Cady was getting sick? Scott moved his tongue, but nothing happened. He was trapped in his head. She couldn’t be sick. Cady, I’m here. No, I’m here for you.
She was sick and yet she was in his room, taking care of him. That was Cady – hiding her own pain and distress just to protect those around her. She wasn’t the most verbose with her feelings, but she showed more emotion through her actions.
Cady sighed, tugging at her earlobe. “I’m ashamed… of so much. Could I have been able to save Bailey without killing Kent? On the other hand, could I have helped Rachel more? She’s Catholic, right? She killed herself. That means she can’t be buried on their church grounds.” She laughed, wiping at the tears coursing down her cheeks. “Not that anyone is going to be burying her.” She glanced at Scott. “Did you hear the coyotes last night? They’re back on their route and yipping pretty good. They should be around for a few nights. At least that hasn’t changed.”
The coyotes. Scott had thought he’d imagined the carnal sounds they made the night before. Once they found something to eat, they were pretty vocal about it. Most likely they’d found Rachel. He had winced at the thought the night before. Unable to react in the moment, he focused on breathing.
Could animals get the sickness? Was it one that could cross species, like the Bird Flu? Scott didn’t know enough about the virus or about any virus to be sure. But he’d never heard of an animal getting chickenpox. Maybe the virus was enough like that pox to not evolve in that direction. He certainly hoped so. He had to hope that Ranger was out there somewhere, trying to survive. He didn’t want his dog to suffer through the same kind of pain he was enduring.
His dog. How he missed his dog. He ignored the memories over the last week, the things he’d done. He didn’t want to remember what he’d done, who he’d injured, the innocent souls he’d hurt. Scott blinked long and slow. Were those tears burning his eyes? At least he was able to tear up. He hadn’t lost all bodily function.
Fear suddenly struck him. What if he lost control of his bowels or his bladder? With Cady right there in the room with him.
“I’m so scared.” Cady’s quiet admission destroyed Scott’s thought process. He couldn’t be scared over something so ridiculous while she was scared of what was going to happen.
He’d been able to hold it together because Cady had seemed so certain everything was going to be okay. Her quiet confidence had lulled him into believing he was just getting through a sickness – a bad one, but just a sickness all the same. He clenched his jaw to speak, to say anything, but not even a groan left his mouth. His vocal chords were frozen.
Cady, hang in there. I need you to hold it together. I can’t stay sane, if you’re losing your own hope. Despair is close, Cady, so close. Please, don’t give up.
Cady shook her head with a small, short motion. “I…” She wiped under her eyes and sniffed. “Just between us?” She glanced around with a small chuckle. “Who are you going to tell, right? I have a backup plan, a… gun under my bed, you know? I can’t let Bailey deal with the burden of taking care of me. I can’t. She’s too young and with the responsibility of taking care of Jason and the baby…” She shook her head again, looking at Scott apologetically. “I’m not saying you’re a burden, Scott. This is all easier for me. I’m capable. Bailey is, too, but she’s young. There’s going to be some horrible things ahead of her and she needs to be ready. I’m not sure I have enough time to make her ready. Plus, how can I expect her to do the things she’s going to need to do with her dad and her mom dead? That’s too much to ask of anyone.”
All Scott could do was stare at her. The prison of his head and body secured him in their tethers and he couldn’t do anything as tears streaked out of the corners of his eyes, into his hair, and down to his ears.
Cady had mentioned the burden Bailey would have of taking care of her and then backpedaled to say he wasn’t a burden. Of course, he was a burden. Anyone in that situation would be. Denying the fact was just lying, maybe even lying to herself. That wasn’t going to help her in the long run, or him.
Scott didn’t want to be more of a burden than Cady could handle. As she was getting sick, his continued care would fall to Bailey who would also be taking care of the baby, her own mom as Cady got worse, and possibly Jason.
