by Amy Cross
"Are you okay?" I ask, staring at her face. Leaning a little closer, I realize that one of her eyes is very slightly open; just a millimeter or so, but definitely open. "Can you hear me?" I say, still thinking that there's a chance she might be okay. Carefully, I hold out the tip of the broom and tap her shoulder, but she doesn't respond. "If you can hear me," I continue, "give me a sign. Anything. Just blink or cough or something." I tap her shoulder with the broom again, and this time I hear a strange rumbling, ripping sound coming from her belly. Whatever's going on in there, it doesn't sound right.
"The power's still off," I say, figuring there's a chance she might be able to hear me. "We still can't get a doctor, but you just need to hold on a little longer. I'm sorry we locked you in, but..." I pause as I realize the sound from her belly is continuing; in fact, if anything, it's getting a little more urgent.
"I'm gonna go now," I say, taking a step back, but -
And that's when it happens. There's a huge pop, accompanied by the sound of fabric or skin ripping apart, and Lydia's entire torso just seems to burst open, spraying blood and some kind of yellow pus all over me along with pieces of bone and various organs. I stumble back, banging into the bedside table and slipping to the ground. For a moment, all I can do is sit there and stare at Lydia's body: her face still looks so peaceful, but her chest and belly have been ripped. The force of the blast seems to have ripped several of her ribs apart, and there are pieces of her guts all over me. My brain freezes and becomes completely blank for what feels like an eternity, before I scramble to my feet and run to the door.
"Thomas!" my mother shouts, having come halfway up the stairs.
Turning to face her, I realize I must seem like something straight out of hell. I look down and see that my clothes are dripping with blood and pus, some of which is already soaking through to my skin.
Chapter Six
Manhattan
As soon as I step out the front of the building, I realize that the city has changed completely. Before all of this started, the sidewalk was constantly filled with people, hustling and bustling along. It was like a river, and you had to fight your way into one of the streams. I still remember how disorientating it was when we first moved to Manhattan, and it took me a while to learn how to survive on these streets. Right now, though, the empty street is like another world.
The most striking thing is the noise. Or rather, the lack of it. I'm standing in the middle of Manhattan, surrounded by tall buildings, and you could hear a pin drop. Even the wind, which was howling through our apartment window earlier, is just making a faint whispering sound. I swear to God, if someone started talking a couple of blocks away, I think I could hear them. It's the weirdest thing to hear my own footsteps as I step further away from the door and out into the middle of the road.
Then there's the dust. Everything is covered in a thin sprinkling of white powder, and there's more coming down all the time from the overcast sky. I'm pretty sure it's from the fire that's still burning nearby where the plane crashed, which is also causing all the soot. Stopping in the middle of the street, I turn and look to the distance. All around me, little pieces of paper-like black soot are drifting down to the ground.
Walking along the street, my feet shuffling through the dust, I eventually reach the intersection. There are a few abandoned cars, and like everything else they're covered in a fine sprinkling of dust. I look in both directions and see no sign of life. It's as if everything and everyone has just stopped. I already knew, from looking out the window, that the city would be like this, but it's another thing altogether to experience it in person and to walk through the empty streets. In fact, the whole thing is so strange and eerie, I actually find myself momentarily losing all the fear and concern that I was feeling. It's unreal and surreal to be out here.
After a moment, however, I hear something. Turning and looking along the street, I see nothing but emptiness, but I know I heard voices somewhere nearby. I hurry to the next intersection, but there still doesn't seem to be anyone. Seconds later, I hear the voices again, and finally two figures appear in the distance, walking around the corner from one of the nearby streets. Instinctively, I hurry over to an abandoned car and crouch down, figuring it might not be safe to just wander over to a pair of strangers. I can hear them getting closer and closer, though, and one of them seems to be doing all the talking. It's only when they get to within a few feet that I realize I recognize the voice. Standing up, I find myself staring straight at Bob and Henry.
