The Extinction Series | Book 8 | Primordial Earth 8

by Higgins, Baileigh

  “What about Seth? Where is he? Is he okay?” Rogue cried, fear filling her veins.

  “He’s fine. He was helping us to look for Spook,” Jessica said. “Have you seen him? Spook?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Rogue said, climbing out of the truck.

  “Okay, thanks,” Jessica said, with a worried shake of her head. “Sorry I scared you.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.” Rogue spotted Seth and ran toward him. “Is it true? Is Spook missing?”

  “It’s true,” Seth said, his expression somber. “We’ve looked all over. He’s gone.”

  “Gone? Just gone?”

  “Gone,” Seth confirmed.

  Overwhelmed, Rogue turned in a slow circle. The swamp seemed to mock her, and a deep shudder ran down her spine. Suddenly, it was more than just dangerous terrain. It was an evil place filled with unknown horrors. Horrors that took Spook. The question was, who would it claim next?

  The End.

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  Children of the Apocalypse

  Chapter 1 - Morgan

  The steady thudding of his fists on the door had become a part of her. Like the beating of her heart, she relied on the sound to keep her sane. It prevented her from screaming, reminding her she was still alive. For the moment, at least.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Morgan huddled in the shower. With her arms wrapped around her knees, she listened to the constant crashes interspersed with frustrated hisses. An occasional drop of cold water from the showerhead dripped onto her back. She might have sat there forever if a new sound hadn’t joined the first.

  “No! No, no, no,” she cried, jumping to her feet.

  The wood was splintering around the lock at a rapid rate. It wouldn’t last much longer. Raging adrenaline triggered a desperate need for survival. She scanned the small bathroom for a weapon. Her eyes landed on the shower rail.

  Morgan grabbed it and shook off the curtain, ripping the plastic stoppers from the ends. She barely had time to ready herself before the door burst inwards with a shuddering crash.

  Immediately, Brian was upon her, moving fast with hands outstretched and teeth bared in a vicious grin. Growls sawed through his throat, and his eyes were bloodshot and crazed. She gripped the rail and thrust it into his chest. He staggered, regained his balance, and lunged again.

  Morgan gasped, stumbling backward. Her mind slipped into pure terror. It was a scene from her worst nightmares. Again, she stabbed him with the pipe, but the blow skimmed off his shoulder. He grabbed her, digging his fingers into her arms with brutal strength while snapping at her face.

  She pushed against his chest with the pipe held in both hands as a shield, trying to keep those teeth at a distance. He slammed her up against the wall. Pain exploded through her head as it smashed against the tiles. He had her in a death grip, bloody lips a mere breath from her face.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she screamed. “Please stop! It’s me, Morgan.”

  Time slowed as she stared into his eyes, searching for a sign that he was still human, still the man she loved, but his eyes were empty. Brian was gone.

  Fear and determination lent her strength. With a great shove, Morgan pushed him away, kicking him in the stomach to gain distance. She lifted the rail and used it as a spear, aiming for his throat.

  The metal end tore into the soft flesh, impaling him. Clotted, black blood spurted from the wound and splashed onto her chest. She pinned him against the opposite wall and slid him around like a dog on a leash until she stood with her back to the broken bathroom door.

  Her newfound strength waned. With no idea what to do, Morgan bolted. Her bare feet slapped a staccato beat on the floor, echoed by Brian’s heavier tread. She slid around a corner and headed for the front door, silk pajamas billowing behind her. She slammed up against it and tore at the deadbolt with frantic fingers. With seconds to spare, she unlocked it and stumbled through, pulling the door shut as his body connected with a crash.

  Morgan stumbled back on legs turned to water, and stared at the peeling paint on the wood. Brian growled with anger, and she flinched as the now-familiar beat of his fists filled the air. However, the bathroom door had been locked while the front door was not. The seconds ticked by as she waited.

  Waited for him to open the door.

  Waited for him to find another way out.

  Waited for death.

  Her husband had turned into a monster, and nothing made sense anymore. After a while, however, it became evident he didn’t know how to turn the knob. Nor did he have the intelligence left to look for another way out.

  In the fresh air, Morgan fought to gain control of her body. Her heartbeat slowed, and she noticed her surroundings for the first time. Standing there on the front patio in her pajamas, she shivered and folded her arms across her body. What the hell is going on? What happened to Brian?

  Until today, Morgan would never have believed him capable of harm. With searching fingers, she touched the marks his hands had left. It hurt, the flesh bruised. The back of her head was tender and swollen.

  Morgan turned and stared out into the street. It was chaos. The whole neighborhood was going to hell. She stumbled across the lawn to get a closer look. Were there more people as sick as her husband? Was this a disease? Something that drove them crazy? It was the only explanation her frozen mind would accept.

