The Virulent Chronicles Box Set

by Shelbi Wescott

  Darla smiled. “I’m giving you a chance at life. I don’t give a shit about where you’ve been or who’ve you been. Even when you get me what I ask for, you will still owe me for your beating heart. I’m trusting that has to count for something.”

  Then without waiting for a reply, she dropped the vials into Spencer’s outstretched hand. And as they rolled from her hand to his, Lucy noticed they were marked with long strips of masking tape. Each one was clearly labeled with a name written in a chillingly familiar handwriting:

  Galen, Malcolm, Monroe, and Harper.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The clean air hurt Lucy’s lungs at first. She breathed it in too deeply, too quickly, and her chest ached. She gulped for another breath of air and then another and soon she felt light-headed. With a hand placed firmly against her lower back, Darla led Lucy to a red bench outside the school and sat her down.

  “Put your head between your knees. You’re hyperventilating.”

  “Don’t…tell…me…what…I…am…doing…” Lucy replied between heavy breathing, her ribcage rising and falling.

  “Fine,” she replied, nonplussed. “We don’t have long. It’s not wise to stay out in the open like this. Come on, stand up. You’re fine. “

  “Give me a second.” Then Lucy raised her head and examined the woman standing before her. In the sunlight, Lucy could see that her skin was flawless and she was tan. Not the orange glow of Oregonian girls but the deep golden browns of someone who developed a bronzed body over time. After a deep breath, Lucy looked straight at Darla and steeled herself up to ask the question she needed to ask.

  “Those vials in there…with vaccine.”

  “Let’s be careful here, Lucy,” Darla answered and she looked past her, into the parking lot, her eyes scanning the rows of cars with diligence.

  “I need to know. Where did they come from? Why were my brothers’ and sister’s name on them? You have to tell me.”

  “Sorry,” was the curt reply. “Those are questions you’ll have to ask later. I don’t have answers.”

  “Liar,” Lucy muttered under her breath. She was seething. One night enduring Spencer’s craziness, handcuffed to a table, and the woman didn’t have the decency to give her a straight answer.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know. You just told Spencer all of that stuff in there.”

  “Come on, Lucy Larkspur King.” Darla said the name with a mix of kindness and amusement. “Let’s get going.” She put her hands on her hips. Then she took her thick black hair and tied it up into a spiky ponytail.

  “Who are you?” Lucy asked. She tucked her hands up under her thighs and bounced her legs; the cement in the parking lot, still full of cars, was wet from the showers, but the clouds temporarily parted revealing blue sky surrounded by threatening, ominous dark gray rain clouds on the horizon.

  “I already answered that. I’m Darla,” she replied, annoyed.

  “You know what I’m asking.”

  “Yes, I do. Well, a week ago I was a resident of Los Angeles, working as a wealth manager for a small capital management firm. But seeing as how all my clients are dead and there’s no more stock market and I’m pretty sure currency is pretty much invalid, I’ve found myself unemployed. So, now I’m a Raider. Which is a name I invented to mean I steal shit and sell it. Among other things.” Darla smirked. She wiped a stray hair out of her eyes and then put her hand back on her hips, standing with a wide stance above Lucy, her presence large and assuming, invading Lucy’s personal space.

  “I heard you use that word in the office. A Raider?”

  “It’s a term I made up.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Lucy looked around. “You stole me? You’re selling me? To my brother?”

  “I traded for you. I’m a professional looter. Raiding people’s houses for items of perceived value to trade for other items of perceived value. In less than one week after the annihilation of mankind, it didn’t take much longer than twelve hours to set up a pretty intricate web of black market trading. Although, I suppose it’s not a black market if it’s the only market. Principal Spencer here…he knew he had it made.”

  “Which is why he didn’t want anyone near the school? Because he wanted to set up a market?”

  “You did the right thing by staying at the school. It’s not pleasant out here,” Darla added and she looked down on Lucy with mothering warmth, her affirmation the vocal equivalent of a pat on the back. “The first three days were the worst. Killing people who came on your property without so much as a pause to see if they were armed or hurting. Violence, disaster. You know the basics. Hell. Total hell.”

