Escape the Virus

by Ryan Westfield

  There were a couple of windows within reach. But they were small. And the glass was sturdy. Froggy knew from experience that some window panes, especially when small, were deceptively difficult to shatter.

  And what about getting through a small window like that? Maybe he could do it. But he might cut himself up pretty badly in the process.

  And that's when Froggy discovered the door to the basement.

  It was locked, sure.

  But the lock was flimsy. Typical of basement doors.

  He had it open in about five seconds flat. Just a matter of prying it open with a folding knife.

  Froggy folded the knife back up and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans as he opened the metal basement doors and descended the concrete stairs into the basement.

  He had his gun in one hand, wishing he had a flashlight in the other.

  But while he expected to find darkness, instead, when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw light dancing across the concrete wall.

  The light suddenly stopped moving.

  “Who's there?” said a voice. A female voice.

  Something about her voice sounded strange.

  But it also sounded attractive. Youthful. Full of life.

  The light left the opposite wall, moving so that now it shone directly onto Froggy.

  It was bright. He shielded his eyes.

  “You're not... one of them, are you?” said the voice.

  “Of course not,” said Froggy.

  “Good, because I wasn't sure... I have to keep it all a secret... they put me down here.. don't realize what's happening... what it all means...”

  Froggy knew a drugged-out voice when he heard one. He had plenty of personal experience. Despite his own strong buzz, he knew how to play right along with it.

  “The others sent me,” said Froggy. “The others told me to help you.”

  “The others...?” she said, her voice trailing off. But she sounded somewhat hopeful.

  “That's right. Now let me see you. Shine the light on yourself... I have to make sure you're the one I'm supposed to help...”

  She obeyed almost immediately, taking the flashlight and shining it on her face.

  It was a nice face.

  Pretty.

  Long hair.

  Good features.

  Just the type of face that Froggy liked.

  Maybe this little raid of his would go better than he'd even expected. He'd been merely hoping to murder everyone here.

  But maybe it was time to have some fun.

  “Good,” said Froggy, licking his lips. “Your face is right. But what about your body? The others told me that I need to check to make sure that you have the right body.”

  She obeyed, shining the light on her legs, arms, stomach, and chest.

  It looked good. It was quite a nice body. The kind of body that Froggy liked.

  He licked his lips eagerly as he approached her.

  Upstairs, there were heavy footsteps. People running.

  Then a yell from upstairs.

  Good. The distraction was doing his job at the front of the house. Maybe the guy would even kill some of them for Froggy. Make his job a little easier.

  “Hey,” she said suddenly, shining the light back on Froggy. “You're one of them!”

  “No, no. I'm from the others.”

  She seemed too messed up on something that she'd believe just about anything. He'd been there himself.

  “No. You're going to hurt me. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Maybe she was starting to sober up.

  She started shining the light around wildly, as if it were dancing around the basement.

  Froggy was able to see that the basement had been destroyed. It was crowded. Horribly crowded.

  And it was as if someone had gone around and taken everything off the shelves and thrown it all on the floor.

  “See this?” she said, grabbing a handful of rice grains from the floor. She shone the flashlight right on them, and he watched as they fell from her fist. “See this? This is what I am now. This is my soul.”

  “You're higher than I thought,” whispered Froggy. He was close to her now. He stepped over a knocked-over shelving unit and took another step towards her. “Why don't we have some fun, baby?”

  “Get away from me!”

  All of a sudden, something smashed into Froggy's head.

  Something heavy.

  She'd done it.

  He hadn't seen it coming at him in the darkness.

  She'd smacked him with a heavy sack. Maybe of rice.

  “Shit,” yelled Froggy, grabbing the side of his head.

  It hurt. Like a splitting migraine. The pain flared through his skull.

  He didn't need this. He didn't want to put up with this garbage.

  Screw having fun. He wasn't in the mood any longer.

  He'd just stick to his original plan. Revenge. Murder. Steal a few valuables. All in Mark's memory. Then he'd split.

  The flashlight beam was dancing crazily around.

  The crazy woman in front of him was chanting. Some kind of crazy shit. Who knew what it was.

  “Enough!” he shouted, losing his temper.

  He reached out, grabbing the flashlight mid-air.

  She squealed in pain as he twisted the flashlight out of her grip. He heard a snap, as if a bone broke.

  She was too much trouble. Too much trouble. Just deal with her now.

  He shoved the gun's muzzle against her stomach. Pressed it in. Not much fat, but there was a little.

  Pulled the trigger.

  She didn't scream.

  More of a grunt of pain. As if she'd been punched in the stomach.

  Good. She was gone.

  Her body slumped away from his, falling heavily against a shelving unit.

  He had the flashlight in his hand. He shone it on her face.

  There was still life there. But not much. There was a strange look in her eyes. He'd seen that look before in men and women that he'd killed.

  Some people might wonder what that look meant. Some people might ponder about the meaning of the whole thing, about life and death. About killing. About murder.

  But not Froggy.

