A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1)

by R. K. Weir

  Instead I walk outside, Joey following closely behind me. Aaron and Rocket lift themselves away from the bus, their attention turning towards me as I pry the front door open. Deep scratches, like trenches, run down the length of the door with splinters and dents scattered across its surface. I try to ignore them, glancing around the street before speaking.

  "Logan has a fever," I say, stepping out across the lawn, "we need antibiotics."

  Aaron's brow is the first to crease. "Was he bitten?"

  "No, the cut on his wrist is just infected." I rush the words out, quick to eliminate that thought. People turn against each other when they think that someone has been bitten. He nods, his brow ironing out.

  "I don't think anyone had time to grab the medicine from the school, you'll have to look somewhere else for it." I nod, already having accepted this as my fate. "Maybe wander around, look for a pharmacy," he shrugs, ready to dive back into the bus when Rocket steps forward. She's about to speak but stops when the door of the house creaks open again. We all turn to see Logan, walking with a slight limp towards us.

  "I came here once for a holiday with my fiancé, there's a small hospital just down the road and to the left," she speaks plainly, staring at Joey and I with cold eyes. It's obvious she still isn't happy. I begin to respond when Logan interrupts.

  "Stella, I'm fine," he growls, "forget about the antibiotics." I roll my eyes, deciding that it's useless to respond. He's going to remain stubborn no matter what I say, so I ignore him completely and turn to Aaron.

  "Do you have a knife?" I ask, glancing at the blood stained golf club resting against the wheel of the bus. I prefer blades over blunt objects, finding it easier and less tiring to impale than repeatedly bash. He shakes his head.

  "Someone inside might."

  I begin to walk back towards the house when Logan calls out my name, trying to get my attention. I continue to ignore him when he grabs my arm.

  "What the hell are you doing?" he asks. I turn to him, a little surprised.

  "What?"

  He shakes his head, his grip falling from my arm. "Back at the school you'd rather leave than risk your life to help everyone! Now you want to run off on your own to risk your life for antibiotics that I don't even need?" He's about to say more when Joey interjects.

  "She isn't alone." Logan's glare falls slack as he pauses to look at Joey. "I'll go with her."

  "You will, will you?" Logan snorts, raising a brow. Joey nods, a quick movement. Logan stares at him for a moment before huffing out a laugh. "She's better off on her own."

  Joey steps forward and for a second I think he is going to retaliate. But he bites his tongue and frowns, tilting his gaze to the ground.

  "Alright that's enough," I say, bringing Logan's glare back to me. "Your wrist is infected, I can see the puss from here. You need antibiotics. End of story."

  His skin, usually a slight tan, is now red. Whether from anger or induced by the fever, I can't tell. His eyes narrow into slits when he spits the word.

  "Fine," he pauses. "Then I'm going with you."

  Huffing out a breath, I turn from him, my hands curling into fists. I don't exactly like the idea of having Joey come with me. Both of them would be a disaster, one that I'm not willing to put up with. But his eyes look resolute in their decision and I can think of only one way to change his mind.

  I kick him in the leg, hard.

  His hands fly to his mouth, muffling his shouts as he barks curses at me.

  "Jesus Christ, Stella!" Aaron comments, pushing away from the bus to offer Logan a hand. He grabs ahold of his shoulder, shifting the weight off of his injured leg.

  "What the hell was that for!" Logan seethes, his words stifled as he speaks through a bitten lip.

  "That was your bad leg, right?" I ask, pointing at the leg I kicked.

  "Yes that was my bed leg!" he growls, every line on his face fraught with pain.

  "What a shame," I sigh. "I guess now you can't come with us." I offer him a shrug. His eyes stab at me as his face turns redder, but this time I know it's not because of the fever.

  "You little—"

  "Alright!" Aaron interrupts, waving a hand in the air. "Stella why don't you get a move on? Logan can stay here and help me and Rocket with the bus."

