Rise of the Plague (Book 0): The Sickness (Monte's Story) Read online

  I tap the disintegrating floor planks with my foot until I find the one that sounds hollow. Moving the rusty coffee table and lifting the board, I kneel down and pull out my dad’s shotgun and its coiled strap. One of three guns, he has, not-so-well hidden in the house. And there’s no way I’m going back down the hall for the revolver. I load the weapon. Standing up, I steal one last glance back toward my bedroom, eyeing the name placard hanging from the door--Monte. Sammy got a hold of it a few years back and scribbled it black with permanent marker. I had tossed it out, but then fished it from the trash bin and repainted it. Now, nothing is left for me in this house. I take one last look around, before walking out the front door.

  Pausing momentarily on my front porch, the view out here is like a riot scene from the news. About twenty people with the sickness are in the road, on neighboring lawns and chasing after speeding cars.

  I don’t recognize most of these people from the neighborhood, but Emma Sampson, Mr. Hilt, even the paperboy, Javier—all have the sickness. The sick ones all have the same posturing, pale skin and dark veins. Some are shuffling along slowly, while others bolt after their victims. They’re monsters like my dad, chasing down men, ladies and little kids and attacking them like starving beasts.

  Emma has caught up with Manuel Rodriguez—a boy she’s had a crush on for the last six months—and has tackled him to the ground. He’s fighting her back, kicking and socking her with the bottom of his fist. She seems as though she feels no pain and whips her head down at his arm. Manuel is wailing in pain as Emma rips a mouthful of his flesh with her teeth. She is soon joined by some unfamiliar faces, all making a meal out of poor Manuel.

  Mr. Hilt is in his sixties and has lived in this neighborhood since before I was born. He and two others crouch over a little boy, no older than Sammy. They are attacking the kid, burying their faces in his chest and stomach like raging animals. The kid is screaming and smacking Mr. Hilt in the head. They are eating him alive.

  And Javier, still has his newspaper bag on his shoulders, while chasing down an old man. As he catches up to the white-haired man, newspapers are bouncing out of the front and back of his bag, before he and the senior take a tumble to the ground.

  I wick a tear from my cheek and look away. It’s unbelievable that my street has gone to crap so fast, that all these people could have the sickness. I don’t understand what happened to make all these people sick. What kind of sickness could be making these people kill each other and then…eat each other? The gory scenes are too gruesome for me to let them sink in. I feel as though I need to be stone-hearted right now.

  Stone-hearted, is how I make myself feel when Dad’s is on a rampage. I just shut down every bit of emotion, make myself feel nothing, like my heart is made of stone. I won’t let myself feel sadness or pain—I tell myself that I just have to survive. And that is what I need to do right now. I can’t do anything here—for any of these people—without having all of the sick ones coming after me. Right now, I have to survive. I have to be stone-hearted.

  “I’m outta here,” I say out loud to nobody.

  MS. ANDREWS

  I sneak off my porch to the side walkway of the house. Clipping the strap on the shotgun, I sling it over my shoulder. My bitten wrist stings so bad that I want to scream out in pain, but I don’t want to risk the sick ones noticing my presence. The air is hot and thin outside. So much for Fall. Technically, the start of autumn is two weeks away, but it doesn’t feel like this heat will be leaving anytime soon. I can hear my dad still pounding on the walls in my room. He sounds like a trapped animal, grunting and growling.

  I yank my little brother’s dirt bike from its resting spot, against the house. A rebel teardrop skids down my cheek, as I hop on. Flicking on the start button, I thrust my foot down on the kick start pedal. It whines but doesn’t start. I try again, thinking to myself, that Dad was supposed to fix this stupid bike for Sammy, like ages ago. Three more tries and still no life in the bike, although my middle-aged neighbor has now taken notice of me.

