Way back when we first found the farm, it was hard. I would stay awake for hours imagining all the things I couldn’t see in the dark. Now it seems like all I do is sleep, or dream of sleeping. It’s so hard to sleep during the day and the night just brings dreams of heat and light.
I can’t escape the sun.
And now I can’t escape Sarah. Almost every night I dream of the day she died. Pulling her along, racing against time, against death. When I felt her fingers slip from mine, I didn’t stop. I didn’t even pause in my stride. I just kept running. She fell behind, little by little, until she was a few meters behind me. I could hear her calling for me to slow down…but I didn’t. It was just me, running. One foot in front of the other, with my eye on the prize.
It wasn’t until I was laying on the ground, panting in the cool shade, that I looked back. How had she fallen so far behind?
The sun crested the horizon, and she started to burn.
CHAPTER 6
If I should die, and you should live
-Emily Dickinson
“No, don’t worry about your shoes! Let’s just go!” Fuck, why is she always so damn slow?!
“But…what if it rains? They’re not waterproof!” Sarah is frantically rummaging around in the front closet, tossing random shoes over her shoulder. “And if I have to do any running, they’ll give me blisters. They won’t be warm enough…or maybe too warm…I don’t know anymore.” She sits back on her heels with a sob, her arms limp at her sides.
At the sight of my wife, bent and broken, I melt a little. I brace her shaking shoulders with a firm grip.
“Your shoes are fine,” I tell her in the most soothing voice I can manage. “We’ll be fine. And besides, we can always buy more shoes when we get to your mom’s.”
Sarah stands reluctantly, as I coax her up and guide her towards the door. I glance down at her shoes. They’re not practical at all, with flimsy fabric and a low heel. I bite my tongue. We don’t have time to worry about shoes.
I catch Sarah looking back longingly, as I grab our bags. I don’t want to force her physically out the door, but I won’t rule it out as an option. Thankfully, she tucks her chin down and walks out, eyes closed. I close the door behind us, but don’t bother to lock it.
We’re not coming back.
I sling one bag across my chest, a backpack on my back. Taking up the last suitcase, I dash down the stairs, dragging Sarah by the hand, I can hear doors slamming, shouted commands, sobbing. Our neighbors, all in the throes of packing. Of fleeing.
As we pass a man sitting on the stairs, his head snaps up. “Jim!” It’s Ernesto, from 3C. “Jimmy, my man! You’ve gotta help me! I can’t find Celia!”
I don’t stop. “J-James…?” Sarah tugs at my hand, but I hold firm. “James, shouldn’t we help?”
I risk a glance over my shoulder while turning into the next flight of stairs. Ernesto, instead of looking worried or scared, looks angry. There’s blood on his hands, and I catch a glimpse of a gun tucked into his waistband.
Nope. No time for that.
We finally reach the bottom of the stairs and push through the heavy fire door. I blow out a sigh of relief when I see that our car is still in its numbered stall. The underground parking had always made me uncomfortable, with its shadows and echoing walls. But now, I’m grateful. The guarded gate has kept out the opportunists, looking to create chaos. Or maybe someone looking for a faster way out of town.
I pop the trunk and roughly toss all the bags in. “Get in, Sarah.” Her eyes are glassy, staring into space. “Come on, hun. Your mom will be waiting for us.”
“Mom?” Her voice sounds so small.
“That’s right. We told your mom we would be there in a few hours. We want to make it there before dark.”
At the mention of the dark, Sarah’s eyes widen. She finally focuses in on me, her grip on my arm like a vice. “It’s time to go,” she says determinedly, as though she hasn’t heard me repeating this for the last ten minutes.
“Yes, babe. It’s time to go.” Sarah slips from my grasp into her seat, and I slam the door behind her, swinging around to my own door. The engine revs into a smooth purr, and we back out of our stall. We’re on our way. Nothing can stop us now.
Famous last words.