  I flash Logan a smile. "What a great idea!" Before he has a chance to respond I grab Joey by the arm and steer the two of us back towards the house. We make it halfway across the lawn when Aaron calls out again.

  "Since you're heading out, do you think you could make a detour and look for some food? People are getting hungry." My jaw clenches at the request. As if I wasn't doing enough already. I'm about to refuse when my stomach rumbles lightly.

  "We passed a supermarket not too far back," Rocket suggests, before digging herself back into the engine.

  It still irritates me that they feel comfortable asking me to do all this, making me feel obliged. But I give them a thumbs-up anyway, deciding that if I do find any food I can keep the best for myself. Aaron nods in thanks.

  "Bring back dog food before you bring back nothing."

  I barely hear him over the expletives Logan continues to mutter, but I doubt that I will be bringing back dog food. I would rather show up empty handed than get everyone's hopes up with the promise of food, only to pull out dry kibble. Walking back into the house I ask if anyone has a knife they would be willing to lend. They ignore me, or at least most of them do. The couple on the sofa begins to shift. The woman, clad in a hijab, gives her husband a look before offering me a small, but sharp knife. I was hoping someone would have a hunting knife, not something I could have pulled out from one of the drawers in the kitchen. It isn't much, but it's better than nothing. I accept it with thanks and quickly leave.

  The supermarket is in the opposite direction of the hospital. This fact annoys me, painting me as their errand girl. Running around and doing all the jobs that no one else is willing to do. If I had any sense left in me I would just leave altogether. Find a car and be on my way. Unfortunately, I know how rare a working car is. Despite my irritation, I know that sticking with these people is my best chance of survival.

  At least for now. . .

  "You ready to get going?" Joey asks quietly, conviction and humor barren from his voice. I look up at him and nod, wondering how long he is going to be like this. We start walking and I frown, realizing that he may never be the same again. I try to remember the last joke he told, or the last time I rolled my eyes at something he said. But with everything that has happened, I can't.

  Maybe it's for the best, I think. He can focus his mind on more important things now, like how we are going to get to the supermarket and hospital and back alive. I almost forget that a trip to the grocery store used to be a routine habit, a simple trip every second day. Now it is a task of life and death. I see the humor in it, the irony. But I fail to laugh, unable to find the energy to do so.

  My muscles are sore from sleeping on the floor, minor aches that I can easily disregard. I've grown accustomed to waking with joints as stiff as an unused dolls. Joey stretches his arms up above him and I can tell that he feels the same way. The cut on Logan’s arm has distracted me, and it’s only now that I remember my thoughts on the infected, on how they might be evolving.

  I pose the idea to Joey. He offers only a, “Maybe,” and a shrug, as unnerved by the prospect as I am and equally unwilling to give it any thought.

  It would seem that ignorance is bliss for this matter.

  So we walk in silence, our nerves still frayed from the encounter this morning. Both of us cast nervous glances around the road, our heads snapping in the direction of any small movement. A grey blur zooms over a lawn and I think for a second that it may be a rat. But I quickly realize how unlikely this is. I haven't seen an animal in months. They must have all moved someplace safer, or they've all died off, like majority of the human population.

  No, I snap. They haven't all died off. I kick at the dry ground below my feet, knockin
g loose a dust cloud. Humans might be nearly extinct but I don't want to think that animals are too. They've probably moved someplace greener, with rivers and lakes and trees that actually have leaves. Not like the thin skeletons we have here, sticking out from the dead earth. I like animals, I don't want to think that they're all gone.

  It isn't long before we reach the supermarket, old and chipping away. Cracks crawl up its walls like vines, making patterns in the brickwork. Peering in through a shattered window, I can tell that majority of the store is empty.

  Looks like we're searching for dog food after all.

  Stepping through the broken window, my boot crunches on the remaining shards not yet blown away by the wind. From the front of the store I can see over the few aisles that haven't been knocked over. It doesn't look like there are any infected inside, so I begin walking up and down the lanes, picking out anything that looks somewhat edible.

