by Jones, Isla
“Cleo. Dinner.”
Suddenly awake, Cleo jumped onto the floor, her tail wagging at the once familiar word. I put the magazine on the floor and watched as Cleo dug into the beans. Before it had all happened, Cleo had been a picky eater. Now, she was like me—eating whatever we came across.
I looked around for a moment, until I spotted a notebook tucked underneath woollen blankets. I reached over the table and dug it out, only to realise that it wasn’t a notebook at all.
It was a diary.
I flipped open the book.
A ball-point pen was tucked inside, but the pages were clean of ink. No one had had the chance to write in it.
I clicked the pen and hovered it above the page.
Hesitation passed over me, stilling my hand. I’d never been much of a writer. It’s not that I can’t—I didn’t finish high school, I didn’t graduate, I didn’t get a ‘real’ job. But that was just luck of the draw, nothing to do with not being smart.
But looking down at that diary, I felt the opposite. I felt like an idiot.
What would I write? And what would it matter?
It would just be lost in time, a relic in a new world of danger and death. No one would ever read it—
No one would ever read it. Unless I meant them to.
With a smile on my lips, I put the pen to paper and the words just flowed.
My name is Winter Miles.
When I’d packed up my car with supplies and my Chihuahua, Cleo, I hadn’t known that the world would end.
I was meant to visit my sister across the country. But when I reached the state border between California and Arizona, the radios stopped playing music and gave a constant stream of breaking news instead—news that belonged only in the most gruesome of horror stories.
Before I’d left Los Angeles, there had been some reports of the same thing. Scattered stories; A few articles in the paper, even a segment on the television. A new strain of rabies dotted around the state.
The media had told us not to panic, and that we’d had rabies in our country forever. I was gullible that way, eating up whatever the government and media told me. Those lies lasted just under forty-eight hours before the truth reared its ugly, ferocious head.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d listened to begin with. Would I be alone in the middle of a barren world? Would I be dead or worse—
The pen ran out of ink.
I tried licking the tip of the pen, but the ink was dried up.
With a huff, I tore out the page, scrunched it up and tossed it across the room. But I tucked the diary into her bag. It would come in handy later, on those nights that we hid from the rotters and had nothing to do but be afraid. Maybe one day I would write in it again, write my entire story of survival in it.
Someone, somewhere, might stumble across the remains of the diary, when the world is better, and read it. Maybe I could write a piece of history.
I folded my legs and leaned back against the sofa. Then I scooped my fingers into the tin and ate the beans. There was nothing to complain about—not when I’d found a safe place to sleep for the night, blankets to keep us warm, keys to a vehicle, and two cans of food.
That night, I knew I was lucky.
And all I could do was hope that tomorrow would be the same. And the days after, until there were no more days left.
end of book 1
Winter Plague
Book 2
Isla Jones
1.
My name is Winter Miles, and I’m about to die. But we’ll get to that part. I should start from the beginning. Not the very beginning, when the virus suddenly swept over the world, but the day I met him—Leonardo.
It was sometime in August I think, and the sun was setting over the city centre of Santa Fe—not the beautiful part with sandy beige buildings that made me feel like I was in an old Western movie. I was in the forest of skyscrapers, prey to the infected ones.
I call them rotters. They’d come out to kill. And I was caught in the hunt.
Devastation was everywhere.
It was in the blood that soaked into the concrete of the alleyway; it was the putrid stench of death in the air that I unwillingly tasted; and it was the tears of terror that rolled down my dirty cheeks. Devastation was nigh and it had come to take its next victim; me.
I was crouched on top of a low brick wall at the back of the alleyway. I clutched Cleo—my Chihuahua—against my chest. She’d peed on me a few moments ago. Her terror matched mine.
Wrinkled flesh snatched at my ankles, cracked fingernails scraped against my boots, and blood-stained teeth snapped at the festering air around me. Their snarls and howls sent shivers down my prickled skin—I couldn’t hear my own cries over theirs.
I hushed Cleo’s whimpers with blubbering words of comfort, but I knew—and she did, too—that our chances weren’t good. The rotters surrounded us. They lurched and reached up from both sides of the wall.
We could run, I thought, along the wall to the opposite building and try to reach the fire escape. The wall was caved in ahead, I would have to try and jump—but to do that, I would need to let Cleo go. And I would never let her go.
I was completely and utterly surrounded.
It wouldn’t be long before fresher rotters—one whose bodies were younger with stronger muscles—came along. And then I’d be screwed. I’d be torn apart and eaten … Or worse, they would take me back to their nests. They did that sometimes. I’ve seen it happen. Though, what the rotters do to their victim… I don’t want to know.
A dumpster hit the wall. I whipped my head to the side; eyes wide, hair whacking me in the face. A few of the rotters were trying to climb onto the dumpster—that’s how I’d gotten up the wall. But I’d been smart. I’d pulled the lid open so that any rotter who tried to climb it, would fall inside. It wasn’t a permanent solution. Rotters weren’t stupid. They’d climb over each other, they’d find a way to reach Cleo and me.
