The Comatose

by Kate Myers

  The Comatose

  The Deranged Series Book Two

  Kate Myers

  Copyright © 2020 by Kate Myers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book Cover Design by https://miblart.com

  Editing by https://studioenp.com

  First Edition 2020

  ISBN 978-1-7332322-2-7 (paperback)

  ASIN B07XTSM1W7 (ebook)

  To anyone struggling to find their place—their peace—you must create what you cannot find.

  Contents

  1. Max

  2. Max

  3. Quinn

  4. Max

  5. Max

  6. Keith

  7. Max

  8. Max

  9. Max

  10. Quinn

  11. Max

  12. Max

  13. Max

  14. Quinn

  15. Max

  16. Max

  17. Max

  18. Max

  19. Max

  20. Max

  21. Max

  22. Max

  23. Quinn

  24. Max

  25. Max

  26. Max

  27. Max

  28. Max

  29. Wiley

  30. Max

  31. Quinn

  32. Max

  33. Skylar

  34. Max

  35. Skylar

  36. Skylar

  37. Keith

  38. Skylar

  39. Quinn

  40. Wiley

  41. Alex

  42. Wiley

  43. Skylar

  44. Keith

  45. Max

  46. Skylar

  47. Quinn

  48. Alex

  49. Keith

  50. Max

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Kate Myers

  About the Author

  Join Kate Myers on Social Media

  1

  Max

  Almost two weeks have passed in a blur.

  A blur of “Max, you have to eat,” “Max, you need to sleep,” “Max, she’s going to be okay.”

  I’m stuck in this weird form of denial, this I could have done more to protect her state of mind. I can’t seem to wrap my head around leaving her side long enough to eat, shower, or rest.

  One time I lost my cool and now my dad has stopped allowing me in the room during his exams on her. I was still in shock, more so than I am now, and I might be guilty of freaking out on him quite a bit when he poked Skylar with needles.

  In hindsight, he could have warned me, and I also could have probably realized he wasn’t trying to hurt her. He hooked her up to an IV line, intra-something—he explained this was a means to replace the fluids in her body, to make sure she doesn’t become dehydrated, and so her kidneys continue to function properly.

  Her face is pale, and her cheeks are sunken. The freckle below her bottom lip is a prominent shade of purple in contrast to the grayness of her skin.

  My eyes burn from not wanting to look away, not being able to will myself from the possibility of her waking at any second. I keep thinking that if I force the thought hard enough, I could bring her back to life and out of whatever hell she’s been sucked into.

  I allow myself a few moments every so often to savor the only salvation I found on the day following our arrival at the cabin. Her journal.

  It was tucked into her backpack, and I stumbled upon it while seeing what was left that could be salvaged. It felt like I had struck gold. But, peeking inside felt wrong, almost forbidden. For four days after, all I did was trace my fingers along the cover, where her name was written in silver Sharpie, trying to summon her back to me.

  It wasn’t until my dad and Quinn threw me out of Skylar’s room after I freaked out about the IVs that I finally decided to indulge myself. I opened straight to the first page, and in an instant, my heart ached to see this tiny piece of her. I mean, that’s totally stupid, right, it was her handwriting, and I was undone. I felt like I had gotten her back somehow, even though I had lost her twelve days prior.

  Twelve long, agonizing days since we finally got to the cabin in hopes to find safety from the crapstorm brewing around us. The virus spreading quickly, claiming with no regard, and the unknown people responsible, making it nearly impossible to escape their capture. I can only assume we were one of the few lucky ones, with a safe haven to escape to, and the minimal warning from my dad. But to consider us lucky would be a leap, given Skylar’s seemingly inescapable demise and Wiley being taken, not to mention all of the horrible things that happened in the process.

  My gaze raced across the page and then stopped—I had to maintain self-control. I couldn’t allow myself to binge or I would lose her once more, and as quickly as I found her. I made myself promise to only read a little to preserve what bits of Skylar I had left. I must have read that first line over a thousand times until it was etched in my memory.

  My therapist said journaling is therapeutic, so here I am, journaling.

  With that line alone, it had my mind racing in a million different directions. Therapist, therapy, journaling, the anxiety attacks, the breathing issues, the walls, all the damn walls. I realized immediately how idiotic I’d been, how selfish and stupid I was for being mean to her, for pushing her away. It’s so easy to think you’re the only one with issues, especially considering you have no idea what someone else has been through. I should have been more patient. If I ever get the chance, I promise I’ll be more patient.

  My thoughts are interrupted. “Max?”

  I close the door in my head and look up. “Yeah?”

