That wasn’t the attitude to have. She had to decide and decide right now. If she chose that it wasn’t, then she could sit down right there and not go on any further. She could die, just give up. Or… Or she could choose to survive, but if she did that she had to shut up about it, quit questioning her decision no matter how hard it got.
Setting her jaw, Margie pivoted on her heels, still in the squatting position. She pulled on the door handle. When the door didn’t open she almost laughed out loud with a bark. Great. Locked. Did towns like Easton really require you to lock your car? In this instance, it was probably the best thing for the car owner – who was most likely dead. In most small towns you didn’t have to lock your cars or your front doors. Everyone trusted each other.
She stood in the dark, taking the chance that she wouldn’t be seen. Staring at the door to see if the lock was up on the other side or if a window had been left open, she pressed her lips together and huffed.
Kaboom!
An explosion rent through the air from the direction of the gas station, freezing time for a split second and filling it with bright orange, red, hot white, and a dark, inky black cloud that knocked Margie to the ground.
The back of her head throbbed and she blinked at the sudden headache rippling toward her forehead. She touched her crown, wincing at the slight moisture on her fingertips. The roaring of the explosion faded to a crackling and Margie rolled to her side, groaning as she rolled to her side.
Was Kelsey okay? What had happened? That kind of explosion could only have come from the gas station. There weren’t enough cars around and the last Margie had heard, cars didn’t just spontaneously combust.
Margie shifted herself to her elbows and stopped moving at the sudden pressure of a gun muzzle against her scalp.
Chapter 10
Jackson
“Open up. We know you’re in there.” Rough voices scratched through Jackson’s subconscious. He turned his head to the side, opening his eyes and staring at the dust ruffle of the motel bed. As he breathed in and out, little dust bunnies moved across the floor in front of him. He blinked at the subtle movement, trying not to move more than he had to.
Pounding and the scratch of something at the lock pulled him completely from the realm of painfilled sleep he’d been trapped in. Wait, was someone really there? The lock wouldn’t hold them for long. If they really wanted in they could break the glass to the window. Why would they want in? He didn’t want in. Maybe they could come in and take him out with them.
The pain didn’t leave with the vestiges of rest. He forced his aching joints to work, pushed his jelly-feeling muscles to do something, even as he struggled to breathe. Was his diaphragm paralyzed as well? He had to agree with whoever might think he was a sick bastard. That toxin had been brutal and he’d been pretty twisted to add it to the arsenal in his war against the world.
Pride would swell in his chest, if he wasn’t in so much pain. His own mistakes would keep him humble.
As the pounding continued, Jackson watched the door, the panel expanding and retracting with each hit. He couldn’t stand, just edge himself further past the feet of the bed so he could watch the door and crawl out of the pile of vomit he’d fallen into earlier. He hoped it was his vomit. With how often Dr. Phil had come around, Jackson wasn’t sure what was his and what wasn’t.
Was he hallucinating? He couldn’t be sure. The voices were familiar, but he’d been there long enough that those cowboys should be dead, or almost. There was a twinge of his brother’s voice in the roll of the R, but his brothers were dead. He was certain of it. He’d watched one shoot them all and then himself.
At least, he thought he had.
Jackson glanced at the television. His only “tell” since the toxins had started to work on him. Dr. Phil was decidedly absent. He rubbed his thumb across his chapped lower lip. The skin was rough and sore, but everything hurt. He was having a hard time differentiating what was pain from the toxins and what was actually pain from whatever he’d been doing.
If Dr. Phil wasn’t there and he could hear other people, maybe his hallucinations were gone. Maybe he could go out there and see what those men wanted. They couldn’t have good intentions. No one had good intentions anymore. Even Jackson didn’t need his cynicism to have that be true.
Would he be able to stand? He pushed his face into the carpet, moving his legs before he attempted to do anything with his arms. He moved his backside upward and dragged his legs forward, finally using his elbows to push himself up. Somehow, he made it to his knees, leaning on his arms and bracing himself on the edge of the bed.
