by Jeannie Rae
The Sickness: Monte’s Story
By Jeannie Rae
Published by Cursed Pen Publishing
[email protected], www.cursedpen.com
Copyright © 2012 by Jeannie Rae. All rights reserved.
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ISBN 978-1-3013-5694-2
Title Page art work by Jeannie Rae © 2012 Jeannie Rae
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For my beasts- Sissy, Coco & Ginger. –JR
Table of Contents
AWAKENING
THE SHOWDOWN
DISCOVERY
STONE-HEARTED
MS. ANDREWS
SAFE HOME
DOWNTOWN
WAKE UP
IN HIDING
HANDS UP
DISPLACED
THE SCHOOL BUS
FEAR
THE SHELTER
DESERTED
BLUE FALLS
FREEDOM
THE SICKNESS
STILL HUNGRY?
AWAKENING
Sluggishly opening my eyes, I can feel the light and warmth of the sun peeking through the slight opening in my drapes. The window in my minuscule room faces the rising summer sun, if I’m not up by eight, that ball of fire cooks me until I get up. My skin is tacky with sweat, already. There’s nothing I hate more than being penny-saver poor and living on the south side of town. It’s not safe to leave my window open at night—or even at day for that matter. A swamp cooler hangs out of our living room window—the only source cool air in this place, which Dad refuses to turn on until dusk and only for an hour on days when it’s hot as hell.
My name is Monte. I’m sixteen and on the all-girls softball team at Druid High School, in the small coastal town of Port Steward and work part-time at the Taco Shell Taqueria around the corner. All that keeps me going in this miserable existence is playing ball and the thought of getting out of this rotten place.
Rising from my second-hand mattress on the floor, I’m fully clothed in yesterday’s outfit. After a quick change into a pair of blue jeans and a faded blue tee, I stumble my way to the door. Jerking the hair tie from my wrist, I yank up my knotted, blonde hair into a side pony tail. I steal a glance over my shoulder at my room, it’s a sty—but who cares. It’s not like there’s anything remarkable about this second-rate place, so why should my room be any different?
As I shuffle down the hall, the house feels humid and sticky as usual, with almost a wet smell of nicotine. Mom and Dad both smoke enough cigarettes in a day, to penetrate a hole in the ozone layer. They do most of their smoking inside, which leaves behind a smoke so concentrated that it’s nearly a solid. The house is quieter than normal for a Saturday morning. Ordinarily, Mom is in the kitchen fixing breakfast, while Dad is reading the newspaper. And my ten-year-old brother—Sammy, is usually causing trouble, with Dad always hollering at him. Hollering, that’s Dad’s word. Maybe Sammy’s already outside playing. I tiptoe through our empty living room eyeing the primordial, mismatching couch and recliner. There’s no carpeting in this old shack—only ancient wood flooring that may have been used from the same lumber that made George Washington’s teeth. A couple of holes in the rotting, wood floor are located in the bathroom and kitchen—no step zones—as Dad calls them. Moving into the kitchen, I see that our small, discolored table and plastic chairs are empty, as is the rest of the tiny space.
Where is everyone?
After searching the rest of the house and finding it void of all but me, I wonder, do I want to find them? Or should I just take in a moment of peace? Against my better judgment, I head out the back door off the kitchen. The sun hasn’t found its way to the backyard yet, as the house shades most of the patio at this early hour. A gust of cool air hits me when I open the back door, it must be at least fifteen degrees cooler out here, than it is in the house. As I soundlessly step out onto the porch, I see Sammy first, sitting on the ground with his back to me. My kid brother is hunching over like an old man, and his head is hanging low, snaking back and forth. He’s tracing his hands in a circle on the sidewalk in a blob of goo. It looks like motor oil or something. Dad’s going kill him for this one.
My eyes widen as I notice my mother near the shed. Her shoulders are slumping forward and she’s shuffling through the garden, toppling over her marigolds and daisies. She’s still in her nightgown and slippers. And the front of her gown is caked in dark-colored gunk. It looks similar to the stuff Sammy is playing in.
I sigh, shaking my head. Dad must have tuned her up again. Damn! I didn’t even wake up. I want to say something across the yard to her as she dirties the cotton on her slippers, while trudging through the dirt, but what would I say? This whole production plays out at my house at least three times a week for as far back as I can remember.
I hate him so much. His reign of terror over our family has gone on long enough. I’m so tired of taking his crap, and watching his drunk-ass smack everybody around. I wish he would fall off the planet. I hate this whole place—I want to get my license and a cheap car and put this place in my rearview mirror and never look back.
I keep my silence, waiting for either my mom or my brother to notice me, before I take a seat on the back porch steps. I watch Sammy play in his greasy mess and my mom roam around trampling her garden—in her nightgown—like a psyche ward patient. Her eyes are fixed downward, as her head bobs back and forth. She must be running the whole fight back through her mind. It’s moments like this that I lose patience with her. Why couldn’t she have walked away from my creep dad a long time ago, at least for the sake of Sammy and me? But then, I remember where my frustration should be placed.
