Anne of the Apocalypse

Crashing

Crashing

How was it that someone was screaming? Again? What the hell with this extraction already?

And how did she get surprised! That did not happen! She controlled the situation. Never the other way around!

Only a second ago she had been spying from the window ledge. She was counting heads when a vice locked onto her biceps, tearing her from her perch as if she were no more than a sparrow. Her reflexes kicked in fast and she turned the fall into a dive. She twisted with all her force and wrenched her arm loose just before impact. A searing pain shot through her shoulder but she was free when she hit the floor. Still, he was on her again, and fast. He dove for her. She was barely out of the way before he could land square on her chest. In a single swift motion she was on her feet with her blade to his throat. He surprised her (an unheard-of second time), with the light pressure of cool steel lying just below her own jaw. Deadlock. Shit! They froze, locked eye-to-eye, cast bronze in the dim flicker of the lantern. It was then, that they noticed the screaming.

The three others were huddled together against the wall. Only seconds ago from her place in the window Anne thought they were the only ones here.

Thanks to Roy and Rita she had made excellent time from the Shoreline house. From what she could hear, Roy had the misfortune to wake up just in time to be zombie dinner. His screams, added to Rita's drew every Z in town into a sort of grotesque soup line along the edge of the cliff behind her. Using the distraction, Anne closed the half-mile distance to the Windmill Estate just as Rita screamed her last. She registered a grim thanks to the couple who would have killed her had she been anyone but herself. If you're not at the table you're on the menu. Funny how that used to be just a metaphor. she thought as  scaled the outer wall of the grounds. It didn't take long to locate the sputter of dim light. It teased between the flutter of curtains from a window on the windmill's third floor. The faithful stone and timber reproduction of a traditional Dutch windmill stood at the back of the estate on the edge of the cliff. Its rear face ran concurrent with the ten-foot rock wall that surrounded the entire property. Anne stood atop the wall and grimaced up at the window: Three tall stories up. She ventured a peak down at the raucous surf below: A good hundred feet down. With a deep breath she willed herself upward. She was not a fan of heights. This was one more thing to hate about Year Three A.V. It seemed like she was always climbing. Scared people treed themselves as predictably as cats and it was often her job to get them down.

Once she achieved the relief of the window ledge Anne tucked soundlessly into one corner to observe. A glimpse at a time, she took in the lay of the room, patiently forming a full picture as the curtains shifted in the breeze. There were supplies stacked against the curving walls. A disheveled futon was shoved awkwardly to one side. The walls narrowed as they rose, leading up to open rafters. Above that the huge wooden cogs of the mechanism creaked gently back and forth as the blades rocked on the breeze outside. Anne counted heads and ID'd her package. It was going to be bumpy getting the woman and kid out with him. She hadn't seen a live kid outside the compound in at least a year. She was beginning to wonder if there were any left. She was about carefully to announce herself: one of the riskiest parts of any extraction. The zombie sitch tended to make folks trigger happy, and she had been shot at more than once by someone she was trying to retrieve. She took a breath to speak but instead, that massive hand closed around her arm and whump!

Suddenly the package and family were on the far side of the room and the kid, god dammit the kid, was screaming his bloody head off.

"Quiet!" Anne and her opponent both snapped in perfect unison. She stifled a mad impulse to cry "Jinx! You owe me a coke."The edge of his full mouth twitched minutely. She wondered if he'd thought the same thing. The screaming ceased and the fighters, still deadlocked, assessed each other. Anne's gray eyes flicked over him. He was a good head taller than her. Young, she thought. Maybe 27 but the crinkles at the edges of his (What were they? Azure?), eyes spoke of years spent in the sun. Loose, sun-blonde curls hung about his face sharply contrasting the square angle of his jaw and prominent cheekbones. He had broad muscled shoulders and what she could see of his chest beneath the faded tank was no different. Cargo shorts hung on his narrow hips. Strong calves, dusted in white blonde hair, ended just above a pair of finely muscled, bare feet. Every inch of his skin was a rich golden tan. Surfer? Anne thought. A surfer? I'm going head to head with a surfer? She felt his eyes move over her. The hoodie and sweatpants had been discarded for the climb. Her shark suit fit snugly showing off every curve and line of her body. His eyes lingered a moment on the full rise of her ass. His mouth twitched. Ass man, Anne thought. Good to know. She watched as he scanned her weapons and with another, notably briefer, pause took in the curve of her breasts: Definitely an ass man. This time it was Anne's mouth that twitched. He caught it, and Anne saw the flush rise beneath his tan cheeks. If his knife hadn't been so inconveniently pressed against her throat Anne would have found the blush charming. Neither moved. Tension stretched the time making the few seconds since Anne's unceremonious entrance feel like minutes. The crash and roll of the surf below was amplified by the silence in the room. Anne decided to break the deadlock.