Westport (Grays Harbor Series Book 1)

by James Bierce

  Curtis freezes, fully expecting the people on the other side of the room to confront him, or to at least react — but instead they do nothing. Knowing that his cover is blown, he grabs the wrench and stands up, keeping it hidden behind his back. The people, who he can clearly tell now are a woman and four men, are still standing in the same place, all of them staring at Curtis. Even in the dim moonlight he can see that they look absolutely filthy, as though they haven't changed their clothes or brushed their hair in months. Just like several of the others he's seen in town, two of the men are wearing pajama bottoms and t-shirts. In what appears to be a normal trend, none of them are wearing shoes either.

  "I'm not looking for any trouble..." Curtis tells them, his voice as calm and soothing as possible. "I'm just trying to get out of here..."

  No response.

  "Do you know if there's another way out? The door is locked."

  Again, no response. They simply stare back at him.

  He waits for a moment, listening, trying to determine if there might be others that are still upstairs — but all he can hear is the wind howling outside, and the rusty steel sign out front swinging in the breeze. If he could get past them and up the stairs he might be able to barricade himself on the other side of the door, but he also knows there's a possibility he could be trapped up there.

  He tightens his grip on the wrench behind his back, then slowly steps out into the open, the five sets of eyes following his every move. As much as wants to believe these people can be reasoned with, he knows full well that they were the ones that mutilated the man at his feet. Ordinarily he would simply run away, but that doesn't seem to be an option. The only choice he can see is violence, or at least the threat of it. As he brings the wrench out into full view, hoping that the sight of it will intimidate a few of them, the moonlight in the room begins to fade away, swallowing most of the room in darkness.

  The moment the room turns dark, he hears something. Footsteps in front of him, coming his way.

  "Stay back!" he yells, turning his light on. All five of them are closer, only about ten feet away, but they've stopped moving once again. The expressions on their faces haven't changed at all, but in the bright light he can see that their eyes are severely bloodshot. The men turn and look away, all four of them staring in the direction of the window over the workbench. The woman continues to gaze at Curtis' flashlight, seemingly mesmerized by it.

  When he glances over at the window himself, he sees Amanda staring back at him, a slight smirk visible on her face. Then she raises a short piece of iron pipe, her hand and arm shaking from the effort, and smashes it against the glass, leaving only the steel bars between the two of them.

  "Amanda, you have to let me out of here! Just unlock the door, okay?" he pleads, shifting his eyes between her and the other people.

  She drops the pipe on the ground, then rests her arms on the window trim — a look of sadness on her face. "You shouldn't worry about Ben, he'll be safe with me..." She glances behind her, smiles brightly, then looks back at Curtis with a reassuring look on her face. "When we get home my mom will know what to do."

  Curtis steps toward the workbench, trying to see what, or who, is behind her — but its too dark outside to see anything. "We can all go to Aberdeen together, the entire family. We'll take care of each other. Wouldn't that be better?"

  "They're getting closer..." she says, casually pointing behind him.

  When Curtis spins around, he sees that two of the men have edged a few feet closer. "Amanda, open the door..." he says, keeping his eyes on the men.

  "I'm sorry, I really am." She sounds sympathetic, her voice sounding as innocent and pure as her age.

  Then the moment after the words leave her mouth, he hears the characteristic ripping sound of a match, and he turns his head to face her. She looks determined, almost menacing. In her right hand is a long stick match, its flame flickering in the wind.

  "Amanda... don't..."

  "I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt."

  It all happens in slow motion, and for a moment everything seems like a dream, or a nightmare. Curtis watches as a massive fireball engulfs the center of the room. All four of the men are consumed immediately, their feet already standing in the pool of gasoline on the floor. The woman falls onto her back, then manages to stumble to her feet again before climbing back onto the stairs. She looks down at Curtis, and for a moment he thinks he catches a glint of fear in her eyes, almost as though she were expecting him to help her. Then, just as quickly, her eyes return to the cold and vacant look they had before.

  Curtis looks back at the window, expecting to see Amanda watching them — but she's no longer there.

  His mind should be paying attention to the events around him — the fire that's spreading across the floor toward him, the shrieks of pain coming from the four men that are now throwing themselves against the walls. He doesn't see or hear any of it though. His mind is now focused on only one thing... the fact that his son is now with Amanda.

  By the time he finally begins to move the flames have reached the far end of the workbench, near a shelf filled with chemicals and various oils and additives. Noticing that the woman is still finding her way up the stairs, he decides that even in her questionable state of mind, she probably has the best idea. He quickly works his way around the untouched edge of the room, past the still-moving body of one of the men sprawled out on the concrete, his face now unrecognizable. When he reaches the stairs, the woman screams at him, clawing at the air with her hands.

  "Stop, I'm not going to hurt you!" he yells.

  It doesn't do any good, however. She takes a step down, toward Curtis. As she reaches for his face, he swings the wrench directly at her chest, hearing and feeling several of her ribs breaking as he makes contact. Even then, she doesn't seem to be fazed. Continuing down the stairs, she reaches out for him again with both hands, one of them briefly grabbing hold of his sleeve. Curtis jumps back to avoid contact, then lunges forward again, driving the wrench directly into the middle of her forehead. Her body immediately crumbles to the steps, then rolls past Curtis before finally ending up on the landing below.