I’m waiting for that bastard that goes by the name of Dad. I can’t believe that I didn’t hear him beating on her again. Where is he anyway?
As though my thought had been heard, my dad comes stumbling out of the darkness shaded from within the shed. Drunk already? It’s like eight in the morning. He stumbles his way out of the shed and takes a face-plant right on the sidewalk. My brother gets up and wobbles his way over on unsteady legs, almost looking like he's sloshed too. Mom stumbles toward the shed as well. As Dad gets back to his feet, blood is pouring from his mouth as he spits out a broken tooth. Disgusting, but deserved. The blood all over his face and chin is dark, almost black looking. The fluid dribbles down his throat and drips off his chin onto his dingy, sleeveless shirt. I watch as Sammy and Mom bypass Dad. Both going into the shed, as if they hadn’t even noticed the drunken king of the house just knocked out a tooth. As Dad slowly raises his eyes, I notice that he looks terrible. Not even regular drunken stupor terrible, but like—seriously ill. Like—knocking on death’s door—ill. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.
His blackened eyes fall upon me like an inescapable fishing net. I’m nearly paralyzed with fear as the look on his face could be described as nothing less than murderous. Breaking into an inhumanly quick run, he sprints straight for me.
I jump up from the porch
step and race into the house, flinging the spring-loaded door open and dashing through the kitchen and down the hall. I’m nearly to my parent’s bedroom, when I hear the back door slam shut. I burst into my parents room like I’m running for my life, and to be honest, I probably am. Brushing past their double bed, I race into the closet and pull down the old, black shoe box that holds Dad’s revolver.
With terror in my heart, my trembling hands drop the box. The bullets fall all over the closet floor, inside shoes, in the laundry pile—all over. I find two bullets and with a shaky hand, load the chamber. My entire body tremors as if an earthquake had been triggered in my body alone. I know I have to make my shots count. If I don’t kill him, he will definitely kill me for trying, and he won’t need a gun to do it. I back myself deeper into closet with the gun pointed at the doorway.
THE SHOWDOWN
Waiting for the showdown with my Dad, feels like an eternity. My heart is pounding so hard that it could burst right here, while hiding in his sweltering, musty closet. I feel sweat trickling down my temples and brow—my parents' room is like a sauna. The only sounds I hear are from my hammering heart and shallow breathing. On a shaky foot, I step forward, inching my way to the closet doorway. I squeeze the revolver tighter in my hands and poke my head gradually out of the doorframe, but he is not in the bedroom.
Tactfully stepping out of the closet, I sneak my way to the bedroom door. It’s closed, but not locked. I must have flung it shut when I raced in here. Listening at the door, I hear nothing. Maybe he’s still outside?
I slide to the wall beside the door and lean up against it, letting my arms relax at my side. My brain is on overload, trying to figure out this situation. Without yelling at me or anything, he just came after me—like he’d been waiting for me to come into the backyard. And he looks so sick. I’ve never seen anyone alive, who looked so…dead.
I notice the window near the bed that leads to the backyard. Making my way over, I pull back the curtain and see Mom and Sammy on the back steps. They are trying to get into the house, but neither of them have their hands anywhere near the door knob. Clawing and biting at the door, their faces are encrusted with the oily mess that Sammy was playing with on the ground. As my eyes drift downward at their clothes, the oily sludge is
all over them and changes color from a dark, tarlike hue to a reddish one.
Oh god…it’s blood!
My eyes move to the pool of gunk Sammy had been rubbing his hands in. As the emerging sun over the neighbor’s roof reflects on the sidewalk, the fluid has a red tint to it. It is blood.
What’s wrong with all of them? Why do they have blood all over their faces and clothes?
“What the hell is going on?” I say aloud.
Thundering knocks and punts coming from outside the bedroom door fill my heart with fear. I flinch so hard, I feel my knees weaken. The frightful sounds rock the door back and forth with such force that it looks as if the door is made of liquid. I can hear the cheap wood giving way with each powerful whack to it. My dad’s hands and head bust through the hollow-cored door.
I sidestep away from the window, falling over the bed. Dad charges through the half broken door toward me with fury and a speed like I’ve never seen. I spring from the bed and fire the first shot. The bullet takes flight from the barrel and strikes him in the left shoulder. He barely reacts, only a slight jolt in the shoulder area, then he stumbles over the bed.
His mouth hangs open, caked in his darkened blood. A black tongue and decayed-looking teeth fill his mouth. His skin is paler than usual and black veins web his face and arms. The whites of his eyes are filled with black nothingness. I do not know this creature standing before me, wearing my dad's body.
I move around the foot of the bed trying to get a good target on his chest but he’s moving too fast. My dad charges toward me, and in that moment, I find my shot. With a steady breath, I aim and pull the trigger. The bullet smashes into the left side of his chest, but it has little effect on this monster. He tackles me to the ground. His teeth look and stink as if they are rotting chicken as he repeatedly snaps his gnarly mouth near my face. I try to push him off me, and that’s when he sinks his nasty teeth into my wrist, right down to the bone.
