by Kadin, Karri
“Yes sir.”
Allison
Allison bolted awake, drenched in perspiration, fists full of bedsheets. Her jaw clenched so hard her temples pounded with pain. Images of worn wooden walls splattered with blood flashed in her mind. The screams of a man rang in her head. A dream. Her heart pounded. A nightmare.
She slid her body backward down into bed and shut her eyes. Something ached inside of her, a pain she couldn’t place. Something terrible. Something familiar. She concentrated on her breathing and felt the tension slip from her body. She slid back into sleep as the ache within her eased away.
Something soft and pleasant brushing her face caused her eyes to flicker open. A fan blew on the nightstand, keeping the white lace curtains steadily sweeping Allison’s cheek. She was cradled in a fluffy bed covered in a charming, bright quilt. She pulled the quilt up and covered her face with it. Inhaling the pleasant smell, enjoying the softness of cotton against her body. How long has it been since I slept in a bed? The room was simply furnished with just the bed, one nightstand, a dresser, and a rocking chair. Old wallpaper peeled in the corner above the door. The once brightly colored blossoms that covered the walls were faded, but it added to the charm of the modest room.
Allison sat up and glanced out the window above her bed. There was a towering tree with a tire swing dangling from one of its many branches, a wood fence partly painted white, and a dulled crimson barn. It was peaceful, forcing her to forget the chaos that was now her life. Allison tore herself from the window and looked around the room again. There was a pair of hiking type boots and a perfectly folded stack of clothes on the dresser. She put the clothes and shoes on. They weren’t Zara or even a brand from Dillard’s, but they fit well enough. She would kill for a flowing Gucci dress with a pair of strappy sandals right now. Something to make her feel like herself, to feel normal.
The smell of bacon wafted into the room, accompanied by clangs of pots and pans being shifted around. Allison wandered to the door, following the wonderful smell. Her stomach turned, and she realized she was starving. When had she eaten last? She couldn’t remember. Allison found the kitchen with Sandra at the stove flipping bacon.
“Well, hello, sleepyhead! I sure hope you like a good ole country breakfast,” she chirped, her face graced with a motherly smile.
Allison smiled and sat at the table in front of an empty plate. Sandra picked up a platter full of bacon, eggs, and biscuits and began serving it to her. A heaping mound of food, more than enough for four people, quickly jam-packed her plate. Allison shoveled enormous amounts of food into her mouth, chewing vigorously, stopping only to take swigs of milk from the glass Sandra placed in front of her.
Sandra was back at the stove filling a bowl with something from a steaming pot. She set the bowl at the front of Allison’s almost empty plate. Grits—warm, yummy, grits. Allison consumed the second course, leaving a gelatinous mix oozing from the corners of her mouth. Sandra refilled Allison’s plate.
“You were hungry,” Sandra said, laughing.
“Sorry.” Allison came up for air. “I don’t remember ever being this hungry.”
Sandra chuckled and said, “You’re welcome, sweetie.”
Dave walked in from the yard. “I smell a mighty fine breakfast,” he said happily. He looked up and his eyes met Allison’s. “Well, look who is finally up.”
He pecked Sandra on the cheek, then sat at the end of the table in front of another place setting. Sandra filled his plate, smiling at him.
“Thanks, Sandy,” Dave said, filling his fork and taking a bite.
Sandra set the serving platter on the table and joined them. Allison finished her food but was still hungry. She reached for the serving dish at the center of the table but stopped herself. She had already eaten more than she ever had in one sitting. Except maybe during that pie-eating contest at the twelfth grade pep rally. But most of that pie ended up coming back up, so it didn’t really count as eating it. She did not want to make herself sick this time.
Dave and Sandra finished their food and began clearing the table. Allison stood and took her dishes to the sink, following their lead. Dave placed a hat from the coat rack by the door onto his head and kissed Sandy’s cheek once more.
