Alive Again | Book 1

by Piperbrook, T. W.

Breaking from the pack, the first few monsters reach the edge of the grass, sending the crows aflight.

  My heart pounds as Sarah calls out to Ian, “Which way?”

  “We’ll have to go around the other side of the building!” he says frantically, pointing toward the road circling the side of the school, at the other end of the parking lot. “Come on!”

  We dart away from the bleachers, Sarah pulling me along, heading toward the asphalt. I’m moving better now, but I’m still groggy. I’m stumbling; my legs and feet ache. My stomach is sick. Each step carries pain. Still, I force myself onward, while death charges toward us on determined, stampeding feet.

  We’re almost to the basketball courts when another group of infected careens around the side of the building.

  “Dammit!” Ian yells. “They’ve trapped us!”

  3

  Surrounded

  The sounds of footfalls and hungry groans press closer. Plowing forth on terror alone, I half-stumble, half-stagger next to Sarah, leaning on her for support. The stricken behind us narrow the gap, while the second pack comes at us from around the school. Reaching the parking lot, we run underneath the netless basketball hoops and past the free-throw line. Long thick grass reaches through the cracks in the pavement, tripping us up, tangling our steps. Passing the faded lines of a four-square game, we tramp over melted candy, gum wrappers, and something else: dried blood stains.

  Ahead, the privacy fence rises well above our heads; tearing hands would rip us down before we climbed over it. My eyes follow the circular fence all the way back to the playground, and then back to the field.

  It feels like the monsters are everywhere.

  I imagine dozens of tearing teeth and ripping fingers pulling me apart, feasting on my entrails. My last glimpse of life would be the soulless eyes of the infected, stuffing me into their greedy mouths.

  Sarah tugs me after Ian.

  Caught between two bad choices, she asks, “Which way?”

  Rather than answering, Ian stops, plants his feet, and aims his gun at the group entering the parking lot, firing several rounds. A woman with sagging skin and rabid eyes topples to the ground. Right behind her, an infected man with ripped jeans tumbles and rolls, tripping several others. But there are too many to fend off; he can’t kill them all.

  Ian glances at the distant playground. I’ll never make it that far, not in my condition. A desperate plan becomes a decision. “Get her inside the car!”

  Sarah has no time to question him. She pulls me across the parking lot toward the battered, broken-down vehicle, while Ian continues defending us.

  I survey the solitary old car parked by the fence. A rusted muffler sags to the ground; all four tires are flat. A layer of pollen covers the body and windows. It looks as if someone parked it where it died. The two-door coupe is nothing but a temporary refuge; I hope. Circling the vehicle, Sarah and I reach the passenger’s side and she yanks the door handle. Whether it’s luck or fate, I’m not sure, but it’s unlocked, and with a loud rusty creak, it swings open.

  “Lock the doors!” she hisses, helping me into the seat. “Don’t get out, no matter what!”

  I barely have time to nod before she slams the door, leaving me alone inside. The hungry noises of the infected dull. Stale, moldy air assaults my nostrils. The glove box hangs open, scraping my knees. I quickly hit the passenger’s lock button before lunging across and locking the driver’s door. The car’s two doors are secure. But it would take only a few vicious punches to shatter the glass, exposing me to vile mouths and preying hands. Terrified, I duck down in my seat, surveying my new surroundings. The steering wheel is ripped and worn; crushed water bottles and fast-food bags carpet the floor by my dirty sneakers. The floor mat is worn full of holes. Peering in the backseat, I find piles of old, yellowed mail and wrappers—nothing to save me from a ravenous horde of monsters. My eyes dart to the empty ignition. Even if there were keys, the car clearly isn’t drivable. Through the layer of dust and pollen on the windows, I see a stampede of people raging through the parking lot. Gunshots split the air, but I can’t distinguish Sarah or Ian from the stricken. I instinctively duck lower.

  I prepare for a fight that can only end in my death.

