by Kyla Stone
There was another sound, like tin cans clanging against each other. Someone coughed and swore violently.
Her heart beating against her ribs, she knelt and raised her head over the nose of the bus. Less than twenty yards ahead of them, an old man stumbled out of a SmartFlex repair shop. He was frail, with a fringe of white hair rimming a bald scalp. He wore only a flimsy T-shirt and hospital scrubs.
But it was his face that drew her focus and stopped her heart. Blood streaked his mouth, stained his ears, and rimmed his eye sockets. His eyes bulged blood-red. His skin was gray as a filthy rag, the veins all over his body a reddish-black, standing out like a grotesque roadmap.
The man was infected.
He turned and looked straight at Willow.
Willow didn’t move, didn’t breathe. If they drew his attention, he’d charge them, coughing contagious blood and spittle. He was an innocent, suffering victim. She didn’t want to shoot him, but she would if she had to.
He didn’t see her. He doubled over and vomited a pink-tinged yellow sludge. He straightened, gripping his stomach with frail, trembling arms, and looked both ways, as if this were an ordinary day in an ordinary world.
He staggered into the street, weaving between cars, half-falling against a sedan, pushing himself up, then bumped into a rust-orange minivan and toppled to his hands and knees.
For a minute, Willow lost sight of him. She tracked his faltering movements through his groans. The old man appeared again as he crawled onto the sidewalk and into an office building across the street with a missing front door.
No one moved until the man’s anguished sounds faded into silence. When the group gathered again at the rear of the bus, their faces were drawn, their expressions tense. They hadn’t seen anyone infected with the Hydra virus so close in a few weeks.
Willow had thought the horror was seared into her mind. She was wrong. It was as shocking now as the first time.
“We should help him,” Micah said in a low voice.
Jericho shook his head. “The only thing that will help him now is death. Is that what you want to do?”
Micah’s bronze skin paled. “No.”
Willow squeezed his arm. She knew how he felt, but there was nothing they could do. They needed to move on, and quickly.
A few blocks later, they came across several bodies lying in the doorway of a sleek, black-glassed, twenty-story building. They were piled on top of each other, almost as if they had been stacked there on purpose.
The top body moved.
“Lo Lo,” Benjie gasped.
Willow saw it. Her gun was already in her hands.
But the movement wasn’t human. Not this time. A dozen rats scurried over the bodies. Chewing. Feeding.
Willow’s gut curdled. “Oh, gross.”
“Stay away from them,” Finn warned. “Or things will go from pudding to poop real fast.”
Willow nudged the safety off her gun. “That’s the understatement of the century.”
But it was too late. Three of the rats raised their brown, furry heads. They sniffed the air, their nostrils quivering. Dread gripped her as the creatures turned as one toward them. Red stained the fur around their tiny jutting teeth.
The biggest rat scrabbled off the bodies and skittered a few feet toward them. The thing bristled with black fur, its tiny eyes beady, jagged incisors gnashing against each other.
It sat back on its haunches and sniffed, whiskers trembling. Sensing what? Their warm blood? Their beating hearts?
“We need to go.” Several vehicles parked bumper to bumper blocked their immediate exit to the left. They could retreat or move on. Willow edged forward to pass the nasty vermin. “Benjie, come on.”
But Benjie stood frozen, staring at the largest rat as it abruptly dropped to all fours and scurried straight toward him.
Willow aimed her gun, about to send the sucker to kingdom come.
“Don’t shoot unless you have to!” Jericho warned. “A gunshot might bring even more trouble.”
Willow grunted in frustration as she aimed a kick at the rat instead. It dodged but changed direction, coming at her and making a line drive for her ankle.
Willow jerked her foot free as the little beast clung to her ankle, its claws digging into her pant leg. It squeaked as it bounced to the concrete, found its footing, and charged her again. She nailed the thing with a vicious stomp. This time, it didn’t get up. “What the hell!” Rats shouldn’t act like this. They ran from larger predators. They stalked the corners and alleys and sewers of the night. They didn’t attack aggressively during the day.
