Fate

by V. A. Brandon

It didn’t take long to return the RV to its former sparkling glory; with the rain coming down at a steady pace, the bloodstains on the roof had already sluiced off. Mike was grateful. He glanced at the angry, broiling clouds and, for the first time since the outbreak, felt an inner calmness as Mother Nature washed the blood and gore off the city streets and highways.

  Surely it was a sign of better days to come. That the worst of it had already skedaddled.

  At least, he hoped that was the case.

  “Thank you, Mike,” Mr. Rothstein said, coming up from behind. “You’ve done a stellar job here.”

  Mike straightened his back, groaning softly. “Where’s Trey?”

  “Talking with Myrtle. Or rather, she’s the one doing all the talking.” The retired pianist let out an exasperated sigh. “Judging by the snippets I overheard, she’s trying to convince the poor boy that you … ah, had suspicious motives when the two of you were in the bedroom.”

  The woman was truly a poisonous weed. Cursing inwardly, Mike put away the hose. “It doesn’t matter what she says. I trust Trey knows she’s just an interloper out to stir trouble for her own amusement.” Despite the confidence of his words, he had to admit it felt pretty awful being unjustly accused of sexual perversion. “Anyway,” he went on, “should we start making our way to Deen & Blatt? Trey’s right – we oughta be indoors before nightfall.”

  Mr. Rothstein nodded in agreement. “In a moment. But first, we need to be aware of the dangers we’ll face once we get there.”

  Said dangers didn’t even need to be addressed as far as Mike was concerned. What was the point? No matter where they went, they’d still be confronted with the same obstacles.

  “Don’t worry,” Mike replied. “As long as Myrtle doesn’t spring any nasty surprises at an inopportune time, we’ll manage just fine.”

  His elderly friend seemed to take guilty comfort in his reassurance. An apologetic smile lingered on Mr. Rothstein’s lips as he listlessly patted Mike’s shoulder and stepped out of the car wash, his gait slow and ponderous. His unspoken message was clear.

  Please take care of us, young Mike.

  Mike was somewhat taken aback to realize it was a burden he’d gladly carry. Like it or not, Mr. Rothstein and Trey were his responsibility now; they’d become an interim family of sorts. And as for that contentious weed parading as a human being …

  Before his uncharitable thoughts could transition into a full-blown rant, Trey appeared out of nowhere and angled past the pianist, his unsmiling face trained on Mike. Myrtle trailed a few paces behind him, looking like a plump cat that not only ate the canary but the goldfish as well.

  Trey reached over and tugged down on Mike’s T-shirt three times, reminding Mike of a firm yet polite knock to announce one’s presence.

  “What’s up, buddy?”

  The boy frowned at the overly friendly tone. “Please address me by my name, Michael. And I’d like to add that this place is quite unnerving. We should leave now.”

  “Sure,” he said, hiding his surprise as Trey pressed up against him. Odd how clingy he was being; the boy usually kept a respectable distance even during intimate conversations.

  Myrtle bounced on the balls of her feet, her hands linked behind her back. “Tran, come over here. It’s not safe to be around pedo–”

  “My name is Trey,” he interrupted. “And I’ll thank you not to make false assumptions.”

  Seemed like Myrtle’s lies hadn’t worked, after all. Mike tousled the boy’s head. “Get in the RV. We’ll join you shortly.”

  Frowning as he patted his untidy hair back into place, Trey did as told, leaving the two adults to stare contemptuously at each other.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Dunno what you’re talking about,” Myrtle said airily.

  “Leave Trey alone.”

  “Can’t do that.” Her oily smile widened. “Not when there’s a pedophile hiding in plain sight.”

  Mike passionately hated violence against women – or any living being, for that matter – but right now, he felt an urge to dump her talkative ass deep in a corn field. She could play a nocturnal game of hide and seek with the infected, weaving her way through stalks with only the full moon to keep her company.

  “There is no such person here,” he said. “Unless you were talking about yourself.” And throwing a withering glare over his shoulder, he made himself comfortable in the driver’s seat and slammed the door closed. It was a good thing Mr. Rothstein chose this moment to return; a minute late, and Mike – blinded by anger – might have driven off without him, too.

  “Whew! The rain feels refreshing, doesn’t it?” The pianist climbed into the passenger seat with a good-natured groan and turned on the air conditioning. “Is everyone inside?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Ignoring his old friend’s inquiring look, Mike steered the RV onto the road and flipped on the windshield wipers.