If he could make it that far, he could get to his feet. Grunting, he forced himself to ignore the nausea and the pain and he stood, brushing off his bare thighs with slow movements. He glanced down at his muscular legs that looked pale and weaker than usual. When had he taken off his pants? As if by magic, they appeared on his legs and he stared as his shoes wound themselves onto his feet.
That wasn’t normal. There was nothing normal about that.
He touched his legs again, but found the sensation of skin against his touch. Not denim. His pants weren’t there or they were. So, either he could see them but he couldn’t feel them, or they weren’t there and he could feel their absence but see them. Oh, just thinking about the options brought his hands to either side of his head and he moaned again.
Okay, worst case scenario – which was worse? Seeing something that wasn’t there or not feeling something that was?
His pulse quickened and he sank to the edge of the bed, resting his head in his hands while he braced his elbows on his knees. No matter which way he cut it, he was still hallucinating, but what was real and what wasn’t was the important piece he needed to figure out. Was his touch messed up or was his eyesight?
Okay, think.
The pounding came again, louder, almost angrier.
He hadn’t tested his hearing. How did he know if they were there or not? There was something fundamentally wrong with his neural function, but he couldn’t figure out what.
Could shoes slide onto his feet, if he weren’t moving and no one was around to put them on? He wasn’t sure, but that was less likely than the fact that he might have taken his pants off before.
A crash against the door, like someone had thrown their body against the flimsy paneling.
Jackson snapped his head up. He wasn’t normally timid or scared, but when he couldn’t figure out what was going on, his comfort zone was stretched and in this instance, it was broken.
The banging moved to the glass, shaking the window out of view behind the tall dresser.
He found the energy to stand and searched the small room. After a moment, he grabbed the sitting chair and dragged it into the bathroom or maybe it dragged him. He couldn’t be sure.
Taking a deep breath, he kicked off one of the wooden legs. He grabbed either side of the stick and thrust outward with his foot. The stake broke into two pieces, jagged tips on either side.
Jackson hadn’t brought his guns with him, but he could use the stake to protect himself, if the men broke in. The hammering and yelling grew louder, like they’d moved into the vents above him. They might get into the shower or the tub.
He lowered himself to the cool tiled floor and leaned against the cabinet housing the sink. He gripped the stake so tightly, his hands shook. Glancing down, he inhaled sharply at the presence of the bright red blood dripping down to his lap.
He’d cut himself. Or had he. He blinked. Was it his vision messing with him? He didn’t feel any pain. Maybe he had his pants on and his touch was messed up.
The sound of a low chuckle coming from the T.V. captured his attention. Still holding the stakes in his hand, he pushed himself to his feet. Where was all this energy coming from?
Glancing down, he stared for a moment at the suddenly absent pants and shoes, wincing at the blood under his feet. He’d cut his bare feet as well. He dragged in shaky breaths, unsure just what he was supp
osed to do. Had the men gotten into the room?
More laughter, louder and more confident, called to him and he followed the sound mutely.
Standing in the center of the room, he stared at Dr. Phil laughing on the screen and pointing at the stakes. “You’ve been looking for a way to end your pain, boy. You have two options right there. Now, quit your whining and get ‘er done.”
Jackson stared at the stakes in his hands. It would be so easy. He dropped the shorter one and then positioned the jagged tip of the other against his chest. He could drop himself forward, thrusting the stake through his chest. He’d bleed to death, but it shouldn’t take long.
After a second, he stopped himself from getting into position. The pain was bad, but he’d known it was going to be. He’d expected it. No giving in. No killing himself to satisfy his hallucinations.
He shook his head. Drolly, he whispered, “Not today, Doc. Not today.”
Tossing the stakes to the ground by the bed, Jackson fell onto the mattress. The chills were returning and his hands and feet shook uncontrollably. When would the ointment fade away? What kind of a fate had he resigned himself to?