When I pull our car up to the gate, there is no guard, and the door stays firmly closed. Shit. “Stay in the car,” I tell Sarah, but I can plainly see that she won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. She’s leaning against the passenger door, biting her lip. I’m not even sure she heard me.
I jiggle the knob to the guard booth, but it’s locked.
“Hello?” I call, knocking gently. I put my ear against the door to listen for movement, but it’s from behind me that I hear something; a slam, followed by raised voices. Then a scream. And a gunshot.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
I slam my shoulder in to the door, and feel it rattle. Again and again, I ram into the door. The voices are getting louder now. I seem to have drawn their attention. My heart picks up its pace, thrumming in my chest.
One more heave, and the doorjamb gives way in a shower of splinters. I dart in, and slam my hand down on the button. The door begins its slow ascent, as I dash back to the car.
“Jimmy! Hey! Where are you headed in such a hurry?”
I look back, why did I look back?! and see Ernesto swaggering up the ramp behind us. His arms are out in a relaxed posture, as though he’s about to gather me in for a hug. But it’s the glint in his eye that betrays his true intentions.
I throw myself back into my seat and slam the door shut, locking us in with the push of a button. I ease the car forward until the garage door is high enough for us to slide under. Looking back in the rear view mirror, I see Ernesto, scowling, as he rushes at the car. I don’t give him a chance. I hit the gas, squealing tires, and we’re off down the block, into the glinting sunlight.
“James?” Sarah is still curled into herself, looking at me with tear-filled eyes.
“It’s okay, baby. We’re fine.” I reach over the console and give her hand a squeeze.
Except, as we head towards Main Street, it’s abundantly clear that everything is not fine. Traffic gets heavier, block by block, honking horns, the crunch of metal. The sidewalks are swarming with people, hauling everything they can carry. One woman is carrying nothing but her tiny dog, while her husband pushes what looks like their entire kitchen, balanced precariously on a hotel luggage cart.
When we finally worm our way onto the main stretch, I hear Sarah gasp beside me. I swallow my own panic down, for her sake. Total chaos runs rampant down the street; store windows are shattered, people armed with baseballs bats smashing cars, and there’s blood. So many faces and fists painted red.
The air is thick with the smell of smoke, though I can’t see the flames. I crane my neck, looking left and right. We don’t seem to be in any immediate danger; the looters are all preoccupied, fighting over electronics and cans of food. There’s nothing we can do but follow the crawling flow of traffic.
What worries me the most are the soldiers. They’re covered head to toe in fatigues, vests, helmets and masks, every inch of them covered. Despite their authoritative appearance, they don’t seem the least concerned with reining in the crowds. In fact, they just seem to be glorified traffic cops, waving cars forward. But they also have guns resting in their firm grips, as though they’re prepared to use them.
Sarah’s hands are clutching her seat, knuckles white.
“Hey, why don’t we turn on the radio? A little bit of music will help, right?” I turn the dial, filling the car with a soothing voice. “…and be sure to stay away from populated areas.”
Sarah and I exchange a glance. Without a word, I begin to flip through the stations, looking for anything to distract ourselves. Instead, we catch snippets of news broadcasts, bringing me a whole new sense of paranoia.
“…it can cause blistering. Seek medical care if…”
“There are repo
rts coming in from all over the country that they are experiencing similar…”
“…water and food, and stay indoors unless absolutely necessary. At night, find somewhere secure that you can…”
I finally settle on some sort of science documentary. Anything but news.
“Scientists are calling it a gene mutation, creating elongated teeth, a sensitivity to light and an insatiable hunger. The most interesting observation, the subjects don’t seem to feel any thirst. Dr. Petrov, from the Russian Animal Behavior Institute, speculates that the thickened skin creates a waterproof shell, allowing the subjects to retain water. Further testing is planned. The cause of the mutation is still unknown, though they have …”
Sarah looks relieved when I turn the radio off, bringing silence to the car once more. In comparison, the crowded streets seem more chaotic, the shouts echoing with crisp clarity. Sarah speaks, largely to fill the car with anything other than the mob’s screams. “What they were saying on the radio. Do you think--”
“No.” I don’t even hesitate. “It’s nothing. It’ll all blow over soon enough. In a month, we’ll all be laughing about this.” My voice is flat, and so is Sarah’s expression. Neither of us believe the lie. I pick at my arm absently.
