by R. K. Weir
I give Aaron a look before following her inside. I can't exactly blame him for siding with Joey now, but that doesn't mean that I have to accept it. And it still doesn't explain why Stella is on his side. I'll be damned if she turns out to be his sister, I think. I shake the thought away. Inside, people mull about blindly, bumping into each other and cursing softly. As I move to shut the veranda door, Stella and Joey walk in, with Aaron bringing up the rear. He closes the front door and delves the house into darkness. People mutter, but no one panics.
"Alright, listen up everyone!" Aaron calls from the front door. "We're gonna spend the night here, so pick a spot in the living room and get comfortable."
Disgruntled mumbles this time erupt as shapes move about in the dark. I close the curtains and stand by the door a minute longer, my eyes finally adjusting to the lack of light. Waiting until the movement settles, I move towards the kitchen counter and slump down in front of it. I absently wonder where Rocket has gone, but quickly spot her orange hair on the other side of the room. Even in the dark it appears bright.
Grunting, I shift in my position, trying to find a somewhat comfortable spot. A feat that doesn't prove too difficult, especially when you consider other positions I've had to sleep in. Granted I was usually drunk.
Just as I become complacent with my arrangement, I notice a couple sit down across from me, underneath the main window of the living room. I stare at their silhouetted figures for a moment before realizing that it's Stella and Joey. A wave of irritation washes over me as I watch them whisper to each other. She shouldn't be sitting with him; she shouldn't even be talking to him. Hell! She shouldn't even like him! I need to talk to her as soon as possible. Tell her to stay the hell away from that freak.
If she was my daughter—
But I stop myself from thinking that, because she isn't my daughter.
My daughter is dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Logan
A hazy orange bathes the room, seeping in through the sunlight soaked curtains. Their material is thin, failing to filter out the warmth. But I don't mind, I like it. The warmth is nice, soothing. I try to remember the last time I just sat out in the sun, enjoying it. But I can't. Maybe back when I still had my car. Shaking the thought away, I decide to forget about memories, labeling them useless. Basking in the sun's tepid glow, I close my eyes again, savoring the moment.
I almost don't notice the flicker that takes it away. Only for a second, but long enough for me to catch it, to feel the cold again. My eyes snap open as I sit upright, my gaze immediately falling upon the window. Soft breathing fills the room, but no one is moving, still blessed with sleep. I begin to wonder if I imagined the flicker, when another one flits past.
The shadow a shape of a body.
My breathing stills as I listen and hear the suppressed sound of footsteps outside. I begin to push myself up from the floor when another figure runs past. I flinch at the movement and almost end up falling back down, but manage to catch myself before I do. I pause a second longer before lifting myself up the rest of the way, only to freeze as another one runs past.
What do I do? I glance around the room, my eyes sweeping over every sleeping face. Should I wake them, or do I let them sleep and hope no one makes any noise? Two more figures dash past and I realize with a sinking dread that it’s most likely a horde, chasing the tower of smoke. My fear is realized when an orchestra of the undead begin singing, their voices slowly growing in volume.
A trembling panic leeches to my skin like glad wrap as I quietly step around the room. I find Aaron slumped against a wall near the front door and give his shoulder a soft, but firm shake. His eyes are red and crusty when they crack open, struggling to remain apart. He glances up at me, the alarm on my face waking him.
"What is it?" he asks, his words choked with sleep. I press a finger to my lips and help pull him up from the ground. Once he rubs the sleep from his eyes, I point towards the window as another three shapes blur by. His jaw locks at the sight.
"Horde?" he whispers, the word barely louder than the subtle snores of those around us.
"Could be, there's been a few of them."
He nods. "Wake everyone up, tell them to be quiet and, slowly, start barricading the doors and windows."
