Apocalypse Dance Read online

  Even under the patina of gore he was handsome. Movie star handsome with a firm jaw, straight nose, and high cheekbones. Masculine, but with a certain fineness to his features that lent an ageless boyish charm. And he looked young. Late teens, early twenties, was Nikki's guess.

  Anya approached, carrying her shotgun, but not the first aid kit Nikki had asked for. To Nikki's dismay, she was aiming the gun at the blond, her expression one of menace. “Put it down or I'll blow your head clear off your shoulders,” she warned.

  Nikki put her hand out and forced down the barrel of the shotgun. “Anya, he's hurt. He doesn't know us. I'm not even certain he can really see us clearly. Just take it easy, he's not going to shoot unless we make a move on him."

  "You don't know that, Nikki,” Anya retorted harshly as she tried to raise the shotgun to cover the man.

  "Anya, please, he's badly hurt, he doesn't need aggression from us, he needs help.” Nikki turned imploring eyes on Hawk as the trio of men joined them. “Hawk, please. He's probably afraid of us."

  "Anya, that will be enough,” their dark-haired leader ordered.

  Giving the man a thankful smile, Nikki let go of the shotgun and turned back to face the injured man, “We aren't going to hurt you. I'm a doctor,” she told him, keeping her voice pitched to a non-threatening, conversational tone the way she'd done with injured people when she'd worked in the ER. People as badly hurt as this man appeared to be could react violently to anyone getting near them, she'd seen it happen before.

  "Sheeit, is he fucked up. When he dies can we take his stuff?” Chet asked in his usual highly intellectual and humane way.

  "Shut up, Chet,” Dal said quietly, taking a step closer to the injured man. “Hey, take it easy there, mister,” he urged, speaking to the wounded gunman the same way he'd once spoken to injured dairy cattle. Soft and gentle. It sent a warmth of appreciation through Nikki. She could always count on Dal and Hawk to help, rather than hinder, her efforts to assist people. They'd even managed to save a couple of lives in the process over the last year.

  "We aren't going to hurt you,” Dal added as he crept just a bit closer.

  The business end of the revolver swung to point at Dal.

  "He's a goner anyway, just look at him,” Chet argued.

  "Shut. Up. Chet,” Hawk ground out through clenched teeth. “Make yourself useful and get the first aid kit."

  "Hawk, why waste our good stuff on him?” Chet argued plaintively.

  "Because he's a human fucking being and he's hurt, that's why!” the man snapped as he crouched down to eye level with the blond. He was a lot smaller than Hawk's impressive 6’ 8” height, but then most men were, even Dal who, at six-three, was hardly short.

  With the two larger men so close, the injured man seemed even younger, and Nikki could see under the leather he was built on leaner, sleeker lines than her heavily muscled friends. He couldn't have contrasted with them any more sharply if he'd been a leopard and Dal and Hawk had been a pair of lumbering bears.

  "Anya, Dal, back off. Nikki and I can take care of this ourselves,” Hawk ordered. The man was astute enough to realize their size and numbers might be making the injured blond edgy.

  Nikki gave Hawk a grateful smile.

  "Sure Hawk,” Dal replied, “I'll see if I can get the truck going."

  "Yeah, do that. Have Chet help you after he brings us that first aid kit. Thanks,” the larger man replied. His dark eyes were watching the blond with as much intensity as the blond was watching him, but with far more comprehension.

  Muttering, Chet went to find the first aid kit as Dal put his arm around Anya and steered her away. The woman jerked herself out of his embrace and stalked off, muttering about how Nikki was going to get her head blown off one of these days.

  The blond's eyes were watching them, but Nikki wasn't sure if they were actually what he was seeing. His eyes were glazed, unfocused. She crept a bit closer and reached out to the man, trying to move some of the hair aside so she could see face. It was very long, braided with a barbaric display of beads, feathers and bells fastened in, mostly toward the ends. “We're not going to hurt you."

