FIC: "Hard Ticket to Hawaii" [RPS; Michelle Rodriguez/Jordana Brewster/Yvonne Strahovski]
Title: Hard Ticket to Hawaii, sequel to 'The Michelle Rodriguez School of Pimpin’ and General Bad-Assery'
Pairing: Michelle Rodriguez/Jordana Brewster/Yvonne Strahovski
Genre: RPF, crack!fic, PWP, the kitchen sink of craziness
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 8625
Warnings: RPF, casual drug use, sex between consenting adult women, abuse of the Queen’s English and, oh yeah, ZOMBIE VIOLENCE!
Summary: It‘s still the apocalypse. There are still zombies. Michelle wants to go to Hawaii.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, hopefully made self-evident by the, you know, zombies. Any resemblances to real persons is, uh, intentional but, you know, fictional. And apologies to both Andy Sidaris and George Romero even though it's kinda *both* ya'll's fault!!
Hard Ticket to Hawaii
The Continuing Saga of
The Michelle Rodriguez School of Pimpin’ and General Bad-Assery
Rule Number Seven: Whoever said ’a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’? Never had a threesome.
**
Jordana Brewster is doing a strip tease in the rain. Ginuwine’s ’Pony’ is blaring from the car speakers, the bass reverberating through her like a good sex song should. She pulls off the baby-tee clinging wetly to her torso like a second skin, twirling it over her head by a finger and tossing it at the car. It lands wetly on the hood, joining her jacket and one of her shoes.
It’s been a month since the end of the world and Jordana feels fine. Technically, she feels drunk, which she is. But it’s been a month since the end of the world and she’s still alive. If that’s not a reason to celebrate by stripping off her clothes and dancing in the rain, Jordana doesn’t know what is.
Michelle watches from behind the steering wheel. She takes a long pull from the beer in her hand. It’s bitter and cheap beer skunky, but it’s ice cold and washes away the road dust coating the back of her throat. Jordana’s working on the belt around her waist, taking her time, teasing Michelle with the slow, rhythmic sway of her hips. Michelle takes another drink, free hand rubbing her crotch like she‘s got a pair. Because, shit yeah, Jordana stripping in the rain is fucking hotter than the temperatures outside.
Jordana swaggers towards the car as the rain pelts her skin, rivulets of water painting trails down her torso. She leans her forearms onto the driver’s side windowsill, all coy grin and come-hither eyes.
“You gonna give me a ride?” she purrs, taking the beer from Michelle’s hand and drains it.
“A ride?” Michelle answers, watching Jordana’s throat as she swallows then tosses the empty behind her. “I can do better than that.”
She reaches out a hand, clasping Jordana by the back of the neck and pulls her in. Her tongue juts into Jordana’s mouth possessively. Jordana tastes like beer and warm, summer rain. Michelle pulls her into the car through the window, practically tosses her into the backseat. They’re connected lips and hurriedly fumbling hands until its skin against skin and the Charger’s rockin’ like there’s two midgets in the backseat wrestling.
Michelle straps it on. She knows what Jordana wants. She knows what *she* wants. Jordana’s legs thrown over her shoulders and Jordana’s yelping with every thrust of Michelle’s hips. The car’s rockin’ like it’s going to tip over, a symphony of squeaking springs, Michelle’s grunts, Jordana’s screams and the slap!slap!slap! of skin on skin.
**
The rain’s are letting up as the sun starts to dip below the horizon behind the thick blanket of clouds.
Michelle and Jordana are still in the backseat, Jordana snuggled next to Michelle as Michelle runs her hand gently through Jordana’s hair. Jordana inhales slowly, drawing soft, lazy circles on Michelle’s stomach.
“If only the world knew,” she smiles, lifting her head slightly to gaze down at Michelle. “Michelle Rodriguez is a cuddler.”
“The world’s dead.”
Jordana kisses Michelle‘s collarbone, peering up at her through her bangs. “Cynic.”
“A cynic is someone who’s critical of the motives of others. I’m a pragmatist, someone who takes a practical approach to problems and is concerned primarily with the success or failure of her actions.”
“How do you make pragmatism sound sexy?”
“I’m Michelle fucking Rodriguez,” Michelle threads her fingers into Jordana’s hair, pulling until she has Jordana exactly where she wants her. “I make *everything* sound sexy.”
Jordana doesn’t argue because, yes, Michelle does make everything sound sexy. Plus, Michelle’s legs are opening and her pussy is all up in Jordana’s face, and Jordana has more important things to do with her mouth than discuss the philosophical differences between cynicism and pragmatism.
“I think we should go to Hawaii,” Michelle groans as she rolls her hips.
Jordana lifts her head. “What?”
Michelle plants a hand on top of Jordana’s head and pushes her back down. “I think we should go to Hawaii.”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” Jordana swats Michelle’s hand away with an ‘I know what I’m doing’ authority. “All the pilots are dead.”
Michelle swats Jordana‘s swatting hand and puts her back where she‘s *supposed* to be. “I can find a pilot.”
Jordana rolls her eyes and gets back to business. Michelle’s cute when she’s all sexually frustrated and shit but it’s not long before it turns all ‘grrr-argh’ because Michelle doesn’t take being sexually frustrated very well, like, at all. So Jordana goes back to eating Michelle’s pussy, teasing just a little more because that little frustrated growl Michelle does drives Jordana up the fucking wall. She drives her tongue back into Michelle’s pussy, arm curled around Michelle’s leg so she can press her fingers against Michelle’s clit. As long as there’s a Michelle fucking Rodriguez in the world, Jordana will never win a pussy-eating contest, but she’ll be damned if she’s not a close second.
Because she’s into it now, all lips, tongue, pressure and friction. And Michelle’s rolling her hips, making those grunting-groaning sounds that always makes Jordana fucking wet. She’s getting into it, Michelle’s getting into it and suddenly..
Jordana stops.
Her head jerks up from between Michelle’s legs, eyes squinting, brows furrowing, sexy-time’s over because I think I’m kinda pissed lip pursing. “It’s Evangeline, isn’t it?”
“What?” Michelle’s eyes snap open. She looks down at Jordana and groans because, yes, sexy-time is indeed over.. just when she was about to come. “Fuck, JayBee.”
“Don’t you fuck JayBee me!” She scrambles around, looking for her clothes only to realize they’re still outside, in the rain. “You want to fly to Hawaii, in a world without pilots, or air traffic controllers, or, HELL, planes all for a goddamned BOOTY CALL!?! Jesus Christ, Michelle!”
“JayBee,” Michelle whines, reaching out for Jordana but Jordana’s already wiggling into the front seat, giving Michelle a nice view of Jordana’s wiggling ass. Which sucks because she’d really like to tap that right about now, you know, *after* Jordana finishes eating her pussy. “I don’t wanna go to Hawaii just to fuck Evie..”
“HA! You admit it! It‘s ‘part‘ of the reason.” She puts ‘part’ in finger quotes.
Michelle’s about to say something when suddenly the car lurches to the side. It’s followed by a whump! and another forceful sway. The two quiet. Michelle’s jerking her head around, looking for where the sound’s coming from.
There are shapes behind the car, shadows obscured by another round of pouring rain and the encroaching darkness. A face smashes against the glass of the passenger window, blood and gore smearing against the surface. Jordana’s already in the driver’s seat, turning the key and gunning the engine.
“Goddammit!” Michelle grabs the gun on the floor, rolling her window down enough to give the zombie a face full of lead. “Can’t I get fucking laid without you dead motherfuckers fucking everything up?”
**
“VIN!” Jordana’s yelling now. “You can’t be seriously fucking considering this?”
Vin leans back, stretching his arms out and resting them on the back of the couch. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans, looking like sex on a.. couch in a t-shirt and jeans and Jordana begins to wonder if Vin and Michelle really *were* separated at birth. They both ooze that animalistic sex-type thing, Jordana finds both sexy and intimidating as hell. Thankfully, neither Michelle nor Vin has ever suggested a threesome because there’s no way Jordana would survive. Sure, she’d die with a smile on her face but she’d still die. Thankfully, Vin doesn’t swing that way and without a homophobic Hollywood machine to pimp an uber-masculine heterosexual image, Vin no longer gives a fuck. In a post-apocalyptic world, might made right and who better to lead the ‘new world order’ than the dude who could punch a fist through a wall, shoot a zombie down at 200 paces and played a mean game of Dungeons and Dragons.
Vin runs a hand over his bald head, something he always does when he’s thinking. His eyes take a glance at the sheet tightly wrapped around Jordana’s body, smirking like he’s about to ask Jordana how she lost *all* her clothes.. again.
“It’s a good idea,” Michelle breaks the silence. She’s leaning against the wall, fully clothed (bitch), arms folded across her chest.
“No, it’s not,” Jordana fires back. “As I mentioned, there aren’t any pilots and we don’t have a plane.”
“I can get us a plane,” Vin’s voice rumbles like a chainsaw through warm honey. “And a pilot.”
“Vin,” Jordana whines. She plops down on the couch defeated as Vin rises to his feet.
He walks towards the window, pulling down a slat in the blinds and peering out into the darkness. “While you two’ve been out swapping fingers in the desert,” his voice is low, serious. “I’ve been here, paying fucking attention.”
Here is Fort Huachuca, an Army base just outside Sierra Vista, Arizona. They were a rag-tag fleet of actors, caterers, grips and production assistants, driving up and down the back roads, staying together, staying alive, Vin and Michelle leading the charge.
A week ago, a tank flanked by two Army jeeps sat in the middle of the road like green-colored beacons of hope. A sign of safety, a sign of security, a sign that things hadn’t completely fallen apart. They’d been finding survivors, taking them to the military base.
Michelle had been more than willing to relinquish control. Vin? Not so much.
“I’ve been paying attention to that wanna-be Donald Rumsfeld mother fucker. Making America strong is the new priority. And see that building over there?” Vin waits until both Michelle and Jordana have moved towards the window. “That’s the new re-population center. Where you two, and anyone else with XX chromosomes, will be spending the next nine months.”
“Son of a bitch,” Michelle hisses, hands already checking the gun strapped to her hip, making sure she has a full clip.
“Wow,” Jordana shivers, wrapping the sheet around her tighter. “This is soo ‘28 Days Later’.”
“Oh God,” Michelle groans.
Vin ignores her, they‘ve had this conversation before. “’28 Days Later‘ is a virus movie. They have to be dead first before they’re considered zombies. Although, technically, it could also be considered a cannibal movie. Now,” Vin closes the blind and steps back, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I didn‘t stay alive through all this shit to turn the world into neo-con, white-boy heaven. If the world‘s getting remade, I‘m remaking it *my* way.”
Jordana turns to Michelle. “See Michelle, if you’d just said ‘hey, going to Hawaii means we don’t get to spend the rest of the apocalypse in a creepy, baby-making rape factory’ we’d have been halfway there by now!”
“See, now who’s being a cynic?”
**
Two days later, they were back in Los Angeles. Their rag-tag fleet of 50 or so had swelled to over 200. It was dangerous going back into the cities. The Ventura was a mess. A sea of wrecked and burned out cars and rotting bodies. Clumps of the dead, gathered like flocks, stumbled about, carrion eaters cleaning the corpse that was Los Angeles.
“We should go shopping,” Jordana checks her gun, sets her aim and fires at a zombie shuffling on the roadside. Its head blows like a ripened watermelon, the stiff spinning a full 360 before falling to the cement.
“Shopping? Are you fucking high?”
“No. I’m hungry and we’re out of Ritz Bits. Besides, we have to make a supply run anyway. Might as well beat everyone to the punch.”
Michelle starts chewing on her bottom lip. They *were* out of Ritz Bits, and pretty much everything else. They’d left Fort Huachuca with practically the clothes on their backs, or less if you were one Jordana Brewster. She was tired of eating the same cans of beans and boxes of crackers. If she could find the last box of Ritz Bits in Los Angeles, and maybe some more lube, before they left for Hawaii, it wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a couple hours.
She grabs the two-way off the dash. “Hey Vin!”