I wonder if this is the best course of action, barricading ourselves inside. Willingly building our own tomb. But I do as he says anyway, moving around the room and relaying the message. I have no other choice. I wake Stella, but leave her to inform Joey. I don't want to wake him; we would probably have a better chance of survival if we left him sleeping. That way he can't screw anything up. Once everyone in the room is awake and alert, we start pulling the furniture towards the window. I grab one end of the couch while Aaron grabs the other. Together, we slowly pull it towards the window, pausing every time a figure appears. We stack chairs on top once it's firmly pressed against the wall, locking the curtain in place.
I stand back, evaluating our work. It's not very effective, practically useless actually. If one of them try to burst in through the window, the sofa and chairs will do little to restrain them. But it does make it harder for them to see us, which is something. My wrist begins to burn again as we move to block off the veranda door with the dining room table. I ignore the ache, along with the pulsating heat it brings.
The pain almost distracts me from the falling vase. The round woman, while moving to place a chair on top of the dining room table, brushes against the cabinet behind her with her sizable rump. The ceramic vase wobbles precariously, like a pin grazed by a bowling ball. I'm on the other side of the room, too far away to steady it. So I watch helplessly as it tumbles over the edge, my heart leaping with it and shattering on the kitchen floor.
The sound is sudden, piercing the air with its broken shards. Everyone in the room jumps at the noise, fear twisting their expressions as they look down at the small mess.
A shadow pauses at the window and my breathing stops with it. A few others notice the figure. For a second I fear that someone will scream, or whimper. But no one does. Everyone slowly begins to back away from the window and towards the kitchen.
Even confined within the house I can hear it's ragged breathing, coming out in wet snarls. It's hand works as a defibrillator as it slaps its palm against the glass, my heart jumps in my chest. The window rattles in its frame, shaking with every tap. My heart palpitating in step with the rhythm it chooses. I console myself with the fact that his knocks are light, lacking a vicious certainty. It doesn't know we're in here, not for sure. Yet still I begin to fear that the glass is going to crack, when it stops.
I let out a breath, for once finding myself grateful for the reproach of silence. But it doesn't last long. Almost at a run, the shadow moves to the front door, the handle shaking violently seconds later. Shock that they can use a door handle subsides when part of it snaps and the door props open. Aaron dives towards it, throwing his weight against it and slamming it shut.
The infected screams. Startled by the sound and resistance, it begins pounding on the door, the frail wood rattling mercilessly on its hinges. Someone whimpers and another yelps. Aaron leans against the door, his back firmly pressed against it. His body shakes in unison with the wood, jolting along with its hinges. I move to help him when he throws a hand out, telling me to stop.
With a shaking hand, he presses a finger to his lips. He wants to play dead. Wait until the infected gets bored and wanders off. I scowl at the idea. There's little chance of it actually working, especially now that it knows we're in here. I want to tell him this, but I don't dare make a sound. A sweat has broken out across my brow as I watch the door.
The sound is loud and frenzied. It'll attract more of them, if there are any around. Playing dead isn't going to work, I know this, I just need Aaron to know this. His eyes are shut, his face contorted and scrunched in concentration. Perspiration drenches his skin as he holds the door at bay, his muscles tense and shaking. The bangs become louder but furt
her apart as the infected begins to throw its entire body against the wood. Like a battering ram it pulls back, holds a second to build momentum and then crashes down.
Everyone stands still and silent, all eyes locked on the door. Every jolt and someone will flinch, a different person each time. I begin to doubt that Aaron can hold the door by himself, when it stops. The door rests for a moment before it returns with scratches. I cringe at the noise, its brittle nails digging into the wood and clawing down its surface. Ripping out splinters that are probably sinking into its soft flesh. My brows pinch together, my own nails feeling weak at the sound.
It isn't long before it presses its head against the wood, trying to use its teeth as a shovel. The sound is blunter than its nails, but still elicits a cringe. It continues without pause, changing tactics every now and then. Its nails are the worst. The scraping sound like that of a vulture, clawing at a carcass that's already been stripped clean.
