Assumed Dead, page 6
“Matt,” Peter said. Said nothing else. His voice choked off. He reached for Matt’s arm, needing to touch it. To know he was alive and warm and still here. Matt went quiet too, the laughter stopped. His face stilled. He reached out and wrapped his fist in the folds of Peter’s sweater, pulled him close until Peter was pressed up against him.
“Peter,” Matt said. Said nothing else.
Matt waited then. Didn’t push. His eyes were wide, his lips parted. His invitation was absolutely clear. Peter took it. He leaned in, and their lips met.
Matt tasted sweet. The syrup from the can of peaches lingered on his lips. He opened his mouth to Peter, and that same taste was there on his tongue. So sweet, as he’d dreamed Matt would be. Because he had dreamed of it. Wondered more than once, wondered many times, about how Matt would taste and smell and feel.
Guilt warred with his desire. It tried to throw water all over the flames. He was sworn to Harrison. He’d made vows. They’d waited and fought for years for the right to call each other husband. That should not be easily thrown away.
A moment longer, then he’d stop, pull away. Tell him they can’t do this. Just a moment longer…
His senses were drowning. Guilt’s warning cries faded. He felt dizzy, breaths snatched and shallow. All the syrup was gone; he’d taken it all. Now Matt tasted only of Matt, and he was sweeter than any sugar. Peter tasted optimism and South Island sunshine in his kiss. So much life and hope in him.
A door banged, and Peter gasped and pulled back. Guilt rushed in—this time with a fire extinguisher—and doused those flames once and for all. It was the door into the kitchen, not into the infirmary. He heard voices through the thin wall to the kitchen next door, heard footsteps pounding up and down the central corridor.
Matt reached out again. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re still alone.”
Peter took another step away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
“Peter…” Peter took the crutches from where they were propped against the wall and handed them to Matt, who took them. Matt frowned. “Peter, that did happen. Don’t pretend it didn’t. Don’t tell me it didn’t feel amazing.”
“Irrelevant,” Peter said. “I’m married, and also you’re my patient.”
“Okay. Whatever. You hang on to your licenses there.” Matt moved away from the desk, maneuvering around it with the crutches. Peter started forward to help him. “No, I can manage.”
Probably a good thing. Touching him again would only mean more temptation. Would Peter be able to stop a second time?
Matt left the room, slow but deft with the crutches. He glanced back at the open door, one half of his face lit by the corridor beyond, one half shadowed. He didn’t speak; he only smiled. The annoyance he’d displayed a moment ago appeared gone. His smile was…pleased. This wasn’t the end of the game for him. Peter’s resolve had weakened once. Matt must be sure it would again. He was in no hurry. There was no reason to rush into anything around here—including seducing your doctor.
Chapter Seven
Matt sat by the window of the bunk room, drinking the last hot cup of tea he’d get before they turned the electricity back on to cook dinner. In the summer the solar panels would give them enough electricity to have power all day, but it would be weeks yet before they got enough daylight for that.
Outside in the west yard stood Jay’s little helicopter. It had been several months since it was last out, and she and R.J. and Stav were fussing around it, checking the engine and all the systems. A few others were standing watching the show—they were starved for entertainment here. Matt would have been out there too, but the ground was still slippery with ice, and anyway, he couldn’t easily put a boot on his swollen foot.
He’d got some entertainment last night, all right. His lips felt burned from the heat of the kiss. But feeling good rather than painful.
He hobbled back to his bunk and eased down onto it with a sigh of relief, resting his foot on the bed. Perhaps he’d take a quick nap…
The clattering of helicopter blades woke him, and he looked around muzzily. Shit, he’d slept for almost two hours. He hopped to the window in time to see the little Robinson R22 lifting off. The people on the ground clapped and cheered, from sheer exuberance at the novelty, Matt supposed. Like he’d thought, starved for entertainment. But the reason for the trip was not a pleasant one. Matt hoped it was a wasted trip and that they saw nothing. He hadn’t dreamed last night of the zombies coming after him, since he’d taken the sedatives Peter had offered. But he’d bet once he went to sleep with a clear head tonight, he’d see those creatures again.
The crowd outside started to disperse. Some set about their chores. Louise and Edvin grabbed the long rakes used to dislodge snow before it got too heavy and caved the roof in. Not so much snow now. Soon they’d be into summer—when they only had cold rain, hail, and the constant wind to deal with.
Matt missed the damp heat of home. Longed for the humidity, which was ridiculous when all anyone ever did was complain about it. Things rotted faster in that kind of climate. Any of the farm’s sheep that had died overnight had been a festering horror only hours later. He wondered if that meant the zombies rotted away more quickly than ones in a cold climate. New Zealand might already be zombie-free.
But new infestations might arise. Even here, despite the isolation, they were not safe. Those zombies had got here somehow. Thank God they’d found them at the Norwegian station and not opened the door to one some dark morning.
Stav came in, out of his cold-weather gear and boots. He’d have left them in the drying room close to the main door. It had vents for the warm air from the furnace to come up and dry out coats and waterproofs. On laundry day those who had that task used big tubs of warm water and a mangle, then hung everything in the drying room. It smelled like wet dogs then.
