by Jones, Isla
I stood there, frozen in time—watching them move, scramble like they do. It wasn’t until Adam shouted above me that I was wrenched from my shock and I realised; the other group had come for us.
“ATTACK!”
12.
Before I could form a plan, the rotters had reached the gate. Together, in their numbers, they ripped the fence apart like it had been made of twigs. I switched the safety off on the gun, but I fumbled for a few seconds—my hands shook like feathers in a storm.
The camp had erupted in mayhem. I looked over, eyes glassy, body trembling. People were screaming; some grabbed the children and ran, others unearthed weapons they’d had hidden and went to attack. But the rotters were close—too close. I couldn’t fight them.
I looked over at the vehicles.
Where are you, Leo?
Did it matter? Would he save me again? Or did he only want me because of my connection to Summer?
That was my value, wasn’t it?
If Summer was still alive, she would let me into the CDC—she would have to let all of us in. But we would never make there. I knew it then, in that moment; I knew that I would die that day.
Ivan’s chubby hands snatched my shoulders. He yanked me back and I went down; I smacked onto the wooden porch with a cry. My shoulder burned with the fire of hell. My teeth bared, biting back the screams that brewed in my mouth.
I lay there for a moment, waiting for the pain to subside, blinded by it. Or was that fear? It all felt the same.
“Get inside!” shouted Ivan. His voice was followed by the cock of his shotgun again; He ran down the steps and aimed—
Gunfire blasted from all over the farm. It came from the roof, the camp, and the grounds. I looked over my shoulder at the rotters—they were here. They’d gotten over the fence, into the perimeter and past the vehicles. I screamed, scrambling to my feet, and snatched my revolver from the porch.
My screams followed me inside the farmhouse. Just as I slammed the door behind myself, and pressed my back against it, Mac barged down the stairs. He was wild-eyed. His gaze lingered over me for a moment, and he stilled. Then, he realised I was alone—I wasn’t with Vicki—and he ran again; taking off through the rooms to look for her.
Are you looking for me, Leo?
Mac and two others raced out of the door ahead. The living room. He wasn’t with Vicki—he turned and bolted down the hallway, still searching. But Vicki should’ve been in there, she should have been in the living room with Cleo.
I suddenly felt cold inside. My veins froze over and I stumbled away from the door. My revolver hung loosely in my grip and I staggered to the living room.
It was empty. My bag was on the armchair, but Cleo wasn’t beside it anymore—she was gone and so was Vicki.
“No.”
I can’t recall if I’d said the word aloud, or if I’d only thought it. I do remember the emptiness that cut into me, like an ice-cream scooper had dug into my guts and scooped everything out.
Cleo was gone…
How long had I been outside? It couldn’t have been for more than ten minutes. Where would Vicki go, and where would she take Cleo?
It hit me. I backed out of the room until I reached the hallway. My head spun from side to side; soldiers were dashing all over the place, taking their positions, searching for the best place to shoot from. But I didn’t see Leo, Castle or Vicki. I saw no one who would lead me to Cleo.
I had an idea, though. I snatched the bannister of the stairs and scrambled up them. When I reached the top, I staggered and struck the wall. My teeth clenched; my shoulder burning fire down to my elbows and spine. I looked to my left—where the bathroom was, further down the corridor—before I stumbled forward.
It was then, I think, that I realised I’d sprained my ankle when Ivan had pushed me. I hadn’t noticed because of the ache, but because I couldn’t seem to walk properly.
“CLEO!” My hoarse shout tore down the corridor.
The gunshots that blasted through the property smothered my voice.
I tried again: “CLEO! WHERE ARE YOU?!”
I reached the bathroom; the door was ajar. I shoved it open, and it smacked against the bathtub. There was someone inside, but it was a solider, I realised. She looked over at me for a second, then went back to what she was doing.
It was Gretel—the one with a pixie cut—who’d helped me on the wall that day. She was crouched behind the window, a sniper rifle balanced on the sill, and she peered through the scope. Her aim twitched slightly before her finger tugged the trigger and the bang of gunfire exploded in the bathroom.
