Gun (Gun Apocalypse Series Book 1)

by Lee Hayton

  Then she saw Mikey.

  He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand. Sleepy. He was dressed in an oversized T-shirt and nothing else. If she hadn't known better, Rebekah would have mistaken him for a girl. Paired with his blond curls, the shirt looked like a dress. He was holding something heavy in his right hand. The weight elongated his arm and pulled his body to the side.

  “What have you got there, Mikey?” Rebekah whispered, the sound carrying in the still darkness.

  The boy didn't answer, and Becca walked an anxious step closer, craning her neck to see what was in his hand.

  “Do you want to go back to bed?”

  Mikey shook his head from side to side. He looked down at his hand, at the object she still couldn't fully see.

  Until he raised it.

  Using both hands, elbows bent under the weight, Mikey pointed a gun at Rebekah's head.

  Blain

  Blain opened his eyes. It seemed a voice had chased him out of sleep, but as he strained to listen, the house was silent. The room was dark, still night. He couldn't remember what time he’d gone to sleep, but it had still been light out—at a guess, four or five hours earlier than his regular bedtime.

  He slid his fingers along his gashed thigh. Careful not to ignite the pain, he felt along the surface of the bandage for the hard edge of the bullet. Without touching the wound, he already knew the disease was expunging it from his body.

  Blain clenched his teeth hard, placed his forefinger over the base of the slug, and pushed against the bandage until the bullet slid deeper into his thigh.

  Sweat dripped in a stream from his hairline, and his fist bunched the sheets beside him so hard that his nails popped through the thick cotton to dig into his palm. Minutes stretched out like days as pain ruled his paralyzed body.

  When it started to lessen, Blain sat up and swung his legs off the bed. The packet of Tylenol on his nightstand was empty. The kitchen seemed a mile away, but the dawn was even further still. He couldn’t wait for someone to come in and check on him. Nor did he want to shout for help into the silence of the house.

  A creak sounded from a floorboard in the living room. Blain knew it well. As a child, creeping into the room, desperate not to be heard, he'd stepped on it dozens of times. It was about a yard away from the fireplace. His mother's hearing had always been on a hair trigger, as though attached by a physical link to the floor.

  He heard a querulous whisper, the noise that woke him. Alert now, Blain rose and moved to the door. He relaxed when he recognized Becca’s voice, talking in a sing-song cadence. Young Mikey must've gone sleepwalking or needed the bathroom.

  “Becca?” Blain whispered. Receiving no response, he shuffled a few steps farther, his muscles trembling. “Becca, could you help me?”

  “Where'd you get the gun, Mikey?”

  The terrified voice carried to him as though Becca had whispered straight into his ear. Adrenalin strengthening his muscles, Blain sprinted the yards into the living room. Fear propelled him through the pain barrier. He skidded to a stop six feet from the fireplace.

  Mikey had the gun from his bedside table.

  Mikey was pointing it at Becca.

  Blain looked carefully at the boy. Sweat had matted Mikey’s blond hair. It was drying now, the fever gone. But even in the dim light, it was evident the boy wasn’t well. Blain’s leg pulsed and squeezed, working at the bullet.

  “Mikey?” Blain said. The boy turned an expressionless face toward him, and Blain flashed in horror back to his own blank mind, unable to think in the grip of the disease.

  A shopping mall. Target practice.

  “Mikey.” He pitched his voice louder, enough to wake someone from even a deep sleep. “Mikey, give me the gun.”

  Mikey looked him up and down before his gaze returned to Becca. The aim of the gun never wavered.

  Shoot him. You need to shoot him.

  The rifles from the barn were now stacked in the old umbrella stand next to the back door. Blain ran to them, crossing directly between Mikey and Becca. If he couldn’t reach the gun, maybe he could draw Mikey’s fire.

  No shots. Blain grabbed the tallest rifle and spun on his heel. Raising the weapon, he wished he could flip a switch and illuminate the scene. The moonlight would have to do.

  Blain closed one eye and drew an imaginary line to Mikey. First at the chest, as his dad had taught him, then down the boy’s torso to his legs.