  I dig my hideously sharp, neglected fingernails into my palms, checking that I’m awake, alive. I ask myself how this can be real. This must be some nightmare that I’ll barely remember in the morning, right? In the other room, Mom is making coffee, and Jared is complaining about his upcoming shift at Starbucks. Soon, I’ll open my eyes to my familiar room—movie posters on the walls, the Survivor calendar Peyton got me for my last birthday, hanging open to June. My bookbag will be on the floor, stuffed with hastily-completed homework.

  All at once, the footsteps and moans change direction. The gunshots grow farther away. An uneasy hope grows stronger. Peering behind me, I see only the fuzzy outlines of the basketball hoops and a slice of blue sky.

  Of course, I don’t believe I’m safe.

  Where are Ian and Sarah?

  Maybe they abandoned me.

  Fresh panic follows that thought. What if they decided I was too much of a risk and left me for dead? They have no obligation to me; I’m a stranger, not a friend. They probably decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.

  I couldn’t blame them.

  Listening to the distant noises, I’m suddenly certain that I’ll hear an engine starting, Ian and Sarah peeling off. Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to cry. I strain to hear, making out only distant wails and commotions.

  And then I see something.

  A lone figure dashes down the road and into the parking lot, heading back for me. Is that…Sarah? My heart leaps in my chest; I sit upright, watching her blurry figure get closer. She carries a knife and what looks like a radio. She waves at me, trying to tell me something.

  I hug the windowpane until I can make out what she’s saying.

  A pit of dread settles in my stomach.

  “Don’t get out of the car, Hannah! Ian’s dead!”

  “Dead?”

  She shakes her head, frantically signaling me to stay put.

  Four of the infected race after her, quickly gaining ground. Sarah spins. Too late, she holds up her blade; one of the infected bowls her over. She screams—a high-pitched, terrified wail I will hear in my nightmares. And then she’s kicking and writhing under the weight of four merciless monsters. Snarling, crazed beasts descend on my only friend, tearing at Sarah until her last cries fade and her leg gives one final, spastic kick.

  Sickening slurps fill the air.

  Blood drips down savage faces.

  I look around, but Ian is gone.

  I shrivel in the seat, making myself as small as possible as the stricken continue their barbaric feast, holding pieces of Sarah to the sky.

  A tear rolls down my face.

  A horrible realization sets in.

  Ian and Sarah are dead, and I’m alone.

  4

  Don’t Move

  Silent tears drip down my cheeks. I clamp a shaky hand over my mouth, listening to snapping jaws, tearing teeth, and the disgusting sounds of greedy wet moans. The creatures fight over the best parts of Sarah, scratching and clawing just outside the car. Peering just above the window frame, through the obscured glass, I see more than two dozen infected racing over to join their companions. Blood and gore covers the newcomer’s faces.

  Ian’s?

  Finding places to crouch, the latest arrivals surround Sarah’s carcass, pulling bloodied bites from her gutted remains. I close my eyes tight and reopen them, gagging and fighting the urge to vomit, even though I’ve already thrown up everything I could.

  Sarah and Ian’s deaths seem unreal, wrong. Everything is wrong. I wish I could close my eyes and erase all of it. But this is my reality now, and I have no choice but to accept it. Turning my head, I scan the rear window, praying for a glimpse of someone—anyone—who can help, but all I see is an empty parking lot and the field where Sarah and Ia
n revived me. Movement pulls my attention back to the passenger’s window. Two creatures hiss at one another, fighting over a severed limb. Others chew on ropy intestine. Finishing its gory meal, one of the stricken stands, lifts its head to the air, and cranes its neck, eyes locking on the car.

  No!

  My heart pounds. I inch sideways, bumping the middle console, but I don’t dare move farther. I’d instantly be heard. Instead, I stare straight ahead into the open glove box.

  The monster scampers closer.

