The Girl who Shot First: The Death Fields

by Angel Lawson

  “I never knew walking so much would be this tiring,” I say.

  Mom nods. “I never knew the benefit of a good pair of shoes. I’m really thankful you got these for me. Otherwise, I would have never been able to keep up.”

  I don’t mention where I got them and that the owner of the shoes is dead. We open our backpacks and pull out some food. “Carbs or protein?” I ask holding up the plastic sheathed noodles in one hand and a can of tuna in the other.

  “Do we have any crackers left?”

  “A couple. I ate most of them at breakfast.”

  “Let’s have carbs and protein then,” she suggests.

  “Good idea.” I agree knowing it’s a terrible idea. We need to ration everything we’ve got.

  I set a tea candle on the top of one of the cans. I found a pack of them during our last stop. It hasn’t been long enough for pre-event supplies to have run dry but you can only carry so much. These candles may not last very long but they’re lightweight and easy to shove into pockets.

  In the hazy candlelight, I see my mother clearly. She turned fifty last fall and we had a huge party with all her friends. My sister Jane came up from school and even Dad stopped the work talk for the night. I remember thinking then how young she looked—dark, barely graying hair. She had it styled just under her ears but now it is longer and she ties it at the back of her neck with a band. It’s not like going to the salon has been an option lately. Mom’s eyes are deep brown and they pop even more when she wears makeup. She’s always been a flake—smart but flaky. Loves to live in the world of books and movies more than the realities of the world.

  Silently we divide the food between us, ignoring the ghosts around the table. Dad should be here and we should be splitting this food three ways.. Now the crackers and meat go further, filling our bellies just a little bit more than they would have two weeks ago.

  Even prolonged, dinner only takes a few minutes. Cleanup takes even less. Mom rolls out her sleeping bag while I check and re-check our packs. Eight cans of food between us, six packaged meals, a couple of snacks—including four candy bars. Two pocket knives, a pistol, and a small assortment of clothes—mostly socks and underwear. It’s all here. Everything we own. The small photo album Mom stashed away when we left. My diary and favorite book. The ring my parents gave me nine months ago on my eighteenth birthday. It was also the same day I got into Duke.

  I sort them carefully, a little into each backpack. Making sure it’s even for weight or if one of us is separated from the other. We made this mistake with Paul, allowing him to carry the heavier supplies. That mistake is the reason I wear the small pouch my father gave me under my shirt. I never take it off. I never will.

  Between us we had three canteens. I offered my mom the remaining swig and stood up, dusting the hay and dirt from my behind. “Heading out to see if I can find water. There’s a small house on the other side of the barn. I bet the outside faucet still works.”

  “Now? Shouldn’t you wait until morning?” Mom asks rubbing her fingers on the sides of her ankle. I may need to find something to wrap it with.

  “I’m not that tired,” I tell her. The silence unnerves me. I’m used to the city not the country and things here have a deeper sense of stillness. Moving around makes it a little better—or at least that’s what I tell myself.

  “I’ll go with you, let me just put on my shoes.”

  “I can go faster without you—and I want you to rest that ankle.” Her concern is obvious but bringing her along will take too long. “Do you have your knife? The gun?”

  “If you hear or see anything, come right back,” she warns.

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m your mother—when am I not going to worry?”

  “Your weapons?” I ask again.

  “Right here.” She rests her hand on the weapons close by her side. She’s used them before. I have no doubt she can take care of herself if she has to. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Chapter Six

  ~Before~

  3 Months Ago

  “Don’t forget your—”

  “Lollipop. I know. Blood sugar. I’ve got it, LabGuy.”

  “LabGuy?” Small lines crinkle by his eyes and I know I earned a smile underneath that blue mask.

  I blink. “Well, you won’t tell me your name.”

  “So.”

  “So, everyone needs a name and since you won’t give me yours I’ve been calling you LabGuy.”

  “Cute.”