  Staring at the pair of them, the man blinked, his gaze locking on Nikki. There was recognition in his eyes for a brief instant. The faint glimmer of a smile that made Nikki's heart go out to him even more. He was seeing things, a loved one she suspected.

  "Kimi?” he asked softly and wilted to the grass.

  Nikki was at his side instantly, Hawk right beside her. The man checked for a pulse with one hand while he divested the blond of the revolver clutched in his lax fingers with the other.

  "He's got a pulse. Weak and a bit erratic,” he reported.

  Skilled hands searched the man's skull for the source of the blood. She frowned when she discovered a good sized gash that showed the bone beneath it. “Scalp wound, and it's pretty nasty. He's definitely got a bad concussion, maybe a skull fracture."

  Hawk's dark eyes met hers, “He going to make it?"

  She shrugged, worry filling her gaze. “Too soon to tell, and without more equipment than that slap dash first aid kit we've got, there's no way to find out how bad he is."

  She saw the blood on his right hand and opened up the heavy leather of the man's jacket trying to assess any injuries hidden under his clothing. Hawk assisted by lifting the blond enough for her to get the jacket off of him. She pushed up the tight fitting T-shirt and was rewarded with the sight of some impressive abs. Abs black with bruising that made the narrow trail of golden hair along his belly seem like spun gold over storm clouds. She frowned. “I'd say he's got massive internal injuries."

  The man sighed, “Well, I guess Chet's right then. Not much to do but put him where the pain can't touch him anymore."

  "Let me finish triage before we condemn him, okay?” she asked a bit harshly. So many people had died, and she'd be damned if she'd just give up while this one was still breathing.

  "Wouldn't dream of making a diagnosis, Doc,” he replied.

  Nikki shook her head, “I'm sorry, Hawk."

  "Yeah, Nikki. I know,” the man smiled at her. “You're a damn good doctor. If he can be saved you'll manage it."

  "Thanks."

  Keeping her touch gentle she probed at his abdomen, seeking any obvious trauma, all too aware of the solidity of the muscle beneath her hands, of the visible bulge beneath the buttons that closed the fly of his leather pants.

  She'd been doing her internship in the ER at County General when everything had gone to hell. With so many people dead, she was—just by dint of her knowledge—a valuable commodity in any Warlord's point of view. And she'd been the only actual doctor the self-proclaimed King of the Lone Star Empire had at his disposal.

  She'd also been a slave in his harem until the night Hawk helped the captive women escape.

  The others had all gone their separate ways, leaving Nikki and Anya with Hawk, who'd promised to always look out for them if that was what they wanted.

  It had suited the pair of women just fine.

  They'd met up with Chet and Dal three months later, the pair of men running away from the Knights of the Eastern Lands because they didn't like the idea of being drafted into service as soldiers in someone else's war. Dal had been shot, weak and fevered from his wound, but Chet hadn't abandoned him, instead doing everything he could to keep his friend from dying.

  Nikki had saved Dal's life, but if it hadn't been for Chet the man would have died before they even met him. It was one of the reasons they continued to put up with Chet's less-than-stunning social skills. He was, at heart, a decent guy. And there were far too few decent people left in this old world of theirs to quibble over someone's lack of social finesse.

  "Well?” Hawk prompted.

  "I can't feel anything, but,” she shrugged, “the bruising is indicative of internal damage."

  Dal came back with the first aid kit. “He looks bad."

  "Yeah,” Hawk agreed. “But we're not going to abandon hi
m if Nikki thinks he's got any chance of living.” He smiled, “And so long as he keeps breathing, we stay here. Truck's busted anyway. Set up the tent. We'll get to work on the damned engine as soon as I'm done helping Nikki."

  Dal gave Nikki a reassuring smile, nodded to Hawk, and went to do as he'd been told.

  Hawk finished a search of the blond's jacket. “No ID, but that's not odd anymore. A few bullets for that revolver of his. He got any tattoos?"

  Nikki shook her head, “None that I've seen.” She knew what Hawk was looking for. Most of the men working for Roderik were tattooed to identify them to one another. A palm sized green dragon at the small of their back or on their biceps. “I haven't seen one on this side."