The radio crackles before Vin’s voice comes over. “That’s ‘hey Big Daddy’ to you.”
“Fuck you, asshole. JayBee wants to go on a food run.”
“Hey don’t blame this all on me!” Jordana fires two more shots, two more zombies hit the pavement. She smiles triumphantly.
“Fine,” Michelle huffs. “JayBee wants to go on a food run and I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”
“Thank you.”
“All right,” Vin answers like they’ve already argued and he’s lost. “Meet us at the rendezvous point before sunset.”
“You got it Big Daddy.”
Michelle puts the two-way back onto the dash. “Where you wanna go first?”
“Let’s go to Von’s.”
**
Von’s, like every other supermarket since the apocalypse, was a mess. There was no power, broken light fixtures hung by sagging wires, the smell of rotting food and dead bodies choked the air, racks were tipped, cash registers destroyed and windows busted. But there were still a few scraps to be found, cans and boxes of unscavenged food.
Michelle took point, gun hand forward, flashlight in the other, taking cautious steps deeper into the store. Jordana followed several paces behind, shotgun slung over her shoulder by the strap, pushing the last working shopping cart before her.
“Would you stop that?” Michelle whisper-growls.
“Stop what?”
Michelle whips around, pointing the flashlight in Jordana’s face. “Humming!”
“Shopping makes me happy. I hum when I’m happy.”
“Humming makes noise. Noise draws attention. Do you want to die?”
“You’re such a fucking drama queen. There’s nobody here.”
Just to prove Jordana wrong, there’s a noise, something crunching on broken glass. Michelle whips back around. A shape moves in the darkness behind the meat counter.
“We should go,” Jordana whispers but Michelle’s already gone, nothing but a boot-heel disappearing around an aisle corner. “Michelle! Goddamnit!”
Jordana hefts the shotgun into her hands. She presses herself against the rack, edging herself towards the end of the aisle. She peeks her head around the corner. “Michelle!” she whispers hoarsely.
There’s no answer. There’s movement. Jordana feels it in the hairs suddenly standing on the back of her neck. She whips around, ducking just in time from the baseball bat making its way towards her head. It smacks into rack, spilling cans on top of Jordana’s head. The shotgun falls from her hands.
Jordana rushes forward, driving her shoulder into the thing’s stomach. Jordana’s falling forward, its falling backwards and they land on the floor in a heap. They’re scrambling and scuffling, Jordana’s throwing uncontrolled fists as the thing tries to block her. A punch connects and the thing wails and it suddenly occurs to Jordana that zombie’s don’t wail. Humans do.
She presses her knee onto the thing’s stomach, holding it down and pulling back her hand to deliver another blow.
Michelle’s skids around the corner. The light from her flashlight zigs and zags on the floor before stopping on the dead things face. Familiar blonde hair and blue eyes keeps Jordana from her killing blow.
“Yvonne?” Jordana gasps.
Yvonne Strahovski stops struggling. It’s been a long time since she’s heard another human’s voice. It’s been a long time since she’s heard a human’s voice calling her name. She blinks through the matted and dirty hair covering her face. “Jordana?”
She reaches upwards, tossing her arms around Jordana’s shoulders and burying her face in Jordana’s neck as the tears begin to flow.
“Fuck!” Michelle groans, relaxing a bit and lowering her weapon. “You *know* her?”
“They’re all dead,” Yvonne blubbers in her thick Australian accent into Jordana’s neck. “They’re all dead.”
Jordana helps Yvonne to her feet, caressing her hair as Yvonne clings to her like she holds the meaning of life. “Shh, I know sweetie.”
Michelle takes the rear, pushing their half-filled shopping cart with one hand, the other casually guarding the rear with her gun. “Ask her if there‘re any Ritz Bits left.”
“Michelle!” Jordana mouths silently at her.
“She’s hot!” Michelle mouths back.
**
An hour later, they meet Vin at the rendezvous point. Where he’d set up shop at the Ramada two blocks from the Burbank airport. There was a generator which gave them minimal power and a chance for hot meals made in the hotel kitchen and hot water for the showers.
Yvonne sat in the tub as Jordana scrubbed the last remains of the cast and crew of ‘Chuck’ off her. When the last of the gore is washed away, Jordana fills the tub then joins Yvonne. She sits behind her, wrapping her arms about Yvonne’s shoulders and pulling her close.
It had only been a one-night stand, a couple beers after filming had turned to kissing in a quiet booth in the back of the bar into the two of them sliding between Yvonne’s sheets and everything that followed - skin on skin, sweat and orgasms. It had been the perfect one-night stand - hot, fun and kinda sweet, with awkward but gentle kisses over croissants and strawberries the next morning and Jordana programming her number into Yvonne’s blackberry. Yvonne never called.
Jordana never really expected her to.
But having Yvonne here and now, it reminded Jordana of the way things used to be, before the world ended.
“This is nice,” Yvonne murmurs.
“Yeah,” Jordana brushes a lock of hair off Yvonne’s forehead. “It is.”
They didn’t get out of the tub until the water turned cold and their skin went a bit pruny, putting on t-shirts and panties and burying themselves in fluffy, terry-cloth robes.
Jordana exit’s the bathroom first, while Yvonne brushes her teeth. She catches Michelle as she’s on her way out the door.
“Michelle?”
Michelle exhales in annoyance, turning on her heel and leaning against the doorjamb. “What?”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Well then let me come with you.”
Michelle rolls her shoulders, tilts her neck like she’s got a crick. “It’s not that kind of going out.”
“What kind is it?” Jordana folds her arms across her chest.
“You really wanna know?”
No, she doesn’t because she already knows but that doesn’t stop her shoulders from sagging, or her eyes to find a spot on the floor as her cheeks start to burn. Jordana didn’t do jealous well.
“Look JayBee, I’m a what you see is what you get kinda person. And you knew what you were getting into when we started this.”
“Did I?”
Michelle sneers like she’s bitten something sour, like there’s something she wants to say but can’t. Instead, she just turns and slams the door behind her.
Jordana walks deeper into the room and flops down onto the edge of the bed. The door to the bathroom opens, Yvonne quietly walks into the room sitting down on the bed next to Jordana.
She reaches out, placing her hand atop Jordana’s. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I didn’t realize you two were a couple.”
“We’re not,” Jordana looks at the closed door. “We’re just.. convenient.”
“Convenient’s good, right?”
“Yeah,” Jordana’s leaning into Yvonne now, even if she doesn’t know why. “It is.”
**
It used to be a bar one would find in four-star hotels, with high polished floors, neo-modern décor and mirrored walls behind the bar. Now, it’s like a dive-bar from Hell. The furniture’s torn and shredded. The floor missing slats from where it was ripped up. There are tread marks from motorcycles driven across the floor. A haze of cigarette and pot smoke hangs in the air. Some white boys are karaoking to Biggy Smalls while a Gay Boi works a pole Michelle‘s certain isn‘t part of the hotel‘s original decor. Despite the bleakness of the world now, it’s a party atmosphere. No one’s fighting or arguing or throwing daggers with their eyes. It’s their last days in Hell and everyone’s making the best of it.
Everyone except Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez.
Michelle’s already into her second bottle of tequila because in a post-apocalypse economy - everything‘s free. She’s sitting alone in the only booth still standing. There are empty shot glasses on the table but she stopped drinking out of them after the first bottle.
The crowd parts as Vin makes his way through them, there are high-five’s and back slaps for their new muscled-messiah, the man taking them to the Promised Land. Michelle sneers, it was her fucking idea and nobody has high-fives or back slaps for her.
Vin plops down in the booth next to her. He grabs a shot glass and fills his round, slamming it back immediately then refilling his glass.
“What are you doing, Michelle?”
“Don’t fucking start with me, Vin.”
“I’m not starting nothing. Just asking a question.”
“What am I doing? I’m fucking drinking. Got a problem with that? Talk to my fucking parole officer. Oh that’s right! He’s dead.”
Vin swallows his drink. He cracks his lips to suck a sliver of air through his teeth. “Jordana..”
Michelle slams her bottle on the table. “Didn’t you fucking HEAR ME? I said..”
Vin’s hand whips out. He snatches Michelle by the front of the shirt. Hard. And yanks her towards him until they’re nose to nose and crackling tension. “I fucking heard you,” he growls like a 400 pound tiger. “Now it’s your turn to listen!”
The bar gets whisper quiet like it’s ground zero and someone’s ten seconds away from pressing the button.
Michelle growls. Vin growls back. Vin tightens the fist holding Michelle’s shirt. Michelle’s too drunk to fight anyway so she blinks first. Vin lets go of her shirt and shoves her back into her seat. The needle skips and the party resumes.
“You’re an asshole,” Michelle grumbles, picking up her bottle and pouring a shot. “You know that right?”
Vin grins, tilting his glass next to Michelle‘s and she‘s pouring him his drink. “Beats dumb bitch who doesn’t appreciate what she’s got.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“Jordana.”
“Vin..” Michelle almost whines because Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez doesn’t whine.
“Are you looking for an ass whoopin’?” Vin half-smiles. “‘Cuz I gotta case full of’em.”
“You can try.”
He nudges her with his shoulder all big brotherly and shit. Michelle can’t fight the smile pulling at her lips so she opts for a sneer instead.
“She loves you, you know. And I think,” he gives her a sideways glance. “You love her.”
Michelle slumps back in the booth. She takes a long pull from her bottle, drains it then sets the empty back on the table. “I’m an asshole.” She pauses waiting for Vin to fill the silence. The pause gets longer. She slaps Vin on the arm, which is like slapping a mountain but she’s too drunk to feel any pain.
“What?” Vin laughs.
“What do you mean ‘what’? I said I’m an asshole. Which is where you,” she slaps him again, “you fucking asshole, are supposed to say ‘no Michelle, you’re not an asshole’.”
“But you are an asshole *and* a fucking bitch.”
“Fuck you, mother fucker.”
“I would but you’re lacking the proper equipment.”
“Shit, mine’s bigger than yours.”
“In your dreams, Tiny Tequila.”
“Speaking of tequila,” Michelle straightens, shooting her eyes to the people meandering behind the bar. “Hey!! Somebody get us another bottle over here!!”
Just like that, there’s another bottle on Michelle’s table and, God, is Michelle really starting to love this post-apocalyptic world. She unscrews the cap, refilling Vin’s then her own glass. They clink their glasses together, toasting nothing in particular. Michelle downs her glass, then slumps back against the seat. “I’m an asshole, Vin. I’m an asshole that’s going to hurt her.”
Vin leans back. He drapes an arm around Michelle’s shoulders and pulls her against her. “You’ll hurt her, and yourself, more if you don’t at least try.”
**
Jordana’s sitting on a set of stairs in the stairwell. It’s probably not the safest place, or smartest, to be - most of the light fixtures are busted, the ones that do work are on minimal power, casting the stairwell in dim and flickering flourescent light.
But it’s quiet and she’s scored a blunt from some dude who’d been jerking off to her image since she was Nikki Munson on ‘As the World Turns’. Good to know there are still stalkers left after the apocalypse.. and stoners.
The joint’s some of the skankiest dirt-weed Jordana’s ever had the displeasure to inhale. But it’s the size of a fat Sharpie and once she’s washed down the aftertaste with the beer she’s drinking, it gets the job done. She’s bones-turned-to-jelly relaxed and kinda giggly and, now that the joint’s been sucked down to the size of a finger knuckle, about to get a serious case of the munchies.
A door opens several floors below and Jordana’s too stoned to bother getting off her ass and making sure something dead hasn’t breached their security. She listens to the soft thump-thump of boots on steps getting closer. The giggles hit and it’s suddenly *really* funny that Jordana’s about to get eaten.. after she’d just gotten eaten. And, damn, does Yvonne know how to eat pussy. Must be an Australian thing.
The zombie that’s supposed to end Jordana turns out not to be a zombie at all. Jordana’s kinda disappointed because it’s actually Michelle and she starts to lose some of her buzz.
