“Do you think it will get that bad?” I asked as I started rifling through my size, pulling two black and one tan shirts off the hangers and stuffed them into the pack.
“Depends,” I heard his answer muffled as he started putting on fresh clothes. “And speed up, you’re way too picky. And change the clothes you’re wearing right now, too. You likely won’t get a chance to change in the next week.”
Looking around, I searched for the changing rooms, but when I saw that they were in a nook that looked just like it had a neon sign with “trap” over it, I decided that staying alive was the better part of valor. My panties and bra I’d only worn since the early hours of the morning so I kept them on, but I grabbed everything else, starting with socks. Nate joined me halfway through, already unrecognizable from before in zip-off pants and a lightweight hiking jacket. Wordlessly, he pulled the pack from my hand and motioned for me to get going. Meanwhile, the others had finished and were lugging their bulging backpacks outside, making me anxious about being left behind for no good reason.
I was just about to add a couple of sports bras to my selection when a loud crash behind me made me tear around, my heart thudding in my throat. Nate’s gun was out and he pushed me behind him before I even had time to register what was going on, but he relaxed a moment later when two hands appeared from behind the cash register, followed by the anxious face of a maybe twenty-something guy.
“Please don’t shoot at me!” he offered, his voice skipping up an entire octave on the last word.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Nate asked, his voice crisp and sharp. He glanced sideways at me, silently urging me to continue. A little anxious, I quickly grabbed a pair of hiking pants and pulled them on, not quite comfortable with my ass out in the open.
“Skip, and this is Brad and Steve,” came the shaky answer from the other side of the store. “We’re working here. Well, were. Late shift yesterday. We hunkered down in storage when they torched the cars outside.” Two more heads joined the first, belonging to guys of similar age. Both looked scared shitless, something I could commiserate with. Nate still hadn’t lowered his gun, but I doubted that he intended to shoot at them. They didn’t share the same conviction, though, and when Nate didn’t react, the one I figured was Brad offered, “Just take anything you want. It’s not like anyone is paying us for this shit.”
Nate gave them a last hard glare, then holstered his gun and turned back to me. “Are you done?” Without a jacket and in socks, I felt like the answer was obvious. Grumbling something under his breath, he grabbed a dark green jacket from the rack and pushed it at me. I was surprised that it fit, although I felt instantly hot with it on. Without looking back, he walked over to the shoe section. He went straight to the hiking boots. When I eyed him critically, he turned to me and gave me a long-suffering look.
“We won’t really do that much running, if that’s why you keep glaring at me like that.”
“Isn’t cardio like rule number one?” I asked, pitching my voice sugar sweet.
Nate snorted. “Trust me, you can run better in boots, particularly if you have to kick the living shit out of whatever wants to hunt you down. And if you have to run more than a mile or two, you’re dead, anyway.” I couldn’t help but be lightly pissed at his claim, which got me an eye-roll. “Seriously. If something is after you that you can’t shake in fifteen minutes or so, you’re fucked. That’s not a commentary on your level of fitness, but a fact of life. Unless you’re a competitive marathon runner, but neither of us can hold a candle to that, I believe.”
Somewhat mollified, I looked over the boots, starting to pull several pairs out and trying them on. I set the first that fit aside and continued until I found a second, while Nate busied himself tying the boots to my backpack. As soon as we were done, he turned toward the door, leaving me to fight with my new burden, but I stopped on the way out and quickly ducked into the team sports section. Nate gave me another of those looks, until I held up an aluminum baseball bat to him.
“Seriously, I’m useless with a gun, but the idea to go back out there with empty hands is making me more than just a little uncomfortable,” I offered.
I got a brief smile in return that, on any other day, would have made me smile back, but I was fresh out of positive displays of emotion.
“That’s my girl,” he replied, his smile deepening for a second, but disappearing the next. “Take a wooden one, too. Not sure how much the aluminum will bend over time.”
We were almost out of the store when Skip called after us.
