I stand and reach for the knife on the counter. He grabs me again…this time by the hair and I almost fall backward. At the last minute, I steady myself and grab the knife. My sobs grow louder each time I plunge the knife into his chest, but he doesn’t release his grip on me until I accidentally lodge the blade in his skull. This time when he falls to the floor, he doesn’t get back up.
I lean against the counter, gasping for air.
Mary.
I race back to the front door and fall to the floor beside my sister, fumbling with the cell phone until I finally dial the correct number. It’s busy. I hang up and dial 911 again. Same outcome. My heart is racing, and Mary’s skin is a mixture of gray and white; a death mask.
She doesn’t have long.
I throw the phone down and focus on applying pressure against the wide, gaping hole in the side of her neck.
“Mary,” I say, weeping. “I don’t know what to do.”
Her green eyes look up at me. She tries to say something that sounds like “I love you” but maybe that’s just what I wanted to hear. I use my free hand to stroke the side of her head gently. Her long, beautiful brown hair is matted with her blood; what doesn’t stick to those russet strands transfers to my shaky hands, staining them. Mary coughs, and blinks twice…then her eyes relax and glass over. Her mouth falls open.
She’s gone.
A loud, heartbroken sob escapes my lips. My sister, the one who’s always been there for me…from the first time a careless boy broke my heart to the last unfinished birthday dinner…is really and truly gone.
I sit on the floor beside her for another 30 minutes, dialing the number for emergency when I should be calling the coroner. My heart doesn’t want to stop crying, but I don’t have any tears left to give, so I dry heave until I can’t even do that. What am I going to tell our parents? How do I call home and say, “Hey, Mom. A crazy neighbor ripped Mary’s throat open this afternoon,” like it’s the most natural conversation starter in the world?
A soft moan escapes Mary’s lips, and she tries to move her head. The unexpected movement startles me; I cry and laugh at the same time. I was wrong…she’s not dead, after all. But I checked for a pulse, didn’t I? Nearly forty-five minutes ago, I checked it and there wasn’t a pulse. She wasn’t breathing. Maybe I’m going crazy. I reach down and rub her cheek with a shaky hand.
“Mary?” I whisper.
Her eyelids pop open. It’s Mary, but with a sickening sense of déjà vu, I notice that, like my neighbor who killed her, she’s different. Her green eyes are covered by a white, filmy substance. The veins in her face are bluer than normal, and they stand out like long crooked highways against her pale skin. Within seconds, she’s on top of me, trying to claw my face. I fight her…it…but I’m quickly losing strength, and the thing that used to be my sister is dangerously strong.
My arms go slack, and I resign myself to the fact that I’m also going to die, and our parents will never know what happened to the two daughters they loved so much. Just as I feel a pain in my shoulder, Mary slams into me and my face is covered in a warm fluid. It takes me a moment to realize the fluid is coming from what used to be my sister’s face. The jagged piece of metal impaling her nearly pierces my face.
I hear a man’s voice ask, “you okay, 401?” and my own voice answer, “I…I’m not sure” as he rolls Mary off me.
A tattooed hand reaches down to help me stand. “Come on. Let me check you.”
I rub the back of my head. It hurts, and I feel disoriented. “Check me? For what?” I ask, confused.
He yanks me to my feet. “There’s no time for questions, 401. Let me have a look at you.”
I turn in a slow circle while his eyes study me intently. I stop when I hear him whisper an expletive under his breath. I glance over my shoulder. “What is it?” I ask.
“It got you,” he says, gesturing to my right shoulder.
I twist my neck and shoulder until I can see the jagged gash.
The man snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Hey! Snap out of it, 401.”
I blink and try to focus on the face in front of me. The man is young, but older than me…maybe mid to late twenties. His raven black hair is cropped short, and he has dark blue eyes. Then I remember…I know him. Well, not exactly, but I know he lives in one of the apartments across the hall. I don’t know his name, but sometimes he smiles at me when we pass in the hallway. One time he even waved hello.
He grabs my arm and gives me a shake. “Listen to me. It’s not safe here. Do you think you can walk to the parking lot?” he asks.
A wave of exhaustion crashes down upon me. I don’t think I can walk to the couch, much less any real distance. I look at the man and whisper, “I’m not sure,” because it’s the truth.
He releases a frustrated sigh. “Do you have a first aid kit in here?”
I nod my head and point to the hall. “In the bathroom.”
He takes my hand. “Come on, let’s get you patched up, then we’re leaving.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the man silently cleans and dresses my wound. My bite. We don’t talk; he just moves his hands back and forth, only stopping to reach for different supplies, until finally he touches my lower back and says, “You’re good.”
I tilt my head to examine his handy work. “Not bad.”
He throws the last of the gauze in the trash can. “You’re lucky it didn’t get an artery. The flesh wound should heal. Do you have a bag? A suitcase?”
I nod.
“Go get it. Pack whatever you can fit. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“Why are we leaving?” I ask, confused. “And what do you mean I’m lucky it didn’t get an artery? What’s happening?”