Michelle takes another couple steps, leaning an arm against the railing. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jordana stifles a giggle. “I thought you were a zombie.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Michelle tilts her head, half-smiling. “Are you high?”
“Are you drunk?”
Michelle shrugs.. drunkenly, which Jordana finds kinda sexy even if she‘s still pissed. “Does that make us even?”
“I don’t know,” Jordana leans her head against the wall. “I fucked Yvonne.”
Michelle snorts, raising her hand. “High five!”
“What the.. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jordana’s up and on her feet in a shot. “I say I fucked somebody else and you wanna high-five me?”
“What can I say? If you weren’t gonna tap that, I was.”
“You’re fucking unbelievable!” Jordana turns to stalk up the steps but she’s still kinda high and instead of looking angry and dramatic, she’s all tipsy ’how do legs work again?’ and trying not to smack into the wall.
Michelle’s faster. She reaches out, grabbing Jordana by the arm and spinning her around. And then Jordana’s pressed against the wall, Michelle’s hands clasping her face, lips crushing together with a kiss that’s, wow, better than any skanky dirt-weed, or weed in general.
“I’m sorry,” Michelle nuzzles her nose against Jordana’s cheek. “I’m an asshole.”
“Yes, you are,” Jordana pants back. She’s supposed to be angry and it’d be a helluva lot easier if Michelle weren’t pressed up against her, doing that slow grind thing with her hips. If she, hell - they, were sober, she supposes she’d wanna talk it out, hash it out in detail until every word had been parsed, dissected and analyzed. But, Michelle’s never been one for words and, fuck, Michelle really *was* doing that grinding thing with her hips and could they get with the kissing now?
“Are we good?” Michelle mumbles into Jordana’s neck.
“No,” Jordana answers. Michelle pulls back just enough to gaze into Jordana’s eyes. Jordana’s smiling now. “I’m high and I’m horny.”
“My favorite combination.”
“And I’d really like you to make me come.”
“My favorite thing in the world.”
They kiss, it’s all hungry and hurried. Jordana’s hands are in Michelle’s hair. Michelle’s fingers are groping between them, unfastening Jordana’s jeans, ripping down the zipper. Then her fingers are buried between Jordana’s legs, rubbing hard against her clit. Michelle’s mumbling all drunken Spanish sailor into Jordana’s neck. Jordana can only pick out a few words and phrases, like ‘fuck’ and ‘give it to me’ and.. did she just say mojito? Then again, Michelle could make cutting grass sound sexy, especially if she’s saying it in Spanish.
Jordana’s raking her fingers across Michelle’s scalp, opening her legs and arching her hips, jutting into Michelle. Then, Jordana hears IT. It’s soft and whispered quiet, but it sends a jolt of electricity through her body that sears into her soul -
Te quiero.
Jordana pulls Michelle’s head back. “Say it again,” she pants breathlessly.
“Te quiero,” Michelle half-grins gazing at Jordana with half-lidded and smoky eyes. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you too,” Jordana says right before she comes.
**
“Orange construction vest, white helmet.”
“Orange construction vest, white helmet,” Yvonne repeats in her native drawl, adjusting the scope on her rifle. “Two hundred yards.”
“Bitch please,” Michelle snorts. “That’s no more than a hundred and fifty.”
Yvonne checks her breathing then pulls the trigger. A hundred and fifty or so yards away, the construction worker’s head explodes and he drops like a sack of wet cement.
“Lucky shot,” Michelle sneers, taking a pull from her beer. She hands the binoculars in her hand to Yvonne then sets up her own rifle on the deck railing.
Yvonne peers through the binoculars. “Wannabe WeHo skank.”
“Wannabe WeHo skank,” Michelle peers through her scope, setting up her shot. “A hundred and seventy yards.”
“A hundred and seventy? Mine’s closer than your construction worker.”
“You said wannabe WeHo skank. Could you at least be a little more specific? We’re *in* West Hollywood, bitch. This place is crawling with dead wannabe WeHo skanks.”
“We’re in Burbank, you twat,” Yvonne fires back, a big smile plastered on her semi-drunken face. “And it’s the wannabe WeHo skank in the leather miniskirt and heels.”
“Thank you.” Michelle leans forward again. “Wannabe WeHo skank in leather miniskirt and heels.. a hundred and forty yards.”
Michelle fires. The WeHo skank does down in a heap. Yvonne takes her drink, handing the binoculars back. “Where do you think they all are?”
“Who?”
“The dead. A city of nine million and this place is like a ghost town.”
“Goddamn it! You just had to ask, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“You don’t ASK where the hell 9 million dead people are. ‘Cuz the moment you do, Fate answers and then fucks you up the ass with a chainsaw. Now you’ve gone and fucking jinxed us.”
“It was just a question.”
“Yeah, a stupid ‘hey, would you like to get fucked up the ass with a chainsaw’ question.”
“You’re just pissed because you’re losing.”
“I’m not losing.”
Yvonne tilts her head coyly. “WeHo skanks still crawling.”
“No way?” Michelle pulls up the binoculars. “Son of a fucking whore!”
“What..” Jordana’s on the deck now, leaning against the opened sliding glass door. “The Hell are you two doing?”
Michelle hands the binoculars back to Yvonne and begins re-setting up her shot. “Vin wants us to expand the security perimeter.”
Jordana eyes the two of them in their deck chairs and sniper rifles and cooler filled with beer. “So you turned it into a drinking game? *You* challenged Michelle ‘fucking‘ Rodriguez to a drinking game? Involving alcohol?”
“Please, I can drink her under the table.” To prove her point, Yvonne downs half-full can of beer in her hand and reaches for another.
“In your dreams, blondie.”
“Twat.”
“Bitch.”
“Drongo.”
“Drongo?” Michelle grunts. “I don’t even know what the fuck that means?”
Yvonne turns to Jordana. “We’ve been bonding.”
Jordana nods, looking at the two of them like they‘ve both grown a third eye and a couple extra appendages. “I can see. I can pretty much guess the rules, so what‘s the prize.”
Michelle finally takes her shot. “Winner fucks you.”
“Loser has to watch,” Yvonne finishes while looking through the binoculars.
“Whoa!” Jordana’s hands are up and she’s already backing away. “I am NOT a goddamn carnival ride, or fucking prize.”
Michelle laughs. “Definitely better than a carnival ride.”
“Definitely,” Yvonne agrees. She hands the binoculars to Michelle. “What happens if there’s a tie?”
“Are you two even *listening* to me? I’m not playing.”
“Tie-breaker?” Michelle‘s squinting her eyes with a look Jordana knows all too well. She turns to look at Jordana all shit-eating grin and draping her arm over the back of the chair. “First to make her come wins.”
Now Yvonne’s turning in her chair matching Michelle’s shit-eating grin with her own. “What’s the score?”
Michelle starts to rise from her seat. “It’s tied.”
Jordana begins to step backwards, her hands raised defensively. “Oh no! You two are not..”
But they are, they’re out of their chairs and Jordana runs. She barely makes inside the room and they’re on her, making her the middle of an Yvonne/Michelle sandwich. Yvonne’s pressed against Jordana’s back, Michelle’s pressed against her front. Her heads turned and Yvonne’s tongue is shoved into her mouth as Michelle starts suckling on her neck. And Jordana’ll be damned if she can tell who’s hands are doing what because there’s four of them, sliding under her shirt, groping her breasts, unfastening her belt, sliding under her panties.
“Okay,” Jordana gasps. Somebody’s hit *that* spot and hit it good. “Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea.”
**
COUNTLESS HOURS LATER
Jordana snaps awake, the seeds of a blind panic crawling around the periphery of her brain. The world’s shaking. Hard. Like Richter’s readjusting his scale and California’s about finally drop into the Pacific. And Jordana gets pissed because it figures she would survive the apocalypse just to die in a goddamn earthquake.
She rises onto her elbows. That’s when she hears the moan. Jordana snaps on the light and the blind panic telling her to run and take cover in a doorway turns to a dull rage.
“Goddamnit, you two!”
Yvonne’s face is buried in the pillow, her hands clenching the sheets into tight fists like it’s her purpose in life. Michelle’s behind her, holding Yvonne’s hips, pumping into her like she’s going for gold in the Fuck-lympics.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jordana flops face down, covering her head with a pillow. “Would you two get a fucking room!”
Michelle laughs, slapping Jordana’s ass hard enough to make her yelp. “Like you’re not next.”
“In your dreams,” Jordana mumbles into the mattress like she doesn’t find the idea of being next *really* fucking appealing.
Between the rocking of the bed and Yvonne’s crescendoing screams, Jordana knows she’s not going back to sleep anytime soon. She pulls the pillow off her head, rolling onto her side to watch. Yvonne’s up on her elbows, her face flushed to a hard pink, making those cute gasp-whine noises she does right when she’s about to come. Her back’s undulating, grinding into Michelle, meeting her stroke for stroke.
Her eyes turn towards Jordana’s, a sex greased jolt of electricity Jordana feels clenching her pussy. Jordana reaches out, sliding her hand underneath and between Yvonne’s legs, caressing her sticky-wet and just as swollen clit.
“Oh fu..” It’s all Yvonne gets out before she’s bucking and writhing, and Michelle’s pressing down on Yvonne, face planted on the back of her neck because she’s coming too. And she’s sliding a hand between Jordana’s legs because, fuck, if she can make this an orgasm trifecta, then why not?
Yvonne’s coming, Michelle’s coming and, now, Jordana’s coming. They’re a mass of wriggling, writhing and orgasming flesh and before there’s even time to think of after glowing, the door’s bursting open.
Vin busts into the room, trailed by several of his.. well, posse isn’t quite the right word but more like man-harem. He skids to a stop, pausing long enough to give a ‘what the shit?’ face. He’s armed to the teeth, guns and knives strapped to every conceivable part of his body, like he’s been re-enacting Pitch Black 3 in his spare time.
He hasn’t even said a word yet and Michelle’s already off the bed, grabbing the shotgun tossed to her out of the air and sliding into her clothes.
“It’s time,” Vin growls.
“Time for what?” Jordana dares to ask, off the bed and searching for her clothes. Because what ever time it’s supposed to be, she’s not doing it *naked* this time around.
“Time to go,” Vin finishes. “We’ve got trouble. Big trouble.”
Before anyone can ask what ‘big trouble’ is, the fire alarms are going off. The only kind of alarm everyone could hear, which meant one of two things - a fire, or a fucking assload of zombies.
“You ready?” Vin asks Michelle even though she’s already moving towards the door, already in ass-kicking mode.
“Fuck yeah! I was born ready, baby,” she snarls back at him.
Jordana’s dressed and rushing towards the door. “Wait, I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not,” Michelle snaps at her.
“What?”
“You’re coming with me,” Vin says like he and Michelle have already discussed this like what Jordana wants isn’t an option. And Jordana can feel herself getting pissed off because she’s a grown-ass adult who can make her own decisions.
But she’s separated from Michelle by a wall of Vin. And the two of them are staring at Jordana like what they discussed comes with a case of ‘really fucking dangerous’, the ‘really fucking dangerous’ people sometimes don’t come back from. Jordana can feel the first real tendrils of fear gripping her heart. She might not have gotten used to the apocalypse, but she’d gotten really used to being around Michelle.
“Michelle?” she asks, an edge of uncertainty in her voice.
Michelle shoulders her way past Vin. She grabs Jordana by the shirt front, pulling Jordana towards her and crashing their lips together. It’s almost like a goodbye.
“Don’t you fucking die on me,” Jordana whispers as they part.
Michelle smirks. She releases Jordana’s shirt, taking a glance towards Vin. “You take care of our girl.”
He snorts. “I always do.”
**
Michelle takes the stairs three at a time. It’s organized chaos but it’s still chaos. She wades through the people streaming through the stairwell.
She’s outside in a shot, running towards the barricade surrounding the hotel. There are men there, just not enough. The pops of their firearms fills the air like 4th of July fireworks. She skids to a stop. And for the first time since this shit all went down, since the world ended, Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez was scared.
‘Where do you think they all are?’