  Whatever it was, it was spreading with the ferocity of wildfire. A car sped around the corner, tires screeching. The driver never spared her a glance, and she was too numb to care.

  To her left, a trio of sick people cornered a woman and ripped away at her flesh. The agonizing screams tore at Morgan’s heart before they were abruptly cut off. More bodies lay scattered around on the immaculate green lawns of their front yards.

  A corpse stirred and rose to its feet. A man. He stood there, strips of flesh hanging off of limbs covered in blood. His intestines dragged on the ground as he staggered around. Morgan reeled, vertigo making her sway. It can’t be. He can’t still be alive!

  Dogs barked at the monsters that used to be their owners until they too died in a welter of howls. Wincing at the distressing sounds, she realized anything, and everything that moved would fall victim to these things. Further up the street, shots rang out. Through her fence, she glimpsed a man herding his family into a car.

  Morgan knew she should move, but her limbs remained frozen to the spot until something caught her eye. One of the walking dead clawed at the palisades bordering her lawn. It rasped through a ruined throat and reached out a bloody hand as if in supplication. Behind it, two more had noticed and followed. I’m being surrounded!

  This thought galvanized Morgan into action, and she sprinted around the house to the backyard. Brian’s truck was the only realistic means of escape. She ran to it and reached for the handle, crying out in frustration when she realized it was locked.

  “Shit, where are the keys?” They hung on a board in the kitchen. “I can’t go back in there.”

  She had no choice, though. Maybe if she moved fast enough, she could grab them and get out while Brian still hammered on
the front door. Luckily, the back door was unlocked owing to her clandestine smoking habits. She had snuck out for a quick cigarette that morning while he still slept.

  Before her nerves could fail, she rushed into the kitchen and ran to the board, searching for the keys. She heard Brian’s growls pause before they resumed in heightened pitch as they headed her way.

  Morgan ran trembling fingertips over the keys, and her heart hammered in her chest until she found the right ones. Grabbing them, she turned to run but fumbled her grip. They clattered to the floor.

  “Fuck,” she cried, scrambling around on all fours.

  The slap of Brian’s feet on the kitchen tiles caused her heart to stutter. She snatched up the keys and lunged outside. A brief glimpse of his pale, inhuman visage tore at her as she shut the door in his face. Morgan crumpled to her knees with a cry. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

  She reached up and laid a hand on the wood. It shivered beneath her palm from the force of his blows. “Brian, please come back. What am I supposed to do now?”

  She was ready to give up and slumped down, but a voice from within nagged at her. Get up. Run.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  Do it. You can’t give up now. What about your family? Your friends?

  “Oh, my God. Mom. Dad.”

  Morgan bolted for the truck, barely noticing the gravel cutting into her bare feet. She pushed the remote button to unlock it and jumped in. After a deep breath, she turned the key in the ignition and shifted into gear.

  At the gate, a mob of infected had gathered. They clawed through the gaps with creepy yearning. She hesitated. They were people, after all, but they also blocked the exit. This left her no choice. She had to go through.

  “Here goes,” she said and pushed the remote button.

  The gate opened, and they flooded inside, swamping the car. They beat on the windows and climbed onto the hood, crawling over each other like insects. She shuddered in disgust as one licked the window next to her face, leaving a smear of bloody spittle behind. For once, she was grateful she’d never gotten to know her neighbors.

  When the gate was finally open, she floored the gas and roared through, biting her lower lip when she ran over a few of them. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

  A glance at the clock read twenty past eleven. She’d hidden in the shower for far too long. For all she knew, her parents, her sister, everyone she loved could be one of those things. “I’m coming. Please be okay. I need you to be okay.”

  The trip through town gave her a clear view of the chaos breaking out everywhere. It was horrific. People tried to escape, loading possessions, kids, and pets into cars. Most didn’t make it. Infected swarmed through the neighborhoods and descended on the healthy with rabid hunger. They left the dead in their wake, only to have them rise minutes later to join the hunt. Screams rang through the air and confronted her at every turn.

  A young mother ran out of her house, dragging a little boy by the arm. She spotted Morgan and rushed out into the street. “Help us! Please, help!”

  Behind her, a man burst through the door and sprinted towards them. Morgan slammed on the brakes and leaned over to unlock the passenger door. “Get in. Hurry!”

  The woman ran towards her, feet slapping on the tar road as she closed the distance. The child cried, his mother half-carrying and half-dragging him. Morgan stared at the unfolding scene, and her heart sank when she realized the truth. “They’re not going to make it.”

  The infected man reached them and latched onto the boy first, ripping him out of his mother’s hands.

  “No,” the woman cried, stumbling to a halt. “He’s your son.”

  He ignored her and buried his face in the boy’s neck. Blood, bright red and arterial, spurted through the air. The woman screamed, her desperate wails stabbing into Morgan’s heart.