My head thrashed from side to side, my gaze darting around the predators that trapped me. Not only was I fearing for my own life, I desperately clung onto Cleo, terrified at the fate that awaited my tiny dog. Animals turned, too.
It was rabies after all, at least a strain of it. But victims had to survive the attack to become one of the rotters—that didn’t always happen. Sometimes, they were ripped apart and beaten until there was nothing left but bones.
It was a fate that I wouldn’t let happen to her or myself. But how to prevent the brutal dooms that awaited us was an unreachable dream.
It was difficult to think then, and even more difficult to remember clearly. I can still feel the panic that clutched me and shook my body. My frazzled mind had tried to ween through surges of adrenaline that licked through my veins. I recall the tingling sensation trickling down my spine to my toes.
Fingers grabbed onto my shoe. I screamed and twisted around to face the rotter. It was an old rotter—it had once been an elderly woman—and it dangled over the side of the dumpster. Its fingers coiled around my boot, its fingernails scraping over the leather.
A fierce shriek tore through my throat.
I yanked my leg back—it still held on—then kicked out. The sole of my boot crunched against its face, and I’m sure to this day that I broke its nose. But it held on, and it lurched forward—
I kicked out at its face again. It didn’t grunt, like a person would, but it hissed. It was a low, fierce sound that brewed in the back of its throat. The dumpster wobbled beneath the rotter, and I realised that it was climbing over its own to get to me.
My foot jerked, trying to pull back, but its fingers were hooked around the laces. It dragged my boot closer to its foamy teeth. I could lean forward and unfasten my boot, but that would mean putting Cleo down. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
The thing had its red-stained fingers wrapped around my laces and its other hand scratched against my boot. I yanked my foot again, threw my head back and screamed in the dusk. Cleo barke
d in my arms. She shivered and yapped. I felt warmth on my t-shirt again; she’d peed.
A grunt came from my dry lips as I lifted my other leg and kicked out. I kicked again, and again, and again. The rotter’s face was caved in on the side by the time I’d lost my energy. My shoulders slumped, my chest heaving against Cleo, and my legs went limp. I was exhausted—I don’t remember the last time I’d eaten before that day.
“Let go.” My voice was so low that it almost sounded like a whisper from the warm wind. “Get off…”
I closed my eyes. All I could hear were the feral snarls of those things around me. My free leg pulled back toward me until my kneecap rested just beneath my chin. Then, I opened my eyes and stared at the rotter.
The moment seemed longer than what it was. I could’ve sworn I’d seen something in its bloodshot eyes, something other than bloodlust. But then it was gone—I’d kicked out one last time. Every scrap of energy I had shoved my foot forward, and with the brutal kick, the rotter was thrown backwards. It smacked into the side of the dumpster and the crack of its spine snapping made my skin crawl.
It was a brief victory. Dozens of them still surrounded me. They reached out as I turned around and pushed myself to my feet. My legs wobbled beneath me. Hands swerved all around me, some closer than others.
Another one got me.
It almost took my foot out from under me. My arms tightened around Cleo and I cried into her grimed fur. There was no way out. It was only a matter of time. This was end.
A loud bang shot through the alleyway.
The sound punched the air around me. On instinct, I screamed and curled over Cleo. My eardrums thrummed, ringing in protest. It took me a moment to realise—it was the sound of a gunshot.
With a gasp, I jerked my head up. My eyes widened so much that I almost feared they would pop out of my head. I looked around, wall to wall, window to window—until I saw them. A shaky sob rattled my body at the sight.
My hope-filled brown eyes settled on a window. It was three levels up on the building to the left; the shopping mall.
The window was open, and three people stood on the fire escape. They all wore black combat uniforms, were strapped with holsters and padded vests, and each carried some sort of machine gun. At least, I had guessed they were machine guns. Back then, I wouldn’t have known—before the outbreak, I was an advocate of gun-control.
“Don’t move!” It was one of the people on the fire escape. He looked like a soldier, some sort of special forces. “Stay right where you are!”
If I wanted to respond, I couldn’t. My lips parted, but all that came out was a choked sound, somewhere between a relieved sigh and whimper. Stay on the wall? With dozens of dead snatching at me? It didn’t sound like something I wanted to do. I wanted to get out of that damned alleyway.
I watched the three of them. My eyes had glazed over, reflecting the numbness within. The blond man—the one who had spoken to me—made a few hand signals to the others. I didn’t understand the hand signals. The dark-haired one replied with signs of his own; then he ran to the edge of the fire escape.
The awe of what I saw still warms me. He had leapt off the edge of the fire escape like some sort of Spiderman and landed like a cat on the other fire escape. He didn’t even stumble—he shot to his feet, ran across the second fire escape and jumped off the edge. This time, he landed on the brick wall. My gaze followed him as he steadily ran down the narrow wall towards me. He held a firearm in his hand, but the bigger gun was slung around his shoulder.
Something touched my calf. I stumbled back and my widened eyes darted downwards. Another rotter neared, climbing over the others in the dumpster to reach me. Lifting my leg to stomp on its gory head, I felt a surge of newfound confidence erupt within me. With soldiers nearby, I felt reassured. Not safe, but safer.