Yvonne’s words echo in Michelle’s brain. Six million dead and an empty city.
The dead were returning home. Not just hundreds, or thousands but millions, streaming over the Verdugo Mountains like an erupting anthill.
“The Valley,” Michelle gasps. “They were all in the fucking Valley?”
“They came out of fucking nowhere.” He was a biker, some badass from Southern Oregon with the Harley leathers, bandana about his balding head and overgrown goatee. He looked like he was about to piss his pants. “One minute, it’s just shrubs and shit, the next they’re coming out the fucking woodwork!”
“Just.. just,” Michelle stammers, licks her lips nervously. She takes a position behind the barricade, setting up her rifle. “Just hold your lines, people. The first one of you that runs gets a bullet in the ass!”
**
“Move! Move! Move!”
It didn’t sound like something that needed to be said but Vin said it anyway. They had buses standing by, waiting to transport the two hundred plus they’d accrued over the past few weeks to the airport.
There are buses covered with aluminum plating and barbed-wire covering the windows. They’re lined up at the curb but not everyone’s waiting for the buses to fill. Yvonne can see them up ahead, running full steam towards the airport. For a moment, she thinks about legging it. But running would mean separating herself from Vin, and the guys with the guns, separating herself from Jordana.
Jordana’s standing still, her head turned towards the sound of gunfire coming from the east entrance of the hotel. Her features twisted, full of conflict. Yvonne grabs her arm.
“We have to go, Jordana.”
“I can’t leave her.”
Yvonne forces a smile on her lips. “She’s Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez. She’ll make it.”
That seems to get Jordana moving. She’s following behind Vin, Yvonne’s hand grasping her at the elbow. They’re in the bus, the vehicle already in motion before the doors even close. Vin’s at one of the windows, gun in one hand, radio in the other.
“Get that fucking plane ready!!”
**
Michelle’s running towards her car, firing blindly behind her. The buses are gone. The buses are supposed to *be* gone. But Michelle can’t remember how long she was supposed to wait. Was it five minutes, ten? Time seemed to be fucking with her. It’s not like she was wearing a watch anyway.
The zombie’s had breached the perimeter, multiplying like cockroaches in an orgy. They were fucking everywhere. Now, they were inside the barricade and Michelle’s running towards her car. Everything will be better once she gets in that fucking car.
**
“Michelle!” Vin’s yelling into his radio. He’s standing at the bottom of the gang plank, so tense the veins in his neck are bulging. Jordana’s standing next to him, gun in hand as she folds her arms over her chest. The engines are whirring to life, the sound deafening.
“Vin!” It’s the pilot, he’s standing in the doorway, face covered in a panicked sweat.
They can see them. Thousands of them trudging slowly onto the tarmac, trudging towards the plane looking like a plane sized happy meal.
“VIN!”
Jordana turns towards Vin, her eyes pleading. “We can’t leave her behind, Vin.”
“VIN!” The pilot’s running down the stairs.
“Michelle!” Vin growls into the radio.
**
“MICHELLE!” Her name sounds staticy over the radio. Michelle wants to pick it up, but she needs both hands - one to hold the steering wheel, the other to shoot the zombies crawling on the hood of her car. One’s halfway in the passenger window. She can feel its fingers clawing at her arm.
“Michelle! Answer me, GODDAMNIT!!”
Michelle fires another shot and slams her foot on the accelerator.
**
“We gotta go man!” The pilot’s pulling on Vin’s shoulder, his fingers practically digging into the man’s flesh.
“Back the fuck off!” Jordana hisses.
They’re close. The dead. They move so slow but they’re so fucking close. Vin can make out facial features - dead eyes, decayed skin, gaping maws.
“Vin?” Jordana’s voice is soft, she can see it in his eyes. “Vin?”
He turns to her, jaw clenching, looking like he’s aged ten years in the span of a nano-second because he‘s always had to make the difficult decisions. “Do it.”
“You can’t do this, Vin! You can’t leave her!”
Jordana’s screaming now. Vin’s got her by the waist, taking her with him up the stairs and Jordana’s bucking and kicking like a feral animal about to be tossed into a cage.
They’re in the plane now. It’s dead quiet except for the roar of the engines and Jordana’s screaming.
“I’m sorry, JayBee,” Vin says a little too loudly, a little too angrily. He grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her hard against a wall. “But I made a promise.”
He head butts her and Jordana falls unconscious into his arms. Yvonne’s there but Vin carries Jordana, placing her gently in an empty seat. He rises to his full height placing his hands on either side of the upper storage compartments.
“Hang on everybody,” he turns his head slightly to watch the door behind him close. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”
**
Michelle hits the curb and the car bucks like she’s dropped the entire fucking transmission. Black smoke is coming through the broken windshield from the burning engine. It mixes with the blood trickling into her eyes and she‘s blinking rapidly. Bodies are breaking against the front of the car, skulls and bones crunching under the wheels. It slows her down, Michelle steps harder on the accelerator.
Above the ringing in her ears, Michelle can hear the roar of an engine - the roar of a plane. She jerks the wheel hard, the car tilting on two wheels then slamming back down as she hits the tarmac. It’s white and shiny. It looks like freedom. It looks like salvation.
It looks like it’s about to takeoff.
And Michelle’s pressing harder, going just a little bit faster. There’s a crack, a flash of flame and she can feel the car slowing down. The putt-putt-putt of an engine sputtering its last breaths and instead of getting closer, the plane’s getting further away, tilting upwards as the front wheel leaves the tarmac, followed by the other two.
Michelle pushes open the driver’s door, pulling herself out of the vehicle. She puts a hand to her brow, shielding the sun from her eyes.
As she watches salvation disappear into a clear blue sky.
**
ONE MONTH LATER
“Yvonne?” Jordana knocks softly on the bathroom door. There’s no answer, so she stands and waits. She has all the time in the world these days.
It was scary at first, what with the fighter jets escorting them to the airport. The soldier’s with guns and the week spent in quarantine. They‘d been allowed to land when others hadn‘t been so fortunate only because the new President of Hawaii was a big ‘Fast and the Furious‘ fan. But they were safe. Which was no small comfort for Jordana. Yvonne held her as Jordana, night after night, cried herself to sleep. Played intermediary when Vin came around, wondering how Jordana was doing, whether she was eating and if there was anything Vin could do. Jordana wasn’t ready to forgive him just yet.
Yvonne had been her rock. Now, it was Jordana’s time to return the favor.
“Yvonne?” She knocks again.
“Come in,” Yvonne finally answers.
Jordana softly enters the bathroom. Yvonne’s sitting on the toilet, her eyes red and puffy, a crumpled tissue in one hand, a plastic stick in the other.
Jordana leans against the counter. “Yvonne?”
Yvonne raises the tiny plastic stick. “I’m pregnant.”
“Oh.” Jordana squirms, unsure what to say. “We’re not really a couple, I guess..”
“No,” Yvonne cuts her off. She looks up at Jordana. “You don’t understand. Before I ran into you and Michelle, I hadn’t had sex in four months. If you can believe that. Now I’m pregnant. How can I be pregnant?”
“Oh!” Jordana’s eyes widen. “Aren’t you on the pill?”
“Why the fuck would I be on the pill? I was single. I was sexless. Unless we’re counting this,” Yvonne raises her left crumpled tissue holding hand. “And I’m pretty sure these fingers aren’t capable of impregnating anyone!”
“No, I just meant..” Jordana runs a nervous hand through her hair. “I guess I should have warned you.”
“Warned me? Warned me about what?”
“About Michelle. She’s gay.”
“Yeah, I figured that much.”
“No. I mean like *super* gay. Like a fucking Jedi Master of gay. They gay is *really* strong in her. You don‘t fuck Michelle Rodriguez and NOT use like 15 kinds of protection.”
Yvonne’s staring at Jordana like she’s grown a third eye. “You’re not seriously suggesting Michelle knocked me up?”
“The proof’s in the pudding, as you Aussie’s say.”
“We don’t say that.”
“Whatever. You’re still pregnant and I can guarantee you that’s a Rodriguez bun in your Strahovski oven.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“And what if it’s yours?”
“The gay might be strong in me but it’s not Rodriguez strong.”
“Huh.” Yvonne slumped against the tank. “Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez is going to be a daddy.” She half-smiles until it fades. “She should be here.”
“Yeah.” Jordana closes the distance between them. Yvonne’s arms are wrapping around her waist and her head is pressing against Jordana’s stomach. Jordana holds her back, running her hand over Yvonne’s head. “She should.”
**
It’s a perfect night in Hawaii, warm temperatures, a soft breeze blowing off the pacific, a full moon illuminating the surf as the waves break against the shore.
Jordana’s standing alone on the beach. The sand’s warm beneath her bare feet and between her toes. There’s a beer hanging from her fingertips. She’s staring at the horizon like, if she squints, she can actually see California.
A car pulls up in the lot behind her, the headlights momentarily illuminating the sand and the surf before turning off. There’s music playing off the stereo, some tune Jordana doesn’t recognize. She doesn’t recognize the tune but she recognizes the engine. She’s gotten good at differentiating the different sounds different cars make. This one’s Josh Holloway’s, an Audi Roadster he couldn’t afford even back when he was actually getting paid. A little something he ‘picked up’ when the Lost crew went looting in Honolulu.
She can hear a car door slam and footsteps on sand beneath the soft breeze blowing against her ears.
Vin’s standing next to her now, looking comfortable in his cargo shorts and muscle tee. Part of her wants to punch him across the jaw, tell him to fuck off, or just walk away. She’s still mad at him. But it was hard to stay mad at Vin when he was her only family left.
He takes the beer from her hand and takes a long, like half the bottle, pull. He wipes his lips with the back of his beer holding hand. “This crap is warm.”
“I didn’t tell you to drink it,” Jordana smirks.
Vin smiles, happy she’s actually talking to him again. He takes another swig, downing the bottle.
“You and Josh,” she nods her head towards the car parked behind them, Holloway leaning against the hood, “seem to be getting along nicely.”
Vin’s smile turns a bit more lascivious. “You know me and those Southern boys.”
Jordana snorts. “And northern, and eastern and every other direction.” She chuckles until it dies to an uneasy silence. “Yvonne’s pregnant.” Vin says nothing. “With Michelle’s baby.”
“No shit!” he drawls in an unsurprised tone, like hearing Michelle Rodriguez knocked up a chick happened every other week. Which, when Jordana thought about, probably did. If her gynecologist was still alive, Jordana would send her a gift basket for the birth control prescription.
And Jordana’s feeling melancholy again. She sighs, shifting her weight on her feet. “I miss her.”
“Me too.” Vin drapes his arm around Jordana’s shoulder.
And Jordana can’t help herself, she’s turning into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, cheek resting against his chest. His arms are around her now, big and strong and safe, and Jordana lets her walls down because she’s with Vin. “We have to get her back, Vin.”
“We will, baby girl,” he kisses the top of her head. “We will.”
**
Michelle’s pushing a hundred, the car’s screaming like a bitch in heat about to come, rumbling between Michelle’s legs like it’s trying to return the favor. She hauls ass up I-35, weaving between the wrecked and abandoned cars littering the highway. Dallas is burning. The huge plumes of smoke visible from a hundred miles away.
An open bottle of tequila sits between her legs. A shotgun rests on the dashboard, two handguns in the front passenger seat. The Isley Brothers are singing about fighting the power, even if there’s no more powers that be to fight.
America’s dead. The world’s dead.
Michelle shouldn’t give a fuck. But she heard there’s a pilot in Dallas, maybe the last one left on the continent. She grabs the tequila bottle taking a long swig before shoving it back into her crotch. Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel, her foot pressing on the gas just a little harder.
She’s a bat out of Hell with a hard ticket to Hawaii. And she’ll either make it -
Or die trying.
TO BE CONTINUED IN THE FINAL INSTALLMENT WHERE WE ASK THE BURNING QUESTIONS...
Can Jordana find her soulmate in a world gone mad dead?
Is Yvonne ready to give birth to the new 21st Century Jesus?
