The Plague Box Set [Books 1-4]

by Jones, Isla

  My lashes drooped into my vision. A strangled noise is all I could manage.

  “It’s all right,” soothed Vicki. “I’ve been giving you morphine—you’ve been out for a few days.” Her gaze shifted to the blanket above my stomach. “I’ve removed the bullet, and the bleeding has stopped. You’re very lucky that it didn’t hit any organs.” Somehow, it didn’t sound like good news. When her eyes came back to mine, she said, “The biggest threat right now is infection. The last of our antibiotics were destroyed.”

  I thought of the ground shaking, the caravan rocking. Grenades had been launched all around us, and they’d taken most of our supplies with them.

  “We’re headed to a clinic right now,” she said, glancing over at Leo. When she returned her gaze to me, the sharp blue of her eyes dimmed. “I hope we find more.”

  I tried to nod. I could barely twitch my head. The morphine had me in its grip—at least it kept the pain away. And if I died, of infection or whatever else, it would be without pain.

  That’s a blessing in this world. Almost everyone else in our group hadn’t had that luxury.

  I took what gifts this world gave me, for the curses were severe and abundant.

  30.

  The clinic provided.

  An IV stand was strapped to the side of the sofa-bed. Tubes dangled from it, leading all the way down to my veins. Vicki had said that the IV bag was filled with an intravenous antibiotic. I’d rejected more morphine. Tablet painkillers were enough to soothe the worst of the pain. Little doses of morphine still get me high, and it’s a surreal experience I’d rather not have again. It’s not my thing, I’ve never liked the feeling; when the world sways beneath you and you can barely hold on.

  Still, Vicki wasn’t pleased with the little that Adam and Leo managed to loot. Though, I don’t think all the medical kits in the world would’ve eased her irritation.

  In the fight, I hadn’t been the only one to sustain an injury. Castle had been stabbed through the hand; it was easy for Vicki to treat, and he didn’t complain about it. Oscar had survived a stray rotter attack during the battle, but he’d walked away with scars and a broken arm.

  Vicki was most worried about Mac. He’d been caught in the shower of grenades. His legs had been shredded by shrapnel; he needed a doctor. Surgery and a skin graft—not a veterinary nurse with a first-aid kit. She had never been more anxious to get to DC before.

  Three days of driving got us to the border of Kentucky and West Virginia. It wouldn’t have taken as long if we didn’t have to stick to backroads, stop at night, and move around blocked towns with their barricades still erected.

  I pass the time with you. I write down my story and tell all that I can remember. My version of the truth. That’s what Summer always told me: Everybody has their own truth, their own version of it. It doesn’t matter how it’s told, it matters that it is told. Because everybody’s story matters.

  The ending of my story is uncertain. Who stays in it to the last page is unknown. I have to keep living if I want to continue my story. But I’m almost out of pages—almost out of lives.

  We pulled over right before the frozen bridge that stretched across a river. According to the map, it was New River Bridge. A cloud had fallen from the sky and blanketed the entire area, from the tall bridge, white trees, and icy road, to the snow-dusted grass and calm river water so black that it resembled frozen tar.

  To drink in the view, I perched myself on the trunk of the pick-up, the faded blue one.

  Mac can’t use the bathroom in the RV. It’s too compact for him and his wheelchair. We stop often for toilet breaks; Adam helped Mac into the white bushes. It would take some time.

  Behind me on the truck bed, Oscar and Lisa rummaged through plastic bags of blankets. It was cold out; much colder than it was at the auto-shop. I could see the fog of my breath puff in front of my face and the rosy tip of my nose.

  There were only eight of us left standing. Eight out of dozens.

  Oscar and Lisa drove the pick-up truck; Leo, Mac, Vicki and I occupied the RV; and Castle shared a beat-up white van with Adam and the ‘cargo’. The only good news is that the others are gone—but is that good news? I don’t know anymore. The other group fell, too—the true deltas.

  Humanity’s last hope is in the hands of selfish soldiers and professional manipulators.