How much more could he withstand?
Chapter 11
Bailey
Watching Cady as she stared at Jessica and explained the use of the oils, Bailey was hit with the reality of what was happening like a slap across the face.
Cady was sick. No longer was it a matter of time or just a case of red eyes. Bailey had more to worry about than just Scott being sick or the possibility that Cady might get sick. Bailey had to plan for the eventuality of Cady’s death, because wasn’t that what it was? Cady had pretty much warned her that if she got sick, she would most likely die. There was no evidence of anyone surviving the sickness. They didn’t even know what the symptoms looked like or how they presented themselves.
All Cady was doing with the oil information was telling Bailey how to make her death less painful. What a horrible way to say goodbye. Make me comfortable this way, because I’m going to die.
Swallowing past the tightness in her throat, Bailey smiled as her mom stood and went to bed. She put on her brave face but she wasn’t sure if it was for Jason or for herself. Jessica didn’t care as she sucked peacefully on the pacifier in Jason’s arms.
Jason spoke softly, staring at Jessica. “Does it make me like a baby, if I admit that I’m scared?” He turned fearful eyes toward Bailey who looked at him in wonder. A pink flush flooded his cheeks as he cast his eyes back down to his cousin. “Never mind, ignore that.” He cleared his throat.
She shook her head, the tightness spreading from her throat to her chest. She made fists at her side, tucking them between the thighs and the couch. “No. I’m scared, too.” She was only… wait, her birthday was the next day. She wouldn’t be able to say she was only thirteen for very long. Cady hadn’t mentioned anything about it. But what did Bailey expect she would say, I’m dying, happy birthday?
What a birthday it would be as she cleaned the coop for the chickens and put their waste into the compost heap. What a celebration she would have as she tossed out scratch for the hens and they would cluck around her as if singing a song to her. She could pretend that the eggs were presents and that the flowers struggling to break through the last pieces of winter’s shell were like Mother Nature’s balloons.
She would be fourteen in just a few hours and she felt like she’d aged ten years over the last few weeks. How had she survived her father’s death only to be chased by the virus that would kill her mother, but leave her an orphan? And, somehow, she was now a mother figure to an infant, a property owner, a nursemaid, and more that she couldn’t comprehend.
Telling Jason wasn’t an option. At least, not right then. She didn’t want to acknowledge that a normal thing was happening the next day – not when there wouldn’t be anything to celebrate it. Jason didn’t need the added stress of trying to make her day special. He was just the type of guy who would do that, too.
Unaware of the turmoil wreaking havoc inside Bailey, Jason turned Jessica in his arms so that she could rest against his chest and he leaned back on the couch. Reaching for Bailey’s hand, he smiled softly at her. “At least we’re not alone.” The warm of his touch let her relax her hand enough to hold his fingers back.
The movie continued running. What if celebrities had somehow had more of a chance with the virus? What if the actors in the famous zombie show were more prepared because of their acting? That didn’t make sense, because it was all fake, but what if they’d picked up some kind of a skill that left them less vulnerable?
While Jim Carrey left the safety of the fake world he’d been raised in, Jason ran his thumb over the palm of her hand. Maybe, if she told him tomorrow it was her birthday tomorrow, he would be her first kiss. There were a lot of possibilities. Where was her friends when she needed someone to ask him if he liked her? It wasn’t like he had any other options. They were probably the last two teenagers on earth. Her friends were probably dead anyway. Especially if they were the last two.
That sobered her quickly. What if they really were the last two teenagers alive? All of her friends, all of his… She squeezed Jason’s fingers in hers, needing the comforting tightness to anchor her back in the moment. They sat there on the couch watching the movie, as if they had no other worry in the world.
“I’m glad I’m not alone.” She smiled softly at him. Bailey couldn’t contain her gratitude. She was glad she wasn’t sitting there by herself while her mother retreated to her bedroom. Even if Jason did nothing but hold Jessica, his companionship was worth more than anything else he could do.