  “It’s not cute. It’s convenient.” He raises an eyebrow. I can see those too. They’re dark, in contrast to his fair eyes. Between the eyes and the eyebrow and the crease mark between his nose, my crush has reached epic levels. “Like, when I mention you to my friend Liza.”

  He laughs. “You’ve mentioned me to your friend Liza?”

  “My best friend Liza.”

  “And why are you talking about me?” He arranges the tubes of blood in the little holder. I notice each one has a name on it and some numbers. Alexandra R. #1348 +.

  “What’s the number and plus sign for?”

  He shrugs. I glare at him, waiting for an answer. This may be the longest conversation we’ve ever had. Wait until I tell Liza.

  “You have to know something.”

  He shrugs again but also says, “Whatever I know I can’t tell you. You know that. You signed the contract.”

  “What contract?” I asked. “My dad totally suckered me into this experiment.”

  The crease between his eyes deepens but he still doesn’t say anything. So I laid my cards on the table. “You know Dr. Ramsey is my dad, right? He’s basically your boss. Why don’t you just tell me what all these numbers and symbols stand for and we’ll meet again next week?”

  “You could ask your dad.”

  Ah. Well, he’s right. I could. It would get me nowhere. Not just because it’s all top secrety-secret, but also because he’s been working 24/7 over the last month and the only time I see him is when he reminds me to come to these appointments or when I’m at these appointments.

  “He’s really busy.”

  LabGuy nodded. “He is.”

  “Sooo….”

  “I can’t tell you anything, Alexandra, but trust me when I say your dad is doing some impressive work and your contribution is very helpful.”

  I eye him and crunch on the lollipop, breaking it with my teeth. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “That’s all.”

  I toss the stick in the trash and mumble on the way out the door, “Whole lotta good you are.”

  I heard him laugh on my way down the hall. Seriously, this whole thing was getting to be too much. I had things to do, like graduation and valedictorian speeches to (hopefully) prepare.

  I sign out at the desk, checking the TV.

  “No cannibals today,” the Josie points out. She seems a little disappointed.

  “Nope, maybe the police finally shut that down.” The drug-crazed cannibals were big talk for a couple of weeks. But just when it seemed like the whole thing was escalating, it died down. No more attacks. No more news reports about police tasering people or neighbors biting off each other’s noses. Ugh. Gross.

  “Hopefully. That whole thing was freaking me out a little.” She shudders and hands me the appointment card. “See you on Thursday.”

  I stop and spin on my heel. “Thursday?”

  “Yeah, you’ve got to come twice a week now.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Doctor’s orders.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Which doctor?”

  “Dr. Ramsey, of course.”

  My father.

  Chapter Seven

  ~Now~

  I wait quietly at the door and listen before slowly opening the latch. The sound it makes is barely a whisper and I step outside. I take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh(er), non-animal air. I don’t know much about barns or livestock but seriously, whatever they kept in here smelled horrible.

 
The crickets and cicada’s were out for the night, singing a loud chorus. The end of the world hasn’t stopped them. At this point it seems pretty clear that the E-TR virus only attacks humans. Why? No one knows. No one knows much of anything—at least not yet. But we can be thankful for small favors.

  The sky above the pasture was dark and cloudy, only a small sliver of moon visible through the haze. Clouds bring the unmistakable smell of fire and decay that has followed us for weeks, even out here in the country. I don’t know where the fire started, but it must have been big.

  Durham could easily be on fire by now. It’s not the biggest city, but it was big enough. Two-hundred and fifty thousand people lived there, or that’s what the people said on the news. Not the news people, but the government ones that took over the only remaining channel. There was never a specific number about the survivors. Probably because that number changed every day. Again, no one knew the real answer or if they do there’s no real way to pass it along.

  I walk toward the house, my eyes fully adjusted to the dark. There’s enough light to get me to the small ranch but no light coming from inside. I pray the house is empty—but maybe not. It wouldn’t be a bad place to hole up. The windows reflect off the minimal moonlight and there are no boards covering the glass. Nothing pushed up against the windows. Occupied houses look abandoned. Abandoned houses now look occupied. Up is down. Right is wrong. That’s what happens when people start eating each other for dinner.