  Vicki whistled. I looked over at her on the side of the road, to see that she pointed at a small, dry patch of dead grass. She tried to persuade Cleo to wee on it to no avail. Cleo shivered violently, despite the layers of scarves and hats wrapped around her, and whined. I knew her theatrics when I saw them.

  If it wasn’t for Vicki, Cleo would relieve herself all over the RV. Vicki took care of her in the ways I couldn’t anymore. With the gunshot wound, I couldn’t move very well—even after one week. Each twist of my body or curve of my spine set my insides on fire.

  “You should get back into the RV.”

  I glanced over my shoulder; Leo strolled around the truck towards me. His puffy jacket hugged warmth to his body and one of his gloved hand hid in the pockets. Yet, his other hand was un-gloved, with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. My hands shivered at the sight.

  Castle was behind him, leaning against the hood of the van. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the moment our gazes touched—he looked away. A twist pulled at my heart.

  “Did you hear me?” said Leo. “We’re leaving soon.”

  “I heard you,” I said with a sigh. My hand reached out for his. I didn’t want his help, but I needed it. I needed the crutch.

  Leo scooped his arm around me and lifted me off the truck bed. Oscar waved good-bye. I smiled back at him. Leo moved slowly beside me; waiting for my steps before he took his own. Painkillers slowed me down. If rotters caught up to us, attacked us right there on the road, I would’ve died. Most of us would’ve died—we were injured, weak and tired. We didn’t have much longer.

  As we passed Castle, I ignored my inner voice chanting methodically: Don’t look at him, don’t do it—no!

  I looked at him.

  Emerald shone up from long lashes; he was watching me, too. Our gazes stayed connected for a moment, but then I passed him and our eyes lost each other.

  When Leo helped me into the RV, my IV drip was waiting for me. I grabbed the metal stand and dragged it over to the passenger seat. It was handy for balance.

  “Tea?” The kettle followed Leo’s voice.

  We didn’t have any coffee left. It’d all been in the restricted caravan—and now, it joined the debris that we left back in Oklahoma.

  “Is there any hot chocolate?” My voice came out in grunts—I tried to manoeuvre myself into the passenger seat without pulling the staples in my stomach.

  The struggle was worth it. The passenger seat outdid the sofa-bed. As the heating vents faced the seat, it was warmer than the middle of the RV; the smallest bits of sunlight magnified through the windshield and gave me enough light to read without wasting flashlight batteries; it gave Vicki the chance to sleep on the sofa-bed comfortably; and it had cupholders for warm drinks.

  Leo stopped checking cabinets. “One sachet.”

  “Leave it for Vicki,” I said. She hates tea—hot chocolates are all she can drink. “I’ll just have a tea.”

  I heard the stream of boiling water pour into ceramic mugs. The nostalgia dragged me back through time to when Leo made me coffees in the same RV, and we talked about religion, not long before everything changed. And it did—everything was different now.

  Leo joined me at the front of the RV. He put the mugs in the cupholders before draping himself over the driver’s seat. The spice of tobacco tickled my nostrils as he lit himself a cigarette.

  Leo exhaled; the sound had become so familiar to me. “How are you feeling?”

  It was a distracted question asked in a disinterested voice.

  I ignored him and popped the glovebox open. My wrinkled book was crammed inside; the creased and peeling spi
ne greeted me. I’d never given fantasy books a chance before the end of the world. Maybe I hadn’t had time, maybe I was too caught up in my own misery. But now, there is all the time in the world and reading fills many of my hours. It gives me an escape from the rotters, the violence, the young boy restrained in the white van—an escape from all of it. And it took me to a world where monsters were real, but vanquished, and the quests were always completed.

  It gave me hope. And sometimes I think that hope is the most important ingredient to surviving an apocalypse. Because without it, you become a wanderer—wanderers don’t live, they survive. There is a difference, and it’s one that matters.

  The chill of Leo’s gaze prickled my cheek. He flicked ash into the little tray between us. “Are you ever going to answer me?”

