She peered through the stained glass on either side of the wooden door. It was a wasted effort, however, for she couldn’t see a thing. Dylan flexed her fingers and reached for the brass knob. The door swung open with a loud creak, and she jumped back with her weapon held ready. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she waited for something to leap at her. Several seconds passed, and nothing happened.
With a sigh of relief, she cast a last look around the neighborhood before stepping inside. The air smelled musty, and the interior was dim, the curtains drawn. Plumes of dust puffed up around her boots with each step she took, teasing her nostrils. Nobody had cleaned in a long time.
A sneeze threatened to erupt, and she paused to gain control of herself first. Once her eyes stopped watering, she called out in a tentative voice. “Frankie? Are you in there? It’s Dylan.”
Not a soul stirred.
By now, she was sure the house was deserted.
“Guess it’s just me then.” Disappointment filled her chest, and she glanced back at her car. What was the point in investigating further? Her friend was gone. But maybe, Frankie had left a clue as to her whereabouts. It was a long shot, but… “What else am I going to do?”
She flicked on a light, gratified to see the power was still on. Despite the failing infrastructure and lack of communications systems, the grid was still holding in most places, providing water and electricity. But for how long was anybody’s guess.
As she moved through the house, step by step, Dylan was gripped by a strong sense of deja vu. She’d only been inside the place once, a week after Frankie’s parents died in the car crash. They’d had the memorial there, and as Frankie’s best friend, she’d attended.
On that day, the rooms had been filled with grieving family and friends. People spoke in hushed whispers while sipping on cups of tea. Frankie had looked beautiful but pale in her black dress, accepting an endless stream of condolences. At one point, she’d disappeared, and Dylan found her in the master bathroom, sobbing into a towel while holding a razor blade. The memory thrust its way into the forefront of Dylan’s mind, insisting on being relived.
***
“Oh, Frankie. Not that. Anything but that,” Dylan cried, grabbing the blade from Frankie’s cold fingers.
“It hurts so much,” Frankie said, her eyes puffy and swollen. “I want it to stop.”
“Oh, sweetie. It will stop…in time,” Dylan said, gathering Frankie into her arms.
“I want it to stop now,” Frankie cried, her voice muffled against Dylan’s shoulder.
“I know,” Dylan said, rocking her friend back and forth as she cried. “I know.”
***
The memory faded, though its after-effects remained, and the air felt laden with misery. Dylan cleared the foyer, living room, and the kitchen before moving on to the dining room. She briefly debated going upstairs but decided against it. The place was abandoned, and it felt like a violation of Frankie’s privacy.
A denim jacket hung on the back of a chair. She tucked away her gun before shrugging it on, grateful for the warmth. A whiff of musk teased her nose, and she buried her face in the collar. It still smelled of Frankie and the perfume she used to wear.
Suppressing her feelings, Dylan forced herself to keep looking for clues, and her eyes fell on a bundle of papers strewn across the dining room table. She moved closer and brushed away the accumulated dust with one hand.
It was a map.
A map covered in sticky notes.
Intrigued, Dylan leaned closer.
On the map itself, Sharpsburg was circled in red. A long, wriggly line ran down from it, following a route across the border of Illinois and into Kentucky. It ended at Fort Knox next to Radcliff which was likewise marked with red. She frowned. “It looks like Frankie was planning a trip to Fort Knox, but why?”
After scanning the sticky notes, the answer became clear. In order, they read:
“Fort Knox, safe zone.”
“Stick to back roads, avoid heavily populated areas.”
“Distance approximately three hundred miles.”
“Five and a half hours drive if all goes well.”
Next to the map lay a paper with a long list of supplies written on it, a mixture of food, water, medical items, and so forth. Dylan nodded to herself, leaning against the table. “She was heading for safety, and what better place than Fort Knox?”
During the early days of the outbreak, the government had set up several quarantine zones. Some, like Fort Knox, were large and meant to protect both citizens and essential installations. Others were small, set up in community centers and such. A lot of people viewed these sites as their salvation, but just as many elected to stay home and ride it out on their own, Dylan among them. Apparently, Frankie had decided to head to Fort Knox.