And can Josh Holloway mend Vin's broken heart?
All THIS and MORE in the THRILLING conclusion..
The M-Rod Warrior!!
Pairing: Michelle Rodriguez/Jordana Brewster/Yvonne Strahovski
Genre: RPF, crack!fic, PWP, the kitchen sink of craziness
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 8625
Warnings: RPF, casual drug use, sex between consenting adult women, abuse of the Queen’s English and, oh yeah, ZOMBIE VIOLENCE!
Summary: It‘s still the apocalypse. There are still zombies. Michelle wants to go to Hawaii.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, hopefully made self-evident by the, you know, zombies. Any resemblances to real persons is, uh, intentional but, you know, fictional. And apologies to both Andy Sidaris and George Romero even though it's kinda *both* ya'll's fault!!
Hard Ticket to Hawaii
The Continuing Saga of
The Michelle Rodriguez School of Pimpin’ and General Bad-Assery
Rule Number Seven: Whoever said ’a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’? Never had a threesome.
**
Jordana Brewster is doing a strip tease in the rain. Ginuwine’s ’Pony’ is blaring from the car speakers, the bass reverberating through her like a good sex song should. She pulls off the baby-tee clinging wetly to her torso like a second skin, twirling it over her head by a finger and tossing it at the car. It lands wetly on the hood, joining her jacket and one of her shoes.
It’s been a month since the end of the world and Jordana feels fine. Technically, she feels drunk, which she is. But it’s been a month since the end of the world and she’s still alive. If that’s not a reason to celebrate by stripping off her clothes and dancing in the rain, Jordana doesn’t know what is.
Michelle watches from behind the steering wheel. She takes a long pull from the beer in her hand. It’s bitter and cheap beer skunky, but it’s ice cold and washes away the road dust coating the back of her throat. Jordana’s working on the belt around her waist, taking her time, teasing Michelle with the slow, rhythmic sway of her hips. Michelle takes another drink, free hand rubbing her crotch like she‘s got a pair. Because, shit yeah, Jordana stripping in the rain is fucking hotter than the temperatures outside.
Jordana swaggers towards the car as the rain pelts her skin, rivulets of water painting trails down her torso. She leans her forearms onto the driver’s side windowsill, all coy grin and come-hither eyes.
“You gonna give me a ride?” she purrs, taking the beer from Michelle’s hand and drains it.
“A ride?” Michelle answers, watching Jordana’s throat as she swallows then tosses the empty behind her. “I can do better than that.”
She reaches out a hand, clasping Jordana by the back of the neck and pulls her in. Her tongue juts into Jordana’s mouth possessively. Jordana tastes like beer and warm, summer rain. Michelle pulls her into the car through the window, practically tosses her into the backseat. They’re connected lips and hurriedly fumbling hands until its skin against skin and the Charger’s rockin’ like there’s two midgets in the backseat wrestling.
Michelle straps it on. She knows what Jordana wants. She knows what *she* wants. Jordana’s legs thrown over her shoulders and Jordana’s yelping with every thrust of Michelle’s hips. The car’s rockin’ like it’s going to tip over, a symphony of squeaking springs, Michelle’s grunts, Jordana’s screams and the slap!slap!slap! of skin on skin.
**
The rain’s are letting up as the sun starts to dip below the horizon behind the thick blanket of clouds.
Michelle and Jordana are still in the backseat, Jordana snuggled next to Michelle as Michelle runs her hand gently through Jordana’s hair. Jordana inhales slowly, drawing soft, lazy circles on Michelle’s stomach.
“If only the world knew,” she smiles, lifting her head slightly to gaze down at Michelle. “Michelle Rodriguez is a cuddler.”
“The world’s dead.”
Jordana kisses Michelle‘s collarbone, peering up at her through her bangs. “Cynic.”
“A cynic is someone who’s critical of the motives of others. I’m a pragmatist, someone who takes a practical approach to problems and is concerned primarily with the success or failure of her actions.”
“How do you make pragmatism sound sexy?”
“I’m Michelle fucking Rodriguez,” Michelle threads her fingers into Jordana’s hair, pulling until she has Jordana exactly where she wants her. “I make *everything* sound sexy.”
Jordana doesn’t argue because, yes, Michelle does make everything sound sexy. Plus, Michelle’s legs are opening and her pussy is all up in Jordana’s face, and Jordana has more important things to do with her mouth than discuss the philosophical differences between cynicism and pragmatism.
“I think we should go to Hawaii,” Michelle groans as she rolls her hips.
Jordana lifts her head. “What?”
Michelle plants a hand on top of Jordana’s head and pushes her back down. “I think we should go to Hawaii.”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” Jordana swats Michelle’s hand away with an ‘I know what I’m doing’ authority. “All the pilots are dead.”
Michelle swats Jordana‘s swatting hand and puts her back where she‘s *supposed* to be. “I can find a pilot.”
Jordana rolls her eyes and gets back to business. Michelle’s cute when she’s all sexually frustrated and shit but it’s not long before it turns all ‘grrr-argh’ because Michelle doesn’t take being sexually frustrated very well, like, at all. So Jordana goes back to eating Michelle’s pussy, teasing just a little more because that little frustrated growl Michelle does drives Jordana up the fucking wall. She drives her tongue back into Michelle’s pussy, arm curled around Michelle’s leg so she can press her fingers against Michelle’s clit. As long as there’s a Michelle fucking Rodriguez in the world, Jordana will never win a pussy-eating contest, but she’ll be damned if she’s not a close second.
Because she’s into it now, all lips, tongue, pressure and friction. And Michelle’s rolling her hips, making those grunting-groaning sounds that always makes Jordana fucking wet. She’s getting into it, Michelle’s getting into it and suddenly..
Jordana stops.
Her head jerks up from between Michelle’s legs, eyes squinting, brows furrowing, sexy-time’s over because I think I’m kinda pissed lip pursing. “It’s Evangeline, isn’t it?”
“What?” Michelle’s eyes snap open. She looks down at Jordana and groans because, yes, sexy-time is indeed over.. just when she was about to come. “Fuck, JayBee.”
“Don’t you fuck JayBee me!” She scrambles around, looking for her clothes only to realize they’re still outside, in the rain. “You want to fly to Hawaii, in a world without pilots, or air traffic controllers, or, HELL, planes all for a goddamned BOOTY CALL!?! Jesus Christ, Michelle!”
“JayBee,” Michelle whines, reaching out for Jordana but Jordana’s already wiggling into the front seat, giving Michelle a nice view of Jordana’s wiggling ass. Which sucks because she’d really like to tap that right about now, you know, *after* Jordana finishes eating her pussy. “I don’t wanna go to Hawaii just to fuck Evie..”
“HA! You admit it! It‘s ‘part‘ of the reason.” She puts ‘part’ in finger quotes.
Michelle’s about to say something when suddenly the car lurches to the side. It’s followed by a whump! and another forceful sway. The two quiet. Michelle’s jerking her head around, looking for where the sound’s coming from.
There are shapes behind the car, shadows obscured by another round of pouring rain and the encroaching darkness. A face smashes against the glass of the passenger window, blood and gore smearing against the surface. Jordana’s already in the driver’s seat, turning the key and gunning the engine.
“Goddammit!” Michelle grabs the gun on the floor, rolling her window down enough to give the zombie a face full of lead. “Can’t I get fucking laid without you dead motherfuckers fucking everything up?”
**
“VIN!” Jordana’s yelling now. “You can’t be seriously fucking considering this?”
Vin leans back, stretching his arms out and resting them on the back of the couch. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans, looking like sex on a.. couch in a t-shirt and jeans and Jordana begins to wonder if Vin and Michelle really *were* separated at birth. They both ooze that animalistic sex-type thing, Jordana finds both sexy and intimidating as hell. Thankfully, neither Michelle nor Vin has ever suggested a threesome because there’s no way Jordana would survive. Sure, she’d die with a smile on her face but she’d still die. Thankfully, Vin doesn’t swing that way and without a homophobic Hollywood machine to pimp an uber-masculine heterosexual image, Vin no longer gives a fuck. In a post-apocalyptic world, might made right and who better to lead the ‘new world order’ than the dude who could punch a fist through a wall, shoot a zombie down at 200 paces and played a mean game of Dungeons and Dragons.
Vin runs a hand over his bald head, something he always does when he’s thinking. His eyes take a glance at the sheet tightly wrapped around Jordana’s body, smirking like he’s about to ask Jordana how she lost *all* her clothes.. again.
“It’s a good idea,” Michelle breaks the silence. She’s leaning against the wall, fully clothed (bitch), arms folded across her chest.
“No, it’s not,” Jordana fires back. “As I mentioned, there aren’t any pilots and we don’t have a plane.”
“I can get us a plane,” Vin’s voice rumbles like a chainsaw through warm honey. “And a pilot.”
“Vin,” Jordana whines. She plops down on the couch defeated as Vin rises to his feet.
He walks towards the window, pulling down a slat in the blinds and peering out into the darkness. “While you two’ve been out swapping fingers in the desert,” his voice is low, serious. “I’ve been here, paying fucking attention.”
Here is Fort Huachuca, an Army base just outside Sierra Vista, Arizona. They were a rag-tag fleet of actors, caterers, grips and production assistants, driving up and down the back roads, staying together, staying alive, Vin and Michelle leading the charge.
A week ago, a tank flanked by two Army jeeps sat in the middle of the road like green-colored beacons of hope. A sign of safety, a sign of security, a sign that things hadn’t completely fallen apart. They’d been finding survivors, taking them to the military base.
Michelle had been more than willing to relinquish control. Vin? Not so much.
“I’ve been paying attention to that wanna-be Donald Rumsfeld mother fucker. Making America strong is the new priority. And see that building over there?” Vin waits until both Michelle and Jordana have moved towards the window. “That’s the new re-population center. Where you two, and anyone else with XX chromosomes, will be spending the next nine months.”
“Son of a bitch,” Michelle hisses, hands already checking the gun strapped to her hip, making sure she has a full clip.
“Wow,” Jordana shivers, wrapping the sheet around her tighter. “This is soo ‘28 Days Later’.”
“Oh God,” Michelle groans.
Vin ignores her, they‘ve had this conversation before. “’28 Days Later‘ is a virus movie. They have to be dead first before they’re considered zombies. Although, technically, it could also be considered a cannibal movie. Now,” Vin closes the blind and steps back, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I didn‘t stay alive through all this shit to turn the world into neo-con, white-boy heaven. If the world‘s getting remade, I‘m remaking it *my* way.”
Jordana turns to Michelle. “See Michelle, if you’d just said ‘hey, going to Hawaii means we don’t get to spend the rest of the apocalypse in a creepy, baby-making rape factory’ we’d have been halfway there by now!”
“See, now who’s being a cynic?”
**
Two days later, they were back in Los Angeles. Their rag-tag fleet of 50 or so had swelled to over 200. It was dangerous going back into the cities. The Ventura was a mess. A sea of wrecked and burned out cars and rotting bodies. Clumps of the dead, gathered like flocks, stumbled about, carrion eaters cleaning the corpse that was Los Angeles.
“We should go shopping,” Jordana checks her gun, sets her aim and fires at a zombie shuffling on the roadside. Its head blows like a ripened watermelon, the stiff spinning a full 360 before falling to the cement.
“Shopping? Are you fucking high?”
“No. I’m hungry and we’re out of Ritz Bits. Besides, we have to make a supply run anyway. Might as well beat everyone to the punch.”
Michelle starts chewing on her bottom lip. They *were* out of Ritz Bits, and pretty much everything else. They’d left Fort Huachuca with practically the clothes on their backs, or less if you were one Jordana Brewster. She was tired of eating the same cans of beans and boxes of crackers. If she could find the last box of Ritz Bits in Los Angeles, and maybe some more lube, before they left for Hawaii, it wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a couple hours.
She grabs the two-way off the dash. “Hey Vin!”
The radio crackles before Vin’s voice comes over. “That’s ‘hey Big Daddy’ to you.”
“Fuck you, asshole. JayBee wants to go on a food run.”
