The Girl who Shot First: The Death Fields

by Angel Lawson

  She blinks and looks to the side. “Not Olivia. But yeah, I’ve seen Matt. He said they came and took Olivia and her family away.”

  “Oh, my God, who?”

  “People in those white suits, the kind that looks like an astronaut? They took them all away.”

  “When was this?” I haven’t seen anything like this on my street but most of my neighbors are old. They followed the government’s directions and several had left for the shelters. Two families packed up their cars and left the city—to where? I have no clue.

  “Right after the party.”

  “Do you think they caught the virus?”

  “I don’t know, but they came for Robert’s family too. I haven’t heard from any others.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly,” she says. “Do you think it was from the party?”

  “I don’t know.” A tight, sick feeling spreads through my stomach.

  ”My mom is talking about running away. Getting in the car and going.”

  “That sounds like a bad idea,” I told her but I’m lying. It sounded like the best idea. I think of it every night, plotting and planning our escape. But we can’t go yet. Not until my dad comes back.

  “We have family near the beach. Maybe it’s not so bad there?”

  “Maybe not.”

  We sit across from one another on my purple and green comforter, the one I got for my birthday when I was thirteen. Liza and I have shared so many things together in this room. So many secrets and dreams.

  I take her hand in mine and squeeze. We have one more thing to do. We both know it. I can tell by the look in her eye, the way she sniffs, trying not to lose it.

  This is our chance. We have to say goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ~Now~

  Tucked under the hull of the boat, Wyatt sleeps and I wait. The Eaters have calmed and through the small windows I watch them slow, their intense anger passing for the time. They don’t leave, but their aggression wanes. It seems to flare when they come in contact with the uninfected.

  None of those observations help us get off of this boat.

  After I’m sure he won’t bleed out, I lock myself in the bathroom. It’s tiny, but the water is fresh. I duck my head under the showerhead letting the cold water wash away the dirt and grime. To clean off Wyatt’s dried blood that stuck against my palms like paint. Who knew when I’d have the chance to bathe again fully. To make it better, a small container of greenish-blue shampoo had been left in the shower and I lather up.

  Drying off the best I can, I change into new clothes and wash the ones I’ve been wearing for the past couple of days. The water in the sink turns brown but I swirl them in the soap and pretend it’s enough.

  The fresh set of clothing I put on are my favorite. The ones I’ve been saving—for what I didn’t know. I have a desire to feel clean and take a moment to look in the small mirror mounted on the door.

  The black shirt has a retro style kitty cat on the front. I tug up my green cargo pants and tie the shirt in a knot at the waist. Tender bruises spot my neck from the Eater attack on the deck. I’ve already lost weight and the muscles in my normally soft arms and legs are more defined from the hours of hiking and lugging the extra weight of my pack. I take a moment to loop the pouch over my head and squeeze the extra water out of my hair.

  Hanging my wet clothes on the edge of the sink I consider that Wyatt’s clothing could use a good scrubbing too. Not that I want to set myself up to be his housekeeper but he’s not in the condition to do it himself.

  I push open the door and saw him awake and leaning against the seat cushion. Shirtless.

  Oh boy.

  “Hey,” he says without glancing up.

  “This place isn’t so bad. Beats my aunt’s cabin in a way. Maybe we should camp out here for a day or two and regroup,” I say jokingly. It’s all a ruse to pretend I’m not staring at his chest. And shoulders. And the way all that stuff works together. I focus on the strips of bandages I fashioned around his wound last night. A dark spot of blood has seeped through. “Give you time to heal.”

  His eyes are glued to my movements. It makes me uncomfortable. I feel the heat on my cheeks. “What?”

  His eyes snap from wherever he was looking to my face.

  “You changed and you’re…wet.”

  “There’s a shower, but I’m not sure you need to get that cut wet.”

