Red Plague Boxed Set

by Anna Abner

  Unwilling to fight with him about it, I told myself everything would work out. We’d spend the night in peace and quiet, wake in the morning, and walk straight to D.C. Easy. No need to fret over Ben. If he said he was fine, I had to believe it.

  I chewed at my bottom lip as I wandered toward the entryway.

  Of all the buildings and homes I could have chosen, I had to pick the one with enough weapons to literally arm a militia. Governor Dunmore had enjoyed his fancy rifles and swords, that was for sure. Dozens of each adorned the walls of the front hall in geometric patterns, covering dark wood paneling.

  I dismissed the decorative firepower and explored the downstairs. The house had a lot of windows. Way more than a modern house. And they were all tall, narrow, and easy to break. Even the curtained windows seemed too exposed. Not much privacy.

  Most of the rooms contained a chair or a lamp, but were nearly devoid of furniture or decoration, besides the color on the walls and the wall moldings. A birdcage, a wig, and a candlestick here and there. Lots of vases and chandeliers, but hardly anything valuable or historical. I wondered if curators and tourists had stripped the buildings during the height of the red plague hysteria in some vain attempt to protect the pieces for future generations. If so, where were they? In a locked vault no one knew the combination to? In the back of a van sitting stranded on a highway?

  Seeing the meticulously restored rooms only reminded me of how much we had lost. There had to be a way back from the current desolation. Like my dad’s cure. But I wasn’t ready to consider hurting Ben again to retrieve it from his bloodstream. Maybe there was another way.

  I didn’t expect to find much food or water in the restored home, and I was right. The cupboards and sideboards were empty. On our way out, we’d have to hit up the visitor’s center or one of the restaurants for canned goods. So, for the time being, we had whatever was in my pack.

  Lit candle in hand, I trudged upstairs to explore and choose a place to spend the night.

  The first bedroom I checked was the white-walled child’s room with the fancy cradle and the adorable kid-sized chairs. But I wouldn’t sleep there. I just took it all in, and moved on.

  Five years earlier the governor’s daughter’s bedroom had been so cute and fantastic as my Girl Scout troop, a dozen strangers, and I all crammed in to observe and take pictures with our phones. Now, quiet and empty, the room felt sad, especially lit by nothing but candlelight. The whole place was a graveyard of lost souls, lost hopes, lost dreams. I sensed ghosts all around me.

  Exploring the historic home where so many had passed through lost all its fun.

  I set my pack on the bed and removed everything edible. We were down to canned ham, a bag of almonds, a canteen half full of water, and cheese-flavored crackers. Balancing the piecemeal dinner in my right arm, being careful not to pull at my liquid sutures, I went downstairs.

  Ben was still in the small, white-walled dining room organizing the first-aid supplies.

  “Hungry?” I asked, joining him at the table.

  He nodded, and we sat across from each other like a couple of colonial imposters. I reached for the ham to open it, but Ben grabbed it first.

  “You’re hurt.” He opened the flip top can and set it in front of me.

  Rather than reassure me, the sight of preserved meat made me sad. More and more of our food was going stale. Eventually, everything made before 212R would be inedible. Except for Twinkies and honey. And rice. Or was it white flour that lasted forever? It hardly mattered. I couldn’t survive the rest of my life on honey and flour. Nor did I want to. Which meant at some point soon we would have to put down roots and settle in one spot to dig a garden and raise animals. Because fried eggs on a pile of crispy hash browns sounded like heaven.

  “I wish I had better food,” I said, eating a couple chunks of cold cooked meat. “But I had to split what was left with Pollard and Hunny.”

  Saying their names made me feel empty inside, worse than hungry. Lonely.

  Where were they? Why hadn’t they stuck to the plan and waited on the beach?

  “Why didn’t you run away with them?” Ben asked, pretending to be invested in opening the bag of almonds, but I knew better.

  “And leave you behind?” Never. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I told him to leave me there,” he said, abandoning the snack food. “I didn’t want you to get hurt trying to help me. If things went bad.”