He looks at me incredulously. “Have you not seen the news today?”
I shake my head. “I’ve been at work.”
“Where do you work? Under a rock?” he asks as he walks to my bedroom.
I follow him. “Well, kind of. I work in the records department of the library.”
He opens my closet, pulls out a red suitcase and tosses it on the bed. “Well, while you were at work, the world ended. So, pack your bags. I’m leaving the apartment, with or without you.”
I don’t move. “The world ended.” I repeat.
He paces the small room. “Notice all the wrecks? The sirens?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Everybody is dying. So, come on...nine minutes left,” he says, checking his watch.
I think back to the way my neighbor attacked Mary; at the way Mary attacked me after I thought she was dead. I can’t believe it. It’s like something out of a movie. Movies I never watched because I thought they were silly. They don’t seem so silly now. I walk to my closet and begin sifting through the clothes inside. The man stands in the doorway, watching me, making sure I stay on track. When I’m done, we walk to the front door.
He holds his hand up, stopping me. “Hold it. We need to make sure none of those things are in the hall.”
“What things….?”
“Shh!”
I remain quiet until he motions for me to follow him into the hallway. I stay close to him, scared but not fully understanding why.
“What’s happening?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. The news said something about heading to the shelter at the convention center.” He shrugs. “It might be worth checking out. If it’s not already full.”
We make it out of the apartment building without incident, but the parking lot is a different matter. There are several people stumbling around the lot, looking dazed. A woman trips over a cement block and falls to the pavement. I move to help her.
“What do you think you’re doing, 401?”
I point to the woman. “We need to help her.”
He shakes his head. “No, we need to get out of here. If you try to help that thing, you’ll be just as dead a
s it is.”
I look closer. He’s right. The woman has the same milky eyes and vicious snarl as my neighbor and Mary had. I turn back to the man standing beside me. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Later. Where’s your car?” he asks, scanning the lot.
“Mine? What about yours?”
He points to a small two-seater on the 2nd row. A woman is on the hood, screaming, fighting off two men. My first thought is they’re raping her…then I see them tear into her flesh and I realize rape is the last thing on their minds.
“You want to try to get to it?” he asks.
I realize I don’t have my purse. “Oh no…I left my keys on the…”
He dangles a set of keys in front of me. “I grabbed them, just in case. Now, where’s your car?”
I point to the silver car in the far corner of the lot; it’s nearly obscured by the low-hanging fog. I was upset earlier because it was the only parking space left by the time I got home from work, but now I’m thankful it’s so far from everything else. We sprint to the car. He pops the trunk and tosses our bags inside before climbing into the driver’s seat. I scramble into the passenger seat and buckle my seatbelt.
“Where is all this fog coming from?” I ask, looking around the parking lot.
“It’s not fog,” he says.
“What is it, then?”
“Smoke,” he says, sticking the key in the ignition.
He cranks the car and puts it in reverse. When he turns to look out the back window, his eyes meet mine. “My name is Aiden,” he says.
“I’m Allyson,” I say, dazed.
He shrugs. “I hope we live long enough for that introduction to matter.”
May 14, 2019
After leaving the apartment, we raced through the city in my silver sedan. The number of dead citizens seemed to multiply at each intersection, filling the sidewalks and streets like participants in a day of the dead parade. It wasn’t safe to stop the car…those who stopped became people who died, so we barreled into some of the things and swerved to miss others...I lost count of the vicious attacks we passed. After a few miles, we were flushed down a traffic drain in the heart of the city and eventually ended up in the parking lot of the large convention center.
“Do you think there’s still room in the shelter?”
“We better hope so. I don’t know where else to go, if there isn’t.”
So, we parked the car, pulled our bags from the trunk and made our way to the shortest intake line and waited like a herd of cattle headed straight to the slaughter. It took us two hours to make it to the door. During that time, I watched helplessly as people were attacked by the dead and the living. The intermittent sound of gunfire and screams were deafening; there were a few times I looked at Aiden and asked, “do you think we made a mistake coming here?” But it was too late to change our minds. Like it or not, we were stuck. My silver car…parked less than a block away, and still in sight…was obliterated by a runaway SUV forty-five minutes into our wait.
Once we made it inside the shelter, we were shuffled along the congested concourse until armed military personnel poured us out into the large stadium like a human soup. City police and first responders determined the level of triage needed, if any, then assigned cots in the middle of the huge room. Aiden and I lied and said we were married so they wouldn’t separate us.
The first night was rough. And loud. It was hard to sleep through the weeping and praying; you might think the sound of thousands of people, grieving, pleading, and singing children to sleep would have a haunting rhythm, but it doesn’t. It’s deafening and terrifying, and it keeps you awake until you’re too exhausted to hold your eyes open.
Then you sleep, but it’s not peaceful.
I open my eyes around 8:30 the next morning; they’re swollen and red-rimmed. I feel like I spent last night playing drinking games with frat boys at the university. But that’s not right…I didn’t know any frat boys in college…I was too much of a prude, and my parents were too strict, which is probably how I ended up majoring in library science.