On the one hand, Dylan was glad Frankie had headed to a secure facility. It meant she’d survived the initial outbreak, and hopefully, the trip as well. “But what about me? I can’t go. No one in their right mind would accept a sick person into their midst.”
Dylan stared at the wound on her arm. Already, it showed signs of infection. The area was red, swollen, and hot to the touch. In a sudden fit of rage, she swept the map of the table, sending papers flying all over the room. “Why me? Wasn’t my life shitty enough before all this happened?”
Hot tears burned her eyelids, a mixture of rage and despair. After everything she’d been through, after all the years of fighting to survive a system that tried to crush the life out of her, it came down to this. Dying a horrible death because of one stupid mistake. “Fuck!”
Dylan turned away from the table and headed toward the front door. There was nothing for her here now. No hope, no safety, no friend. Nothing but a slow death in a house that didn’t belong to her. “I’m leaving.”
Her boot came down on a piece of paper and slid out from underneath her. Teetering for balance, she lost the fight and crashed to the ground, falling hard. Dylan groaned and sat upright, rubbing her bruised lower back with one hand. “Ow. That hurt.”
While she waited for the pain to pass, her eyes fell on the offending bit of paper that had caused her fall. It was yet another sticky note covered in Frankie’s looping handwriting. None of that mattered, though. All that mattered was the single word that stood out from among the rest. Cure.
Grabbing the paper, she read and reread the thing until it was burned into her brain with utter clarity: Fort Knox has a cure. Enough time to get Peter there? Day three.
Dylan frowned. “Peter? Who’s Peter? And what does she mean by day three?”
Suddenly, she remembered her and Frankie’s last conversation, a hasty call made about two months before. Frankie had told her about a new boyfriend, a guy named Peter. Dylan hadn’t paid much attention, but Frankie had sounded pretty serious about him. “Was that why she’d planned the trip to Fort Knox? To save him? But if he was on day three already, she was taking a serious risk.”
Dylan scrambled to her feet and gathered up all the scattered papers she’d strewn about. She smoothed out the map and looked at the various sticky notes. It was apparent Frankie had planned to take Peter to Fort Knox, hoping to get him there in time for the cure to work. If they encountered no problems along the way, it was possible. Even so, it was dangerous. Day three was marked by psychotic episodes, and a worm of worry for her friend entered Dylan’s mind.
At the same time, hope blossomed amidst her fear for Frankie’s life. A cure! Not only that, she was only on day one. She had plenty of time to make it. “I can be fixed! I don’t have to die!”
Dylan glanced at the watch on her wrist, struck with a newfound sense of urgency. She had just over sixty-nine hours left. “I can do this. I can make it.”
She folded up the map and stuck it into her pocket, preparing to leave. As she turned, she bumped into the dining room chair. It toppled over with a loud crash, and she winced at the sound. Moments later, a thump sounded from upstairs.
Dylan f
roze, wondering if she’d heard right, but the first noise was followed by a second, louder thump. With careful movements, she drew the gun from her holster and walked toward the base of the stairs. Gazing upwards, she jumped when yet another thump followed the second. There was something on the upper floor, and if her instincts proved correct, it was nothing good.
Chapter 7 - Dylan
Turn around.
Just turn around and get out of the house.
Don’t look. Never look. It’s too dangerous.
It was futile. She knew she’d go. Just like every dumbass in every horror movie she’d ever watched. Only now, she was in their shoes, and the need to know what was making the noises burned in her chest. It could be Frankie. A zombie. Or sick. Maybe trapped. Stuck with her boyfriend, Peter. Another zombie. Either way, she had to know, no matter what the cost.
Dylan stared at the upper landing, her gun held in both hands. Her arms were trembling. Heck, her whole body was shaking. Whatever waited up those stairs scared the hell out of her. Every fiber of her being yelled at her to run. To take the map and get out of there.
But…she couldn’t.
