Those Who Remain

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  Contents

  THOSE WHO REMAIN: BOOK ONE

  ACT I

  The Girl in the Closet I

  The Hunter's Daughter I

  The Doctor I

  The Geek I

  The Last One Out I

  The Doctor II

  The Geek II

  The Last One Out II

  The Girl in the Mall II

  The Hunter's Daughter II

  The Geek III

  The Doctor III

  The Last One Out III

  The Geek IV

  The Girl in the Mall III

  The Hunter's Daughter III

  The Doctor IV

  The Geek V

  The Girl in the Supermarket IV

  The Last One Out IV

  The Geek VI

  The Doctor V

  The Hunter's Daughter IV

  INTERLUDES

  Roger Gilmore

  Amelia Patterson

  PREVIEW FOR ACT II

  The Doctor VI

  The Girl in the Forest V

  The Geek VIII

  THANK YOU FOR READING

  THOSE WHO REMAIN: BOOK ONE

  By Priscila Santa Rosa

  Copyright © 2014 by Priscila Santa Rosa.

  All rights reserved.

  Written by: Priscila Santa Rosa

  Cover Art by: Tatiana (Alteya) Medvedeva

  Edited by: Elizabeth Sultzer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  www.priscilarosa.com

  Kindle Edition

  ACT I

  The Girl in the Closet I

  November 24th, Tuesday, 3 am

  My only window to the outside world is a thin gap between the closet’s doors. When I press my eye against it I see my parents’ empty bed, sheets tossed aside on the floor. Mom never leaves the house before making the bed.

  Why aren't they back yet? I hug my knees. I should have followed them, no matter what Mom wanted. I'm such a coward.

  Out in the street cars crash, glass breaks, and sirens wail. To make it all to stop I press my shaking hands over my ears so hard they hurt. I have no idea how long I stay still. My feet and arms are sore. My knees, still pressed against my chest, feel prickly and stiff. I’m afraid if I move my body I’ll make too much noise. The closet is my whole world; stuffy, dark, but it smells like Dad. His suits hang around me like a protective shield.

  A thin ray of light between the doors blinks a few times, followed by a thundering sound. I peek through the doors: the room outside is now completely dark. No power.

  As hours pass, the noises die out. Maybe whatever was going on before is over. I stretch out my arm, almost opening the door, before remembering Mom’s warning.

  Questions kept coming out of my mouth the moment she appeared by my door, supporting Dad, his right foot wrapped in a bloody gauze. She told me to shut up and hide in their bedroom closet. “I’m going to take your father to the drugstore. Don’t move, don't let anyone know you're here and wait for me.”

  I had never seen her raise her voice like that. Any complaints of hiding died halfway in my throat. Now I wish I hadn't listened to her. It’s hard not knowing what’s happening. Being alone sucks too.

  Except I'm not.

  The door creaks. Soft steps shuffle against the carpet. It can't be Mom or Dad, they would’ve called for me. Mrs. Patterson’s cat? This wouldn’t be the first time it found its way inside by an open window.

  A thud, then the wobbly noise of a cup spinning. Glass shatters.

  “Damn.”

  Definitely not Mrs. Patterson’s cat. A thief?

  The breathing is quiet, but the footsteps are close, too close. The only thing between him and me is thin wooden doors. I keep still for a long time, trying not to move a single muscle. My heart beats loudly. Will he hear me?

  The sounds grow louder: muttering, bumping, and curses, then two voices exchange quiet, harsh commands. Beams of light pass a few times through the gap, illuminating my tiny hideout spot.

  Please don’t check the closet. Please don’t check the closet.

  “Quick, check the closet.”

  Oh crap.

  There’s nowhere to hide. The closet’s doors open before I can react. A flashlight blinds me.

  “The hell…? Is that a girl?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  My eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the light. Two men stand in front of me, carrying four bags between them. One is older, wrinkled, and holds a flashlight, the other is younger, thinner, and has my dad’s golf club in his hands. Definitely thieves.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds. Should I run? But what if he hits me with the golf club?