“Hey don’t blame this all on me!” Jordana fires two more shots, two more zombies hit the pavement. She smiles triumphantly.
“Fine,” Michelle huffs. “JayBee wants to go on a food run and I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”
“Thank you.”
“All right,” Vin answers like they’ve already argued and he’s lost. “Meet us at the rendezvous point before sunset.”
“You got it Big Daddy.”
Michelle puts the two-way back onto the dash. “Where you wanna go first?”
“Let’s go to Von’s.”
**
Von’s, like every other supermarket since the apocalypse, was a mess. There was no power, broken light fixtures hung by sagging wires, the smell of rotting food and dead bodies choked the air, racks were tipped, cash registers destroyed and windows busted. But there were still a few scraps to be found, cans and boxes of unscavenged food.
Michelle took point, gun hand forward, flashlight in the other, taking cautious steps deeper into the store. Jordana followed several paces behind, shotgun slung over her shoulder by the strap, pushing the last working shopping cart before her.
“Would you stop that?” Michelle whisper-growls.
“Stop what?”
Michelle whips around, pointing the flashlight in Jordana’s face. “Humming!”
“Shopping makes me happy. I hum when I’m happy.”
“Humming makes noise. Noise draws attention. Do you want to die?”
“You’re such a fucking drama queen. There’s nobody here.”
Just to prove Jordana wrong, there’s a noise, something crunching on broken glass. Michelle whips back around. A shape moves in the darkness behind the meat counter.
“We should go,” Jordana whispers but Michelle’s already gone, nothing but a boot-heel disappearing around an aisle corner. “Michelle! Goddamnit!”
Jordana hefts the shotgun into her hands. She presses herself against the rack, edging herself towards the end of the aisle. She peeks her head around the corner. “Michelle!” she whispers hoarsely.
There’s no answer. There’s movement. Jordana feels it in the hairs suddenly standing on the back of her neck. She whips around, ducking just in time from the baseball bat making its way towards her head. It smacks into rack, spilling cans on top of Jordana’s head. The shotgun falls from her hands.
Jordana rushes forward, driving her shoulder into the thing’s stomach. Jordana’s falling forward, its falling backwards and they land on the floor in a heap. They’re scrambling and scuffling, Jordana’s throwing uncontrolled fists as the thing tries to block her. A punch connects and the thing wails and it suddenly occurs to Jordana that zombie’s don’t wail. Humans do.
She presses her knee onto the thing’s stomach, holding it down and pulling back her hand to deliver another blow.
Michelle’s skids around the corner. The light from her flashlight zigs and zags on the floor before stopping on the dead things face. Familiar blonde hair and blue eyes keeps Jordana from her killing blow.
“Yvonne?” Jordana gasps.
Yvonne Strahovski stops struggling. It’s been a long time since she’s heard another human’s voice. It’s been a long time since she’s heard a human’s voice calling her name. She blinks through the matted and dirty hair covering her face. “Jordana?”
She reaches upwards, tossing her arms around Jordana’s shoulders and burying her face in Jordana’s neck as the tears begin to flow.
“Fuck!” Michelle groans, relaxing a bit and lowering her weapon. “You *know* her?”
“They’re all dead,” Yvonne blubbers in her thick Australian accent into Jordana’s neck. “They’re all dead.”
Jordana helps Yvonne to her feet, caressing her hair as Yvonne clings to her like she holds the meaning of life. “Shh, I know sweetie.”
Michelle takes the rear, pushing their half-filled shopping cart with one hand, the other casually guarding the rear with her gun. “Ask her if there‘re any Ritz Bits left.”
“Michelle!” Jordana mouths silently at her.
“She’s hot!” Michelle mouths back.
**
An hour later, they meet Vin at the rendezvous point. Where he’d set up shop at the Ramada two blocks from the Burbank airport. There was a generator which gave them minimal power and a chance for hot meals made in the hotel kitchen and hot water for the showers.
Yvonne sat in the tub as Jordana scrubbed the last remains of the cast and crew of ‘Chuck’ off her. When the last of the gore is washed away, Jordana fills the tub then joins Yvonne. She sits behind her, wrapping her arms about Yvonne’s shoulders and pulling her close.
It had only been a one-night stand, a couple beers after filming had turned to kissing in a quiet booth in the back of the bar into the two of them sliding between Yvonne’s sheets and everything that followed - skin on skin, sweat and orgasms. It had been the perfect one-night stand - hot, fun and kinda sweet, with awkward but gentle kisses over croissants and strawberries the next morning and Jordana programming her number into Yvonne’s blackberry. Yvonne never called.
Jordana never really expected her to.
But having Yvonne here and now, it reminded Jordana of the way things used to be, before the world ended.
“This is nice,” Yvonne murmurs.
“Yeah,” Jordana brushes a lock of hair off Yvonne’s forehead. “It is.”
They didn’t get out of the tub until the water turned cold and their skin went a bit pruny, putting on t-shirts and panties and burying themselves in fluffy, terry-cloth robes.
Jordana exit’s the bathroom first, while Yvonne brushes her teeth. She catches Michelle as she’s on her way out the door.
“Michelle?”
Michelle exhales in annoyance, turning on her heel and leaning against the doorjamb. “What?”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Well then let me come with you.”
Michelle rolls her shoulders, tilts her neck like she’s got a crick. “It’s not that kind of going out.”
“What kind is it?” Jordana folds her arms across her chest.
“You really wanna know?”
No, she doesn’t because she already knows but that doesn’t stop her shoulders from sagging, or her eyes to find a spot on the floor as her cheeks start to burn. Jordana didn’t do jealous well.
“Look JayBee, I’m a what you see is what you get kinda person. And you knew what you were getting into when we started this.”
“Did I?”
Michelle sneers like she’s bitten something sour, like there’s something she wants to say but can’t. Instead, she just turns and slams the door behind her.
Jordana walks deeper into the room and flops down onto the edge of the bed. The door to the bathroom opens, Yvonne quietly walks into the room sitting down on the bed next to Jordana.
She reaches out, placing her hand atop Jordana’s. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I didn’t realize you two were a couple.”
“We’re not,” Jordana looks at the closed door. “We’re just.. convenient.”
“Convenient’s good, right?”
“Yeah,” Jordana’s leaning into Yvonne now, even if she doesn’t know why. “It is.”
**
It used to be a bar one would find in four-star hotels, with high polished floors, neo-modern décor and mirrored walls behind the bar. Now, it’s like a dive-bar from Hell. The furniture’s torn and shredded. The floor missing slats from where it was ripped up. There are tread marks from motorcycles driven across the floor. A haze of cigarette and pot smoke hangs in the air. Some white boys are karaoking to Biggy Smalls while a Gay Boi works a pole Michelle‘s certain isn‘t part of the hotel‘s original decor. Despite the bleakness of the world now, it’s a party atmosphere. No one’s fighting or arguing or throwing daggers with their eyes. It’s their last days in Hell and everyone’s making the best of it.
Everyone except Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez.
Michelle’s already into her second bottle of tequila because in a post-apocalypse economy - everything‘s free. She’s sitting alone in the only booth still standing. There are empty shot glasses on the table but she stopped drinking out of them after the first bottle.
The crowd parts as Vin makes his way through them, there are high-five’s and back slaps for their new muscled-messiah, the man taking them to the Promised Land. Michelle sneers, it was her fucking idea and nobody has high-fives or back slaps for her.
Vin plops down in the booth next to her. He grabs a shot glass and fills his round, slamming it back immediately then refilling his glass.
“What are you doing, Michelle?”
“Don’t fucking start with me, Vin.”
“I’m not starting nothing. Just asking a question.”
“What am I doing? I’m fucking drinking. Got a problem with that? Talk to my fucking parole officer. Oh that’s right! He’s dead.”
Vin swallows his drink. He cracks his lips to suck a sliver of air through his teeth. “Jordana..”
Michelle slams her bottle on the table. “Didn’t you fucking HEAR ME? I said..”
Vin’s hand whips out. He snatches Michelle by the front of the shirt. Hard. And yanks her towards him until they’re nose to nose and crackling tension. “I fucking heard you,” he growls like a 400 pound tiger. “Now it’s your turn to listen!”
The bar gets whisper quiet like it’s ground zero and someone’s ten seconds away from pressing the button.
Michelle growls. Vin growls back. Vin tightens the fist holding Michelle’s shirt. Michelle’s too drunk to fight anyway so she blinks first. Vin lets go of her shirt and shoves her back into her seat. The needle skips and the party resumes.
“You’re an asshole,” Michelle grumbles, picking up her bottle and pouring a shot. “You know that right?”
Vin grins, tilting his glass next to Michelle‘s and she‘s pouring him his drink. “Beats dumb bitch who doesn’t appreciate what she’s got.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“Jordana.”
“Vin..” Michelle almost whines because Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez doesn’t whine.
“Are you looking for an ass whoopin’?” Vin half-smiles. “‘Cuz I gotta case full of’em.”
“You can try.”
He nudges her with his shoulder all big brotherly and shit. Michelle can’t fight the smile pulling at her lips so she opts for a sneer instead.
“She loves you, you know. And I think,” he gives her a sideways glance. “You love her.”
Michelle slumps back in the booth. She takes a long pull from her bottle, drains it then sets the empty back on the table. “I’m an asshole.” She pauses waiting for Vin to fill the silence. The pause gets longer. She slaps Vin on the arm, which is like slapping a mountain but she’s too drunk to feel any pain.
“What?” Vin laughs.
“What do you mean ‘what’? I said I’m an asshole. Which is where you,” she slaps him again, “you fucking asshole, are supposed to say ‘no Michelle, you’re not an asshole’.”
“But you are an asshole *and* a fucking bitch.”
“Fuck you, mother fucker.”
“I would but you’re lacking the proper equipment.”
“Shit, mine’s bigger than yours.”
“In your dreams, Tiny Tequila.”
“Speaking of tequila,” Michelle straightens, shooting her eyes to the people meandering behind the bar. “Hey!! Somebody get us another bottle over here!!”
Just like that, there’s another bottle on Michelle’s table and, God, is Michelle really starting to love this post-apocalyptic world. She unscrews the cap, refilling Vin’s then her own glass. They clink their glasses together, toasting nothing in particular. Michelle downs her glass, then slumps back against the seat. “I’m an asshole, Vin. I’m an asshole that’s going to hurt her.”
Vin leans back. He drapes an arm around Michelle’s shoulders and pulls her against her. “You’ll hurt her, and yourself, more if you don’t at least try.”
**
Jordana’s sitting on a set of stairs in the stairwell. It’s probably not the safest place, or smartest, to be - most of the light fixtures are busted, the ones that do work are on minimal power, casting the stairwell in dim and flickering flourescent light.
But it’s quiet and she’s scored a blunt from some dude who’d been jerking off to her image since she was Nikki Munson on ‘As the World Turns’. Good to know there are still stalkers left after the apocalypse.. and stoners.
The joint’s some of the skankiest dirt-weed Jordana’s ever had the displeasure to inhale. But it’s the size of a fat Sharpie and once she’s washed down the aftertaste with the beer she’s drinking, it gets the job done. She’s bones-turned-to-jelly relaxed and kinda giggly and, now that the joint’s been sucked down to the size of a finger knuckle, about to get a serious case of the munchies.
A door opens several floors below and Jordana’s too stoned to bother getting off her ass and making sure something dead hasn’t breached their security. She listens to the soft thump-thump of boots on steps getting closer. The giggles hit and it’s suddenly *really* funny that Jordana’s about to get eaten.. after she’d just gotten eaten. And, damn, does Yvonne know how to eat pussy. Must be an Australian thing.
The zombie that’s supposed to end Jordana turns out not to be a zombie at all. Jordana’s kinda disappointed because it’s actually Michelle and she starts to lose some of her buzz.
Michelle takes another couple steps, leaning an arm against the railing. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jordana stifles a giggle. “I thought you were a zombie.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Michelle tilts her head, half-smiling. “Are you high?”
“Are you drunk?”
