The Dead World Ch. 15

She wanted to be mad at Diablo. He surely would have thought that was the case, but it was clear she was not at all in a sound mental space; everything from her pressuring him to give in to those dark desires, to her erratic shift of mood, only to lash out the moment it ended, told a story of a woman struggling against the world and battling unseen demons. He wasn't to blame. She felt guilt over forcing him away when he had meant nothing by it, but some stubborn part of her would not seek to make light of her anger and coldness toward him... not at this moment.

Dove sunk down to the ground to sit beneath the harsh, unforgiving spray of cold water, staring with a glow of hatred at the pristine white tiles of the well lit bathroom. She shivered beneath the cold spray of water. She had already demanded herself to sit there until the icy chill numbed her to her very core and obliterated the heavily erotic craving left behind; remnants of the reluctant encounter just moments ago.

It felt like she sat there forever, until her fingertips had wrinkled, and she could barely feel her skin anymore. When she finally shut the water off and moved from the shower, she no longer felt pangs of desire, and she was grateful for that. She half expected Diablo had gone again. She played the apology over and over in her mind as she dried her body and dressed herself with desensitized indifference, leaving the damp strands of her hair loose around her face before she finally turned her attention to the door.

When she stepped out into the suite, she was surprised to see him sitting there, an elbow propped on the arm of the chair and his chin resting in his palm. He almost lept up, his expression melting into something distressed and utmost apologetic, and she brought a hand up quickly to dismiss his eager apology.

"It's okay--You didn't do anything wrong--"

"I'm so fucking sorry--you're right about everything I shouldn't have fucking even dared to--I don't know what the fuck I was thinking!"

"Diablo. It's okay. I pushed you. I put you in that position, and I did it on purpose... I can't be mad at you--I'm not mad at you--I'm angry at myself. But I promise you didn't do anything wrong, and you didn't hurt me... I... I just have a lot to think about, and I took it out on you." She crossed the space to the bed, and moved to lie, curling her arms gently around herself as she fought the urge to shiver still. The warm, comforting air of the suite caused her eyes to lull as fatigue settled in. She stifled a yawn and looked at him, watching his strained uncertainty begin to lift. He still looked distraught, but she felt the weight of guilt ease with her own sharp confession. Dove shifted to rest on her back before reaching to pat the space beside her.

"Come, lay beside me. I won't push you again... but I'm here until tomorrow morning. If you want to try again, I won't ruin it for you. I meant what I said earlier... it wasn't just a game, not all of it."

He hesitated at the invitation for a long time. Quietly, and with that still defeated expression, he crossed the room to the opposite side of the bed and sat, easing his feet from his boots before shifting to lie beside her. The earlier malice in her eyes had dulled to a wordless conflict as her senses mellowed back to sobriety from the temporary intoxicants she'd indulged in earlier.

She rolled onto her side to face him and reached out to rest her palm on his cheek. "You're a good man, Diablo. Thank you for showing me that tonight..."

The last-ditch efforts to move supplies into place were taken care of in the early morning hours. The men rotated through the lookout shift seamlessly--all but Oz--who was several days into his house arrest sentence. Skully couldn't help but question his state of being. Diablo had checked the wound; they had leftover medication should the worst befall him.

Three days of solitude and fasting were far from torture. They starved for far more extensive stretches of time over the years. Red Winter had been unforgiving, and they all had easily lost nearly a third of body mass struggling to survive it. Skully's concern for him was fleeting. The hour was late, and the day had been busy. The week felt as if it were dragging along.

The new lead and second-in-command of the group had been preparing to cut the power through the day, something they were sure would make the realization of abandoning the resort very real for all of them. Temperature controlled rooms, light at the flip of a switch, and hot showers would fade back into a distant memory. It was probably wise for them all to get accustomed to that sooner than later.

Skully aided Slash during waning daylight for the trip he intended to take out into hostile territory. They gathered the final few items for contingency measures and loaded them into the Firebird. This wasn't their first evac. He doubted it would be their last.