  “My brother sent you to get me?” Lucy asked.

  “He did.”

  “He’s alive.” Lucy sighed and smiled.

  “He is.”

  “But he didn’t come himself because…”

  “He’ll explain.”

  “Is he the one who needs a doctor?”

  “I don’t think I need to answer any more questions right now.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  Darla paused and cocked her head to the side. She looked genuinely perplexed and then a wave of realization passed over her face. “You’re fine sweetie. You’re not going to die. You’re not in danger.”

  Lucy let out a small hum. “Yeah, people keep saying that to me. So far I’m not convinced.”

  “You aren’t going to die.”

  She thought of the vials and the fact that her name was not among them. But what did any of it mean? The questions seemed too big and unanswerable and Lucy kept breathing deeply, trying to calm the heaviness in her chest.

  “That’s all I know, so you’ll just have to live with that.” Darla reached into her messenger back and pulled out a pair of canvas slip-on shoes that Lucy immediately recognized as her own.

  “I noticed you were without footwear yesterday. You own a surprising number of shoes…none of which are great for walking. So, the King family doesn’t like to hike? Whatever, we’ll make do.”

  Lucy mumbled a thank you as she slipped the shoes on her feet.

  “Come on. Follow me.”

  Darla moved toward the bushes, pushing long branches with leaves out of the way and ducking under the greenery. A twig caught in Lucy’s hair and as she moved forward it tugged on her scalp; she batted it away. Then something wispy and thin brushed her cheek and it felt like the remnants of a spider’s web. She shivered and ran her hand over the tingling skin. She hadn’t given much thought to the survival of all living creatures. Did spiders even still exist now or had they also been banished from the earth?

  Lucy kept pace with her and matched her step for step. Their feet crunched along gravel. They passed some school storage buildings and one of the doors was wide open, the glass broken on the windows. Next they crawled through an open space in a fence and found themselves in the bus barn—fifteen buses parked for service in their usual spaces, bright and yellow. Darla put out her hand and stopped Lucy, then drew her gun up, flipping the safety off.

  When Lucy opened her mouth to ask something, Darla snapped her fingers and motioned for Lucy to stay quiet.

  With every step, Darla would pause.

  Then even Lucy heard the crunch of gravel that continued after they had paused. Behind them were a set of secondary steps trying to match their own, but the attempt was imperfect. While Darla turned her head around one of the buses, her back flush against the exit door, Lucy felt someone grab her arm and she shrieked loudly. Darla spun back, aiming her weapon.

  “Put down your gun!” Darla called. “I’m a better shot. I can already tell just by looking at you.”

  Lucy staggered forward and pulled out of the person’s grasp. Then she turned to see Grant’s sallow face as he stared down Darla. Grant stood there, holding Lucy’s revolver in his hand and his whole arm was shaking.

  “Let our friend go,” he commanded, his voice breaking. The threat of using a weapon seemed to be making Gra
nt physically ill. Sweat beads formed on his forehead. Lucy wanted to go over and hug him. Her heart was overjoyed at his act of bravery on her behalf, but she saw the glimmer of agitation on Darla’s face and realized that Grant might be in real danger.

  Lucy ran and stood between them with her arms outstretched. She spotted Salem hovering next to another one of the buses and she motioned for Lucy to run to her.

  “Stop!” Lucy yelled. “Just stop! Both of you. Grant…it’s okay…this is Darla. Ethan sent her. Darla, these are my friends. Don’t shoot them.”

  “You know these kids?” Darla asked and she lifted her hands up in a show of faith and holstered her gun. “You have no idea how close I came to just shooting you. Maybe a warning next time.”

  Lucy dropped her hands and placed them on her knees, taking a moment. “How does a wealth manager know so much about guns?” she asked.

  “Why shouldn’t a wealth manager know so much about guns?” Darla replied.