As the car inches forward, the tunnel comes into view around the corner. It’s the fastest way out of town, but my gut clenches with the thought of heading into the dark enclosed space. The lanes on the other side have been blocked, an armored vehicle standing guard. No one can get back into the city on this route. I briefly wonder if all of the highways are barricaded.
Sarah starts fumbling around in the console. After watching her for a minute, I finally ask, “What are you looking for?”
“Change. For the toll.” I can hear the anxiety in her voice, can see it in her posture. She’s barely holding it together, and her old routine is what she’s clinging to. Her lifeline.
“I don’t think they’re collecting tolls just now.” I say it gently, but she still tenses. Life will never be the same. How can I possibly explain this to her? How can I convince myself? I could try to break it down for her, to shake her out of her stupor. But rather than crush her further, I say, “I think there’s an EZ pass in the glove box.”
She relaxes a little, and gives me a grateful smile. Popping the glove compartment open, Sarah pushes aside my handgun without a second glance, and fishes out the card. I wait for her to scold me about not keeping my gun locked up, but the lecture never comes. She hands me the toll card silently. I slip it into my pocket, quite sure that I’ll never have use for it again.
I find myself picking at my arm again, and look down to see what is causing the itch. The skin is pink, almost like I have a sunburn, but that isn’t possible. I didn’t have a burn when we pulled out of the parking garage. The news broadcasts echo in my ears. Though my skin is hot, I feel as though I’ve been doused with ice water. I pull my arm deeper into the car, into the shade.
I don’t have time to ponder that, because I’m distracted by what’s going on ahead. I can see the reason for the slow traffic now. The crowd has spilled over the barriers onto the ramp, trying to get out of town on foot. The cars are trying to squeeze through without injuring anyone, but as we watch, a truck lurches forward, bringing a man down under its wheels.
“Holy shit! Did you see that?!” The words are out before I can stop them. Sarah tenses and emits a soft gasp.
I expect the driver to get out of the truck, to make sure the pedestrian is okay, but instead, he just keeps going.
I quickly look to the military, waiting for them to take action. Nothing. They don’t even blink. If they aren’t here to protect us, then what the hell are they doing here? What are their orders, exactly?
No one seems to notice. Not one single car is stopping. They all slowly ride over the corpse, leaving a smear of gore across the pavement. Bile burns the back of my throat as the line moves forward, and it’s almost our turn to drive one more nail into a stranger’s coffin. I feel like a murderer, even though I’m sure he’s already very dead.
My eyes dart back and forth, between the military and the growing crowd. I’m panting now, my breath hot against my chapped lips. There are too many people. Not enough space between cars. Three car lengths from the tunnel. Two. We’re being enveloped by the crowd. Everywhere I turn I see panic stricken faces, sweaty and sunburnt.
SMASH!
Sarah screams and my breath is stolen from my chest. I look back over my shoulder in time to see the second swing of the bat. What is most surprising is not the bat crashing into the rear window, a spider web of cracks reaching in all directions. It’s the look of pure rage on the man’s face, as if we are personally to blame. The weather, the evacuation, the rising body count. It’s all our fault.
Our car rocks as we’re jostled by the pressing bodies. Hands smear against the windows.
“Please!” a woman calls to us through the glass. “Please, take us with you!” She pulls her child forward to enforce her urgency.
“James?” Sarah clutches at my arm, pleading, tears threatening to spill. “They’ll fit. We have room for a few.”
I weigh the idea in my mind. I want to let them in. I do. But how do we leave everyone else behind?