Michelle shrugs.. drunkenly, which Jordana finds kinda sexy even if she‘s still pissed. “Does that make us even?”
“I don’t know,” Jordana leans her head against the wall. “I fucked Yvonne.”
Michelle snorts, raising her hand. “High five!”
“What the.. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jordana’s up and on her feet in a shot. “I say I fucked somebody else and you wanna high-five me?”
“What can I say? If you weren’t gonna tap that, I was.”
“You’re fucking unbelievable!” Jordana turns to stalk up the steps but she’s still kinda high and instead of looking angry and dramatic, she’s all tipsy ’how do legs work again?’ and trying not to smack into the wall.
Michelle’s faster. She reaches out, grabbing Jordana by the arm and spinning her around. And then Jordana’s pressed against the wall, Michelle’s hands clasping her face, lips crushing together with a kiss that’s, wow, better than any skanky dirt-weed, or weed in general.
“I’m sorry,” Michelle nuzzles her nose against Jordana’s cheek. “I’m an asshole.”
“Yes, you are,” Jordana pants back. She’s supposed to be angry and it’d be a helluva lot easier if Michelle weren’t pressed up against her, doing that slow grind thing with her hips. If she, hell - they, were sober, she supposes she’d wanna talk it out, hash it out in detail until every word had been parsed, dissected and analyzed. But, Michelle’s never been one for words and, fuck, Michelle really *was* doing that grinding thing with her hips and could they get with the kissing now?
“Are we good?” Michelle mumbles into Jordana’s neck.
“No,” Jordana answers. Michelle pulls back just enough to gaze into Jordana’s eyes. Jordana’s smiling now. “I’m high and I’m horny.”
“My favorite combination.”
“And I’d really like you to make me come.”
“My favorite thing in the world.”
They kiss, it’s all hungry and hurried. Jordana’s hands are in Michelle’s hair. Michelle’s fingers are groping between them, unfastening Jordana’s jeans, ripping down the zipper. Then her fingers are buried between Jordana’s legs, rubbing hard against her clit. Michelle’s mumbling all drunken Spanish sailor into Jordana’s neck. Jordana can only pick out a few words and phrases, like ‘fuck’ and ‘give it to me’ and.. did she just say mojito? Then again, Michelle could make cutting grass sound sexy, especially if she’s saying it in Spanish.
Jordana’s raking her fingers across Michelle’s scalp, opening her legs and arching her hips, jutting into Michelle. Then, Jordana hears IT. It’s soft and whispered quiet, but it sends a jolt of electricity through her body that sears into her soul -
Te quiero.
Jordana pulls Michelle’s head back. “Say it again,” she pants breathlessly.
“Te quiero,” Michelle half-grins gazing at Jordana with half-lidded and smoky eyes. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you too,” Jordana says right before she comes.
**
“Orange construction vest, white helmet.”
“Orange construction vest, white helmet,” Yvonne repeats in her native drawl, adjusting the scope on her rifle. “Two hundred yards.”
“Bitch please,” Michelle snorts. “That’s no more than a hundred and fifty.”
Yvonne checks her breathing then pulls the trigger. A hundred and fifty or so yards away, the construction worker’s head explodes and he drops like a sack of wet cement.
“Lucky shot,” Michelle sneers, taking a pull from her beer. She hands the binoculars in her hand to Yvonne then sets up her own rifle on the deck railing.
Yvonne peers through the binoculars. “Wannabe WeHo skank.”
“Wannabe WeHo skank,” Michelle peers through her scope, setting up her shot. “A hundred and seventy yards.”
“A hundred and seventy? Mine’s closer than your construction worker.”
“You said wannabe WeHo skank. Could you at least be a little more specific? We’re *in* West Hollywood, bitch. This place is crawling with dead wannabe WeHo skanks.”
“We’re in Burbank, you twat,” Yvonne fires back, a big smile plastered on her semi-drunken face. “And it’s the wannabe WeHo skank in the leather miniskirt and heels.”
“Thank you.” Michelle leans forward again. “Wannabe WeHo skank in leather miniskirt and heels.. a hundred and forty yards.”
Michelle fires. The WeHo skank does down in a heap. Yvonne takes her drink, handing the binoculars back. “Where do you think they all are?”
“Who?”
“The dead. A city of nine million and this place is like a ghost town.”
“Goddamn it! You just had to ask, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“You don’t ASK where the hell 9 million dead people are. ‘Cuz the moment you do, Fate answers and then fucks you up the ass with a chainsaw. Now you’ve gone and fucking jinxed us.”
“It was just a question.”
“Yeah, a stupid ‘hey, would you like to get fucked up the ass with a chainsaw’ question.”
“You’re just pissed because you’re losing.”
“I’m not losing.”
Yvonne tilts her head coyly. “WeHo skanks still crawling.”
“No way?” Michelle pulls up the binoculars. “Son of a fucking whore!”
“What..” Jordana’s on the deck now, leaning against the opened sliding glass door. “The Hell are you two doing?”
Michelle hands the binoculars back to Yvonne and begins re-setting up her shot. “Vin wants us to expand the security perimeter.”
Jordana eyes the two of them in their deck chairs and sniper rifles and cooler filled with beer. “So you turned it into a drinking game? *You* challenged Michelle ‘fucking‘ Rodriguez to a drinking game? Involving alcohol?”
“Please, I can drink her under the table.” To prove her point, Yvonne downs half-full can of beer in her hand and reaches for another.
“In your dreams, blondie.”
“Twat.”
“Bitch.”
“Drongo.”
“Drongo?” Michelle grunts. “I don’t even know what the fuck that means?”
Yvonne turns to Jordana. “We’ve been bonding.”
Jordana nods, looking at the two of them like they‘ve both grown a third eye and a couple extra appendages. “I can see. I can pretty much guess the rules, so what‘s the prize.”
Michelle finally takes her shot. “Winner fucks you.”
“Loser has to watch,” Yvonne finishes while looking through the binoculars.
“Whoa!” Jordana’s hands are up and she’s already backing away. “I am NOT a goddamn carnival ride, or fucking prize.”
Michelle laughs. “Definitely better than a carnival ride.”
“Definitely,” Yvonne agrees. She hands the binoculars to Michelle. “What happens if there’s a tie?”
“Are you two even *listening* to me? I’m not playing.”
“Tie-breaker?” Michelle‘s squinting her eyes with a look Jordana knows all too well. She turns to look at Jordana all shit-eating grin and draping her arm over the back of the chair. “First to make her come wins.”
Now Yvonne’s turning in her chair matching Michelle’s shit-eating grin with her own. “What’s the score?”
Michelle starts to rise from her seat. “It’s tied.”
Jordana begins to step backwards, her hands raised defensively. “Oh no! You two are not..”
But they are, they’re out of their chairs and Jordana runs. She barely makes inside the room and they’re on her, making her the middle of an Yvonne/Michelle sandwich. Yvonne’s pressed against Jordana’s back, Michelle’s pressed against her front. Her heads turned and Yvonne’s tongue is shoved into her mouth as Michelle starts suckling on her neck. And Jordana’ll be damned if she can tell who’s hands are doing what because there’s four of them, sliding under her shirt, groping her breasts, unfastening her belt, sliding under her panties.
“Okay,” Jordana gasps. Somebody’s hit *that* spot and hit it good. “Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea.”
**
COUNTLESS HOURS LATER
Jordana snaps awake, the seeds of a blind panic crawling around the periphery of her brain. The world’s shaking. Hard. Like Richter’s readjusting his scale and California’s about finally drop into the Pacific. And Jordana gets pissed because it figures she would survive the apocalypse just to die in a goddamn earthquake.
She rises onto her elbows. That’s when she hears the moan. Jordana snaps on the light and the blind panic telling her to run and take cover in a doorway turns to a dull rage.
“Goddamnit, you two!”
Yvonne’s face is buried in the pillow, her hands clenching the sheets into tight fists like it’s her purpose in life. Michelle’s behind her, holding Yvonne’s hips, pumping into her like she’s going for gold in the Fuck-lympics.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jordana flops face down, covering her head with a pillow. “Would you two get a fucking room!”
Michelle laughs, slapping Jordana’s ass hard enough to make her yelp. “Like you’re not next.”
“In your dreams,” Jordana mumbles into the mattress like she doesn’t find the idea of being next *really* fucking appealing.
Between the rocking of the bed and Yvonne’s crescendoing screams, Jordana knows she’s not going back to sleep anytime soon. She pulls the pillow off her head, rolling onto her side to watch. Yvonne’s up on her elbows, her face flushed to a hard pink, making those cute gasp-whine noises she does right when she’s about to come. Her back’s undulating, grinding into Michelle, meeting her stroke for stroke.
Her eyes turn towards Jordana’s, a sex greased jolt of electricity Jordana feels clenching her pussy. Jordana reaches out, sliding her hand underneath and between Yvonne’s legs, caressing her sticky-wet and just as swollen clit.
“Oh fu..” It’s all Yvonne gets out before she’s bucking and writhing, and Michelle’s pressing down on Yvonne, face planted on the back of her neck because she’s coming too. And she’s sliding a hand between Jordana’s legs because, fuck, if she can make this an orgasm trifecta, then why not?
Yvonne’s coming, Michelle’s coming and, now, Jordana’s coming. They’re a mass of wriggling, writhing and orgasming flesh and before there’s even time to think of after glowing, the door’s bursting open.
Vin busts into the room, trailed by several of his.. well, posse isn’t quite the right word but more like man-harem. He skids to a stop, pausing long enough to give a ‘what the shit?’ face. He’s armed to the teeth, guns and knives strapped to every conceivable part of his body, like he’s been re-enacting Pitch Black 3 in his spare time.
He hasn’t even said a word yet and Michelle’s already off the bed, grabbing the shotgun tossed to her out of the air and sliding into her clothes.
“It’s time,” Vin growls.
“Time for what?” Jordana dares to ask, off the bed and searching for her clothes. Because what ever time it’s supposed to be, she’s not doing it *naked* this time around.
“Time to go,” Vin finishes. “We’ve got trouble. Big trouble.”
Before anyone can ask what ‘big trouble’ is, the fire alarms are going off. The only kind of alarm everyone could hear, which meant one of two things - a fire, or a fucking assload of zombies.
“You ready?” Vin asks Michelle even though she’s already moving towards the door, already in ass-kicking mode.
“Fuck yeah! I was born ready, baby,” she snarls back at him.
Jordana’s dressed and rushing towards the door. “Wait, I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not,” Michelle snaps at her.
“What?”
“You’re coming with me,” Vin says like he and Michelle have already discussed this like what Jordana wants isn’t an option. And Jordana can feel herself getting pissed off because she’s a grown-ass adult who can make her own decisions.
But she’s separated from Michelle by a wall of Vin. And the two of them are staring at Jordana like what they discussed comes with a case of ‘really fucking dangerous’, the ‘really fucking dangerous’ people sometimes don’t come back from. Jordana can feel the first real tendrils of fear gripping her heart. She might not have gotten used to the apocalypse, but she’d gotten really used to being around Michelle.
“Michelle?” she asks, an edge of uncertainty in her voice.
Michelle shoulders her way past Vin. She grabs Jordana by the shirt front, pulling Jordana towards her and crashing their lips together. It’s almost like a goodbye.
“Don’t you fucking die on me,” Jordana whispers as they part.
Michelle smirks. She releases Jordana’s shirt, taking a glance towards Vin. “You take care of our girl.”
He snorts. “I always do.”
**
Michelle takes the stairs three at a time. It’s organized chaos but it’s still chaos. She wades through the people streaming through the stairwell.
She’s outside in a shot, running towards the barricade surrounding the hotel. There are men there, just not enough. The pops of their firearms fills the air like 4th of July fireworks. She skids to a stop. And for the first time since this shit all went down, since the world ended, Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez was scared.
‘Where do you think they all are?’
Yvonne’s words echo in Michelle’s brain. Six million dead and an empty city.
The dead were returning home. Not just hundreds, or thousands but millions, streaming over the Verdugo Mountains like an erupting anthill.