  “Spencer?” Grant asked, looking relieved to lower his gun too. And the moment the scene settled and everything seemed safe, Salem emerged and rushed over to Lucy, wrapping her arms around Lucy’s shoulders and squeezing her tightly.

  “He let me go,” Lucy said, her breath constricted from Salem’s monster embrace.

  “We’ve been so worried,” Salem said. “We spent all night trying to get back into the building.”

  “Fort Knox, that place,” Grant said.

  Lucy wanted to believe it was true. She searched their faces and saw their exhaustion and worry and knew they were being honest. Her rambling daydreams of Grant and Salem leaving her with Spencer so they could kiss unencumbered were unfounded. She let out a relieved sigh, letting go of her stupid fears. Why couldn’t she stop the rambling thoughts mid-apocalypse?

  Darla cleared her throat. A noisy, exaggerated sound of frustration. She motioned for them to wrap up their hellos and hugs and then turned back to her original task at-hand, clearing the bus barn, taking glimpses of the undercarriage, peering into the windowed exit doors. The friends walked together after her and Salem grabbed Lucy’s hand as they walked.

  “I’m sorry we left you—”

  With a small squeeze, Lucy smiled. “You didn’t have a choice. He would’ve shot you. I’m certain of it.”

  Salem noticed the raw cut in Lucy’s right wrist and she brought it up to inspect it. “What did he do to you?”

  They heard Darla’s feet speeding toward them across the gravel and when Lucy looked up, she saw the dark haired woman bearing down on them, her face contorted with rage and fear. “Shut up,” she seethed. “Seriously. The chummy reunion dialogue can wait until we’re inside somewhere. Safe.”

  Grant stopped walking and tilted his head at Darla, blinking. “Why are you paranoid?”

  “Where’ve you been the last week?” Darla asked. “That’s right. Holed up in the school. With water, right? Food? Your basic needs were met that entire time. So whatever perceived hardship you think you might have experienced? No. You don’t know what’s going on out here.”

  Salem bristled at Darla’s tone and let go of Lucy’s hand. She took a small step forward and raised her shoulders. “We’ve been outside for twenty-four hours…and if you haven’t noticed…there isn’t ANYONE LEFT,” Salem yelled, her voice echoing down the street and carrying into the abandoned houses and buildings that surrounded them.

  No one moved for a long second and then Darla leaned in closer to Salem’s face, she lowered her voice.

  “You’re so dense. This corridor is used for people like me…making a beeline to that school to trade with your former principal. You’re right. There’s hardly anyone left. But those that decided to survive by shooting people, taking little bags…stealing every last bit of water…they’ll be around here. You want to yell? Yell. But when they come, I’m not saving you from them. Not even if you beg me. I’m here for Lucy. Only.”

  “Fine,” Grant replied, not harshly. He looked at Darla and raised his hands in surrender. “So, you’re the boss.”

  “Oh, I’m the boss?” Darla scoffed.

  “You’ll get us somewhere safe?”

  Darla shook her head. “No. I have one task…to get Lucy back to her own house…back to Ethan. You two,” she pointed to both Salem and then Grant, “have nothing to do with this. But if you’re tagging along? Shut up.”

  The walk was serpentine. It might have taken an hour to walk straight from the high school to Lucy’s house, but Darla kept them off the main streets. Without a word, they cut through yards and parks and crouched along abandoned cars in the strip mall. The shop windows were nonexistent, reduced to piles of broken glass and the furniture from the stores had been tossed outward into the parking lot. There were bodies everywhere: Against the steering wheels of cars, across the sidewalks, inside the stores. And everything was quiet. Their footsteps echoed down the covered corridor as they passed by a shoe store, a fabric store, and a clothing boutique. Darla nodded for them to head into a darkened drug store.

  “No power,” Darla warned. “From this grid and upward. Most of Oregon is out of power actually. Just a few zones left. I can’t tell you why they’re hanging on.”

  “Is there power at my house?” Lucy asked and Darla shook her head no.

  “Power has been out there for a few days now.”