My hands slapped to my ears, but it was too late—all I heard was a piercing ring stabbing at my eardrums. My back curved and I bowed over, waiting for the buzz to leave my head. As I waited, I lifted my gaze to the bathtub; the curtain was closed.
A gasp of relief surged through me. I lurched forward and stuck my gun through the gap; my arm whipped to the side, parting the curtain in the middle. I stuck my head inside. My heart dropped and disappointment burned at the back of my eyes. I blinked the tears away and looked down at the person in the tub.
It was Rose. She should’ve been in the barn or the camp with the others. But I didn’t care in that moment, I only cared about finding Cleo.
“Help me!” said Rose.
Her hand shot out, fingers waiting for mine to touch, as she shivered in the corner. She was a greater coward than I was, I realised.
“Have you seen Cleo?” I shouted over the sniper rifle. Rose shook her head. “What about Vicki? Have you seen her?”
“No!” Rose shuddered against the tub. “Not since I snuck up here to use the bathroom.”
“When was that?”
“About half an hour ago, I think. Just get me out of here, Winter!”
I sighed and unhooked my shoulder sling—I couldn’t hold my revolver with my only free hand. I needed to be able to move freely.
“Get out yourself,” I snapped to Rose.
I wasn’t going to help her. I needed to find Cleo. As I made to ask Gretel—despite that she was shooting through a window at rotters and the attacking group—Rose jumped out of the bathtub.
I stepped forward, but then I saw a burst of red explode in front of me and I fell back. The revolver skidded out of my reach and hit the door.
Rose crashed into the corridor, curling up into a ball. I grunted and propped myself up on good arm. My head still spun, my ears thrummed. Bits of rubies clung to my eyelashes. I swatted them away and looked at my hand—it came away smeared in blood. I looked up at Gretel. Only, she wasn’t there anymore.
Well, her body was still there, but her head was all over the bathroom.
A sting of bile burned my throat. I clenched my eyes shut and turned my head. When I opened my eyes and got onto all fours, I saw that Rose was gone—she wasn’t in the corridor. My gaze darted to the open door, where my gun had been. With a muffled curse, I noticed that she’d stolen it and run.
I crawled out of the bathroom; I didn’t want to get up in case whoever was out there saw me and did to me what they did to Gretel.
I heard a shout from the window. “FALL BACK, FALL BACK!”
It was Adam’s voice. Then, right after he’d shouted, there were thumps above me. He was running over the roof. He was evacuating—We were evacuating.
But I hadn’t found Cleo yet. Nor Vicki. I couldn’t leave.
Would they leave without me? Without the three of us?
Would I be stranded with the rotters and the dead?
I didn’t have a choice, I realised. I crouched in the doorway of the bathroom and cursed myself. The blood shimmered in the darkness as I scrambled back into the bathroom, over to the window. My crimson fingers curled onto the edge of the window-sill and I lifted my head up; just enough to peek over the side.
My wild eyes searched the chaos on the farm. I searched for any signs of Vicki and Cleo. I hoped they were together. But all I saw … What I saw would haunt me forever
.
It was just like it had always been. Before I’d found the group, before the outbreak, before I’d realised that I was a coward. I always hid. I hid and watched, shaking and weeping, hoping that it never happened to me. But in foster care, it was something much worse than the virus.
I couldn’t see them. A grunt came from me as I turned and slid through the blood to the corridor. I gathered it up in my hands, clumps of warm crimson, and smeared it over my face. I slapped it on my skin like it was sunscreen and I ran it through my hair.
That was my trick.
I didn’t blend in with the rotters like this; it didn’t make me look like one of them. But in a few minutes, the blood would turn cold and congeal to my skin. The scent of the dead blood would mask my own warm blood running through my veins. And the rotters wouldn’t look my way if I stood still enough. It works with soil, too; but it must be cold on your body, otherwise it won’t work.
