The Infected 1: Proxy

by P. S. Power

  He sat and rested for a while, the sun starting to warm the world, birds chirped and sang, ignoring that he'd come to their place in things. Humans didn't scare them overly here, he guessed. Just not a credible threat to them. Either that, or it was a comment on him. That got a soft chuckle. If so, the birds had discernment. At least they weren't trying to have him arrested or kill him. Not so far at least. Brian got up and kept walking, throat parched, still not caring.

  Hours later he came to a small stream, probably polluted or something, but animals left tracks by the water, if they drank from it, that should be good, right? It smelled all right, so he took a sip. The water tasted fine, better than that, clean. It was cold, but after he drank what he could hold, he stripped down and washed, avoiding the bandages where possible. It wasn't deep enough for swimming in, so he splashed the water on himself and scrubbed with sand from the bottom on the few places that didn't hurt too much to stand, hoping it would wear away the grim a little. He waited, naked, to dry off, which took about half an hour, then put his clothes back on. They still smelled OK, for all that he'd slept in them.

  Going downstream should take him toward civilization, most people living near the ocean, which all streams let into eventually. Brian didn't want that, so followed it moving upstream instead, walking until it got dark. He didn't make a fire. Lacking matches or a lighter that wouldn't be happening. The blanket was enough for now, he hadn't died the night before at least. He sat in the dark for a while, hurting still, but more things ached - back, feet, and head - than hurt outright from injury now. It made it hard to sleep, so he didn't.

  Thinking about fire, he wondered how to make one. His parents had taken him camping as a boy, three times, but their idea of camping had to do with renting a little wooden cabin in a campground filled with dozens of other people and starting a fire involved a lot of lighter fluid and matches. Brian had an odd feeling that trying to rub two sticks together might be a little harder to do than that.

  An empty and demanding stomach growled at him, but he ignored it. He could have more candy in the morning. Crickets chirped around him, making him wonder if they were edible. Animals ate them right? Not that he could catch them himself in the dark, and killing them just so he could eat felt wrong. Ah well, he'd find something. Wrong or not, if they were edible, those crickets had better watch out.

  The idea seemed funny to him for some reason. Probably because his chances of catching one right now were almost infinitely small. He'd do better to sit with his mouth open and hope, than waste energy trying to get them any other way.

  The next day he walked until about noon, jogging next to the stream for a while, an hour or so, then stopping and washing again. The single candy bar barely made a dent in his hunger, but he didn't let it worry him, filling up with the clean, cold water again instead, which really did stop the worst of the hunger. He felt better today, stronger and healthier than he had for days. Probably because he wasn't being beaten down constantly.

  Amazing how that could work.

  Using some bushes to take care of his bladder and washing both hands carefully in a little side pool, not more than a puddle, carrying the water away from the steam so he didn't contaminate it. Brian thought for a second if it was worth it. Sure, he was going upstream, but any germs he put in would flow down and who knew what effect that could have? Probably not much, given the dilution factors, but a few seconds of extra work wouldn't hurt him, right? Brian had the time.

  When he stood up, he felt lightheaded and his skin tingled, at first he thought he might pass out from hunger, but then he stood in a small dark place. A man, who smelled pretty bad, body odor worse than any Brian had encountered on a person before, stood in front of him with a rope. It was wound around his hands, obviously meant to strangle whoever Brian had replaced.

  There was no hesitation, such ideas seemed so far away now. Was there a time when he would have, he wondered? Brian moved forward and hit the man with his right hand, fingers splayed, in the eyes. The man clutched his face, mewling in pain. Unlike in the movies, he didn't recover instantly and attack, just kept holding his eyes. They didn't even pop out of his head or anything. Brian kicked him in the groin three times, each as hard as he could. The man dropped to the ground, sobbing in pain. In his hands the rope, a strong looking thing, as thick as his own thumb, pulled in half under the man's hands with a snap.

