Fate

by V. A. Brandon

  Casey stood up abruptly. “You talk too much, you know that? Just what’ll it take to shut you up?”

  His “duh” expression was answer enough.

  “Fine!” she said, throwing her arms up in defeat. “I’ll go. Happy now?”

  Immediately, Cain and Ashley started protesting.

  But thanks to Vlogman, she was getting the jitters herself – she had no idea if Roy’s corpse would attract the infected or repel them. And while she was pretty certain they weren’t attracted to the corpses of other infected beings, Roy was somewhat of a unique case.

  She hated this feeling. The not knowing.

  And being a potential sitting duck waiting to die.

  “You guys stay here. I’ll take the truck and do this alone,” Casey said, walking toward Roy.

  Her twin swore loudly. “We barely got out of Cedar Ridge Trail alive, and you want to risk your life again? Why? Because this whiny pond scum thinks you should?”

  Wisely, Vlogman kept his mouth shut this time around.

  No, it’s because I want to draw this awful feeling away from you and Ashley.

  “It’ll be quick,” she said, unable to look Cain in the eye. “The second I light Roy on fire, I’ll jump into the truck and get the hell out of there.” Before he could reply, she waved her friend over. “I have to put Roy in the backseat, so could you get the gasoline and a box of matches for me?”

  “Um … sure.” Confused and a little afraid, Ashley headed outside to the shed to get the requested items.

  “Then let me help,” Cain said fiercely. “C’mon, Kay, let’s do this together.”

  “And leave Ashley alone with Vlogman?” Casey smiled as uncertainty settled over his face. “Honestly, it’ll be faster if I go by myself.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  No. “Definitely.” She gave him a bright smile, trying to ignore how wretchedly nervous she really was.

  It took about twenty minutes to get everything piled into the truck. To avoid getting into another back-and-forth about why she shouldn’t go, Casey hurriedly slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind her.

  “Don’t loiter outside waiting for me,” she said, manually rolling down the window. “I’ll be back before you know it.” And before she could wimp out, she turned the ignition on and slowly made her way out of the clearing, expelling a deep, shaky breath to alleviate the heavy sensation lodged in her chest.

  * * *

  With all the window-rattling snores emanating from the two culprits zonked out on either side of the room, there would be no sleep for Mike tonight.

  Cursing under his breath, he tossed his blanket aside and glanced over at Trey, who was lying on his back and sleeping like the dead. If it wasn’t for his chest rising and falling, Mike might have actually attempted CPR. Couldn’t the boy hear the rumbling freight trains, aka Mr. Rothstein and Myrtle? Oh, to be young and carefree again, possessing the uncanny ability to sleep through end-of-days disasters and literal snorefests …

  After pulling his jacket on, he listlessly fingered the blood-filled syringes in his left pocket and the remote car key in his right, which he’d swiped off the hypochondriac’s desk. As he stood there staring at his sleeping companions, he wondered what he should do next. The logical step would be to slip into another office and get his much-needed shut-eye; but now that Mike was fully awake, something else began filling his thoughts.

  No … not something, but someone – namely, the seven other volunteers who’d gotten the experimental vaccine from Dr. Miriam Rothstein. Were they taking refuge in the provided addresses, or had some managed to cross the border? And had they experienced certain … improvements to their minds and bodies, the way Mike and Mr. Rothstein had?

  Stop it. It’s all anecdotal. Pushing aside his troubling train of thought, Mike ambled out of the office and soon found himself standing outside, staring up at the star-strewn night sky and wondering exactly how nine people were supposed to vaccinate millions – maybe tens of millions, if the infection had spread across the borders – without getting themselves killed in the process.

  He spied a row of neatly parked cars to his right, most of them luxury automobiles. As usual, the college student in him wondered what kind of enviable salary they’d earned on an annual basis to drive these around for work and not for impressing chicks.

  It was a world long gone now, something he would never get to experience for himself.

  Out of curiosity, and just sheer boredom, Mike fished the remote key out and pointed it toward the parked cars. Did one of them belong to the hypochondriac?

  The sudden “beep, beep” sound in the cool air indicated that it did. Mike released a low whistle as he strode toward the black Maserati. It would be a waste not to take this beauty for a nightly drive.

  Idiot. You can’t leave the others and go for a joyride.

  The second his butt settled into the expensive leather seat, Mike hesitated. It wasn’t as if they were in any immediate danger, anyway. If they stayed asleep and didn’t cause a ruckus, things would be fine. He’d also been meaning to drive to the border to check out the situation there, so what better time than when he was alone and could finish the task in three hours?

  Of course, there was the small matter of the infected to consider and their supercharged nocturnal traits.

  He pulled out the syringes from his pocket and carefully placed them on the passenger seat. Before going to bed, he’d asked Mr. Rothstein to draw out his blood, which his elderly friend had done without much fuss. The expression on his face, however, had been anything but serene. The entire time he was filling up the syringes, one unspoken question had hung over them like a bright, neon sign.

  WHY?

  “According to your daughter, our blood is more fatal to the infected than pointy tools or bullets,” Mike had muttered, answering the pianist’s silent inquiry as he pressed a cotton ball against his arm.