I rub my temples.
I need aspirin.
Aiden is beside me, sitting on his cot, straining to hear the news on the television three rows over. The television is set to the local channel. A reporter is standing in the street, surrounded by people screaming, crying, and running in different directions. It takes me a few minutes to realize he’s standing at the entrance to the university.
Aiden leans forward.
“…you, Paula. As you can see, those still on campus are being moved to a central location in efforts to contain the outbreak. Mayor Stanley Bennett has issued a state of emergency in the city of Asheville. He is urging those with access to vehicles to either head to the shelter or evacuate the city as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Dan. What…the…local hospital?”
“…dead…are attacking…only long…enough…”
Aiden lets loose a string of curse words.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his hair, obviously frustrated. “The signal keeps cutting in and out.”
A woman on the cot next to us holds up a cell phone. “I don’t have a lot of battery left. I left the charger at the house,” she says, blushing. “That was dumb, huh? Anyway, the national outlets are posting updates online, if you want to have a look.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Aiden says, taking the phone.
I sit on the cot beside him and peer over his shoulder at the headlines jumping off the tiny screen.
OUTBREAK!!!
NEW YORK REPORTS OVER 200,000 FATALITIES IN THE FIRST 18 HOURS
CDC OFFICIALS HAVE YET TO RELEASE AN OFFICIAL STATEMENT
OFFICIALS PREDICT OUTBREAK WILL SPREAD TO RURAL AREAS SOON
BITES AND SCRATCHES ARE FATAL
Aiden hands the phone back to the woman with a polite thank you and motions for me to follow him.
“Stay close, okay?” he says.
I nod and move closer to his side. The shelter is large, but the crowd of people living in it is larger. There’s barely enough room to move through the concourse. The bathroom lines are abysmal. You can smell urine and feces in random corners and doorways, where people either couldn’t or wouldn’t wait their turn.
This is only day one. What will one week look and smell like?
I feel overwhelmed by all the people. “Where are they all coming from?” I ask Aiden.
“Same place we came from, I suppose. Just trying to find a safe place in the city.”
“I hope we found it,” I say softly.
He reaches for my hand and I let him take it. I try not to let it mean more than it does; he’s probably just making sure I don’t get lost in the crowd. Still, his palm feels nice against mine. I lift my other hand and touch the wound on my shoulder. Ahead, two police officers begin separating the crowd, sending those on the left further down the concourse, while those on the right are herded back into the stadium.
“Whatever you do, don’t let go of my hand,” he says.
We’re funneled down the concourse, pulled with the crowd until Aiden pulls me into an empty alcove.
“What are we doing?” I whisper.
“We need to talk,” he says. “Figure out a cover story for your bite.”
“Why?”
“You saw the headline. Bites are fatal.”
Fear wraps its long fingers around my throat and squeezes hard. I want to cry, but I’m too afraid to let the tears free. “How long do you think I have before I die?” I ask him quietly.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s in your best interest to let others know you’ve been bitten. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod. I understand perfectly. They may kill me to keep the virus from spreading.
“Until we know what they’re doing with those who’ve been attacked, keep your bite hidden,” he whispers. “Don’t let anyone see it. And if someone does
see it, tell them you must have gotten scratched by glass when you wrecked your car yesterday.”
“It doesn’t look like a scratch,” I remind him.
“It’s the best we’ve got, so stick with the story. Okay?”
I nod. “Will you stay with me until…”
He holds a hand up, silencing me. “I’m not planning your funeral yet, Allyson. They may be wrong. Or, they could find a solution. I’m sure every scientist in the country is working on a cure right now.”
“Unless they’re already dead.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that, so we exit the alcove and wade into the sea of people moving slowly along the concourse. Fifteen minutes later, we’re back at our cots, watching the television we can’t hear. I pull my knees close to my chest.
“What do we do now?” I ask him.
“Now, we wait.”
May 17, 2019
It’s been three days since Mary died.
72 hours.
The city is burning. When I try to glimpse the sun through the shelter’s large glass windows the smoke hides it from me, like some schoolyard bully. Eventually, I stopped trying. Aiden and I thought the shelter would provide sanctuary, maybe an eventual evacuation, but the longer we’re here the less convinced we are that help is coming. In fact, the military presence in the shelter seems to be drying up rather than multiplying. Yesterday, Aiden overheard remaining members of the military referring to the shelter as a hot zone and throwing terms around like sanitation and extraction.
Two days ago, we discovered those with bites or scratches are considered terminal. Yesterday, the wounded people living with us in the shelter proved that theory to be true.
They’re dying.
Then returning.
But not me.
I reach up and scratch the bite on my shoulder without really thinking about it. I should be dead by now, sick at the very least, but I’m healing. In fact, I’m as healthy as I was the day Aiden pulled me from our apartment building.
Revenants Series (Book 2): Remnants Page 17
