A World Fallen
Nicholas Lawrence Carter
Copyright © 2020 Nicholas Lawrence Carter
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 9798648418851
Imprint: Independently published
NLCARTERWRITES.COM
Cover design by: Mark Thomas
Printed in the United States of America
For my mother. My hero.
A very special thank you to Stacy McDaniel, Corey Batts, and Hilton Brannan.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Afterword
CHAPTER ONE
The two figures just outside the brush in front of them move slowly. Their clothes are dirty and torn, their hands tremble, and they walk carelessly. These creatures are diseased. Their humanity has long since perished. There is no question of this. To Rosaline it is a fact. Her mind speeds through her options, “Ambush them? Wait patiently for them to pass? Are there more nearby? Will an ambush alert the others? Will the others find us hiding?”
“Shhh.” she says as she covers her lips with her finger, staring intently at the young boy. Mikey is only five years old, but his years with her on the move have matured him more than any five year old should be. He’s bright for such a young child, and he listens to her every word. For Rosaline this is what is most important. If they are to continue surviving out here on their own he must follow her every command.
She isn’t always sure of herself or of her decisions, but the six years she spent alone raising herself out in the wild among the diseased, after her mother and sister died, have taught her to act quickly and not to dwell.
Before she took up the responsibility of raising Mikey these questions would have never entered her mind. She would’ve swiftly killed these two in front of her. Rosaline is small, yet nimble and resourceful. Growing up from ages nine to fifteen on your own, fighting for every day not to be your last, will hardened a person, and to say it has hardened her would be an understatement.
She could attempt to distract them by throwing a rock opposite their position, however, if they are Adapted their attention will be directed to the source of this throw and not its impact. She hasn't heard them speak, but she can’t know for sure. It has already been twenty seconds of pondering. Far too long for her liking.
Rosaline motions her hand to the ground, indicating to Mikey to lay down, and he promptly does as instructed. She opens her backpack and retrieves her goggles, gloves, and a claw hammer. The goggles are important to ensure no blood gets in her eyes and the gloves keep her hands clean. Can never be too safe.
She gently places her backpack on the ground next to Mikey and picks up a rock. She slowly moves forward to the edge of the brush. She throws the rock. It connects with a tree next to the diseased. They spin around following the sound. They are not Adapted, at least not fully. This is the best news she could’ve hoped for.
She keeps low and rushes from her position. She is quick and precise. Her first swing connects with the back of the knee bringing the diseased to the ground. In one fluid motion she brings the hammer back up, spins it, and buries the claw end deep into its skull. The infected collapses, laying prone on the green.
She unsheathes the hunting knife on her belt as the other diseased turns its attention to her. Before she is even in full view her knife is lodged fully under its jaw and into its brain. The hammer, in the first one, is wedged in deep. She places her foot on its back and pulls the hammer from its skull.
“That was quite a show.” these terrifying words come from behind her.
She whirls around to see two more men and a woman exiting the tree line and entering into the small clearing she is in. These things are either Adapted or regular people. She's not sure which would be more dangerous right now.
“Are you alone?”
They aren’t aware of Mikey, that makes this easier. Rosaline accesses her surroundings, her eyes hastily darting around the landscape. There is a stump to her left and nothing else of real value around her.
“There’s nowhere to run.”
She is already tiring of this things voice. “Are you alone?” That’s always what they ask. Over and over again. “Are you alone?” usually followed by the false promise of “I can help you.” This one is one of the more advanced, using logic at a higher level than most of the monsters she's come across. She grits her teeth. “No matter, they'll all die just the same.” she thinks, as she studies the three creatures in front of her.
They continue to inch closer to her, but she’s already sized them up. The non-talkers aren’t very big, but nearly everyone is bigger than her. The bald one lags just a bit behind the other two. That one is the weakest, it’ll be last.
The Adapted puts a hand out to Rosaline, “We can help you.” it says.
There it is. The greatest hits. Rosaline takes her stance, putting the knife out forward and holding the hammer at head level. Rosaline stares directly into the eyes of the Adapted.
“Let’s get this over with.” the sternness in her voice is off putting and almost surprising. This is a customary reaction to the short fighter.
“Kill her.” the Adapted commands.