“The Valley,” Michelle gasps. “They were all in the fucking Valley?”
“They came out of fucking nowhere.” He was a biker, some badass from Southern Oregon with the Harley leathers, bandana about his balding head and overgrown goatee. He looked like he was about to piss his pants. “One minute, it’s just shrubs and shit, the next they’re coming out the fucking woodwork!”
“Just.. just,” Michelle stammers, licks her lips nervously. She takes a position behind the barricade, setting up her rifle. “Just hold your lines, people. The first one of you that runs gets a bullet in the ass!”
**
“Move! Move! Move!”
It didn’t sound like something that needed to be said but Vin said it anyway. They had buses standing by, waiting to transport the two hundred plus they’d accrued over the past few weeks to the airport.
There are buses covered with aluminum plating and barbed-wire covering the windows. They’re lined up at the curb but not everyone’s waiting for the buses to fill. Yvonne can see them up ahead, running full steam towards the airport. For a moment, she thinks about legging it. But running would mean separating herself from Vin, and the guys with the guns, separating herself from Jordana.
Jordana’s standing still, her head turned towards the sound of gunfire coming from the east entrance of the hotel. Her features twisted, full of conflict. Yvonne grabs her arm.
“We have to go, Jordana.”
“I can’t leave her.”
Yvonne forces a smile on her lips. “She’s Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez. She’ll make it.”
That seems to get Jordana moving. She’s following behind Vin, Yvonne’s hand grasping her at the elbow. They’re in the bus, the vehicle already in motion before the doors even close. Vin’s at one of the windows, gun in one hand, radio in the other.
“Get that fucking plane ready!!”
**
Michelle’s running towards her car, firing blindly behind her. The buses are gone. The buses are supposed to *be* gone. But Michelle can’t remember how long she was supposed to wait. Was it five minutes, ten? Time seemed to be fucking with her. It’s not like she was wearing a watch anyway.
The zombie’s had breached the perimeter, multiplying like cockroaches in an orgy. They were fucking everywhere. Now, they were inside the barricade and Michelle’s running towards her car. Everything will be better once she gets in that fucking car.
**
“Michelle!” Vin’s yelling into his radio. He’s standing at the bottom of the gang plank, so tense the veins in his neck are bulging. Jordana’s standing next to him, gun in hand as she folds her arms over her chest. The engines are whirring to life, the sound deafening.
“Vin!” It’s the pilot, he’s standing in the doorway, face covered in a panicked sweat.
They can see them. Thousands of them trudging slowly onto the tarmac, trudging towards the plane looking like a plane sized happy meal.
“VIN!”
Jordana turns towards Vin, her eyes pleading. “We can’t leave her behind, Vin.”
“VIN!” The pilot’s running down the stairs.
“Michelle!” Vin growls into the radio.
**
“MICHELLE!” Her name sounds staticy over the radio. Michelle wants to pick it up, but she needs both hands - one to hold the steering wheel, the other to shoot the zombies crawling on the hood of her car. One’s halfway in the passenger window. She can feel its fingers clawing at her arm.
“Michelle! Answer me, GODDAMNIT!!”
Michelle fires another shot and slams her foot on the accelerator.
**
“We gotta go man!” The pilot’s pulling on Vin’s shoulder, his fingers practically digging into the man’s flesh.
“Back the fuck off!” Jordana hisses.
They’re close. The dead. They move so slow but they’re so fucking close. Vin can make out facial features - dead eyes, decayed skin, gaping maws.
“Vin?” Jordana’s voice is soft, she can see it in his eyes. “Vin?”
He turns to her, jaw clenching, looking like he’s aged ten years in the span of a nano-second because he‘s always had to make the difficult decisions. “Do it.”
“You can’t do this, Vin! You can’t leave her!”
Jordana’s screaming now. Vin’s got her by the waist, taking her with him up the stairs and Jordana’s bucking and kicking like a feral animal about to be tossed into a cage.
They’re in the plane now. It’s dead quiet except for the roar of the engines and Jordana’s screaming.
“I’m sorry, JayBee,” Vin says a little too loudly, a little too angrily. He grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her hard against a wall. “But I made a promise.”
He head butts her and Jordana falls unconscious into his arms. Yvonne’s there but Vin carries Jordana, placing her gently in an empty seat. He rises to his full height placing his hands on either side of the upper storage compartments.
“Hang on everybody,” he turns his head slightly to watch the door behind him close. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”
**
Michelle hits the curb and the car bucks like she’s dropped the entire fucking transmission. Black smoke is coming through the broken windshield from the burning engine. It mixes with the blood trickling into her eyes and she‘s blinking rapidly. Bodies are breaking against the front of the car, skulls and bones crunching under the wheels. It slows her down, Michelle steps harder on the accelerator.
Above the ringing in her ears, Michelle can hear the roar of an engine - the roar of a plane. She jerks the wheel hard, the car tilting on two wheels then slamming back down as she hits the tarmac. It’s white and shiny. It looks like freedom. It looks like salvation.
It looks like it’s about to takeoff.
And Michelle’s pressing harder, going just a little bit faster. There’s a crack, a flash of flame and she can feel the car slowing down. The putt-putt-putt of an engine sputtering its last breaths and instead of getting closer, the plane’s getting further away, tilting upwards as the front wheel leaves the tarmac, followed by the other two.
Michelle pushes open the driver’s door, pulling herself out of the vehicle. She puts a hand to her brow, shielding the sun from her eyes.
As she watches salvation disappear into a clear blue sky.
**
ONE MONTH LATER
“Yvonne?” Jordana knocks softly on the bathroom door. There’s no answer, so she stands and waits. She has all the time in the world these days.
It was scary at first, what with the fighter jets escorting them to the airport. The soldier’s with guns and the week spent in quarantine. They‘d been allowed to land when others hadn‘t been so fortunate only because the new President of Hawaii was a big ‘Fast and the Furious‘ fan. But they were safe. Which was no small comfort for Jordana. Yvonne held her as Jordana, night after night, cried herself to sleep. Played intermediary when Vin came around, wondering how Jordana was doing, whether she was eating and if there was anything Vin could do. Jordana wasn’t ready to forgive him just yet.
Yvonne had been her rock. Now, it was Jordana’s time to return the favor.
“Yvonne?” She knocks again.
“Come in,” Yvonne finally answers.
Jordana softly enters the bathroom. Yvonne’s sitting on the toilet, her eyes red and puffy, a crumpled tissue in one hand, a plastic stick in the other.
Jordana leans against the counter. “Yvonne?”
Yvonne raises the tiny plastic stick. “I’m pregnant.”
“Oh.” Jordana squirms, unsure what to say. “We’re not really a couple, I guess..”
“No,” Yvonne cuts her off. She looks up at Jordana. “You don’t understand. Before I ran into you and Michelle, I hadn’t had sex in four months. If you can believe that. Now I’m pregnant. How can I be pregnant?”
“Oh!” Jordana’s eyes widen. “Aren’t you on the pill?”
“Why the fuck would I be on the pill? I was single. I was sexless. Unless we’re counting this,” Yvonne raises her left crumpled tissue holding hand. “And I’m pretty sure these fingers aren’t capable of impregnating anyone!”
“No, I just meant..” Jordana runs a nervous hand through her hair. “I guess I should have warned you.”
“Warned me? Warned me about what?”
“About Michelle. She’s gay.”
“Yeah, I figured that much.”
“No. I mean like *super* gay. Like a fucking Jedi Master of gay. They gay is *really* strong in her. You don‘t fuck Michelle Rodriguez and NOT use like 15 kinds of protection.”
Yvonne’s staring at Jordana like she’s grown a third eye. “You’re not seriously suggesting Michelle knocked me up?”
“The proof’s in the pudding, as you Aussie’s say.”
“We don’t say that.”
“Whatever. You’re still pregnant and I can guarantee you that’s a Rodriguez bun in your Strahovski oven.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“And what if it’s yours?”
“The gay might be strong in me but it’s not Rodriguez strong.”
“Huh.” Yvonne slumped against the tank. “Michelle ‘fucking’ Rodriguez is going to be a daddy.” She half-smiles until it fades. “She should be here.”
“Yeah.” Jordana closes the distance between them. Yvonne’s arms are wrapping around her waist and her head is pressing against Jordana’s stomach. Jordana holds her back, running her hand over Yvonne’s head. “She should.”
**
It’s a perfect night in Hawaii, warm temperatures, a soft breeze blowing off the pacific, a full moon illuminating the surf as the waves break against the shore.
Jordana’s standing alone on the beach. The sand’s warm beneath her bare feet and between her toes. There’s a beer hanging from her fingertips. She’s staring at the horizon like, if she squints, she can actually see California.
A car pulls up in the lot behind her, the headlights momentarily illuminating the sand and the surf before turning off. There’s music playing off the stereo, some tune Jordana doesn’t recognize. She doesn’t recognize the tune but she recognizes the engine. She’s gotten good at differentiating the different sounds different cars make. This one’s Josh Holloway’s, an Audi Roadster he couldn’t afford even back when he was actually getting paid. A little something he ‘picked up’ when the Lost crew went looting in Honolulu.
She can hear a car door slam and footsteps on sand beneath the soft breeze blowing against her ears.
Vin’s standing next to her now, looking comfortable in his cargo shorts and muscle tee. Part of her wants to punch him across the jaw, tell him to fuck off, or just walk away. She’s still mad at him. But it was hard to stay mad at Vin when he was her only family left.
He takes the beer from her hand and takes a long, like half the bottle, pull. He wipes his lips with the back of his beer holding hand. “This crap is warm.”
“I didn’t tell you to drink it,” Jordana smirks.
Vin smiles, happy she’s actually talking to him again. He takes another swig, downing the bottle.
“You and Josh,” she nods her head towards the car parked behind them, Holloway leaning against the hood, “seem to be getting along nicely.”
Vin’s smile turns a bit more lascivious. “You know me and those Southern boys.”
Jordana snorts. “And northern, and eastern and every other direction.” She chuckles until it dies to an uneasy silence. “Yvonne’s pregnant.” Vin says nothing. “With Michelle’s baby.”
“No shit!” he drawls in an unsurprised tone, like hearing Michelle Rodriguez knocked up a chick happened every other week. Which, when Jordana thought about, probably did. If her gynecologist was still alive, Jordana would send her a gift basket for the birth control prescription.
And Jordana’s feeling melancholy again. She sighs, shifting her weight on her feet. “I miss her.”
“Me too.” Vin drapes his arm around Jordana’s shoulder.
And Jordana can’t help herself, she’s turning into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, cheek resting against his chest. His arms are around her now, big and strong and safe, and Jordana lets her walls down because she’s with Vin. “We have to get her back, Vin.”
“We will, baby girl,” he kisses the top of her head. “We will.”
**
Michelle’s pushing a hundred, the car’s screaming like a bitch in heat about to come, rumbling between Michelle’s legs like it’s trying to return the favor. She hauls ass up I-35, weaving between the wrecked and abandoned cars littering the highway. Dallas is burning. The huge plumes of smoke visible from a hundred miles away.
An open bottle of tequila sits between her legs. A shotgun rests on the dashboard, two handguns in the front passenger seat. The Isley Brothers are singing about fighting the power, even if there’s no more powers that be to fight.
America’s dead. The world’s dead.
Michelle shouldn’t give a fuck. But she heard there’s a pilot in Dallas, maybe the last one left on the continent. She grabs the tequila bottle taking a long swig before shoving it back into her crotch. Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel, her foot pressing on the gas just a little harder.
She’s a bat out of Hell with a hard ticket to Hawaii. And she’ll either make it -
Or die trying.
TO BE CONTINUED IN THE FINAL INSTALLMENT WHERE WE ASK THE BURNING QUESTIONS...
Can Jordana find her soulmate in a world gone mad dead?
Is Yvonne ready to give birth to the new 21st Century Jesus?
And can Josh Holloway mend Vin's broken heart?
All THIS and MORE in the THRILLING conclusion..
The M-Rod Warrior!!