  I looked him in the eye, forcing him to hear the resolve in my voice. “I would never do that.”

  “You want the cure. That might be what it takes to get it out of me.”

  My fault. All of it. “After what happened at Camp Carson,” I stared at the can of ham, considered stuffing some in my mouth, but soldiered on, “I don’t care if the antiserum stays in your blood. For good.” Even if it was the only effective cure for the red plague in the entire world.

  I tried to gauge his reaction, but his head remained down. I added, “It’s not worth extracting it if you get hurt in the process. So, we’ll find another way. Because you’re not a science experiment, and I’m not letting you be treated like one ever again.” I finally exhaled and popped two cubes of ham into my mouth.

  “You wish I hadn’t injected it,” he said with a gloomy finality.

  “No.” I dropped my fist on the table to be sure I had his attention. “I’m glad you did.”

  If it’s sole purpose had been to cure one person, I was thankful it was Ben.

  He picked at his dinner and in the uncomfortable silence I ate some, too. I passed him the canteen.

  After swallowing, he said, “You could have gone with Pollard. Someone else could have unstrapped me and led me out.”

  It was true. I could’ve led Hunny and Juliet to the beach, and left Pollard to free Ben.

  “But I’m faster and smaller. I thought I was the best choice to sneak in, find you, and sneak back out.” And I’d been right.

  “I just wish…” Shaking his head, he chewed on a handful of almonds.

  I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. “You wish what?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t risk your life for me.”

  Was he kidding? “After everything you’ve done to keep me safe you actually think I’d abandon you in that place and never think of you again?” I stood up, insulted. I didn’t have anywhere to go, I was simply too furious to sit still. “I told you already. I care about you.” Dang it. I sounded ridiculous. “I care about what happens to you.”

  I considered sitting down, but I wasn’t hungry, and I was getting tired. I turned to go when I thought of one more question. “If it was me in that room, would you have left me and saved yourself—”

  Ben grabbed my hand, my good one, so tight I flinched. “Don’t talk like that,” he warned. “Maya, I can’t think about you on a gurney. Any gurney.” His fingers shook against my hand. “I would want to—” He leapt to his feet, released me, and stomped toward the door with one of the candles. “I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He would want to what? My gaze followed him until he turned a corner and I lost sight of him.

  I quickly wrapped up what I could for breakfast, blew out one of the candles, and hurried upstairs with the third. Silently, I changed into my pajamas, climbed onto the little girl’s four-poster bed, and pulled the flowery drapes closed tight. It was a lot like my panic room.

  I tried to sleep, but I was too worked up from our dinner conversation. The thought of him being tortured and in pain on top of my being stabbed and nearly eaten by a zombie had undone my calm façade. For the first time ever I didn’t want to go to sleep alone and isolated. But he was downstairs, and I had no more excuses for going down there.

  So, in my regular indoor voice to avoid attracting any nearby Reds, I said, “Good night, Ben.” I was certain he would never be able to hear me. But after a moment his quiet voice found me.

  “Sweet dreams, Maya.”

  Chapter Six


  I rolled onto my back and my wrist thumped the side table, making an off-key reverberation. Sunlight snuck through the closed bed curtains, but gray and hazy.

  For a disorienting moment I didn’t know where I was or how I’d gotten there. But slowly, inch by inch, memories replayed in my mind and I pieced it together. I’d gotten Ben out of Camp Carson, been cut to ribbons helping a devious old lady, and had spent the night in Colonial Williamsburg. I wobbled my head in disbelief. I might as well still be dreaming.

  A window shattered, and something heavy hit the ground.

  “Ben!” I scrambled out of bed, grabbed my gear, shoved my bare feet into shoes, and thundered down the stairs three at a time. I landed hard on the first floor, jarring my teeth. Inside the pretty blue ballroom, the one with all the tall narrow windows, a zombie slept off a concussion. A second Red pushed through a broken window. Ben wrestled him past the jagged glass, out the way he’d come.

  “Maya,” he panted, straining against the larger man. “I need a weapon.”