  Don’t notice me…Don’t notice me…

  A hand slaps the roof; bloodstained fingers slide down the pollen-covered pane. A distorted face presses against the glass, peering in. I don’t breathe; I don’t move. If I stay still enough, maybe it’ll think I’m dead. Or maybe whatever god created me will take mercy on my short-lived existence. A long, trailing moan escapes the thing’s opened mouth. Its breath fogs the pane. Despite the window between us, I feel like I’m out in the open, under the heat of its hot exhalation. A tear trails down my cheek; my nose runs onto my top lip. Still, I don’t budge. The creature moves sideways, sliding along the side of the car, processing thoughts in its infected brain. It raps the roof and explores the windows. Its curiosity draws the attention of the other stricken, who slink over to where it stands, finding places to slap their filthy fingers. A chorus of bloodied knocks echoes off the side of the car and glass.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  A demented, rhythmless beat. Still, I refuse to turn my head.

  Dread chokes me.

  Do they see me? They must see me.

  My eyes turn to the glovebox. Inside, under some yellowed paperwork, I see a black and yellow handle. A screwdriver. Maybe I can grab it, leap over the seat, and tumble out. But the hand tool would be useless against a ravenous horde; I’d be caught and killed before I got a foot away.

  The creatures hover and thud, smearing a swirling, gory mess of red blood and green pollen on the glass—some deranged version of a kid’s finger paint project.

  And then something happens.

  One leaves.

  Then another.

  I continue holding my breath.

  My eyes widen incredulously, as more wander off.

  Any moment now, they’ll come back, break the glass with a rock, pull me kicking and screaming over the last fragments of the windows, and eat me alive. But they don’t. Maybe my dirty condition made me look like an old corpse. Or maybe their bloodied mess obscured their view.

  In any case, they shuffle off in the other direction.

  I stay stock still until all the groans have faded.

  And then I exhale.

  For several long minutes, I draw deep breaths. My muscles are sore and tense. My legs are cramped from holding the same position. I’m alive—but that won’t matter much longer if the rabid horde comes back.

  Reaching for the glove box, I grab the screwdriver. It’s better than nothing. I’m sitting back when I catch a glimmer of movement. My heart stops and I freeze, certain something has come for me. Then I realize it’s my own reflection in the rearview mirror. Slowly, I lower the screwdriver and tilt the mirror. The grime on my face is so dark and so deep that I almost don’t recognize the person staring back at me. Dirt cakes my forehead and cheeks; my normally pale skin is blotched and brown. My chin is cut and scabbed. Frizzy, tangled hair falls around my face, looking like it would break a brush. The most noticeable difference is my eyes. They’re no longer blue, like my father’s—they’re tinged the same yellow as Ian’s and Sarah’s. Anguish fills me.

  It is one thing to hear something, but another entirely to see it for yourself.

  And still another to accept it.

  How can this be happening? Could I have really been…one of them?

  Slowly, I turn and look outside, surveying the blurry, grisly remains on the pavement. I can’t make out all the details, but I see enough: ribs jutting from an opened stomach; a pulped mess where a head would be.

  Oh, God.

  I set the screwdriver down and study my dirt-caked hands, processing one of too many horrors. I recall the mess I made by the bleachers. If I was one of those things, did that mean that I vomited people’s guts…?

  No way. I couldn’t have eaten people. I wouldn’t. Not in a million years. But the thought carries an awful certainty. According to Ian and Sarah, a year has passed, and if I was one of the infected, then I must’ve…

  No.

  I pick up the screwdriver and clench it until my fingers are bloodless. The knowledge of what I’ve done is too gruesome—too disturbing—to accept. If I dwell on it any longer, I’ll go nuts. Forcing the morbid thought away, I steady my hands and my nerves.

  Concentrate, Hannah.

  Focus on a goal.

  Anything to distract me from my loathsome thoughts.

  I swivel, getting a better view outside the car. Other than Sarah’s corpse and a few of the dead infected that Ian killed, farther back in the parking lot, the schoolyard is quiet. Deserted. Even the birds have resumed their tranquil flying. Soon, they’ll land on Sarah, picking at her carcass. But I won’t be here.

  I picture Mom and Jared’s laughter, their smiling faces, and the apartment where we lived.

  I need to find them. I need to know if they’re alive.

  Dismissing Sarah’s dark warnings that they’re most likely dead, I unlock my door and reach for the handle.