Stav grabbed a blanket from his bunk and wrapped it around his shoulders, then curled up on the bunk.
“So cold today. You’re right to stay in here. How are you feeling?”
“Bored,” Matt said. He turned on his side and wrapped a blanket around himself. It was cold. Someone needed to get more wood in the furnace.
“Let me bring you a book from the rec room,” Stav offered. “Or cards. Or anything else you want.”
“No, I’m fine.” He sighed. Having no chores to do because of his injury was nice in theory, but when it left him at a loose end all day in a place with little entertainment, time started to hang heavy on his hands. He rummaged in a storage box under his bed and drew out his journal. He hadn’t filled that in yesterday, what with almost being eaten by zombies and ending his day with an earth-shattering kiss.
He found a pen. A fine-nibbed one, which helped to make his writing as small as possible to save paper. Stav snuggled up and continued reading a book he’d drawn from under the pillow. He could have gone to the rec room, where it was usually warmer. But he stayed to keep Matt company.
A good guy, Stav, Matt wrote. Why could he not have been gay too? He’s a lot less uptight than Peter. It would have been a better idea by far to fall for Stav instead of Dr. Unapproachable.
But man, that kiss. Oh God.
He’d so badly wanted Peter to touch him. To have him right on the desk, wanton as hell, not caring who might interrupt them. Or for Peter to take Matt into his bedroom and make love to him for hours, making him come multiple times, until Matt was begging for mercy, empty and wrung out.
Peter was clinging hard to the past. Until yesterday nothing seemed to loosen his grip. But he’d unbent enough for a kiss. That was a major step forward. Matt was not ready to give up. He finished writing in his journal, put it away, and snuggled down for another nap.
They stayed that way, Matt snoozing, Stav reading, until the banging of a pan lid summoned them to lunch.
* * * *
R.J. and Jay returned after a few hours with nothing to report. But they’d only covered about a third of the island. The next day, with the chopper already prepared, they were up again at first light, having eaten breakfast in the dark. Peter had been up with them. The three enjoyed some rare time together as the staff only and not the science teams it was their job to take care of. Had been their job, back when someone paid them.
“How much helicopter fuel do you have left?” Peter asked Jay as they drank tea and watched the first glimmers of light stealing over the land.
“After today…assuming we finish covering the island, enough for two trips there and back to the mainland.” She shrugged. “Not enough.”
It was a fact the group rarely talked about. Jay’s little chopper could reach the mainland. But unless she found suitable fuel ashore, there wouldn’t be enough to ferry all of them one at a time. And what would they do on the mainland? On the mainland where the zombies were. Coming ashore somewhere in the desolation of northern Canada with no idea what to do next didn’t make them any better off than they were here.
Every flight Jay took around the island reduced the number of trips ashore they might make, so they preferred to leave the chopper for emergencies, like if someone was badly hurt while out hunting caribou. Searching the island for zombies counted as an emergency.
Peter watched the other two go a few minutes later, wrapped up against the cold. The sun was up but giving little warmth. The helicopter rose, disturbing the light covering of snow that had fallen overnight. The last feeble grasps of the icy hands of winter.
He decided to take a walk around the building, do a visual check that all was well. The wind had been strong through the night. He took his time, checking shutters, walking away to look up at the roof, checking that the radio antenna and the solar panels looked okay. He came right around to the east yard, boots crunching on the crisp dusting of fresh snow atop the older layer of packed ice. The sun was giving some actual heat on this side of the building. Heat in relative terms. Peter had given up on ever being hot again. But the snow was melting off the steeply raked roof and dripping into the yard. Paw prints gave evidence an arctic fox had passed this way not long back. The younger members of the group insisted on leaving out food waste for the foxes. R.J. argued it would draw the polar bears, but Peter didn’t think the bears would be satisfied with some scraps of bone and gristle when they could stroll down to a beach and take a seal. Even so, he had a rifle in his hand. Nobody went out without a rifle.
He could have gone on and made an inspection of the generator room and furnace, but he’d leave that for Stav, who was R.J.’s apprentice with the machinery and equipment. The generator was running. The noise of it disturbed the stillness of the morning. It would give them power for making breakfast and, this morning, for hot showers. Peter headed for the kitchen door and went inside. Matt was sitting at the kitchen table.
Peter hesitated. He hadn’t been alone with Matt since the kiss. Even checking on his injuries, he’d made sure Louise was there as a chaperone, because he couldn’t let it happen again. He’d spent half the night after it awake and brooding, and holding, in the darkness, the picture of himself and Harrison. He couldn’t see it. He didn’t need to. He had the picture memorized. Every day he made a point of taking down the picture and looking at it for at least five minutes, to keep that face fixed in his mind. Otherwise it would have faded. Faces did that. Even before he came here, the details of the faces of his parents, both gone, dying too soon, had faded over the years. When he pictured them, he saw only the frozen flat faces of photographs. Peter had sworn it wouldn’t happen with Harrison. He looked at the picture, but also reflected on and reran memories of their life together. Peter would not forget. Because Harrison was not dead. Not until Peter had proof one way or the other.
