moonfaerie

The Dead and the Dying

As the assembly of disheveled marching feet began reacting to the shots he’d fired, Aeres tensed up, the bullets from his gun pausing as he held his breath without realizing it until he gasped. He tried not to look at what was happening in the distance, though he heard terrified shrieking and warning shouts coming from all directions. His blue eyes didn’t seem to focus correctly as the group began approaching at an even faster right, and he realized not a moment too soon that they had heard the gunfire. Looking left and right and back and forth, he finally managed to roll up his window, pulling the gun and himself safely inside just as the first walker slammed its body against his vehicle.

As the undead man went in for what appeared like a headbutt directly into his window, someone hit him down, sparing the young man the anxiety of the glass cracking. However, it seemed that was not the only one waiting to try to get him from the outside; a few more thuds filled the tense atmosphere of his car as bodies lurched at it, and Aeres crouched down, hands pulled in towards his chest, gun resting in the passenger’s seat—he dared not use it more and attract further attention.

When Johnny came into sight, he breathed a little more again, eyes darting around as the two men took down the group attempting to destroy his car. It seemed the BMW had survived, save for a few minor dents—while usually he would be enraged by such marks, at the moment he was pleased to have it in one piece along with his fleeting life.

When the dead lie motionless outside the vehicle, only then did the boy open his door and peek out to here Johnny’s announcement. “Hundreds?” he repeated, eyes wide as the man got inside of his car. “Hundreds? From where? I thought no one lived out here!” He was too worried about surviving to watch his mouth in attempt to be more polite to the rural folk. “Are we really on our own? Just us?” Right now, he couldn’t tell if it was a blessing or a curse that he had gotten stuck in traffic on his way to the band afterparty, or that he had chosen to go at all. His brother had not been so lucky, but he suspected something had happened when he stepped out to buy liquor before they went out. Soren had looked a bit off the entire car ride but he hadn’t wanted to say anything about it.

Without waiting for an answer, he started the car engine and began driving. He knew where the highway was and Johnny wouldn’t have to convince him twice. He maneuvered around abandoned vehicles and fallen corpses back onto the road and headed off from there, telling Johnny as his hands gripped the wheel, “Just let me know when I need to stop.” He paused, then added, “And thanks for killing those…things.”

-----

Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, Wes turned anxiously towards Johnny as he made his dismal announcement to everyone. He listened to half and tuned out the rest once he remembered Sarah had been screaming earlier in the midst of the chaos. Shoving his way through the hysteric crowd, he tried to find her. The man was impatient as he pushed people aside who refused to get out of his way and he eventually found the woman he'd been searching for behind the house.

Two dead bodies laid at her feet—one of a helpful bystander who'd jumped in to help at the last minute, pierced in the temple by a bullet from one of the hunters guns. Next to him slumped a body covered in dirt and grain from the fields. It must have been one of the party goers who'd made their way over the hill. Her body shook violently, uncontrollably, and salt-water tears streaked her cheeks. Wes skidded to a stop when he saw her, his eyes wide, and he shook his head when he saw her arm slicked with blood from an open wound on her neck.

“No...” Sarah wiped her eyes with her hands when she saw him and gave a pained smile before he rushed forward and embraced her. “Fuck, Sarah...” he whispered as he held her. His mother. His father. His brother. In just a few minutes they were all gone—he hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye. It still hadn't sunken in. Now he stood in front of this girl, one he hadn't seen in years, but he would have once sworn he was going to spend the rest of his life with. He thought someone would have helped her—there were dozens of people around both in the house and camping outside of it—but no one had bothered. “I should have let that fucking kid die.”

Her eyes widened in horror—an expression he remembered and often dreamed about—and the reason she'd broken up with him in the first place. The bad boy and the good girl—they were a trope—and while in books and movies things might have eventually worked out between them, life wasn't like that. They'd been too different. “No!” she exclaimed. “It makes me happy you helped them.” A look of shame tainted her features as she held on to him, “I had a chance to help people and I ran away. I was scared. I ran away, Wes.” He didn't like the way she was looking at him. Like it would be the last time. “You've changed.”

Wes let her go and turned his back to her, looking towards the edge of the house. “We'll find a doctor. That dumb kid can give you a ride-” but before he could finish what he was saying he heard the sound of tires spinning out and knew even without seeing that they'd taken off. “God damn it!” Lashing out he punched at the nearby tree. “Everyone's fucking dying!” The bark scraped his knuckles drawing more blood, but the pain was nonexistent as he was lost in his own head.

“As soon as that thing bit me, I was dead,” she said. The disease was contagious and it would only be a matter of time before she became like the others. Already her face was pallid and her eyes more dull. “Promise me something?” He didn't want to promise anything, but he looked at her with a wary, tired expression feeling like he couldn't deny her one last wish. “Promise me you'll help them. That you won't run away like I did.”

Wes was not someone who liked helping others. He preferred to take care of his own and himself. It went against who he was, everything he believed in, but he found himself giving a slow nod anyway. Doubting it would be possible, he decided he would try even if he didn't think any of these assholes deserved it. “I promise.”

He sat with Sarah by the tree looking out at the hill. The group Johnny had been talking about began to shamble over the peak, stumbling over one another, but he didn't move. He kept his arm wrapped around her until she closed her eyes for the last time. Propping her up against the tree, he went to one of the hunter's fallen bodies, aiming the gun at her head and pulling the trigger. Slumped against the tree she looked like a morbid angel.

As they marched over the hill descending on the house, Wes had to be quick as he'd stayed longer than he should have. Most had cleared out after Johnny's warning while others had boarded themselves in his house thinking that it would survive the onslaught. He raced around towards the garage where he mounted his motorcycle. Squeezing and holding the clutch to his Indian Scout Bobber, the engine soon revved to life and took off, zipping through the diseased as they arrived and through the narrow openings out onto the highway.

“Has nothing to do with me.” Elizabeth didn't know why the man was telling her his life story or why she thought she cared about him and the kid with him when she had more important things to do. But with the enemy too close for comfort she relented saying, “But I will take that ride.”

Climbing into the cabin she sat beside the stone-faced girl. Elizabeth tried not to stare as silent stares slid down the girl's cheek, but her motherly instincts just wanted to take the poor thing into a hug. Considering the girl had just been through a traumatic experience, she refrained from doing so, taking to looking again at the screen on her phone and, noting the red bar in the upper left hand corner, shut it off. Turning her head to look out the window, she didn't know where this stranger was taking her or if he could be trusted, but knowing she was armed went a long way to making her feel better.

The Dead and the Dying

Aeres barely got any words in as the woman offered him a half-empty pack of wet wipes, managing only a brief “thanks.” His eyes followed the fleeting movement of the woman and her rude companion as they moved past him and off to somewhere he likely wasn’t welcome to follow—not that he wanted to. If he were to be honest, as nice and tolerable as everyone had been so far, he desired to get away from the crowd as soon as possible. The amount of people collected in such a small space was making him feel ill and it didn’t help that there was a buzzing nervous energy swarming the place. Sleeping had helped, but his rest hadn’t been long, nor was it well in the seat of his BMW. He’d always been particularly sensitive to uneasiness in people and now he was engulfed in all of their tension at once.