“Ah… would you mind if we joined you guys? You look like you can handle yourselves in a fight.”
Nate eyed them critically, but relented after a second or two. “Grab some gear and meet us outside. If you’re not done in ten minutes, you’re on your own.”
Following him back outside and into the deceptively nice sunshine, I couldn’t help but frown. “Why do they get ten minutes when you hassle me through the store in five?”
“Closer to fifteen,” he grunted while giving my new outfit a last critical look. “And do you really need an answer for that?”
I shook my head, and we went outside to join the others where they had started to build a huge stack of gear in the middle of the parking lot. As soon as I joined them, Pia grabbed my backpack and upended the entire thing right there, but protest died on my lips when she immediately bent to tear packaging open and re-packing it. “I’ll teach you how to do that yourself tomorrow,” she promised, not even looking up from her task.
Anxiously looking around, I was just waiting for something to come for us as we were standing around like sitting ducks, but everything looked just as it had before. And with the sun warming my face, I couldn’t help but yawn. Damn, that wasn’t looking good.
“Why don’t you grab some coffee?” the Ice Queen suggested. “Burns and Martinez are already raiding that shop over there.” It was clear that she didn’t need me here, and as Nate was busy poring over maps with Andrej that they had procured from somewhere, I nodded, taking her advice.
Burns turned out to be the bear of a soldier who had been the first to join besides Martinez. He was currently rummaging through the remains of the snacks section, although it didn’t look like it had been stocked recently, judging from the odor of spoiled food that hung in the air. Martinez and the other two soldiers were behind the counter, filling up what looked like the rest of the take-away cups remaining in the partly destroyed store. I just eyed the foamy atrocities they produced critically and instead stepped around them to turn on the drip coffee machine, pressing the buttons for the extra strong brew.
While I waited for the coffee to be done, I couldn’t help but be a little weirded out when one of the soldiers—Smith said his name tag—kept guzzling syrup and cream straight from the bottles. “That’s just disgusting.”
He grinned at me after licking foam from his upper lip.
“Nothing wrong with an extra load of calories,” he replied, then offered the can to Martinez. “Something sweet for you, sugar?”
Martinez snorted and ignored both the offer and the innuendo.
“Remind me of that when you get the first cavities in like a week or two?”
They continued to joke between them, but considering there was enough coffee in the pot now, I ignored them in favor of grabbing a travel mug and topping it off with liquid ambrosia. I blew on the coffee just long enough to cool it from scalding to unbearably hot, then took a first sip. The burn on the back of my hand gave another twinge, but I ignored that, too.
While Martinez grabbed a tray and went outside to bring some to the others, Burns finally gave up poking the stale donuts and grabbed one of the mugs, but stopped with his hand halfway to his lips when Smith’s can clattered loudly to the floor, the noise making me start and almost do a repeat performance with hot liquids.
“Man, you’re such a klutz. How they ever thought you fit for active duty is beyond me,” he grumbled and turned away.
I was waiting for a witty comeback, but Smith was just standing there, staring off into space.
I suddenly had a really bad feeling about this.
“Smith? Are you okay?” I asked.
Slowly, his head turned in my direction, his eyes empty. I felt my own fingers tighten around my mug.
Anger sparked in his eyes, and a moment later he launched himself at me, his mouth open in a beginning scream. Panic locked my muscles in place, but some part of my lizard brain was still working, making me hurl the coffee in his face.
“What the—“ Burns started, but he was already scrambling to get his rifle up, his coffee dropping untouched onto the counter. Forcing myself into action, I whipped around, starting toward the exit, but in my hurry to get there, I tripped over my own feet. Lurching forward, I was only saved from falling to the floor by Smith grabbing the back of my right sleeve, but that was so not an improvement. His fingers closed around my arm like a vise, making me wince just as I managed to draw enough breath into my lungs to let out a scream.