"Well," says Bob, stopping and grinning. "Now there's someone I didn't expect to bump into out here."
"What the hell are you doing?" I ask, turning to Henry. "I was looking for you!"
"Bob asked if I wanted to come and help him scout out the area," Henry replies, with a hint of defiance in his voice. "We've just been walking about, looking for any sign of life." He takes a rifle from over his shoulder and holds it out, as if he expects me to be impressed. "See? We're totally safe."
"Just a precaution," Bob adds, tapping his own rifle. "Never know who or what you might meet out here."
"You're wandering around with guns?" I say, shocked at the sight of my brother looking like some kind of mercenary.
"It's so we can protect ourselves," he replies. "Bob showed me how to use it, but it's only for if we get attacked."
"There's little chance of that," Bob says. "As far as we can tell, the whole place is deserted, except for..." He pauses, before exchanging a concerned glance with Henry.
"Except for what?" I ask.
"We found some dead people," Henry says.
I stare at him. "Where?"
"In the..." His voice trails off, and then he turns and looks at the nearby car. "There's people in some of the cars," he says after a moment. "Not all of them, but some of them. They're dead. They're very dead."
Staring at one of the dust-covered cars, I take a deep breath as I try to come to terms with what Henry and Bob are telling me. I step forward and reach out to wipe some dust from the windshield, but Henry grabs my hand.
"I don't think you should look," he says, with a weird tone to his voice that almost makes it sound as if he thinks he's in charge. "It's pretty gross," he adds. "I don't think it's something you should see."
"I'm older than you," I say, pulling my hand away and wiping the windshield clean. For a moment, I can't see anything other than my own reflection. Peering closer, though, I suddenly realize that there's a face staring out at me. It's a man, with his eyes wide open and his hands gripping the steering wheel. He's wearing a dark business suit, but there's something strange about the shirt. It takes a few seconds before I realize there's a huge patch of blood on his torso.
"Me and my sister have seen dead bodies before," Henry says solemnly, turning to Bob. "We saw our Grandma in the funeral home after she had a heart attack."
Turning away from the car, I take a deep breath, trying to make sure that I don't start panicking. I close my eyes, but I can still see that man's face staring at me from inside the car. The worst part is, now that I've seen a body close up, I can't help imagining what must have happened to our parents. Are they also trapped in their car, dead, somewhere between here and the airport? Suddenly the city doesn't seem empty at all; instead, it seems like a giant tomb, filled with corpses. I guess it was easy to think that the dead had magically vanished, when in reality they're just tucked away in houses and offices and cars.
"Elizabeth?" Henry asks, putting a hand on my arm "Are you okay?"
I turn and stare at him. Henry's my younger brother. I'm in charge, and yet he's the one asking me if I'm okay? And he's the one holding a gun?
"I think we should probably get home," Bob says. "We need to get better organized."
"It's okay to cry," Henry says, staring at me calmly. "It's natural to cry."
"Is it" I reply, filled with a strange sense of dread at the way Henry seems to be handling this. It's as if, wandering around the desolate city with Bob, my little broth
er has taken on a whole new personality. He's clearly trying to seem older and more grown up, but with that rifle slung over his shoulder, he looks like some kind of parody of a man. "Thanks for letting me know" I say, looking down at his hand as it rests on my arm. Suddenly, the thought of Henry having a gun is the most sickening thing I can possibly imagine. "Give me that," I say, reaching out for the rifle.
"No!" Henry shouts, pulling away.
"Give me that gun," I say. "There's no way you're keeping it."
"Says who?" Henry replies angrily. "You're not in charge!"
"Mom and Dad put me in charge when they went away for the weekend," I remind him, reaching out for the gun again.
"They put you in charge for a couple of days," he replies, stepping away from me. "They didn't put you in charge forever. They didn't put you in charge for all of this!"
"Give me the gun," I say firmly. "Henry, I'm your sister. I'm older than you. Give me the gun."