Pulled out of his head, Johnny caught his attention by mentioning the creek, but the young man’s disgruntled face conveyed that he instantly detested the offer. An attempt to correct the scowl was made after he caught it and, trying to be polite, he began following him anyway. If the wet wipes were enough, he thought he could at least rinse some of his clothes in the creek, but he wasn’t about to wash his body and hair in there—not with all the algae and plankton and microbes floating around. He’d taken biology as a general education requirement and he’d looked through those microscopes at pond water samples taken from a local site; since then he refrained from drinking or swimming in anything that wasn’t at least somewhat filtered.

He was pulling a wet wipe out of the pouch in his hands, about to get on with a formal introduction, when a cry of Run! made him raise his chin in alarm. “Huh?” The noise from his mouth cut short as he heard the rustle of movement paired with a putrid odor of blood and rot.

His feet moved before his mind made the conscious decision to; yesterday had him restless, and his body hadn’t fully relaxed since. Racing towards the direction of his BMW, he unlocked it as soon as it was in sight with a press of the button in his pocket and dove into the front seat, slamming the door behind him as he slammed the keys into the ignition and started it with a rumble. A quick glance behind him served as a reminder that there were still others falling behind; he wasn’t sure if he cared enough to linger for them or not.

He put his foot on the pedal then lifted it off again, muttering a gruff “Goddammit!” under his breath. The guilt would eat him alive if those things didn’t.

He snatched his hand gun and checked it to make sure it was loaded. Certain that it was, he rolled down the driver’s seat window and sent a bullet towards the walkers, though his aim was subpar at best—he managed to hit one and send it falling backwards by pure luck and the fact that they were close-knit in a mass.

“What do we do?” he shouted out the window at anyone who was around to hear it. “Can’t we get outta here?! Someone wanna tell me where the hell to drive?!” It was the other concern that kept him from taking off in the vehicle—he didn’t know where to go or if there was any other place to go. He’d run to the BMW as a habit and for safety, knowing it was his own and he would find shelter inside, but he had no idea if it was the only thing left. “Isn’t there somewhere else to go?!” His voice made an embarrassing, frantic squeak as his fright took control. He shot thoughtlessly at the bloody group of creatures again.

----

Time seemed to slow down for Wes. The faces turned towards him, some flawless just as they'd been before, others maimed from being attacked, and all of them with cherry stained teeth. The sound of Sarah's voice came too late and before he had a chance to react the fabric around his neck choked him as he was forcefully pulled back by Johnny in the nick of time.

They filed out of the room, nearly a dozen of them, shuffling towards the group near them. Their short attention spans were diverted towards the hunter's shout and soon they shambled off in that direction. Moths drawn to a flame. Sarah covered her mouth with her hands to keep from making any sound, but she could smell the strong scent of iron and her eyes were drawn to the smears and splatters along the wall.

Wes gripped at the bat and gave a tough swing at one of the slow moving biters. He assumed Johnny had gone back to warn the people in the house as his parents both came filing out. His mother yelling, “Wyatt!” with tears streaming down her face. Behind him his father tried to hold her back, but she fought against him opening her arms towards her soon, ignoring the blood on his face.

“Mom!” Wes yelled. “Stay back!” But the woman wouldn't listen and ran towards her eldest. Wes watched in horror as Wyatt took a chunk out of her neck and then turned on his father whose passive nature had taken a backseat to a low, threatening baritone growl. He moved forward trying to reach them, but made a sudden stop as clumps of dirt shot into the air from a scattering of bullets fired into the ground.

Shielding his eyes from the spray, he noticed the bullets were coming from a fancy BMW and the boy who'd been asking for a shower earlier was firing through the window. “Watch where you're aiming-” he tried to yell, but his voice was drowned by the gunfire and the ringing in his ears following it. The best thing to do was dodge out of the line and he moved just in time as another poorly aimed bullet hit the ground where he'd just been standing moments before.

A few of the bullets did seem to hit their mark, the chest, the arm, but they continued their relentless approach. It was only when one stray bullet hit the head that he noticed they stayed down for good.

But the sound of the shots echoing through the orchard drew the attention of the monsters and they began heading towards the expensive vehicle and the boy shouting inside it. From behind him he could hear Sarah scream though he hadn't seen where she'd run off to. Feet digging into the ground, he started at both locations before running towards the car and swinging at one as they encroached upon the vehicle.

In one direction the sound of gunfire rang out. In the other the faint hum of music drifted through the air though she couldn't decipher what it was. Regardless, both directions indicated people and the more people there were in one area the more risk there was. At the moment, Elizabeth couldn't afford to take any risks. She had a goal, as impractical as it was, and she was determined to accomplish it. Unless they owned a plane or a boat they were useless to her and she refused to be dragged down by anyone else's dead weight.

Coming across a mass of abandoned cars, she navigated towards one ringing with the gentle beep of the open door warning. Determining the model, she peering into the vehicle to make sure it was empty before sliding into the front seat. Elizabeth hummed to herself while looking around, eyes lighting up as they were drawn the middle console. Taking out a penny, she held it up to examine it before leaning over beneath the steering column and, using the currency as screws, detached the plastic cover.

Just as she was pulling aside one of the wire bundles, her eyes widened as in the rear-view mirror she caught sight of a fairly large group heading in her direction. More gunfire rang out, this time much closer, and Elizabeth cursed as she knew she didn't have enough time to finish hot-wiring the car to run. Getting out of the vehicle, she expected for them to continue heading her way, but the group appeared to be distracted. A small voice ringing out from the center, she felt her chest tighten as she reached for her Beretta. Firing at the group, the sound of the shot rang through the air and they turned in her direction. After a couple of more shots to assure she had their attention, she took in a deep breath and began running in the opposite direction.

The Dead and the Dying

Aeres jolted awake to the sound of a speeding car’s engine rumbling past his BMW, blue eyes wide as he scrambled in the front seat, reaching unknowingly for the gun he had stored. He didn’t get around to finding it by the time he put together what had happened—a car had left the area, though everything else seemed calmed—and he settled down with a heavy breath, leaning back against the leather seat. He ran his fingers through his brunette hair—last evening’s hair gel felt sticky and unclean now. He longed for a trip to the shower.

A glance at the boarded up house told him it likely wouldn’t be an option, but he thought to try his luck anyway. Thinking a bribe might be in order depending on everyone’s mood, he tapped his back pocket to make sure his wallet was still there and then got out of his car, locking it again before stashing the keys safely into his pants. His throat felt dry and his clothes were dirty—he hadn’t woken up in such a mess since college freshmen parties at the fraternity houses. Soren had always been the one to get him in, the socialite—he was dead now, wasn't he?

Images of his brother’s yellowish, bloody face flashed through his mind as he approached the door of the Parson’s house. He heard voices from within. Knocking a few times, he waited to be let in, not wanting to get himself gunned down if he was thought to be one of the infected. “Excuse me?” he spoke up, hoping the sound of a human voice would catch someone’s attention. He heard people but had no idea if they would be friendly. He knew no one in the tiny town.