  Infected then, Brian realized, super strong, but not invulnerable. He kicked the man in the head until he stopped moving, flat on the floor, then went through the door. He found a piece of rounded wood, like a thick bat, but with no taper, and brought it back. Then, calmly, knowing that he didn't have much choice, beat the man in the head until his brain showed through. He felt sick from it, but he couldn't chance the guy recovering. What if he had super healing or something and killed the person, a child, Brian could tell, after he left?

  Carrying the wood, blood on the end of it, he walked out into the house, since he hadn't left yet. That meant for some reason the kid might still die if he just left. Brian couldn't know that for certain, but it felt like the case. He moved with caution, ready to fight if he had to. The woman he found looked beaten, nearly as bad as he had after the police had gotten through with him. She was tied to a chair and looked at him with fear in her eyes.

  "Hi... I'm Brian. Um, if he was a friend of yours, that older guy that smelled really bad? Well, I killed him. Unless he can heal from having his head caved open... Basically I guess I need to know if it's safe for me to let you go? I won't hurt you, unless you attack me or try to hurt someone else..."

  Wide-eyed the woman nodded. The ropes looked tight and Brian's hands, while they felt better, still couldn't make any headway with them. They were really good knots. Fancy.

  "Have you seen a knife or anything?" He asked her, not knowing if she could even speak or not. She looked normal, not pretty, square faced and squat, but clean under the bruises and rope burns. She'd tried to get away from the marks, that was clear.

  Nodding she told him there should be some in the kitchen, off to her right.

  "My father, the man you killed, I guess, he went to kill my son... Did he?" Her voice carried to him as he stood in the other room, rummaging in drawers until he found a knife that seemed sharp enough cut the ropes. She sounded scared.

  Who wouldn't be.

  "Um... no. I took your son's place I think, unless there were two kids in there? It's my ability, I take the place of people about to die and try to save them. Then I go away, back where I came from and they come back." He walked back into the room, knife in hand.

  "So, I'd say your son is probably fine. The man, your dad, he had a rope, but he hadn't used it yet... I don't... You know that he was Infected, your father, right?" Brian held his breath, if he'd just sprung this news on her, she might not believe him. It was the kind of thing no one wanted to learn about a relative. To think, back a long time ago, people felt that way about having a gay kid. If this woman had heard her dad just liked dudes, she'd have probably been proud of him. Thrown him a party and welcomed his partner into her home.

  Well, now she would have anyway. It still wasn't exactly popular. Worse by far to be Infected though.

  The woman swallowed, "Yeah, I know... We all are." She sounded scared again, expecting him to condemn her for it or something? Like they had any control over it?

  "OK. That doesn't bug me, so am I, obviously, or I wouldn't be here. Glass houses and all that, right? Why did he want to kill your son? Did he say?"

  She told him how it had happened, the boy showing up with a wonderful gift, making lights that danced in the air, creating soothing patterns that showed his mood. But the boy couldn't control it, she told him, meaning he couldn't leave the house without people knowing he was Infected.

  "I can pass, my joints are reversible, and I can distort myself, stretching a bit, it's not useful or anything, but doesn't show. Dad, he had that strength, but looked regular too. He also had paranoia... bad. He though
t people would lynch us if they found out about Tommy, that they'd guess and come for us. He wanted to kill him, to keep us safe he said, so I fought him. It didn't work too well and I woke up tied to this chair. Tight too. Otherwise I could just slip out."

  Brian cut the ropes quickly, hoping that she wouldn't turn out to be a pathological liar or have Stockholm syndrome or something and turn on him the second she got free. She sounded... nice. Gentle even. He warned her that the ropes might hurt when they were released, depending on how long she'd been tied up, but she didn't seem to have any pain. Once she stood, Brian started to tingle, but tried to hold on for a bit.

  "Look, I know this is strange... but before I leave and your son comes back, do you have any food? I don't have much where I'm going, so even a little bit..." Brian felt awful, basically begging from a crime victim, whose father he just murdered in the other room, but the woman nodded, wide eyed.

  She took him to the kitchen, and offered to make something for him, but he knew he couldn't hang on that long, so he grabbed some bread and ate it greedily. Watching she caught on pretty quickly and put about half a small jar of peanut butter on a single slice of bread and handed it to him, he ate it as fast as he could manage.