"Hang on -" Bob starts to say.
"Give me the gun!" I shout, pushing past Bob and trying to grab Henry again.
"No!" Henry shouts, pushing me away. "You don't get to tell me what to do! You're not the boss!"
"I am!" I reply, trying to stay calm. "I'm in charge, Henry, so give me the gun! You're not old enough to have something like that. Do you know how scared I was when you just left the apartment today? I didn't know where you were!"
"I was with Bob!" he says, raising his voice. "I don't have to tell you everything I do!"
"Listen, kids," Bob says, interrupting us. "I don't think this is the time for a family argument."
"Shut up," I snap at him. "You're not helping."
"Just trying my best," he replies, taking a step back. "I tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna head back to the building and see how Albert's doing with the radio, and you two kids can sort things out between yourselves and then come back and we can talk things over. Henry, do you remember what I told you about the safety catch?"
Henry nods, while keeping his eyes fixed on me.
"Is it on right now?" Bob asks.
Henry nods again, still staring at me.
"You only take it off if you're gonna use the gun," Bob continues. "Remember what I told you about gun safety. It's not a toy, Henry. It's a tool. If you don't use it properly and with respect, I'll take it back. You understand?"
"Yes, Sir," Henry says firmly.
"Okay. You've only got too cartridges in there, so remember not to fire unless you absolutely have no other choice." With that, Bob turns and starts walking slowly along the street, heading back to our building.
"I know you think you're in charge," Henry says after a moment, turning to me with a determined look in his eyes, "and I get that. You've always been in charge, 'cause you're my older sister. But you're not in charge anymore. Things have changed and you're totally not in charge right now. It was okay for a couple of days, when we were still hoping that maybe things were gonna get back to normal pretty fast, but it's not okay now. Things aren't gonna get back to normal, maybe not ever, so you're not the boss of me anymore and you can't treat me like I'm some kind of stupid little kid."
"I'm not treating you like a kid," I say.
"Yeah," he replies, "you are."
"So you think you're a man now?" I ask. "Just because you've got a gun in your hands? You think that means you're suddenly so much older?"
"Bob gave me a gun because it might be dangerous out here. Bob thinks ahead. He knows what we're dealing with and he knows what we have to do. I trust him. Would you rather I wasn't able to protect myself?"
Before he can get another word out, a gunshot rings out nearby. I turn and look first one way, then the other, but I don't see any sign of movement. Still, someone definitely just fired a weapon.
"Where was that?" I ask, feeling a kind of cold panic gripping my body.
"Come on," Henry replies, grabbing my arm and leading me along the street. As we turn the corner and hurry toward our building, Henry lets go of me and takes the rifle from his shoulder. There's a clicking sound, which I assume means that he's removed the safety catch, and he aims the rifle straight in front of us.
"Henry..." I start to say.
"Don't worry," he replies, staring intently ahead, as if he's on alert. "I've got us covered."
I want to argue with him, but instead I decide we can save the discussion for later. Right now, we have to get back to the building. However, as we get closer, I realize that there's a figure on the sidewalk up ahead. Moments later, it becomes clear that the figure is actually a dead body, with his head blown away and blood spilling out into the white dust.
Chapter Seven
Oklahoma
"Every inch!" my mother shouts, running into the bathroom and thrusting two small bottles of antiseptic wipe into my hands. "You have to clean every inch of your body," she says, hurrying over to the cupboard under the sink. She starts rifling through the various bottles and jars until finally she pulls out a can of bleach. "Maybe this," she says quietly, as if she's thinking out loud. "Thomas, you might have to use bleach."
"I'm not washing in bleach!" I say, starting to rub the antiseptic wipe onto my arms.
"Hurry!" she shouts, placing the bleach next to the bath. "You need to do your whole body!"
"Fine," I reply, "but give me some privacy, will you? Just go and wait downstairs. I'll be there soon."
