‘They call themselves the Valiant.’
Lily’s words came to him on a wisp of memory. They were Valiant. They were brave and strong and chivalrous. They were well-armed and well-trained. They had named themselves after a quote Euan had scrawled on a shit-smeared bathroom wall in his honour. With Mickey-O blowing up in a cloud of fire and smoke, Nick knew that they would follow Euan without hesitation. Then they could take Parker and his band of bastards down.
He just needed to get him there.
The wind picked up and he righted his pants. He pushed his hands into his pockets and turned towards the farmhouse.
Death was written in every rotting wooden door, every broken roof tile, every shattered pane of glass and crumbling brick. The house seemed to almost sag in on itself. A starving corpse, its skeleton visible through the tightening of its skin and the decay around it. As Nick approached, birds squabbled and squawked at his intrusion. This husk was their home now. It would never house the intelligent apes that had learned to make fire, wheels and biological warfare.
The door was closed. When he put his hand to the cold brass doorknob, it came off in his hand. When he pushed the timber, it splintered. He snorted while he wound his hand in and around and twisted the knob from the inside. It opened with a terrible squeal.
Nick waited. Belatedly, he thought to remove his gun from the holster at his hip. The weapon was warm where he gripped it.
The light was weak and so were the floorboards. They groaned as they took his weight. His boots echoed. He flinched as a bird took flight and fluttered above him and out the door behind. It was only after it had escaped did he realise both hands were palming the grip of his gun and the finger brushed the trigger. He took a deep breath.
Time and the weather were all that had touched the room and furniture since the last occupants had closed that front door. The floral sofa was dusty but whole. A Persian rug immaculate under a fine layer of dust. When his boot pushed the mat from its location, the timber underneath gleamed gold.
It was cold. A television was in one corner, and Nick’s fingers itched to touch it. Not because it would ever work again, but just so he knew it was real.
So many memories.
His sisters fighting over a remote. His father leaning back against the soft-padded cushion of a sofa, his legs spread wide, his one and only beer a night held lazily in his hand. Nick could even remember the heat of his body when he rested against his side, the gentle way the tips of his father’s fingers had touched the fine hairs on his head. The scent was there too, cedar wood, grease, and male body odour. His father had worked hard as a mechanic to provide for his large family.
Nick blinked back the vision and moved to the kitchen. The cupboards were closed, the dust untouched. A coffee maker took pride of place. Nick felt a touch of regret for the loss of their own.
‘I’ve got coffee?’
Jesus, she had been so beautiful then. Wild, delicate, incredible. His heart had honestly convulsed. He couldn’t fathom something so precious being so real. She had made his knees weak and his head question every reality. They had survived a plague, violence, betrayal, a modern Thunderdome and the death of someone they had sworn to protect. When she had stood in front of him, he had managed to remain standing and not fall to his knees in astonishment and thanks.
Thanks to whatever force had led them to her door and not anyone else.
The thought that Rodgers or Parker might have found her first …
She still did that to him. But the impact was stronger, more severe. Today in Euan’s arms she had gone from brave warrior to vulnerable woman and everything in between. The amazing thing was, it had made him love her more, appreciate, understand her. She was woman. She was warrior. She was theirs.
Opening the cupboards, he found everything untouched. Like the rest of the home, it was a relic to those last days before society fell. He picked up a can of peaches and smiled. The can was heavy in his hand. The label still glossy. Scrolled letters described them as the sweetest in the country. Nick suspected they would be right.
He ran his hands through the dust on the benchtop and thought of his mother. Her short practical haircut, her green eyes, a mirror to his own. A smile that was so beguiling it would stop his father in his tracks. Blue eyes would soften, a tilt of firm lips and he would approach as though he were a predator, focused on his prey.
There was a reason why he was one of four children.
The smile that stretched Nick’s lips was not his mother’s. That had been reserved for his sisters. His father had his hands full there too.
Gun back at his hip, he rolled the can in his hands as he moved back through the house, following his footsteps in the dust. The sun was bright when he emerged, and he squinted against the glare. They needed to convince Euan that their goal was the mountains, to the fortified hotel that Nick had only witnessed a glimpse of before he had followed twelve men into the wilderness in search of Euan.
The brittle grass crunched under his feet as he moved back to the barn. The wind was still there, but the morning sun was warm against his back, a comforting heat that filtered through the fabric of his clothes to touch his skin. He was looking forward to removing his boots when he heard them.
Soft, escalated breaths, little mewls, the crackle of straw, the rustle of fabric.
‘They need us. They need you.’
‘Kiss me and I’ll think about it.’
‘All you want