  5

  A Shocking Discovery

  Slowly, I swing my legs and ruined sneakers outside the reeking carcass of the beat-up coupe. I see nothing immediately alarming, nothing alive. A breeze wafts across the asphalt that surrounds me and into the car, carrying the coppery odor of blood.

  Fighting every instinct, I take one quivering step, then another, approaching a clump of human remains. So much blood and gore cake the ground that I can no longer tell the difference between Sarah’s clothes and her flesh. A wave of emotion crashes over me.

  I barely knew her, and yet I sensed that Sarah was a good person. She helped me. She brought me back from…whatever inhuman thing I’d become. No one deserved such a horrific death. Forcing my eyes not to linger too long, I scan the mess for her knife, finding it on the ground a few feet away. Concentrating on that goal, I walk slowly toward it until I’m standing over it. Blood coats the blade. The handle is tattered and worn. I scoop up the sticky blade, realizing the new weapon provides little comfort. I saw how far it got Sarah. Still, it’s better than a screwdriver, and it might delay my death a few more moments. I step back, squishing over the ugly mess.

  My sneaker bumps into something.

  I turn, looking at a blood-soaked, metal object.

  The radio.

  A sudden hope breaks through my fear.

  I lean down to pick it up when I notice its ruined condition. My heart sinks. Pieces of the device are cracked off; circuits spill from inside. It’s beyond repair. I close my eyes and reopen them. Help will have to come in another form.

  But at least I’m alive.

  For the moment.

  Thinking better of leaving it behind, I fish the radio from the ground and stuff it in a dirty back pocket.

  I glance back at the car—my temporary sanctuary, uttering a quick thanks to whomever abandoned it.

  And then I scan in a slow circle around the parking lot. A handful of creatures lay in heaps halfway between the car and the basketball courts, their limbs bent at various angles. They’re silent, stiff, and clearly dead from Ian’s gunshots.

  I’m not sure where he ended up, but there’s a chance I can recover his pistol; maybe he even has ammunition left. As vile and vicious as the creatures are, I doubt they’ll have any concept of its use. They certainly didn’t recognize Sarah’s knife, and they didn’t figure out I was inside the car. Studying the parking lot, I struggle to remember the direction of the fading screams. I can’t be certain, but it seems like they came from around the side of the school. It’s a hopeful guess.

 
I start moving again. Whether it’s adrenaline or the fading aftereffects of the injection, I don’t know, but I walk faster than before, ignoring my aching feet and the constant burn in my legs. I follow the parking lot to the road next to the school, weaving between the quiet, ominous school building and the fence, keeping a safe buffer from the building’s shadowy interior. Most of the windows are smashed. Overturned desks, chairs, and supplies litter the inside of the classrooms. Dry erase boards hold teachers’ last lessons; scattered textbooks lay on countertops and floors; books that should’ve taught us how to survive, if our world leaders were more prescient. Thankfully, I observe no movement inside, or out. Ahead, past the windows, is a dented door. A message written in crimson paint—or blood?—defaces the exterior: School’s Out Forever.

  Those words prick me with fear. I turn my attention to the front of the school. A swath of smashed, stationary vehicles clogs the main thoroughfare. They were obviously crashed long ago—the doors hang open; the interiors are weather-worn, filthy. A few are skidded sideways and onto the edge of the lawn. One is wrapped around a flagless pole; another is upside down, the tires jutting skyward. Nowhere do I see Ian or any of the creatures. A parent drop-off area curves to the right.

  I head in that direction when I notice a gap in the brick wall ahead. A puddle of blood seeps through from a recessed alley. I slow my steps, listening for the telltale groans of the monsters, but I hear only my own nervous breaths. On stealthy feet, I pad to the alley’s mouth, peer around the wall, and gasp.

  A dead creature lays inches from my sneakers.

  Its wide, sightless eyes stare into the heavens; a bib of blood covers its chest. Farther, I see three more dead stricken. Dozens of bloody handprints slap the alley walls like a sick Mother’s Day mural.

  My attention rivets to a dumpster about halfway down.

  A man’s body lies next to it. A handful more steps reveal the corpse I feared I’d find.