The men had learned early in the harsh months following Red Winter that they had far more to gain by setting weapons and even vehicles aside in safe spaces when leaving any camp behind. They could spare the weapons, and even a vehicle battery with a live charge, if anything went badly, and they needed to make their way back to some place they knew was supplied and secure. Out on the road, you never knew who was watching. You never knew when you would get pitted against hostiles that wanted nothing more than to kill you and take your supplies, if they didn't already have it in mind to make you into a slave or a meal.

Cannibalism was trending long since that first devastating year, and honestly, he had always believed that a lot of humans preferred tearing one another to pieces and feasting on the flesh of their foes. It had been that way long before the virus swept the globe and inspired the risen corpses to behave in that fashion.

The world had always been cruel and cutthroat. Humans had always sought control any way they could get their vicious hands around it; they had always devoured the weak and powerless. Why should it be any different now?

Skully concentrated on the task at hand: strength training. Sweat trickled down his bare chest. He grunted, keeping a mental count of the fast-paced reps, pulling his solid weight up by a single hand until his chin was level with the bar. He lowered smoothly, his legs crossed and hovering above the ground for balance as he rose again and again. Fifty reps of single grasp pull-ups for either arm had become standard, in addition to a hundred push-ups, sit ups, squats and weighted lunges. Cardio came in the form of patrol.

He had tried running the treadmill here once. He ran track many years ago through highschool, and while it teased his mind with nostalgia, he almost instantly rejected the luxurious simplicity of it. The machines wasted fuel for the generator, and he was running toward nothing. He could step outside and satisfy the goal of maintaining his body by lapping the perimeter of the resort more times than he could count. It was far more rewarding than the state of the art gym in this obnoxiously pristine relic from a world that no longer existed...

He was glad it was gone.

The pilates, cafes with overpriced bullshit drinks, reality television. The mindless fucking sheep trailing along one after the other from the womb, to the school, to the career; and finally the grave. Thoughtless, pointless lives eagerly marching to their deaths with smiling, happy faces.

They suckled greedily at the teet of the illusion of freedom, and laid down gratefully in their six foot deep holes, after spending sixty years slaving away only to enjoy ten on stipend income. All to better the lives of only a handful of rich bastards. All for the greater good of their benevolent overlords. God, was he glad it was all fucking gone, because freedom had always been a lie.

This world they were living in now with those lucky, worthy, and strong enough to survive? This was true fucking freedom. Contented people were dangerous. They became sloppy, lazy, and weak... but he would never be any of those things. He absolutely wouldn't allow it... and he would have no such weakness among his men.

He dropped to his feet, and snatched the thin tank top from the metal bar above him, wiping his brow with it and rolling tenseness from his shoulders. This had been his daily routine for years now, safe space or not. Being flexible and fit and ready for any fucking thing had saved his life time and time again. His stark blue eyes shifted to the clock on the wall in the wide, empty gym space, and he slowly started out of the hotel gym.

Diablo had posted up in the lobby when he had first come down the hall. Walking back through now, he found the slightly older man was gone again, and smirked knowingly as he passed through. His attention had gone to Oz's door at the end of the west wing. He knocked, and waited, the damp white wife beater tank top looped around his neck. He had swapped his jeans for slim fitting, dark gray sweats, and had left the holster of the 9mm pistol behind... he had his hunting knife, which was more than sufficient.

There was muffled shifting beyond the door inside of Oz's room before the door gently swung open. As he entered his brother's room, he noted Oz had already turned his back on him and moved back to the small table, sinking back down to sit. He looked tired. He always did. Colton couldn't fight the coy smirk that pulled at the corners of his lips as he let the door swing closed quietly and lingered in the foyer.

"Four more days, brother," the younger of the two mused almost playfully, watching Oz's deep blue eyes meet his own piercing gaze from across the dimly lit room. Three days of only water had not done much to trim the mass from him. He didn't doubt that Oz had his own specific work out regiment he maintained and the muscle he had was not liable to vanish in a few short days. But he did look tired... he hadn't been sleeping well, like the rest of them.