The two circle around Rosaline, placing themselves at her sides. She moves closer to the stump. Their pace picks up as they begin to close in. She lunges the weaker one kicking its knee, then bashing the hammer against its head. The diseased hits the ground hard. The other infected grabs the back of her shirt, right at the collar. She ducks underneath its arm and spins around to face it, causing the clutching hand to twist in her shirt, then, with all her mi
ght, she plunges the knife under its chin.
The hilt slams into its jawline and the grip on her loosens. It begins to fall forward onto her, but she spins back to her original position, freeing the gripping hand, and allowing the body to fall past her. She slams the claw end of the hammer into the stump, leaving the head facing upright.
The Adapted is already charging, having seen the battle is being lost. Rosaline flips the knife so the blade is against her forearm and waits until the attacker is close enough, then the tiny warrior moves forward, abruptly dropping to one knee and slicing the leg of the Adapted. She follows up by stabbing the knife through its foot and deep into the ground. The monster screams in frustration.
Rosaline turns back to the bald one, who is just now attempting to get up, and kicks it in the head, knocking it back down. She whips around to face the Adapted again, takes the small little run that their close proximity allows, and launches her foot directly into the back of its head, slamming it down hard onto the hammer, disorienting the beast.
Rosaline puts her foot on the neck of the Adapted and slams down onto the hammer, again and again, until movement has ceased. She retrieves her knife and stabs the bald one in the back of the head, ending its second attempt at regaining footing.
Rosaline exhales blowing a strand of her raven hair out of her face, her tanned brown skin glistening with sweat. She shouts out in Mikey’s direction.
“Let’s go! We need to move, now!”
Mikey grabs the backpack and jumps up from the ground. He jogs out of the brush and into the small clearing.
“You’re a showoff!” he says.
“Gotta stay frosty.” she replies with a half grin.
Mikey’s stomach growls, “I’m tired! And hungry!” he moans.
“I know buddy. We’ll set up camp soon. Just need to find good cover.” she reassures him.
She cuts a large piece of cloth from the shirt the diseased is wearing and cleans the knife and hammer with it. She re-sheaths her knife, then places the hammer in the backpack, and puts the goggles and gloves in the front compartment. Mikey takes her hand, his eyes twinkle as he looks up at his caretaker.
“Why couldn’t we wait for them to go away?” he softly wonders.
“You know why.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me.”
He sighs, “Never take chances.”
“That’s right. We didn’t know the Adapted were here and if we waited for them to pass the Adapted could’ve followed us and surprised us.”
“We don’t like surprises.”
She crouches to his level placing her hands on his arms, “Hey, we’re gonna be okay.”
“I know. You always keep us safe.”
“We keep each other safe. Come here.” -she pulls him into her, hugging him tightly- “I couldn’t do this without you.” she affectionately says.
She brushes her hand on his cheek, smiling as she takes in the beauty and innocence of this little boy. Growing up in a world like this isn’t easy, and it certainly hasn't been for either of them. This kid won’t be allowed to be a child for as long as he should be. She wasn’t. She does her best to balance teaching him how to survive while still allowing him to be young and immature.
She often wonders what it was like to have a family and raise children before the world was lost. What was there to worry about? Kids could play freely in yards without the possibility that a diseased would get them. They could go to school and learn, they slept in beds, and watched that Television thing her mother told her about.
She doesn’t even know what Television is, not really. The concept seems so arbitrary to her. Watching people play pretend on a screen? Why? She supposes it’s like books that you can see. She does enjoy reading, but ever since she’s had Mikey there hasn’t been time for her to let her guard down long enough to read anything.
“Come on, it’ll be dusk soon. Let’s hope the excitement for the day is over.” she says with a grin.
She takes his hand and rises back upright. The two wanders exit the small-clearing-turned-impromptu-battlefield without a second glace back. This world is chaos and terrifying every second, but at least they’re alive. So, there’s that.
CHAPTER TWO
Kylie Lincoln sits on the chair in her living room watching her toddler, Patrick, play. His yellow Tonka truck firmly gripped in one hand and a random Lego in the other. The two year old is happy and free. “Oh, to be a child again.” Kylie thinks, a loving smile upon her face, watching the product of her and Markus’ love.
