Page 20 of Shadow Blind

Tilting his head back, he stared dully up at the gray, fluffy sky. The wind had died. A lazy, faltering snow was falling. It would be a peaceful morning, if not for the bodies of his dead teammates surrounding him.

He needed to take himself out now, while he still had control of his mind, before the exfil crew arrived. Before he attacked anyone.

He unsnapped and unholstered his sidearm. Too bad it wasn’t dawn with a clear sky. The sunrises in the Karategin Mountains were gorgeous—all pinks and purples. They reminded him of Demi’s hair, of the way she’d looked three years ago, when he’d finally claimed her. The way she’d glowed, all pink hair and flushed skin as she’d writhed beneath him in bed. His chest went hollow and hot. He closed his eyes and burned the image of her into his mind. The sexy smirk on her red lips, the hungry glitter in her eyes, the way she welcomed him into her body with urgent hands and breathy moans.

He wanted to ask Montana to patch her through to his comm so he could tell her he loved her, tell her how sorry he was for the past three years, how he regretted not spending those years with her. How he wished he’d filled his memory with her, instead of endless ops and training missions.

Fuck, he’d been an idiot. He’d cheated them of the only thing that mattered. Time. Now that he had none left, he realized how badly he’d squandered it.

With a drained sigh, he lowered his head and stared at his helmet. But he didn’t reach for it. Demi had one man haunting her already, a better man than him. Donnie had understood what mattered in life. He’d given Demi everything he had to offer, while he’d had the chance to give it.

Aiden, on the other hand, had hoarded his time with the teams. Sure, he loved her, but she’d always come second—behind the missions, behind the training, behind the teams. It wasn’t fair to load his biggest regret onto her shoulders, where she’d carry it, along with his memory, for the rest of her life. He’d do her a favor and let her grieve his death, without the agony of unborn possibilities.

After one last look at the snow floating down from the fuzzy sky, he lifted his weapon, shoving the muzzle into his mouth. His gaze locked on his hands, and the finger resting on the trigger guard. It took him a second to realize what he was seeing—or rather, not seeing.

His fingers were steady. Still as a rock. Not a tremble in sight.

What the hell?

He lowered the gun, his gaze transfixed on his hands.

Still no shaking.

With Squirrel and the rest, the twitching had gotten worse, not better, as time went on. And come to think of it, their faces had twitched as well. After holstering his weapon, he carefully shucked his gloves and cupped his face with his hands. His skin felt icy beneath his touch, but he felt no twitching. Hell, his face was as still as his hands.

Was he infected?

Sure, his hands had been shaking earlier—but fuck, he’d barely escaped a bullet to the face and watched his team slaughter each other. Plus, he’d lost a lot of blood. Adrenaline, shock, and grief could have caused the shaking.

Was he infected? Maybe. But maybe not.

It had been fifteen minutes since his team went insane. And they’d all gone down that rabbit hole at the same time. He hadn’t joined them, not then…not now. Plus, Benny had mentioned a tingle in his brain, which he still hadn’t experienced.

He sat there, frowning. He didn’t want to die. Sure as hell not by his own hand. But he couldn’t allow himself free rein either. This sickness came on fast. If he was infected, just slower to succumb, he needed to protect the exfil team while he still had the chance.

First things first, though. He scowled down at his blood-soaked leg. He needed to take care of that. Blood loss could kill him as easily as a round to the mouth. No sense in trading one ticket out for another. He’d treat the wound, change into some fresh warmies, wrap himself in the heat sheet, and tie himself up.

And hope he was still alive and sane by the time the evac crew came to pick him up.

Day 2

Washington, D.C.

Clark exited the NNB26 programming and navigated back to the camera screens. There was no new imagery, but according to the seconds accumulating on the individual camera clocks, the six units were still filming. He pushed back the desk chair and rose to his feet, about to exit the feeds and call it a night, when a sandy colored object encroached on one of the camera feeds. It paused in the frame.

It was a boot laced to above the ankle. A bare, blood-stained hand skimmed through the camera feed and the camera went dead.

Clark sank back down, staring at the remaining camera feeds. Two were dark now. Winchester’s and Hutcheson’s. The boot—or more accurately, a pair of them—appeared again, this time in Acker’s feed. The hand reached down again, and the video feed went dark. Feed after feed, the tan boots appeared, followed by the bloody hand, followed by the camera feed going black.

Someone was moving from body to body and turning off the cameras. Why? Who? A local? But why would a stranger turn the cameras off? Besides, wouldn’t there be audio if a local showed up? Shocked exclamations when they came across the bodies? It couldn’t be anyone from the evacuation team. Hurley hadn’t sent his evac crew out yet.

There was only one possibility.

One of the SEALs was alive.

The only man who hadn’t died on the feeds—was Aiden Winchester. Was the squad leader still alive? Of course, even if he was alive, he wouldn’t—or shouldn’t—be mentally stable.

He glanced at the clock on his laptop screen. It was fifteen minutes since the other SEALs had succumbed to the bots. He shifted in unease, his desk chair squeaking beneath him. Moving from body to body and turning off the cameras was not a sign of someone suffering a mental lapse. It was too methodical. Too focused. Winchester was eerily silent, too. No shouting. No ranting. And then there was his hand. His fingers hadn’t trembled while turning the cameras off.

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