  Ms. Andrews, as I know her, is a thick, stubby woman, who loves to bake goodies and give them away to the neighbors—and obviously keep a few for herself. But today, Ms. Andrews has no goodies in hand and no intention of giving anything away except for her disgusting sickness. Nearly everyone I’ve seen in the last half hour is sick with whatever’s going around. As Ms. Andrews topples over the white picket fence—separating our yards, her face looks like all the others I’ve seen so far. The whites of her eyes are as black as her tongue. Her once creamy looking complexion is pale and dry, with her black veins road-mapping her vile skin. I pull the shotgun off my shoulder and aim it at the woman. With no fear of the gun, Ms. Andrews staggers forward.

  My panicked breathing becomes shallow as I pump the gun. My sixteen year old hands tremble as the woman approaches, shambling toward me. I drop the dirt bike and step away from it. With all that I have, I try to muster the courage to pull the trigger. Knowing that Ms. Andrews is no longer the sweet lady next door, and knowing that I will be killed by this woman if I don’t pull the trigger, I simply can’t bring myself to do it.

  This is different, not like with Dad. I daydreamt for years about ridding myself of him. But Ms. Andrews has always been kind to my brother and me. Even with her sickness, I just can’t hurt this lady.

  Stepping backward as Ms. Andrews shuffles forward, my heel hits a lip on the walkway. I try to catch myself, but it’s too late. My body tenses up as I fall, my elbow hitting the ground first. Then my tailbone slams onto the hard concrete, followed by my head and an echoing gunshot.

  I grope myself, anxiously feeling for any wounds. A tiny wave of relief washes over me, as I feel none, but it soon gives way to the pain in my head. My skull feels like it cracked open from that fall. I lift my head, rubbing the spot that hit the pavement. I don’t feel any blood or tears on my scalp.

  My eyes drift to Ms. Andrews. Her body is flat on the ground, motionless. I look down at the shotgun and then once more to Ms. Andrews. The thought of her biting me to death wasn’t enough to get me to pull the trigger, but the thought of falling three feet was?

  I half expect my neighbor to get back up, as I slowly rise to my feet. Swinging the shogun over my shoulder, I let my eyes wander toward Ms. Andrews’ head. The shot hit her in the face, and now, she is nearly unrecognizable. Her head is a mound of blood, exposed flesh and bone. My stomach rolls, as guilt burns up my throat. Turning away, I puke on the ground beside her. I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my hoodie, while my nose and throat burn in agony.

  My bitten wrist—and the whole arm, actually—feels like it’s on fire. I killed a sweet, old lady. My family, friends and neighbors have turned into cannibals. I don’t know if I should lie down and give up or try to go somewhere. But where? Of all the ones with the sickness I’ve seen so far—none of them have said a word. There must be something wrong with their brains. That would explain why Mom and Sammy couldn’t get into the house from the back door, and why Dad was so easily trapped in my room. Easily, I look down at my wrist, not that easily.

  It doesn’t matter where I go. I have to survive. To survive, I have to leave. I can figure out where to go later. Anywhere but this house. I’ve spent too much time being unhappy at this house and I’d rather saw off my own arm with a butter knife, than to spend my last moments on earth here.

  Picking up the dirt bike again, I thrust my foot on the petal, using it as an outlet for my frustration and panic. It doesn’t start. Grumbles and roars echo through the side yard from the sickened ones nearby. I know it’s because of the sound, the sound of the gunfire. That shot was probably heard for blocks.

  While I know that it won’t be long before I become one of them, I’m not ready to give up. This sickness is going to take me kicking and screaming. I won’t make it easy.

  I thrust my foot once more on the dirt bike with rebellious force. It whines to life at last. Opening the throttle, I whiz past Ms. Andrew’s lifeless corpse and ar
ound the side of the house. I spot a group, of nearly fifteen on my front lawn, as quickly as they see me. I swerve out, around the gathering crowd. The eerie sound of fingernails scraping the bike’s rear fender sends a rush up my spine, as I narrowly escape the group's clutches. It’s a few seconds, before I look back. Now, the group is a fair distance behind me. But that doesn’t stop them from sprinting and shuffling after my exhaust fumes.

  SAFE HOME

  As I make my way through the next few blocks, I realize that the sickness is not exclusive to my street. On the next block, the Taco Shell Taqueria and three nearby houses are flaming infernos. Abandoned and wrecked cars and trucks are all around me for the next two blocks. Bodies pepper the pavement, some staying still, while others are stirring back to consciousness. There is so much blood on nearly everything. It looks as if blood has rained from the sky.