“I was sleeping outside in my car,” he explained, trying to raise his voice so he could he heard through the door. “I was wondering if you had a working shower or bathroom. Or if you have water at all—I, uh, I can pay if it’s a problem.” He didn’t know if their water was expensive way out here or if it came from a well or what, he just hoped they would let him use some of it so he would feel less like a filthy mess.

(ooc: face claim image for him if anyone's interested
i.pinimg.com/564x/55/80/92/5580925d55… )

----

Before the sun had risen there was a gentle knock at the door followed by a soft creek and Mrs. Parsons peeking her head in. Sarah had spent the night sleeping in Wes' bed while the man sat against the wall on the floor beside the door, a Louisville Slugger tucked beneath his chin. The door hit his foot jolting him awake and he ran a tired hand over his scruffy face before looking up at his mother.

“How is she?” she asked.

Muscles stiff from sitting in one position for so long, his body ached and he groan as he stood. “Sleepin',” he said. “Like normal people.”
She shook her head and chided him with a look. “Poor thing,” she mused in a hushed voice. “First with what happened to her parents and now this.”

Wes sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Not to discount whatever Sarah was going through, he empathized as well, but he had to point out, “It's shit for everyone.” Though his mother was always disgusted by his foul mouth, he persisted with a sideways grin. He'd always been the one getting in trouble and that was probably why his parents had fallen in love with Sarah—she'd been a good influence on him. He wasn't as bad when he was around her as evidenced by the way he'd offered his room when he saw her setting camp out in the hallway with a bunch of nobodies.

Joining his mother downstairs reluctantly, he wasn't going to make it easy, especially since it seemed Wyatt had skipped out on helping with breakfast—and they needed all hands on deck with everyone staying there so they could actually feed everyone. Some early risers and people who hadn't been able to fall asleep had to wait. Once they'd finished one stack of pancakes, with his mother's famous cider accompanying it, he had to immediately start on another. His dad sat at the table, his phone in his hand, scanning news articles online trying to gather more information on what was happening.

Whatever was going on wasn't just isolated to the US, but reports were coming in indicating that it was a global phenomenon. He heard a mixture of radios overlapping, some of them contained preachers shouting about the end of days receiving nods from their constituents, some of them were blaming the government and biological warfare. His mother flipped her apron refusing to listen to any of it as she bustled around the kitchen. Spotting Johnny, she made a beeline towards him, Wes rolling his eyes as the woman appeared to almost burst at the seems wanting to take the young man into a hug. Over the sizzle of the bacon he could hear the breaking news about the outpost.

From the doorway a soft voice spoke with a dejected twinge. “Deputy Hall left already?” Wes glanced over his shoulder to see Sarah standing there, sleepy eyed and disheveled having just rolled out of bed.

“Yeah. And all these assholes ain't going anywhere.”

“Weston!” his mother scolded and he winced at the sound of his full name. Turning back to Johnny she said, “They are welcome to stay as long as like like. As are you, dear. I know you're a good boy, Johnny Blackburn.” Wagging a finger at him, she added, “But you should have known better than to throw a party like that!” It didn't matter how old the younger generation got, Mrs. Parsons would always see them as children. A look around the room, she gave a sigh asking, “Where is your brother?”

“Hell if I know.” He could feel her stare and he gave a sigh. “Last I heard he was taking care of a few of the people that got injured at the party in one of the rooms out back.” Wes sat a large plate of food down on the counter-top and gave a nod for Sarah indicating it was hers. He'd made it special, just the way he'd remembered her liking it when they dated back in high school.

She was too busy talking to Johnny to notice.

“Wes, be a dear and get your brother for me, would you?”

“Little busy.”

He cracked a few eggs in a bowl before his dad's monotone voice spoke. “Listen to your mother.” It was about as involved in conflict as the man would get. Since he didn't care one way or another if all the squatters got fed, he obliged, leaving the task to his parents. Without him there, his mother took to physically pushing his father off the chair and forcing him to help, much to his chagrin.

Since he had to go outside, he took the bat with him, propping it over his shoulder and finagling his way through the crowd. He didn't get very far before Sarah lingered behind pulling Johnny along saying, “It's dangerous out there. You shouldn't go alone.” With an arched brow he wondered what help she would be when she couldn't even kill a spider. Though he hadn't personally run into any of these things, he'd heard accounts from those who had. That was probably the reason why she'd dragged Johnny along.

But he wouldn't stop them if they really wanted to come.

From outside he could hear someone yelling, but he didn't pay much attention until he opened the door to find a boy standing on the stoop talking some nonsense about a shower. Wes snorted and said, “Ha! Good one buddy,” before walking past him. The lines for the bathrooms and the showers were long and even if he did manage to get lucky, the hot water had run out about an hour ago.

Sarah imagined it must have been hard to have so many people invading his home, but she didn't approve of Wes being so dismissive. “There's a bit of a wait for the bathrooms, but a nice woman gave me some baby wipes earlier,” she said, reaching into her pocket and handing the rest of the packet to the boy. Wes hadn't stopped walking with his long strides and she saw him round the corner of the building. Sarah trotted off after him, a constant string of “Excuse me,” as she dodged the people who'd made up camp in their yard. It seemed odd to her that people would just set camp out in someone's yard, and an invasion of privacy, but Mrs. Parsons didn't seem to mind and in fact welcomed it.

When they arrived at the rented room, Wes was already tapping on the door with his baseball bat. “C'mon, Wyatt,” he said, irritation seeping in his voice. “Open up.”

Tthe foreboding scratching on the other side of the door and the low groans were an all too familiar sound to her.

“Wes,” she began. “Don't open-”

But she was too late. He'd pushed it open.

The Dead and the Dying

CHAPTER TWO

Over the speakers the mechanical voice spoke. “Dialing.”

Static tainted each ring indicating the bad reception in whatever Podunk town her GPS had managed to get her lost in this time. Elizabeth had never originally wanted to leave the city—not like this. Her plan had been to go to the airport and buy one way tickets to all the vacation islands she could think of—Tahiti, Bora Bora, Maui, Santorini. It wasn't a logical plan, especially since she didn't have any money, but she wasn't working on logic. He was somewhere out there in one of those rich people places which meant her daughter was somewhere out there as well.

Her body tensed and the grip on her steering wheel tightened until her knuckles were bone white. “C'mon,” she muttered, willing the universe to somehow send her message telepathically for him to pick up his damn phone. When the line clicked she breathed a sigh of relief stating, “Oh thank god you-” only to be met with another robotic voice. His automated answering machine. She released a string of profanities. This was very much like him. He'd always been impossible to get ahold of. The son of a capitalist banker, there was always some convenient excuse for his absence—business meetings, family dealings, some charity banquet to attend. Elizabeth had never been invited; his family never had approved of her.

“It's Elizabeth,” she began after the beep, stating her name out of habit though by this point he should have known the sound of her voice without an introduction. “Everything's a fucking mess here. All the roads are blocked. The whole city is being evacuated. And Nate...he's gone.”

Nate had been her fiance. An officer of the law, he'd been in the thick of it since the beginning. At first they thought it was somehow drug related—like going mad from too many bath salts—but it spread too rapidly and before they could gather any concrete evidence the CDC began issuing warnings all over the nation. It spread too fast to contain. Dispatched to handle the many influx of calls, he'd been infected during one of them. The last time she'd seen him he'd looked terrible—yellow pus oozed from the wound and a large red streak ran up his arm to his neck. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead which she'd tried to dab with a cold compress. Even if she hadn't mentioned it out loud, he knew the thought of her daughter consumed her thoughts. He'd given her his Beretta—a 9 mm Px4 Storm Compact—and told her to go.

