by Amy Miles
Cinching the support straps for my pack across my chest, I ignore the incessant throbbing in my shoulder and take the hill at a staggering sideways shuffle. Tree limbs snag at my hair and tear at my neck as I close my eyes and leap the final five feet, landing awkwardly, but I pinwheel my good arm to steady myself.
“Well, if that didn’t scare away the deer, I don’t know what will.” I thread my fingers through my hair and tug twigs from my thick, frizzy curls. My hair is far longer than it has ever been and I swear all of the time that I will cut it, but I never do. Perhaps that is a sign of insanity or maybe if I actually follow through I’ll had less to talk about with myself.
When I catch the sound of running water, I perk up and am just about to turn to follow when I hear the snap of a branch. I drop hard to the ground, jarring my teeth as I search the brush in the dying light. There is no way that is the deer heading my way with the wind going against me.
It is nearly impossible to see without my flashlight, but I drained too much of the battery while escaping from the train tunnel, and now I’m not sure that I can bank on it switching on. Slightly off to my left I hear a grunt followed by minimal rustling. Lifting up just high enough to see over the bushes that I’m hiding in, I strain to hear. Goosebumps rise along my arms at the sound of a guttural cry of pain followed by a loud thud.
There is something out here with me.
Moving in the direction of the sound, I step lightly back onto the narrow dirt path that animals have packed down over time on their trips to the water. The last thing I want to do is come across a coyote or wild cat feasting on my deer and have it turn on me. The sounds of heavy breathing grow more distinct as I draw nearer, along with a low, painful cry. I vow that if I can get a clean shot I will put the poor animal out of its misery.
When the deer finally comes into view, I discover a man crouching beside it less than ten paces in front of me. His heavy jowls quiver as he chews a mouthful of raw flesh and then leans over to sink his teeth back into the hind leg of the deer. The animal screams as its hide and muscle tear away.
The man rises up to stare blankly at the darkening forest, unconcerned with the bit of ligament slapping against his chin as he chews. My grip tightens around my ax. Whoever this guy is, he must be stark raving mad to dig into a live deer like that.
Watching as the man slowly works his way through the bloody string of meat, I search for an exit strategy, but a loud crashing off to my left interrupts my thoughts. The loud wheeze that follows is all too familiar by now and I know that a Withered is approaching.
Peering around the tree that I have concealed myself behind, a cold, sickening feeling sinks into my core when a woman emerges and launches herself at the deer. The animal squeals and writhes when the woman bites off half of its ear.
Her eyes are milky white and her skin appears nearly translucent in the final drops of light. Her hair is unwashed and stringy with several large chunks missing. Her clothes are torn and soiled. When she leans forward to take another bite, I see that her feet are bare and she is missing three toes on her right foot. On her upper arm, I see a large festering wound that she scratches at intermittently between bites.
Two more people appear from across the small clearing. One is a school-age boy with short cropped, white-blond hair that fails to conceal the large gash across his forehead or the nose that has been chewed off. The other is an elderly man with his throat nearly torn completely away and a twisted right foot that forces him to walk on his ankle.
My hands feel clammy as I try to process the scene as the elderly man drops to the ground and rips through the deer’s neck, silencing its cries for help. Bile rises in my throat as the sound of ripping and tearing makes my stomach roll.
I try to tell myself that this isn’t real. That it’s just another vivid hallucination, but the sounds...those can’t be fake.
Snagging my heel on a tree root, I slam ungracefully to the ground and look up to see the Withered staring at me with garish, bloody faces. Though my mind screams to run, my body refuses to respond and the boy pushes up to his knees and starts toward me. The others rise to follow.
“Shit! That’s not supposed to happen!”
Digging deep into the dirt with my heels, I crawl backward as they step over the forgotten deer. Finally regaining my footing, I turn and sprint through the trees with my hands held up as a shield to fight off the branches that slash against my palms.
Sounds of their pursuit tell me that they are moving much faster than any Withered that I have encountered before. Their wheezing breaths sound as if they are directly behind me as I look to the trees, searching for something that I can climb, but the lowest branches are still just out of reach. Even if I could jump to touch them, my shoulder would never have the strength to support my weight.
I run as fast and as hard as I can, scrambling up hills and ricocheting off trees that rise up in front of me in the dark. Still, I keep going because the Withered never slow and they never tire.
By the time I emerge from the woods and stumble across a dirt road, lined with a wooden post fence wrapped in chicken wire, I am nearly spent of energy. Cupping a hand over my mouth to muffle my panting, I listen to the growls in the forest as the group closes in on me far faster than should be possible.
Something is very wrong with those Withered.
I should have easily lost them by now. It’s not that I’m exactly sprinting at the moment, but a gentle jog should have put them well behind. Instead, they have kept pace, slowing only for a few moments when I run into a low lying mud pit half a mile back to sniff out my scent.
They shouldn’t be able to sniff out anything. Hell, they shouldn’t be running either!
“Just keep calm, Avery,” I whisper to myself as I lean against a fence post to slow my breathing. “This is all in your head. Withered don’t eat deer and they sure as hell can’t track you. It’s just a really, really bad dream.”
