Page 29 of From the Noblest Motives
"As you say."
Floyd had helped him into one of the boats and acted as his guide through the cypress and black gum trees. From time to time, Shudder spotted another coracle in the distance, and after half an hour of paddling, little shacks on stilts began to dot the swamp here and there. Some were no more than rotted-out skeletal frames while others, from the fishing poles and laundry lines, were obviously occupied.
They stopped at a middling-condition silt house with the melancholy air of abandonment clinging to it.
"This was Mama Marie's. Not so bad yet, but nobody had the heart to take it over when she passed," Floyd told him as he tied off Shudder's coracle and half lifted him up the ladder. "Be safe here. No one'll bother you."
"Thank you, Floyd. Do I, ah, owe you something? I don't have any money."
Floyd had shrugged. "Don't have much call for money down here. You runnin' from the feds, we hide you. Come check on you in a couple, three days, see if you died. If not, take you fishin'. Company's payment enough."
That had been the day before, when Shudder still felt relatively well and full of hope. After the fever hit and stole all the warmth from the world, the next day had dragged on forever. It had given him time to count the planks on each side of the shack and to map every chink and hole in the wood. He would have liked to say that misery had driven him to talk to the bullfrog who lived in a clay pot half full of brackish water by the wall and the red salamander who had, for whatever reason, claimed a spot by the door, but he probably would've talked to them anyway. At least the mosquitoes weren't biting. Maybe he was the wrong temperature or smelled off to them.
The shack's floor lurched and spun as he lay down. Closing his eyes didn't help.
And let's be honest—what plans did you really have when you tunneled out of prison? None at all. You're still a convicted murderer. You still have no idea who framed you. You've ruined your chances for any appeal. It was either die in prison or die out here.
At least out here it was his own choice. More or less. If the fever got bad enough, he'd just fall asleep and not wake up again as his brain cooked, right? Much better here with Henri and Claude than at the hands of that overconfident, sandpaper-voiced assassin.
He would've liked to see Blaze again. And Damien.No. He was going to. Stupid morose sick-person thoughts. He'd manage to live through this somehow. He always did. Fine, not this specifically.
Shudder sighed and tried to slow his thoughts, his heart, his breathing. Maybe they would come looking for him. There. Better line of thinking. Damien could find anyone. Though he'd have to know Shudder was missing first, and the prison would never let the outside world know a dangerous variant had escaped. Too bad. It had been a lovely thought.
Damien woketo a rooster crowing and shot out of bed with his heart banging against his ribs.This isn't home. Not mine, not Dr. Parma's.
He was mostly dressed. His bare feet scuffed against well-swept wood. He had to stop, reach for calm, try to—
"Mmrgh."
The mumble was desperately familiar. Blaze? He turned to find Blaze spread out on his back on a wood-framed bed, with his feet perilously close to hanging off the end. "Blaze."
"Hmm. Hey." Blaze opened one eye. "You okay there?"
"I'm… yes. I couldn't…"I couldn't remember anything because a rooster surprised medidn't even sound sane in his own head. "Fine."
"Good. I guess." Blaze ran both hands back through the glorious red of his hair, dubious and grumpy. "Is it morning?"
A thin line of light showed through the trees, the first hint of sunrise. "Yes."
More grumbling followed as Blaze rolled out of bed and began the ritual of strapping his guns back on. Damien's heart settled farther as he watched the process in fascination—shoulder holsters, crossed belts at his hips, the big gun strapped to his right thigh. It was disturbingly sexy, a reverse striptease. Although…
"You put your guns on before your boots."
"That's what you're gonna come at me with first thing?" Blaze huffed as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on. "Yeah, I do. I can defend us barefoot, but not as well without the weapons."
That made sense in a Blaze sort of way, and Damien forced himself to stop staring. Not the easiest thing, since watching Blaze do anything was a pleasure—a wistful, heart-squeezing pleasure. They'd slept so close last night and had been sleeping together the past few nights, Damien had started to wonder if maybe this could work. Platonic physical contact, just during those times they worked together, might be enough.
Keep telling yourself lies until you believe them.
Shortly after they'd dressed and gathered their packs, Meemaw Sekhet came down the hall, cane clumping heavily. "You let me know when you find him."
"How should we?" Damien hadn't seen any phones, just a single satellite aerial.
"You tell Floyd. He'll get word to me, since I know that earthquake boy will pitch a fit if you bring him back here."
"Yes, ma'am." Damien slid his pack on and made certain to look at her directly. "Thank you, Meemaw Sekhet. For taking care of Shudder and for letting us rest here."
She made a soft sound in her throat and set both hands atop her cane. "If it was some years back, I'd tell you to stay. But I can't heal old scars, young man. Those you deal with the best you can."