A second rat scurried for Micah. He batted it aside with the butt of his semi-automatic rifle. The other rats squealed, darting from the dead bodies and forming a disgusting little pack on the sidewalk—a dozen of them, skulking and twitching, their pink, scaly tails slithering behind them.
“They’re like the dogs.” She backed away in horror. “They’re infected.”
“Don’t let them bite you!” Celeste cried.
Jericho slid the pulse stick from his belt, activated it, and swung it in a wide arc. One of the rats lunged at him. He danced back, narrowly missing the rat as it leapt for his left ankle. He stabbed the stick into the rat. The rat’s body slumped—two brown, twitching chunks of meat instead of one.
“Gross,” Willow said.
“Wicked!” Benjie breathed.
“Watch out!” Amelia flung a small brown rat off her shoe with a hard kick. The thing skittered toward the next closest person, Celeste, who barely suppressed a scream.
Hearing their cries, Silas raced back from wherever he’d been scouting. He plunged forward and swung his nail-spiked bat at the pack of rats. He took out three of them immediately.
Jericho took out another two, the plasma crackling and sizzling as it sliced through warm flesh. The remaining four scattered, skittering back through the gaping office door with a furious chattering.
“I suggest we all get bats,” Silas said, hefting his.
“Those things are almost worse than the dogs,” Amelia said, her face even paler than usual. “They’re so fast and hard to actually hit.”
Gabriel nudged at a limp brown body with his boot. “They’re wily little bastards.”
“Keep away from them,” Willow said. “They carry the infection. A bite could be deadly.”
No wonder Raven refused to enter the city. It was a maze of dangerous traps and dangerous people. And now this. Aggressive, infected killer rats.
Some birthday.
4
Micah
The hairs rose on nineteen-year-old Micah’s arms. Everything was eerily silent. A metropolis built for millions, now a mausoleum for the dead and dying. It looked like the world had just pressed pause, like any minute, some supernatural being would lean down, press the “play” button, and the noise and chaos and millions of insanely busy lives would start up again, just like clockwork. It was all here, just waiting for them.
Of course, when you looked closer, the cracks in the veneer appeared. The slumped forms in the cars weren’t stuck in traffic. The small bent head in the backseat of the yellow SUV wasn’t looking down at a doll or latest holo game on her SmartFlex. She was stuck there for all eternity.
The city was empty. Empty shops, empty offices, empty apartments and condos, empty streets—but for the dead bodies, the scurrying rats. The broken windows, the shattered storefronts, the boarded-up entrances and bullet-riddled holoscreen signs all spoke of violence, destruction, and catastrophe.
Last night, they’d tried nine different condo and apartment buildings in search of shelter, driven away each time by the massive numbers of bloated, decomposing bodies. The fetid, overwhelming stench churned his stomach and sent shock-waves of dizziness through his system.
Finally, with darkness hovering over their heads, they’d found shelter in a home goods store, padding the floor with chenille throw blankets and decorative frilly pillows embroidered with ‘No place like home
.’ Benjie discovered a stash of Nerds and Finn’s favorite sour-explosion Skittles beneath a checkout scanner. Celeste and Micah joined the two of them in a game of poker.
It had been a good night—as good as could be expected, anyway. Now they were out in the wild again, trudging through the silence and the rain. They drove off several more rats, but no large packs.
He glimpsed several furtive movements out of the corner of his eye. Once he caught sight of someone in a pine-green jacket ducking behind a shattered window. There were survivors here, but they remained in the shadows, avoiding contact with others. Maybe theirs was the wisest method.
They trudged past the old CNN building, Centennial Park, a brightly-colored children’s museum. They passed what used to be the famous aquarium: the one the Earth Liberation Army had bombed three years ago. Now there was a forty-foot obsidian sculpture memorial featuring two entwined dolphins.
