Blood Type Infected (Book 1): No Future For Man

by Marchon, Matthew

  I hop in the shower when the last of the bloody bath water goes down the drain. It needs to be washed away, not just the blood on my body but the memories as well, good and bad. The bad ones aren’t needed and the good ones make me wish for something that can never be. We can never go back.

  Our lives are lost. Everything we worked for, gone. Nothing will ever be the same. I’m not stupid, I know my family’s dead. I bet everyone in that hospital is. How could they not be? Mom was there at the epicenter. Someday we’re going to encounter one another, and I’ll have to put her out of her misery. It won’t be like pulling the plug on someone who’s too sick to make it. No, I’ll have to chop her head off or burn her to a point where she can no longer function. The good memories will only make times like that, that much harder. The good memories will bring up emotions that shouldn’t be there.

  The door opens. I freeze.

  CHAPTER 21

  “It’s just me. You mind if I come in?”

  “Okay,” I say, not sure if I actually want her in the room because I’m not actually sure how I feel about her. I’m so confused. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel? Just keep it strictly professional, that’s all. “I’m almost done. You find anything out there?”

  Something metal hits the sink. I instantly know what it is.

  “It was in the nightstand. It’s loaded. Do you think bullets will do anything to them?”

  “I hope so. But honestly, no, probably not. I think the only reason we’ll need that, is other humans.”

  The water going down the drain still has a hint of red in it. It was everywhere. It’s a miracle I wasn’t infected. Every inch of my body is sore. Now that I have time to feel, I kind of wish I didn’t. Physically, and emotionally.

  “I’ve never held a gun before,” she whimpers. “Do you know how to shoot? Or take the safety off? Because I think I did but I’m not sure.”

  “I used to go hunting with my dad, test out new guns, get in touch with nature and our inner manhood, all that other macho bullshit. Him and his buddies would bring the kids along, male bonding time. Pro-gun propaganda type stuff. The camping was my favorite part.”

  “You don’t go anymore?”

  “I never hit anything, he stopped taking me a couple years ago. I live with my mom now so I’m not really invited anyway. Plus my little brother’s old enough, he kinda replaced me.”

  “That’s so sad,” she says, sarcastically.

  I’m waiting for it but no insult follows. She did say it sarcastically, didn’t she? That’s her style. Say something nice to reel you in, then bam, break your heart. Where’s the heartbreaking insult? That’s so sad, that your little brother’s more of a man than you. Or that’s so sad, for you, not for your dad who probably doesn’t miss you at all.

  Her hand appears in the shower beside me. She wiggles her fingers, waiting for the soap. I hand it over and turn around for her to clean my back. A moment later her hands are rubbing me. Oh dear god her touch is incredible. Luckily it’s just her arm in the shower, she kept the curtain closed.

  “I bet he didn’t care that you never shot anything,” she says sweetly. “He probably just liked your company. You’re kind of a really cool guy.”

  … for an awkward wuss who can’t bring himself to shoot a deer because he’s a whiny little bitch. But she doesn’t say it. She’s thinking it though. Right?

  “Thanks,” I mutter as her soft hands caress my back in what has to be the most sensual scrubbing of dried blood imaginable. I want to continue talking to take my mind off what she’s doing but all I can think about is her touching me.

  “Okay mister, how did you get this much blood on your back? What did you do, roll around in the stuff?”

  I try to say something witty but I’m pretty sure all that comes out is a garbled moan that could easily be mistaken for a zombie mating call. How am I supposed to think when her hand is rubbing me? She must understand she’s not going to get any intelligent conversation out of me at this point because she stops talking.

  My father doesn’t miss me. It’s nice of her to think that but it couldn’t be further from the truth. He defends the guys who make guns for a living. How embarrassing, to have a son who doesn’t want to use them. A son who doesn’t understand that the right to bear arms is the greatest amendment. Who doesn’t understand that our country was built off the power that guns give us.