  "Thanks." He told her as he vanished, turning up back in the clearing. He hoped she could get rid of the body or something, blame him for it maybe, so she wouldn't get in trouble. He'd only given his first name. Brian wanted to kick himself, with his whole name, she could have easily fingered him to protect herself. It was only the truth after all.

  Nothing to be done for it, he got up and walked some more. Taking his time and actually looking around. It felt nice, restful. Brian found a small clump of trees to camp out under that night, more evergreens, about ten of them. As he lay wrapped in his blanket, a helicopter moved closer to him, so close he thought they were going to land. He grabbed the largest knife, clutching it hard, knowing it wouldn't do any good if they just opened fire or used rockets, but ready to try. A glowing light fell from it instead, then the craft just flew away.

  Intrigued, he searched for the light - not sleepy anyway after all that racket - and found it near the edge of the small miniature forest. The glow turned out to be three glow sticks tied together at the top, all the regular greenish yellow color, attached to a backpack.

  It could have been a bomb, but that... seemed a little extreme even if people hated him. If they really wanted him dead shooting would work as well. Or just waiting. Brian took it back under the tree he'd started at and waited for a bit, finally opening it carefully, taking a long time to unfasten the straps that held it closed, not really knowing how they worked. Inside, at the top, there was a hand written note. Two pages it looked like.

  Holding the glow sticks close to the paper he could read it easily, if only a few lines at a time.

  Brian,

  First: The woman and her child are safe and being cared for by Atlanta local IPB, we're protecting them. She told us that you didn't have any food and seemed really worried about you, so we sent some, hope you don't mind?

  Second: I get the whole leaving thing - but don't be dumb about it. Take a camping trip, get your head right, but come back, this is your home and we all miss you. I can't fix the police thing for you, but running away forever won't fix it either. If you don't come back and try to fix it, then the next guy to come along finding himself in the same mess won't have anyone there to back him up. As to that, the local police chief here and the one from the department that the CERT guy was from have both publicly apologized to you. Doubt you saw it, unless a squirrel lent you their TV.

  Last, everyone is blaming everyone else, except LG who's been sitting in your room each day blaming herself. Yeah, we all screwed up. No one feels good about it, but if you don't give us another chance, how can we square things with you? We were all too hard on you and asked a lot more than anyone should ever have asked of them, but we thought we had to. More, you did it and for so long without complaint that people stopped noticing I think.

  Come back.

  Marcia

  Brian shivered, not feeling cold, but afraid. The words seemed nice, but what did that mean, really? Words, he knew, were cheap. Free even. Marcia didn't seem the type to try and lie to him, but she'd cut him up with a knife and let him think he was about to die just to test him or whatever. Effective, but not fun at all. Did he blame her for it? He didn't know, even now, days later. She scared him on a deep level, like she might come and kill him at any moment. He didn't think she wanted too, but she could kill him by accident. A single "play" blow to the head and he might not get up again.

  She had a point about the police. If he didn't stop them, try to get them to change, who'd bother? What could he do though, Brian wondered. He couldn't kill them all. Even if he could, he didn't know who the really evil ones were, which could be saved and which made a point of not using the law to trample people underfoot. That none of the police had stood up for him while the others beat and tortured him didn't speak too well for them, but did cowardice mean that they deserved to die?

  The next note only said "Come home please" it was on a piece of printer paper and didn't have a signature underneath, but the writing didn't match the first note. Nice. But he didn't have a home any more. That had been stripped away from him by Carla and the police. The base wasn't his home any more than the hospital had been. Heck, he'd been at the hospital longer and been happier there too. It was just a place to go and die. He didn't want people to feel hurt because of him, but he had to try and live as long as he could and help those that needed him.

  Didn't they see that yet?

  He curled up, tucking the light sticks in the pack so they wouldn't be seen and waited for light. Eventually, uncomfortably, he slept.