Matt gave him a quizzical look, and Peter pulled himself together and came in. He was sure he could sit in the kitchen with Matt without weakening and hauling him across the table for a kiss. The other night had been a moment of madness, no more. He poured himself a cup of tea from the big pot with its tea cozy keeping it warm. Necessity had got him used to tea since the last of the coffee ran out about fifteen months ago, but he’d still give half his kingdom for a cup of coffee some mornings. Fortunately—at least for the tea lovers, like the Brits, Louise and Dr. Crawford—the storeroom seemed to contain enough tea to fill the cargo hold of at least a medium-sized clipper ship.
“Morning,” Matt said as Peter sat opposite him. “I saw the helicopter leaving. It woke me up, in fact.”
“You didn’t have to get up. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’m a little tired of the walls of the bunk room. I’m going to haunt the rec room today and let everyone wait on me.” He smiled, still a sleepy smile. His hair was mussed, his eyes heavy-lidded. Oh God, that just-rolled-out-of-bed look was unbelievably sexy on him, in that way only the young could pull off.
“Showers today,” Matt said. “Can’t wait. Though I guess I’ll have to use my crutches. That will be fun.”
“Use a stool.” Peter waved a hand in the vague direction of the rec room. There were metal-legged, plastic-topped stools in there by the bar. Which didn’t have alcohol, since that was banned here. And all the soda and other soft drinks had run out long ago.
Matt raised his mug to his lips. Morning light coming through the window caught his hair, turning it into spun gold. For a moment it was possible to forget where they were. Possible to imagine being back in the normal world, before everything went to shit. Sitting not in a base on an island, but back home. Then it wouldn’t be Matt sitting at the table. It would be Harrison. Harrison hot as hell in his scrubs, coming off a night shift in the ER, telling Peter some crazy thing that had happened. Then strolling off, all loose-limbed and still coltish, even in his early thirties. Heading for the shower and looking back at Peter with a smile of invitation, before peeling off the scrubs as Peter followed him.
Dark skin, that was what he had to think of. Harry’s skin. Not the pale Matt, his tropical tan long ago faded. Peter had been with white lovers in the past, but he didn’t have a thing for them. Matt was so far from Peter’s type it was ridiculous. So why the hell was he so beautiful to Peter? So incredibly beautiful.
“Do you want to check out my ribs?” Matt asked.
“Hmm?” Peter looked at him, not quite getting what he’d said.
“Since I’ve got to strip off for my shower, do you want to check out the bruising?”
“Oh yes.” He’d been distracted by thoughts of checking out other parts of Matt. “Let’s do it now. The others won’t be up and about for breakfast for a while yet. I’ll examine you, and then you can get in the shower.”
“Maybe take a whole six minutes instead of five,” Matt said. He finished his tea and set off for the infirmary. Peter followed, observing that he was moving better on the crutches.
“How does the ankle feel?” Peter asked as Matt sat on the examining table and started getting out of his layers. It would be entirely inappropriate for Peter to help, he decided. Matt could manage.
“It’s a lot better,” Matt said. “Not throbbing so much.”
“Sit back,” Peter said. Matt was down to his last layer, on top anyway, a white ribbed thermal tee. Peter took hold of Matt’s bad foot and unwrapped the bandages. Matt grimaced.
“Oh God, those bruises.”
They were alarming, deep purple and in strange patterns around his ankle and foot.
“They’re better than they were. And the swelling has gone down a lot. You’ll be running around like normal in no time.”
“Back to my chores. Hooray.”
Peter shook his head, smiling. Matt never complained about chores when he was doing them. He didn’t complain about much, in fact. He was their ray of sunshine.
“Let’s see the ribs.”
Which meant seeing Matt’s chest and stomach, and touching the firm muscles there. It meant a rough time maintaining his professionalism. Especially with Matt looking up at his face as he worked, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. The sighs Matt gave at Peter’s touch had nothing to do with pain.
“You’re fine,” Peter said. “The bruising is fading. I can’t feel anything untoward.”
“Would you like to?” Matt said, smirking.
“Knock that off,” Peter said. “I’m working.” He picked up a chart and wrote the results of the exam on it. “Go take your shower and come back here for me to bind the ankle up again. And Matt. Put your clothes on before you come back.”
“Spoilsport.”
Chapter Eight
Jay and R.J. arrived back late afternoon. They kept everyone in suspense by taking their time putting the helicopter away and generally fussing around it. But at last they came back into the rec room where everyone waited for them.
“There was another zombie,” R.J. said, from the sofa where he’d sat down with the big mug of hot tea Louise handed him.
Everyone hushed, until Brooks muttered, “Shit.” For once Matt agreed with him.
“You killed it?” Peter asked. “Or finished it? Whatever.”
“Yes. Landed and shot it. It was heading this way.”
The silence was so deep this time the moan of the wind was clearly audible. It had an almost human quality. Like… Matt shivered. He hadn’t heard a zombie moan. But they’d heard their contacts over the radio describe it. How it could drive you to the edge of madness.
Crawford broke the silence. “When you say it was heading this way, do you mean with purpose? That it was coming here, not simply wandering in this direction.”