There’s nothing in the world she cares for more than her family, but a part of her does long for the days when bills and responsibilities were unfathomable. For the times when her biggest worries were plans for the weekend.
She does not regret the life she lives now, but she does wonder what could’ve been. She is young, only twenty-two, and already started a family. Sure, back in the fifties this was the norm, but it’s not the fifties. All of her friends go out every weekend and party, they travel, and they act young. Maybe she could travel, but time off work for her and her husband, and all the arrangements to take a toddler, and all the planning, and, it’s just too much. It would be nice, but she’s realistic. At least, that’s what she tells herself.
A loud creaking of wood precedes the living room door bursting open, startling her from her seat on the couch. Her hands flail frantically for a moment, the act catching her off guard. Her husband, Markus, rushes into their living room. His shirt is ripped, his hair is tangled and knotted, and he is shaking. Her brow furrows, “Is Markus hurt?” she thinks, but in her startled state no words leave her mouth.
He paces back and forth in the living room, his breathing heavy and deep, the front door hanging wide open. His mouth is moving, but only quick bursts of hot breath are purging forth. Her hands come up to her face and clasp, and her nose rests against them. Her eyes widen, her heart races.
“Markus, what’s going on?” she’s finally able to ask.
Her words snap him back to the present, back from wherever his mind has been wondering. He rambles anxiously, his voice trembles. There is no coherence to his words. After a short moment he takes a breath, trembling more on the exhale.
“Markus!” she exclaims, rising from her seat.
His gaze sways from the floor to her direction, not to her face, but to the wall beside her. His eyes are bloodshot, and his face is flushed and worn.
His head rocks side to side, “It’s here, it’s here.” his words are soft, barely more than a whisper.
She can feel the dread seeping from him, it’s palpable, it fills the air. She shifts uncomfortably, her feet move closer together, her bottom lip curls under.
“We have to get out of here right now!” he mutters, his voice breaking.
“What-what’s going on?”
“It’s here, it’s” -his breathe escapes him for a moment, he sucks in air sharply, again, and continues- “it’s everywhere. They didn’t, they didn’t even warn us, it’s just here.”
“Markus, focus, what’s here? And what happened to your shirt?”
For a moment Markus stares at the wall, at nothing, at an abyss, His gaze cold and filled with worry and his face without pigment, leaving one to wonder if he were visited by a specter. He crumbles down onto the couch, his hands run through his hair, brushing the same spots two, three times, before finally resting on his damp cheeks. His breathing has slowed, but his shaking has only continued to increase. He speaks again, his tone somber and despondent.
“It’s fucking insane out there. We have to get far away from the city.”
Flushed pale, with her chest pounding and her own breathing intensifying, Kyle picks up their son and moves to the center of the living room.
“Baby, you’re scaring me. Calm down and explain what's going on!”
For the first time since he came home he looks her in her eyes, a striking void residing beyond his gaze. His mouth opens but words fail him. Tears gloss his o
cular corners, his face has become red and puffy. Composure returns to him for a moment, but his voice quakes with disbelief.
“The virus, they-they lied. It’s not getting,” -he stifles a lump in his throat, grunting softly- “uh, it’s everywhere now. It was all over social media, my phone was blown up about it. Just two days ago they said it was calming, that they were controlling the spread, but they’re not, they lied. I would’ve called but, your phone...”
She grimaces remembering the clumsy manner in which she dropped her phone in the bathtub last night, while trying to select a song to listen to when giving Patrick a bath. They were going to have it fixed this coming weekend on Markus’ next day off.
“It’s rampant everywhere. Every state, small towns, all the major cities. New York, Chicago, Vegas, L.A., Miami...”
She knows the next city. She doesn’t want to hear it, but she knows it’s coming. Her stomach twists and turns, a devious sense of despair running through her gut. Markus fights back tears, but as soon as the word leaves his mouth they stream like a waterfall.
“Nashville.” he says through rumbling vocal cords.
Her knees buckle. She grabs the playpen for support. Nashville is twenty minutes away. Through his sobs Markus recounts what happened to him.
“I had just left work. I was sitting in the car reading the updates until I realized they were all from earlier in the day. Nothing new had been posted anywhere in hours. All the updates said people everywhere were going crazy. There were videos of people hurting each other, pictures of mobs of people attacking others, videos of kids...”
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