“Farm needs tending to.” Dave walked back outside and Sandra began putting away the food. Allison didn’t want to be rude, so she began rinsing dishes. She looked around for a dishwasher but only saw a drying rack on the corner of the counter. She pulled it over and began hand-washing them. Soon they had a smooth rhythm going. Sandra would put the food in a storage container and hand the empty cooking vessels to Allison to clean. The kitchen was quickly in order, everything put in its place.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Sandra said.
Allison followed her out the door, keeping stride with the older redhead. They walked in silence for a time, Allison enjoying the feel of the spring breeze. Sandra sat on a wood swing under a tall oak overlooking a pasture and motioned for Allison to sit.
Sandra broke the silence: “You’re safe here and welcome to stay as long as you like.” Her kind eyes looked at Allison. “But I don’t think you will want to stay long.” Allison gave Sandra a questioning stare. Sandra smiled and patted Allison’s leg gently. “You’ve been sick a long time. A lot has happened. Communication is still very limited. We don’t even have a working phone line and cell towers haven’t worked around here in years. The only way to get in contact with your family will be for you to go to them.” She wrung her hands together and let out a sigh. “By no means am I saying you have to leave. But I know once you have been sick you lose your memories. Memories of the time you were sick. But they will start coming back to you. You will need support from someone when that happens. Friends, family, whoever you choose it to be. The memories will not be pleasant.”
Allison reached out and grabbed the woman’s hand. “Thank you. For everything. For everything you have done for me.”
“You are welcome, sweetie, so welcome,” Sandra replied as she wrapped Allison in a hug.
That night after dinner Sandra, Dave, and Allison huddled in the living room around a radio listening to the nightly news. Dave explained to Allison that most television stations were still shut down and their antenna couldn’t get the ones that were on air to come in, so they relied on the radio. The radio announcer spoke of “cleared states” and “cleared countries.” He also spoke of areas that were still “contaminated” and “off limits.” Some infected areas were still so infested they were on lockdown. In areas with fewer Infected, people led normal lives. If you count having an armed Collector-enforced curfew normal.
After the announcer was done listing the areas whose lockdowns were recently lifted, he flowed into the next segment:
“I have a special guest tonight who would like to speak on the continuing dangers of attempting to engage an infected party,” the voice over the radio said. “His name is Sam Clinton, a farmer whose young son was killed a few months ago while the boy attempted to help a female Infected.”
Sam spoke with a quiver in his voice, “My son was only ten, and he had a heart of gold. He wanted to help everyone. He was in our orchard, picking apples, and he saw a loner on the edge of our land. She was on the opposite side of the electric fence. Jake would have been safe, had he just stayed, had he not . . .” Sam was weeping now.
“I know this is difficult, Mr. Clinton. I am sorry for your loss. The pain you are experiencing is unimaginable. I can’t even begin to relate to how you are feeling. All I can say is I’m sorry. Please take your time and continue on when you are ready.”
“My son had apparently seen her on other days. He told his brother, but made him swear not to tell. He knew we would call the authorities and the Collectors would take her away. He didn’t feel that was right. He had heard awful stories of things they did to the infected people and—” Sam was cut off by static.
“Just some technical difficulty, folks. We are back again with Mr. Sam Clinton, a f
armer who recently lost his son in an attack by a female Infected. Go on, Mr. Clinton.”
Sam cleared his throat. “Um, yeah. I was saying, my son, he went towards the woman. He wanted to help her.”
“What happened when your son reached the female Infected, Mr. Clinton?” the host asked, trying to keep the man on track.
The man’s voice was filled with emotion when he replied, “I was walking out of our barn as he reached the fence. I screamed at him to stop. To turn around. To run. But he didn’t listen. He reached his arm through our electric fence, trying to hand the woman an app—”
“The Infected,” the host interrupted.
“Yes, the infected woman. He was trying to hand her an apple. I ran towards him, I was trying to stop him. As he reached his hand through the fence she grabbed his arm, trying to pull him through. I could hear him screaming, I could hear the fence buzzing as he was being shocked, I could see blood running down the front of the woman. My son’s blood. She had his arm in her mouth . . .” Sam’s voice faded away.