Step by slow step, she went up the stairs. Three generations of the family stared back at her along the way, each face framed in a moment that would last forever. The youngest was Frankie. Her blue eyes shining through a mess of blonde curls. Just the way Dylan remembered. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I’m sorry I bailed after your parents’ deaths. I’m sorry I couldn’t deal with your sorrow.
None of that mattered as she went up the stairs, clutching her gun with sweaty palms. The landing appeared, the carpet as pristine as snow. Three doors led off the corridor. Each open. At the end, the master bedroom’s door loomed. Shut. A single bloody handprint was smeared across the surface, and Dylan swallowed at the sight. “Please, don’t let it be Frankie’s. Please.”
She forced her reluctant body to move, to close the distance. Her nostrils flared as a horrid stench thickened the air, clinging to the back of her throat. Her hand reached out and touched the handle. It turned beneath her palm, swinging inward on creaky hinges. A monster burst through, teeth snapping at her flesh. His eyes were black, same as the veins crossing his skin. A map of death.
Terror surged through Dylan, electrifying her nervous system like a bolt of lightning. She stumbled backward on legs turned to jelly, and her finger tightened on the trigger. The shot went wild, a clean miss. Before she could try again he was on her, knocking her hand aside with such force that the gun went flying.
Dylan leaped for her pistol, desperate to catch it. She missed by a mere inch. It landed with a clatter, skittered across the floor and slipped through the railings, falling to the landing below.
“No!” Dylan cried, running for the stairs.
Peter, or whoever he was, grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her backward. His strength was incredible, and he pulled her clean off her feet. She landed hard, pain lancing through her back. He gnashed at her exposed throat, and she reacted on instinct, punching him in the nose. His head snapped back, and putrid blood sprayed from his nostrils.
Dylan broke free of his hold with a second punch to the neck, and crab walked away from him toward the stairs. She crawled as fast as she could, and the carpet fibers scratched at her exposed skin.
Peter gave chase, launching himself at her with a vicious snarl as she reached the top of the steps. He bowled her over, and they went tumbling head over heels. Dylan didn’t know which way was up as she rolled down the stairs, her arms and legs flailing through the air. Her head hit the railing, followed by her shoulders, hips, and thighs. Pain pierced her ribs. Something crunched, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Him or her.
She crashed to a stop at the bottom, half-lying on top of Peter. He wriggled like a worm, clawing at her face with hooked fingers. Fighting to keep his teeth out of her flesh, she spotted the Glock a few feet away.
Fueled by desperation, she kicked against the wall and threw herself forward, but Peter had other plans. He latched onto her arm and bit down, chewing like a rabid dog to get through the denim jacket she wore.
Dylan screamed in agony and twisted around. Using her legs, she knocked him aside and crawled across the floor. A small side table rocked when she bumped against it, and a vase almost brained her. She gripped it by the open mouth and swung it at Peter’s head with all the force she could muster. It shattered against his temple, showering them both with shards of porcelain.
He hardly slowed down and kept coming instead. His growls sawed into her brain, adding to the fear already threatening to incapacitate her. She spotted a chunk of the vase next to her and grabbed it. With the sharp end, she stabbed at this face, hoping to pierce the brain. Instead, she cut into the skin of his forehead and sliced open her own hand.
“What the hell?” With a scream of frustration, she launched herself at the gun again. As her hand closed around the butt just as Peter grabbed her foot. He yanked her toward his waiting mouth, and she snapped off three shots in quick succession. Plaster rained from the walls, and her ears sang from the reverberations in the confined space.
The third shot found its mark, and his head exploded in a spray of putrid brain matter. Peter slumped to the ground, leaving her gasping for breath. She fell back, spreadeagled on the carpet as all the strength fled her limbs.
For several seconds, Dylan couldn’t move, frozen in place as her mind tried to regroup. The intense fear gradually receded, leaving her drained and exhausted. Her head throbbed in time to the beat of her heart, and it ached to move. She prayed nothing was broken, though it was hard to tell when everything hurt as much as it did. Twitching her fingers and toes, she tested her arms and legs. “Seems okay.”