Warm tears streaked lines mascara down her cheeks which she wiped away with a finger causing it to smear. Trying to maintain a steady voice, her attempts failed as the emotion seeped through. “I need to know you guys are okay. Call me as soon as you can. And tell Darya I love her.” With that she tapped on the red button to end the call. Her eyes remained fixated on the black mirror as if expecting for it to light up within the next few seconds. It didn't.

The car was in park for now, the headlights stretching ahead to reveal nothingness as she sat on the side of the road. Her thoughts shifted and her emotions ranged from guilt for leaving Nate alone the way she had in his last moments and the determination to see her daughter without knowing exactly where she was. Elizabeth leaned her head against the seat with a heavy sigh.

She'd never been a good mother. It ran in the family. When her daughter was born, she'd been too young—too wild—and she knew her little girl deserved better. That was why she asked him to take her which he agreed to with a resoundingly apathetic okay. Often she worried he was raising her in the same way his parents had raised him and his sister—remaining distant while hired nannies took care of everything. It'd been years since she'd seen him in person though they spoke over Facetime when time permitted so she could see her daughter. Darya had his blond curls that bounced whenever she moved and her honey brown eyes, which she got from Elizabeth, were always distracted by something. (“Butterfly!” “Doggy!”) Once she'd taken her father's large frames off his face and placed them on her own which promptly fell into her lap.

Ever since cleaning up her act, she'd wanted to have a serious discussion with him about their daughter's custody.

Closing her eyes, she clinched her phone in her hand and allowed her mind to drift. What felt like a moment turned to hours as the morning sun kissed her awake. Wiping the sleep from her eyes she tried to start the car only to find the battery completely drained. With a frustrated growl she gathered her things and after looking up directions to the nearest military checkpoint began making her way there.

((OOC: Was gonna do Sarah too, buuuut. I'll invoke chaos in the house later.))

The Dead and the Dying

There were rooms around the back of the house closer to the orchards and the winery where the guests stayed. The main house was usually reserved for family and friends only, but Julia Parsons always had a big heart. It was a trait Sarah had always admired.

Now the house was filled with strangers congregating in the narrow hallways, huddled together around their phones listening to emergency broadcasts or watching clips from helicopters on the news of the epidemic that was rapidly spreading across the nation. Entire cities had been blocked off and quarantined with news anchors warning to stay away from places such as hospitals.

None of it made any sense, but they were simple enough instructions to follow and the people were looking for direction of some kind. No one here was a leader it seemed, the closest to it being Mr. Parsons yelling for his sons to start reinforcing the doors and windows. Wes returned moments later pushing a brocade camelback sofa against the front door. Sarah wasn't sure if he was simply ignoring her presence or truly hadn't noticed her, but his lack of acknowledgment had her hiding her face and scurrying to the next room with the other guests.

“You think it's the end of the world?”

“Of course not. They'll have this cleared up in no time.”

“What if we're the only survivors?”

The topic of conversation was morbid and she shivered recollecting the events at the party. No matter how hard she tried, she found it near impossible to push the images from her mind. They replayed like a stuck tape.

“Heard the eldest found someone attacked by one of those things. They're taking care of 'em out back.”

“Wyatt? Never was a smart one. Haven't they been listening to the news? You don't go near anyone who's been attacked...”

Sarah didn't want want to listen to anymore. Wanting nothing more than a hot shower and a room to collapse in until it all ended, she went off in search of Mrs. Parsons. Turning the corner she ran into Wes instead this time one arm filled with planks while the other held a box of nails and a hammer. He seemed surprised to see her.

Though she thought she saw a flash of relief behind his gaze it quickly turned into indifference. “Glad you're okay,” he said with an added afterthought, “Sorry to hear about your parents.” He gave a nod towards the windows, a silent request for her to help him, and she obliged by following after him. “You wanna hold or hammer?”

“It doesn't matter.”

She held the board up to the windows as he hammered the nails to keep it in place. The two of them worked in silence to finish the one window and then they were out of boards for the next; he'd misjudged the amount they'd needed from the shed.

“Have you seen Johnny or Ethan around?”

He looked around the room to double check they weren't there before saying, “No clue.” Sarah sighed, regret pooling in the pit of her stomach for abandoning Johnny and the others the way that she had. She hoped they had gotten somewhere safe. Seeing her worried expression, his brows knitted in concerned before he heaved a sigh and said, “Hey. Don't think the worst, okay? I know how you like to get lost in your own head.”

Sarah became defensive. “I do not.”

He didn't notice. “They could be around here. You'll have to ask around.”

With that, he left her to her own devices going out to get more wood for the windows.

----

Miranda stiffened as her sister yelled in the cab, screaming in horror as the man took a large rock and beat the other in the head until he could not lift the heavy rock anymore. Rebecca’s hands hurt from the force with which she gripped the steering wheel, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted as she watched the man vomit then sit his dirty ass on her new brush guard.

“GET. THE. FUCK. OFF. MY TRUCK.” she screamed, the thick glass muted her words as she snarled at the thing.

He was not human. He was a murderer. There was something obviously wrong with the man who no longer had a head, but that did not mean this self-proclaimed celebrity could do as he pleased.

“Murderer! Sicko! CREEP!” Miranda screamed tears left trails through her thick eye makeup, each girl tensed as he began to run around the side of the truck, trying the back seat doors only to find them locked.

He shouted something at them and a patrol car came slamming through the field, narrowly missing the large truck and filling the cab with more screams.

“THIS TOWN IS FUCKING INSANE MYRA!” Rebecca screamed, shaking, unused to the bloodshed, the abject violence.

People liked to tease her when she revealed she was a hunter, a marksman, and it always boiled down to sport and necessity. She hunted for food, she hunted for sport, she never hunted something smarter than her, and she certainly did not hunt humans.

“Becky, get us the fuck out of here, NOW. I don’t know what’s going on but oh my god we’re not staying here. I don’t know why I said stop. I’m so sorry.” Miranda gushed, she melted into a puddle of muttering and hiccuped cries.

“Myra, it’s fine… It’s ok… I stopped here, you had no idea. I had no idea. We’ll get to the cabin, we’ll be ok. Once the city opens back up we get the police zoned in on this place, or we can move. I don’t care which.” Rebecca calmed her sister down, a wane smile stretched across her face, but it did not reach her eyes.

With her phone, Rebecca took a few pictures of the men who had mowed down the hurt individuals, but she froze again as the self-proclaimed police officer told them to follow. Like hell, she would take her sister along with murderers. She smiled, nodded her head as if she would follow and as the men made it into their vehicles, she fandangled with the key in the ignition. Sturdy, a bit old, and reinforced for hell and back, her truck roared to life, thick mudding tires spun in the soft, blood-soaked earth before catching traction. Rebecca tore back the way they had come, clear of the undead- although the girls did not quite know it yet- and began again for their mountain home away from home.

