In The End Box Set by Stevens, GJ (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📗

pocket and I couldn't get my mind around the way he was acting. He spoke with an English accent, from the south, Kent probably, but he talked like he was part of an invading army. Did he know we were on the same side?

I had only seconds to think. I could slide the gun free, could take a chance he wouldn't react in time. I could leap away, scrabble up the side of the valley. He was in no state to give chase. His aim would be terrible, but I couldn't discount luck. He was a trained killer; any hit would be bad news, no chance of a hospital visit before infection set in.

Or I could just kneel here, let him take charge, talk myself out of him finishing the job while I hoped the others came back. Maybe Andrew might have another rocket up his sleeve.

I couldn't do either. I had to take charge. I was where they'd put me and I wouldn't let them down. Anyway, they wouldn't come running if they heard a shot. They'd left me to take care of the suffering on my own, whichever way I chose.

Raising my hands in the air, I saw the moment the guy clocked his colleague laying on the ground unmoving. I watched what I thought was a flinch, saw him stand tall, pushing away the emotion.

“I said don't move,” came the bloodied voice.

I was already standing, thankful he hadn't shot me yet, knowing the more time went on, the more my chances extended. What else could I think?

Naomi's words came into my head. He had orders to protect, to stop the infection.

“I'm not infected,” I blurted out, losing the battle to keep calm.

The guy didn't react, other than to slant his head to the side.

“What's your name?” I said, moving my right foot an inch forward.

“Stay where you are,” he replied, blood dripping from his chin in an elongated string.

I held myself still, concentrating on his face. He had a gash along the length of his forehead, blood still washing down into his mouth. If I could last long enough, this guy would bleed to death.

Movement caught in my vision from below. I stepped to the side. Stepped back; my earlier question answered.

* * *

COMMANDER LANE

“If you can understand me, don't move a muscle,” I shouted. I exaggerated the words in case some vestigial intelligence remained in the figure whose shape I could just about make out crouching over a mound of earth as my lids worked overtime to clear the blood from my eyes. Each time I could finally see, a blanket of fresh darkness smeared across.

In the last snapshot he wasn't moving, but still I stepped forward. I couldn't wait. I needed to shorten the odds. My aim last month was only just good enough to get my licence renewed without the world clouded, swaying side to side.

He was watching me, concentrating on my actions. Each time my view cleared I expected to see him pouncing forward, racing to chew my face off. I was dreading the moment I would have to shoot. The moment I would find out if I could live up to my friend's bravery.

Instead, he watched, his movements slow. I shouted again and he stopped. He understood language, or maybe it was just my tone and now he looked like he was mouthing words.

Was he talking or growling? I couldn't tell. My hearing was still destroyed, just a constant ring.

I edged forward; there was still a lot of distance to cover. If he had any sense left he would have run, not stood in my headlights staring back, moving his mouth around like he was chewing gum.

“Stay where you are,” I said, straightening the gun. And here it was, the inevitable.

He'd jumped forward as my vision cleared, but despite it blurring all too soon, my mind told my finger to pull the trigger. The words repeating over. I wouldn’t comply.

With the next snapshot my adrenaline spiked higher. The guy had stepped back, moved to the side and out of shot.

My gaze turned down to the mound. Had it moved? Was it twisting around?

30

LOGAN

We were gathered in the woods when Lane woke, that was his name according to the badge on his breast pocket. A good hour had past since we'd dragged his body from beside the road, since I'd taken his gun as he slumped and I dealt with what had become of his colleague.

I'd been mistaken. When the body at my feet moved, rolled over with his arms and legs loose, his eyes white and teeth bared, it was the first time Lane had seen him. He knew what it had become. I'd watched as he pawed at his face, blood rolling down his forehead and into his eyes as he took his first glimpse. It could have been the loss of blood, or the shock, but he collapsed in a heap.

Andrew arrived under Naomi and Zoe's shoulders soon after, questions alight on their features with my hand pressing a bandage on the face of the guy they were yet to meet.

We agreed making camp in the woods was necessary and, ferrying Andrew and Lane, we did just that. Naomi and I made a fire after a five-minute walk in.

She waited until we were alone before she apologised and I told her with a thin smile there was nothing for her to apologise for. I wanted her to have been right too. I returned with an apology of my own for my heated words only moments before.

With the clear air and warmth more than welcome, the two pistols were split between myself and Cassie, who took guard as the rest of the able-bodied scavenged what we could from the crash site. None of us had the courage to