  “You’re saying you’ll use your blood as a weapon?”

  Unfortunately, their conversation had come to an abrupt halt when Myrtle, who’d had clearly overheard them, stared at them in suspicion. “What are you two doing?”

  “Nothing for you to be worried about.” And with that brusque response, Mike had lain down on the carpeted floor, surreptitiously hiding the syringes inside the pocket of his jacket.

  Now here he was, actually considering going on a drive, all alone and armed with three small syringes filled with his vaccinated blood.

  It was complete madness.

  Then again, the thought of checking the lay of the land with Myrtle and Trey sitting in the back was more trouble than it was worth. Better to get it over and done with tonight.

  Before the weaker part of him could convince him to stay, Mike drove the Maserati out of the parking lot, his heart already swept away by the smoothness of the ride.

  Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

  His rash decision may have ramped up the danger to his life – in fact, this might even be the stupidest thing he’d attempted to do since the start of the infection – but he sure as hell was going to enjoy the fleeting moment.

  It would be a final gift to himself, a rueful reminder of what could’ve been if he hadn’t been condemned to this new, virus-ridden reality.

  Chapter 22

  It was just dumb luck that Casey had stumbled across the perfect spot for Roy’s cremation.

  A picnic area with rectangular cement tables and benches … at least she wouldn’t need to worry about setting the local flora on fire. She paused, studying her surrounding vicinity for a full minute. It seemed safe … for now. No shadowy movements or spine-tingling noises reminiscent of a slithering snake. If she was going to cremate Roy’s body, she had to do it fast.

  The second she lifted Roy’s plastic-wrapped corpse, she winced, almost dropping him. He felt softer and more watery than before. Unimaginable liquids sloshed and mingled inside as she carried him over to the cement table. Maybe V
logman had been right, after all. There was something deeply unsettling about Roy’s rapidly deteriorating condition, and a small part of her was glad that she’d finally caved and agreed to remove his body from the lake house.

  She went back to the truck, swallowing the gorge rising in her throat as she carried the bags containing Roy’s innards. Now these were definitely liquefied.

  Hurry. Stop wasting time.

  And most importantly, she had to stop overthinking.

  Driven by renewed urgency, Casey poured gasoline over his body, taking pains to avoid splashing it on herself. The plastic prevented the flammable liquid from sticking, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It would have to do.

  “Goodbye, Roy,” she said, striking a match on the friction pad in an outward motion. “I hope you’re at peace now.” She watched the tiny flame flicker and undulate for a few seconds, then tossed it at Roy’s feet.

  The result was satisfyingly instant. But she had forgotten one crucial factor in all of this commotion – namely, the release of dioxin from the burnt plastic and the dangers it posed.

  Time to go. Now.

  Coughing violently, Casey stumbled toward the truck, her vision a blurry mess. She’d left the door to the driver’s seat open, which was just as well – her ears had detected a slithery movement coming up from behind.

  Seriously? Now of all times, when I’m fricking half blind?

  As her terror escalated, she tumbled forward and fell into the tattered leather seat. The second her fingers scrabbled behind her to swing the door shut, something with the dreadful force of a barreling bull on steroids slammed into the truck.

  The bone-crushing impact tipped the massive vehicle over, violently throwing Casey over to the passenger side.

  I’m dead, she thought, panicking, before common sense swiftly kicked her in the butt. No, wait, not dead yet. But she was trapped inside this metal coffin, unable to feel her limbs.

  It was a fate far worse than instant death – she had been reduced to a wounded, helpless animal to be toyed with by these cannibalistic infected.

  Gingerly, Casey wriggled her fingers and toes, then exhaled a sigh of desperate relief. It wasn’t as dire as she’d first thought. She was bruised and battered, yes, but still had control of her body. There was a glimmer of hope that she could make it out of here alive.

  You sure about that? Take a look outside.

  To stifle her pessimistic inner voice, she did.

  And saw three infected beings prowling around the truck. One was dressed in bright red and yellow, which she recognized as the uniform from a local burger joint. Despite the pain throbbing through her body, it didn’t escape her notice that he was extremely handsome, like some Hollywood movie star.

  Well, a movie star starring as a gray-skinned zombie, anyway.

  Their silence was eerie, and Casey wondered why they were simply circling around her. It didn’t make sense. From what she’d observed, they shifted into silent killer mode at night, boasting incredible speeds rivaling the fastest creatures on land. So why was she still alive?

  Not that she was complaining, of course.

  Come on … think! There has to be a way out of this. As she frantically searched for an answer, her gaze landed on poor Roy.

  Roy, an innocent jock who had died in the worst way possible, all because of her stupid eagerness resulting from simplistic delusions.

  The flames from his burning corpse danced higher toward the night sky like a votive offering, and with grim realization, she knew what had to be done.

  Gritting her teeth, she reached for a large, jagged piece of glass and gripped it tightly in her right hand. Then, without a shred of hesitation, she slashed the open palm of her left hand, digging in deeper to encourage more blood to flow out.

  Two of the infected halted on the spot.

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” she crooned under her breath, cupping the pooling blood. “Time for a midnight snack.” And she flicked her blood out of the broken windshield, close to where they were standing.

