Dark Wave

Chapter 3

The door unlocked with a quiet "Click" and the cliche creak soon followed. The figure slid inside like a sly snake stalking a mouse.

The lights struggled to come on when the cord was pulled and, a few steps in, a storm was brewing in her head. She pulled the cord again, and the room turned dark.

Engulfed in the moonlight seeping in through the thin lilac curtains that were draped over the far window, she ran her hands along the walls, then just before she stumbled into the bookcase she stopped. There, she pulled the first green book on the top shelf and the last red book on the third. The bookcase fell apart from the wall, split in the middle, and she walked through the gap, her footsteps echoing in the crystal midnight...

 ---

Mack woke up first. He woke up to the sound of scratching on glass, a fierce and desperate scratching known as "The Death Scratch." The Death Scratch meant one of two things: 1) There was a zombie/a herd of zombies outside and they're scratching their way in, or 2) There's a human outside getting eaten by a zombie/a herd of zombies and is scratching their way in. Either way, it's not very nice to hear early on a morning.

He shrugged me off like a headache and strode over to the kitchen. That's when I awoke, and sat up like a confused kitten.

"Mack, you OK?"

His shoulders rose and fell in a mutual agreement with his grunt.

"Right then." I sighed, gathering my calming, soothing persona from my pockets where my hands immediately dived into. I walked towards him quietly, gently, trying to ease his mind, and put a hand on his back.

His face was shadowed as he leaned over the sink, his dark hair falling softly over his face, covering his eyes. The red beanie he always wore poked out from his back pocket as if to say; "Hi there!" and his belt hung loosely, making a tent in his shirt. Or was that something else? I decided not to look further and returned to looking at his pale complexion, and at his cheekbones, how perfect they were, and at his mouth, thin and pursed. 

And then I looked at his hands, his fingers pressed against the cool of the basin, turning white from the pressure, and his palms supporting his sturdy body on the edge. His fingers were long and blistered from working, and had a dozen cuts and nicks that just welcomed you into shaking them.

And oddly enough, a wave of lust came over me, and I found myself drowned in it.

"Hey." I said in my most soothing tone, crossing my legs as I leaned on the counter next to him. "It's OK." 

He turned to look at me. His face was pale with weariness, and his dark smoky eyes were bland now, almost filled with dread. I could tell he didn't want to do this. I could tell he wanted to cry.

So I hugged him.

I put my arms under his and drew him in. He rested his chin on my shoulder and his nose in my crazy waves of hair, his arms falling into place around my neck.

"Hey Bud," I started, "You don't want your nose there, haven't washed since I left home." I felt the smile spread across his face like Nutella on fresh toast. "You can cry if you want to."

"So can you." He replied. "Thank you, Libby." He drew back and touched my temple with his knuckles and planted his lips on mine in a sweet kiss. An infusion of taste and the scent of cinnamon, and a hot spike of lust rested on my stomach as I closed my eyes dreamily. But then it was over, he pulled back lazily and shot me a killer smile.

Under his thick brows and his dark eyes was a soft, sensitive person, and the swirling abyss that were his brown eyes captured me in their essence, covered me, smothered me.