If it were up to her, she’d check out the sound herself, but her mother and father had made her swear that she wouldn’t leave the room without at least one of them. She was allowed to use the connected master bathroom, but that was it.
Apparently, she was ‘too important,’
Why, she didn’t know, but she figured it had something to do with the long scars on her stomach, scars caused by the crazed man who’d jumped out from the bushes near the small gas station they’d stopped at, taking her to the ground and mauling her before her father shot him in the head.
When she hadn’t turned into one of those ‘things,’ they’d rejoiced.
Then they heard the radio message.
Now, after two days of traveling, the Oklahoma City Protective Zone was only forty miles away.
They’d be there tomorrow.
Lying there awake again, Tamara reminded herself of the near proximity of safety and security.
They’d be there soon.
Her Father had promised her they’d be safe.
Tamara Elliott turned over onto her opposite side and pulled her teddy bear even closer to her chest, lowering her nose to the stuffed animal and breathing in the familiar scents that allowed her to block out the unusual environment around her.
Within minutes, she was fast asleep.
Downstairs, the raccoon sat back on its haunches and breathed heavily. It was completely sated, and it enjoyed the unusual feeling of the emotion.
Half-drunk on the feeling of being truly full, the raccoon awkwardly jumped down from the dining table and approached the counter. Realizing its full belly would prevent it from making the jump to the kitchen counter, the raccoon turned and looked back towards the open windows in the living room.
Each was lower and easily more attainable.
Waddling over to the edge of the small recliner near the closest window, the raccoon crouched and gathered its strength before using all of it to jump up onto the seat of the chair.
Climbing onto the arm of the chair, the raccoon made its way from there onto the small end table next to the chair, then from the table and onto the windowsill.
As the creature’s plump hindquarters navigated the small surface of the end table, it knocked over one of the citronella candles, sending it to the floor.
Within seconds, the flames licked the edges of the old, chantilly lace drapes.
Within minutes, the entire living room was engulfed in flames, including the stairway that led to the home’s upper level.
By the time the Elliott family awoke, it was too late.
CHAPTER NINE
Providence, Rhode Island
“Damn, I’m high,” Timothy said, leaning his head back against the couch. He blew a huge cloud of smoke into the air, then watched it slowly dissipate as his mind wandered yet again, pondering random thoughts.
What if ice cream wasn’t just sweet? Like buffalo wing flavored?
Nah, that’s gross.
But what if you could like, dip buffalo wings in something better than ranch or blue cheese dressing.
Like melted cheese…
“Bro, you won’t believe this shit,” the young man began, turning to look at Parker, his longtime friend.
But of course, sitting there with white, pasty drool dried around his mouth and on his chin, there was no way the man would respond.
Parker was gone.
The day before, he’d raced back from the liquor store to his apartment, bursting into the small rental he shared with his longtime friend. He was clutching his arm as he tried to stem the flow of blood from the wound he’d suffered back at Rosie’s Liquor Store. Rosie, the Asian woman who’d owned the store for as long as he’d lived in the area (more than fifteen years when you included his childhood in the home three miles away from where he lived now), had attacked him, leaping over the counter with an ease that was impossible for a sixty-plus year old woman. Catching him by surprise, he’d barely had time to bring his arms up before she’d knocked him straight backwards, into the potato chip rack that tempted him each and every time he stopped by to pick up a six pack of Sam Adams. Chip bags popped underneath their combined weight as they knocked it to the floor, sending the contents of several bags into the air in a weird shower of deliciousness.
Her fingers dug into his forearm as she lunged forward, trying to bite his face. He recoiled, smacking his head against another bag of chips and popping it open. Pain exploded in his arm as her nails dug into his flesh, ripping into him.
“Ahhh!”
As he pushed his left arm out in an effort to keep her snapping teeth away from his face, he looked to his right. The six-pack of bottled beer he’d been holding lay there in a puddle of beer and broken glass. Resting atop one of the ‘fun size’ bags of chips was a bottle that hadn’t broken in the fall.
Reaching out, he grabbed it by the neck and slammed it into the side of Rosie’s head. The bottle exploded, showering him with beer and shards of glass.
Stunned, the old Asian women fell to the side, letting him slip out from under her. Scrambling, he tried to crawl away from her, only to feel her hands latch onto his right leg. As he felt her nails trying to claw into him through the denim fabric, he was really glad he’d decided to throw on a pair of jeans instead of his usual cargo shorts before leaving the apartment.
His eyes bulged in his head as he looked around for someone or something to help. Instead, they found the bloodied corpse of Rosie’s husband, John, staring back at him through the small gap at the bottom of the swinging door that had been cut into the counter.
‘Oh God,’ he thought, his mind filling with despair.
The woman screamed loudly, emitting a bloodthirsty yell as she pulled at his legs, trying to bring him back to where she was. He fought against her, but somehow the much smaller woman was too strong.
What the hell was happening?
