by Lisa Acerbo
“If only.”
She tilted her head. “If only what?”
The wink was comical. “If only I could score a beautiful babe in this less than lovely world.”
“And where would you find one?”
“There’s one close by.”
“At camp? Who are you interested in?”
“Never mind.” Quentin exhaled.
“I want to know.”
“You already do.”
“I don’t. Really. Tell me.”
“Let’s drop this conversation.” He called to Billy.
“All good here.” Billy’s voice sounded far away.
At the pharmacy, long-ago hair dye and serums had bled upon and decorated the shelves.
Please let there be toothpaste. The baking soda the group used is less than lovely.
“Look here.” She licked her lips. “Chapstick. I miss it so much.” The tube dropped into the bag.
Quentin salvaged a half bled out bottle of shampoo and a rat chewed, dried wedge of soap. He stopped in front of a torn and ransacked makeup display.
“Can I buy something to pretty you up?”
“Funny. Ha. Ha.” Her voice remained deadpan.
He plucked the cap off a tube of bright red lipstick. “I was going to ask you to the prom next week and thought you needed a new lipstick shade to match the color of your dress.”
She studied the color. Something looked familiar, but she couldn’t dredge up the memory. “Red? You’d dress me in red?”
“I would have enjoyed taking you to the prom and the after-party. Couldn’t care less about the color of your dress.”
“Stop.” The word came out petulant.
“Maybe we would have skipped the party and went straight to the hotel room.” He waggled his eyebrows.
She stepped back. “You’re being an ass.”
A thump from the back of the store silenced a longer retort.
“Time to go.” There was an edge to his words. “We don’t know what the noise was, but It’s probably Billy or the rest of the group. Let’s grab the pharmacy stuff and skedaddle.”
“Who says skedaddle?” She stuffed the lipstick in her pocket without thought.
“Grab whatever, and let’s go.” He pilfered random items, not looking at what they were.
She sneered at the sight of her partner holding a box of condoms and opened her mouth to say something but sucked in decay and death.
A Streaker lurched out of the shadows.
“Damn”—the word came out as a whisper, then she found her voice—“We’re screwed.”
How could she have forgotten? Always be careful—more than careful.
The lackadaisical attitude she and Quentin had shared could now bring death.
“Damn.” The beat of her heart accelerated.
We just killed a bunch of these shits. Can’t there be a few Streaker free weeks? We normally don’t get new hordes for weeks. Nope. Not this time.
“Let’s get out of here.” The words were ripped from between Jenna’s clenched teeth. The deformed corpse lunged with unexpected athleticism.
She ran, blinking away the fear. The fetid, decomposing monster following her as she skidded around the edge of the bakery kiosk was close enough that it blurred into a Picasso painting, face rearranged, a pallet of murky brown, green, and gray.
Her sprint intensified.
Outside, she spun in a full circle hoping to catch a glimpse of Emma or Billy.
“They’re not here.”
“I didn’t see them inside either.” Quentin huffed the words.
She prayed they hadn’t been trapped by other Streakers inside.
The rest of the group had vanished, except for Quentin who’d remained in step with her.
“Next door.” He dragged her along. “Inside.”
“What if we get trapped?”
Ducking inside a Quick Mart, he grabbed an empty magazine rack, hauling it in front of the door. “Have to hide somewhere. Outside we’re too unprotected, and noise from a fight will bring more of them.
There wasn’t a lot of room in the small store. She kicked away empty cigarette packs, plastic bottles, and discarded remnants of lotto tickets. There was a kiosk where coffee had once been prepared. Remnants of shattered pots melted together with brown stains, but at least no high shelving.
A flimsy barrier wouldn’t stop the Streaker for long, but it might allow for a few extra seconds for them to prepare or find another way out—the difference between life and death.
She sprinted to the rear, Quentin on her heels, his breath blowing down on the back of her head in short puffs.
The creature crashed against the door.
My fault, Jenna replayed the conversation in her head. Goofing around in the grocery store was a rookie mistake.
Bantering with him had been enjoyable, something that hadn’t happened since high school pre-pandemic. She should have stayed serious and remained with the rest of the group.
Discipline would be a priority if she got out of this mess, but the situation could turn problematic if more Streakers arrived. Too many people died this way.
Quentin thrust her into a corner and signaled for silence.
He inched back toward the front door, the baseball bat high overhead, ready to swing.
Another boom echoed, and the door slammed open an inch. The barricade between safety and the Streaker weakened.
Jenna watched from a crouch, realizing she’d soon be in serious trouble.
No longer did a single dead thing ram the barricaded door, but two.
Quentin readied his bat, but unlike the New Race, he couldn’t kill two Streakers on his own. She searched for another way out. No windows. There was an exit sign in the back, but someone had barricaded it with a coin exchange machine. She couldn’t push that aside on her own, and Quentin was otherwise engaged.
She moved to join him in the fight, hoisting her bat.
The undead rammed the barricade again and shambled through the door. Missing his tie and most of what might have been a designer suit, his engorged, distended belly exposed bowels through the tattered remains of a button-down shirt.