He’d never understood why a group so dedicated to animal rights could have murdered all those helpless sea creatures. In the manifesto repeated ad nauseam on the newsfeeds, the Earth Liberation Army claimed animals were better off dead than imprisoned. The world had been crazy for a long, long time.
After hours of walking, they took a break inside a deli called Flash Food. Micah and Gabriel cleared the place, checking for humans, animals, and bodies, and found nothing. There was a back exit to an alley down the hallway to the bathrooms, offices, and storage closet. This was as good a place to rest for lunch as any.
Gabriel stood guard by the shattered front doors while Micah and the others sat in the black chairs and unloaded the remains of their supplies from their backpacks.
On the left was a sleek gray smartwall with superimposed buttons to swipe for pizza, sandwich, pasta, fruit, or stir-fry. Once the printer robots behind the wall manufactured the meal from powdered ingredients, it would eject from one of several chutes. But without power, the wall was as silent and useless as everything else.
“We’ll have to scavenge soon,” Jericho said, chewing on a piece of faux-beef jerky. “I don’t care to expose us to more danger than we have to. The only positive about the city is the millions of kitchens and pantries full of food no one’s using anymore. There’s not enough people left alive to empty it all out. Not yet.”
“How long do you think it will take to get through the city?” Amelia asked.
“A few more days, if we’re lucky. Maybe we can find some bikes or Segways, anything faster than walking. But honestly, with getting around the cars blocking the roads and the bodies and broken glass and debris on the sidewalks, walking might be the fastest.”
“And the quietest.” Micah dug into a jar of peanut butter with a plastic spoon. “We need to get in and out before anyone even knows we’re here.”
Jericho cracked his knuckles. “He’s right.”
“So no talking?” Benjie asked.
“Only whispers, like we’ve been doing.”
They gathered their things, stood, and crowded around the entrance. “I’ll make sure it’s clear,” Gabriel said. “Then I’ll take up the rear.”
Outside, a light drizzle spat from the gunmetal sky. Several blocks away, a short, squat building was on fire, black smoke pouring into the air.
“Hey,” someone said. A voice he didn’t recognize. A stranger.
A chill zipped down his spine. Micah whipped around, along with Silas, Gabriel, and Jericho, their guns up and aimed at the threat.
Two men stumbled down the street. They wore dirty cargo pants, camouflage jackets with hoods, and masks and gloves. The first, larger man had a ragged gray beard. His arm was slung around the smaller man’s waist, propping him up. “Help us!”
Gabriel leveled his rifle. “Don’t come any closer!”
“It’s a trap,” Silas hissed.
“We don’t know that,” Micah said. The men looked unarmed. Neither held weapons or wore gun holsters that he could see.
“No closer!” Gabriel said again, flicking off the safety of his gun.
Jericho turned to Gabriel. “I thought you said it was clear!”
“It was.” Gabriel’s voice was tense, his eyes flashing. “They must have slipped through an alleyway or exited one of the buildings.”
“He’s hurt,” Gray Beard called out in a rough baritone voice.
“Get behind us,” Micah said to Amelia, Celeste, and the others. Finn pushed himself in front of Benjie. Willow joined Micah, Silas, Gabriel, and Jericho, who all stood in a line in front of the rest of the group, protecting them.
“Go back in the store, nice and slow,” Gabriel said. “Find something large and dense to hide behind, just in case.”
“Okay,” Amelia said.
Micah sensed movement behind him as Amelia and the others followed instructions. The tension in his gut eased a fraction. At least they were safe for the moment. If things went south, they could slip out the back exit and make a run for it.
“Please, we just need a little food and water,” Gray Beard repeated. He dragged his partner another step closer.
“Stop!” Gabriel shouted. “I’m warning you!”
“We will shoot,” Jericho said.
Micah lowered his gun, though he kept his finger on the trigger. “They’re hurt. We can help them.”
