Red Plague Boxed Set

by Anna Abner

  “Something else,” he said ominously. “The world shrank around me. I didn’t remember anything about myself at all.”

  “But you wanted to feed?” I guessed. On the news the talking heads had debated the symptoms of the red plague and what they meant. Everyone agreed zombies craved flesh above all else. And their food of choice was raw human beings.

  “I didn’t think of it as feeding,” he admitted. “It was life. Blood and flesh was all I could think about, every moment of the day. I was never full. I was always starving.”

  “That sounds awful.”

  “The instinct was overwhelming…” He shook his head as he brought my hand up and clasped our linked fingers with his free hand. He kissed my knuckles. “You kept me sane, Maya. Your picture. You kept me human when everything inside me screamed to be a monster.” He kissed my hand one more time, his lips lingering against my flesh, and then he released me. Untethered from him, I swayed a little. “I don't know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me at all,” I said. I hadn’t done anything worthy of thanks. He had come after me. And by some stroke of luck or fate or providence he’d actually located me. “I’m really glad you found me,” I admitted. “I’m glad you saw my picture and it brought you to me.”

  He gave me an exhausted, bashful smile. “Me, too.”

  We heard the sound of footsteps at the same time and both turned. The pack must have caught its breath because they were running after us, and they were coming fast. The field full of divots didn’t slow them down one bit.

  Neither Ben nor I said a word. We just looked at each other for a split second and then we took off across the field. In the distance, past some craggy old pines, was another subdivision.

  We sprinted into a neighborhood that was more movie studio back lot than a once lived-in neighborhood. Cars sat serenely in driveways and on the curbs. No tipped trashcans. No forgotten lawn mowers. Not even a single fallen piece of mail. It was as if all the residents agreed to clean up and move on to greener pastures, en masse. And this perfect slice of human civilization was far creepier than any other neighborhood I had been in so far. Because running past these houses I could believe the apocalypse wasn’t completely real, but a manufactured crisis. Or a dream. Or a sociology experiment.

  One of the vehicles parked so politely along the curb, a huge pickup with a camper shell in the back, started with a rumble, and swerved toward us. I waved my arms in relief. Finally, some good luck. I didn’t care who they were. They had transportation, and we needed a fast getaway.

  I glanced behind me. Devil Dog’s pack hadn’t made it across the field yet, but they were on their way. Any second they would burst onto the street and zero in on us like an artificially intelligent locomotive.

  Ben grasped my arm, sending an unspoken signal to be wary, but I threw caution to the wind. We had to get out of there. I was so beyond tired of being chased like some poor little fox in an old-fashioned hunt. I waved and shouted to get the driver’s attention.

  The truck slowed, and I ran up to the hood, slapping my hands on the warm metal. Two female faces stared out at me from the front seat. I wiped sticky hair from my flushed face and smiled my friendliest smile.

  “We need help,” I called out. “Can we get a ride to D.C.?”

  Before the truck had come to a complete stop, the side camper door swung wide and a man in head-to-toe denim hopped out.

  I started to say, “Thank you,” when he pulled a handgun from a shoulder holster and pointed it at my face.

  “Take off your shoes.”

  Staring down the barrel of a handgun did something to my senses. My brain fritzed and I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think straight. I just stood there like a block of wood, my mouth open, as the world shrank to the diameter of the barrel of his gun.

  That must have been what my mom felt during those final seconds as her life ticked away. She must have seen the gun, recognized her furious son on the other end of it, and realized she was going to die. Had she stood frozen, too, or had she said something before the bang?

  I would never know. Only Mason knew what she’d signed or said in her final moments and he had never confessed them. And now he never would.

  “Your eyes are red,” the guy said to Ben. “Are you some kind of cosplay nerds?”

  Ben in danger yanked me back to the present predicament in a rush. “Yeah,” I bluffed. “We like dressing up as zombies.”

  “Freak,” he sneered. “Take off your shoes.”

