1
She found him beneath a weeping willow tree, and he was crying. Not from grief, though that was there. The world had ended. Anyone left had that in abundance. This was pain. A wound on his right thigh had stained his weathered blue jeans black.
Fifteen yards away, Jessica trained her rifle on him, called, "I'm coming in."
The man didn't look up, but shrugged with a wince. He held a dirty piece of cloth to his leg.
"You armed?" she asked, glancing around, then taking a first cautious step.
The injured man took in a breath with effort. He shivered as he spoke in a chattering voice. "Would I still be here if I wasn't?"
"Two fingers. Slow."
For a long moment, he didn't move. Jessica glared down her sights at him. Finally, he reached beneath his arm with a grimace. He produced a pistol from a shoulder holster. It dangled between his thumb and forefinger.
"Toss it," she said.
"Lady, does it look like I have the strength to do that?"
"I could just shoot you now."
"Fair point." With a grunt, he hurled the weapon about three feet, then offered her an I-told-you-so look that under entirely different circumstances, in an entirely different world, might have come across as charming.
Not lowering her rifle, she closed the gap between them. She kicked the pistol a safe distance away. Close up, she noted further blood stains spotted about his clothing, a pair of minor cuts on his neck, a red bruise on his cheek that would yellow by the morning. "What happened?"
"A fight," he said with an air of finality that halted any further questions on the subject. Jessica understood. Only in her sleep did she relive the handful of similar experiences she'd had in the last eleven months.
"I'm going to put this down," Jessica said. "But try anything..." She didn't need to finish. Beneath a couple months' worth of scraggly auburn beard, the man's face paled by the second.
He didn't protest when she placed her hands on his and gingerly moved them from the soiled cloth on his leg. She peeled the cloth away, and then it was her turn to wince. The blade - just the blade - of a knife was embedded and broken off in his leg.
"How the hell did the handle break off?" she asked, more for something to say than expectation of an answer.
"Shoddy craftsmanship," the man said and made a gurgling sound that might have been a laugh.
Jessica unslung the pack from her back, set it in front of her, and began rifling through it. At the bottom, she found a rusted pair of pliers.
The man's glossy eyes went wide at the sight of the tool. "The hell are you...?"
"It has to come out," Jessica said, steeling herself for the gruesome task.
"No," the man said, but he offered no opposition as Jessica slipped her arm around his shoulders and gently eased his back from the tree trunk and lowered him to the ground. He shivered with tremors of shock.
She used her knife to cut away his pant leg. Staring at the gnarly wound, she drew in measured breaths. Why was she doing this? She didn't know this man, owed him nothing. Worse, she'd tarried out in the open too long already. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled, and she did a quick scan of the perimeter.
"Have any alcohol?" the man asked.
"Yes," she said, "but not for you."
The corner of the man's mouth quirked up in a lazy grin. "Bad girl."
Jessica flinched, but only slightly. "Shut up and be still."
The man looked up, seemed momentarily transfixed by the gentle swaying of the willow branches. A look that could almost pass for serene spread over his face. He sighed. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His jaw clenched tight.
The pliers felt heavy in her hand. Once she pulled the blade free - if she even could - she wouldn't have much time to stem the blood flow. She didn't like his chances. He already looked half dead. But his chances out here with this wound were zilch. Again, she wondered why she even bothered. She didn't need this trouble. She had plenty all on her own. She pushed a memory of Ft. Worth from her mind before it could take hold, but she had her answer.
The man jerked when she bit the blade with the pliers. Three...two...one. She pulled out hard. The man screamed. Instinctively, Jessica whirled around, trained but panicked eyes searching the area. Fifty yards away, a rustling bush set her heart jackhammering in her chest. Her eyes remained glued to the spot for what seemed an eternity. Her breathing sounded like a jet engine in her head.
Nothing ventured from the bush.