  The drug store was stripped clean. Shelves emptied of all essential and nonessential items. Even the rack of greeting cards was empty.

  “Why would someone steal a Congratulations on your Bar Mitzvah card?” Grant asked.

  “To burn,” was Darla’s reply and Lucy’s mind wandered to the book in her backpack. Then she cringed. She had left the backpack in Spencer’s office.

  It seemed that leaving things at school was becoming a theme. This time, however, she would let it stay there. Forever.

  They turned down an aisle and stepped over a man’s decimated body. Lucy noticed that his hand was curled in a perfect circle around an imaginary object and she couldn’t help but wonder if someone had actually pried a medicine bottle out of his literal cold, dead hands. Nothing was sacred in the wreckage.

  Darla, with the ease and speed of someone familiar with the landscape, pushed her way through two thick double-doors leading into a cavernous and nearly pitch black storage room. The back of the store was windowless and so they might have been blinded by the darkness, but the loading dock had been left open and the entire area was washed in natural light. They made their way down the cement stairs and found themselves on the back part of the strip mall.

  Beyond the mall was an open field. A fence warned trespassers that the land was a nature preserve and violators would be prosecuted, but Darla held a flap of cut chain-link back and let the kids climb through one by one before following herself, shutting the small fence back into place with a loud clink. The field was muddy and wet and Lucy’s canvas shoes kept getting stuck. She slurped her way forward, yanking one foot and then the other. When they reached the other end of the field, they were at a wooden fence leading to a soggy backyard.

  Darla marched them over the wet grass and through a gently rocking swing set. Lucy let her hand linger on the chain of the swing and let her fingers slide down. Grant and Salem trudged along behind; Salem held her hands around her stomach and her eyes watered while Grant kept a hand poised to catch her if she fell. They were out of breath and weak, but they did not complain.

  The next backyard was littered with rusting lawn furniture and several green plastic garbage cans filled with yard debris. The house sported an abandoned porch– a product of owners who had decided their home didn’t need attention long before the world decided to crash down around them. In months, maybe years, the houses around this one would fall into the same sad state of disrepair. What had once been an eyesore to the manicured lawns and flower-basket neighbors was now just one more empty house.

  Peering through the unwashed windows, Darla motioned for them to join her. Then she moved to the door, g
rabbed the handle and twisted it slowly.

  “Probably empty,” she said as if she were a bloodhound, and she swung the door open wider and motioned for Grant, Lucy and Salem to follow. “Let’s go. Inside,” she instructed like they were half-cognizant toddlers.

  “We’re going inside? Why?” Lucy asked in a hushed voice as she stepped on the porch.

  “To sit,” Darla said. “To watch,” she nodded toward the front of the house. “To wait.”

  “Watch and wait for what?” Grant asked.

  “For what and for whom,” she answered ambiguously and took three giants steps into the house, passing through a small mud room, filled from top to bottom with cardboard boxes, black sharpie labeling them—tax papers, kitchen utensils, Christmas décor—all in flowery, capital letters, script.

  They entered after her and followed her into a kitchen. The blinds were drawn shut and the house was dim and stale. Lucy allowed her hand to travel over items dumped on to a wrinkled red and white gingham tablecloth. Among the debris, a dog collar. The tag read: Einstein.

  Lucy held the collar for a long time before setting it back down in the exact place it had been before. A sacred memorial. Each house was now a graveyard and its evidence of loss and grief was so clear and profound.

  “Are they home?” Grant asked. He was standing near the counter. He reached for a coffee mug and picked it up, the coffee sloshed around—it had not been around long enough to mold.

  Darla cracked her neck. “No one’s ever home,” she replied. “No one will ever be home.” She opened the fridge and tossed aside cardboard boxes filled with leftovers, mushy vegetables, and went straight to a can of soda, popping open the tab and sucking the whole thing down in gulps. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she crushed the can and dropped it to the floor where it clattered and rocked; the echoes of tin on linoleum reverberated throughout the house.