  Options were limited. I had my dad’s short sword, but I was no good at using it. If I started poking at Reds, I might hit Ben.

  I offered him the hilt of the replica sword. He would probably have better luck.

  He shook his head. “Something bigger.”

  All I could think of was the governor’s mounted swords and firearms. I tried to pull a musket off the wall, but they were glued, screwed, and bolted to the paneling. So, I hurried back into the dining room hunting for any kind of weapon. Anything.

  Against the wall was an antique table with solid legs. I flipped it over and kicked one of the legs free.

  “Catch.” I tossed the makeshift club, Ben caught it, and he swung it at the Red’s jaw. Squealing, the zombie fell out the window and into the grass.

  I kicked another leg free as a female clambered into the room, stepping right on top of her fallen comrade, and tearing deep gashes in her forearms along the way. She lunged for Ben and, as she ducked her head, I caught sight of more Reds behind her. Seven, eight, ten, twelve. A huge pack all jammed against the exterior wall. A wedge of snarling, red-eyed infected human beings pushing and shoving for the jagged opening. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out there were other windows. Doors, even.

  “Come on,” I shouted, making an abrupt turn and running for the front door. They hadn’t discovered it, yet. But Ben was still cramming the female zombie back out the window. “Ben!”

  He gave her one more shove, and then followed me, picking up the last of our gear along the way.

  “Right behind you.” He had blood on his pants and splattered up both arms.

  I thought, wildly, that he needed new clothes. He was so particular about his appearance and the stains would annoy him. I didn’t want him to feel any more chaos. No more.

  In blinding sunlight I ran down the long, quiet lane toward the periphery of the historic district and the campus of the University of William and Mary. I looked back. The pack of at least fifteen was following us, tumbling around the buildings and the garden shrubbery. Right in the middle of them was a tall, beefy Red in a black shirt with red lettering. Devil Dog.

  “They tracked us?” I panted.

  Not possible. Reds followed sounds and scents to prey. They didn’t pursue survivors for days over long distances.

  Ben jogged silently at my side.

  He had.

  He had followed me from my home on Cherry Blossom Court all the way to my dad’s lab in Raleigh. No matter where I ran or drove he was always a couple steps behind.

  Were Reds getting better at finding prey? Were they evolving?

  “We need a vehicle,” Ben said.

  But we didn’t have enough of a lead to stop. Not even to check for car keys. I picked up speed, hoping to put more distance between us and the zombies, hoping his long legs could keep up.

  The Reds on our heels weren’t like horror film monsters. These zombies might not be able to climb a ladder or hold a conversation, but they could run.

  What if Pollard, Hunny, and Juliet had run into Devil Dog’s pack? We were all moving in the same direction, possibly taking the same route. Would Pollard have been able to outsmart the pack? Outrun them? Defeat them? Pollard, who couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a cannon, a little girl, and a woman unused to fighting?

  I prayed they had found a working automobile right away and driven straight into D.C., no sidetracks, no detours, no sightseeing. If so, they would already be there, hopefully waiting for us.

  I heard Ben following, so I picked up speed until I chugged at my comfortable long distance pace. The pace I could keep up indefinitely. For miles. For hours, if need be.

  My knee was all healed and there wasn’t even a twinge as I pounded over pavement, hopped curbs, and dodged the occasional abandoned vehicle. Luckily, I had put on sneakers before we left, otherwise I’d be running in pajamas and bare feet. Just pajamas and cross trainers was weird enough.

  I accelerated and the wind whipping against my face and the ground zipping away behind me made me forget for a moment where I was. With a little imagination I could be at morning track practice worried about nothing more serious than whether Cal might corner me after third period and punish me with cruel remarks about my smile or my nose or my jeans.

  We zigzagged through Williamsburg and then into Yorktown. By the time we hit the bridge over the York River, I was drenched in sweat and the muscles in my legs and abdomen were complaining about the grueling pace. But we had outrun the pack.

  On our side of the bridge several dozen cars were caught behind a barricade.