  They turned the man and found nothing on his back either, which was reassuring to the young woman.

  Hawk, however, wasn't satisfied and he quickly stripped the blond, making sure there were no tattoos hidden anywhere.

  Nikki stared. The blond was one of the most gorgeous men she'd ever seen, not just his face but the rest of him, too. Lean and sleek like she'd suspected, with a cock to match and well hung, besides.

  There were no tattoos anywhere, and they'd looked, Hawk turning the man over and giving Nikki a good view of a firm male butt. She felt the heat between her thighs and had to make an effort to focus on what they were doing as they slid his pants back up long muscular legs.

  Hawk winked and she found herself blushing. “It's okay, Nikki, I know to you young ladies he's an eyeful."

  She blushed worse. “Hawk, I'm sorry."

  The dark-haired man laughed. “For what darlin'? It's a natural reaction.” He caressed her cheek, “I understand, Nikki. About Roderik and what he did to you. You know I'm not him, and I'd never hurt you."

  "I know, it's just..."

  "The association. I know,” the big man's smile faded. “If I could, I swear I'd kill him for you, Nikki."

  She nodded, knowing he meant it.

  "Do what you can for him,” Hawk said.

  "I intend to, but keep Anya busy for me, you know how she gets with strangers sometimes, and she's been acting bizarre for the last few days. I don't want her putting a bullet into him just because she's afraid."

  "Sure. She'll be busy right now getting a meal together for us.” He patted her shoulder, dark gaze going to the man in the grass. “I've got a good feeling about him."

  Nikki glanced up at Hawk. The last person she'd said that about had been Dal. She looked at the man who was now putting up the tent. “You think he's like Dal?"

  "Might be. Hard to say. But there's a feeling I get from him. Not much, but it's there. He might not have tapped it yet like Dal and I have, but the sense of power is there just the same."

  She nodded, “I'm going to do my best to save him, Hawk."

  The hand resting on her shoulder gave a gentle squeeze, “I know you will, Nikki."

  Hawk left her alone with the blond, going to work on the truck. Whether the guy lived or died wasn't nearly as pressing an issue as getting the vehicle running again. Without that they didn't stand a chance of escaping anyone that came for them, and there were too many people who wanted a piece of them, Hawk's own brother, the self proclaimed King of the Lone Star Empire, not the least of them.

  Nikki finished her examination of the blond, frowning at some of the confusing things she found. At first it had looked as if his right arm had suffered a compound fracture, the kind of break that left bone sticking up through the skin. A closer inspection turned up a lot of drying blood inside the sleeve of his jacket and covering his arm, but no break to explain it.

  "That's weird,” she murmured, looking over the blond's arm again and finding a pale pink scar midway down his forearm. It didn't make any sense. The blood was still faintly sticky, but the wound looked months old. Shaking her head, she started to examine his head wound again and sat there staring. Instead of the oozing flesh she'd seen less than ten minutes ago, the ragged and bloody gash in his skull was scabbing over, the wound looking hours older.

  "Hawk...” she whispered, knowing he would hear her. Dal might even pick up on her quiet whisper. He had good hearing, too, for a similar reason.

  Both men turned from what they were doing, Dal setting up the tent, Hawk working on the truck to look at her.

  "What is it, Nikki?” Hawk asked, loudly enough for her to hear. The others also heard, but Chet was intently digging through the canned goods while Anya was busy building a cooking fire.

  "Can you come here a sec?” she asked, making sure he understood from her tone that she wanted to speak privately.

  The man's dark eyes registered surprise at her request, but he put down the tools in his hands and came over to kneel beside the blond. His gaze locked with Nikki's. “What is it?"

  "I think he's like you."

  "Why?” he asked her in a barely audible whisper.

  She pointed at the scalp wound.

  He stared. He frowned.

  "Don't say anything to the others, not even to Dal. Not until we know for sure,” he warned.

  "But if he is?"

  "If he is, and he poses a danger to us, I'll kill him."