  Riding through the neighborhood, the dirt bike putters along. I pass a road that has a little less activity. There are only a few of the sick people roaming about. To my surprise, the next block up has even fewer people. I feel lightly dusted with relief, but still have my guard up.

  I’m still in the crappy part of town, but I can’t have it all. I cross the next intersection and see a man, two streets down. He’s chugging a forty from the Quick Time Liquor store.

  My dad drinks those all the time, and it’s the only liquor store for seven blocks. That chunky guy guzzling the forty didn’t go that far to get his morning drink on. With the exception of the beer, he looks a little like my Mom’s half-brother, Uncle Victor. I hope he is as kind as my uncle, but I’ve never met anyone kind who drank beer so early in the morning. Approaching the man, I slow down. He is not the ideal person to talk to, but at least he isn’t like all the cannibals I’ve seen so far.

  “Hey Mister, do you know what’s going on?” I ask, slowing to a stop.

  “Hi—hi baby. You pretty,” he says, a smile broadening across his shiny, red face.

  Oh great, he's some midlife perv. With how this day's been going, how can this be a surprise? I should have known better than to stop from when I first saw that forty.

  “Never mind,” I say with a sigh.

  “No, no, don’t go. My name Edgar. It’s okay, really,” he says with one of the thickest accents I’ve heard in a while. He takes a step back, raising his empty hand and forty in submission.

  I should go. This guy is going to be nothing but trouble for me. I know it.

  “Hi Edgar. Have you seen any of the sick people?” I ask despite my reservations.

  "Oh yes, people really sick. Eating other people! Not safe out here. You give me a ride home?" he says coming closer.

  "No, I can't," I say shaking my head.

  "Yes, you come to my home. Safe in my home," he says grabbing the dirt bike’s handlebars.

  My heart is thumping so hard that I'm nearly frozen in place. I don't know what to do. I grab his hand and try to peel it off the handlebars, but his grip it too tight. Furrowing my brow and gritting my teeth, I try once again. His hand seems like it's cemented to the metal as his smile gets bigger and bigger.

  Is this really happening? After everything that happened to my family. After watching my neighbors devour one another like savage lunatics. This creep-a-zoid is seriously going to make me go to his safe home. With all that I’ve seen today, who knows what demented plans he has in store for me. Even if I could somehow call the cops on him, no one would come. Edgar probably knows that already. I feel my heart racing into overdrive and my mouth feels parched from my rapid breathing. This is like, the worst day of my life. Way worse than that time Dad mopped the floor with my face after he caught me trying to run away. When this guy is done with me, I'll probably be buzzard food. I need to find someone who can help me, someone who’s a good person, not a total weirdo.

  "Let go," I yell slapping his hand.

  "No, you be safe in my home pretty girl," he says again.

  I hear familiar roars that could only belong to the sick. Two men with the sickness come stumbling out of a backyard from the house across the street. They must have heard me yelling at Edgar. Growling and flashing their rotting teeth, their eyes meet mine. Both men sprint from the side gate on the house, never taking their evil stares off of me.

  This is not happening. There's no way that I'm going to let this creep take me to his safe home. And I won’t let these maniacs darting toward us, take me out, either. I reach for the shotgun on my back and slam the butt of the gun onto Edgar's hand. He recoils, letting out a painful squeal, and dropping the forty. The beer bottle shatters upon impact with the asphalt. I roll on the throttle and peel out—away from that creep.

  "Wait! Please help!" Edgar calls out.

  I take one last look back, and see the two men chasing Edgar. I turn my head forward, looking out ahead, and feeling torn. I don't want that jerk to be killed by the sickened ones, but who knows what that he would have done to me in his safe home. With a heavy heart, I continue up the road, without looking back again.