The decision is made for us. The rear window shatters with a shocking finality. Suddenly, a man is climbing over the shattered glass, into the back seat. The stench of unwashed bodies permeates the car as more people try to cram themselves in the broken window, trying to get in, to get at us. Their fingers are reaching, clutching at my wife. Sarah turns herself backwards in her seat to get away from them, her back pressed hard against the dash. She kicks at them, a flurry of glancing blows, but for all the good it does, they barely register the feeble jabs.
I push against Sarah’s back, trying to get to the glove compartment wedged behind her. She’s screaming, blood curdling shrieks that echo in my ears.
I finally manage to pop the compartment open, and pull out my handgun. The Ruger feels small in my hands, too small to handle a problem this big. But I pull back the hammer all the same.
The gunshot is ear-splitting in such an enclosed space, and I’m grateful for the ringing in my ears. It means that I can’t hear the death throes of the man I’ve just shot point blank in the face. I can’t hear the blood dripping from the hole in his skull, or the squelch of brain matter detaching from the ceiling. I can’t hear the panicked cries of the mob retreating, but I can see their faces. I can see myself reflected in their naked expressions. We share the same fear.
“Go,” Sarah sobs. “Just go.” Her eyes are clenched tight, hiding from this moment. Her lips are bloody, from where she has bitten through the skin. I oblige her, pulling the car back into gear, as if the past two minutes never happened.
And as we creep forward in the line once again, we drive over the pedestrian’s body.
I assumed it would be like going over a speedbump, but the car barely bounces. I can’t hear the sound of bones breaking, but I imagine I can feel it all the same. I wipe the tears from my face. I try to block the images from my mind, but there is a copper tang in the air now, making it hard to think of anything else.
Sarah, my beloved wife, is hunched and broken. I can’t do this without her. “We had no other choice.” She shakes her head frantically. “Look at me,” I say firmly. “Look at me, Sarah.”
Her brown eyes are large and liquid in her upturned face.
“I promise. No matter what it takes, I will protect you. We will stay alive.”
“No matter what?” Her eyes stray to the carnage in the backseat.
I pull Sarah’s face back towards my own, away from the gore and death, and kiss her fiercely. Her lips taste of blood.
“Do you hear me, Sarah?” She gives me a small nod. “We are going to be fine. Absolutely fine.”
If I say it enough, I may even believe it myself, but for now, all I need is to convince Sarah. I need to keep her moving forward.
I twist f
orwards in my seat, but Sarah stops me with a hand on my arm. She’s staring at the corpse in our back seat, then swings her eyes around to the anarchy outside the car windows. Her words are whispered, a quiet breath through trembling lips. “I don’t know if I can do this, James.” I try to interrupt her but she holds up her hand, her eyes glinting in the dying light. When she speaks again, her voice is stronger, laced with conviction. “No matter what happens, James, you keep going. Promise me.”
“We will keep going, Sarah. You can do it!” Sarah clenches her jaw defiantly. I see a look of resignation cross her face, a deeper understanding of what’s really going on. After a pause, I finally nod. “I promise. No matter what.”
Sarah releases my arm, and I can see the pale outline of her handprint where she squeezed. I finally sit straight in my seat and edge the car forwards. The silence in the car is stifling and awkward. And then we’re in the tunnel, and shadows wrap around us. The line of cars continues into the dank depths at a sluggish pace. It’s so dark that I’m straining to see the car ahead of me. There are no street lights, no glaring red brake lights. Nothing. Just black…
CHAPTER 7
Death is not the end. Death can never be the end.
-Sri Chinmoy
I’m not sure how long I slept, but suddenly my eyes are open, straining against the darkness. It’s too early to be morning, since I can’t yet see dawn through the outline of the door. Something must have woken me.
I lean my head back against the wall, determined to sleep for as long as possible. Then I hear it. It’s a low sound, pitched so deep, I feel it in my chest more than I hear it with my ears. I place my hand gently on the door and feel the vibrations. And just like that, it stops.
I begin to tell myself it’s nothing when Seth speaks up. “Did you feel that?”
Shade (Shade Chronicles Book 1) Page 3