I glance around the living room, noticing everyone is in the same state of suspension. Joey and Stella stand in the kitchen, their bodies twisted towards the back door but their heads swiveled in the direction of the front. The large woman hasn't moved from where she knocked over the vase, her rump still resting on the cabinet. Rocket stands by the sliding door, holding a chair in place over the dining table. Gale stands in the corner of the room, his hands acting as earmuffs as he clamps them over his ears, his eyes shut tight. Everyone else is spread out evenly, quietly waiting and watching.
The orange haze that felt so calming before is now transformed. Mutated into an ugly light that feels heavy and hot, draped over us unwillingly. It begins to recede as the sun crawls higher, but not fast enough.
I try to play with the noise of the infected, pretend that it is something it's not. Like a hummingbird, knocking on the side of a tree. Or the annoying rumble of a jackhammer, rustling somewhere within the confines of a construction site. But the task proves impossible. There is no sound like it. No sound as violent or intense.
So I take the noise for what it is. I listen to it intently and wait along with everyone else. I count the hits, like the beat of a drummer. I listen to the scratching, the clawing and the thrashing. I listen to it all until the sun has completely drained from the room. I grow so accustomed to the noise that it almost feels wrong when it stops.
It stops.
Its hand falls away from the door with a slump, before its awkwardly shuffling feet move away. We all stand a minute longer, listening to the drag of its shoes as it pulls itself away from the house. Aaron let's out a breath, the first noise to breach the newfound silence. I almost can't believe it, playing dead worked. Or maybe it has only gone to recruit the help of others. Everyone else must be thinking the same because no one dares to make even the smallest of noises. We all remain quiet, too nervous to make a sound.
The infected has left, but the tension hasn't. The room still feels heavy, thick and suffocating with the overbearing presence of fear. Fear that if we breathe too loudly, they'll come back. Fear that they'll come back with more.
So nobody makes a sound. Nobody moves a muscle. We all remain exactly where we are, straining to hear any sound, any evidence that it might come back. I flinch as another shadow runs past the window, my muscles trembling violently. I breathe a sigh of relief when it doesn't stop, it runs straight past, disappearing from sight. Still, nobody dares to move or speak, the sight of another shadow rebuilding everyone's defenses.
An eternity seems to pass by and I grow frustrated not knowing how long it has actually been. Has it been a minute? Or has it been an hour? In a world that has abandoned time, I can only imagine. So I begin to count the seconds, ticking like a clock in my mind.
I count to three hours before someone finally speaks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Stella
They can open locked doors. . .
Have they always been able to do that? All those times I thought I had forgotten to lock the door . . . that must be how they’ve been getting in. It seems strange that I’ve never noticed, but I want to believe that it’s something they’ve always been capable of, because the alternative is too terrifying to even consider. They’re evolving. . . The idea strikes fear in me, and fear is already in the air, infecting all of us. It clouds in our eyes and suffocates our skin. There’s nothing I want more than to think of something else. As the infected walks away, I think about all the things that have led me up to this point. All the choices. All my choices.
I chose to come back, when they gave me a car. Stupid. For what? Because I thought I was safer in numbers? If we had left in the car, we would be there by now! Now we're here. Stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I shake the voice away. It doesn't matter now. We're here, that's what matters. I look over to Logan. He's scared too. He doesn't show it the way the rest of us do, but I can tell. I can tell he's afraid. Just one look in his eyes and I can tell.
Everybody in the room seems to be under a trance of stasis. Not a single knee shaking or finger twitching. But it isn't long before Aaron finally moves. He's hesitant to leave the door, so he remains with it and reaches a hand out towards us.
"Weapon."
Logan bends and picks up a bloody golf club. Stepping deftly, he moves to hand it to him. Like a mouse cautious of a cat, Aaron peeks his head out the door, twisting his neck in all directions. It's now that I wish I took one of those baseball bats from the car, but I left them all behind in our haste. Aaron opens the door all the way and steps out, holding the club up and shutting the door quietly behind him. A tense heat takes his absence, gripping at all of us.
