then behind him. A woman who had emerged from the earth. Traveled underground. Come up behind Big Rex.
Vasquez raised both hands. And the earth rose behind Big Rex. A wall of earth rising from the ground. Behind him.
She pushed. Both hands forward. And the wall pushed forward. Into Big Rex. A wall of earth hitting a man from behind. Crushing a man between the wall and the ground.
Big Rex screamed. His body compressed between two walls of earth. Ribs bending. Cracking. A ribcage that was failing.
But Big Rex was strong. Superhuman strength meant superhuman durability. A body that was tough. A body that took the compression and did not die. Not yet. A man screaming but not dead.
"You. You can't." Big Rex gasped, his voice not loud. Not cocky. Strained. A man whose ribs were cracked and whose body was compressed between two walls of earth.
"I can." Vasquez offered, her voice steady. The steady of the earth. A woman whose hands were raised and whose earth was holding a man between two walls. And was not letting go.
The compound was not falling. But not safe. A household fighting for its life.
Vasquez crushing Big Rex between walls of earth. Paolo holding Lina in a storage room with blood on his hands and a dead raider on the floor. The strike team outside cutting through the horde. The ridge group on the perimeter bleeding.
The compound breathed.
The earth trembled.
The fight continued.