She opens her mouth to argue with me, but finally she seems to understand that I can do this without her help. She walks quickly out of the bathroom and, as I start cleaning my shoulders, I hear her running downstairs. Without water, it's not going to be easy to make sure I've eradicated every trace of Lydia's blood from my skin, but the antiseptic wipe will probably do the trick provided I don't miss any spots. Right now, it's the only option unless...
I pause for a moment.
Alcohol. Joe got some vodka and whiskey from the gas station, and alcohol works as an antiseptic. I quickly finish covering my body with the antiseptic wipe, before stepping out of the bath and quickly putting on some clean clothes. Racing out of the bathroom and past the door to the guest room, I make my way to my bedroom, where I grab yet another clean set of clothes before heading downstairs and making straight for the back door.
"Thomas!" my mother shouts. "Where are you going?"
"I know where there's something I can use!" I shout, not even stopping to explain. Instead, I race through the door and across the yard, heading for the old barrels where Joe hid his stash. It takes me a couple of minutes to get there, but I soon find a dozen bottles wedged out of sight. I get out of my clothes before loosening the lid of a bottle of vodka, pausing for a moment, and then pouring the entire bottle over my head. As soon as I'm done with the vodka, I grab a bottle of whiskey and do the same thing. There's a part of me that wants to use up all the bottles, but I figure I should probably keep some back in case we need some more antiseptic. Eventually, after I've used three bottles of whiskey and three bottle of vodka, I grab the clean clothes and get dressed.
"What the hell are you doing?" shouts a voice behind me. Before I can turn, Joe grabs me and shoves me aside. He drops to his knees and picks up one of the empty bottles, before turning to me. "What the hell did you just do?"
"I had to get clean," I say. My heart is racing, and there's no way I can deal with Joe's bullshit right now.
"You don't use my stuff, you little fuck-wit!" he shouts, getting unsteadily to his feet. He stares at me for a moment, before throwing an empty vodka bottle at my head. I duck out of the way just in time, and the bottle smashes against the wall of the little shed next to the barrels. "Who the fuck gave you the right to do this?" Joe screams, lurching toward me.
"Fuck off," I say, stepping out of his way and turning to go back to the house.
"Fuck off?" he screams, grabbing me and slamming me against the shed. "Did you just tell me to fuck off?"
"I don't have time for this," I reply breathlessly. "Lydia's dead, Joe. Do you understand?
She's dead. There was something wrong with her and she -"
"What the fuck are you on about?" he says, pushing me to the ground before stumbling toward the house.
"She was sick!" I shout, getting to my feet and hurrying after him. "Joe, there was something wrong with her. There was all this pus and gunk inside her, and it kind of exploded -"
"I'll explode you in a minute," he mutters, almost tripping as we get closer to the back door. "You locked her in that room. What the hell did you do that for? If she's dead, you're the one who killed her. Do you hear me? I'll stand up in front of any court in the land and testify that my brother, Thomas Edgewater, was the one who locked a poor, innocent young girl in a room and left her to die."
"No-one left anyone to die!" I shout, hurrying ahead of him and turning in an attempt to block him from reaching the door. "Joe, you're drunk. Do you really want Mom to see you like this?"
"I don't give a fuck," he says after a moment. "So Lydia was sick. So what? She was coughing. She fainted. She had to go to bed, and she got worse and worse. She was coughing all night the other night, and then -" Suddenly he pushes me back, causing me to lose my balance completely and land flat on my back in a pile of mud. Before I can get up, he's already made his way into the house and I can hear him stumbling upstairs. I struggle to catch up to him, but it's too late and I reach the top of the stairs to find him staring into the guest room.
"She's dead," I say, catching my breath for a moment.
He doesn't reply. He just stands there, open-mouthed and wide-eyes, and all the color drains from his face.
"I told you," I continue. "You need to get away from the door. We don't know how infectious it is. We might have to leave the house."