A second Streaker stumbled through the opening, an elderly female corpse, composed of little more than muscle and bone, wearing remnants of a long dress. What little remained of the creature tangled itself into the tumbled magazine racks and fell to the ground.
Its wormy body continued to slither across the floor, pus oozing, teeth snapping maniacally, skeletal hands clawing the tile. It inched closer.
Spokes of the magazine rack held the creature back, but by the squeal of metal against the tile, the undead would not be long delayed. The resounding slam of the front door trapped them inside.
Jenna slid behind Quentin, who hit the man’s skull dead center, producing a cracking echo.
The wooden weapon popped back, glistening with blood and gray matter.
He slammed it in short, measured strokes. Upon the bat’s final release, the pucker and slurp of brains competed with his heaving breaths. The body collapsed to the floor.
The old woman remained tangled, slowed by a mess of fabric trapped in a metal magazine rack, but that no longer stopped her from gaining ground. Like nails on a chalkboard, the screeching rack scraped as the creature gained inches.
Jenna sidestepped in front of Quentin, bat at the ready. A third corpse dove against the door. Bloody fingers shoved through a gap, forcing the way open. Another of the evil dead had arrived.
This one will be the end of us.
A horn honked. The monster in the door disappeared, spurred on by the loud noise. The tangled Streaker on the floor eyed Jenna with menace, but the repeated bleating created a beckoning cacophony outside.
The commotion caused the creature to heave itself out the door, leaving behind only the discarded magazine rack.
Gunshots rang in quick succession.
She made the sign of the cross even though she no longer believ
ed in a God.
Someone took the Streakers down. We’ll be okay.
The hum of a motor idled in the street. With Quentin at her side, the two ran for the entrance.
Whatever waited for them outside was better than what they had just faced. She hoped it turned out to be her friends.
Billy, Jackie, and Emma greeted them from the back of a Ford 350 flatbed truck. Gus was at the wheel. They hopped in, and the truck roared to life, heading along the road.
“We were overrun. Had to call for back-up.” Jackie patted her walkie-talkie like a beloved pet. “Gus to the rescue. He drove in from camp to save our asses.”
“How’d you find us?” Jenna focused on slowing the ragged breaths escaping her mouth.
“We searched for the Streakers. Duh.” Billy’s eyes glazed with excitement. His speech sounded like machine gunfire. “Better than any video game I ever played. I can’t even remember the names of them, but this was real. So intense. When I lost sight of you two.” He pointed at Jenna and Quentin. “I vowed to stay and fight every last one of them to get you out.”
Emma crossed her arms. “We’re moving out tonight. It’s too crowded around here for us.”
6
The camp at the school was in disarray by the time the group returned. Quentin wandered off to get his belongings. Jenna ran into Caleb and Aiko.
Aiko displayed her curves as often as her kukri knives. Today the tight T-shirt appeared a few sizes too small.
Did she grab a child size?
With the world at an end, Jenna could hope Aiko would have the decency to throw on a baggy sweatshirt like the rest of them now and again, but no. Her long, plaited hair accented her heart-shaped face and ample cleavage. She somehow managed to look feminine and Disney princess pretty in the middle of the apocalypse.
Why is she the only one who didn’t give a rat’s ass about appearance at a time like this? Or is she jealous?
Had she turned on the emotions she’d buried and believed they’d never surface?
Caleb and Aiko were making short work of their project, deconstructing the camp stove and communal area. As if he had a premonition she was back, Caleb turned, a smile flickering across his lips before Aiko asked a question, diverting his attention.
She closed the gap between them. “Need any help?” Exhaustion trickled from every pore, but she was nothing if not a team player.
“No. You’d better work on organizing your own stuff.” Aiko’s words dismissed her.
Leaving them, she followed the smell of venison stewing. The growl her stomach released was louder than a Streaker.
When had she last eaten? She couldn’t remember the last real meal, inedible morning mush not counting. Deer meat was a favorite and a staple these days.
She scarfed a bowl of grub, reminding herself where it came from. The New Race were experts at hunting and killing big game. With improved vision, they were adapted for the chase.
As if sensing her fatigue, Caleb appeared at her side with a cup of instant coffee, one of the few luxuries sometimes available. She inhaled the bitter scent. Her stomach growled in response.
“I thought you could use it before I put everything away.”
“Thanks.” The words stuck to dry lips.
He was considerate, not only to her but to everyone, but she needed to keep her distance. The scars on her stomach itched, confirming her decision was correct. She avoided investing emotionally in any of her companions.
This week was a miserable fail.
She chugged the bitter brew before moving to her sleeping area, where the goal was to pack her meager belongings for the next part of the journey through Maryland. Along with a bedroll, her life easily stuffed itself into a couple of canvas backpacks. Other than the clothes on her back, Jenna kept little. Her journal, though she refused to write in it these days and a shoebox containing the memories of Mom and Dad, were the only non-essentials.
She’d cram the remainder of the space with changes in clothing and shoes, mostly rugged T-shirts, sweaters, sweatshirts, and jeans though. Jenna made room for a few nicer items for celebrations. The group tried hard to recognize birthdays and commemorate the passing of time with special meals. Sometimes these festivities worked better than others, but Emma had taken on the chore of counting the days and remembering everyone’s birthday.