  DOWNTOWN

  After ditching the bad part of town, the buildings around here would be truly spectacular, if not for all the people with the sickness racing around. The area is thick with people in this downtown neighborhood. However, I’m seeing fewer and fewer normal ones at every turn. Those that I do see—are running from the ones with the sickness. Broken-down cars and property litter the road. Opened laptop cases with pages of typed documents are carried in the breeze. Purses and duffle bags have been left behind by those who likely ran for their lives. Passing a police car, I see nobody inside. The driver side door is open, but I see no sign of the cop that it belongs to. I press on, traveling the obstacle filled streets. The further I go the more my heart feels pained at the horror by the entirety of it all.

  As I pass an empty-looking ambulance with its back doors open, a normal man comes out from behind it. Seeing a regular person feels so incredibly relieving. My relief feels short-lived as the look on his face turns to a vengeful one and he begins running toward me. I speed up—only because I feel scared.

  “Give me that bike,” the man yells.

  He runs full speed toward the bike, his hands outstretched with a frightening look on his face. He isn’t sick, but looks unbelievably desperate. Increasing my speed even more, I leave that crazy guy in my tracks.

  I swerve and weave between traffic trying to make my way to the city’s edge. Wondering where all the police are, I find myself questioning if they are all dead. And if the sickness is everywhere, where am I going to go?

  “Please! Don’t take my car!” A woman in a white lab coat squeals at a man who peeled out in a small, compact car. On the side of the car door is a triangle symbol and the name, Strickland Laboratories.

  I slow near the woman. She is carrying a large, black backpack with the same triangle symbol on it. Her chin-length golden hair framed her soft features, making her look almost like an angel.

  “Do you need help?” I ask pulling to a stop near the woman.

  “Yes, he stole my car. I have something really important that needs to be delivered right away,” she says breathlessly.

  “What is it?” I ask. I don’t want to offer her a ride if it’s a bomb or something.

  “I’m a laboratory technician from The Strickland Lab. The scientist that I work for…died yesterday. He was working on something very important. I was supposed to drop off the medicine in my pack yesterday. It could help a lot of people.” she pauses shaking her head. “I really messed up.”

  “I’ll get you where you need to go. Don’t worry,” I say.

  I think that helping this lady might change my luck. What else am I going to do? Besides, I’d rather my last act on earth—before the sickness kills me—be a kind one. Getting this lady where ever she needs to go, to help people with her medicine would be a good—last thing to do. When I die, I’d rather my last memory not be the one of me killing Ms. Andrews.

  “You don’t understand, this is all my fault,”
she says looking me straight in the eyes.

  “What is all your fault?” I ask, not sure what she’s talking about. She can’t be talking about all this chaos in Port Steward.

  “Never mind,” she says pulling on the backpack and sliding onto the back of the bike. “I need to get this to Angora Laboratories. It’s the big building, near the edge of town. I really appreciate the lift. I’m Haley, by the way.”

  “Hang on Haley. I’m Monte.”

  I roll on the throttle and maneuver the bike through the downtown area, toward the great laboratory. We travel several blocks with the streets looking very much the same—like everyone raced out of town without a second look.

  The towering building looks to be about a mile or so away, when my arms begin to feel as if they aren’t working at full capacity. Every part of my body aches in agony. I know it’s the sickness. I feel as though I’m on the verge of passing out, when I decide to pull over in a clearing.

  “What’s going on? We’re not far,” Haley says.

  “You have to go alone,” I strain, getting off the bike. “I’m bit.”

  I yank the shotgun off my shoulder and drop it on the ground, as I stumble over to the curb. Taking a seat on the sidewalk, I lay back on the concrete, ready to surrender to my fate.

  Haley shuts off the bike and comes over, “Where were you bitten and when?”

  “Like an hour ago,” I pull up my sleeve, revealing the wound.

  Haley reaches in her backpack and pulls on a pair of latex gloves. They smell like grapes. Untying the rag from my wrist, Haley looks at it carefully. She reaches into the backpack and pulls out a small metal case about the size of a telephone receiver. Opening the container she pulls out a syringe filled with an orange substance. I want to protest, and ask about the shot, but then I think--why? I can feel that I’m not far from death. Maybe this woman is just going to make it as peaceful as possible, why should I protest her taking my pain from me. My entire body hurts so much. The pain is everywhere for me, like my whole body is filled with poison.