At least they weren’t alone… for now.
~~~
Bailey woke to the soft sound of snoring coming from Jason’s bed. They’d split the largest bedroom on the end of the house of the top level so that they could take turns watching Jessica. The small baby still woke at night and with the arrival of the rash, she was fussier than she’d been. Cady didn’t need to be bothered while she was trying to rest and fight the virus.
Jessica wasn’t fussing, so the baby wasn’t what had woken Bailey. She stared into the dark, trying to put her finger on what the disturbance had been. Something was off, but she couldn’t tell what it was.
She threw off her covers, leaning over the makeshift crib to make sure Jessica wasn’t stirring. Maybe she’d woken and then fell back to sleep. Swaddled in a peaceful slumber, the baby didn’t move.
Pulling a robe on over her soft pajama t-shirt, Bailey slowly walked down the hall, listening at each room for the change. The hallway muffled most sounds with its thick carpet and closed doors.
As she got closer to Scott’s room, she reached out a hand to rest against the panel. Moaning and crying came from inside like someone was beating him with a scalding chain. The amount of pain he had to be in to make those sounds scared Bailey. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t go in. She just couldn’t. Not yet. What if he tried to hurt her?
Cady had said the oils would bring relief, but what if he didn’t let her apply them? What if he fought her off?
Bailey closed her hands into fists and pressed them to the base of her throat. She stared at the doorknob. Could she make herself go inside? She had to. One way or the other, she had to get in there. That was her responsibility now.
Cady’s bedroom door, set perpendicular to Scott’s, opened with a snap. Cady stood there, peering out at Bailey as she struggled to breathe. Cady nodded toward Scott’s door and spoke slowly. “Get me the oil and I’ll do it this time.” She didn’t say last. She reached out and grabbed Bailey’s wrist before Bailey could disappear. “Hey, happy birthday, kiddo. I wish…” Cady screwed her lips to the side and let her daughter go, regret appearing in the form of sparkling tears on her lashes.
Bailey nodded, unable to smile while Scott whimpered in pain. “I’ll get the oils, Mom, just a second.” She thundered down the stairs, rushing into the living room. Her bare feet flew over the hardwood flo
oring. It would probably be smartest to leave the oils upstairs and within easy reach of both of the bedrooms.
Grabbing the oils, Bailey returned upstairs in seconds, handing them over and watching as Cady went into Scott’s room. She was fully aware that she wouldn’t be able to rely on Cady rescuing her next time.
Next time… it would most likely be Cady that woke Bailey from her sleep.
~~~
Bailey had a hard time sleeping and crawled from bed sometime around dawn. Jessica and Jason continued to sleep and she made her way down the hall again, pausing to listen at Scott’s door and then Cady’s.
The soft light from the sun rising pinkened the sky through the skylight.
Bailey continued creeping downstairs, grabbing a blanket from the living room couch. She quietly slid the back door open and claimed an Adirondack rocking chair set up on the covered wraparound porch. The blanket kept off the early morning chill and let Bailey find some peace.
Fourteen. Her birthday. Only a month ago, she’d been making plans with her best friends for an all-girls’ party; dinner at Bailey’s with spa options like face masks and hair treatments. Just a girls’ night in. Nothing fancy.
Now, Bailey wasn’t even sure if any of her friends were alive and she was too terrified to try calling them again. The last time she’d reached out, no one had answered.
What if this time, they did, and Bailey couldn’t do anything to help them? What if they begged her for help? She couldn’t even go into Scott’s room.
Bailey rocked back and forth as she huddled under the blanket, reveling in the quiet and the capability to pretend that maybe her dad would join her any minute or she would have to run up and get ready for school soon. She’d never missed science class so much.
After a while of peaceful seclusion, the slider opened and Jason stepped through, carrying Jessica.
180 Days and Counting... Series Box Set books 4 - 6 Page 17