Arcadia (Book 1): Damn The Dead Read Free

over. Her eyes never stopped roaming left and right. He had to be somewhere close by.
    Perhaps Tony had been right, and he was somewhere asleep.
    She gripped the machete with both hands, held the blade out in front of her and walked toward the horse. She didn’t want to risk getting too close and spooking the animal. While she walked, she hoped Tony was alright. His man was closer to the other four. If there was much of a scuffle, it would alert the sleeping men. The thing about Tony, he would use an arrow and could make the kill silently from fifty yards out. He’d been teaching her how to use the bow, but they just hadn’t yet come across another she could keep.
    Char did not think the man would wander far from his horse unless he found a safe place to catch some zzz’s. She stood still and just listened. Her heart pounded inside her chest.
    A tree branch snapped.
    Char spun around. She saw the butt of the rifle coming at her face and ducked. It caught the side of her head. She went down, not from the blow, but from losing her balance. Her left foot slid on loose stones. Her elbow took the brunt of the fall. Pain shot through her arm. A tingling sensation raced down to her wrist, and then up to her shoulder.
    There was no time to coddle the injury.
    She rolled to the right, off her arm. It was fast, but not quick enough. The man delivered a kick. His boot caught her on the side and she gasped as her lungs fought to inhale oxygen. She feared at least one rib might have broken. Her hands were empty.
    Where was the machete?
    The man made no noise. He survived the infected this long by learning to keep quiet, too. It didn’t stop the attack. He kept at her, kicking her in the back and sides over and over. She kept rolling, trying to get out of reach, looking for a chance to get back on her feet. It wasn’t working. The beating was relentless and she knew the pain would overtake her. The last thing she wanted was to lose consciousness. She’d be as good as dead.
    Stay still.
    Play dead.
    He wasn’t a bear. She didn’t think she could do it. Her grunts and cries could not be contained.
    “Shut up,” he said. It came out like a snarl. His words a whisper that escaped between bared, clenched teeth, but he’d stopped.
    Char stayed on her stomach, knees drawn and arms protectively wrapped around her head. Breathing was difficult. She sucked in air; each breath sent pain radiating through her. There was no means of comfort. She didn’t dare move.
    She didn’t dare move, until she was certain she knew how to gain an upper hand.
    “Where did you come from? Wha. . .are you a girl?”
    She heard it then. It was in his voice. He went from angry to something else. The slur of his words was not lost on her. The excitement in his second question was telling. The man’s beard was thick and black. It was the only clear feature she could make out in the darkness. The rest of his face was cast in shadow.
    “I said, where did you come from?”
    She whimpered. A small cry slipped out. Her head throbbed. The butt of the assault rifle broke skin. Warm blood spilled from the gash, a pungent odor of copper filled her nose. The scent trapped in the tight space; her head on the earth, her arms around her head.
    “Who else is with you?”
    The longsword was useless with no way to unsheathe it from her curled-up position on the ground. The knife on her hip was the best choice. It was a serrated ten-inch blade, but she couldn’t reach for it, not with it strapped on the same side where the man was who stood looming over her.
    “I’m not here to play games.” It was back. The lust in his tone of voice. It filled her ears and sparked her memory. Mexico had been a horrible country. The uninfected far worse than the walking dead. No mistaking that both were hungry for flesh.
    Char learned quickly to best avoid getting into sticky situations —when possible.
    “Maybe you need to be taught a lesson?”
    At least one rib had to be broken.