  Who knows? This place may have been empty long before the epidemic happened. I have no real desire to find out what happened to the home owners. There are three choices, none I feel like dealing with tonight.

  My heart thumps wildly in my chest—betraying my fear. I act brave in front of my mom. I don’t want her to know how scared I am. I also know fear doesn’t matter out here. I spent the night before in sheer terror waiting in the dark. I survived, which means I can survive again. We have no choice but to push through it. Excursions like this help me gain confidence and work through my fear of being alone.

  I sense, rather than see the structure near me and hold my arms out, reaching for contact. My fingers scrape on the rough brick. Good. Step one complete. Step two? Find a faucet.

  Crouching, I make my way around the house, feeling the whole lower area for the jut of steel. After bumping into bushes and the back side of the house I find it, nearly tripping over the protruding pipe. Add another bruise to the pile.

  I turn the faucet on slowly and the pipes shudder, breathing out the pent up air. I sit on my heels hyperaware of the noise. Hyperaware of the chirping cicadas. A trickle of water rolls down my fingers. I lick them greedily, sucking the lukewarm, metallic tasting water. I rub the water across my cracked lips and tired eyes.

  The water bottles fill slowly and I lean against the house. How did it come to this? I have this same thought ten times a day. How did we go from normal to this? Hiding in the dark? Stealing water?

  The weird thing is that I sort of knew the answer to the question.

  Chapter Eight

  ~Before~

  10 Weeks Ago

  My sister is coming home for my graduation, which means it’s more about her than it is my accomplishment, but whatever. She can’t take away the fact I’m valedictorian. Of course, this doesn’t take away the fact she was valedictorian first and now the rising star in a lab of her own. As though anyone would let me forget that.

  “When does Jane’s plane get in?” I ask through a mouthful of chicken.

  “Graduation is on Friday night. She should be here by that afternoon,” my dad says. His worry lines are deeper and I think his hair is grayer. He and my mom give each other disturbing side looks. I’m wondering if he’s sick or something. Is that what this is all about? I don’t want him to be sick.

  “I hope she leaves herself plenty of time,” mom says. “You know how she likes to push it.”

  “She’ll make it. Her classes at Emory aren’t over until that morning. It’s not like she can skip out on giving exams,” my dad says.

  He’s a big defender of Jane. Probably because she’s a rising superstar in parasitology, with a focus on research. She’s a lab teaching assistant but also has already gotten funding for a big project. Like my father, work comes first with her, but my mom insisted she come home for my graduation. We still have two weeks until graduation. I’m sure something will come up before then that’ll stop her from coming. That brings something to mind.

  “I heard they may cancel flights if this Eater thing doesn’t stop.” My eyes jerk up at the sound of my mother’s fork clanging against her plate. Her face turns white. “What? I saw it on the internet,” I say.

  “What did you call them?”

  “Eaters...you know because of the...” I look down at my plate. “You know…”

  “Alexandra, that is not an appropriate topic for dinner.”

  “What?” I ask. “I’m just discussing current events.”

  “Your sister will be fine,” Dad says pushing his plate away. “The government is making some controlled efforts to keep the airlines safe. We got a report about it today at work.”

  “Really?” I’m unable to hide my interest. “What did it say?”

  “It said the airlines are making controlled efforts to keep their flights safe,” he repeats with a wink. My father and all his “confidential” work.

  “Alex, are you going out tonight?” Mom asks in a clear attempt to change the subject.

  “Yeah, with Liza and some people. I should go get ready.” I inhale the remainder of my dinner and take my plate to the kitchen. I dressed for the night, shorts and a hoodie. We’re going to see a guy Liza’s crushing on at the skate park. Short on funds I make the decision to hit my dad up for some cash.

  I stop outside his office and knock. “Dad?”