  No, his son understands. I understand perfectly. What I don’t understand is how he can justify putting weapons in the hands of people who want to hurt us. The gun doesn’t care who it shoots. As long as there is a person standing on each side of it. When Mom was standing on the wrong side of it, when that maniac shot up the hospital, the gun didn’t care that it was in the hands of the villain. It showed no remorse for its victims. And neither did my father, because it wasn’t the gun’s fault. And it sure as hell wasn’t his client’s for manufacturing it. Mom was left with a scar. Some of her co-workers weren’t so lucky. Dad was too busy defending his corporate buddies that made the guns to even be there for her surgery. I’m not mad at her for cheating on him with someone who was.

  “It must be nice,” she says after minutes of silence, rinsing off her hands. “Having your friends here with you. To have friends, period.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You have a million friends.”

  “None of them actually like me. And I don’t like them.”

  “Have you thought about, oh I don’t know, maybe being nice to them?”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought about it, jackass. Before I moved here I was nice. Like, really nice, a pushover. I had tons of friends. Then I realized they were only my friends because I had money. Which I don’t, my parents do. I have nothing to do with that but in everyone else’s eyes it makes me something I’m not. When it really mattered, when I needed them most, they all left me. No one gives a shit. So when I got here I decided to never let that happen again. I don’t want to be close to anyone.”

  “You’re not worried you’re missing out on something?”

  “The truth? It’s not worth it to me. Friendship isn’t real.”

  “So then why are you jealous of it?”

  “Because they came back for you. They know they need you, to the point where they were willing to risk their lives to come back for you. They may like you but that’s not why they came back, they came back because they need you. But do you think anyone out there in that bus would do for you what you did for them? And if you do, you’re stupid. The only reason any of them are here is because they think you can save them.”

  “And what about you? Why are you here?”

  “Same as them.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Look, Noah, if you want me to make some grand confession and tell you I’m hopelessly in love with you and have been since that day in gym, it’s not gonna happen. I don’t fall in love. I leave that for people like you and Caylee. It’s not me. I wish I could believe what you do, about people having good in them, but I don’t, because they don’t.”

  “Some do.”

  “You knew I was there. You saw me from the window. I thought you were gonna help me.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, at a loss for words. She’s right. I saw her. I knew she was there. And I made the conscious decision to leave her. I feel awful about it because I didn’t give a damn if she died. I kind of wanted her to.

  “It’s okay. I understand why you left me there, I just didn’t think you would. If I were you, I would have too. What I can’t figure out is why you came back.”

  “Felecia, I’m so sorry. You have to know that I would never, ever leave you like that–”

  “I know. But I don’t know why, and it confuses the hell out of me.”

  “For what it’s worth,” I say, shutting off the water, “you confuse me too.” Before I can even ask for it, she’s holding a towel into the shower for me. “Thank you. Hey, did you find any clothes?” I wrap the towel around my body a
nd open the curtain. I really try but can’t stop myself from bursting out in laughter. “What the hell is that?”

  “Okay, you know what, screw you.” She tries to sound mean but can’t hide her smile. Within seconds she’s laughing too. “Shut up, it’s all I could find.”

  “It looks like a muumuu.”

  “It’s a maternity dress, you asshole. For a very big boned woman. That picture of her in a bikini must have been from their honeymoon, a long long time ago. And stop. Laughing. At. Me.” She punctuates her point by slapping me on the arm after every word. “It’s not funny.” She puffs out her lip and pouts but all I can think about is kissing her. “Besides, you said you were gonna get me a new shirt, a nice one.”

  “Aww, I will, promise.” I stroke her cheek with the backs of my fingers before tucking her hair behind her ear. “We’ll go to the mall or something, you can get new clothes there.” She’s practically swimming in the floral dress with lacey hemlines that was probably passed down at least a generation or two. I stop smiling when I realize this means the woman who, by the looks of it was extremely pregnant, is probably the body lying on the kitchen floor.

  “Here.” She hands me a stack of folded clothes. “I got you these, even though you are a complete dick. Just be glad you don’t have to wear a friggin’ tent.”