But the growing stitch in my side tells me that it is far from a dream.
My pants are caked with mud and soaked completely through. The three layers of shirts that I wear aren’t much better. I know that I’m in no condition to outrun them so I’m going to have to outsmart them.
Using the fencerow to guide me, I try not to think about how the Withered that are tracking me look at me no differently than that poor deer they made a meal of. Never before have I seen one of them show any signs of hunger. The Withered have always been docile and slow. Yes, they have grown in awareness of sounds and lights but this...this is different.
A coughing fit doubles me over as I cling to a post and fight to stay upright. It is getting harder to catch my breath with each moment that passes and I worry that after being cold and wet for so many days that I might be developing pneumonia on top of the infection.
On the distant horizon, I see the flickering of fire in the direction of Clarksdale. They are too numerous to be funeral pyres. From this distance, it appears that the whole city is burning. From time to time, I think that I hear gunfire carrying on the wind but the distance is too great and I want to keep it that way.
My mouth feels dry as I shuffle forward, searching for a break in the fence where I can slip through. In my condition, if I try to crawl over the fence and fail, I will probably not get back up again. Normally I would never get so close to a farm that I have not previously scouted but I’m out of options.
The rusty metal of the chicken wire snags my hand as I stagger and nearly go down.
“Don’t be such a pansy.” I cling to the fence rail with one arm slung over the top. The wooden post feels blissfully warm against my cheek, still heated from the day’s sun and I know my fever is on the rise again. Pushing to my feet, I try to focus on the ground in front of me but it swells and recedes like the tides. Closing my eyes when I feel my stomach lurch, I will myself not to be sick but lose the battle.
The Wit
hereds’ growls and grunts grow closer as I spit the foul acid from my mouth and wipe my lips clean. Their staggering run has resumed and I am running out of time. On a good day, I would be able to outmaneuver them, but I haven’t had many good days recently.
When I reach the end of the fencerow, it makes a sharp ninety-degree angle away from me and straight toward the looming shape of a darkened house. I absently rub the side of my pants as I stare at the curtain less windows with growing anxiety.
So many places have been abandoned since the outbreak, but many have also become refugees for desperate people. Having a girl show up on a stranger’s doorstep unannounced while sporting a raging fever isn’t exactly a good thing these days. I will most likely be shot on sight, presumed to be among the Withered, well on my way to completing the transformation, and I wouldn’t blame them for thinking it.
Deciding that I have no alternative but to risk it, I pull myself around the corner and struggle on. My legs feel too heavy and my left arm throbs to the point of distraction as I find myself mulling over the same question that has plagued me for several days: why do I keep fighting? Wouldn’t it be easier to just let the illness ravage my body and be done with it? To let the soldiers come across my body with a message stating that I went out on my own terms?
I have done things that I am ashamed of. I’ve stolen things, maimed people, who may or may not have been innocent, for the sake of taking their food to survive, and I’ve killed. Some might call me a murderer. I might even agree with them...if there were anyone left for me to speak to.
Craning my neck to search the wrap around porch on the front of the old weathered farmhouse, I search for footprints in the mud or any signs of human life but see none. The windows are all dark and there is only silence within.
The house looks a bit worse for wear as I pull myself up the steps. Two of the first-floor shutters have busted slats and bang against the siding in the wind. The clapboard siding is faded and peeling in so many places that I’m not sure it will last the summer. One window near the far corner is shattered and glass shards stick up from the warped decking of the porch. The wooden slats creak underfoot as I peer in through the window beside the door, but see nothing inside apart from darkness.
When I place my hand on the doorknob, I feel something slick. Raising my palm, I realize it is coated with fresh blood. Instantly on alert, I grab my hammer in one hand and my ax in the other.
One way or another I will hole up in the house for the night.
My stomach clenches at the thought of having to kill again. I waiver in place, blinking rapidly to focus as I turn the knob and push the door inward. A stale scent meets my nose, but nothing more. I peer through the darkness, listening closely for the sound of a footstep or breathing, but hear nothing.
Closing the door behind me and locking it for good measure, I begin a thorough sweep of the main floor. The kitchen is in complete disarray, with broken porcelain plates smashed on the floor and overturned soda bottles on the sink. A long line of ants files in and out of the sink on its way to the bottles. Several empty cans of food are strewn about. I kick at them with the toe of my boot and then move beyond to the dining room.
Several chairs are overturned with their legs and spines broken. In the center of what was once a dining room table is a pile of charred ash. Someone lit a fire here to keep warm, most likely during the hard winter months.
As I search the remaining rooms, pausing to check the recesses of the coat closets and an empty pantry, I determine that whoever was here has likely moved on. However, as I take the stairs to begin my search again, I am cautious. Someone left the blood on the door handle after all.
The farmhouse has three bathrooms in total, each one ransacked and empty. Even the shower curtains have been removed. As I finish digging through the final bedroom, gathering blankets and pillows as I go, I stand in the empty hall and listen. Though the walls and windows dull the sound, the approach of the Withered can still be heard. They have my scent and it will lead them directly to this house.