  The first man, older and balding, takes a step forward. I get up, yank one of dad’s suits, throw it on the ground, but keep the coat hanger firmly in my hands. I have no idea what to do with it.

  “Karl, she’s probably bitten. Let’s just get outta here.” The younger man, the one with the golf club, looks around the room, like he’s expecting something. Please be the police.

  “Are you bitten?” The older one says, voice low.

  I realize Karl’s talking to me. “Me…? I’m… Nothing bit me.”

  He turns to his friend. “See? She’s fine.” Then to me, “What’s your—”

  A scream interrupts him. The other man runs out of the room, cursing under his breath.

  Karl looks at me with a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Stay here. I’m closing the doors, okay? Don't open them.”

  As the doors close, screams and the sound of shattering glass fills my ears. After that, there’s only silence.

  Nobody comes back. I’m alone in the dark, again. I let my body fall to the ground, back against the cold wall. I let go of the hanger and my nails leave marks on my hands. Seconds pass, then minutes. Time drags on. For a long time, I can’t move. What if things got worse out there? What if someone is still inside the house? I hear nothing but my stomach growling, and my mouth is dry. The growl becomes pain.

  Sunlight shines through the doors. I need to leave. I can't keep pretending Mom and Dad are coming back anytime soon. I need to eat and drink. I get up, feeling dizzy. My arms and legs hurt, and it takes me a moment to find balance.

  Their bedroom is totally messed up; clothes are all over the floor, the TV is broken, and even the bed sheets are gone. The door is open and I decide to go out to the corridor to reach my own room. I’m still in my pajamas, and that makes me feel exposed for some reason.

  Outside in the corridor, I can't see anything. With no windows and the door at the end of it closed, the only source of light comes from the room behind me. I try the light switch a few times, insisting, even knowing the power is out. My steps are slow and I feel the walls with my hands.

  On the way to my room, the smell of vomit and rotten garbage stings my nose. I cover my mouth with a hand, almost gagging. Yet my feet take another step.

  Something wet sticks between my bare toes. I bump my back against the wall. My first instinct is to run again to the closet, but I can’t hide anymore. I need to look for my parents.

  Letting out a breath, I tell myself this is water leaking from the bathroom ahead. The lie is just as bad as the one I used to convince Mom the book The Fires of My Passion was inside my underwear drawer because I was holding it for a frien
d. The memory of Mom laughing and showing me her copy of A Wild Kiss in the Barn gives me strength to continue down the hallway. I have to keep going to find her.

  Inside my room, I open the window. The early morning light reveals my room is just as bad as Mom and Dad’s. My wardrobe is almost empty; someone took all my winter coats. The gym uniform is gone. Even my old dusty Bye-Bye Puppy radio was taken.

  They can keep it. I’m into werewolves now.

  I change out of my pajamas into a t-shirt and jeans, and choose the most comfortable shoes I still have left. I lift my feet: they are dark red. The lie doesn't work anymore.

  Tears fill my eyes.

  Keep it together, Laurie. The thieves are gone. You're safe now. Blood can't hurt you.

  Sitting on the corner of my bed, I grab an old shirt, rubbing it against my stained feet. It feels better to get rid of the red. My eyes turn to the open door and what might be out there. For a long time, I do nothing. My stomach grumbles in rebellion. After Aunt Janice died, Dad said sometimes we have to keep moving. I understand what he meant now. I stand and follow his words.

  The light coming from my room reveals a trail of blood and guts, spread all over the floor. It stops at the bathroom door. I stare at it for a few seconds, hearing water drip from the other side of the door. With each drop shivers run by my spine.

  It’s on the way to the kitchen, I have to pass it if I want to eat. And something tells me I'm going to need to eat before leaving to look for my parents.