  He'd killed her.

  That was that.

  Time to move on.

  He shone the flashlight's beam around the basement, looking for the staircase.

  He found it.

  He started making his way there, only tripping once on a bag of rice that had been torn open.

  “Shit,” he muttered, looking back at the woman he'd shot, shining the flashlight on her.

  She was panting, moaning softly in pain.

  Good. She'd suffer. That's what these people deserved.

  Froggy picked himself up. Took his first step up the stairs. It creaked. But not loud enough for anyone to notice. Not over the din that was above him.

  People on the first floor were screaming. Someone was pounding on a door. Or wall. Or window.

  Glass cracked.

  Perfect.

  Froggy knew that his job would only be easier with chaos already afoot.

  23

  Matt

  “He thinks he's not infected.”

  “I already told him he's wrong. There's no way he's not...”

  “I don't know where he got these ideas. Says we're killing him by kicking him out of the house. Says the whole virus thing is a big scam. A government trick. Some kind of trap. Or some crazy media thing. I don't know.”

  Matt watched Judy's face carefully in the low light. A flashlight beam was pointed towards the ceiling, resting tail-end down on a sturdy table , providing a little ambient light.

  Judy's face showed the emotional pain she was in.

  Matt had been impressed with how she'd handled the situation so far. Impressed that she'd been able to kick her own son out of her house.

  But now, was she starting to break? Was she starting to crack?

  Were the emotional a
nd instinctual demands of motherhood taking a hold of her?

  Would she demand that they let him back in?

  “We can't let him back in, Judy,” said Matt, speaking calmly and careful.

  “I know. I know. He's going to kill us all.”

  “If he hasn't already.”

  The banging on the window had intensified. Now it sounded like he was using a rock.

  Then came the sound of shattering glass.

  “He's broken the glass.”

  Matt tightened his grip on his Glock.

  “You've got to do it for me, Matt,” said Judy, suddenly looking him dead on in his eyes. “I know that it needs to be done... I know I should do it... but I just can't...”

  There was no need to discuss what she meant by “it.”

  It was clear.

  Someone needed to shoot Damian.

  Matt just nodded. There wasn't much to say. It had to be done, not talked about.

  Matt stood up.

  “He's almost inside,” cried out Jamie from the other room. There was panic in her voice.

  Matt walked swiftly in her direction.

  He didn't run.

  He needed time to think this over. Time to convince himself that it had to be done.

  He already knew it had to be done.

  They'd tried talking Damian out of it. They'd tried telling him to go back to the shed. They'd tried everything, but words hadn't made an impact.

  It was time for force.

  Deadly force.

  Would it be the hardest thing that Matt had ever had to do, shooting his friend?

  He didn't know.

  He did know that nothing he'd ever done had prepared him for this. Sure, he'd gone to the range. He'd read the right books and watched some highly sought-after instructional videos. They'd discussed the mechanics. They'd discussed strategy.

  But they hadn't discussed emotional situations. Situations in which it was hard to do the right thing. Situations in which every part of your instinct told you, screamed at you, not to take the actions that you knew were crucial to your survival.

  Matt's fear was that he'd freeze up. That he'd just stand there, doing nothing, unable to pull the trigger.

  He entered the room.

  Jamie was back against the wall opposite the window. Gun in her outstretched hands. Finger on the trigger.

  But she couldn't do it.

  She'd worked with Damian. She knew him. It was too much.

  Maybe if Damian got inside, she'd do it.

  But Matt didn't need to put her through that.

  He'd do it. Get it done with.

  Jamie was shining a flashlight on Damian's face, illuminating it in an eerie, horrible way.

  “You!” screamed Damian, his words coming out like a terrified hiss. A horrible sound.

  The glass pane was shattered. Damian had stuck his head through the glass.

  His face was bright red, as if his blood pressure was high.

  It was a disturbing sight.

  He looked deranged. His eyes were wide. Something was strange with his pupils. His eyes looked bloodshot. Veins on his forehead bulged.

  Glass shards dug into his face. He seemed not to care. He seemed disoriented, trying to get his whole body through what was a tiny window pane.

  He could have gotten through the window if he'd punched out all the glass. But he was approaching it like an animal. A sick animal.

  “One last chance, Damian,” said Matt, his voice ringing out loud and clear.

  “Screw you,” hissed Damian. “It's my house!”

  Matt raised his gun. His arm was outstretched, finger now on the trigger.

  He opened his mouth to mutter the single word, “sorry,” but then he thought better of it.

  He wasn't sorry.

  And this wasn't hard.

  It was what he had to do.

  It was either live or die. That was the only choice.

  And he chose to live.

  Matt pulled the trigger. The Glock kicked.

  Damian's face took the bullet. His face imploded. A bloody mess. Disgusting in every respect.

  Damian fell back, the glass tearing at his destroyed face.

  Matt couldn't believe he'd done it. He didn't feel guilt. Maybe just a pang of it.

  Instead, he felt relief. Stunned relief.

