Free Dead of Eve by Pam Godwin Page B

fallen and thrashing under Joel’s volley.
    The last three survivors inched within a few yards, oblivious to the lead peppering their glowing frames. Faces shredded from grazed bullets, limbs missing, heads hanging by sinews, they moved ever closer. Joel’s night vision was worse than I thought.
    He met my eyes. We stepped back and dropped off the dock. The water washed over my head, drowning me with dread. I propelled to the surface and wished I’d retained a blade.
    The pop, pop, pop of his carbine echoed across the cove. The remaining aphids tumbled into the water.
    “Fuck.” I kicked away from the dock. The drum of my heart pounded in my ears. “Now they’re fucking in here.” My voice hitched. “With us.”
    My arms beat the water. He glided up to me, holding the carbine above his head. “Calm down, Evie.”
    Something brushed my foot. I clamped my jaw. Bagged a scream. “Why the fuck did you shoot them? You knew they’d fall in.” Did something else just bump my leg? “Goddammit. They don’t die right away.”
    “Evie, stop. After your fight in our pool, I had to push you past this fear.”
    I arced my legs out. Searched the depths. “You don’t need to push. I’m not a fucking daffodil. I just—”
    Tiny bubbles fizzed on the water’s surface before me. I jerked backwards and swam with determined strokes, shouting, “Next time you decide I need a lesson, discuss it with me first.”
    I reached the opposite end of the dock, plucked my knives from mangled heads, and returned to the house.

    Three days later, Eugene and Steve arrived in two trucks filled with generators, water barrels, batteries, ammo and enough non-perishable food to last a year. Joel stood guard while we moved everything to the basement.
    “Went to Arkansas, Alabama, Oklahoma and Texas,” Steve said as I rummaged in the truck. “Ain’t no other women.”
    I pulled out a bad-ass looking shotgun from the cab. “Shit. Is this what I think it is?”
    “AA-12? Damn straight.”
    I crept toward the tree line, scanning through the scope. The Auto Assault-12—fully automatic, gas operated, twelve gauge—was by and far the deadliest shotgun on the planet. I watched a video about it once. Scared the piss out of me. I was thankful at the time that it was only in the hands of the military. Because of its low recoil, its unmistakable twenty shell drum could shred a body from two hundred yards.
    Steve tugged it from my grasp and winked. “I might let you play with it later.”
    Something about that wink seemed…off. Then I realized his hand was on his groin and I turned away. I could feel the probe of his gaze, knew his eyes had dropped to my ass. What the fuck? I returned to the truck with a wooden walk. By the time I reached it, Steve was gone. Heat flushed my face. Damn overactive imagination.
    A box sat in the front seat filled with various pulleys and nylon rope. Eugene poked his head in the other side.
    “Hey Eugene, what’s all this—”
    “Ah just some extras we might need. Can you help me with this barrel over here, Evie girl?”
    I gave the box one last glance and followed him to the other truck.

    That night, I slumped into bed, too fatigued to remove more than my shorts. “You pommeled me with swat scenarios for a week. I officially hate you.”
    My yawn turned into a full body stretch. Joel’s hand froze on his boot laces, his eyes traveling up my bare legs, pausing on the small swath of silk blocking his view.
    I stretched my arms over my head, letting my knees fall out to the mattress. The hem of my tee climbed up my ribs, slow and subtle. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
    “Target shooting.” His eyes remained fixed on my panties, but his hands sped up, tearing at the laces, tugging off the boots. His pants dropped. Boxers followed. When he reached behind his head to yank off the shirt, his biceps flexed in the muted light. “Your precision with the pistol is…”
    “Unequivocal?”
    His laugh consumed