  Unfortunately, that turns out to be dog food. I pick out a rucksack from the sporting goods section and begin stuffing it with the cans. I glance at my red backpack slung over Joeys shoulder while I do this, wondering when I'll be able to get it back. Wondering if it's a good idea to let him have it in the first place.

  I begin zipping up the rucksack when I hear the familiar crunch of broken glass at the front of the store. I pop up from the ground, peering over the aisles towards the culprit. Joey too swivels towards the source of noise. I'm surprised when I find two men walking into the store. They haven't seen us yet. From a glance it doesn’t look like they have any weapons on them. Grabbing onto Joey's arm, I pull him down to the floor, moving to crouch beside the aisle. We share a look when they start talking.

  "We can't go back to Las Vegas man! That place is crazy!" His voice is nasally, high-pitched and moaning, it makes the infected sound like opera singers.

  "Well where else can we go? There isn't much out here," the second man says, his voice far deeper and raspier than his counterpart, almost like he's been drinking sand.

  "Anywhere is better than back there! That diner full of wackos! I thought they were gonna kill me!" He's a notch down from hysterical, his loud voice making it easy to pinpoint their position in the store.

  Their conversation falls into a quiet lull and I can hear them moving down the aisle beside us. Digging into my back pocket, I pull out the knife and move down the aisle in step with them.

  "Well what about that school bus of people just down the road? Think we could take em'?"

  "Maybe, there's a few of them, but they look like they're in pretty rough shape."

  I share a look with Joey. If these guys aren't friendly, there's only one way that this can end. I’m just glad that there aren’t more of them. I can handle two unarmed men with Joey. And at least there’s no chance of getting infected when dealing with people. They reach the end of the aisle and I realize that this will be my only chance. I pounce from the floor and stab at the nearest figure. The knife sinks into the man's neck. Blood streams from the puncture like a faucet, drenching his shirt before he even has a chance to comprehend what has happened. His eyes are glazed by the time I look into them. His friend jumps back with a curse, tripping and falling over the aisle behind him. I remove the knife, an overflow of blood coming with it.

  As he slumps to the ground, Joey moves to grab the other one. The stranger lashes out wildly, his fist clipping Joey in the face. With the knife firmly clenched in my grasp, I step over the crumpled body at my feet and towards the other man. I jump to stab at him, but pull back when Joey gets in the way. The two of them wrestle between the aisles, knocking loose the remaining items from the shelves. I wait for an opening and find one when Joey has him pinned against the shelves. Thrusting the knife out, I stab into his gut.

  He screams, the sound ripping through the air. The shock makes him freeze long enough for me to pull the knife out and drive it into his head. I expect an emotion to cross his face. Shock. Pain. Anger. But none do. He falls to the floor with a blank expression.

  We stand over the bodies, panting, neither of us uttering a word. The knife is slick in my hand. I bend down and wipe it on their shirt, the one with the annoying voice.

  "That . . ." Joey begins, but trails off into silence. I look up at him, noticing the frown on his lips and the blemish of a growing bruise where he was struck.

  "That what?" I ask. His eyes bounce between the bodies for several seconds, before reaching up to meet mine.

  "That didn't feel right," he says, his eyes vacant. I don't think I've ever seen him look like this before. Not even when we were on the bus.

  "What do you mean?" I ask.

  He shakes his head. "I don't know, it's just," he pauses, struggling to pick the words. "It feels like we didn't give them a chance."

  "Did you not hear what they said?" I ask, quick to pounce. "They were wondering if they could 'take us.'" His frown hardens at my tone, as if he expected me to react like this.

  "I know that, but." He stops to shake his head, "when you stood up I thought you were gonna talk to them. Scare them off or see if they'd be willing to join us. But you didn't even hesitate. You had your knife in his neck before he even knew what was happening."