"We're brothers again? If I didn't know any better Colt... I'd swear I was your enemy now." Oz's deep voice was devoid of much emotion, the sternness of his expression and rigidness to his posture inspiring Skully to roll his eyes.

"You're so fucking dramatic. I was only fuckin' with you... I'm not some unhinged Judas, but you know just as well as I do that I am where I'm supposed to be now. It should have always been me. I'll do what needs to be done, for the good of all of us. Every time you let your little charity cases in, it backfires. She wasn't any different. It's not because you don't have the fucking gall to lead, Oscar, it's because I don't have your bleeding heart..." He grinned and cocked his head to the side, staring hard into Oz's eyes, "If Slash hadn't stopped you, you'd have fucking killed me that night, and I think we both know that. You think you'd save the world from one more fucking lunatic by putting me down? ...You're probably right."

"It isn't about that at all, Colton, and you know it. If you wanted to lead, you could've stepped in and called the vote any time. I made sure you always had that authority. No... that's not it. You're playing an extremely fucked up game here. I'll bet the girl is your center focus--it's demented, and beneath you... whatever the fuck you're doing, whatever you've already done... it's not too late to make it right."

"Spare me the fucking lecture." Skully crossed his arms haughtily, and at that Oz pushed back from the chair, anger clear over his features as he closed the distance between himself and Skully. The younger of the brothers stood his ground, but the playful deviance had faded from his features.

"You came here for the fucking lecture. I'm telling you that you're not well. What you're doing... it isn't right. I know you know that. The further you go down that hole, the worse it gets--you've seen it just like the rest of us," Oz snapped.

"I've got it under control." Skully's flippant reply came with another sharp roll of his eyes.

Oz laughed darkly and shook his head. "There is no having it under control... you know that. The more you let go, the worse you get... until you're a paranoid, violent shell of who you once were, turning your fucking barrel on the people you care for the most. How many times do you have to see it happen before you believe it?"

"I'm not a weak, terrified, sniveling fucking stray. I'm not Birch. I'm not Savage. I know exactly what the fuck I'm doing and who I am, Oz," Skully mused, tempted to laugh at the idea that he was undergoing anything close to the mental deterioration they had seen by those who couldn't cope in the world. They fed to the darkness of the virus that every last one of them were infected with and drove themselves closer to death... closer to their new purpose as stumbling fucking corpses, hellbent on destroying the survivors in the dead world.

"A rapist, right? A slaver? That's who you want to be?" Oz pressed the insults purposely, hoping desperately that he could force a bit of sense into his little brother's thick fucking skull, but it only inspired Skully to sneer arrogantly and cross his arms over his bare chest.

"A leader. I didn't do a damn thing wrong. I put the insubordinate little bitch in her place, where she belongs, and she knows now what happens if you step out of line... it's no different than you kicking Dog's ass a few years back when he stole your bike and drew a fuckin' swarm with his midnight joyride. If we left it to you, she'd have led the fuckin' head hunters right to the front fucking door... we'd be dead, and she'd be chained to a bed somewhere being fucked senseless every day of her life, if the fuckers didn't think to cook her first." Skully chuckled and shook his head, his sharp blue eyes narrowing dangerously. There was building aggression in his voice as his brother tried to argue from a point of view that no longer fit this world; from a stance of morality that only he seemed to cling to.

"Being just slightly less of a fucking monster than the rest of them still makes you a fucking monster, Colt," Oz hissed.

"Clutch your fuckin' pearls and cry about it all you want... I offered her a contract to settle up for the years of foraging and salvaging she destroyed in a month, and she agreed to it. Having her with us puts us all in danger for more reasons now than you'll ever understand. She's reckless... and stubborn as fuck, worse than Dog even. If I didn't handle it the way I did, she'd be a liability every step of the way. Now... she's an asset... and a damn good one."

"You're fucked."

"I am. And maybe if you were too, you wouldn't be so fuckin' uptight about it all. When's the last time, huh? Not since fuckin' Portland, right? Fuck, do you even jack off or are you just walking around pretending you're not a fuckin' man anymore?"

