Page 38 of Retrograde

The zombie and his colleague are staring at me with confusion—or perhaps even hope—in their eyes.

Idiots. Do they think I had a change of heart? I never show mercy to mustards, ever. Nor to traitors.

I was going to kill them first. But now I’m just fucking angry. Angry at them for witnessing my moment of weakness and daring to interpret it as a reason to hope. Angry at Riley for being so good at pushing my buttons. And angry at myself most of all, for being so fucking weak.

Here’s the thing about anger: it always makes me crave screams.

I march to my bike underneath the wooden swing frame my men had built earlier, and I unzip my bag with a violent tug. Metal gleaming in the sun, I pull out two heavy-duty chains with hooks already attached at one end.

A few hours later, I yank the metal door open and hit the light switch. My boots disturb the gravel as I march towards Riley’s cell.

I hadn’t bothered to change, and I’m still wearing my mask, my clothes splattered with blood. Riley’s eyes go wide when she sees me. She gets up from the ground, stumbling, her body stiff from the cold and lack of exercise.

“Still not here to kill you, Hotshot,” I tell her as I unlock the cell door and step in.

The corners of her mouth twitch. Humour? Is she fucking amused?

“Here.” I throw her clothes at her.

She catches the bundle, her mouth a perfectly surprised ‘O’. I set her shoes on the ground.

“A fresh tableau,” I grunt as she pulls her T-shirt on. “I want you to take pictures of it.”

She freezes, her eyes wide.

“You mean outside? Y-you’re letting me go outside?” Her voice breaks, and something inside me tightens like a coil ready to snap.

“It’s easier than bringing the fucking tableau here, isn’t it?” I retort. “Move your ass, Hotshot.”

And what a pretty ass it is. Easily the best I’ve seen.

“Worried they’re going to walk away?” She cocks her eyebrow at me, fumbling with the stuck zipper of her trousers.

“No, but they might croak.”

“They’re still alive?”

“They were when I left them,” I confirm matter-of-factly. “What? Can’t handle that?”

Losing my patience, I drop to my knees in front of her and tug the zipper up, brushing against her skin—so fucking soft. I shoot back up to my feet fast like I’d burnt my hand.

“I’m a war photographer,” she reminds me, stepping into her shoes. “What do you think?”

“Then let’s go.” I guide her out of the cell door with my hand at the small of her back.

We walk the cave’s corridor in silence.

“Why would you do this?” she asks me when we reach the door, tilting her head back to look at me with a frown. “Why would you let me come outside and take pictures?”

I breathe sharply through my nose, my annoyance flaring.

“You don’t get to ask questions.”

Especially not ones I don’t know the answer to, I add in my head.

Maybe I just want the damn pictures. She’s possibly the best photographer alive. Seems a waste not to get them while I can. Maybe I want to let her taste a little bit of freedom just to snatch it away again—to stop her from getting too used to her captivity. Maybe I’m just sick of the sight of her down here—pale, bruised and miserable. It’s not like it matters.

“This changes absolutely nothing,” I assure her.