He spun over and kicked at her, his heel striking under her chin, snapping her head backwards. She shook her head, ignoring the stress her neck had just endured, then lunged forward, bringing her open mouth towards his crotch.
Realizing he still held the neck of the broken bottle in his hand, he lashed out with it, striking the woman in the side of the neck. The sharp edges of the glass sunk into the meat of her neck as the force of the blow knocked her sideways. Two inches of glass disappeared into her, severing the carotid artery and tearing open her windpipe. Blood gushed forth as she fell away, collapsing to the floor as her snarling became garbled, choking sounds. Some of the blood poured through the mouth of the bottle like some weird, macabre tap.
Timothy pushed her limp form off him, got up, and ran from the store.
A block away, he began to panic. He’d killed Rosie. The police would find out for sure. All they had to do was watch the security camera footage from Rosie’s store and they’d see him, Timothy Michael Samuelson, kill Rosie with a broken beer bottle.
What would he do? What would he say?
They’d have to acknowledge the fact that she’d attack him, wouldn’t they?
The throbbing in his arm pushed the thoughts out of his mind as he ran home, suddenly noticing how empty the streets were. Had they been that way when he’d left his apartment? They’d had to have been, right? There was no way everyone could have just disappeared in the five minutes he’d been inside Rosie’s Liquor Store.
Crashing through the door, he realized he was yelling, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” and he had no idea when he’d started yelling.
He slammed the door closed, then leaned his head against the wall as he held his bleeding arm.
“Didja get the beer, dude?” Parker called out from the big leather couch that he frequently occupied half of.
“Uh, no,” he replied weakly, not knowing what else to say.
He heard the shooting sounds of Call of Duty cut out suddenly as his friend paused the game. “Dude, why not? Were they outta Sam? You coulda got some, like, Heineken or something,” he said, turning to
look in Timothy’s direction. His mouth fell open as his eyes registered the blood flowing from his friend’s arm. “What the?”
“She attacked me, bro!”
“What? Who?”
“Rosie, man!”
“Rosie? Little old Rosie?”
“Yes, dammit! Now get over here and help me, man!”
“Alright, alright,” Parker said, rushing from the living room into the kitchen, where he grabbed two towels. He was in the process of wetting one when Timothy entered the kitchen. “Here, dude,” he said, offering him the wet towel. “Wipe it clean, then we’ll wrap it in this,” he held up the dry towel. “I watched, like, Bear Gryllis a few nights ago. I think this is what he did after he fought a grizzly bear or something.”
“He didn’t fight a grizzly bear, dude,” Timothy said, accepting the towel from his friend.
“You sure? I thought you were asleep, man.”
“I don’t have to see it to know that he didn’t fight a grizzly, dude. Nobody fights a fucking grizzly and lives, and if a grizzly did attack him, I don’t think the cameraman would have just stayed there and kept recording.” Timothy replied, using the wet towel to wipe away the blood.
“Damn, I must have been really high,” Parker conceded.
Timothy studied the long grooves in the muscles of his forearm.
“Shit,” he said.
“It’s alright, man. Now we just wrap it tight with this,” Parker said, moving forward. He wrapped Timothy’s arm in the towel, fixing it in place with the help of some of the newspaper rubber bands they used to shoot at each other when they were bored. (They didn’t subscribe to the newspaper, they just took the rubber bands off the neighbor’s paper whenever they saw it on the man’s doorstep.)
“So what exactly happened?” he asked.
Timothy told him the whole story, including the part where he saw John dead behind the counter, and finishing with him slicing open Rosie’s neck.
“Dude…” his friend said in response, shaking his head in disbelief. “What the hell is going on?”
Looking towards the living room, Timothy’s eyes fixed on the television. “Did you pay the cable bill this month?”
“Yeah, dude, why?”
“What if we, like, watch the news?”
“Yeah, dude, great idea.”
Every channel seemed to be covering the outbreak of the Rage Virus. After fifteen minutes, they’d seen and heard enough. Turning the television off, they sat there in stunned silence as their drug-addled minds tried to comprehend what they’d just heard.
Noticing that his friend had remained motionless for several long seconds, Timothy’s eyes looked up at Parker’s. They were fixated on the makeshift bandages applied to his arm.
“I - ”
“Are you gonna turn into one of those things?”
“I don’t think so? I mean, I feel fine.”
“But what if it takes a little while?”
“I don’t know,” Timothy relented, looking away.
“What should I do?” Parker asked after nearly a minute of silence.
“I don’t know,” he repeated, shaking his head. He didn’t want to die, but he also didn’t want to hurt his friend, who’d been like a brother to him.
“I know,” Parker said, rising to his feet. “I’ll get something to defend myself with, and if you start acting all crazy, then I can, you know, deal with it.”
Barely listening, Timothy nodded as his friend got up and went back to the kitchen.
He returned a few seconds later with the biggest kitchen knife they owned. Smiling in satisfaction at having solved the dilemma, he said, “See? Now we can hang out and try to get our minds off of this shit.”
Timothy smiled. His friend was the perpetual optimist. “Okay,” he said, nodding.