And I needed my trick in that moment, I needed it to work—I was venturing outside for my Cleo.
When I got to the back of the house, there were rotters crawling all over the place. The other group were there, too—high above ground in the trees, shooting at us from a safe distance above. They’d planned it; the whole thing.
And they didn’t care what they’d destroyed.
I stumbled out of the backdoor and down the faded steps. Blood was soaked into the grass in front of me, and I saw the face of a middle-aged woman looking up at me. Halsey, I think her name was. She’d been one of Rose’s flock.
My gaze lifted from her body. Ahead, I could see the faint outlines of the parked cars. The ones for evacuation. Only, there weren’t as many as there should’ve been. The two RVs were gone, one supply van and a pick-up truck. There were only three vehicles left: one white van, smaller than a station wagon; the faded-blue truck Leo and I had taken to the clinic; and a sedan with a trunk filled with ammo.
There was one problem. I couldn’t get to the cars. About a dozen rotters stood between me and the evacuation point.
A few looked at me, but I stood still by the corpse of Halsey.
I stared back at one, watching it consider me from afar; watching it tilt its head back and sniff in my direction. It growled. It was a content growl, one that ached my heart with memories of Cleo dreaming. Then, it jerked and turned away from me.
It searched for prey.
A flash of grey moved in the distance. It whizzed between the remaining cars, slinking between the van and pick-up truck. I stood still, my eyes focusing on the pale blur ahead. Then, it emerged slowly, a black and bulky assault rifle in its hands, the edge pressed into its shoulder.
A glow of green twinkled, and I realised that it was Castle.
He crept out of the darkness, and his eyes were on me. He faltered, slowly aiming the gun at me and he dipped his head, looking through the scope. He could see me clearer than I could see him.
I remembered the blood that covered me. I would have looked dead; or worse, infected. I raised my hands and wiggled my fingers; my movements were careful so as not to alert the infectees.
Castle lowered the gun, his eyes on me still. He jerked his head, summoning me over for evacuation. But I needed to find Cleo.
Footsteps bounded down the side of the house. I heard the boots slam against the packed soil. My head whipped to the side and I stumbled, just as a handful of survivors came sprinting into the back area.
The rotters roared. They twitched and screamed, then lunged into action.
I watched, frozen, as they scrambled for the survivors—one of them I recognised to be Kevin; a teenage boy who had played ‘past-lives’ only a week ago. He screamed, and I felt my heart clench within me.
I waited until the survivors forked off, separating in all directions. It separated the rotters, too. Then, I had space to run. And that is what I did. I jumped over Halsey’s body and landed—with a wince—on the dirt.
Castle shouted something, I think he was calling me over, telling me to hurry, but I didn’t quite hear him over the flood of adrenaline that pumped through me. I turned right, and I ran; away from the rotters, away from the vehicles.
“WINTER, GET BACK HERE!”
It was Castle. His voice boomed over the gunfire. I heard gunshots nearby, the battle had leaked into the back of the property.
“CLEO!” I shouted and leapt over a dead rotter. “CLEO, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU—ARGH!”
I was tackled to the dirt. A rotter was on me.
I screamed, my fingernails digging into the soil, trying to drag myself out from under the beast. Its fingers were in my hair; it yanked back, then slammed my face into the ground. White light exploded in my head. Then, a gunshot—
The rotter was thrown from my body.
I looked up, gasping for air; blood and dirt in my mouth. Castle ran toward me. He’d shot the rotter, I realised.
“Come on!” he shouted. His hand shot down and snatched my arm. I cried out as he hauled me to my feet.
“I need to find Cleo!” I screeched, pulling away from him. “Just go without me! I need to find her!”
“She’s gone!”
I stilled. My entire being froze—my breath, my heartbeat, the blood in my veins. He looked down at me, his fingers coiling tightly around my aching arm.
“Vicki got her,” he added. “They left already. Now we need to move or we’re dead, Winter.”