  Someone must have obstructed the bridge weeks earlier with the notion they could keep the infection from spreading into their town. But it hadn’t worked. 212R had passed too easily and too quickly from person to person. A hug. A handshake. A sneeze in a crowded room. No blockade could stop it.

  Ben ransacked the vehicles for keys, one after the other until he found one we could drive. He started a white Chevy two-door, we hopped in, and he rocketed onto the bridge like a criminal with half a dozen flashing, screaming squad cars on his tail. I held on for dear life.

  The bridge was blissfully empty of vehicles, but behind a police barricade on the opposite end cars and trucks clumped up together, obstructing the way. Ben careened off the bridge and took us four-wheeling over swampy grassland for a quarter mile before jerking us back onto a side street heading north.

  He slowed down to avoid abandoned cars, and I peeled my fingers off the dashboard.

  “You drive like you stole it,” I teased.

  He whipped his head in my direction. “Why would you say that?”

  “What?” I didn’t understand the expression on his face. He looked scared and a little angry. “I was kidding.”

  “But I don’t understand,” he continued, frowning as he re-focused on the street unspooling before us. “This is stealing? Even if…” He seemed to struggle for the right words.

  “It’s not stealing,” I assured, because he sounded honestly worried about it. “The owner is dead, and we’re running for our lives. I was only teasing you, Ben.” I studied his profile, a puzzle piece of his life clicking into place. “Is that why you were in Dogwood?”

  “I don’t want to be that person anymore,” he said, his voice turning gravelly. “I hate that person. I won’t be like that. Ever again.” He glanced at me briefly. “Ever.”

  “You’re not a bad person,” I told him, infusing my tone with authority, as if I were the last word on the subject. Case closed. “You’re a good person, Ben.” I added, “A bad person wouldn’t worry about whether he’d stolen the car or not. A bad person wouldn’t care.”

  He didn’t respond, and I distracted myself from thoughts of Ben in a beige prison jumpsuit by going through the contents of the car. The front seat was cluttered with wadded napkins and empty, paper cups. No CDs, though, to brighten the experience. Rolling around the back seat with a golf club and a fashion magazine was an uno
pened bottle of lemon lime soda. I knew it was flat the moment I twisted the cap and hardly any air fizzed. But it was fluid and sugar. It didn’t matter what it tasted like.

  I guzzled half the warm, syrupy drink and then thrust the bottle at Ben. “Drink the rest. You need it.”

  “Why didn’t you use your sword?” he asked, finishing it quickly and tossing the empty bottle into the back seat.

  “When? In the Governor’s Palace?” I didn’t admit the thought had crossed my mind. The pair of wooden clubs I’d made in place of anything better lay on the back seat under my guitar. “I don’t like to hurt people,” I admitted. Maybe a guy obsessed with being a good person would understand. “Especially since I met you.” He glanced at me, and I flashed him a quick smile. “They’re not dead. They’re not monsters. They’re just sick.”

  “But they were going to hurt you.” His breath was coming quick, and I knew he was upset. “If I hadn’t been there, they could have killed you.”

  “If I was by myself,” I told him, “I would have run away and locked myself into a high-rise. I’d be okay.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Why do you even have a sword?”

  “It was my dad’s,” I said. “It reminds me of him. And if I were in real trouble I would use it. If it were my life or theirs, I would use it.”

  He grunted as if he didn’t believe me. “How is your hand?” he asked.

  I studied the wound in question. “It aches, but it’s healing.”

  “And your knee?”

  “It’s all better.” I flexed my right leg. “Sitting around Camp Carson for days helped it heal.” Guilt stabbed at my ribs. I hadn’t meant to bring up Camp Carson.

  But he showed no reaction, and I sat back and was quiet for a long time.

  The further into the city we drove, the more parked cars obstructed our path and slowed our speed to leisurely Sunday drive. Eventually, Ben stopped the car in front of a crush of vehicles. No way around. Even the sidewalk was blocked.

  He didn’t get out right away. Instead, he said quietly, “Did they hurt you?”

  It took me a moment to understand what he meant. I caught his red gaze, and got lost in the beautiful ruby color of his eyes.