“They’re tricking us,” Silas spat. “Use your brain for once. Where did they come from? They just appear out of nowhere, needing our help? Needing our food and water when there’s still plenty to scavenge?”
Micah hesitated. “I don’t know, but we should ask rather than shoot them.”
Silas gestured with his gun. “I would if they’d back the hell up.”
“Don’t do anything rash, Silas,” he said.
“Tell them that,” Silas said, his voice rising.
“Stop right now!” Jericho demanded. “You could be infected! Stay at least ten feet away!”
“We’re not infected,” Gray Beard said, wiping sweat and dirt from his brow with his free hand. “I promise you that.”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t take you at your word.” Micah blinked the rain out of his eyes. His glasses were fogged and misty. He squinted at them, trying to make out the details of their faces, to read the intent behind their eyes. “Just stop for a minute. We’ll toss you some cans of food and a couple bottles of water. We’ve got some bandages, too.”
“There are bad people after us. We need shelter. We can’t stay out here.” Gray Beard kept repeating his plea. As he spoke, he kept advancing, dragging his wounded friend with him.
They were closer now, less than ten yards away. Micah rubbed his fogged glasses with the jacket sleeve of his free hand. Blood stained the wounded man’s pant leg from his thigh to his ankle.
But it could be fake. Both Harmony and Raven had warned them of the dangerous gang prowling the city. Silas could be right. They might be preying on the innate goodness of others, waiting to get close enough before they struck.
What was the right decision? What if they made the wrong choice? The consequences for getting it wrong would be devastating.
He bit the inside of his cheeks. Be brave. Be good. Always do the right thing, his mother told him before she died, Catholic prayer beads wrapped around her gaunt fingers. They couldn’t shoot unarmed men. “Put your guns down. They’ll stop if we lower our weapons.”
“Like hell, they will,” Silas said.
His stomach knotted in dread, every sense heightened. The cold rain drizzled against his face. The reek of smoke and ash and the fetid, stomach-roiling stench of death stung his nostrils. His heartbeat jack-hammered against his ribs, his breath loud in his ears.
The men staggered closer, dirt on their faces, panic in their eyes. Silas pointed his gun, his outstretched arms steady, his finger twitching on the trigger.
“They’re not stopping,” Willow said.
Gabriel punched off a few shots at the men’s feet. Chunks of concrete sprayed their legs. Gray Beard fell back, but as soon as the bullets ceased,
he took another step. “Please, we can’t stay out here. I know you’re good people. I know you won’t shoot.”
Now they were five yards away, nearly breaching the ten-foot infection safe zone. The wounded man reached for something in his pocket.
“Don’t move!” Willow cried.
Silas fingered the trigger. “To hell with this.”
Micah whirled toward Silas. “Don’t—”
But it was too late.
Silas squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession. A single bullet punched into the bigger man’s chest. The second bullet struck the smaller man in the head.
They both crumpled without a sound.
5
Amelia
Amelia huddled with the rest of the group behind the counter of the Flash Food place. Glass littered the black-and-white checkered floor. Dozens of Styrofoam coffee cups had toppled over the cash register screen.
Celeste clutched one in her hands, frantically tearing it to shreds. She stared at Amelia with huge, wild eyes. Horne crouched in the furthest corner, his hands over his ears, his head down, murmuring some useless meditation over and over. Finn hunched next to him, Benjie trembling in his arms.
Amelia hated this sense of helplessness, not knowing and not being able to do a thing to help. She couldn’t shoot a gun or throw a knife or break a man’s neck with her bare hands.
She wasn’t like Silas, who took to fighting like a dog to water. In this new, dangerous world, the social graces she’d so carefully honed were useless. As useless as her years perfecting her skills as an accomplished violinist. There were no orchestras in the apocalypse.
Two gunshots blasted in quick succession. Even with suppressors, the shots were impossibly loud in the echoing silence. She cringed. Her mouth went impossibly dry.
