Reborn 90 Days Before the Apocalypse: Claimed by the Warlord

POV FREYA

The stench of rotting flesh is one of those things that sticks with you forever, like a mark you can never wash away. It clings to your throat, thick, cloying and sickening, long after your stomach has knotted tight as if you swallowed a fistful of dirt.

The blizzard howled high above on the roof of the abandoned medical center, its icy teeth tearing through the worn fabric of my fine coat. My fingers were so numb I could barely close my hand around that dented can of peaches in syrup. It was the last one. All we had left. We had clawed our way through rubble, stepping over remains and broken glass, across four whole floors just to find it, and now my knees bled beneath my torn jeans, stinging with every step I took.

"Freya, give it to me."

Wyatt did not even glance down at my bloodstained knees. His eyes were fixed, locked on that rusted can I held as tightly as I could. His face, the same one that used to look flawless at country club parties, was now streaked grey with dirt and frost, yet beneath that grime shone the same arrogance as always, cold and used to getting whatever he wanted without ever asking twice.

"I need half," I whispered, my voice rough and raw as if I had swallowed glass, for it had been two days since I last drank clean water. "The fever came back. If I do not get some sugar into my blood, I will not have the strength to climb the fire escape."

Behind him, Sienna clung tight to his waist, almost hiding herself away. Even starving to death, my stepsister managed to look fragile and helpless, a poor defenseless little girl wrapped in that enormous fox-fur coat she had stolen straight from my closet the very day everything fell apart and the cities stopped existing.

"Freya, do not be selfish," she whined, tears forming in her eyes and sticking to her lashes where they froze instantly. "Wyatt has to take care of us, protect us. If he grows weak, all three of us will die. You are a woman, you burn less energy, you do not need as much. Give it all to him. For the family."

For the family.

For three whole years that phrase had been my sentence, my invisible chain. When the virus broke out and the dead rose to hunt the living, I was the one who stepped out first into the rubble to find food. I was the one who traded my dead mother’s jewelry for expired antibiotics when Sienna came down with pneumonia. I was the one who took a bullet to the shoulder so that he could run and escape an ambush set by street looters.

And now they were taking even my very last bite.

Before I could speak a single word, before I could grip the can any tighter, Wyatt’s boot came crashing down on my injured knee. A sound rang out, sharp, clear, sickening, echoing through the frozen air like a blow struck against dry wood. A scream tore from my chest, raw in my throat, and I fell backwards into the dirty frozen snow.

The can rolled away, slipping through fingers that no longer answered. Wyatt picked it up without a moment’s hesitation, pried the rusted lid open with the tip of his knife, and drank every drop of syrup in three quick desperate swallows as if his life depended on it. Then he tipped the fruit straight into Sienna’s open mouth, and she devoured it without so much as glancing my way.

"Wyatt… please," I begged, dragging myself across the ice on broken fingernails while the pain from my broken leg blurred my vision in waves of grey and heat. "Help me up. They have already climbed the stairs. The horde is here."

Beneath our feet, the iron door leading onto the roof groaned. The frame gave way little by little, hammered by dozens of bodies that felt no cold, no weariness, no fear. Their shrieks, wet guttural inhuman sounds, set the rusted roof pipes vibrating. They were there. They were almost inside.

Wyatt wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, slowly, as if nothing mattered. He looked down at me and there was not a flicker left of the person I had once known. Not a spark of pity. Nothing.

"You are a burden, Freya," he said, his voice flat and cold as if he were merely stating that the weather was chill. "Your leg is broken. You will not be able to run."

"The fire escape on the building opposite is only six metres away," I told him, pulling myself toward him and clutching his trouser leg with the last strength I had left. "Carry me. It is only six metres. It is not that far."

"And risk slowing me down so much that I fall?" he sneered, jerking his leg free to shake off my hold.

"Wyatt hurry up, the door is breaking!" Sienna shouted, yanking at his arm, impatient. Then she looked at me. And in that instant her sweet frightened mask fell away. Her false smile dissolved, replaced by a cold mocking sneer. "Thank you for keeping us alive all this time, little sister. But the numbers are clear. One single can of peaches will not feed three people. It is simple math."