“Woah. Hold on, dude.”
“What’s up?”
Standing yet again, Parker said, “Stay right there. I’ll be right back,” as he dashed into his bedroom. The sound dresser drawers being flung open, then slammed shut, came from the bedroom. After the fourth one was opened, Timothy heard his friend exclaim, “There you are!”
When he returned to the living room, a big grin covered his face.
“What do you have in mind?” Timothy asked.
“Just this, bro,” his hands opened, revealing a syringe and a baggie filled with Heroin.
“Dude.... I don’t know, man.”
“Come on, bro,” Parker said emphatically. “Like seriously, man, what have you got to lose?”
Timothy thought about this for a second. He’d never tried Heroin, but his friend did make a good point. What did he have to lose? There was a chance he’d die from the virus anyway, turning into one of those...things before Parker carved him up with the kitchen knife.
“Well…” he began, still not convinced.
“Tell you what man, I’ll pass on this round.”
“What?”
“I mean, I’m already, like, watching you anyway to make sure you don’t turn into one of those, like zombies, man, so it’s probably better if I take it easy, maybe smoke a little bud and chill. You try this, and I’ll be here to take care of you if you need anything.”
Timothy thought about it a few more seconds, then nodded. Parker was a good friend, someone who’d always looked out for him. He’d been asking him to try smack for years, and you know what? This was the time that made the most sense. Things were crazy as shit right now. He’d been attacked by Rosie, killed her, and now he was literally waiting to see if he’d turn into some weird zombie thing. The streets of downtown Providence were empty, which was insane in itself, and people everywhere were turning into monsters and killing each other.
“Fuck it, man, I’ll do it,” he said, nodding.
“Alright, man!”
When the heroin entered his bloodstream it was instantaneous ecstasy. He swore his soul floated away from his body, taking his consciousness with him as it rose above him, pausing momentarily before continuing its journey upward, into the clouds and ultimately Heaven. His muscles completed relaxed, loosening as even the simplest of stresses left him. (He never realized that he peed himself when his bladder let go, soaking the cushion of the recliner he sat in as he drifted away, and Parker chose not to tell him, choosing instead to revel in the fact that he’d finally introduced his friend to the wonderful world of heroin. Now they’d be able to enjoy it together...)
Twelve hours later, Timothy descended from the heavens, his journey slowly coming to an end as his mind recovered. He’d been literally everywhere, seeing the most incredible things and enjoying the company of the most beautiful women (let’s not talk about the mess he made during that part). When his consciousness returned, he was surprised to find himself still in his chair, seated across from where Parker now slumbered on the couch.
Rising to his feet on unsteady legs, he made his way to the kitchen, where he drank two glasses of tap water in long, thirsty drinks.
Looking at the towel on his arm, he decided to check on the wound. Peeling the cloth away, he winced as some of the fibers that were stuck in the dried blood surrounding the wound were ripped away.
The scratches appeared to be healing.
And he felt fine.
“Dude, your arm looks okay,” Parker said, walking into the kitchen.
“Yeah, dude, I feel pretty good, too.”
“Do you think the drugs helped?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Maybe?”
When Parker was attacked by the mailman, they tried the same approach.
“Don’t worry, man, I know what to do.”
“What?”
“This, man.” Timothy held up the syringe and the bag of heroin. “It’s like, the reason I didn’t turn into one, man.”
Parker’s bruised mouth curled into a smile. “Cool…”
“Yeah, man. Now just rest for a minute and I’ll take care of you.”
“Okay...” He closed his eyes.
Remembering how his friend had done it, Timothy quickly heated the drug, then filled the syringe with the liquid. Setting the spoon aside, he held the syringe upright, depressing the plunger as he expelled the air. Looking back at the spoon, he saw there was still more there. ‘Maybe a little more, just to be sure.’
A little more turned out to be too much.
Parker died while Timothy was in the shower, washing away the blood and filth that had accumulated on his body over the last two days.
When he returned to the living room to find his friend’s body, he’d shook the man violently, calling out his name as he tried to wake him. When it became clear that he wasn’t coming back, Timothy broke down in tears, falling to the floor as grief overwhelmed him.
“I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry,” he said over and over, as he cried, rocking himself back and forth on the cheap, stained carpet.
After some time, he got up and stumbled to the kitchen, where he chugged the last two beers in the fridge. The buzz helped dull the pain a bit, so he returned to the couch and lit up a joint.
Turning the TV back on, he watched the devastation that was taking place throughout the country, smoking more and more marijuana as he eventually became numb to the scenes of death and destruction.
At some point the picture went away completely and grey static filled the screen.
He didn’t care. It was just noise, anyway.
“I miss you, bro,” he said to his friend, his words barely audible over the white noise emanating from the television. The weed was helping with the sorrow, as it allowed him to drift away into the memories they’d made over the fifteen years of friendship they’d shared, but it did little to block out the guilt he felt.
Surviving Rage | Book 3 Page 6
