Zombified 1: The Bitten

by Elena Snowfield

  Chapter Five

  Miranda

  MIRANDA TAPPED THE binding of her notebook against her rickety armchair as she gazed out her living room window. Opening the notebook to the first page, she lifted her pen, then paused and stared over the other entries on the page.

  Day 1:

  No sightings.

  Day 2:

  No sightings.

  Day 3:

  Dropping her pen, she flipped the cover shut, whispering to herself, "Just a few more minutes." Her chin slumped on her hand. She continued staring out the window as the evening lowered into a dark haze, obscured by the glare of the table lamp in the glass. Eventually, she could only see her own eyes staring back through her.

  Sighing, Miranda opened the notebook again and wrote down "No sightings" under the Day 3 heading, and then tossed the book on the side table with a disgusted sneer. Under a heavy daze of dejection, she absently studied the contents of her living room.

  Shaded entirely in browns and tans, the room was dotted only with three cheap armchairs and the side table with lamp, all arranged to face each other in straight rows of two. She had never bothered with curtains or decorations, since most of her time was spent at the lab, and most dinners at her parents' house. Still, she felt a perverse thankfulness that the outbreak had made houses near the edge of the Sanctuary so cheap. Miranda relished the privacy, especially now that she had such a need for secrecy.

  Clicking the lamp off, she sat a while longer, looking absently at the forested border that marked the difference between the world of the living and the world of what those with darker humors had termed "The Never Dead." Miranda hated that term. Thinking back to the night when Luke had appeared so close to her home, and the hope that had been refreshed by the sighting, she preferred the more politically correct term "The Taken."

  The thought of her fiance being taken from her so thoroughly was horrifying, but the thought of him living in such a state without end or death was unbearable.

  Though she could not see it in the darkness, she stared at the spot where she had pushed a picture frame under the dangerous electric wires. Using a meter stick, she had carefully shoved the gilded frame, laying face up, as far across the sparse grass as possible. Inside was the photo that had once sat on her nightstand, but had since been packed in a drawer because she could not bear to see it every night over the past year.

  It was a snapshot of her, laughing towards the camera, and Luke standing behind, his face smiling into the blustery poof of her hair as the wind whipped past them and down to the rocky Oregon coast in the background.

  Miranda closed her eyes and mentally repeated the methods and results of the study she had helped her father with, which she was trying to recreate in whatever limited form she could at home.

  Shortly after their lab basement had been rebuilt, they had studied groups of volunteers infected with this terrifying, mysterious new illness. Miranda's father had been a brilliant cancer researcher, and had been given top priority with finding a cure by the newly formed government group, the Citizens' Safety Agency, organized to deal with the swiftly spreading outbreak.

  Together, Miranda and her father desperately searched for any response in the deteriorating brains of their volunteers. Photographs of family members, familiar music, beloved trinkets-they tried anything that could give those people a bit of sanity to cling to, but with varying reactions. Some of them retained their memories longer, and some even showed glimmers of regained consciousness when given a personal memento. But none of them could be saved before their entire personalities and sense of humanity was taken. She had watched all of them eventually transform from people into monsters.

  Eyes still closed, Miranda pressed her fingertips to her temples. Perhaps all those signs of hope were just coincidence. Perhaps there was no connection between sentimental objects and the people who kept their sanity longer, as Dr. Turner and her other lab colleagues claimed.

  Perhaps even Luke showing up outside her house was a meaningless accident.

  How well could she trust her own senses, after all, when every part of her had been aching to catch a glimpse of him, to find any sign that he might return?

  Exhausted and disgusted with her own foolish optimism, Miranda opened her eyes and stood to go to bed. Tossing her notebook in the side table drawer, she glanced one last time towards the forest. Flinging the drawer closed, her hand froze in mid-gesture, leaving the drawer to slam so hard it rocked the lamp shade.

  A hunched figure stood just inside the electrified fence, head turned straight towards her.

  Luke

  THE MAN HAD followed the square of light again, feeling familiar. This had happened before. He could not quite form a thought, but the front part of his brain tingled with a growing strength.

  This was right, somehow. The light was still a fair distance ahead through the towering trees when he saw a pale movement, then the square went dark.

  An agonizing jab twinged the base of his skull, contorting his entire spine in an arc of pain. A howl scattered among the pine needles. Only after he felt a dull pinch of his own teeth biting his tongue did he realize the howl was coming from him.

  And then he realized that he could feel his tongue, and every spark of willpower in him clung to that feeling. The horrendous pain where his head joined his neck still twisted and throbbed, but he fought against it. He could not feel his legs, but he screamed wordlessly for them to take him forward.

  For several long minutes, he stayed in place, his mind and body in a ferocious war that felt like it was tearing him apart. Then, his legs took a step forward. Then another.

  In this achingly slow way, he emerged from the shadows of the forest. The place where the light had been was far in front of him, though he could not quite remember the words to describe it. The front part of his brain, still flickering among the now constant pain near his neck, assured him that he had been here before. That some part of him still knew why it was important, if only he did not succumb to the dumbness of the pain.

  As he stepped forward again, an odd crunch made him pause. This was a different sound than twigs or animal bones or dried leaves. It had a crystalline ring behind it-another frustratingly familiar thing he could not quite place.

  He looked down. A glint of something shiny caught the waning bit of moonlight.

  Slowly forcing his body down, he picked up the shiny object, and was hit with another lightning shock of clear memory...

  Miranda.

  Her name was Miranda, and her face was so close that he could breathe in the faint vanilla on her skin. Her hair was a long cascade of fine strands, surrounding her face like a field of darkened wheat tassels. The porch light behind her lit a halo around them as he held her close enough to feel her heart beat against his chest, and she said his name.

  "Luke," she said, her breath a hot tingle against her ear, then kissed him for the first time...

  HIS MIND RETURNED to the present in another howling shriek of pain as his body contorted on the ground. He could not control the seizure of his limbs-his wrists wrenched up in the air and his knees mangled like worms-but this time he could remember his name.

  Luke, Luke, Luke, he repeated over and over in his mind, though he could not control his mouth from doing anything besides shrieking. My name is Luke, Luke.

  "Luke!" The voice cut through his scream of pain from somewhere close by. "Luke, can you hear me? Are you in there? Luke!"

  He could not see anything but occasional glances of the moon through the moving clouds, but he recognized the voice with a certainty that gave him extra strength to fight back the pain.

  It was Miranda.

  The searing pain in his skull still made it impossible for him to speak, but Luke concentrated on squeezing his throat shut to block off the involuntary scream. It worked, though his voice was reduced to a choking gurgle.

  "Luke? It's me, Miranda. Do you remember who you are?" She called out to him loudly, but
he could also hear her mumble to herself, "Oh, please be in there."

  The pain was now spreading through his arms to the tips of his fingers, but he took encouragement from that. That meant they were no longer numb, at least. Steadily, he concentrated on straightening each finger on his right hand, one at a time, and folding them against his palm until he made a rough fist, which he held in the air.

  From somewhere to his left, Miranda gasped. "Is-are you signaling me? Yes, Luke, if you can understand me, give me any signal!"

  Hissing against the torture of his muscles, Luke used every ounce of his strength to turn his head to the left. Most of his line of view was obscured by a thick bed of pine needles, but he could see Miranda in a crouched position a couple of arm-lengths away. Her hair was now short, but still caught the moonlight in a warm halo that amplified her pallid skin.

  Miranda, Miranda, he reiterated to himself, trying to will the words into coming from his mouth. All he could manage was a low "Nnnn." But he looked into her eyes and recognized them, and recognized himself in the expression she returned.

  "Hello, Luke," she whispered.