Allison’s body stiffened, warmth spread from her core to the rest of her body. Intense heat engulfed her. Her breathing quickened as she fell back stiffly onto the hardwood floor.
Dave was by her side in an instant with his hands on her shoulders. Allison gazed up at him, watching his lips move but only hearing the roar inside her own head. Her vision blurred as Sandra appeared in her view, slipping a pillow under her head.
Allison was in the woods, on the edge of a field, crouching down. There was a warm liquid in her mouth; it tasted of metal. It was so good. She heard the screams and crying of a young child. Her heart quickened as excitement grew at her core, pushing its way to the surface. Adrenaline surged each time the child screamed. She enjoyed his fear; she craved it. Flannel fabric in her hands. No, it wasn’t just fabric, it was a shirt, it was someone’s arm. Allison was biting the arm, pulling on it with her hands, trying to get her hands on the person attached to it. Something was blocking her way, so she just kept jerking on the arm and piercing it with her teeth.
She ripped away chunks of flesh, swallowing them, barely chewing. Inflicting pain was the only thing to relieve her anger, the heat, the burn, the anguish.
She heard a man’s voice and felt a powerful pull on the arm she had in her grasp but she held on. The child stopped crying, stopped screaming. Disappointment rolled over Allison as his cries halted, followed by a wave of rage. It was hers. She wanted it; she needed it to take the heat away, to release.
She stood from her crouching position and began jerking on the arm over and over and over. A loud buzzing sound crackled with she tug, like the sound the bug zapper on her back porch would make when bugs flew into its enticing glow. Allison dug her nails into the arm and sank back on her heels. She wouldn’t let go; she would never let go. Her bones buzzed with an electric pulse, but she pushed through the pain, seeking meat.
She was being pulled; she wasn’t strong enough to hold on to the arm, but she wasn’t letting go. It was hers; it belonged to her. A shock of pain zapped her hands, then her arms, as she was pulled into the fence. Electricity coursed through her body. The smell of burned flesh wafted.
Allison screamed and blood ran from her mouth, dripping down onto her chest to the ground. She was pulled again and shocking pain hit her knees, then her face. She couldn’t hold on anymore; her muscles were twitching uncontrollably from the electricity.
She released the arm and staggered back, landing on something round and hard. She heard voices screaming, crying, fading away. She looked up and saw a man running away from her with a child in his arms. A child with his own arm barely attached to his body. Unconscious, bleeding, dying.
At her feet was a bright red apple, covered in dirt, half smashed. She shoved it in her mouth. She was so hungry. But she needed to leave. She had to leave.
The Wiltons’ living room eased back into Allison’s vision and the roar in her head waned. The burning was subsiding, leaving a light tingle in its place. Her muscles relaxed but continued to quiver from exhaustion. Her tears and sobs made it difficult for her to focus on her surroundings.
Dave picked her up in a quick, sturdy motion. He was stronger than he looked. He carried her to her bed. Sandra was right behind him, stroking Allison’s hair. He set her gently on the bed and left the room. Sandra pulled the rocking chair next to the bed and continued to stroke Allison’s hair in a soothing motion. Allison cried until her eyes ran out of tears.
“It was me,” she mumbled, looking at Sandra.
“What was you, honey?” Sandra asked in that motherly voice of hers.
“I killed that boy, that poor boy.” Allison’s voice was weak.
“You can’t be sure, you—”
“I know it was. It was me.” Tears flowed again, stinging her eyes.
Sandra didn’t react, only continued to run her fingers through Allison’s hair, like she was in a trance. Sandra was there, but her mind was somewhere else entirely.
“My daughter was sick, like you,” Sandra whispered with trembling lips. “She would remember things like you, but it didn’t seem as . . .” She searched for the right word. “Intense as what you are experiencing.” Allison’s tears slowed, and she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.
“What happened to her?”