  I find my comb and run it through my hair, dividing it into two, equal pigtails beneath my ears. “What do you think? Stay here or go? There’s the extra bed and unlike the cabin there aren’t any mice biting my toes.”

  He glanced at me again but put his feet firmly on the ground. He winced when he stood, but his balance was okay. “We go.”

  “Seriously?” I ask. “There’s a bunch of Eaters outside. Can’t we wait until something else distracts them?”

  “How do we know something will?” He’s acting weird. Or is he? I don’t really know him. I mean, I know nothing about him at all. Maybe he’s moody as hell on a good day.

  “Let me clean up,” he says. “Then we can work out a plan. I don’t like waiting around. We’re basically cornered if anyone else finds us.”

  “Who else would find us?”

  He squeezes past me, warm hands on my shoulders. I stare at his lower back and the way his muscles arch and curve as he enters the bathroom. It’s very…well, it’s a lot to take in.

  He spins suddenly, hand on the door. Again he gives me a smile—one that makes my stomach flutter. No, Alex. No. We are not doing this—whatever “this” is.

  “I like that shirt,” he says.

  I look down at the cat, its eyes narrowed suspiciously. Glancing up to respond, he’s already closed the door. This man—this guy—Wyatt. He’s dangerous in more ways than one.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ~Before~

  Five Weeks Earlier

  The second week passes. My father doesn’t return. We pack. We sort. We pick through our things trying to find our favorites. Then we repack and re-sort and narrow down our favorite things to a favorite thing. It sucks.

  It’s the end of the world.

  The news has stopped. The talking heads are gone. I suspect they’re sick or in quarantine. Cable is off the air—we’re stuck with local channels, each with the same message. Go to your nearest shelter. Cover your mouth and nose. Do not approach anyone.

  It’s more about what they don’t say. They don’t talk about the Eaters. The ones we’ve all seen if not on the television but in real life. For us it was Mr. Johnson down the street. He’s one. Or was. Eyes spidery and black. He paced outside the house, banging on the doors, busting windows. He threatened Mrs. Johnson and finally the white van came, one like Liza described. Emergency workers in hazmat suits loaded them in. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. He was no longer moving.

  Curtains up and down the street fluttered with interest as the transport bus drove away. A loud speaker announced we could go too—another vehicle would be here to take us to the shelter. Pack your belongings. Take the bus. All is well.

  My mother and I eyed one another after that and I felt guilty for my visit with Liza. What if she’d been exposed? What if we’d all been exposed at the graduation party? Was it worth it?

  Doesn’t matter now.

  Helicopters fly overhead day and night. Most are dark, military style. From the window I can see the soldiers holding large guns. They swoop close to the trees. At night their lights roll over the grass in the backyard, the neighbor’s roof. They’re looking for something. Survivors? Eaters? I’m not sure.

  We fought about leaving, until the night of the explosion. I still don’t know what blew up. Mom guessed the gas station just outside our subdivision. I told her this was probably true, but the helicopters make me wary. Either way that was what finally made us decide to leave. We’re sitting ducks in this house and it’s increasingly clear Dad isn’t coming back, just like he predicted may happen.

  We
leave my father a note. Really, we leave him ten notes. One on his desk. Another on the black TV screen. One on the empty refrigerator. Two more in the bedroom. My mother is convinced he’ll come in and miss it. To make her happy I write a big one, in large, block letters on the whiteboard next to the refrigerator.

  At Aunt Josephine’s

  Love You

  Sarah and Alex

  “Do you think he’ll know what that means?” my mom asks.

  “Yes, he’ll know.”

  “I should take that tube of hand lotion by the bed, don’t you think?” This is my mother during the end of the world. Concerned about hand lotion.

  “If you have room.” I adjust the straps on her backpack—the extra one I had from camp last year.

  “Maybe our marriage certificate? Or our wills?”

  “I don’t think you need those.” But she looks on the verge of breaking. Her hair has grayed over the last week and the lines near her mouth tugged downward. My mother never looked old. Not until today.