Scott wanted to ask Cady so many things. At least he’d been able to tell her how he felt, but the silence he was locked into now, was more torture than the pain. What he wouldn’t give for more of the oil, but she’d only been in there a short time ago. She had no idea he wanted more. If the pain abated enough he could move or speak, he’d ask her for more. Beg, if needs be.
An ice bath sounded like it would work. Or even the gun she’d mentioned. He believed that a gun would make him feel a whole lot better right then. She had no idea what she was even talking about, but Scott did. He wanted the gun she had more than anything. If he wasn’t paralyzed, he’d go in her room and use it himself.
If he could just get to his house, he wouldn’t be a burden on anyone. He could take care of things with his own gun, like Cady planned to do with hers. They would both have a chance at finding some kind of peace. He needed to get out of there.
Scott couldn’t breathe. A pressure constricted around his chest. He couldn’t gasp. I’m dying! Help me!
Cady continued talking, oblivious to the torture Scott endured. “I wish I’d never given Bailey the vaccine. If I had it to do over? I’d walk her and I out into the woods…” She raised her gaze toward the dark window. “It would be fast and painless. There would be no need for the guilt, the worry, the constant doubt and crushing fear.” Cady glanced back at him and carefully reached out to touch the top of his hand. “I wouldn’t have had a chance to tell you how much I do care, though.” She grimaced as her tears came faster and she coughed a little bit. “Just so you know, I do care, very much. I’m not sure I’m completely in love… yet, but that’s because I keep talking myself out of it. Like, why would I let myself fall for you when you’re most likely going to die, right? I just lost a husband who was… mediocre in how he felt about me, mediocre in the emotions he drew out of me and his death devastated me. I can’t imagine how it’s going to feel to lose you. You make me feel anything but mediocre.” Her touch burned and Scott could neither pull away nor enclose her fingers in his.
One more thing to add to his list of pain.
Another long pause filled with unspoken secrets, then Cady continued. “I honestly can’t believe how fast you came down with this. I’m fighting it which means you did, I know, but since you were gone, it seemed like you got it too fast, you know?” She had no idea how fast the pain and sickness had taken hold. “You know, I wonder if there is some thing tied in with the shingles. Whenever I got shingles, it came on when I was stressed and tired. You were extremely tired and under a lot of stress. This virus attacked you fast.” She fell into a pensive silence as she studied him.
Scott had to get to his house. He could do it. Maybe Cady could help him up. He didn’t want to be a burden anymore. There was so much he could do for himself. He had to believe that if he could get home, he could sit in his Lazy Boy and watch a movie. No one would have to wait on him. He’d grab the gun taped to the side of his nightstand, stick the muzzle in his mouth and end his misery.
End Cady’s pain.
Cady slowly leaned down and brushed her lips across his forehead. She pulled back. “If I get too sick to come back in here… I love you.” She winked, releasing another tear to streak down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe this one away. Her heart ache increased the pain riddling his body.
Standing, she turned, switching off the lamp and padding from the room. How could she not know he was there? How could she not sense his pain? Help. He just wanted help.
The click of the door could as easily have been the sliding bars of a prison cell, locking Scott in his own private hell. He had to get out. He would. He just had to figure out how to force his muscles to work again.
Chapt
er 6
Manson Stint
Bending over, Manson panted heavily. He rested the crowbar against his leg and glared at Phil with irritation. The guard’s body slumped face down on the gray-speckled painted concrete floor of the office. Blood seeped into a puddle beneath Phil from the deep creases Manson had beat into his skull.
Killing was never ideal, but usually had a necessity attached to it. He’d never had to eat anyone, but Manson could see beyond the act to what was behind it.
Wiping the spittle from the side of his mouth, Manson rolled his eyes. “Gol’ durn it, Phil. You just had to go for that button.” But Manson hadn’t gotten there in time. He’d known the man was going to lock the entire prison down. Manson couldn’t have that. He needed out and Phil had been the last one between him and freedom.