  My heart beats faster. I press my body hard against the opposite wall, and slide forward. The smell is even worse now. Whatever happened in there, I don't want to know. I run past it, and open the corridor door.

  Breathing is easier inside the kitchen, but the feeling of being watched never leaves me. I glance back, worried something lurks out there.

  The thieves from earlier emptied the kitchen too; taking knives, pans, food, but not the expensive silverware Mom used for guests. Inside the fridge there’s only a piece of cheese, a carton of milk, and some raw meat. I eat the cheese and drink the milk.

  Dad’s cell phone is on the counter. I turn it on and dial the police. The line is dead.

  The drugstore is only three blocks away. If there is any clue of where my parents are now, it has to be there. The front door is wide open, taunting me, but what if things are worse out there? I stare out the windows, searching for my neighbors. Even seeing Mrs. Patterson would've been a relief. The street is empty. An alarm rings in the distance. I know I have to leave, but…

  Behind me, something pounds against wood. Again and again. I spin around to face the corridor and dread clogs my throat.

  The bathroom door.

  By the third pound, the wood cracks and falls with the weight of a body. The person stands up, wobbling. He starts to move slowly at first, arms hanging in front of his arched body. Every step he takes is unbalanced, like Uncle John’s embarrassing dancing after too many beers. But then, he starts to jog. He’s too quick, he can’t be drunk.

  We're too close now. Too close. I step back, chills running over me. Light reveals his face as he staggers out of the corridor.

  I can see him now: it’s Karl, the thief from before. He sees me too.

  I take another step back. He’s hurt. The blood on the floor is his. It has to be. The left side of his pants is ripped apart, revealing a disgusting bloody wound, surrounded by dark lumps all over his exposed skin. He doesn't seem to care about any of that. Something isn’t right.

  “Are you okay, sir?” My voice trembles, and I gulp for air. “I didn't call the police. Please just leave.”

  He straightens up at the sound of my voice, letting out a loud laugh. It’s such a horrible sound, I wince. He sounds more like an animal, cackling madly, and stumbling to reach me with his black teeth exposed in a wide smile. He rushes toward me like a bull seeing red.

  My eyes widen. I bolt to the kitchen, looking for some kind of weapon. I burst open the silverware drawer, snatching the first thing my hand stumbles upon: a fork. As I twist around to escape, Karl leaps onto the counter beside me, hollering at the top of his lungs.

  I lunge and nail the fork in his right hand on the marble. I step back with triumph, hoping for a scream. Instead, he ignores the injury and tries to grab me using his free hand. I slip away and run to the front door.

  Behind me, something is being ripped apart.

  I'm almost there when he yanks me back by the hair. I scream and I hit him with my elbow. As I pull myself free, he falls backwards. I dash toward freedom, but before I reach the door, my feet trip over something hard and round.

  Heartbeat pounds against my chest. I turn around in time to see Karl getting up too. My hand fumbles over the floor and touches an object.

  It’s Dad’s golf club.

  I take it, forcing myself to stand. Karl lunges forward. I swing the club madly to keep him away. He barely notices the thing hitting his shoulders and sides, but it stops him from catching me.

  My arms feel heavy and it hurts to breathe. This isn’t working. I need to do something, like right now.

  Think Laurie. Stay cool, and think. What Dad told you about bullies?

  “Hit them where it hurts, Laurie. Hit them hard.”

  My gaze runs over the man, from his red-shot eyes to his torn stomach, then lower.

  The leg!

  His wound is full of pus, there’s no skin anymore, only exposed bone and pink muscle. If I hit it with enough force I can break his already weakened bone. It’s like my science teacher says: everyone bows to the law of gravity.

  I adjust my baseball grip and spread my feet just like Dad taught me. With all the strength I have left, I swing his favorite club. Time moves slowly; Karl raises his bloody hands. They almost grab my neck. His black nails are too close when I hear a crack.