Tired and on edge from the carnage they had witnessed, Rebecca reasoned it was best to steer clear from any farm or another heavily populated area until the military was able to roll through and patch things up. The face of the guard swam to the forefront of her mind and she sighed, it might be a bit longer than they hoped.

----

Aeres scooted his BMW to a halt when the sight of a human-looking man caught him by surprise. Glacier eyes big with pupils dilated, all he found he could do was to nod and gulp as Ethan introduced himself and ordered him to drive along with the others towards a place he didn’t even mentally process. He didn’t hear the rest of the sheriff’s order or explainarion, as his mind was focused solely on holding onto the wheel like death would find him if he released his grip.

Someone got into his vehicle, or maybe he imagined it, but either way the young man didn’t respond to the greeting he was given. Instead, he watched as the new passenger settled himself in, and as soon as it was safe to drive on, he did as he had been told and followed the police car. The man had an awful stench that filled his car, overpowering the pine air freshener hanging from the mirror, and the smell tickled his nostrils. It would be rude, he thought, to say anything about it, and so he remained strangely silent.

When the car in front of him stopped, so did he. He turned off the ignition and parked but did not get out. Glancing over at the other passenger in the front seat again, he stared for an uncomfortable amount of time before asking, “We stop here? Can we get out? Is this safe?” Slowly with a deep sigh, he let go of the wheel and folded his hands neatly in his lap over his blood-splattered trousers. They had never seen so much filth—he kept his attire tidy and dry cleaned only.

The Dead and the Dying

Cowering inside the front seat of his icy blue BMW 6-series Gran Coupe, the young ashen-brown haired man behind the wheel noticed he was shaking like that one time he’d drank six shots of imported French espresso in an hour. His frail hands, pale with manicured fingernails, were vibrating something awful as they clutched the leather wheel. He realized it was only the five or so time he’d touched the wheel of his own car—he preferred being chauffeured because the traffic patterns upset him and it allowed him to multitask on his way to wherever he was going.

When Charlie, the family butler, wasn’t busy, he was usually happy to escort him, and Aeres found him to be good company. His mother, retired model Emelyn Taylor, though now she was known as Mrs. Skyfell, insisted that he no longer refer to Charlie as a butler because the term was becoming taboo and in poor taste; that was, modern etiquette dictated he be referred to as something gentler like a house keeper. Unfortunately, Charlie did not have free time off duty to drive him to the concert and party he’d received tickets for that evening.

In his place was Soren, one of Aeres’ three elder brothers—or rather in his place had been Soren, one of Aeres’ three elder brothers. Soren, he concluded as his pale blue eyes drifted nervously to the passenger seat where a polished Springfield Armory EMP with a bullet missing laid, having been dropped from his own hand just minutes prior. Soren was now outside the car face down in the dirt with a bullet hole in his chest.

Soren was—had been a bully like the rest, but still, Aeres never intended to kill him. Being the youngest of four boys was as uncomfortable as it was difficult, especially when they all had knacks for sports and competitions and social work that he did not. Ezra was the eldest, the favorite of his parents, barely bothered to visit home these days because he was too busy micromanaging their father’s land and development in Europe. Griffen, the next eldest, spend his time playing professional lacrosse and was always on the move.

Soren, however, was the closest in age to Aeres, and happened to stay at least in the country, volunteering for charities and other disgusting, show-off things he did in between trying to find a job with his accounting degree. How Soren even managed to get a college degree was a mystery to the youngest brother, because he knew all too well that his brother wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed—he was kinder than the others and bullied him the least, handsome and well-dressed like his entire family, but he wasn’t blessed with intelligence and wit. Now he was outside of the car, lying face down in the dirt.

Breaths shaking, the well-groomed twenty-one year old blinked at the scene, daring to peer out the window again. There was Soren, right where he left him—right where he’d shot him after he nearly rammed his car into a tree. No, perhaps that wasn’t right; the young man exhaled and tried to think again. Soren had gone quiet, he had let off the peddle and braked, he had complained of sudden illness and pulled over on the road a short ways away from where the party was to be held. He'd said something weird had happened to him earlier but that it would be fine to just see a doctor when they got back--he didn't want to go to some shabby little hospital in the middle of the farmlands. The strange barricades due to the thing going on set up around the city limits had made them late enough to miss the performance, but they agreed to attend to after party anyway—what was that thing going on? He slowly let his hands fall off the wheel and ran them through his ashen brunette hair in attempt to get a literal grip on reality. There was an ugly blood splatter on the designer button-up and custom embroidered velveteen tie that hugged his lean frame, the body that was never quite as muscular as those of his brothers. The gym wasn’t his thing. It smelled like body odor, even the one in his own estate home tucked away from the general population.

Soren and him resided with their parents still, though the arrangements were far from crowded. The nine-thousand square foot estate allowed for him to keep an entire floor, the top one, to himself, though it had been awhile since he stayed there for a long period of time. He’d just completed his university degree in history with a specialization in the medieval ages, something his entire family shunned him silently for because it didn’t serve to increase their already full coffers. The other boys had jobs that could roll in the cash, follow in their father’s footsteps and take over land ownership one day to manage all the places they owned and rented, but he was simply interested in knowledge and the past. He spent his time holed up in various places with his skinny, defined nose stuck in books and texts with a tea or coffee cup nearby.

Movement caught his eye and yanked him out of his own head, hands grabbing onto the wheel again. For some godforsaken reason, his bother’s body was twitching. After he’d gotten out of the vehicle, Aeres had remained inside with the windows rolled up, waiting as he claimed to need fresh air—the windows had saved him as his brother turned back around and began ramming himself against the car, clawing to get inside, smashing furiously like a mad dog until he caused himself to bleed. In a moment of insanity and fear of his own life when Soren began fumbling around like he might try the door, Aeres had pulled his handgun from the glove box and rolled down the window, shooting him through the chest.

Five or ten minutes had passed and he hadn’t even phoned the police. The latest smartphone was in his back pants pocket, buzzing from notifications, but he felt frozen. The window had been rolled back up, but now the body was moving. Maybe he hadn’t killed him—he didn’t know. He’d never shot anyone before. The gun was for his own protection in an emergency, and it had been, as far as he could tell, a severe emergency.

Starting the engine, it didn’t take a moment’s longer of hesitation before he pressed on the gas and sped the BMW up ahead, running over the wriggling remains of his brother. He continued on ahead, but stopped again when he saw commotion in front of him. Figures moved in the distance, some of the fast, some slow, and he squinted to make out what was happening. The sudden clarity sent him into a wild reaction of panic and he snatched his cell phone, pressing the power button rapidly five times until it autodialed the police.

The audio came on his car speakers through the Bluetooth connection and he mumbled, “Hello,” he began, his throat dry and feeling scratchy, “this is Aeres Skyfell and I’ve just shot my brother, Soren Skyfell.” His voice, although somewhat shaken, was shockingly calm, or at least he felt it was. He couldn’t really tell what was actually happening anymore.