The butt of Burns’s rifle whipped by my head, close enough that I felt the motion, and smashed into Smith’s face, the impact hard enough to make blood gush from his ruined nose and mouth. Smith howled, but, if anything, his grip tightened, driving tears into my eyes. Blindly kicking out, I tried to hit a kneecap or something that would hurt enough to make him let go, but Smith seemed beyond feeling that. Burns tried smashing in his face again but with the same results; at least the rifle between us kept Smith from managing to drag me closer.
A shout from the door made me look over, finding Martinez standing there, staring at us wide-eyed. He had his gun in his hands but the barrel was pointed toward the floor.
“Shoot him!” I screamed, or tried to, my voice too high with panic to articulate words properly. The pistol came up but Martinez still didn’t pull the trigger, frozen.
So much for waiting out for a hero.
Casting around frantically, my gaze fell on the counter. There were drawers underneath, and I could just reach the handle of the top most if I stretched myself. With a vicious yank, it rolled open, revealing a bunch of useless spoons and tiny forks—and a knife. It was a cake knife, used to slice the baked goods and not exactly a machete, but I figured it would do in a pinch. I just had time to wrap my fingers around the handle before Smith yanked me back when Burns went for rifle-butt smash number three.
Screaming, I slashed it toward Smith’s face. The blade swiped uselessly over his cheek, yet deep enough to grate against bone underneath, but Smith didn’t even seem to feel it. He howled in my face, his teeth bloody from Burns’s assault, and much too close to my body for comfort. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to continue to struggle, but I forced my fingers to switch my grip before I aimed for his neck the second time.
Steel met skin and less resistance than I’d braced for as the knife sliced right through the front of his throat. At first, I thought I hadn’t done anything but superficial damage, but when Smith’s mouth snapped at me again, no sound came out. As soon as the knife slid free, blood gushed from the wound, spilling down his camouflage body armor. Smith halted, which was just enough for Burns to smash the rifle into his temple with a sickening crunch that spoke of heavy damage. For another second, the fingers tightened even more on my arm, making me gasp, but then they dropped away, letting go. I staggered out of reach, my gaze still on the body now sagging to the floor. My panting was the only sound I could hear, until Smith gave a last gurgling grunt that was quickly silenced when Burns fired a burst of bullets into his caved-in head. In close quarters, the shots were deafening, but I had seldom before welcomed pain in my ears that much.
Burns and I looked up at the same time, staring at each other, and I saw his lips move in what I figured was a, “Don’t drink the coffee!” shout. Hearing returned with a whoosh, only a faint tingling sound remaining, but I still more felt than heard the knife clatter to the floor. The shout was propagated outside, followed by a few exclamations. Andrej pushed into the shop past Martinez, who was still frozen. Andrej only spared him a glance before he looked around the counter at the dead body between us, blood pooling around what used to be his head.
“Shit,” Andrej uttered succinctly.
With the immediate danger gone, I felt energy leech from my muscles, but rather than break down, I forced my feet to start working again, and walked out of the store. Everyone outside had their weapons ready—except for Skip and his buddies, who looked appropriately frightened—eyebrows raised at me in question.
“I’m so done with coffee,” I whispered as I staggered over to my pack, ignoring everything else around me.
“He just came after us,” I heard Burns explain behind me where he, Andrej, and Martinez had followed me. “Not sure why—“
“It was the fucking coffee,” I heard myself say, and when all eyes snapped back to me, I cleared my throat, trying to make my saliva glands work again. “Or rather the cream. The syrup. It’s in the sugar. I think.”
Nate and Pia traded glances, an entire conversation going to and fro within seconds.
“But that’s impossible—“ Burns started, yet Martinez interrupted him.
“Rob always had a sweet-tooth. I used to joke that diabetes would kill him.” He still looked shell-shocked, but was already coming out of it. His eyes zoomed to me, and I couldn’t help but feel guilt start to claw at the back of my throat, but there was no damnation in his gaze. “Earlier this week there was a report of some guy losing it in an ice cream parlor. They said he had asked for extra chocolate sauce.”