The guard was actually a good one. Phil had always watched out for the weaker prisoners, making sure to keep those separated from others who would only be a danger to each other. He always greeted each prisoner of the penitentiary by name like they were equal men meeting at the library. He’d been a favorite among the prisoners and during a shakedown the year before, he’d been the only guard the prisoners had refused to touch. Phil had walked around the grounds during the riot virtually unscathed. The other guards had talked about that day for months as if Phil had walked on water.
Manson hadn’t wanted to kill the man.
The main security line had been triggered, despite Manson’s attempts to stop Phil. The killing was probably for the best anyway. As the inmates broke out of each layer of their prison, they would most likely kill any guards they found and in a less humane way than Manson had. He had a feeling that even Phil, with his favored position, wouldn’t survive the desperation the prisoners were experiencing.
That red light from the button irritated him. He’d have to fight harder than ever to get out of that hellhole, now. Everything was locked down. There was no way out of it unless the power went down.
Who knew when that would happen. Of course, it would happen, but again, it was a matter of when.
Phil had mentioned to one of Manson’s cohorts that the virus that had been mentioned on the news before everything had gone black, was wiping the world out. He’d even passed along that Phil was the only guard coming in and that since he was alone, he couldn’t get out to make his rounds.
Now, there Manson sat, inches from the man’s dead body, feet from freedom, but even more locked into place. He couldn’t shoot himself out, or beat a window or a door down.
There was no food. Not that they could access. Another irony, feet from the main hall was the kitchen, again locked up by the same power holding them all in place. Some of the prisoners had died in their cells, most of them from self-inflicted wounds. Starvation did that to you.
Manson refused to go out like that. He was going to get free and he was going to go back to his home in Bonner County. He wanted to see if Mary Sue Linstrop had survived the virus and if she still thought of him like she’d written in her letters.
Pounding on the metal-lined glass from down the hall grabbed Manson’s attention. He didn’t want to have to kill anyone else, but the option was there. He pushed himself from the cushioned, spinning office chair and loped down the hall, keeping a firm grip on the crowbar.
Luke Ahearn slapped the flat of his palm again and again on the glass, his face mottled and seething. “You locked me in here? You locked me in?” He growled. “How could you?”
Manson lifted the bar up and tapped on the glass softly. Luke backed up, sudden fear rippling across his face. Manson tilted his head slowly to the side, a threat tightly promised in his expression. Calmly, he spoke. “I didn’t lock anything. Phil set us into lockdown. I can get some of these open, but not all of them. We can’t get out.” He would have to take control of the prison and the first idiot to exert his leadership over was Luke.
Luke moved back, nodding, suddenly remembering just who it was he was dealing with.
Manson lifted the crowbar and beat repeatedly on the glass, finally breaking down the inner defense and finding the weak spot.
He was known throughout the prison as being logical, practical, and even easy-going. For a prisoner with the longest term ever assigned to a felon on the west coast barring the death penalty, Manson seemed like the man-next-door. Wire-rimmed glasses he didn’t need gave him a studious air, but once they came off, he knew there was a dead glint in his gaze that stole the breath of many people – not in a good way. He’d killed too many times for there to be much good left in there. But he wanted to try. Wasn’t that what this virus was? A chance at a new start?
In the yard, most of the men stayed back, but once in a while, a newcomer would challenge the quiet man who sat by himself during free time. They would approach him like a rooster, ruffling their feathers and crowing about their greatness.
Most of the other prisoners would let the new ones approach Manson, as if he might have gotten soft since the last time. They too wanted to see just how far he could be pushed. But Manson didn’t flinch as they approached. He never looked away from his book.
Usually a guard would see and stop the new prisoner, but once in a while, Manson would rip out their esophagus and leave them dying at his feet while he went back to what he was reading. He’d lean down and wipe the miniscule amount of blood he’d gotten on his fingers onto the stubbly grass by his shoes.