  "Jesus, Joey, you're acting like you've never seen someone die before!" I spit back, not understanding the point he's trying to make. He wanted me to give them a chance? Strangers that had threatened us within the first two minutes of meeting them. He shakes his head.

  "Just, forget I said anything," he mumbles, receding back into the reserved shell he has been inhabiting since we left the school. I stare at him a moment longer, focusing on the back of his head as he steps over the bodies and towards the front of the store.

  He's wrong. If we had given these strangers a chance, they probably would have killed us. Probably. Even though they were unarmed. But I've lived alone in this world long enough to know that giving chances gets you killed, and just because someone is unarmed doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. I look down at the two bodies by my feet, and the pools of red congregating around them. I'm not wrong for not giving them a chance. He's wrong, I think again. I did the right thing.

  I know I did the right thing.

  So how has he made me feel like it's wrong?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Stella

  Dropping the food off at the house, we receive the exact reaction I had expected. Genuine excitement followed closely by its ugly brother, false enthusiasm. Scattering the cans out across the kitchen counter, nobody jumps at the opportunity to take one. I can't blame them. The smiling dog plastered across every tin doesn't exactly scream appetizing.

  I begin to think that my trip to the supermarket was a pointless risk, when the woman who gave me the knife steps forward and takes a can, nodding at me with a smile. I don't stay to see if she actually eats any, the gesture is enough. We leave the small home the same way we came in, quietly. Stopping outside the front door, we pause, wondering if we should bother speaking to Aaron.

  When we came back from the supermarket we ignored them completely, focused only on dropping the food off. I should probably tell him that we weren't able to find much, but with Rocket glaring at Joey and Logan glaring at me, we decide not to approach them. Instead we begin walking down the street, crossing a few lawns before skipping over to the road.

  I continue to glance around nervously, but the area, for the most part, looks deserted. All of the infected must have run off at the sound of the fireworks, or stumbled after the trail of smoke. I keep my guard up anyway, because I know that there may be a few stragglers still stumbling about.

  We turn left where Rocket said to, already spotting the hospital in the distance. It doesn't look like much, almost indistinguishable from the shops surrounding it. A low, one story building that spreads out along the road a little wider than the buildings next to it. It pales in comparison to most of the hospitals I've seen and I feel it better deserves the label of pharmacy.

  Although I suppose I shouldn't complain. If
the building is small, that means that there are less corners for things to hide and less hallways for them to lurk. It's a small thought, but it works to console me, massaging the anxious knots from my mind. But it doesn't take long for them to twist back up again as we near the hospital doors.

  We come to a slow stop just before the little steps leading up to the entrance, our eyes mutually transfixed on the same thing. A steel chain that has wrapped itself around the door handle, twisting around the bar like a snake. Walking up to it, I reach out a hand and run a finger along its length, weaved artfully in loops and held in place with a significantly sized padlock. I pull my hand back and look down at my finger, smeared with an orange grime.

  Rust.

  Whoever put this chain in place did so a long time ago. Maybe even at the beginning, when the outbreak had first started. I try to imagine the chaos of being in a hospital, where all the sick had first fled to. A breeding ground for the infection. Joey reaches out, distracting me from my thoughts, and cups the padlock in his hand. Holding it in his grasp for a second, he moves to pull it away, giving it a harsh tug. It holds fast.

  "I don't like the looks of this," he mumbles, dropping the lock and leaving it to clank against the chain.

  Whoever had locked this place up had obviously intended for it to stay that way. I don't even want to imagine why. But I have to look on the positive side of things. If this place was locked up when the infection first spread, and it’s still locked up now, that means that it probably hasn't been looted. I can already envision the dusty shelves, lined with rows of prescription drugs, ripe for the picking.

  Unfortunately, it also means that whatever patients the hospital was holding are probably still inside too. It's the only reason I can think of as to why someone would lock the doors from the outside. Because they had something to lock in. The thought sends a shiver running down my spine. Thinking of all the possibilities that lie within, my mind forms one question.