  What legs? The boy was tiny.

  “Stop!”

  Annie stood by the bedroom door. Her hair was wild, and her eyes darted in frantic jerks. She held both palms out toward Blain, shaking them.

  “Don't hurt him.” Annie advanced toward Blain. “He’s sick. He’s not himself. Don’t hurt him.”

  “Talk to your son.” Blain jerked the barrel at Mikey.

  Fear compressed Annie’s features, and Blain saw the truth. She’d known. He’s sick. She knew what that meant, what that caused.

  “If you don’t get him to put down the gun, I have to shoot him.”

  “He's just a boy,” Annie pleaded. “I'm sure he won't really hurt her.”

  “Tell him to stop, then,” Becca yelled. “Mikey, you listen to your mom.”

  “Mikey, love?” Annie’s voice trembled, wavering in doubt. “Mikey, hun. Put the gun down and come to Mommy.”

  Mikey didn't even turn his head.

  “He's got the disease,” Blain said. “The only way to stop him is with a bullet.”

  “What are you talking about?” Annie asked. “There's nothing wrong with him.”

  “For God's sake, Annie,” Becca screamed. “He's pointing a gun at me. Make him stop.”

  “I won’t hurt him too badly. But only a bullet will halt the disease. Trust me, I know.”

  “What are you doing?” Annie screamed. Blain ignored her. All his focus was used up on the line of sight between the rifle and Mikey's thigh. She rushed him, the movement catching him off guard. A shot, fired from the gun, went wild. A puff of plaster and dust fell from the ceiling just above Mikey's head.

  Both desperate, Blain fought Annie for the gun. In his weakened state, she was an equal match.

  “Mikey?” A new voice in the dark room, Frankie stood beside the sofa, just a yard to Becca’s left. “Mikey, put the gun down, love. We can have ice cream.”

  Annie's elbow caught Blain on the side of his jaw. He fell, his leg collapsing. She pulled the rifle from his grasp.

  Blain pushed himself to his knees and saw Becca, Mikey, and Frankie paused in a grisly tableau.

  “Tell him to put down the fucking gun, Annie,” Blain yelled.

  A gunshot swallowed the end of his sentence.

  Everybody froze.

  Seizing his chance, Blain rose to his feet and tugged at the rifle in Annie's hands. When she didn’t let go, he punched her in the jaw to weaken her hold.

  Mikey had transformed into a robotic killing machine, and she wasn't helping.

  He lined up the target again. He fired. Mikey fell to the floor, screaming.

  As Annie ran to her son, Blain sprinted to Becca. She still stood in place but her fingers were interlocked across her belly. When he touched her shoulder, Becca’s eyes opened wide in hopelessness. She sank to her knees.

  “He shot me.” Becca’s face clouded with confusion. “He shot me.”

  Blain reached his arms around Becca's shoulders, guiding her to lie flat on the floor. He tenderly pulled her hands away from the injury.

  A dark spurt of blood fired up to splash the cream tiles of the ceiling. An arterial spray. As he quickly felt the edges of her wound, another pulse stained his fingers red.

  Too much blood.

  “Frankie!” Blain called, turning.

  As Frankie landed on her knees beside him, a gun slid across the polished floorboards. Annie finally disarming her son.

  “Grab a cushion. Apply pressure here. As hard as you can.” She leaned forward tentatively. Blain lifted her feet and pressed down her
shoulders, so her full weight targeted the wound. “Like that.”

  Becca gasped as her chest compressed.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, cradling her head. He looked into her eyes. Moonlight reflected off them, the pupils wide and inky black.

  Her hands reached for his. Grabbed them. Sticky with her own blood.

  “I’ll make sure you’re okay,” Blain whispered, leaning his forehead forward to rest on hers.

  “No.”

  He pulled back and forced a smile. “Becca, I promise. It's just a flesh wound.”

  She opened her mouth, and a dark bubble inflated outward and burst, spattering her pale cheeks with crimson. Blain leaned in closer, smoothing hairs from her brow.

  “Becca, you'll be fine.”