  I fiddled through the pages to find the folded one—I didn’t have a bookmark.

  “I meant what I said to you, Winter.” Leo wasn’t impatient in his terse tone; he was tired.

  Each time he asked about my wellbeing, I snubbed him. He didn’t give a damn about me.

  “It wasn’t a game for me.” His face was turned to me, cheek resting against the head of the seat. As he brought the cigarette to his lips, I flicked a page loudly. “It was real.”

  “I can’t trust anything you say,” I mumbled. My finger dragged down the page, searching for the last passage I’d read.

  Leo tells me this often; how he is different to Castle, how he didn’t mean to hurt me—that he won’t hurt me. I don’t believe a word he says.

  “We were close,” he said. “Before you told us who you are, there was something between us.” He paused to inhale a deep drag. The pop of his lips came before the exhale. “I gave you my bed when you were left to sleep on a piano, I snuck you extra rations for Cleo—I looked out for you, I cared about you.” He flicked the ash. I pretended to read, but I hung on every word he said. “You know that, Winter. Learning your surname didn’t change anything.”

  “It’s like you once told me,” I said, staring at the blurred words. “I told Vicki about my sister, she told Mac, and he told you. What was it again?” I looked up at him. “Nothing stays private in this group?” With a scoff, I turned back to my pages. “You could’ve figured out who I was before that meeting. I’ll never trust you, Leo. You’re dead to me.”

  His hand gripped the steering wheel so hard that the leather crinkled and made a shudder-worthy groan. I winced. That sound raked down my skin like claws.

  “I’ll get you to your sister,” he said. “I owe you that.”

  I snorted. “Who are you kidding? You’re taking me there for leverage. I’m your key. So don’t pretend like it’s anything more than that.”

  The door swung open. I couldn’t twist around to check who it was without pulling at my injury. I stilled and waited for heavy thuds or light pitter-patters. It was thuds.

  Adam helped Mac back into the RV. Mac’s groans whispered through the cabin, followed by the rattle of the wheelchair being pushed away Leo got up and tracked them to the bedroom. It sometimes took more than one person to help Mac, he was so burly.

  Vicki carried Cleo back inside. Cleo’s sulky whines gave them away.

  “Winter?” said Vicki. “Are you in the bathroom?”

  “Right here,” I said. I lifted up the book and waved it as best as I could. Her gaze met mine in the rearview mirror. “I thought you could do with a sleep on the sofa-bed. I know that you don’t get much rest in there with Mac.”

  Vicki put Cleo down. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “Oh, and there’s hot chocolate in the cupboard. It’s there if you want it.”

  Vicki lingered her gaze through the mirror—it stuck for a moment, a fleeting moment in time, before she turned and went to the sofa-bed. Cleo joined her; the blankets were more tempting than my lap.

  The IV syringe had to be reattached to the white thing on my inner arm, but Vicki needed to rest. She’d already fallen silent on the sofa-bed. I let her sleep and stuck the syringe back in by myself. It stung; I would surely bruise, but I didn’t mind.

  Five minutes later, we were back on the road. We drove over the bridge, above the frozen water that winded through ridges in a black abyss. Leo steered with one hand; the other touched a cigarette to his lips every so often.

  “How long until we get to DC?” I asked, watching the trees whirl by in a blur of white.

  “A few days.” The tension in his voice matched the tight grip he had on the steering wheel. “Depending on the obstacles we face.”

  “The other group is dead,” I said. “What else can slow us down?”

  I barely heard his sigh. “In this world? Just about anything.”

  31.

  I write under the glow of the candle-lantern next to the sofa-bed. It’s the only light source in the RV. At night, we pretend to be dead—dead from the world and the rotters who rule it. But tonight, I sit by the lantern and the drawn curtains to fill the last pages of my diary.

  Vicki sleeps in the bedroom with Mac. Leo lies across the foot of my mattress; he rests his hand on my foot as he sleeps. His presence distracts me. He uses his arm as a pillow; the lantern casts an orange glow over his tanned face. The pink of his parted lips takes me back to the farmhouse, when he’d pulled me closer to him and I’d believed that it was real.