  I wonder if I looked different.

  “Are you ready?” I finally ask. We’ve both gone to the bathroom twice each. We ran out of toilet paper three days ago.

  “Yes.” Her eyes say no.

  “Do you understand the way we’re going?” We’ve been over the map. We’ve got to get out of the neighborhood first—going through backyards and the trail behind the school. I’ve been over it a million times in my head, awake every night, making an escape plan. My mother sorts household items and I plot our escape. It’s how I remain sane. As of today, I have three solid ones. A, B and C. I hoped A will work. I want A to work.

  “Yes,” she says. “If we get split up we’ll meet at the small shed behind the Baptist church on Sherwood Street.”

  “Right.”

  “But we won’t get split up.”

  “No. We won’t.”

  She looks around the house. At her life. I feel her anguish. “Are you sure we shouldn’t—”

  “Mom, he told us to go. He said not to stay here.” The pouch weighs heavy on my chest. A promise I had to keep. I pray it isn’t a promise made to a mad man.

  “Okay.” Resolved this time.

  I lead us out the backdoor, the lock snapping shut. It’s near dark. We chose this time of day on purpose. We can slip through our neighbor’s yards and behind the school. We can get to the Baptist church in an hour or so, even if we take it slow.

  The grass is wet on our ankles. My mother’s hand is in mine and we leave. We leave the house. We leave my father. I don’t look back.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ~Now~

  “Okay then,” I say spreading the map on the table. “Once we get off this boat where do you want to go?”

  “South.” Wyatt laces his shoes. The soap in his hair and on his skin smells so good. Already, the things we took for granted noticeable. Soap was definitely a luxury.

  “But where specifically? I like to have a destination.” I still haven’t told him I have a destination—I want to know where he’s going first.

  He stands and walks over, eyes narrowed at the map. He points to a spot just south of the reservoir. “There.”

  “Asheboro?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s there?” I ask. “Looks pretty deserted.”

  “Good, less risk.”

  I inhale and add, “Look, I got this far by having a detailed plan. My mom and I had it all mapped out. We got off track sometimes but we kept going. It makes me nervous not to have something organized.”

  “Okay well, what was your plan after you got to your aunt’s cabin?”

  Wait for my dad.

  Go to my sister.

  “We didn’t have one,” I lied. “We sort of planned on staying here for a little while.”

  Wyatt adjusts his ridiculous top-knot and quips, “Things are changing pretty fast, Alex. I want to get south as fast as possible. You can stay here if you want but I’m going and my next stop—if we make it—is Pittsboro. It looks big enough to have some shelter and some retail for supply restocking.”

  I nod and fold up the map, knowing he’s right.

  “Anyway,” he says. “Getting off this boat is going to be the real challenge anyway.

  “Why?”

  He’s looking out one of the small windows. “There are more out there. All over the deck. They don’t seem real active right now but they’ll rouse pretty quickly once we make a move.”

  I push him aside and try to get a look. I can’t see much but there are definitely more arms and legs up there than when we came in. We may have only managed to corner ourselves.

  “Shit, okay. So how do we want to do this?”

  “We’ll have to fight our way out and get off the deck. We’ll run back the way we came and then loop around the lake.”

  I eyed his gun. “How many bullets do you have?”

  “Enough but I’m not keen to waste them. Your hatchet is good—you just need to be fast. I’ll try to knock most out with the butt of my gun, but I’ve got a knife too.”

  He held up the shiny silver blade and rubbed it on his pants.

  “Do you ever feel bad about it? Killing them?”

  “They’re as good as dead, Alex. I’m just making the reality come a little faster.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He grimaces from the pain in his side and I’m even more convinced leaving now isn’t the best idea.

  He seems determined though, so I strap on my pack. Wyatt stops at the small kitchen and picks up a can of bug spray. “What’s that for?”