That would earn him more time in the hole. He would always get released early because his presence kept the overall violence down in the prison yard. No one knew what his end goal was, which meant no one knew how to get on his good side. If he even had a good side. Not giving away anything kept him in power. He needed the power. He claimed it with a fervor that he’d sought everything else in his life.
He wedged the end of the crowbar into the metal lacing and yanked, pulling out the mesh and leaving a hole big enough to reach a hand through. But that wouldn’t be enough. Locks weren’t in control at that point, or he would be able to unlock it from his side.
No, he had to hook the crowbar through the small hole, place his boots on the edge of the wall and pull.
Seeing what Manson was doing, Luke shifted into place, pushing on the door at the same time that Manson pulled.
The metal gave, bending under the pressure.
“We just need a little bit more.” Manson doubled his grip, interlacing his fingers and setting his chin.
“Why are you trying to get back in? Is there any way you can get out?” Luke glanced past Manson, toward the light from the office. He had to be thinking that with Manson gone, he could run the prison. Smart, but at the same time, stupid. Luke wasn’t leadership material. He was too hot-headed and didn’t think more than reactionary in effort.
Manson shook his head. “There’s less possibility that way, for now. Triple-paned glass and lined with lead. I need the power to go out first. We’re going to take control of the prison and get this place back into shape.”
Luke dropped his jaw. Maybe because Manson had included him in his domination plans or maybe because of the sheer size of the statement. Why wasn’t important. Luke was in shock and Manson had even more up his sleeve.
By the time he was done, they were all going to wish they had died from the virus.
Chapter 7
Beth
Beth crawled backward, edging out of the bedroom. She closed her eyes as she sobbed without tears. All of her tears were spent. She had nothing left in her to cry. Closing the door on S.J.’s room, she sat in the hallway, rubbing her eyes with a desperation she knew would never go away.
She didn’t want to see the image of his bloated body. When she closed her eyes, there it was. She’d stared at it, waiting, wishing, hoping he’d been faking, hoping he’d wake up. What could she have done differently? Could she have saved him?
Dragging in a painful breath, Beth struggled to her feet. She couldn’t stop living. She had two other children who needed her. She could do this. Maybe she could num
b her emotions until she stabilized her daughter and son.
She leaned on the wall beside the bathroom doorway and struggled to find energy to go on. Beth walked crookedly to Liv’s room. She heaved a sigh before pushing open the door and entering the pink and purple bedroom. Breathing out of her mouth, she blinked heavily. There was so much she didn’t want to face. Holding Liv’s hand would make all the bad things better – at least for a bit.
Should it have been so quiet? Liv hadn’t been able to stop moaning earlier. When had that been? How long had Beth lain in S.J.’s room, clutching her phone and alternating her gaze from the posters on his wall and his pale, still face. Hours and hours had passed after she’d talked to Cady. Beth hadn’t tracked the time. She hadn’t even tracked how many heart beats she’d had after S.J. died.
Had she been in his room for days? How long had it been? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t remember getting up and going to the bathroom or eating and drinking anything. All she remembered were the shots and yelling at night, the ins and outs of sleep where she’d escaped the hell of losing her son.
Her throat ached. Beth wasn’t sure if it was because she was getting sick or because she had cried herself to sleep feet from her oldest son’s dead body.
When was she going to wake up from the nightmare?
Maybe leaving Liv alone had helped her daughter get through the worst of the illness. Beth scuffed her feet across the floor, the sound loud in the overwhelming silence of the house. She flipped on the light in the Liv’s room, blinking at the garish orange glow from the round globe in the ceiling.
Approaching the bed, Beth winced as she coughed, the act painful and demanding. She sure knew how to make an entrance. Hopefully, she didn’t wake Liv up. Her daughter needed her rest. As soon as Beth checked on Liv, she’d check on Tim in the master bedroom.
Look Away_an apocalyptic survival thriller Page 3