  I smile and hand her a belt from the floor beside the hamper. “Try this, it might help the overall look.” When she doesn’t take it, I put it around her waist.

  “Um, do you know who I am? I’m like the queen of fashion, if you think I’m gonna take advice from a boy then– oh hey, that is kinda cute.” She holds it in place and latches the belt. “Huh. Thanks. But if anyone asks, I came up with it.”

  “Of course.”

  “So how do I look?”

  “Breathtaking.”

  She stops admiring herself in the mirror and turns to me. Her throat jumps when she swallows, looking at me so intently I swear she can see right through me. Our hands touch, sending jolts of electricity through my body. She feels it too. Her eyes never leave mine.

  Our breathing intensifies. Our bodies draw closer. Her hands tremble slightly in mine. For a moment it’s only us. I swallow hard, trying to bury feelings I shouldn’t be feeling. Her face is getting closer. Her mouth opens slightly and I’m fascinated by the way her lips quiver. I can’t tell if she wants to say something or if she wants to kiss me. Maybe both.

  “Noah, I lied to you.”

  Her face is so close to mine I can feel her breath on my lips. She’s about to kiss me. I can’t kiss her. I have Caylee. I can’t stop myself though, my mouth feels drawn to hers. My eyes close, the last thing I see are hers closing as well. Her forehead rests against mine. Her voice is so soft and sweet. Sincere. I’m not over her. I never have been.

  “Noah, when I said that–”

  Honk! Honk!

  The horn from the school bus blasts through the heavy rain.

  Honk! Honk! Honk!

  It doesn’t stop at two. He was supposed to blow it twice at the fifteen minute mark. But he hits the horn again and again. Loud and long. Marty’s not telling us we’re out of time. We have company. They’ve arrived.

  CHAPTER 22

  We pull away before our lips touch. It’s probably better this way.

  “Get dressed. I’ll guard the door.” Felecia grabs the gun from the counter and tosses me a stack of clothes. She glances back at me before leaving the room, a look of disappointment in her worried eyes.

  I throw my clothes on without drying off. I don’t know how long we’ve been in here but it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. Who knows how well their noses work, they could have smelled us from down the block and started making their way over immediately. It’s not like we can ask.

  My outfit makes me look like I’m forty but it’ll do, at least it’s not a maternity muumuu for an overweight mom. I slip into my new sneakers and tuck the laces inside without tying them, wishing they were a size or two bigger.

  Felecia’s scream startles me.

  Followed by a gun shot.

  “Noah! Noah!”

  I run down the hall where she stands at the top of the stairs. Three of them are making their way up. It looks like she shot the first one, sending him falling back against the other two. It slowed them down but they’re still coming. Her hands tremble while shoving the gun in my direction.

  “I hit him. It didn’t do anything.”

  I take the gun from her and aim at the first one’s head. It’s been awhile. My nerves relax when my index finger tightens around the trigger. A familiar feeling I remember all too well washes over me. My arms tense up, I squint my eyes in anticipation and pull. The loud blast makes me flinch but I hold on with both hands and squeeze again. They both connect, a head shot, another in the chest. I readjust and let off a few more into the other one’s neck. They fall backwards and tumble down the stairs, landing in a jumbled heap at the bottom.

  “You said you couldn’t shoot.”

  “No, I couldn’t shoot a defenseless animal. I never missed the trees I aimed for.”

  Felecia smiles but before she speaks, a commotion downstairs catches our attention. They’re getting up. The woman’s elbow is bent in the wrong direction, broken in the fall. The old man is missing half his skull, a piece of it is dangling by a stubborn, blood-soaked clump of hair. The man in the suit is barely able to walk, most of his thigh has been gnawed off, he’s got two bullet holes in his neck. They’re still coming. It barely slowed them down.

  “Felecia, the dresser. Can you drag it over? I’ll hold them off.”