  In the blink of an eye, the one in blue coveralls was already in prostration, slurping on Casey’s blood with insatiable need. The back of his head had been smashed in, giving him a lopsided look.

  The effect was immediate.

  Just as it had been with Roy, the infected suddenly slumped over and began twitching on the pavement.

  Unlike Roy, however, this one’s consciousness didn’t return to him. He simply expired where he lay after several bouts of violent spasms, dark blood oozing out of his nostrils.

  Why? What was different this time?

  But these questions had to take a backseat to what was happening now; the remaining infected had closed in on her, standing on either side of the truck.

  That spine-tingling, rattling noise filled the air again.

  And this time she understood, just like a Serengeti wildebeest knows when it has been irrevocably cornered by predators.

  Her luck had finally run out.

  * * *

  Mike grinned to himself as the wind whipped through his tousled hair. He hadn’t had this much fun in ages. When was the last time he’d test-driven an automobile, and a luxury one at that, without the watchful gaze of some sanctimonious douchebag?

  Answer? Never. As a poor college student, he’d never even set foot inside one of those luxury car dealerships reserved only for an exclusive clientele. Hell, he’d barely been making ends meet as it was.

  “Thank you, hypochondriac,” he said, chuckling softly. “And I hope you don’t mind if I borrow this for a while.”

  Operative word being borrow, not take; ‘cause there was a difference, at least to Mike.

  Feeling somewhat chilled from the wind, he closed the window with a click of a fancy-looking button, feeling impressed all over again.

  During the ride, he had passed several abandoned cars, one of which had almost caused an accident. And luckily for him, he hadn’t run into any nocturnal infected (knock on wood), although he was pretty certain something had followed him along the periphery of the woods flanking the road.

  Was it an infected? Or just a curious deer?

  Whatever it was, he hadn’t slowed down to find out.

  As some of his excitement died down, his thoughts veered toward the seven volunteers. Even if he and Mr. Rothstein managed to find some of them, there was no guarantee that they would join the cause. And Mike wouldn’t blame them, either, if they vehemently opposed the idea. After all, who in their right minds would voluntarily offer their precious blood to masses of ungrateful louts, without some sort of incentive and protection?

  The best thing to do was to lay low and, as Mr. Rothstein had suggested, undertake tests on a few willing adults. But not until they found these volunteers; something this burdensome had to be decided as a group.

  Growing vexed again, Mike popped open the glove compartment and pushed a hand in, searching for some kind of confection. It’d be nice if hypochondriac had a stash of candy or a pack of bubble gum.

  Turned out he or she was more of a black licorice kind of person. Mike hated licorice.

  But he ate them nonetheless, just because they were the only things in there. And one day, they would become rare commodities in this new world infected with crazy cannibals, so Mike savored them as he bit off, chewed, and swallowed these weird-tasting sticks, gagging once in a while for good measure.

  As he was finishing off his third stick, he noticed a bright light in the distance up ahead.

  “Now what?” he muttered, feeling more annoyed than curious. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was fire, and his frustration grew ten-fold. What kind of idiot thought having a bonfire in the woods was a great idea? Especially at night, when infected beings were at their peak?

  And what kind of idiot goes on a joyride in the middle of night without telling anyone, while super predators roam the woods and roads?

  Ah … touché.

  Running his tongue over his licorice-stained teeth, Mike sl
owed the car and came to a stop near a thicket bursting with foliage. He peered through the leaves, frowning. There were two males standing on either side of a dusty, red-colored pickup truck that had flipped over. Had there been an accident? Why were they just standing there like creepy mannequins?

  Before Mike lost interest and went on his merry way, the two males – with incredible speed – grabbed the doors and ripped them off the truck like wet cardboard.

  A bloodcurdling scream issued from the red truck, and Mike, without stopping to think rationally, charged the Maserati at the offenders.

  Offenders? Please. They’re the super predators you’ve been hoping to avoid all night.

  What was that cheerful bit about how he “hadn’t run into any nocturnal infected (knock on wood)” during the ride?

  Well, too late to back out now.

  He pressed down on the gas pedal and hurtled toward the infected, realizing with some fascination that, unlike before, his eyes could now follow their inhuman movements. Was this yet another side effect, courtesy of Dr. Miriam’s experimental vaccine?

  Whatever it was, he prayed that they wouldn’t fail him at the most inopportune moment.

  Mike narrowly missed hitting the bigger of the two, but the other one slammed head-on into the hood of the vehicle and clung on, staring at Mike just inches from the windshield. Gritting his teeth, Mike sped up and rammed the car into the massive trunk of an oak tree, effectively pinning the infected.

  But it wasn’t nearly enough, because that damn thing was still moving.

  He grabbed a syringe and jumped out of the car, moving as fast as he possibly could. A small part of him felt a strange sense of déjà vu, like something similar had happened before, but he brushed off the disruptive thought and lurched forward with the hypodermic needle.

  The needle met flesh, and Mike watched with grim satisfaction as the plunger pushed his blood into its grimy neck. Furious, the infected took a violent swipe at him, but Mike ducked away easily.