With a grunt, she pushed herself upright and smoothed a lock of hair back from her face. A trickle of blood ran down her temple, staining her fingertips red. A deep gash covered the palm of her hand thanks to the piece of porcelain she’d wielded like a knife, and she hissed when she touched the cut.
It took several tries to get to her feet. Finally, she was up, clinging onto the banister for support. Bile pushed up her throat when she spotted Peter’s mangled skull, and she turned away to vomit up her breakfast. It splattered onto her shoes, creating a vile mess.
A low moan and a scrape drew her attention back to the second floor of the house, and a lump formed in her throat. “Frankie?”
The word escaped as a broken whisper, and Dylan shook her head, unwilling to face the facts. Her feet began to move of their own volition and carried her up the stairs. Her hand hung at her side, dripping blood onto the carpet. On top of the landing, she paused as her eyes fixed on a horrible sight. It was Frankie, all right. Or what was left of her, at least.
Dylan smothered a sob. “Oh, Frankie. What did he do to you?”
Frankie growled and reached for Dylan with one hand. The other arm ended at the elbow, and her lower body was missing. She dragged herself forward a few more inches, leaving a trail of slime behind. Only her blonde hair was still recognizable.
“I’m so sorry, Frankie. I should’ve come here sooner. I could’ve saved you,” Dylan whispered as she raised the gun. Time slowed as she gazed into Frankie’s eyes, saying goodbye to the girl she’d once known. The blast seemed extra loud to Dylan, and her ears sang as she sank to her knees, dropping the pistol. “I’m sorry.”
Dylan sat for a long time, mourning her best and only friend. She remembered all the good times they’d had, and all the bad. The time when Frankie held her hair while she vomited her guts out after a night of heavy partying. The time Frankie came down with measles, looking like a spotty pink balloon. Also, the time that Frankie had asked her to stay, and her expression when Dylan refused, leaving her behind to move on to bigger, better things. Or, so she’d thought.
Now Dylan realized the real reason she’d run. Because she was afraid. Afraid of caring about someone other than herself. It made her vulnerable, and so she’d cut the tie
s before she could get hurt. A coward’s tactics.
Finally, she looked at the ticking time bomb on her wrist and forced herself to stand up. She couldn’t save Frankie, but she could save herself, and her friend would’ve wanted that despite everything.
With tears in her eyes, Dylan wrapped Frankie’s remains in a sheet and placed her in her bed. She did the same to Peter but left him downstairs. He was too heavy to drag all the way up steps. After saying a brief prayer for each, she set to work preparing herself for the journey.
She was covered in Peter’s blood, and her shoes stank with vomit, so she quickly stripped down and stepped into the shower. In Frankie’s cupboards, she found a set of clean clothes: jeans, a flannel shirt, boots, and a jacket. They were the same size, which was a bonus. She also grabbed an extra blanket, a couple of toiletries, and some food and water, stuffing it all into a backpack.
She sported a number of bruises from her fall, and the spot where Peter had bitten her had turned purple, though she was lucky the skin was unbroken. The last thing she needed now was a zombie taking yet another chunk out of her. After disinfecting and bandaging the cuts on her forehead and hand, she rolled up her sleeve and took a proper look at the bite mark on her arm. It was bad. A lot worse than she’d have thought possible in such a short time. Although it felt like an eternity since she’d been to the supermarket, in reality, it was only four hours.
Already it was oozing puss, the area swollen and warm. Black veins radiated outward from the crescent mark like the creeping tendrils of poisonous ivy. While it didn’t hurt much, it looked awful.
She cleaned and bandaged the wound while trying to avoid looking at the black veins. They reminded her of Peter and Frankie, and of what she’d become if she didn’t reach Fort Knox in time.
“It’s only five and a half hours’ drive, and I’ve got almost a full tank. I can make it,” she said, trying to bolster her courage. If nothing happens along the way.
Rise of the Undead Box Set | Books 1-3 | Apocalypse Z Page 4