  As he makes his way to the second floor, Curtis can hear the crackling sound of wood behind him as the building's frame begins to break apart. By the time he enters the room at the top of the stairs the smoke has become unbearable. When he walks in and locks the door behind him, he spots two windows on the back wall — and much to his relief, neither of them have bars on them. After finding out that both of them drop straight to the alley below, he opens the closest one and leans out. The moment he does, the fresh, moist, salty air blowing in from the ocean fills his lungs — and causes a long coughing spell that sends him back into the room again before finally catching his breathe.

  Smoke has begun rising between the floorboards and from around the door. He can feel the oddly comforting heat coming through as well, and the orange glow filtering in from every crack and knothole in the floor. He knows the building won't last much longer. Leaning out the second-story window once again, he sees a mostly empty alley below, one that looks like its been recently paved. A couple of doors down he can see a couple of dumpsters, but there's nothing directly under the window. More importantly, he sees no sign of people. As he starts to climb out, the rain begins to pick up, coming down in massive sheets that are pooling up on the surface below. The window is a tight fit, but he manages to squeeze through, landing safely on his feet once he reaches the pavement. After waiting a few seconds for the pain in his feet and calves to dissipate, he runs to the end of the alley and rounds the corner toward the main street. When he reaches it, he looks around for Amanda or Ben, but there's no sign of either of them. He considers looking for their footprints, but the street looks more like a river than a road in the downpour of rain, washing away any mud or dirt that may have been left behind.

  Huge clouds of smoke are pouring into the night sky from the garage in front of him, and the glowing coals that used
to be the building's frame are now sizzling as the cold rain hits them. Curtis backs off as the roof starts to collapse and the walls begin to buckle. After looking around for a few minutes, letting the burning garage light up the buildings around him, he starts walking south, never looking back at the building, and wondering if it might be a good idea to take shelter until the rain tapers off. In the end, however, his desperation prevails — and he convinces himself that he'll catch up with them just down the road.

  There will be plenty of time to rest once his family is together again.

  After spending nearly thirty minutes closing drapes, lighting candles, locking doors and tightening the telephone cord fastened around Clara Embree, Matt collapses next to his mother on the couch. Both of them are exhausted, mentally and physically — and for the first time tonight, Clara has been silent, leaving the house mostly quiet aside from the occasional bump from the bedroom down the hall. Even while he was securing the rope between her arms and the chair, she never opened her mouth once. Instead, she simply stared straight ahead, her eyes unfocused and blank.

  "Do you think we'll catch whatever she has?" Matt asks his mom.

  "I don't know, hon — but I think its a good sign that we haven't caught anything up until now..."

  "Yeah, I guess." He squirms a little, fidgeting with his fingers. He's not sure about asking this next question, and he's not entirely sure if he wants to know the answer. "Is everyone like this?"

  "I think most people probably are, the ones that are left." She puts her arm around his shoulder and squeezes, then kisses him on the forehead.

  "Do you think they'll get better?"

  "Maybe, I don't know."

  She looks up at Clara, and finds the old woman looking back, her eyes focused once again. The same sinister grin that she had on her face earlier is back, and her hands are clenched so hard they've turned white.

  "Matt, hand me the kitchen knife." Sarah says.

  He hands her an old knife with a nine inch blade that he found on the kitchen counter earlier. He still has the gun, but he now keeps it in his pocket.

  "Doesn't the front door have a window in it?" she asks him.

  "Yeah, I covered it with some sheets."

  "Why don't you go see if you can peek through... see if anybody is out there..."

  A look of fear immediately takes over Matt's face. Sarah knows that he must be terrified, but she can't allow him to stay in the room — not for the next few minutes anyway.

  "They won't be able to see you if you stay still and keep quiet." she reassures him.

  "What about her?" asks Matt.

  "She's not going anywhere, you made sure of that."

  Reluctantly, he stands up, crosses the room, then looks back at his mom, hoping that she'll change her mind.

  "Just for a bit, nobody will see you as long as the room is dark." she tells him.

  Besides the fear of being out of sight of his mother, Matt is reminded of the other reason he hates the front room the instant he enters it. The smell is overwhelming — rotten food and human filth permeate the air. This is obviously a room that Clara spent very little time in. He carefully feels his way around the cluttered furniture and knickknacks until finally reaching the front door. It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness, but when they do he finds that he has a clear view of the highway only about fifty feet away. The wind is still blowing hard, sending leaves, branches and litter flying through the air. He can just barely make out the cars lined up on the road, and the longer he stares at them, the more certain he is that some of the shadows in front of them are moving. He tries telling himself that its only a figment of his imagination, or that its the swaying branches of the trees in the front yard — but it soon becomes clear that a small group of people are slowly walking down the road. He thinks of his dad, and of Ben, knowing that whatever route they take to get back to the cabin, they're certain to run into someone along the way.