  My swing lands hard and strong. Dad would be proud. Karl’s bone snaps in two, angling all the wrong ways. Part of it pierces skin and muscle, forcing itself out of the leg. Without the support, he crumbles down. It’s a hole-in-one.

  I dart through the door and stumble away from the house, falling down on the grass. As I turn my head, I notice Mom’s car is gone. Why? The drugstore is just—

  Karl growls behind me.

  I run, he follows. He’s slower, dragging his broken leg against the pavement, but I'm shorter and tired. Every breath burns.

  A shot cuts through the air. I duck and almost lose balance. Alive and unhurt, I glance back to see Karl’s body lying on the street, a pool of blood around it. I let out a sigh of relief, stopping to catch my breath. My hands and clothes are soaked in sweat.

  “Damn, missed it,” someone shouts. “You best keep running. He’s not dead.”

  Lightheaded, I turn around, searching for the owner of the voice, and possibly, the gun.

  “He’s going to get up anytime now. Start running.”

  I find the voice’s owner: Mrs. Patterson holds a rifle and stands on her rooftop. Seeing her carefully maintained front lawn full of dead bodies freezes me whole.

  “Didn't you hear me? I just got one bullet left. I can’t spend any more on you.”

  I don't want to run anymore. She might be the crazy cat lady from end of the street, but she just saved my life. I jog toward Mrs. Patterson’s house, avoiding the bodies on her lawn. The golf club goes on the grass. Somehow my legs still have the strength to climb the tree next to the house.

  “What in the blazes are you doing, girl?”

  “You have a gun. I’m staying with you.”

  I take a deep breath and jump from the tree onto the rooftop.

  “You are one brave little girl,” she says as she steadies me. “You are Erika Tanaka’s daughter, right?”

  “Yes.” I nod and catch my breath. “Please, Mrs. Patterson, what’s going on?”

  She adjusts her gardening apron before answering. “Haven't you heard? There’s a disease going around. Makes you crazy.” She makes circles with a finger next to her ear. “Do
esn't matter if you're already dead either.”

  I frown, cleaning the sweat from my face with a sleeve. “What kind of disease?”

  “Don’t ask me. From the looks of it, if someone bites you, you're a goner. Your skin turns yellow around the bite, after that comes the fever. In a few hours you're dead. Then, well, not dead and all that craziness.”

  I'm not listening anymore. Down on the lawn, Karl watches us, waiting with a toothy smile. As my mind connects the dots, I imagine his face transforming into one more familiar.

  Dad.

  My head spins, my chest hurts. I let myself fall, sitting on the tiles. I don't know how to breathe anymore. I choke a cry with both hands over my mouth.

  Mom lied to me.

  Dad’s fever in the middle of the night, Mom insisting it was only a dog bite, nothing some pills wouldn't fix, her eyes not quite meeting my own. She lied. She knew it wasn't just a dog bite. She knew Dad was about to become one of these horrible things.

  I don't think she went to the drugstore at all. Why else did she take the car? She didn't leave me behind. She took him away. To save me.

  The Hunter's Daughter I

  November 23rd, Monday, 8 am

  I fill my lungs with the smell of trees, trying to memorize the moment: golden leaves fallen by my feet, a gun strapped on my shoulder and sunlight warming my cheeks. I’m going to miss this. I know it’s stupid, but I do the same thing on every last day of deer season. Turns out, deep down, I’m sentimental. Very deep down.

  “Lily, keep up,” Father says, holding his rifle with both hands. I nod and jog to his side.

  We spend the better part of the morning tracking a big buck. The animal, eager to find a doe, takes us deep into the forest. It slips away every time we get too close. We don’t mind. If we wanted easy meat we could’ve just bought it wrapped in plastic by the nearest Super Savings Mart.

  The trail of crushed grass and hoof prints leads us to the river. To quench my thirst, I open my canteen and take slip of water. Meanwhile Father scans the trees in search of our target.