  The pack had twelve MRE's in it - military rations - a box of peanut butter granola bars, the crunchy kind, not chewy, and two water bottles - canteens. It also had some clothing - black military looking ones, fatigues, two pair - six pairs of socks, some underwear, and a little kit with a toothbrush, some Crest, and a tiny deodorant. Old spice, not his favorite brand, but better than reeking and not one he hated either.

  He brushed his teeth, ate part of one of the meals ready to eat and drank the water from one bottle, refilling it from the stream. Then he headed out again, walking up river. At noon he washed his clothes and put on the black fatigues, keeping his tennis shoes on, having nothing else, even if it looked funny, and walked some more, his sweat clothes hooked to the pack on the outside, making everything a little damp.

  That night he carefully built a small fire, making a ring of rocks and clearing all the leaves and twigs away. He'd found a tiny box of matches in the bottom of a little pocket on the outside of the bag. He had to use three matches, but he got it to work and finished eating the package of food he'd opened earlier. If he could hold to one per day it would last for a while. He saved the dessert bar - whatever that might be - for later, even if he wanted it now.

  As he sat in front of the fire, letting it burn down so that he could sleep in a few hours, his skin suddenly buzzed in warning. Brian shot to his feet and found himself facing a crowd of men and women. A very angry group it seemed. They all took a step back, in the first seconds, but someone yelled at him and threw something. A rock, it seemed. Brian ran, not as fast as some of the people following him, but well enough that they couldn't catch him before he got away. Luckily no one had a car or greater than human speed, he thought, as he panted, outdistancing them all over the next fifteen or twenty minutes. After another half hour of running he tingled again and found himself before the fire, jazzed and shaking.

  When he recovered, he wrapped up in the blanket and sipped water, trying to calm down. It took a long time but he finally got to sleep, and had bad dreams, but nothing worse than what he'd lived lately, mainly about being tied up in the dark. No great mystery where that came from.

  He woke suddenly, a crack of debris on the ground alerting him. Brian looked up to find a dog
staring at him in the pre-dawn light. Not a wolf or anything like that, just a golden retriever. It looked at him, walked over slowly, head bowed and sniffed, tail wagging. It had a collar and a name tag, which he hoped meant that it would be tame. It didn't growl or anything at least, so he slowly reached into his pack and took out the dessert bar, it claimed to be oatmeal. Opening it, he saw it didn't have any chocolate - which could kill a dog if they were allergic to it - so he broke it in half. The visitor sat and panted happily, tail wagging. He tossed it the food and waited. It finished eating quickly and walked over to him, as if waiting for the second half.

  "Greedy. OK, I guess I don't really need it right now anyway, but when I'm starving later, I'll remember this..." He said this in a mock grumpy voice, which the dog just ignored. His voice sounded way better, he realized. Less than half dead now even. After he told the dog he was out for now, it ran off, as if it understood, probably going home.

  Brian wondered if he sat on private property. It could be, someone probably owned every place he'd been over the last few days. Stream front property would be at a premium in most locations and most of what he'd seen had been really pretty. He'd need to be careful about that or someone would shoot him for trespassing.

  The next few days were pretty much identical, without the canine company, only the scenery changing as he traveled. He lost track of days, but started feeling better, a lot less pain, as the time passed. He had to go and fight an Infected woman that scared the hell out of him and really wanted to kill... everyone it seemed. Her ability seemed to be to create fear itself, which she did constantly. If she'd had physical abilities of any kind he hadn't see them. Thankfully.

  She still nearly kicked his butt, the fear making it nearly impossible for him to do anything at all. He'd thought that Itch had hit him hard that way... now he knew that to be wrong. The woman looked ragged, her clothes old and dirty, hair greasy and matted, and the supermarket they stood in had flat fluorescents which didn't help her looks at all. She swung a fire ax wildly, but her small size made it impossible for her to do it cleanly. When she overextended, he stepped in, fighting the fear, if just barely, shaking the whole time, and took it from her, then knocked her out with the handle end. He threw the fire ax away and told the people there to be careful as he moved back to the point he started near the stream, his pack having fallen on the ground. He'd been wearing it when he left, but it had come off and rolled away when he vanished.