Oz growled and shook his head, throwing up his hand as if to dismiss the conversation entirely. Skully's inability to hold any seriousness to the topic was disgusting in its own right. He didn't want to hear any more of it, turning his back on the younger man whose amusement had grown ten times by the prude reaction.

"Enough. What the fuck do you really want, Colt?"

"I want you to stop pretending that you would turn it down... if I brought that girl in here naked and had her beg you to fuck her..." The mocking contempt of his tone earned him a deadly glare from the older male, just over his shoulder. He turned in part to face him, and adopted the same rigid stance, his muscular arms crossing over his chest.

"Careful, kid... be real fucking careful of what the fuck you say to me next."

"Tch... you've always been so fuckin' easy to rile up. Save it, brother. I'll leave you with your fuckin' holier-than-thou moral compass perfectly intact. Just stop trying to fuckin' condemn me for the Judgment she fuckin' accepted. At the end of the day, it'll play out well for us all... even little Dove." Skully sighed, and turned away from Oz, who had slowly moved to recover his seat at the small round table in the suite. Skully started back toward the door, glancing back to his brother with dark amusement still etched over his features, the lengthy strands of his jet black hair shifting before his eyes.

"I need you to make the run with Slash before dawn. He's going back out to the perimeter of the safe zone to try and salvage another Humvee, and he's setting aside Plan B back at Dog's little playground... in case we run into trouble on our way out. You're off the hook... see, I can be fucking reasonable. Eat something, sleep... I'll put your 617 and the M16 at the valet desk."

Skully exited the room as simple as that, leaving Oz to exhale a huff of breath, his blood boiling beneath his skin. Colton wasn't wrong. He had always seemed to have a knack unlike any other for getting under Oz's skin in the worst ways possible. This... this was a step above that. He tried his best to portray genuine concern for his brother's well being. He knew, to some degree, that even in all of his aggressive alpha male personality, Skully had gone off a dangerous tangent in the last few months. He made a point to hunt down hostile survivors, and he had done unspeakably horrific things to the ones who didn't manage to escape.

Oz kept it hush. He was almost certain that at least Slash was aware, and for all he fucking knew, they'd been making sport of hunting enemies for the better half of the year. He saw the signs. He knew the way this went, and no matter how confident Skully was that he wasn't falling prey to the side effects of infection, Oz knew... deep down.

His thoughts shifted to those who had been victimized over their stay here. Dog had found out about Charlie first, and so it was almost certain that he had rubbed Skully the wrong way by withholding the information... and Charlie, herself. It turned his stomach to think of it too deeply. It frustrated him that she hadn't spoken up, but he didn't need to ask her why; he already knew. The men struggling with mental clarity among them on a path of self destruction had more than likely made it impossible for her to seek help and terrified her to her very core. It explained the frantic attempts to put distance between the group and herself. It explained her reluctance to find a place among them. Oz couldn't help the guilt of not having taken more time to observe, too hopeful that they had found something at least semi-permanent for once.

The entire situation had spiraled out of control... If he meant to take the reins again and drag Colton back from a sure path to Hell and an inevitable death, he was going to have to fight for it.

Rest came far easier than it had the few nights before. Diablo maintained space between them, and they slept clothed; but when she curled to his side through the night with her head resting on his shoulder, he was not inclined to disturb her or press her boundaries any farther than she offered to him. Still... it was impossible to ignore the allure. He wasn't certain if their time in the shower was to blame, or if it was simply Charlotte herself who had some sort of undeniable attraction to her that made it hard to focus on anything but her pretty face and soft lips. Only this time, he was determined not to allow a moment of weakness to rear its ugly head.

When she awoke, he had gone early, leaving a note behind for her so as to not worry her. He'd gathered the remaining canned fruit from their supplies and left the peace offering on the table and, for some reason, she couldn't deny the sinking feeling of emptiness gripping her in the wake of the night before. She had held up her end of the contract. Why did she feel so fucking awful for it then?