  Sarah waits a few minutes, making sure that Matt is in the front room and out of earshot. Then, still holding onto the knife, she grabs the armrest of the couch and drags herself to her feet, then reaches down and picks up the pillow that she's been resting against.

  "Is there any way your husband can get out of the bedroom?" Sarah whispers to Clara.

  Clara looks up, her face innocent, and perhaps a little confused. "No, I don't believe so."

  "Has he ever gotten out?"

  "Once, but that's been a couple of days ago."

  "Has he eaten since then?"

  Clara looks away, pursing her lips as a sign that she refuses to talk about it.

  "There was someone else in the house with you too, wasn't there?" Sarah asks. "Someone who didn't make it..."

  "I don't want to talk about it." Clara answers back, still refusing to look at Sarah.

  "Are they in there with your husband?" She waits a while, then when it becomes obvious that she's not going to answer, Sarah approaches the old woman, then moves directly behind her. She sets the knife down on a small table next to the chair.

  "Clara..."

  "What?" the old lady answers back, clearly agitated.

  "What was your husband's first symptom?"

  "Coughing, that's the first sign."

  "Did you start coughing too?"

  Again, no answer. Sarah begins looking around at the house, wondering if there might be a better place to hide while her leg heals enough for the journey home. She worries that if they spend too much time here that Curtis and Ben might come searching for them, leaving them vulnerable to others just like Clara — or worse. It'll probably be days until she's ready to travel though, and this house has nearly everything they need to survive. Food, medicine, even dry towels in the hall closet. There might be other places that could work, but they're already here, and even standing for these few minutes has made the pain in her leg almost more than she can handle. Moving would be foolish.

  Gripping the pillow in both hands, she quickly places it over Clara's face and tightly wraps it around her head. The old woman struggles as best she can, but with her feet and arms tied to the chair she really has no ability to move. Sarah turns her head and closes her eyes, trying to block out the moaning and head jerking, and praying that Matt doesn't walk in to see this. Eventually the movements begin to soften, and then stop altogether. The moaning stops shortly afterward as well, but Sarah keeps the pillow held securely over the woman's mouth and nose, and instead watches her hands and feet as confirmation that she's passed.

  Holding back tears, Sarah finally releases her hold after she notices that Clara's hands have gone completely limp. She stuffs the pillow in the corner behind the chair, then covers the woman's body with a blanket that had been draped over the back of the couch. Wiping her eyes dry, she limps over to the doorway that leads to the front room, and sees Matt crouched down in front of the door, still peering out the full length window.

  "Matt..." she whispers.

  He crosses the room carefully, trying to be as quiet as possible, but also concerned about why his mom is calling him. Before he reaches her, Sarah turns around and sits back down on the couch, then pulls a small antique table in front of her, using it to elevate her injured leg on top of two pillows.

  "What's wrong?" asks Matt.

  "I think Clara is dead. She stopped breathing a few minutes ago."

  "Should we do something with her?"

  "No, it can wait until morning." She pats the cushion next to her, motioning for him to sit down. "You should get some sleep, we'll have to take turns keeping watch."

  Matt lies down on the other end of the couch, resting his head on his mom's lap. She reaches for the blanket on the back to cover him, then realizes that she used it to cover Clara's body.

  "There are people outside, walking down the road." he whispers.

  "Did they look sick?"

  He nods his head, and both of them stay silent for a while. "Do you think the others are crazy like her?" he asks, pointing to Clara i
n the corner.

  "We have to assume they are. We can't trust any of them — do you understand?"

  He nods.

  "How many people did you see outside?"

  "I couldn't really tell, but I think there were a lot."

  As Sarah begins slowly stroking Matt's hair, her mind wanders to Curtis and Ben, and the hope that they've found someplace to hide for the night. No matter how hard she tries, she can't bring herself to fully recognize what's happened to her family over these last couple of months. All three of her kids are separated, and her husband is still out there somewhere, with absolutely no idea where they've ended up.

  "Matt, are you still awake?"

  "Yeah."

  "The world is going to be different from now on. Its not the same place it used to be."

  "I know Mom."

  "We're going to have to be brave, and do things we wouldn't normally do..."

  He nods slightly, then closes his eyes, falling asleep immediately.

  Feeling something against her side, Sarah reaches down beside her and pulls out a magazine that had been stuffed between the armrest and the cushion. Its a travel magazine, addressed to a Mrs Clara Embree. She starts to flip through the pages, which are filled with people partying, scuba diving, gambling, hiking, you name it — all of them with smiles on their faces, having the time of their lives. Normally this would probably be a magazine that she would enjoy — but tonight, as she quickly scans through the pages, a single thought crosses her mind... All of these people are dead, and the incredible places they're enjoying are likely as deserted as Westport.

  Disgusted at the idea, she drops the magazine on the floor, then leans her head back and closes her eyes — certain that she wouldn't be able to sleep even if she wanted to. As her thoughts begin to wander into areas where only anxiety thrives, she's brought back to reality once again by a loud bang. It happened so suddenly that she wasn't able to figure out what it was or where it came from. Then it happens again — someone is knocking on the front door.