  She dashes to the open door before I finish and starts inching the Victorian bureau closer. I aim and shoot again, hitting the young man in the face this time. Chunks of flesh and bone squirt into the air in an explosion of blood. If he were a person he’d be dead three times by now but he’s not a person, no matter how much he looks like one. It plays tricks on my mind like some sort of demented defense mechanism they use against us. It takes a lot to consciously kill a human, I suppose that’s why serial killers lack a conscience. It makes me wonder; if life ever goes back to normal, what will happen to me?

  If I had a machine gun I might be able to blow off a head or leg, something to immobilize them. This little handgun won’t come close to having an effect. I knew that the second she brought it in, I was just hoping we wouldn’t find out.

  They’re halfway up the stairs. A few more shots slow them down so at least the gun is buying us a little extra time. Felecia’s moving as fast as she can but the dresser looks heavy. Not only is it big, it’s probably full of clothes, exactly what I’m hoping for.

  My finger squeezes again. Nothing happens. There’s no deafening blast amplified by the close quarters. A small click echoes over the banister into the living room. This was it, no extra clip. We’re out of bullets.

  I run back and get behind the dresser with Felecia, and push with everything I have. It’s impressive she got it so far, this thing is heavy. Between the two of us we’re able to slide it in front of the stairs in time.

  One of them reaches the top and begins banging on it, trying desperately to get through. It won’t take them long to realize they can climb over it. If the three of them figure out how to work together they’ll be able to push it out of the way, it’s a good thing they’re not team players.

  “Felecia, see if you can find a weapon, I’ll make sure they don’t get through.”

  She thinks for a second before responding hesitantly. “Alright, but yell the second you need me. There’s a boy’s room down the hall.”

  “Felecia,” I reach out and touch her arm before she takes off but I don’t know what to say. This is crazy, there’s so much I want to tell her. It’s strange but I’m proud of her, she’s handling this better than anyone, except maybe Marty. I would have expected her to be helpless but being here in this situation at this very moment, there is absolutely no one else I would rather have standing by my side. I can
’t tell her what I’m convinced my stupid heart wants to say.

  She bows her head like she knows what I’m thinking, only, I don’t know, so how could she possibly understand? Maybe she’s feeling the same thing but isn’t sure what it is. All I know is that it hurts to watch her disappear around the corner. It’s not just wanting to protect her, I actually find myself missing her company. What is wrong with me?

  She runs out of the bedroom a second later, wooden baseball bat in one hand, golf club in the other. “Here,” she says tossing me the bat. “You ready to crush some zombies?”

  “You’re amazing. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Angh,” she shrugs, “I hear I’m kind of a bitch. On three?”

  We count, then throw all of our weight against the dresser. The force of our bodies slide it the remaining couple inches across the carpeted floor. It tips over and tumbles down the stairs, taking all three of them with it. It won’t kill them but with any luck they’ll be momentarily immobilized.

  They try to crawl out from underneath the fallen dresser but it’s wedged between the railings of the landing. Their constant moving and groaning make it seem like the cherry-stained antique is breathing. We’re going to have to jump and slide down if we want to get out of here.

  I reach out my hand for Felecia to grab, she knows what we have to do. She shakes her head like I’m insane but doesn’t hesitate to take it in her clammy fingers and jump on. We slide down the smooth backside of the dresser, their arms desperately grabbing at us from below. They can’t see us but they must feel our weight on top of them.

  It feels a little weird running beside her instead of carrying her down the remaining stairs below the landing. It feels right. Her arm brushes against mine as our feet pound off the carpeted steps, it’s enough to send a warm chill up my spine, if that makes any sense.

  Before we step out into the rain, a noise in the kitchen catches my attention. By the way she’s looking at me, Felecia must hear it too. Eyes wide, mouth open ever so slightly to reveal a white sliver of teeth, god she is beautiful. How can someone who acts like such a stuck-up bitch be so compassionate? I can’t even pretend to understand. But what exactly is she feeling compassion for? Because her fingers are tightening around that golf club pretty hard.