  Ben and I exchanged looks, and then we removed our footwear. Shoes were replaceable. Running barefoot would slow us down, but at least we’d be alive. And pairs of perfectly good shoes lay scattered all around us in homes and stores. We could easily pick up replacements.

  “Now drop your gear,” he snapped.

  Ben grabbed me hard around the waist and actually lifted me off the ground for a second as he put me behind him. “We’re leaving,” he said firmly.

  Denim dude shifted his gun in Ben’s direction. “Drop your gear, or I will pull the trigger.”

  But there was no shot.

  “You’re surrounded by houses,” I said, braver since the gun hadn’t gone off yet. “And you have to steal from us?” I sneered. “Do you get off on it? Is that it?”

  “I’ve found survivors carry the best stuff.” He smiled mockingly at me, his eyes cruel. “Hurry up, big mouth, and drop your bag. You and your boyfriend are running out of time.”

  It took me half a second to realize what he meant. He wanted my pack.

  All the mouthy bravery drained right out of me in a gush. I glanced toward the two females in the front seat as if they would somehow grant me mercy, because denim dude’s expression had no sympathy in it at all.

  He wanted everything I’d saved and loved and protected.

  “It’s socks,” I lied. “Just socks and water.”

  The thief stepped nearer and clipped Ben hard on the side of the head with the gun. “I’ll kill him!”

  I believed him. The backpack containing my iPad and song diary dropped to the asphalt. My guitar fell beside it. Reluctantly, Ben removed his carefully packed survival kit and laid it on the street at his feet.

  Something rustled behind us, and I turned. A pair of squirrels was locked in a wrestling match. No Reds. But they were coming. We didn’t have time to stand around being robbed.

  “And the sword,” the guy said, gesturing toward my waist. “That, too.”

  I fumbled with Sting. My personal possessions meant everything to me. “It was my dad’s,” I grumbled, tears threatening.

  With sure fingers, Ben helped me unlatch the short sword. “I’ll get you another guitar,” he whispered to me. Blood obscured his left eye and dribbled onto his shirt. “You’re more important than any guitar. Or sword.”

  I tried to sway the guy one more time. “I have a song diary in the bottom of my bag. It’s not worth anything to you. Let me keep it.” I gritted my teeth. “Please.”

  As the last of my belongings clattered to the ground, denim dude returned the pistol to its holster, and I got a sickening feeling. “There are no bullets in that gun, are there?” Just like our pistol. It looked scary, but held no ammunition.

  Fury flashed through me. I was angry at everything. The world. The zombies. My dad. Mason. Everyone. And I funneled all my rage at the thief.

  I lifted my sword and swung it at him, slicing him across the chest. He yelped and fell back as Ben ducked under me and hefted me up onto his shoulder. He took off running, bouncing me like a sack of dog food, but I kept swinging the sword as the man chased us.

  “You animal!” I screamed. “You’re no better than the zombies!”

  Though I kept slicing at him, he caught up and wrenched my father’s sword right out of my hands.

  I let go because over the thief’s head, Devil Dog’s pack of Reds crashed through a picket fence and targeted the truck and camper with various roars of hunger and vengeance.
After everything the pack had been through, from clubbings to car accidents, their numbers had dwindled to five men and Devil Dog. But, no matter what, he was always there at the front of the pack.

  My fingers grasped at the back of Ben’s shirt and found Stein’s pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants. For a split second I considered pulling it and waving it at the guy in the truck, but the weapon was empty, and it wouldn’t do either of us any good.

  The thief backtracked, collected our belongings, and made it inside the camper. Before he shut the door, two zombies leapt into the vehicle on top of him. A female screamed. The truck’s engine revved, and then plowed into a parked car, bounced over a curb, and buried its nose in someone’s kitchen.

  I said to Ben, “They’re back.” No need to elaborate. “I’m only slowing you down.”

  He set me on my feet, and we ran.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We sprinted down the narrow residential street, pastel-colored houses on either side, away from the sound of feeding. I turned and led him onto a side street, but realized my error a moment later. We were at the mouth of a cul-de-sac that dead-ended into someone’s driveway. Beyond the last house towered a formidable block wall.