  He didn't lower the Glock. Kept his arm outstretched, in case Damian reappeared.

  But he didn't. And Matt stood there.

  “Drop the gun, and turn around slowly,” came a voice. A male voice. A weird accent. Kind of thick. “Either that, or I blow the little lady's head clean off.”

  Matt's ears were ringing, making the voice sound muted. But he could still hear it.

  Matt acted instinctively.

  He disobeyed the orders. He spun around, pointing his Glock in the direction of the new voice.

  A rough-looking guy, tall and lanky, was holding Jamie against him. One hand clutched a handgun. The other arm was draped around Jamie's neck, a long knife pressed into her neck.

  How did he get in here?

  The man sneered. Fired his gun.

  A gunshot rang out.

  Glass behind Matt shattered.

  A miss.

  Matt exhaled slowly. A thin stream of air. Just like he did at the range. He tracked the man's head. Got it just right. As good as a shot as he was going to get.

  It was all happening within the span of a single second.

  There wasn't any time to think.

  Just act.

  Matt pulled the trigger.

  The Glock kicked predictably.

  But it was a miss. The bullet struck the papered drywall behind Jamie and the man. Bits of the drywall exploded outwards.

  Matt's finger was pushing against the trigger, but he hesitated to fire again. He didn't trust himself now not to shoot Jamie in the head.

  “Here you go, pretty,” growled the man, suddenly jabbing the knife into Jamie's throat.

  Matt acted. He didn't think about it. He just dashed forward, planning on tackling the man before he could get the knife all the way through Jamie.

  Maybe Matt would die in the process. Maybe not. But at least he wasn't likely to kill Jamie.

  Matt's arms pumped at his sides. His shoes slammed into the wood floor.

  But before he could get to the two of them, the man's face had exploded outwards, part of his head still intact, in a general sort of way.

  The man's body fell heavily and quickly to the floor. Landed with a thud.

  Judy stood behind him, a wide stance, gun in both hands, arms outstretched.

  It was a good shot. No time to congratulate her. Jamie was bleeding from the neck.

  “You still with us?” said Matt, kneeling down, putting his arms around her.

  The knife had fallen to the floor, but there clearly a wound in her neck. Blood flowed freely from it.

  “Was he Australian?” she said.

  “What? What's my name? Are you delusional?”

  “I'm not delusional. And I'm not dead. It's just his accent was strange... what do you think, British or Australian?”

  Matt didn't know what to make of this strange line of questioning. But he was glad that Jamie was still alive.

  Maybe she was speaking oddly due to the stress. He'd heard of things like that.

  He explored the gouge in her neck with his fingers. It was superficial. Nothing serious.

  “You're going to be fine,” he said.

  “He's definitely from Australia,” she was saying.

  “Shut up,” snapped Judy suddenly. “I heard something in the street.”

  Just what they needed. More noises. More possible threats.

  The three of them waited in the dark room.

  There was blood all over Matt's hands.

  The light was dim. Very dim.

  There was nothing but silence.

  Matt could hear his own heart beating wildly, as if it were an animal escaping a predator, gal
loping across the plains.

  Matt's eyes fell on the dead man. His face was no in no way intact, but the surrounding areas of his skull were.

  It was a horrifying sight, but Matt couldn't look away. His eyes traveled up from the empty space where the face had been to the forehead.

  There was blood everywhere. And bits of flesh and skin. And some bone.

  Then Matt saw it.

  The veins.

  The enlarged veins on the neck.

  No.

  It couldn't be.

  If that man was infected, then it seemed like he and Jamie would definitely be infected.

  How could they not be? They were so close to his body.

  Matt looked over at Jamie, and he saw that her eyes had seen the same thing.

  “Infected?” she whispered so quietly it was more like she was mouthing the words.

  Matt's eyes traveled down the corpse to the hands. The corpse's arms were at odd angles. One of the hands was positioned so that he could see the back of it.

  The veins on the back of the hand were clearly enraged. Extremely dilated. There was no way he wasn't infected.

  “Judy,” whispered Jamie. “We've got a problem.”

  “Shhh,” hissed Judy.

  The three of them fell silent again.

  Seconds ticked by.

  A full minute passed.

  Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

  “Was that...?”

  It seemed improbable. Even impossible.

  Who would be knocking in the door?

  “Sandy? Are you in there?” came a loud, booming voice that was incredibly deep.

  Sandy? Who the hell was that?

  Another knock. More of a pounding this time.

  Then came the actual pounding.

  Someone was pounding on the door. It was unmistakable.

  “Shit,” someone muttered.

  It didn't matter who. The sentiment was the same no matter what.

  They were probably infected.

  And now someone else was coming for them?

  How much could they take.

  Matt gripped his Glock tighter.

  He could take it.

  He had to.

  24

  Jamie

  Jamie's mind was reeling. She could barely believe what had happened.

  And now there was just more of it.

  Reason had gone out the window. Reason had been burnt at the stake. Reason had gone up in flames too many times to count.