  “Just a little extra insurance.”

  I follow him up the small flight of steps and he turns, handing me his gun. “Hold this until I need it—and stay behind me.”

  “What?” I ask, but I see the lighter in his hand. He’s going to blow torch the Eaters off the boat. The thought makes my stomach turn.

  “On the count of three, open the door, and then duck behind me.” I lean around him and grip the door handle. “One, two…three!”

  I don’t hesitate and once I’ve released the lock Wyatt kicks the door open. It doesn’t budge so he kicks again, this time getting a little movement. A deep moan sounds from the other side and he says, “That mother f-er is blocking the door.” To my absolute horror he thumbs the lighter and the torch bursts to life through the tiny opening.

  The fiber glass door melts but the moan outside turns to a screech of pain. We’re able to get the opening clear and even from my spot behind Wyatt I can see the Eater waving his fiery, blazing arm in panic. The other Eaters are only attuned to us for attack and they come straight toward the flame with no concern for their welfare. Truly their brains must no longer be functioning. I jump as each one lights up like dry kindling.

  “Holy crap,” I say swinging my hatchet at one coming from behind. His head splits in two and when he falls I see that dozens have surrounded the boat. Wyatt may be able to blow-torch our way out of here but we’ll most likely end up on fire ourselves. “The fire’s not stopping them!”

  I got ready to attack an Eater stumbling my way. Her upper body engulfed in flames but she stops, dropping with a thud to the ground. Before I can react two more drop and I glance at Wyatt, who has tossed the bug spray and has out his gun but hasn’t pulled the trigger.

  Thwick.

  Thwick.

  Two more of the Eater’s drop. This time I notice the yellow tinged feathers sticking out the body. Arrows. I glance around and say, “Someone’s shooting them.”

  “Them or us?”

  Thwick. Thud. Thwick. Thud.

  “Them,” I say, because each arrow is a direct hit and none have come close to us.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Wyatt says tugging on my arm. We hop off the boat, Wyatt holding on to the railing and kicking an Eater in the face. The motion tears the wound on his side and I hear the rewarding sound of a snapped neck. We fight our way through a small group, slashing and hacking. Once we’re through we race down the doc
k as planned.

  “Who do you think that was?” I ask trying to catch my breath. Wyatt favors his left side, leaning away from this wound. I’d like to look at it—to see how bad it is but it’s not my place.

  “No clue but I’d like to give them a big kiss.”

  “Well,” I huff. “You may get your chance.” I point to the two people walking in our direction. From the edge of the tree line I make out a couple—male and female plucking arrows from the bodies of fallen Eater’s.

  “I don’t know,” he says, his voice hard. “I don’t like being in someone’s debt, and we owe them big.”

  “Well, I don’t like the idea of not thanking someone for saving our lives.”

  We watch the pair come closer and Wyatt’s body visibly tenses as they cross the dock. For a moment, I think he may just bolt and leave—he has the right to, but he holds position. He waits by my side, and I get the feeling maybe we really are a team after all. I’m not sure what to make of that.

  “Last chance,” he whispers, but it’s already too late. They’re too close and the male, his eyes are locked with mine. And the female? Well, her eyes are raking over Wyatt. When I glance at him I realize he’s watching her back.

  Crap. Things just got way more complicated.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ~Before~

  Five Weeks Earlier

  My mother relies on me to navigate. She doesn’t have the experience of combing every inch of the neighborhood like I have since childhood. The games of Hide and Seek or Capture the Flag. The familiarity is good. The woods seem safe. It’s quiet. So very quiet.

  Even though my mother has never been back here she still has her sense of direction and when I take a detour she notices. “Where are you going?”

  I decide to be honest. “To check on Liza. I haven’t heard from her since the phones went out.”

  She hesitates. “This is not in the plan. It goes against all the rules.”

  “Mom, I have to check on her.”

  “Alex, it’s too dangerous.”