  I checked behind me. We only had a minute or less of a lead before the zombies were on top of us.

  “Maya, here.” Ben paused beneath the sloping tile roof of the house at the end of the street and linked his fingers together. I put my bare foot in it without hesitation, and he launched me up onto the roof.

  I flipped over and reached helplessly for him with my good hand. “I’ll pull you up.” I didn’t know how I would lift his weight, but maybe if he kicked off the wall and I had excellent leverage…

  He turned his back and headed down the driveway. Toward the pack.

  At the street he booted the previous owner’s mailbox with his bare feet, the wooden post splintering and breaking near the base. Ben squared his shoulders, hefted the mailbox and post like an oversized cartoon hammer, and waited for Devil Dog.

  I crouched on the roof, contemplating Ben and the grassy field behind me as time stretched into eternity. Eventually, past the pines, lay the highway. In a matter of moments I could be off the roof, over the block wall, and racing full speed across the field. I had done it before.

  I’d be home free. Alone and safe.

  It’s what I’d always wanted.

  Until I found someone who meant more than all of my fears and possessions and stupid safety rules, which was a first for me. Up until that moment my own health and happiness had been my only priorities, but I came to the conclusion while being chased by a pack of zombies that the man in front of me meant more to me than any one or any thing in my world.

  I flopped onto my belly and catapulted myself off the roof, hitting the ground hard, the momentum throwing me into a roll. I landed in someone’s old flowerbed, spitting out dirt and blood. Above me reared a crook-like, decorative bird feeder.

  I pulled the wrought iron hook from the earth, slinging sunflower seeds like confetti, and reached Ben just as the pack attacked. They were down to five men and Devil Dog, who stood back and stared at Ben the same way Ben used to stare silently at me when he was infected.

  Except Devil Dog didn’t want to protect me or anything else so noble. The monster wanted to feast on our flesh and blood.

  Ben swung his mailbox hammer and knocked down three of the men with a single swipe. I smashed my crook into a fourth, the metal hook whistling through the air before it ricocheted off the zombie’s head. It didn’t kill him, probably didn’t even cause permanent damage, but it stunned him so badly he fell to his knees. I swung again, so did Ben, and all five zombies crumpled at our feet.

  I felt such painful, exhilarating relief that I almost forgot about Devil Dog.

  The beefy man launched at us. Ben must have momentarily forgotten about the hulk, too, because the attack took him by surprise. They toppled to the sidewalk, a mess of arms and legs. Ben raised the mailbox, but Devil Dog plucked it right out of his hands and slammed it into his face. Ben went limp, his arms falling to his sides as bright red blood bubbled from a cut at his hairline. Devil Dog lunged toward Ben’s exposed throat, jaws wide.

  I did the only thing I could think of. I got behind Devil Dog, slipped the crook under his chin, and cranked his head against my collarbone. He was much bigger than I was, though, and much stronger. He writhed, his hands finding my throat and pinching like he was going to tear it out with his fingernails.

  “Ben!” I heaved upwards as hard as I could, but if a miracle didn’t happen soon, he was going to twist free and yank my head off my shoulders. “Get up!”

  His head rolled to the side as he fought to regain consciousness, but he better hurry up. Devil Dog pushed his thumb up under my jaw so hard I was afraid he would puncture my flesh. Either that or dislocate my jaw.

  “Ben, please!” I squealed. My fingers were slipping from the crook. I was losing my paltry leverage.

  Ben sat up, snapping to attention. Taking in the situation, he grabbed the fallen mailbox and shoved the splintery, broken end of the wooden post into Devil Dog’s chest.

  A little harder. A twist to the right. And the Red vomited blood. He struggled helplessly against me one last time and then wilted. I couldn’t hold him, and he collapsed on top of Ben.

  “Ben!” I dug in my bare toes and rolled Devil Dog to the side.