  She wanted to close her eyes, wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Instead, she watched as the woman grappled with the man that used to be her husband, fighting for the life of her child. It was no use.

  Like a rag doll, the boy was tossed aside to bleed out on the asphalt. His eyes glazed over in death while his mother was savaged beside him.

  The spell broke, and at last, Morgan looked away. She leaned over and locked the passenger door, the click loud in her ears. With an iron grip on the wheel, she steered the truck around the family and drove away. The entire time, she whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” until the words were branded into her psyche. That was the last stop she made.

  Morgan headed for the suburb where her parents lived. It lay on the edge of town. If they were lucky, the infection hadn’t reached there yet. As she drove, the streets became quieter, and her hope grew apace. A hope dashed once she reached her destination.

  A knot of a dozen infected crawled on the front lawn of a neighbor’s house. They were feeding. As the group shifted, a bloody arm flopped out. Morgan swallowed as a flood of bile pushed up her throat. She recognized the next-door neighbors, the Robertson’s, in the pack. Mrs. Robertson still wore a robe with curlers in her hair which prompted a hysterical laugh from Morgan, one she quickly swallowed.

  There was no time for weakness now. Not with her parents and little sister waiting, possibly alive. It was a hope she couldn’t let go of just yet. Morgan stared at the infected and tried to come up with a plan. There was no way she could run past them. Barefoot and unarmed, they’d pull her down and rip her to shreds. However, she sat inside a solid mass of driven metal.

  She rammed into the front runners with a crunch. Bodies bounced off the hood while others disappeared beneath the wheels. The truck plowed through them effortlessly, up onto the lawn into the knot. She shifted into reverse and rolled back, clipping a straggler to the left, then she repeated the whole procedure again and again.

  It was sickening, but a small part of her felt pride at overcoming such an obstacle. The rest of her was horrified at the slaughter of innocents, no matter how dangerous they might be.

  Afterward, she sat, staring at the carnage. It brought to mind a medieval battlefield with torn and crushed body parts strewn about. A few still tried to move despite their gruesome injuries. That single horrific detail confirmed one crucial fact—they were neither sick nor crazy. They were dead. Zombies.

  Morgan reversed into the driveway with the nose pointed towards the gate for a quick escape. She unlocked the doors and left the keys in the ignition. Behind the seats, she found a tire iron.

  With one last look around, she slid out of the truck and closed the door with a soft click. She felt vulnerable, standing there in the open air while imagining what those things could do to her exposed flesh.

  With a deep breath, Morgan gripped the tire iron and walked up the driveway. She ignored the few broken corpses that groaned as she passed. They were no threat to her anymore.

  The concrete felt cold and rough beneath her feet, grounding her in the present. She tested the front door and found it locked. With a muttered curse, she walked around to the back. Her nerves jangled. She kept hearing sinister sounds behind her, and only the thought of her family kept her going.

  Morgan turned a corner and screamed as she spotted the remains of her parents’ domestic worker. The woman was barely recognizable. Bloodstained bandages covered her arms, but the cause of death was apparent: A gunshot to the head.

  Hope for her family’s safety faded as she stepped around the body. The back door stood open, and she inched forward to peer inside the kitchen. Her eyes flew to puddles of blood on the floor. The drops formed a trail into the hallway and bedrooms.

  She crossed the kitchen and dared a peek into the hall, then the living and dining rooms. Nothing. It was empty. No signs of a struggle. No sign of her family, either.

  Morgan swallowed, her mouth dry, and moved onward. The silence was eerie. A subtle threat hung in the air. She quailed at the thought of being confronted by the sight of her parents turned into monsters, or even worse, her b
aby sister.

  The passage promised terror with sticky patches of smeared blood that led past Meghan’s bedroom. Inside, everything was just as she remembered. The stuffed animals on the bed and posters of ponies on the walls made her heart flutter. “Please, God. Let her be okay.”

  After that came the spare bedroom and the hallway bathroom. Both were closed, and she crept past on silent feet. The main bedroom beckoned—a yawning gateway to a mysterious horror. With a growing sense of dread, she moved through the doorway.

  Morgan stopped abruptly, one hand flying to her mouth. On the bed lay her father, stretched out on his back. He was torn up, and she guessed he was attacked. Blood pooled beneath his body and stained the duvet cover.

  She stared, unable to utter a word. First, her husband and now her father. How many more people would she lose today? Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and her knees threatened to buckle. Why? Why did this happen?

  A part of her remained alert, though, and after a moment, she dragged a hand across her eyes. No more tears. She needed to find her mother and Meghan before it was too late.

  Morgan was about to leave when the smallest of sounds echoed from behind her. The hair on the back of her neck rose. She whirled around, swinging up the tire iron.

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