DISCOVERY
The searing pain from the bite on my wrist, caused by my dad’s disgusting teeth, is far worse than any other pain he has inflicted upon me over the years. What’s worse—is that his mouth still is latched onto my wrist like a leech to flesh. He holds my wrist in his mouth, digging his repulsive teeth deeper into my skin and tissue.
“Get off!” I scream, extending my free hand for the gun that I dropped when he tackled me.
Dad is straddling my torso, snarling as blood drools from his lips onto my shirt. The gun is just out of my reach. Stretching my arm as far as I can, my fingertips stroke the cold, metal tip of the revolver. He yanks his head back, and I can feel my flesh on my wrist beginning to tear. I clutch the barrel of the gun and whack the handle at his face. Smacking at his nose and eyes as hard as I can, I feel like my life is at stake. He finally releases his bite, seeming slightly distracted by the blows to his face.
I seize the opportunity to buck him off me and scramble to my feet. Racing into my room, with him following right behind, I run inside and around my bed. I knock down my radio, laundry pile and art supplies in his path, and then rush back toward the door. His legs get tangled in the radio chord and he is tripped up by about five soda cans and other crap all over my floor. He tumbles hard to the ground. Sprinting out of the room, I shut the door and back away from it. I hold my breath and listen, but he’s not trying get out. Muffled noises resonate from within my room, but it doesn’t sound like Dad is anywhere near the door.
I look down at my injured wrist. It burns with a painful fiery sensation like I’ve never felt before. I feel like he bit my wrist and poured hot lava into my bloodstream. The stinging pain throbs at the site of the injury, and climbs up my arm, past my elbow.
I tiptoe back into my parents’ room and look out the water-stained window again. Mom and Sammy are still gnawing at the door like vengeful puppies left in the yard alone. I don’t understand why they don’t grab the doorknob and open it. It’s like they forgot how to open the door. Their skin is pale with black veins all over, like Dad’s. And why do they all have black-colored eyes?
While I try to grasp what could be wrong with them all, I can’t believe that Dad took two bullets and didn’t even feel it. Finally, after all this time, I drew up the courage to put a bullet—make that two—into the king of mean and it didn’t even slow him down. I can hear Dad starting to growl and pound on the walls in my room. I should be as quiet as I can. Don’t want to catch his attention again.
While looking out the window, I notice something on Sammy’s neck. Right in the front of his throat, is a gash. A gaping hole in his neck, as if a chunk of his neck is gone. It’s hard to see it clearly amidst the blood coated on his throat. I scan my mom, but her neck is intact, and so are her arms. I notice her left slipper is doused in blood, while the right one is only dirty. I watch as she shuffles near the door. Bending down, she brings her face near the doorknob and her nightgown lifts just enough for me to see, what looks like, a bite mark on her ankle.
It hits me in the face like a backhand from Dad. They all have some gross sickness. Mom and Sammy both have bites. I don’t know if Dad has one, but he bit me. He has slapped me, thrown stuff at me, and whipped me with the belt, but he’s never tried to bite me before. And normally, he’s yelling at me, teaching me, what I did wrong—when he’s kicking the crap out of me. But this time, when he came after me, he didn’t say a word. It has to be a sickness that has changed them into blood-thirsty monsters.
The sickness is what’s wrong with them. And now, I’m pretty sure, I’m going to get sick too. Looking down at my wrist, I can’t help but cry. This whole situation sucks—big time. And even though my family isn’t exactly the Brady’s, they’re still my family. What am I supp
osed to do now?
STONE-HEARTED
With heat drifting from every pore on my skin, I feel as though fire is coursing through my veins. The venom is making its way from the wound into my bloodstream, saturating the muscle and flooding my arteries, as though it’s a snakebite. Looking at the nasty wound, it’s a bite, but not from a snake. I wish. The bite on my outer wrist has been made by something much more sinister than a snake—by someone who was supposed take care of me, my dear, ole-dad. Even so, it has been a long time since I’ve been Daddy’s little girl.
Having deep grooves in the exposed tissue, the teeth marks are set deep beneath the surface of my skin. The flesh surrounding the gash is tomato red, feeling hot to the touch. The broken skin appears as if it is charring before my eyes.
I pull back the drapes in the living room window to peek out at the front yard. The chaotic scene of people scrambling in yards and in the street is disappointing, but not surprising. After discovering that my entire family had the sickness, I’d only hoped that it wasn’t part of a bigger problem.
The pounding is becoming nearly unbearable. After fiendishly fighting off my dad, I had managed to lock him in my bedroom. He was quiet at first, but I think he can hear me walking on this old, creaky, wood flooring.
Thrashing and pounding on the walls, he growls and bays as though he is calling for help in his new tongue.
I head into the laundry room, off the kitchen and snatch a dirty rag off the top of the laundry basket, near the dryer. I wrap it around my wrist securing it with the tightest knot I can tie—using my good hand and teeth. The grime on the dirty rag is no bother to me at this point. A sickness much more powerful than whatever bacteria or filth is on the rag—is already ravaging my body. Pulling a folded, black hoodie from atop the dryer, I slide it over my head, concealing the wounded wrist beneath, and then I head back into the living room.