  My dad stands in the doorway. He scratches near his ear and glances to the floor for a moment, trying to avoid eye contact. “Okay, so you’re going to have to promise not to freak out, but we need to talk about something.”

  My heart drops, nausea courses through my body, and what’s left of the protein bar my dad nearly force-fed me for breakfast this morning does cartwheels in my stomach. I stand without letting go of Skylar’s hand.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s not really a promise, so I’m simply going to stay over here, but…” He shifts slightly.

  I clench my jaw in anticipation for whatever he’s about to say.

  “We’re going to have to start artificial nutrition.” He speaks again, disallowing me to do or say anything, “Sky, she’s…she’s strong, and she’s so proved that to us, but it’s been too long since she’s had proper nutrition, and we’re going to manually have to deliver that to her.”

  I unclench my jaw. “What does this entail?”

  He seems to relax in the slightest, his brow unfurrowing as he starts his explanation. “It’s a fairly simple procedure. There’s a plastic tube that will be placed in her nose, which will go down her throat and into her stomach and will provide her the nutrition she needs while she is not able to provide for herself.”

  I ask the question that he doesn’t seem to be supplying the answer to willingly. “So, what’s the problem?”

  “Well, someone is going to have to go get the supplies.”

  He stares straight into my soul, and I’m torn between being left alone with her with no medical knowledge and leaving her to possibly die.

  It’s almost as if he can read my mind. “Max,
I don’t know what to do, but we need to discuss the possibilities and figure out a solution as soon as possible.”

  And then he says the thing I’ve been dreading to hear.

  “I don’t know how much longer she can hold on like this.”

  My heart crumbles into a million pieces like a glass shattered on the kitchen floor, thrown into the trash only to be forgotten.

  I swallow hard. “What makes the most sense?”

  “Well, logically speaking?”

  He opens his mouth to begin speaking, but we’re both distracted by a random flash through the room.

  I try to process what’s happening when Dad makes his way across the room and to the window.

  “Shh,” he whispers.

  Instinctually, I hold my breath.

  We stand side by side, shoulders pressed into each other, both peering out of the tiny amount of space he’s allowing us to use to see out past the window blind.

  At first, we see nothing, only the pitch-black night, the minimal illumination coming from the moon and stars, and then it happens again, something resembling a spotlight passing across the field, this time not hitting the cabin.

  Dad steps cautiously away from the window, his face drooping, and I brace myself for yet more bad news.

  “Someone’s found us, Max.”

  He turns to me, his gaze methodically making its way from the floor to meet mine, as if he was thinking, processing, and analyzing that entire time. Finally, he instructs, “Get your gun, they’re coming for us.”

  2

  Max

  My gun is right where I left it, sitting on the stand next to Skylar’s bed, or, well, my bed.

  Upon our arrival at the cabin that fateful day, my room had been the closest to the door. That’s the moment the blur began. I somehow managed to pick her petite body up, carry her into the house, into my bedroom, and lay her gently onto my bed. I readjusted her onto the oversized pillows, and the dark-charcoal comforter wrinkled beneath her. My whole body was tense, and my teeth had ground against each other in an uncontrollable clenching of my jaw in anticipation of the unknown.

  I recall hands and a gentle voice—Quinn—trying to pull me away to give my dad space. I had shrunk into the corner and became as small as I possibly could, desperate to evaporate into nothing. I wanted so badly to start over, to start everything over. The day. The week. Our entire lives. I would have done everything differently; I wouldn’t have allowed this to happen. This was my fault. It was all my fault.

  I found myself repeating the situation in my head. I replayed every moment, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get it to be different. I couldn’t bring into fruition a different outcome. I willed it to be me instead, but nothing worked; I was returned to this horrible reality every single time. My stomach turned, and all the unknowns surfaced. Was she infected? Would she ever come back to me? Was I next? Was Dad next?

  I couldn’t shut my mind off. But I also couldn’t turn it on either, it was painfully stuck on the same thing over and over, her never making it through this.

  My dad walks swiftly into the room, snapping me back to reality. I numbly grab my gun from the table. He shuts the light off, and Quinn follows him in, her brown hair flowing down her shoulders. She holds a gun, and I realize almost immediately that it’s the one Skylar had been carrying.

  Another flash of light cascades through the window and passes. Almost simultaneously, we meet in a crouched position.

  “What are we going to do?” I whisper anxiously to Dad.

  Quinn’s hands shake, and my attention shifts from him to her to him again.

  “I think we’re going to have to stay put. Sit like ducks and hope whatever is out there passes. We can’t leave Sky. So, our best worst case is to wait it out.”