“I’m sorry, sir, can you repeat that? Can you repeat your name please?” came a woman’s voice, the reception somewhat poor—that’s what he got for driving out to the middle of nowhere. “Aeres Skyfell. Aeres, with an extra E, like the god but with an E, Skyfell like the sky just fell down.” He’d been saying this all his life. Why had his parents made things so difficult for him? As if their last name wasn’t odd enough, they wanted to make him as weird as possible to all people he met just in case someone thought he might be average. Sometimes he wished his name was just John or Tom or Will. “I shot my brother. Then, actually, I ran him over. He was acting crazy. I think he wanted to kill me.”

“You shot your brother? Is he dead?” came the receptionist’s concerned voice in response. She had been trained, clearly, to keep her cool in tight situations, and he almost wanted to praise her. It was nearly like they were having a normal conversation over breakfast between the two of them.

“I don’t know,” Aeres replied stalely, his blue eyes wandering to the mirror to check the distance behind him. “I think something’s wrong with him. I just got into Fairburrow. We were headed to the concert venue.”

“Can you explain what happened to your brother? Can you explain his behavior before you shot him?” asked the patient woman, but Aeres jolted as an awkwardly stumbling body drifted into sight in front of his vehicle. The woman was bloody but moving, and in his anxious state of mind, he thought no further than to react on his instincts. “No, I can’t, I’ve gotta go, I’m so sorry but I’ve really got to go now,” he muttered, the words rolling out joined together, “goodbye.” He pressed the end call button on his touch screen and drove off.

-----

The car was out of control. Johnny motioned for her to stand back, but the gesture would do little good against the careening car. The tires kicked the soft soil and sprayed it the same way a broken faucet leaked water. Sarah shielded her face from the debris with her arms, but her jeans and her light green jacket were both covered with brown dirt.

Looking away from Johnny as he vomited in the dirt, she stood anxiously becoming more impatient by the moment as she silently urged him to hurry. As much as she sympathized, it had been the most difficult thing in her life to watch Ethan pull the trigger on her father, they couldn't stop now. Once the man finally started talking sense, Sarah reached out to tug on his arm. “Then lets go,” she pleaded, her tone insistent. The woman turned to head one way, but paused when her lax grip no longer had a hold of Johnny's hand.

The man had gone in the opposite direction, advancing towards the careless vehicle rather than away from it to safety. The blinding headlights only allowed her to look for a moment noting the dark shadowed outline emerging before she was forced to look away. White spots lingered in her vision with each blink of darkness.

Sarah made the difficult decision not to wait. To that end, she respected Johnny. The man was willing to loiter, risking his life to check on the two individuals not only making sure they were safe, but that they remained that way. She, on the other hand, was not a hero. Self-preservation won.

If he said anything more to her, she didn't hear. Sarah had taken off through the fields looking back over her shoulder to see Johnny leaning over the glass window speaking into the car. They saw him, honing in on his location. Another smaller group began to flank him on the side.
She wasn't sure if he noticed them, but she knew she couldn't look anymore; she couldn't watch him get torn apart like the other poor souls at the party. Only one thought flashed through her mind and she focused on it as if her life depended on it. Get to the Parsons'.

There was no logical reason why she thought it would be safe there. Sitting on five acres of land, the Parsons' small orchard had evolved over the years into the Vineyard—the only other notable thing about Fairburrow other than being Johnny's hometown. Out of habit, Sarah continued to call it the orchard as did most everyone else from town.

She knew she was getting close when she climbed over the fence coming face to face with rows of golden spice pear trees emptied from a recent harvest little less than a month ago. Their pear cider with a dash of cinnamon was the best cider she'd ever had. Beyond that were hundreds of grape vines. Wine was where the Parsons' made their money, but Sarah couldn't attest to the taste of it like she could for the pears.

It seemed Sarah wasn't the only one seeking shelter at the orchard. Cars were lined up and angry people waited, shouting outside. Squeezing through the crowd, she could see Mr. Parsons standing in front of the door to their home in his sweater-vest. “We have no more rooms,” he drawled. The man adjusted the thick black-rimmed glasses on his face. Unfazed by the hostile cries of outrage, he maintained a stoic demeanor. The epitome of calm under pressure, he remained passive and almost bored. “You'll have to try the motel back in town.”

Most of these people were strangers, Sarah realized. Only when she overheard someone speak did she discover they were all refugees from the city, fleeing when they had the chance and coming to seek shelter in their small haven. Squeezing her way through trying to make it to the front, she heard her name being called. “Sarah? Sarah Hanson, you get over here.”

Turning, she found Mrs. Parsons scurrying from the side of the house towards the main building. It'd been years since she'd seen the Parsons. Not since junior year of high-school when her relationship with their son, Wes, effectively ended. The woman's brunette hair now possessed silver streaks from age. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were more prominent and her figure more plump than she remembered. Her white apron had cherry stains splattered on it and in her hands was a bucket filled with dark red liquid. Noticing the way Sarah's eyes fixated on it, she tried to move it from her sight. “So many people were injured up at that Johnny Blackburn's party. The hospital is overflowing. You can't even get to the ones in the city what with the checkpoints and all. Wyatt brought a couple of them back here.”

Wyatt was Wes' brother.

“C'mere, my dear,” she cooed, taking her into a one armed hug which Sarah awkwardly returned. “You've been though so much.” The heat from the headlights radiated on her and Sarah could feel drops of sweat forming along her back. Once Mrs. Parsons released her from the hug, she shook the jacket from off her shoulders and tied it securely around her waist. The fitted white t-shirt beneath it was damp from running through the fields with dirt stains caked on it. “You're a mess. Come inside and we'll get you cleaned up.”

“But I thought the place was full, Mrs. Parsons.”

The woman waved off her concern. “How long have I been asking you to call me Julia?” she asked with a small smile. “It is. To the brim. We've even taken on more than the fire marshal would allow.” A look was exchanged between them translating to I won't tell if you won't.

Sarah's body was still shaking from the party. Her eyes looked over her shoulder through the vineyards for signs of an enemy approaching. Off in the distance she could hear the faint sounds of terrified screams piercing the silence and she hoped none of them belonged to Johnny or the people he had stopped to help. But she needed to focus on herself, her own safety, and her own sanity at the moment.

Giving one final announcement to the crowd, the Parsons and Sarah retreated into the house. The sounds of the shouting crowd were drowned out through the brick and mortar until, with no one left to engage them, they finally dispersed.

The Dead and the Dying

Everything around them quickly devolved into chaos. While people dove to help the wounded, Sarah was frozen in her spot. The scenery around her shifted from the comforting yellow glow of the bone-fire to the dreary house she'd grown up in. In the background the screams were barely audible, sounding muffled as if coming from a downstairs TV. She stood in front of the cracked door leading to her parent's room, her mother's body sprawled out on the plush carpet staring at nothing with vacant glazed eyes. On the outside someone grabbed her arm to pull her away, but all she could see was the face of her father. With each memory it evolved into a more menacing figure now with sharpened teeth, gray skin, and jaundiced eyes. Sarah screamed and flailed, hitting the person attempting to help her.

When they let her go she took off running in the opposite direction, away from the barn. Reality had settled in and she was back outside again, but the screams were still there. She could hear them begging their assailants for mercy.

At the top of the hill her feet skidded to a stop, her heel digging into the ground to create a mound of dirt. Coming from the direction of town at a brisk speed were more of them. With no time to stand around and count them she had to double back around, running in an arc towards the direction of the field beside and away from the main house.