  No reply. I knock again and push open the door. The room is empty. Thinking there should be some cash in the top drawer, I open it and find a small roll of bills and pull out two tens. I search for a pen and notepad and scribble out a note.

  Borrowed $20

  IOU

  Alex

  Placing the sticky on a folder I see the name peeking outside of the file. PharmaCorp Lab Results. Glancing at the door, I flip over the cover with the word CONFIDENTIAL stamped on the front.

  At first glance it’s all numbers and letters. Lots of them. But I’m good with figures and patterns and the pieces click together. They are abbreviations for dates and descriptions. The first ones are from months ago—almost a year.

  09/14/14 FL (Miami) M-22 –RC Initial symptom 9 p.m. Peak 11:32 DOA

  09/23/14 FL (Ft. L)M-19—RC Initial symptom 8 a.m. Peak 10:12 DOA

  I skimmed down. Brushing past information on height and weight.

  02/18/15 FL (Orlando) F-26—RC Initial symptom 4 p.m. Peak 4:45 DOA

  02/18/15 FL (Orlando) M-45-RC Initial symptom 2 a.m. Peak 2:30 DOA

  The list went on like this. Dates and times, each one a little closer than the last. At the bottom I found a summary.

  Emergency and health care officials have isolated the E-TR parasite in subjects involved in recent, random violent attacks. The parasite was found in the bodies of both the attacker and the victim. Although the subject initially feels a sense of euphoria, the symptoms quickly alter manifesting in an aggressive, aggravated state. Adrenaline levels are exaggerated, allowing for “Super Strength” and then the subject is overwhelmed by rage resulting in cannibalism.

  Initial speculation was that these attacks were the result of drug use. There is no evidence to support this. All subjects have tested positive for the (E-TR) parasite. Cases are limited to Florida but moving swiftly up the panhandle, toward the rest of the country.

  Early signs include:

  Euphoria with a fast shift to anger and aggression.

  Extreme strength and speed

  Loss of small motor skills

  Eyes go from pale and glassy to dark black irises and veiny lines spidering th
rough the whites of the eyes.

  Well, what the hell does that mean? And holy crap! My dad is working on the cannibal case and never told me! I drop the cover, afraid of getting caught. I’ve been following the news on this. It falls right in line with my love of dystopian, end of the world, conspiracy theory books.

  In those books, the government always collapses immediately. The virus moves swift and furious, taking out entire cities in a matter of days. It’s always such a joke, but I’ve read enough books to have a slight case of paranoia.

  I glance over the paperwork again. PharmaCorp? Who the hell is that and why is Dad working with them? The good news I guess is they seem to be tracking it closely and my dad is perfect for the job. This isn’t the first time he’s been called in on the subject of infectious diseases, specifically in the Division of Parasitic Diseases. He worked at the CDC for ten years before taking a research job at Duke. He’s an expert in his field. I had to assume he’d let us know if there’s a true danger lurking out there.

  I leave the desk like I found it and exit the room with way more questions than when I entered.

  Chapter Nine

  ~Now~

  The government didn’t fall. Not all of it, at least. They’re still out there in concentrated efforts trying to solve this puzzle. My dad came close. I press my fingers against the pouch he gave me. Maybe he even solved it.

  I cap off the third bottle and stuff them in my pack. An owl hoots as I cross back across the grass. The moon reflects off the fender of an old Ford pickup in the middle of the yard. I swear a shadow moves in the cab and I stop, hand on the hatchet hanging from my belt. I squint to see if I’d made it up.

  The owl calls out again and I wait five solid beats. No shadow. No movement. I decide it’s my mind playing tricks on me—wouldn’t be the first time—and I lower my weapon. Increasing my speed, I walk toward the barn until a high-pitched, terrified scream pierces the night. My stomach drops and I draw the hatchet again, running in the direction of the scream. Toward my mother. There’s only one reason for her to scream like that. Only one reason to reveal her location. The barn door is ajar, light from the camping lamp spills out the crack.