  My heart beat so fast I feared I was having a real, honest-to-goodness heart attack. I’d never been so terrified in my life. Shock and fear and anxiety and all the rest chugged through my veins and tingled into my extremities until my skin felt electrified.

  I straddled Ben and grabbed him hard by the collar, scrutinizing his pale and bloodied face for signs of serious injury.

  The blood slowed from the wound the camper thief had given him above his eyebrow, but the new cut at his hairline was bleeding freely, dribbling down his face and staining his shirt.

  “Oh, no,” I stammered. “Your face. There’s blood in your eyes. Can you see?”

  He gripped my hips so hard he caused little finger-shaped dots of pain. “Did he hurt you?” he growled.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous?” I tried to reassure myself that a concussion could heal on its own. Though if it was a subdural bleed, then he could fall over dead at any moment.

  He coiled his arms all the way around my ribs and pulled me in for a tight embrace, pressing his nose against my throat, halting my examination. But I didn’t care. I held him so tight, probably too tightly, because he was alive and okay and I couldn’t let go.

  “I’ll get you a new guitar. I’ll get back everything he stole.” His gravelly voice was rapid fire, and I sensed the emotion rolling off him.

  “I don’t care about those things,” I said, surprised to hear my voice just as emotional, just as fast. A single tear cascaded down my cheek, and then a stream followed down the bridge of my nose. “I only care about you.” I wiped at my eyes.

  “Can you stand up?”

  “Can you?” He’d been unconscious. Not for long, but even passing out for a short period of time was a bad sign.

  I moved away so he could stand, but stayed close enough to support him.

  “We don’t have to leave right now,” I said. “We can hole up in one of these houses for a while. I can find first aid.”

  “No.” He took several deep breaths and rubbed at both eyes. “We’re only a dozen miles out of D.C. We should go. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he asked. “To get to the Washington Monument as soon as possible?”

  I opened my mouth but didn’t know what to say. Yes? Maybe. Would he understand if I attempted to explain my feelings? When I didn’t fully understand them myself?

  A dozen miles in Ben’s condition might as well have been a thousand. His head wound was bleeding. A lot.

  “Press your hand to the cut,” I told him, guiding his palm to the right spot. “It will help stop the bleeding.”


  I slipped a shoulder under his arm and we stumbled out of the cul-de-sac, avoiding the camper and the two Reds still feeding inside and toward the I–95 on the other side of the subdivision. If I found a working car, we could get somewhere safe. Blood dribbled down the side of his face and soaked my shirt.

  We stumbled through a sandy field of wild grass and weeds. As I struggled around scraggly bushes and a split trash bag, I realized his arms were down and limp, and he was getting heavier.

  “Keep pressure,” I pleaded, forcing his hand back against his forehead. “Ben? Can you hear me? Keep pressure on the wound so the bleeding will stop.”

  He nodded, but less than five minutes later his arm was hanging loose again.

  “We’re almost there,” I panted, picking up the pace though my back screamed in protest. I urged him down a drainage ditch and when we climbed onto the highway, I saw several high-rises above the trees in the distance.

  “Rest for a sec, and I’ll find a ride.” I left him leaning against the guardrail, but almost immediately he sank to his knees.

  Never had I needed a working vehicle more. I opened car doors and rummaged for keys. There was no first aid. No sterile bandages or antiseptic. I didn’t know how to help him.

  Anger and frustration ratcheted into panic. I couldn’t hold it inside anymore.

  “This is so stupid,” I screamed at no one. “Why is this happening?”

  But the moment my voice shattered the quiet, I knew how childish I was acting. Yelling at the sky wasn’t helping Ben. He needed me to be stronger than that.

  “Sorry,” I said, jogging barefoot to the next clump of vehicles. “I’ll get us moving. I promise.”

  A low rumble like distant thunder got louder. I stared ahead, toward D.C., as a white van emerged from the mess of stalled vehicles and drove in our direction.

  “No.” Not more trouble.