Nate looked back at me, eyeing me askance—as if I was in any way qualified to weigh in on that.
“What?”
He shrugged.
“First the chocolate bar, now this—sound suspicious to you?”
Looking back at the coffee shop, I couldn’t suppress a shudder.
“But sugar is in everything,” I protested. “Besides, it gets super-heated in production, I think.”
“Exactly,” Nate replied. “It’s in everything. And people got sick everywhere, all at once, at the same time.”
“That would account for no patient zero if it hits millions—“ I trailed off there. Billions, really—the entirety of the first world countries easily, and probably the rest, too. The very idea was just too much to comprehend—as was the consequence. If this was true, it wasn’t just a fluke mutation or weird coincidence—but someone had deliberately unleashed the virus on the world.
And as much as I wanted to deny that possibility, I saw the same realization on almost every face. And unlike me, none of Nate’s people seemed to be suffering from an overdose of idealism that still made me cling to the hope that no one could be capable of a feat like that.
“No more sugar for anyone,” Nate declared, looking at everyone around him in turn. “At least until we know more. Preserves are probably fine if they’ve been packaged before a month ago.” A few curses were muttered, and Burns and one of Nate’s people quickly emptied their pockets, spilling sweets and energy bars onto the ground. Only Steve, Skip’s friend, protested.
“Seriously, man? That’s just cruel.”
Nate only had a humorless smile for him. Picking up one of the discarded bars, he held it out to Steve.
“Why, you wanna be our guinea pig?”
Steve licked his lips as the blood left his face. “Nah, I’m good.”
Nate looked around again, then let Andrej help him get his own backpack onto his shoulders.
“Looks like we’re done here. Any objections?”
No one spoke up, so Nate nodded at Andrej, who’d taken possession of the maps again.
“This way,” Andrej signaled, indicating the road that ran perpendicular to the one we’d come here by. And, like that, we left the mall behind.
Chapter 3
I thought we would leave the city soon now, but quickly realized why our route ran north rather than strictly west—we were still east of t
he Monongahela River, and as far as I remembered, there were only three bridges leading over it. Incidentally, the mall was only about a mile away from the northern-most one, but as soon as we drew closer to Route 19, I realized that we weren’t the only ones who had opted to take that way out.
Even two blocks away from the highway, the entire street—and in parts the sidewalks—were jammed with cars bumper to bumper, some abandoned but most not. People were standing around in clusters, talking, but contrary to what one might have expected, seeing a larger armed group on foot didn’t draw suspicion or ire. Only when we got a little too close—which was unavoidable at the intersections when we had to squeeze through the spaces between the cars—did we get some weird looks, but that was all.
It was between two such intersections when I noticed that there was something sticky on my right arm, smeared from just above my wrist down the sleeve to my elbow. I guessed I must have felt it before, too, but it hadn’t properly registered.
It was blood. From the man I’d killed. Mostly.
Highly contagious blood from a zombie that would likely have torn my arm off if not for the jacket Nate had insisted I wore.
Stopping in mid-step, I stared at the almost black looking, coagulated substance, while panic was closing up my throat. Gasping, I reached out to wipe it away, but remembered just in time that having it on my bare fingers would be a million times worse. The jacket was suddenly stifling hot and the pack weighed a ton—when had I even shouldered that?—and just breathing became hard. Casting around frantically, I saw a discarded newspaper at my feet, and quickly picked it up and started rubbing at the spots. I vaguely heard someone call out as I remained behind, but it was impossible to focus on anything but getting the damn blood off my arm.
Someone called my name—I thought, and it wasn’t important right now—and the next thing I knew, I couldn’t reach the blood splotches anymore because something was keeping my hands apart. Staring down at where strong fingers were holding my wrists like vises, I became aware of my own ragged breath coming in fast pants, but I could still see the smears and—
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