Caleb left her side and she believed he’d glide back to Aiko, but instead grabbed a dilapidated chair and brought it close. He made himself at ease, stretching his legs into the gloom.
“It’s going to be dark in a couple hours, and the group wants to make the most of the night for travel. We’re heading out ASAP. Do you need me to do anything for you?”
“Help me? Absolutely not. All my stuff will be packed in five.”
“Ready for some nighttime travels?”
“Night or day, what does it matter?”
“With the New Race driving, we haven’t lost a member to a Streaker attack for close to a year.”
“I’m not sure driving ability correlated.”
“Will you sleep?”
“I’d rather volunteer for the watch. Even the scavenging parties are better than sleeping.”
Better rethink that one after today’s adventure, but sleep means nightmares. The creatures, real or imagined, are always lurking one step away.
“Are you sure about not needing the help?” He didn’t move from the chair. “I’m ready, willing, and able to be at your service.”
“I’m good.” But in truth, the earlier conversation with Emma ran rabid around her mind. Images of the Streakers from the store would haunt her for many nights. Her past must somehow connect with the present, and Caleb, being of the New Race, had insight.
Would understanding the past help her survive, or if not survive, find some semblance of peace. Caleb must know more than she did about the New Race.
“Last chance.” Chorded muscles popped from his arms. He pushed from the seat.
Without realizing she was going to speak, she said. “Can you answer a question? I’m missing a piece of the puzzle. What do you remember about the start of the New Race?” She jammed her clothes into a beat-up duffle bag, trying to hide shaking hands. The information was important to her, even if she couldn’t figure out why.
Fingers threaded through his thick hair. “All I know is instead of dying some survivors like me, mutated into the New Race. The scientists couldn’t figure us out. Called us vampires, monsters, others. Those were some of the names given to the people who survived the disease and changed but not into Streakers. I’m not a monster.”
“You’re not.”
“More of a modified human.” Vivid red eyes radiated sadness. “There are things I like about the new me, but other things I can’t stand. It’s who I am, and I can’t change it. Just like I can’t alter the aftermath when the disease hit.”
“Why’d the pandemic happen?” The question persisted, though no one had an answer.
“You have to focus on the future. We can’t change the past.”
“I need information. It’s like a puzzle I have to solve.”
“I don’t have the answers.”
“Did you get that novel vaccine they were trying to sell everyone at the end?”
“Yes. Did you?”
“No. My parents were dead by the time it was released. I wasn’t in the mood to comply with the authorities.”
“When the government realized there was a link between the vaccine and the New Race, they started rounding up people like me who were changing. I hid, but the military came in. He shrugged. “I guess I was easy to find. They put us in camps to see if we’d turn into Streakers.” Caleb bowed his head. “Conditions were horrible. We were all crammed in cells, no clothes other than what we wore in. Maybe two beds for twenty people. They must have already decided we were evil or dead, or both.”
“They believed they were helping.”
“I doubt it.” His fist tapped his thigh. “Everyone worked in pa
nic mode. Act first, think later. At the camps, we learned about Stephen’s Flu, named for patient zero.
Jenna nodded. “Everything happened so fast.”
“After the virus started mutating, they shortened the name to S1, S2, S3. The government got to S11 before the whole thing imploded and Streakers arrived.”
“What happened to the people you were with?”
“I was separated from my friends. It’s worse when you’re alone. I’m sure you relate. The round-up was supposedly for our safety, and they said we could leave, but it was a lie. We were prisoners, but my family had all died, and I had no one else and didn’t have an option.”
She stopped packing, placing a hand on his arm. “What happened in the camp?”
She’d never asked about his story. She was a shit.
“They moved me to a laboratory in a military base where scientists worked to find a cure. Everyone there’d begun to mutate, but not into Streakers. The New Race had been born, and the scientists tested, poked, and prodded us. I was essentially a lab rat.”
She didn’t want to believe it, but history told her people would do anything to survive. “I’m sorry.”
“The New Race can’t abide the light because our skin developed a severe sensitivity to it, like an allergy. Hives, blisters, and dangerous burns when forced into direct sunlight, something Streakers don’t care about in the slightest. One of the first tests the lab conducted after I got there was to make us sit in the sun and see how long before we fried.”
Jenna furrowed her brow. “It can’t be true.”
“Painful and true, but we heal if not out for too long. We tend to be stronger and healthier. This was helpful, especially when the disease started to consume the military base. One night, all the captives decided to escape.”
“How’d you do it?”
“We could outrun the guards, and if they tried to stop us, well . . .” The words to his story fell apart. “We did what we had to do.”
Jenna tried to lighten the mood. “You don’t fall into a coma in the day?”
Caleb’s mouth opened and closed. “What? Like a vampire?”
“Joking.”
He remained stoic. “No, but our senses are sharper at night. It’s easier to hunt. We eat food like everyone else, but hunting . . . I can’t explain it. The warm blood of prey you’ve vanquished is a rush of energy like you’ve never experienced.”