It's a few moments before the front door swings open again and Aaron steps back inside, the club lowered.
"It looks clear," he nods, turning to find Rocket. "Now is probably the best time to check out the bus."
If she's exhausted, she doesn't show it. Her eyes are as light and convicted as they usually are. The only sign of visible deterioration are the black roots, creeping from her scalp and leeching at the orange of her hair. With a curt nod, she moves away from the dining room table and towards the front door. An emotion flits past Logan's face, his brows pulling together as he watches her leave. Only when she is out of sight does he scowl, his gaze dropping to his wrist.
I move towards him. "What's wrong?"
His eyes bounce to mine before skipping to Joey, who's hovering awkwardly behind me. He sticks to me like glue now, as if I'm his shield, protecting him from everyone's hard glares.
Logan shakes his head. "It's nothing." He speaks gruffly from a parched throat. I reach a hand up and press my palm against his forehead. He flinches at the touch.
"You're burning up," I say, only to have him move my hand away.
"It's nothing," he repeats, beginning to angle his body away from me.
"Your wrist," I point, "it's infected isn't it?" He doesn't speak, but holds the bandage up in front of his face, closely inspecting the yellow shade starting to seep through. I remember back at the gas station; the rubbing alcohol I had splashed on him. Obviously that didn't work very well as a disinfectant. "You need antibiotics," I conclude, turning away from him and towards everyone else in the living room.
"Does anyone have any antibiotics?" I ask, only to receive a bouquet of frowns and head shakes. I frown back at them. My eyes glance at the red bag on Joey’s back and I briefly wonder if he might have something useful in there. But I quickly think against the idea, if he has anything, he would have said so. That means someone's going to have to go out and find some. I glance around the room.
The fat lady's a no go. Gale, like usual, is an obvious no. The skinny Chinese man looks like he's having a breakdown. The middle-eastern couple look a little too old. Rocket and Aaron are working on the bus. I could ask the teenage girl and two boys, but everyone would probably oppose to them going, arguing that they're too young. Even though they don't look much younger than me. That just leaves – oh brother.
Joey a
nd I.
I scowl at the thought. Once again I find myself the protagonist of a story I don't want to be in. His wrist will only get worse if he doesn't get medicine soon. And I'm the only one here that can get it for him. I sigh.
Maybe I can say no?
With a shake of my head, the thought is thrown away. Who am I kidding? Of course I can't say no. I direct my scowl towards Logan. His stupid morals have rubbed off on me. I shouldn't consider him a friend. I don't want to consider him a friend. But I do, I do consider him a friend. Which just makes everything harder.
I should be stronger than this. I've abandoned and betrayed people that I've known for longer. I should be able to abandon him too, in a heartbeat if I have to. But a single thought, straying from the flock tells me I can't.
This scares me. Almost as much as the infected outside scare me. I know better than to make emotional ties with people, yet I've let myself fall into the trap of caring for this group. Well, some of them. I crush the thought before it has a chance to further manifest. I may as well get it over with.
"I'll get you some antibiotics," I tell him. He shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"No, Stella, you don't have to."
But I know that I do. Things will only get worse if left untreated. I've seen it happen before. Besides, he's useless off his feet. The sooner I get him the antibiotics, the sooner I'll have my bodyguard back. This is the lie I tell myself. That the only reason I am helping him is so that he can protect me in the future. I won't dare admit that I care. Not when I know that caring is a sure-fire way of getting yourself killed.
So I turn from him before he has a chance to object further and move across the living room and into the small bathroom. I ignore my reflection in the mirror, sliding it away so that I can inspect its compartment. I'm not surprised when I find nothing. First thing people did when the outbreak started was clear out their medicine cabinets. This home is no different. I don't bother searching the bedrooms.