  I regret the question but find it coming of my mouth anyway, “And what if it doesn’t pass?”

  “Well, then we fight.”

  I swallow hard, grip the gun in my hand tighter.

  “Do you know how to use that thing?” I ask Quinn.

  I know pretty much nothing about the girl. Her name is Quinn, and she’s alone. Well, alone now. She was with her cousin, Cynthia, when crap hit the fan, but she turned deranged and nearly killed Quinn in a fit of rage. She had run out of the house they were staying in and down the street. Essentially that’s where I found her, at an abandoned gas station on top of that SUV, surrounded by deranged people. I saved her, but I think she was still in shock for a while, maybe even still. I should have made more of an attempt to get to know her, to console her, be her friend or whatever, but I’ve been my own kind of zombie since we arrived. She’s been kind to me, though, making sure to help Dad with Skylar, and even bringing me food and reminding me to eat.

  She stood in the doorway a few days prior, startling me when she spoke.

  “I know what it’s like to lose people.”

  I didn’t even look up at her, my voice crackling in response, “I haven’t lost her, she’s right here.”

  “Then maybe you should stop acting like you’ve lost her.”

  “Get out.”

  “What? I’m just say—”

  “Get out, get out of my room. Leave me alone. You know nothing about me and have no right.”

  Turning to walk away, she didn’t speak another word, and I didn’t bother to see her reaction. Maybe I was harsh, but maybe she shouldn’t have said something so out of line. She has no idea what I’m going through, and how badly I blame myself for letting this happen to Skylar. Quinn hasn’t spoken a word to me since that day until now.

  She hesitates but answers, “Yeah.”

  Dad reaches across and turns the safety off of her gun. “There’s one in the chamber. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot, and if you pull the trigger, make it count.”

  Quinn nods.

  Dad motions toward the wall. “Max, you over there,” then to the corner out of plain sight, “Quinn, there.”

  He makes his way to the side of Skylar’s bed.

  My heart feels as though it’s detached itself, landing smack dab in my stomach, my stomach seeming to rise into my throat, and I fight the persistent urge to vomit. My pulse is beating so hard it throbs in the side of my face. I was so dumb for thinking any of us would make it out of this.

  Another flash of light beams brighter. I struggle to focus, my eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets, and I’m holding my breath once more. I have to break that habit. I’ll add that to the list of Max’s things he needs to work on. Let’s call it my self-improvement list.

  Time stumbles to a halt, and I strain to listen intently, each second longer and more antagonizing than the last. My eyes fully adjust to the darkness again, and just as they do, I’m alarmed by voices babbling in the distance. I can’t make out any words but identify at least two different people.

  Oh shit. This is bad.

  The light shines the brightest it’s shone, and in a panic, I reflexively bite my tongue. A metallic taste fills my mouth.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” an unidentified person declares.

  Good, great, they think no one is here.

  “No, that can’t be true. Someone will be here.”

  Ugh, please leave. Do you really need to find out?

  “I did not walk all this way to be left empty-handed.”

  Quadruple shit.

  Footsteps.

  The front doorknob jiggling.

  I realize I had been biting down on my lip when more metal coats my mouth. Let’s add that to the list, too.

  I look to Dad, and he motions for me to stay in place, but the urge to be the first one to make a move courses through me. I find myself standing, gun pointed toward the bedroom door.

  Knocking.

  Oh god, oh god, oh god.

  The unknown man’s voice fills the space. “Keith Sinclair, we know you’re in there.”

  3

  Quinn

  Max has barely eaten in days. He�
�s heavily irritable and understandably anxious. Skylar, who I am assuming is Max’s girlfriend, has been in a constant state of not doing so well since we arrived.

  Keith, on the other hand, has been in full-on work mode. He’s tended to everyone’s wounds, made sure to keep the solar panels cleaned daily, created a massive mess of paperwork in his living room, and all while being kind and welcoming to the stranger of the group.

  That’s me, I’m the stranger.

  The stranger who is, let’s put this simply, freaking out inside.

  Somehow, I’m managing to stay put together, but I feel like at any moment I might implode.

  In case you haven’t figured it out yet, zombies are real. Or, well, some freakish version of zombies. Maybe I’m still exaggerating, but let me tell you this, these things are crazy, they’re mad. They’re angry, and aggressive, and they’re us. Max once said it best: they’re deranged. Lucky for me, Keith keeps a dictionary nearby, leaving me to discover that deranged also means mentally unsound, disturbed, demented, unbalanced, and unhinged. Check yes to all of those boxes.