Before my boot could stomp down on its head, a gunshot punched through the air again. The blood spattered from the air where a rotter’s face had been a split second before. I remember thinking that the blood was sort of beautiful. But then, bits of brain and goo sprayed all over me.
My body heaved and a gravelly sound crept up my dry throat. If I’d had any food in my stomach, I would’ve puked it all over the rotters. Instead, stomach bile burned my throat before I swallowed it back down.
“Give me your hand!”
I looked up.
The dark-haired soldier stood on the other side of the wall, right at the edge of where it had collapsed. I estimated the gap to have been around two metres. The soldier stretched out his hand for me, his other one clutched onto a small gun.
As I crept closer to the hole in the wall, I untangled my arms from Cleo and clutched her in my hands. “Take her first,” I said. Cleo shook in my hands as I held her out for the soldier to take.
Something flashed in his eyes.
The soldier hesitated, but then he grabbed Cleo after he tucked his gun into its holster. He settled the pup on the brick wall, firmly between his boots. She stayed there, trembling and whining, but she didn’t move. With two hands, he leaned forward and reached out for me. He curled his fingers, motioning for me to jump.
I looked down at the fallen bricks. There were some limbs that stuck out of the pile of debris. And a few of the rotters tried to climb over hurdles to reach the hole. If they got the gap in the wall, I’d never be able to jump to safety.
My fingers clenched and balled my hands up. I breathed in deeply; a long inhale that I suppose I’d thought would give me courage. It hadn’t.
I took a few cautious steps back, careful not to step within grabbing-range of the rotters flanking me.
“Hurry!” barked the solder. “Jump, now!”
I cursed under my breath and glanced up at the fire escape. The two other soldiers were still there, crouched down, their machine guns aimed at the undead. If one of the rotters got hold of me, the soldiers would shoot. But if they shot too late, and I was dragged down into the mob, they wouldn’t waste their ammo saving me. And then what would become of Cleo?
“You’ll be all right!” It was the soldier. He still shouted, but he had gone for a gentler tone this time. “We’ve got you. Jump!”
My fingers splayed and I wiped my clammy palms on my jeans.
“Ok,” I whispered to myself. “You can do this. It’s just a jump … a tiny, little jump.” I met the patient green eyes of the soldier. “Catch me,” I said. “You better catch me.”
“I will.” His firm voice was calm over the loud screeches of the rotters.
My eyelids began to droop, but I kept them open and stared straight ahead at my target. And then I ran.
The soles of my boots smacked against the bricks as I raced across the short distance. When I reached the edge, my knees bent and I jumped.
At the time, and in memory, that jump went in slow-motion for me. My screams and the anxious yaps of Cleo still haunt me. But at the time, I didn’t hear those sounds. I only heard the roars as I soared above them. I’d like to think I resembled a soaring dove; graceful and majestic. But I know myself—I suspect I looked like a flapping pigeon with a broken wing.
I cried in relief when his fingers wrapped around my forearms and hauled me closer to him. My cry of relief turned into one of winded agony as I collided with his body, and my forehead smacked off his chin. But he had me. His hands clutched onto my arms. He released me, then handed Cleo over. She whimpered as I bundled her into my arms.
The soldier turned and led me down the brick wall. The other rotters—the ones who hadn’t been shot—followed, but they couldn’t get to us. The soldier helped me up onto the fire escape, but it has all become a daze to me now. A fuzzy memory. Adrenaline—whether consumed by it or coming down from the high it gives—does that to memories, I’ve learned.
When we reached the other soldiers, the blond one opened a window. He lifted it up and it scraped against the metal frame. He climbed in first, followed by the second soldier—a brunette woman with cropped hair and cat-like eyes. I’
d thought then that she resembled a pixie playing solider—I’d learn later that she wasn’t playing, and she was far from a pixie; she was a badass warrior, and one of the best soldiers in the group.
The dark-haired soldier gestured for me to go next. I did. But I hadn’t expected to see what I did. I hadn’t expected to clumsily climb through the window and be greeted by something I’d thought long gone in this world.
Hope.
It was a department store, the women’s fashion section. Dozens of people quietly browsed over the selection of clothes. But that’s not what filled me with hope. It was the five more soldiers, seated by the stack of guns, ammo, and cases of weapons.
And behind them … behind them were stacks of food.
2.
Cleo had stopped whining, though she still trembled in my arms. Her quakes merged with my own debris of aftershock.
The soldiers dispersed and left me standing by the window alone. The dark-haired one had closed the window and spared me an unreadable look; then he’d joined his fellow soldiers by the stacks of supplies. I watched him go, unsure of what to do with myself.
Some of the group looked my way with inquisitive glances and once-overs. Other than that, I was largely ignored. For some reason, that only seemed to increase my unease in the new place with strangers. But, it was better than being on the wall with rotters all around me.
I don’t know how long I stood by the window, until eventually I wandered off and strolled through the aisles. The lethargy that struck my bones and muscles would’ve been obvious to anyone who looked at me—my legs dragged beneath me and my arms, holding Cleo, wavered under her weight.