“Vicki has her?” My voice was a whimper, choking on relief. Tears leaked from my eyes, mixing with the blood on my cheeks. “You’re … You’re sure?”
“I put them in the RV myself.”
The firmness of his voice—the absolute truth in it—assured me. I relaxed and gave him a stiff nod, my dazed eyes roaming the farm.
There was a fire somewhere—smoke billowed down the side of the house. It might’ve been the camp, I thought.
Rotters had taken dozens of people to the ground. I looked to my left, up the side of the house. Civilians ran everywhere, some were shot and collapsed like puppets who had their strings severed. I saw one of the twins from the porch; the ones who had been playing cards.
He hung over the edge of the fence, dripping with blood.
“Get me out of here,” I whispered, looking at the boy. “Take me to Cleo.”
Castle yanked me away from the edge of the house. He sprinted down to the vehicles, and I limped behind him. When we reached the cars, I noticed the pick-up truck was gone. Castle pulled open the door of the white van and threw me inside.
I landed on the passenger seat with a grunt.
Before I’d righted myself in the seat, Castle was in the car, starting the engine. The next thing I heard were the tyres ripping against the dirt before we soared forward, then took a sharp right.
I lay back in the seat. My eyelids drooped as I washed my gaze over the horror around us.
And then I saw the backdoor of the house burst open.
I jolted forward, hands hitting the dashboard.
It was Leo. He ran out of the house, headed for the last car—the sedan with ammo—and his gun was in his hand. He looked at us.
“STOP!” I shouted. “WE HAVE TO STOP!”
But it was too late. A rotter lunged out after him and took him to the ground. It reared back and then … it tore into his back.
Leo was bitten.
Castle sped through the fence; the van soared through the shrubs until we hit the path. I looked back, twisting my body.
But now, I couldn’t see Leo anymore.
13.
We’d been driving for hours.
I still wept. I rested my head against the window—it rattled against my skull, forging a headache to ache there—and looked ahead. I watched the barren landscape race at us, pass us by, and come for us again, all through the tears in my eyes.
It was Castle and me. Just us two, against the world.
A Winter Castle.
*
It was the next day, when the sun was setting in the sky, that I spoke
for the first time. We had parked the van on the side of a small road; there was nowhere else to hole-up for the night. Castle had covered the van with branches and leaves, just in case.
The back of the van was stacked with black boxes; the kind that look like brief cases. Inside of them were guns, and they came in all shapes and sizes. I’d taken one, and Castle had silently shown me how to put it together. Then, he’d laid out a blow-up mattress—it had come with a pump—and let me rest on it. He did, too. We went head-to-toe.
But I gazed at the tinted rear-windshield for hours. We hadn’t seen anyone from the group since we’d left the farm. We hadn’t seen anyone at all. And Castle hadn’t spoken.
I looked at the windshield, replaying Leo’s death in the back of my eyes where it burned into my sight forever. And that is when I finally spoke; “He’s dead.”
Castle had his forearm over his eyes, and lay still on the mattress. But I knew he was awake. He waited, I don’t know how long, before he said, “You don’t know what you saw.”
The mattress dipped as I clumsily sat up. With an agony-induced shoulder and sprained ankle, moving around was hard. Castle had dressed them for me, but we had no pain killers or anything other than a few bandages.
“I saw him go down,” I said, my voice thick with tears. I cried a lot since we escaped the farm. More than I’d thought was possible. “I saw it, and he didn’t get back up. And even if he did, that rotter bit him…”
I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t say the words. He is infected.
Was this why I’d stayed away from people for so long? I formed attachments, I came to care for some of them—and I had them all ripped away from me in a single night.
Castle didn’t say anything.
“When do we meet up with the others?” I asked. When he didn’t respond again, I whacked his sock-covered foot. “Castle?!”
He sat up, so quickly that I flinched. He frowned, appearing surprised for a moment, then leaned back against a stack of boxes.
“The meet-up point is a week’s drive away,” he said. “And that’s if we don’t encounter any obstacles.”