There was a quiet moment of tension as the ugly bastard considered Dean’s casual threat.
“We’ll see you again, pig,” declared Fugly, lowering the shotgun. “The Nomads got you marked.” Then he looked at me and put one hand on his crotch, sneering a filthy leer my way. “Me and my boy will see you too, honey.” He gave his crotch a faint thrust my way while still touching himself to illustrate his intentions.
I just laughed. “I’ve worn heels bigger than your dick, my little chipolata, and squeezed out wet post-curry turds prettier than you. So, unless you want me to give you a 5.56 makeover on that bag of smashed arseholes you call a face, do as the nice officer says and fuck the fuck off, eh?”
Even some of Fugly’s minions had trouble stifling a laugh at that. Sarah was almost in fits, shoulders shaking and snorting like a piglet as she tried to suppress her laughter.
“Eloquent.” I couldn’t see Dean’s face as he was behind me, but I could hear the smile as he said it.
Fugly’s butt-crack smile was slapped off his scabby lips and his features clouded over with barely contained violence. His face twisted with as much hate as the undead do just before they lunge.
Freya, this guy is not a good dude. I feel like not shooting him there and then might just cause pain for some other poor survivor down the road and that worries me. However, putting him down then with his gun pointing down and his crew edging to leave without eating a bullet would have been cold-blooded murder. I can’t go down that dark path because there’s no coming back from it, and probably the kind of fuckery that contributed to the dead sitting back up to judge us all. I don’t have room for hate in my heart, so I have to be better than that.
I do have a little space in my heart for some “go fuck yourself” though.
Gun still lowered in his right hand, Fugly raised his left in a finger gun and mimicked shooting me, like I was going to be intimidated.
“Nomads got you all marked, bitches.” Then he put his arm in the air and spun it in a circle. “We’re out.”
We kept all our guns trained on them as they moved past us in a line on foot, waiting a good five minutes after they’d disappeared before relaxing even a tiny bit.
“Sarah, Isaac, stay here and stay ready. Keep your eyes out for any sign.” The two nodded. “Erin, you’re with me.”
The two of us approached the house, slinging our rifles down as we waved up in a friendly manner to the window.
“It’s okay, it’s safe now. My name is Dean Williams, and I was a police sergeant before everything fell apart. This is my foster-daughter, Erin Locke.”
I was blown away. He’d never said that before, even though that’s how he and Maria had always treated me. I got a warm squishy feeling inside when I heard that, and it cheered my mood considerably.
“Are you all okay?” I shouted up. “Is anyone hurt?”
“No,” the woman shouted down, her eyes still looking out beyond Isaac and Sarah to make sure the thugs had gone.
“We’re from a small community just out looking for supplies,” I continued. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
The front door opened and a man in his thirties appeared. He was mixed race, probably from one black parent and one white, judging by the beautiful russet colour of his skin. It’s the same colour as Charlie’s, where the perfect blend of both parents has created this glowing skin tone that sits smack bang in the middle of the white and black genes.
The most striking thing that caught my eye, however, was his green eyes. They were like polished jade. Absolutely gorgeous, and they sparkled even brighter when contrasted with his darker skin.
He looked physically fit, if a little thin. A thick beard shrouded the lower half of his face and his dark hair was long and thick.
The newcomer took us all in quickly, assessing us, and I almost had Nate’s voice in my ear telling me this guy had seen action in some way. He was vigilant, took us all in at a glance, was ready to act if he needed, but wasn’t threatening in any way. Confident, despite the rifles slung across our chest.
“A timely intervention officer,” he said. His voice was deep with a hint of southern accent. Not thick cockney, but just a hint to the way some of his words were pronounced.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, stepping forward and thrusting out my hand. “Erin, but everyone calls me Lockey.”
“Elijah,” he replied. Then with a smile added, “But everyone calls me Eli.”
Okay Freya. I’m not easily giddy, and Eli is a decent looking guy with that lovely skin and amazing eyes, but holy shit, when he smiled, he was drop dead gorgeous. You know how they say some people smile with their whole body? That was what happened to Eli. His face shined, his eyes seemed brighter, and his whole posture changed to warm and friendly.
I am ashamed to say this, but I actually went, “Ha, yeah, cool,” as he shook my hand, like some fucking giddy teenage geek girl that’s just been noticed by the hottest guy in class. I am never lost for words. Never. But when that pretty bastard hit me with that smile, my mind went all foggy and my tongue felt about three times too big.
I feel like such a tool now.
I’ll give you the rundown on our new friends, as there were five of them in total.
Elijah Beckett – who henceforth I shall just refer to as Eli – is thirty and a