Sandra looked out the window and paused before replying with a quivering voice, “Dr. Neff’s Collectors took her. He convinced her to help him find a cure for N87. Collectors told us she died.” Sandra leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, her body shuddering. Tears trailed down her face causing her green eyes to shine. “I won’t let that happen to you,” she said firmly. Sandra wiped her eyes, sweeping her red hair behind her ears as she stood and left the room.
Allison felt ill, exhausted, and evil. The Infected were monsters. She was a monster. Dr. Neff had been right about that part. Nothing else could explain what she had done.
Dr. Neff
Dr. Neff stood above the boy who lay strapped to the gurney. His frail frame was tiny and did not accurately represent his age of nine years. A tray of silver instruments, syringes, and glass vials sat near him. Tears streamed down the boy’s face, but he didn’t utter a sound. Stupid, but brave. Dr. Neff picked up a large scalpel.
“This will be painful. But it is extremely important that you do not move.” He ran the blade across the boy’s hip, splitting open his skin, revealing pink, moist tissue in a one-inch gap. The child screamed, tugging against his restraints. Dr. Neff slammed down his fist onto the table near the boy’s head. The child’s scream halted, but tears rushed down his face, pooling on the steel beneath him.
“I said, be still. I must go into your pelvic bone. You will cause damage to your nerves and surrounding tissue if you move as I insert the needle. You may not walk correctly, if at all, if that happens. I advise you to remain still.”
“Would you like me to administer a sedative?” Dr. Samuel held a syringe near the boy’s IV port.
“No. No need to waste medication on a specimen.” Dr. Neff inserted the needle into the open skin, thrusting it deep into his pelvic bone.
The child’s body shook uncontrollably as tears flowed onto the gurney top. He jerked against his arm restraints, filling the room with a clattering of metal against metal. The buckles on his shackles clanged against the steel, leaving dents in the smooth surface.
“Sir, he may break free if we do not calm him.”
“Fine, administer half a dose of Versed.” Dr. Samuel administered the medication into the IV port.
“Boy. Listen. You must remain still. If not for your own sake, then for that of your mother’s. It would be a shame if something happened to her because of your poor behavior now, wouldn’t it?” Dr. Neff placed the scalpel down and picked up a large syringe from the side table.
A growl escaped the boy’s lips as the sedative coursed through the IV into his bloodstream. He jerked his arms again, slamming little fist-sized d
epressions in the metal. He went to jerk again but his arms fell limply to his side and his eyelids flickered, heavy with sleep.
Dr. Neff pulled back on the syringe as red bone marrow filled the tube.
Chapter Six
Allison
Allison’s dreams were vivid, full of bloodshed, and uncomfortably intimate. She awoke in the night while the rest of the house was still and tiptoed to the kitchen. She flipped on the light above the sink. Her eyes scanned the room noticing areas on the old walls where pictures once hung but were now just nails sticking out from faded patches of wallpaper. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. Probably because she was so wrapped up in herself and failed to realize the catastrophe that happened to her also happened to the entire world. It happened to Sandra and Dave. They lost their daughter. Allison was not the only one suffering, mourning their old life, missing pieces of their utter existence.
She was the cause of someone’s pain, someone’s heartbreak, someone’s loss. She knew she had killed that boy. There was no denying it to herself or anyone else. What else had she done? How many people did I kill? How many families did I destroy? Allison thought of the boy’s arm barely dangling from his body, his father’s cries, the boy’s screams. The room spun as Allison gasped for air. She leaned on the wall to keep herself from falling. One, two, three—stay calm—four, five, six—stay focused—eight, nine, ten—don’t forget to breathe. Allison took a deep breath in through her nose before slowly releasing it from her mouth. She focused on a single pink flower on the wallpaper in front of her. It had five water-drop petals and a delicate green stem. It was slightly bent, almost touching the orange flower near it. Its center was light yellow, like the light butter popcorn she and Gabby would cuddle up with on the couch on Friday nights when they stayed in. Gabby. Allison’s breathing returned to normal, and the room was stable once more. Tears dripped down her check, and she let them fall.