  She coughed, each exhalation draining energy from her body, animation from her face. Tears swelled up in Blain’s eyes, splashing onto the soft pillow of her cheek.

  “You’re okay, Becca. Stay with me.”

  “That's not. . .” Her voice trailed into silence, her eyes closing.

  Blain shook her. “What's that?”

  He leaned in closer, ear touching her lips.

  “That's not my name,” she managed, halting after every word. “I’m Rebekah.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Annie

  In the shocked silence that followed Rebekah’s death, Blain confessed all to Frankie. The illness. The rampage. The wound. The cure.

  Focused on Mikey, Annie missed some of it, intent on saving her son’s life. As soon as she’d bent back his fingers to force the gun from his hand.

  Blain’s gunshot had gouged along the side of Mikey’s lower thigh. Annie cleaned away the excess blood to reveal a deep graze with defined edges. Although Annie wished she could take Mikey’s pain for herself, at least the wound was something she could dress and monitor for healing.

  She sat and rocked Mikey on the bed until his breaths softened and deepened into sleep. The bed wouldn’t be a safe option. Instead, Annie placed pillows on the hardback chair before seating Mikey there.

  When he started to stir, she clucked softly and stroked his hair until he fell back asleep. The belt from her shorts easily fitted around his small torso, securing his arms by his sides at waist height. Annie looped it through the slats on the back of the chair, then buckled it fast and tight behind him.

  Secure the patient with ropes or bindings, so they can’t get free.

  Annie ducked her head and screwed her eyes up, tensing her stomach muscles as she forced back the tears. No time for emotion until she and Frankie were safe. The guilt could wait until morning.

  As she walked back into the living room, Annie stopped and grabbed another rifle from the umbrella stand. Blain was slumped on the sofa, head in hands. Frankie sat on a stool in the kitchen, the gun Mikey had used in front of her.

  Rebekah’s body lay where she’d fallen, now covered with a sheet.

  Annie cleared her throat. Frankie turned then slid down from the stool. Blain didn’t move, didn’t seem to register her presence.

  Unlike Mikey, he couldn’t be secured with a belt.

  “We need you out of the house,” Annie said. She circled the room to stand in front of him. Frankie shadowed her movements on the other side. “There’s a cage out in the barn. I need you to walk there now.”

  Blain took his hands away from his face. His skin was streaked with Rebekah’s blood except where tears had washed it away.

  He opened his mouth and held a hand out, then his shoulders slumped. He nodded and pushed himself up slowly from the couch.

  As they walked outside, the first pink light of dawn glowed on the horizon. Blain staggered as they reached the barn. Annie’s shoulders tensed, and her finger tightened on the trigger.

  He stretched a hand out to support his weight against the barn door. After a minute, he straightened and moved aside as Annie unlocked the door.

  The smell of rot washed out in a wave, choking her. Annie breathed shallowly through her mouth.

  Inside the barn, the darkness hid the gruesome sights stacked along the wall. Blain knew the path better than she did, walking straight toward the cage.

  “I’m not a bad person,” he said as she locked him inside. He rested his face against the bars, one hand stretching out to touch her.

  Annie jumped out of range. She turned and fled back outside, slamming the door shut behind her. The key was still hooked onto her belt loop. Annie put down the rifle and unthreaded it.

  She bounced it on the palm of her hand, looking out toward the fields awaiting their spring planting. For a second, she curled it into her fist, then drew her arm back to throw.

  What are you doing? You can’t leave him in there to die.

  As her arm arched forward, her fist tightened instead of loosening, the key still safely in her hand.

  Blain’s story sounded like a grotesque fairy tale. Magic bullets to stop monsters in their tracks. But if this magic worked, Annie would be able to keep Mikey safe, to force the disease into check.

  It was an option until they reached a better time, a more secure place, where people in authority could tell her what to do.

  Until they could find more information.

  Until they could find a real cure.

  She bounced the key in her hand again, looking at the splintered wood of the barn door. Annie closed her fist around it and stooped to pick up the rifle.

  She didn’t need to make the decision right now.