  I’d wanted for him to come back to life, I’d wished it many times. Summer always said that I should be careful what I wish for. She was right. Leo’s return was a curse. It tore Castle away from me and shattered the false front he’d put up with me.

  I will get to see Summer soon. And when I’m with her again, everything will be ok. She has that way about her, a way of calming the worst parts of me. I’m so close to her now.

  We’re in West Virginia. Our cars are parked under the shelter of a gas station off-road. There’s nothing here. I wonder if the cold keeps the rotters away, or if they are starving to death. I don’t hear them like I normally do when night falls. Maybe it’s our isolation that separates us from them. I hope you stick to backroads, too.

  In the morning, I’ll leave this in the gas station. I’ve run out of pages. I hope whoever finds it takes comfort in the story of a fellow survivor during a lonely, frightening night. When I was alone with Cleo, it comforted me to think that I wasn’t the only one out there.

  I leave you with warnings and words:

  You’re not alone. But you’re better off that way.

  Use cold blood and dirt to survive another day.

  And, whatever you do, please—don’t come to D.C. The defected deltas need test subjects to offer up at the CDC. Wait for the vaccine to come to you.

  This is Winter Miles, and I say good-bye.

  end of book 3

  Winter Storm

  Book 4

  Isla Jones

  My final diary comes in three parts.

  This is part one.

  1.

  My name is Winter Miles and I, like every other survivor in this barren world, have a story to tell.

  Time is hard to keep track of, but I’d guess that it’s been around seven months since the plague wiped out everything in its path. Everything except us. Though, we’re barely hanging on as it is.

  Mac, one of the delta soldiers, is … Well, he’s dying. I’m not supposed to say that. I’m supposed to lie, to say he still has a chance if we make it to the CDC in time. But in this world, luck is never an option, and I’m sick of lies.

  Vicki is a mess. She mopes around the RV, moving between my bandaged wounds and Mac’s shredded legs. His legs…

  The thought of them sends a shudder down my spine. If I hadn’t seen them myself, I wouldn’t have believed it—that flesh can tear into ribbons and hang onto the bone by mere threads of skin. How he’s still alive, I’ll never know.

  Whenever he’s awake—which isn’t often—he lets the whole RV know with his moans of pain. Even through the morphine, he must feel it. Every piece of his skin, peeled from the muscles and
bones.

  I should care more about his pain. I should empathise with Vicki’s hollow existence. I’ve been there, after I thought I’d lost Cleo to the rotters. I’ve felt what she feels now. Yet, I can’t muster up any scraps of emotion for anyone but myself and my dog.

  I’m all out of pain to give.

  Maybe I’ll find that missing piece of me when we reach the CDC. But until we do, I’ll live in my numb state, and frankly, I’m ok with that. As long as I have enough compassion for myself and Cleo, it will all be all right.

  I just have to hold on a bit longer. Two days longer, to be exact. That’s when we expect to reach the CDC. Two days sounds easy enough. But I've learned that, in this world, a lot can happen in two days.

  Still, I hold onto that hope. Hope that keeps me grounded and motivates me through these last painful days. Days that bring me closer to her.

  Summer.

  The sun in the winter cold. She will warm me, light me up, bring me back to life. If I can be brought back, that is. If anyone can do it, Summer can.

  Years ago, before our parents died, she told me something that’s stuck with me through all these years. I’d asked her how to get this boy in my class to like me. I crushed so hard on him that I needed him to notice me over the pretty girl in the class.

  Summer had laughed and told me, ‘The easiest way to a boy’s heart is through his ribcage.’

  I should’ve known then that she’d become a brilliant biologist. That, or a serial killer. I’m pleased with the outcome.

  The problem is, I didn’t listen to that advice. As much as I kept it with me, I didn’t follow it. And as a result, that very thing happened to me.

  Castle ripped out my heart through my ribcage.

  The worst part of it is, he still keeps it with him.