World War Moo Read Online Free Page A

last living being on Earth apart from her. She would wake with a scream dying in her throat. Terry assumed she was having nightmares about being back in Britain; she didn’t disabuse him of this notion. He would try and convince her it was a delusion, like the smell of death he’d thought clung to his skin when he worked in the abattoir. Unlike Terry, she had proof of her curse: the corpses that trailed in her wake.
    Her phone rang, interrupting her self-flagellation, and she looked at the caller ID. Her finger hovered for several seconds before she accepted the call.
    â€œHi, Terry,” she said.
    â€œHello. Just wondering when you’re coming home. I’ve made vegetable risotto.”
    â€œSorry. I meant to tell you I was going to be out late.”
    There was a long silence. “Right. Working again. I can tell that from the music.”
    â€œI’m meeting someone about a tip,” Lesley said, her voice tight.
    â€œThere’s always something, right?”
    â€œYou know why I have to work so hard.”
    â€œI suppose I do. It would just have been nice to have some company.”
    Terry never said anything direct about how their escape had been presented. She wished he would, wished somebody would confront her about the damage she’d done so she could take her punishment now rather than store it up for the day of reckoning that must be coming. Instead he only referred to it obliquely, in snide little comments like, “I suppose I do.” She knew he thought her selfish, pouring everything into her career to become a star. He didn’t believe her when she told him she didn’t want to be so lucky, that she only wanted to deserve whatever success came her way without having to clamber up a pile of bodies.
    â€œIt’s not my fault you don’t have enough to do,” she said.
    A heavy sigh flooded the speakers. “I just meant it would be good to see you, specifically.”
    He hung up without saying good-bye.
    She thumped the phone down, her mouth dry, and tried to focus on the night’s business. Ever since she’d been posted to New York, the Security Council had been meeting regularly behind closed doors to discuss the British crisis. She knew from sources that they’d talked about using nukes—a proposal vetoed by the Brits, who wouldn’t have a country to go back to, and the French, who would have to deal with the fallout. Recently, though, there’d been a sense of growing momentum: whispers in the corridors of power and tougher language in off-the-record briefings that pointed toward the decisive military action many—including North Korea and Iran, who were delighted that a new pariah state had displaced them from the top of the international hate list—had been calling for. Tonight, she hoped to find out exactly what was afoot.
    Jack Alford was a member of the delegation from the British government in exile, which had kept its role as one of the five permanent members of the Security Council despite being responsible for the virus in the first place and not having a country to govern—two pretty fucking compelling reasons for their being kicked off, in Lesley’s view. She knew he was uncomfortable with the use of force, so when he’d slipped her a note asking to meet, she suspected he was going to tell her a lot of things he shouldn’t.
    The door swung open and in walked Jack—a tall and rangy man in his early forties, with short black hair verging on curly, a cute face, and an easy way that meant he was often buttonholed by female journalists looking to pump him for information, as well as just pump him. After a quick detour to the bar, he picked his way through the crowd and air-kissed Lesley. The soft rub of his cheek sent a shiver down her spine. She pulled away abruptly, picturing Terry sitting alone at home and staring resentfully at her untouched plate.
    Every meeting began with a game in which