  Frankie

  Frankie squeezed Mikey tightly in a confining bear hug as Annie pressed the slug from a bullet into his thigh. He squirmed, and Frankie squeezed tighter, her lower lip curling in distaste. She pressed his face into her shoulder, so she didn’t have to look at him.

  “There we go. That didn’t hurt too much, did it?” Annie said in her brightest mommy's voice. Annie pulled Mikey into her own arms and stroked his hair back from his forehead.

  Frankie backed up two steps, rubbing her arms as though a tickling cavalcade of spiders had just run over them. They ached from the hours spent digging a grave for Rebekah; even with the soil turned already, the task had been exhausting.

  While Annie sang a scale of nonsense rhymes to her son, Frankie crept away into the washroom. She lathered soap in a cleansing bubbling foam up to her elbows, rinsed, then dried them with the thick hand towel.

  She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to gauge if her pink cheeks were the result of exertion or a fever. With so must exposed contact with Blain and Mikey, surely Annie and she were infected now as well.

  Frankie stared into the mirror, eyes searching for any changes. All that stared back at her were the same features as normal. Experiences had been transcribed into her memory, not her face.

  In the kitchen, a set of keys sat on the counter, one large, one small. Frankie picked them up and slipped them into her pocket. At the creak of an aging floorboard, she turned to see Annie walk in holding Mikey’s hand.

  He smiled at Frankie and ran forward to grab her leg. She stumbled back and gave a frantic shove at his shoulders. Every inch of her skin began to itch and crawl.

  Mikey stared at her from his large, blue eyes. A sheen appeared on their surface. His lower lip wobbled.

  “I’m a strong little man,” he said, a hitch in his voice.

  As sorrow and revulsion fought a battle inside Frankie’s churning gullet, Annie reached over to touch her on the shoulder.

  “It’s starting to work already,” she said. “Even his body language has gone back to normal.”

  Frankie nodded, while her mind broadcast a blinding flash of gunfire in the darkness. When Mikey stuck his thumb into his mouth, Frankie forced her lips into a facsimile of a smile.

  “So, can we let Blain out?”

  Annie’s back straightened. “No. I don’t trust him.”

  “But you do trust Mikey?” Frankie’s voice crawled with incredulity.

  Annie stared, chewing her bottom lip. Seconds turned in
to minutes. Finally, she shook her head again.

  “Mikey’s small. We can overpower him.” She shrugged and shook her head. “We don’t have the same advantage with Blain.”

  “So we’re just leaving him locked out here?” Frankie’s lip curled. “You just expect me to leave him to die?”

  Annie shook her head again. “I don’t want to leave him in the barn to die.” She bent and hugged Mikey back toward her, nuzzling her nose into the side of his neck.

  She looked up at Frankie, her gaze level. “I’m going to shoot him.”

  Bile surged up Frankie’s throat, burning, while cold fingers traced a shiver down her spine. Her vocal cords knotted, leaving her a voice thinner than a whisper. “Then you’re no better than him.”

  Annie lifted Mikey to her right hip. “He’s a murderer. He admitted that himself.”

  Frankie looked over Annie’s shoulder at the mound of dirt scarcely covering her best friend. Her head filled with a rushing roar of blood and looked down at her feet.

  “We don’t have to decide now,” Annie said, her voice a backed with a steel rod of control. “We need to pack up the cars. Scavenge what supplies we can.”

  Frankie nodded, not lifting her head. Regardless of Annie’s suggestion, there was no way she’d stay here. The memories engraved with a butchers blade in her head were bad enough without the constant triggers.

  When Annie spoke next, her voice was lighter. Relieved. “I’ll start upstairs. There’s a ton of stuff in the attic. You pack up all the food in here.”

  This time Frankie looked up before she nodded. “Okay.”

  #

  Before unlocking the barn door, Frankie checked over her shoulder for signs of movement from the house. Nothing stirred. She opened the door only wide enough to slip inside and pulled it closed behind her.

  At the first breath, the stench inside the barn stormed through Frankie’s nostrils. When the fetid stink of rotting meat hit her stomach, it churned and roiled with distress. She gagged and held her arm across her face, primal fear and revulsion igniting in her belly.