The growing wheat stalks hit her shins as she ran and Johnny's home grew smaller in the distance. Once she'd created enough distance between herself and the threat she reached a shaky hand into her pocket to take out her phone along with the thin sheet of paper containing Ethan's personal number. Sarah hadn't thought she'd need to use it at all let alone so quickly, but she praised the officer on his forethought.

“Ethan!” she cried breathlessly into the receiver once she heard the line click. “The party! People are dead! It's happening again! It's-” Sarah wasn't able to get into much detail before she heard her name and yelled out, “Johnny!” Her body was shaking, but unlike some of the others nearby with scrapes, bruises, and one with a gaping wound where they'd been attacked, she was unharmed. Nodding her agreement, she said a firm, “Okay,” before remembering she had Ethan on the line. Her voice trembled.

“The Parson's orchard is nearby. We're gonna go there. Oh, god, Ethan. It was terrible. It-”

The words halted once she saw the attacked party goers moving at deceptively slow pace towards the wheat fields. Eyes wide as she stared at them, her eyes lingered on one of them that drifted forward with their intestines hanging out of their stomach. “Run!” she cried out, dropping the phone in her hand. There was no time to retrieve it. The only thing they could do was manage to keep ahead and get to the Parson's.

--------------------------------

The sun sank low over the flat horizon, the headlights brought the next road sign into focus:

Fairburrow 15 miles

“There’s a town out here?” the driver muttered to herself as she brushed stray curls from her face, a dirty hand left a dark smudge against her tan cheek.

“The burrow? Sure, I came out here for cute things, knick knacks, that ‘organic crap’ you keep teasing me about…” the unidentifiable lump of blankets in the passenger seat mumbled, shifting a little to look at the dashboard, “We need gas…. They’re cheap.”

She and the passenger were covered in a layer of dirt, faces riddled with sweat lines, and a general appearance of dishevelment. Their exit had been a last-second decision, their dirty pickup truck one of the precious few to legally make it past the quarantine barrier before they shut down interstate traffic in or out of the city.

Rebecca clearly recalled the soldier’s look of general exhaustion and tense anxiety as his thick gloves fumbled with her ID, the look of his crusty brown eyes as they hollowly inspected her from behind the glass of his gas mask.

‘Off with the mask’ came his muffled order, she could imagine his cracked lips.

She moved her own face mask long enough for him to look, a simpler one, the kind for the drugstore; they said it took days for infection, but she did not want to believe it. He shoved her ID back to her, waved her along with those thick gloves again, and they moved along with the sluggish line of minivans, smart cars, and various other vehicles. Her tail lights illuminated another truck before she spied in her rear view the guard wave his arms, the barricade was shut. A general roar of disapproval, shouts, and screams. She felt for them, she did, but they had made it out.

They had made it out all because her sister had practically dragged her out of her apartment, bags packed, and nearly duct taped her into the passenger seat. Miranda was always the artsy one, the one who got a wild hair, and for the most part, Rebecca was happy to follow, as long as she could drive to the countryside to hunt or fish for the weekend, she was a happy camper. Her sister certainly did not turn down her small trophy antlers, there were at least six pieces in Miranda’s new collection that were comprised entirely of animal bones from animals Rebecca had caught.

It had been about thirty minutes to the main turnoff where larger freeways lead to larger cities, but with the general panic about small spaces and people, the way the virus spread, Rebecca knew that a cabin in the woods, a hunting lodge, literally anything but farther into the snarl of traffic, was a good idea. Wrapped in her cocoon of blankets, Miranda had posed no disagreeing word as she pointed to a lesser used turnoff, just happy to not have to drive anymore. She was a city girl, happy with the conveniences of everyday life, but put her in a forest and there was no girl more at home. Their mother had once called them the Hipster and the Lumberjack. They were not cruel nicknames, but inside jokes. Both girls were gorgeous in their own right, slender frames with muscles built from their everyday life; they both loved to walk and Miranda was currently a Crossfit fanatic. People often guessed incorrectly though who was the hipster and who was the lumberjack.

Rebecca with her green eyes and tight blonde curls was called a prima donna until she offered to showcase her gun collection. It was always a comical sight to see Rebecca dressed up in her pink polos and beige capris, hair in a high ponytail, showing off her favorite weapons. Miranda was the dark haired brunette, thick straight locks like their mother chopped in a severe asymmetrical bob that highlighted the pale tones of her skin, her dark hazel eyes nearly hidden by long bangs. Rebecca always thought Miranda should be a model, but she never had time for other people’s art tastes. She liked to build, with her hands, to touch the organic components of her work and make them into something no one had seen before. Paint, sculptor, clay, ink, pen, typewriter, fabric; everything she could touch was a medium, everything new was a piece not yet explored.

Among many things, curiosity was what the sisters shared most, but they never adventured alone, always together. While a few years apart with Rebecca at the lead, they had never fought as age conscious siblings might. Raised in a forested suburb, exposed to the madness of an artistic, wilderness loving woman who did her best to encourage each girl to flourish at their own pace, to be responsible, to care about the environment, and above all to be kind to each other at the least. Free-range children, they would be called today, but back then they had just been kids who occasionally got caught near Jeffery’s chickens and shooed off with a cookie and some fresh milk; that was back before people cared about bacteria.

Now as they rolled through the empty streets, the town asleep save for a few who wandered stiff-legged store to store. Rebecca pulled up her truck to the gas pump, on auto-pilot she filled the tank, unaware that the unintelligible noise accompanied with the lights in the distance was not a party but a mass murder and resurrection. Miranda rolled down her window, the dark-clothed woman finally emerged from her cocoon, red plaid button-up hanging from her thin shoulders like an oversized jacket, “Looks like they haven’t been touched yet… No doubt those cute soldiers will be rolling into here soon… Think he’ll call me?”

“Myra, no one ever calls when they say they will.” Rebecca retorted, returning the hose to its holster, her yellow polo shirt smudged from the ambient ash that had begun to fall from all the fires in the city.

Her boots sounded heavy as she walked around the truck, fixing the blanket that protected their belongings from the elements, a compound bow and the muzzle of a hunting rifle barely visible amid the tangle of black duffle bags and patchwork quilts they had brought along.

“Oh! OH! Becky you hear that!? It sounds like a party! Please Becky PUH-LEASE! We haven’t been to a partyinsolongandI’mtiredandnastybut Iwannadance-” Rebecca cut her off by raising a hand.

“Myra, It’s night time, we just got out of traffic three hours ago, we were in traffic to get to the city almost twelve hours ago. I’m tired, we should move on and find a place to set up. It’ll be a couple days till we can get to the cabin…” She paused as she finally looked at the pitiful look her sister was giving her, “Oh alright, no more than an hour, ok?”

“YAS thank you thank you thank you!” Miranda gushed, her dirty hands leaving marks on her pale cheeks.

As a punishment for her prodding, Rebecca was going to not let her know. Less than presentable the sisters headed out again, the blonde driver taking haphazard directions from the overly excited brunette. After a brief tangle with a ditch, they were happily bounding along beside a field when the screams began to be clear.