The door tore from its hinges with a deafening metallic crash that reverberated through my bones.

Deformed blackened rotting figures spilled out onto the roof like a filthy viscous tide, shrieking madly the moment the scent of fresh blood hit their nostrils. They did not see people, they saw food.

Wyatt did not hesitate. He did not doubt. He grabbed me by the collar of my coat with both hands, lifted me off the ground as if I weighed nothing, and threw me with all his strength straight into the mass of bodies surging through the doorway.

"Wyatt!"

"Distract them for one minute!" he yelled over the wind, and there was not a shred of remorse in his tone.

I landed hard on my back against the frozen concrete, right in the middle of the first wave. Black hands with broken dirty nails sank their fingers into my shoulders. I felt the first teeth sink into my throat. Others bit down on my right forearm, tearing through flesh and tendons with terrifying ease.

Through the red haze blurring everything, I saw them, Wyatt and Sienna reaching the fire escape of the neighbouring building. He climbed first, pulled her up after him, lowered the security gate and snapped the heavy padlock shut.

Neither of them looked back. Not even once.

More teeth. More pain. At first it was sharp and tearing, but soon it dulled into something deep and burning as if I were being consumed from within. Warm blood ran down my chest, soaking my clothes, staining the snow all around me. It trickled down my left wrist and over the simple jade ring I wore on my thumb, rough and unpolished, the only thing I had left of my mother.

As they tore at me and the dark began to swallow everything, a hatred pure fierce and all-consuming grew in my chest, stronger than the pain.

If there is a God… or a Devil out there… hear me. Give me another chance.

I will not give them a single crumb. I will not give them a single drop of water.

I will watch them rot. I will watch them fall. One by one.

I drew breath so deep it burned my lungs and woke with a start.

I sat bolt upright, chest heaving, hands trembling as I frantically felt for my throat. No wounds. No blood. No stench of any of it.

My fingers brushed something soft, cool and clean.

I blinked, confused, as morning light flooded in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I was not lying in blood on a frozen roof. I was in my bedroom, sitting in the middle of a massive bed on cream-coloured Egyptian silk sheets. The air smelled of expensive vanilla candles and freshly laundered clothes.

My heart hammered so hard against my ribs it hurt.

Shaking, I reached for the phone on the marble nightstand. The screen lit up instantly, sharp and clear:

September 24 — 8:15 AM

Ninety days.

Exactly ninety days remained until the meteor struck the atmosphere and changed everything forever. Ninety days before the virus woke and turned half of humanity into monsters.

I felt a sudden warmth spread through my left thumb.

I looked down. The jade ring was still there. But it was no longer dull and lifeless. An emerald light pulsed gently beneath its surface, steady and true, beating in perfect time with my own heart. When I touched it with my other hand I felt something, a deep firm pull from somewhere within my mind.

All at once I saw a vast silent space inside my head, a world of its own. An endless peaceful void wrapped in soft grey mist that held no fear. Time stood still there. Anything that entered that place would remain whole, fresh and untouched. Nothing would spoil. Nothing would be lost.

A knock at the door snapped me back to the present.

It opened without waiting for an answer. Sienna walked in, swaying in a pink satin robe, holding an iced coffee.

"Freya, finally awake. Why do you sleep so late?" she complained, rolling her eyes as she dropped a leather folder onto the bed. "The wedding planner keeps calling. You have to transfer the two million dollars to Wyatt today to reserve the venue. Dad says you are being stingy with your inheritance and Wyatt is tired of asking nicely."

I looked at her. From head to toe. Her soft cared-for skin. Her bright perfectly styled blonde hair. Her spoiled demanding smile.

It was the same face. The very one that had watched coldly as I was torn apart by the infected.

A slow cold smile touched my lips.

"Two million dollars?" I asked, swinging my bare feet down to the floor.

"Yes, that is what I said. And hurry up, we have a full day of appointments ahead of us," she huffed, stepping forward, impatient and annoyed.

I stood up. I said nothing. I did not shout. I did not threaten.

I simply raised my hand, put all my weight behind the blow and brought my open palm down hard against her cheek with every ounce of strength I had.