I could sleep in the hall beside the stairs, picking them off one at a time as they come up, but that probably isn’t the smartest idea. Walking the length of the house with my eyes trained on the ceiling, I hunt for an attic hatch and find one near the upper landing by the stairs. A shower of dust falls over my face when I pull the cord and a pair of rickety wooden steps unfolds in front of me.
Grasping the stairs with one hand and the blankets in the other, I mount the steps slowly, grimacing with each creak and give of the wood. Anyone weighing more than me would surely snap the thin legs in half.
I am nearly halfway up the steps when the first Withered beats against the front door. Its growls and snarls rise up the stairwell and bring shivers of fear with it. I pause to listen as others slam into the wall beside it. Their nails scratch at the glass.
Hurrying up the final steps as quickly as I can, I toss the bedding aside and pull the ladder up, making sure to pull the cord in with me. I have no way of knowing if these new Withered are intelligent enough to know how to climb through the busted window but at least they will have no way of reaching me if they do.
Once I am sure that the hatch is secure, I glance around for something heavy enough to cover the opening and stumble into a stack of old boxes that sends dust billowing into the air. The crashing sound of glass from below makes me freeze in place. I focus on silencing my breathing to listen to the frenzy building below and wonder if more Withered will follow the sounds.
Using my feet to feel my way across the decking boards, I begin to get the lay of the land and plan an escape route. Over the past couple of months, I have spent my fair share of time in attics. It seems like the most logical place to go, considering I have yet to see a monster that can climb a ladder. Humans, on the other hand, are another story, and they are the reason I usually sleep with one eye open and one hand on my hammer.
After a few minutes of feeling around in the dark, I come across a large wooden frame and smooth surface that I assume to be a mirror. Rocking it from side to side, I walk it over to the hatch and gently lay it across the opening, mirror side down. If anyone does come barreling up the stairs they will get a face full of broken glass in the process.
With my exit into the house secured, I make a small nest of bedding to curl up into near the farthest wall, just below a small round window that looks out over the farm. Wrapping a spare blanket around my elbow, I smash the glass to allow a bit of fresh air into the dank attic. In a worst case scenario, I know that I can at least climb out onto the roof and find a storm drain to scale down.
Snuggled down into my bedding, I allow myself to take an inventory of my wellbeing. My skin is clammy, my cheeks feel flushed, and my heart thunders in my chest, but for now I am safe.
Tomorrow, I will tear this place apart in search of medicine after the Withered find a new toy to chew on.
THREE
Through the long night, I manage to sleep despite the growling and the glass shattering, but just after dawn, a sudden burst of gunfire sends me scrambling to my knees. Peering out of the small window, I see the two military vehicles idling in the yard and soldiers kneeling in the dirt with their weapons trained on the porch. I count at least eight men and a single girl, but assume there may be more concealed inside the flapping canvas-covered trucks.
After a second round sprays bullets into the wood siding, one man steps forward and raises his hand. The shooting stops and silence echoes all around. When he removes his hat to wipe at his face, I recognize Cap and press against the window frame to try to see as he approaches the steps and then disappears directly beneath me.
All sounds of growling have been silenced.
Cap’s boots stomp loudly on the deck boards and I hold my breath when I hear him jiggling the door handle. How that door remained standing, I will never know. I guess old places like this really are built better.
“The Flesh Bags had to be tracking something,” a soldier calls out as he holsters his gun. He has a second weapon slung over his back and a swagger that makes me instantly think that this guy is probably a dick. I know his type all too well from living on the streets: all muscle and just enough brains to be dangerous. They are the ones you have to watch out for. “They wouldn’t hang around here if there wasn’t something worth eating.”
“Jax is right, Cap.” A soldier calls out from beside the dick, who I now associate with being called Jax. This man stands several inches taller and is built like an ox shooting up on heavy doses of steroids. A reddish-toned beard conceals a muscular jaw, which tapers down into a thick neck, broad shoulders, and bulging biceps. I bet it was a struggle to fit into his tight little shirt this morning.
Staring hard at his breast pocket, I try to read his name but it is illegible from this distance.
“Whoa,” Jax says with a cocky smirk. “Big man Fletcher actually agrees with me. Call the press, folks. We have breaking news—”
“Pipe down,” Cap commands, and I can just see the top of his hat when he moves to stand on the edge of the porch steps. “What do you think, Nox? Think they were trailing her or someone else?”
“We followed her tracks into the woods. Makes sense that if she stumbled across the Flesh Bags that she would head this way. I’d say she was probably here.”
I peer down at this new soldier with curiosity when he climbs down from the driver’s seat of one of the trucks, having been unable to see him clearly during the rainstorm before. He is tall and lean with dark hair tucked beneath a camouflage cap that is pulled low over his eyes. He has a strong jaw and an air of confidence about him, but it is unlike the one that Jax possess. He doesn’t seem cocky but rather merely sure of himself. “Is that blood on the door handle, sir?”