  "Can you? I mean, if he's like you..."

  "Well, maybe not, but we can tie him up good enough to keep him out of our hair."

  "And if he isn't a danger to us?"

  The man gave her an easy smile, “Then we see if he wants some friends."

  * * * *

  Stars filled the sky, a billion points of light glittering with the brilliance of crystal shards across black satin. The entirety of the Milky Way drawn out in a band of luminous beauty across the night.

  He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to see them, but a vague memory of holding someone against him, someone smaller and very dear to him drifted through his mind like a ghost.

  That's all most of his memories were. Phantoms. Bits and pieces of remembrances that came and went like mist across a river.

  He lived. He drew breath.

  But he couldn't remember ... anything. Not a single, damned thing.

  There was a blanket over him. Musty and smelling faintly of both motor and gun oil, sweat and other less definable things. He pulled it closer to himself and tried to ignore the damp chill that crept in every time he shifted position. Cold. A dimly felt frisson of electrified ice. He shivered.

  As he moved the small silver bells in his hair trembled and chimed on the ends of his tangled braids. He could smell blood. Old and dried. It was his own according to his sense of smell. And the fact he knew by smell that it was his own blood gave him the curiously puzzling knowledge that only some sort of inhuman thing would know its own blood from that of another person by smell alone. Oddly that concept didn't bother him nearly as much as the loss of his memory did.

  He turned his head and the bells in his hair spoke softly to him, eliciting a vague sense of familiarity that became sure knowledge. The bells were some of the things that seemed to be with him in every one of his hazy recollections. The bells in his hair and the ever-present gun on his hip. A gun he knew by feel was not there now. It made him uneasy. Why he couldn't say, except that he always had the revolver.

  The word gunslinger whispered through his mind.

  He wondered where he'd left his motorcycle, then wondered how he knew for certain he had one that should be nearby. From somewhere in the haze filling his head the image of a blue roan horse rose in his mind. But, like the other phantom memories in his head, it too faded away.

  Regardless of the twists and turns of his existence the bells in his hair, the motorcycle and the gun at his hip were something constant, even more than the stars overhead because he knew there had been times where they were gone from the sky. Obscured by the lights of big cities: or smog.

  Sitting up he gritted his teeth against the groan threatening to slip free. He hurt as if he'd spent the night in an operating cement mixer filled with rocks. Lots of big, hard rocks. Just the fact that he could move struck
him as an accomplishment, a feeling in the back of his head telling him he'd failed to manage even that much not so long ago.

  He found himself wanting a cigarette, and also discovered that he didn't have any.

  But the gun was there at least, lying in easy reach on flattened grass. There was shoulder high grass all around him, some of it trampled, most of it standing tall, screening him from the people he knew were nearby. Five of them. Four asleep, one awake.

  He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there all the same, heightened awareness pointing them out by their soft breathing, the sensation of life they gave off.

  "You're awake,” a deep rumbling voice said, and a man moved within his field of vision, coming through the tall fescue with the same predatory stride of a lion walking across the veldt.

  But the man was no lion. There was something about him that spoke of fire and feathers, a sharp beak and rending talons.

  "Yeah,” he answered, looking up at a very tall, dark-haired man who had a few streaks of grey showing in his hair. As he tilted his head up the bells in his hair rang softly.

  "Name's Hawk."

  "I'm...” he closed his eyes, trying to remember, there was a soft ringing sound as one of his braids slipped over his shoulder. “Bells.” It seemed right, that name.

  "Bells, huh? Okay then,” Hawk said as he crouched down.

  The blond opened his eyes. “Okay then, what?"

  "That's your name. Now who are you?"

  Bells stared blankly at the older man.

  "You had a bad wreck, smashed up against the tree over there. You were a bloody mess when we found you. Now, other than the blood, it's hard to tell you were nearly dead. So I'm going to ask you again, who are you? Or maybe, I should ask what are you?"

  "What?” He shook his head, “I don't know what you mean. I...” a stricken look crossed the man's face, “I don't know."