“Is that...?” Rebecca muttered, her sister’s shout startling her into reaction more quickly than she was able to grasp the situation

“Look out!”

Rebecca slammed on the breaks, narrowly missing a person as they staggered into the dirt pathway. Wheels cut hard the heavy truck had no problem gaining traction, but at the speed, they were going she had no control over how the car spun with the weight taking them directly into the field. Rebecca’s knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel, shaking a bit as she calmed her breathing, her sister’s voice like a monotone buzz; what was wrong with people? Who just walked out in a road when they heard a vehicle?

“Becky Lou! There are other people in the field!”

“He… He’s…. NO Myra don’t leave the car!” she shouted as her sister moved to get out, check on the man and hail the people, in her rearview she got a clearer look of the man they had missed in the road; her tail lights illuminated the shine off his intestines.

The Dead and the Dying

Arriving in the midst of theories and hypotheses, Sarah slowly lowered herself into a bright fuchsia camping chair with flimsy thin steel legs and the silent hopes it would carry her weight. Not noticing his departure, she was surprised when he returned offering her a plate of food and red plastic cup filled with water. She took the plate first and sat dumbfounded wondering what to do with the bottle in her hand before opting to set it down in the grass where it tilted at a precarious angle threatening to spill its contents.

She wasn't hungry; she'd barely eaten anything since the incident. Everything looked and smelled unappetizing, but since he'd gone through the trouble, she tried. Holding the cup between her thighs, she forced herself to eat a potato chip. The seasoning powder was unevenly spread and it was drowning in salt. Sarah sighed as she picked up another one, but she tapped it against her plate as she listened to the circle talk about what was happening.

Birds. Boats. None of them explained what had happened to her father. He'd been in a sterile environment since his release and hadn't left the house, hadn't left his own bed, since. If it was a disease as people were claiming then it would have effected her mother or herself, but it hadn't. She was fine. Her mother, though stricken with grief, had been healthy as well to the best of her knowledge.

Snapped to attention by the derogatory whispers, Sarah suddenly felt uncomfortable and unwelcome. Glancing through the loose strands of hair that hung in front of her face, she saw the woman glaring at her, blaming her for Johnny's rejection. Leaning over in her chair she whispered, “You could have gone.” Sarah didn't want her presence to dampen everyone else's evening as it appeared to be doing.

Taking a stand, she sat her things in her chair. “I think I'm going to take a walk,” she told him, excusing herself for the moment to clear her head. But just as she turned to leave a blood-curdling scream emerged from the barn and the woman who'd been trying to entice Johnny earlier limped out covered in blood.

The Dead and the Dying

Sarah Hanson

Faceclaim: Alison Sudol

The Dead and the Dying

At one point Sarah could have sworn Ethan had been about to speak, but the silence continued to stretch between them. Without conversation, the sounds of the gentle rumble of the engine and the hiss of air coming from the vents resounded in her ears. It was awkward and the woman began feeling self-conscious. To stave off further discomfort, she removed her phone from the pocket of her jeans and began to browse. Alerts and warning messages were plastered across the internet not by officials, but by random people who seemed frustrated with the lack of answers they were receiving. On the message boards she read one person saying they refused to step outside. Another warned not to go to a hospital. Someone said their hometown had been quarantined, but most others claimed the original poster was a liar. Sarah didn't know what to believe.

Stepping out of the cruiser, she lingered at the car as Ethan spoke for the first time since they'd left the motel. He sounded like a concerned parent. Aware from small town gossip that he'd become a father over the years, she could tell, and she imagined in ten years he'd be having this same conversation with his own daughter. Though she offered a smile of gratitude the wounds were still fresh. Slipping his number in her pocket, she made her way to the venue set up showing her tickets at the gate.

Her name, as expected, had gotten around. Sarah was let backstage where she was offered a seat. From behind the curtain her crystal eyes scanned over the cheering masses, the sound of their collecting yells and the music was deafening. Rock had never been her thing, not really, preferring to listen to country crooners. It'd been an acquired taste. While Sarah had always been more of a bubble-gum pop girl, Lena was the one who'd listen to Rock, Alternative, and Heavy Metal. Once, out of spite, her sister had blasted Death Metal and Sarah remembered the lead singer, if singing is what it could even be called, sounded like a clogged drain pipe. It was the content of the music her parents had opposed to and as a result all music with the exception of country, oldies, or gospel had been banned from the Hanson household.

Johnny startled her out of her thoughts and she stood to meet him, body stiff from surprise as he took her in a hug. She didn't say anything allowing him to do the talking for both. The goal for the evening had been to take her mind off of things, but she found it was still wandering, still drifting, and no matter where she turned to look it always drifted back to the stain on the carpet and the blood on her father's hands.

He was more attentive than she thought he'd be and she appreciated his attempts to distract her. From behind the partition she could hear the muffled sounds of people having fun. They didn't seem to care about anything that was happening or, like her, they knew and were just trying to take their minds off of it as well; she couldn't tell which.

Sarah leaned against Johnny during the ride to his house, wisps of blonde curls draped across his shoulder as her eyes blankly fixated on the velvet curtains in front of them. It had been a leap of faith to turn to Johnny and in the moment she felt she'd made the right choice. He understood what she was going through.

When the bus pulled up to the house there were already dozens of cars parked on the winding driveway. Eager party-goers had already unloaded their equipment, setting up radios, lawn chairs, and portable strobe lights out in the yard. Others carried kegs on their shoulders waiting for someone to open the door, an antsy jerk to their step as if they'd break it down themselves if it didn't happen soon. With half the concert and nearly half the town in attendance, the main house wasn't enough to contain the revelry and it extended out to the barn where a small group of people already drunk tried to lure the horses from their stables to give them alcohol.

Following him to the bar she was beguiled by the array of colorful drinks and while she didn't drink, she was tempted to take one all the same. “Not so much,” she admitted with a sigh. Instead of one of the jello shots, she chose a turquoise blue wine cooler. She imagined it would taste like the blue flavored Popsicles she would get during the hot summer months. It did not taste like a Popsicle. Grimacing at the sterile, inflammatory taste lingering in her mouth, she decided to hold the glass bottle rather than drink the rest. Scanning over the crowd, she stopped a man vaguely families in appearance. Absentmindedly she brought the bottle to her lips before the smell of fermented fruit abandoned at bottom of an airless cellar reminded her of the unpleasant taste and she lowered it again.

The bandage around his hand sparked the kindling of a memory and soon she recognized him as the man with the dog-bite from earlier. He was more wan than he'd previously been and sweat covered him head to toe. The man wasn't smiling even as his friend chatted at him and playfully punched him in the shoulder. He stumbled back, scratching at the gauze. The bite appeared infected as its reach spread traveling in large red streaks up his arm like a spiderweb up his arm. The medical bandage around his wrist had putrid yellow stains soaking through it. Sarah looked away from him, but she listened in on the conversation as one of the girls in the group informed him that he needed to see a doctor about the bite—not given by a dog, but a rabid homeless man—and his response that he already had along with a vial of antibiotics back at the house.

“He was at the pharmacy,” she recalled to Johnny, but remembered Johnny had arrived after the man had already left. There was a guilt for listening in to their private conversation and to make up for it, she began to wander away from the group giving them ample space.