Blood spurted. Jessica snapped to. She snatched a roll of gauze from her pack, sneered at the filthy rag then pressed it hard to the open wound. She held it a few moments, putting her weight into it. The man groaned, eyes flitting open and shut. She was surprised he hadn't passed out. She lifted his knee and began applying the gauze. Finished, she looked her patient over. He was covered in sweat and still shivering sporadically. She used his shirt sleeve to wipe his brow.
"Still with me?" she asked.
"Ask for me tomorrow," he said in a hoarse whisper, "and you shall find me a grave man."
Despite the peril of the situation she'd gotten herself into, despite the fear spider-walking along every inch of her skin, Jessica smiled and let out a soft laugh. "To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub."
"Nice," the man breathed, offering that quirk of a grin again.
Then he passed out.
2
Jessica took the steaming pot from the fireplace and set it on the coffee table next to the couch she'd laid him on. Also on the coffee table, arranged in a neat, efficient manner were a pair of scissors, a half-empty bottle of antiseptic, a hand towel, fresh gauze, sports tape, a shirt, pair of pants, socks, and men's briefs.
Once she'd dragged the man into town on her makeshift gurney, she'd stopped at a little store called Roma's. Like most all the businesses in town, it had been ransacked months before. However, the scavengers hadn't bothered with the stockroom at the back. On the bright side, the world may have ended, but you could still get quality garments at rock-bottom prices.
On the couch, the unconscious man's chest rose and fell easily, if a bit too quickly now and then. Jessica stretched her overtaxed muscles, relishing the few good pops and creaks, then crouched, took the scissors in hand, and got to work. She cut away what was left of his jeans. She did the same to his ratty vest, shirt, and underwear. Workmanlike, she inspected his bevy of abrasions, cuts, and bruises. The worst, she cleaned with hot water and the towel, then applied what antiseptic she could spare. Never once did the man stir as her practiced fingers poked and prodded.
Like her own, his body was skinny, taut, and hard. Not like the old days (when had she begun to view them as the Old Days?), where you worked out three days a week at a state-of-the-art gym to sculpt such a physique. No, his body, her body, these were rigorously crafted by hard days on the road, swift brutal encounters, long tense nights. Jessica's fingers languished down the man's solid abs and up again. She told herself she was being thorough. Her held breath told her otherwise. Exhaling the offending breath, she resisted the urge to lift the shirt she'd used to cover the man's privacy.
Once she'd applied a fresh bandage to the leg wound, she slid down to her knees, sitting on her legs, hands in her lap. She watched her patient sleep. How long had it been since she'd been this close to a man, or anyone for that matter? A month ago. And that had been a far cry from pleasant. Did that mean she counted this as pleasant? Funny how perspectives changed. The last time she'd sat and watched a man sleep, there had been two glasses of red wine beside them, scented candles flickering, piano music playing low on his stereo. Now, she was in a dusty, humid house with boarded up windows and doors. Instead of expensive wine, two one-gallon jugs of water stood against the wall. The fire did flicker, but the only music filling the small room was the rush of wind outside and the stranger's soft snoring.
As her eyes slowly took him in, her breathing began to match his own, and she slowly became aware of a flush in her cheeks, a tingle to her flesh. She reached out, brushed a long strand of auburn hair from his eye. A silly thought - he needed a haircut. Just a nice trim to root out the frayed ends. Nothing drastic. She liked the wild look the mane gave him, and his beard could use some taming. She wouldn't shave it. It gave him a rugged look she found appealing.
How her hand had come to rest on his cheek, she didn't know. Nor did she remove it. He was warm to the touch. That, or the flush had spread from her cheeks to her entire body. Her thumb stroked his strong jaw line.
Something stirred inside her. Images of times long forgotten flashed in her mind. No, not forgotten. She'd tried. She'd tried very hard. But they wouldn't fade. No matter how she wanted them to. No matter how much easier it would make the life she had now. A calloused hand on her burning cheek. Greedy fingers exploring her hair. Lips on hers, devouring. Her hand was on his stomach now, fingers playing at the thick patch of hair. In her head, she heard hungry moans, not just her own. And the sweaty slap of flesh against flesh. And a cry of pain. And the harsh snap of a belt...