  “Where are we going now?” Myrtle hollered from the back. “What are you planning to do?”

  This time, both men gazed straight ahead and ignored her demanding questions. If she had problems with their destination upon arrival, she was more than welcome to part ways with them. Not a single person here would voice his complaint.

  As Myrtle’s criticisms grew louder, Mike’s response was to floor the gas pedal. It was essential that they reach Deen & Blatt Pharmaceuticals before sundown. He squinted his eyes, checking for any roadblocks or vehicles obstructing the slippery roads. The thought of being stuck outside while the ravenous infected fell into eerie silence was too awful to contemplate.

  * * *

  It took a little over an hour to finally arrive at Deen & Blatt Pharmaceuticals, a cream-colored, five-story building surrounded by neat lawns. Besides two boom gates and a tiny glass booth that could squeeze in two hefty security guards, there wasn’t much security to speak of. Mike had appreciated this when he’d volunteered for the clinical trials. If they’d had an extensive security system that involved answering questionnaires, walking through metal detectors, and having a handheld device sliding over his body and between his legs, he’d have noped out of the trials long before stepping onto their premises. Earning rent money was important, but it wasn’t worth undergoing all that crap.

  “Think anyone’s inside?” he muttered. The place looked suspiciously immaculate.

  A look of uncertainty settled over Mr. Rothstein. “I would hope so.”

  “Do you know where your daughter’s office is located?”

  “It’s on the left wing of the second floor.”

  Mike had only seen the first floor where the clinical trials had taken place. No doubt the floors above were filled with extra security measures, unlike the accommodating setup of the building’s entrance.

  As expected, there was no one inside the glass booth. Mike clucked his tongue, irritated. “Should I just smash through the boom gate?”

  “Only as a last resort. Let’s try a more civilized approach first.” The pianist opened his side of the door, muttered something indecipherable to himself while glancing at the rain, then grabbed a hand towel from the glove compartment.

  “What’s that for?” Mike asked.

  Mr. Rothstein smiled and placed the folded towel atop his head. “A makeshift raincoat, what else?” And chuckling softly, he lowered himself to the sidewalk and hurried toward the glass booth.

  “What’s that old geezer up to?” Myrtle’s moist breath washed over Mike’s ear, causing an unpleasant sensation to shoot across his skin. Her heavy breasts pressed against his back.

  Feeling harassed, he leaned away. “Personal space. Ever heard of it?”

  She pointed a meaty finger in the pianist’s general direction. “I’m not kidding around, pretty boy. Tell me why he’s wrapping that towel around his hand.”

  “What –” Mike began, but his reaction was a second too late. Mr. Rothstein had already smashed his hand into the window, pieces of the shattered glass falling a
t his feet. He reached into the booth, his fingers deftly searching for something, then let out a triumphant chuckle as the boom gate rose toward the stormy sky.

  Stunned, Mike drove through the entryway and parked the RV beside a cast-iron bench.

  “A ‘civilized approach,’ did you say?” Mike said dryly as his old friend flung open the door and fell into the passenger seat. Despite the soaked state of his attire, the retired pianist looked to be in a fantastic mood.

  “Well …” Mr. Rothstein unwrapped the towel and gave his hand a quick inspection. “It was civilized under the circumstances. That said” – his brows furrowed together – “doesn’t it strike you as odd that no one bothered to come out to investigate this open act of vandalism?”

  As one, both men turned to glance at the pristine building and its picture-perfect lawns.

  Mike killed the engine. “Maybe they’re all dead inside.” He immediately regretted his words when the pianist stared back in abject horror. “Or not,” he hurried to add. “They could be hiding.” But the peculiar stillness cloaking the area seemed to suggest another possibility – of emptiness … and abandonment.

  The horrified expression on Mr. Rothstein’s face shifted to contemplation, as if he, too, had come to the same conclusion. “Some of the lights are on, but I can’t sense any movement whatsoever.”

  This wasn’t the first time the retired pianist had shown exceptional hearing, and Mike wondered if the vaccine had something to do with it. Just like how the vaccine had given him the ability to heal faster.

  “Throughout your music career, you had pretty good aural skills, correct?”

  “Do you mean perfect pitch?” Mr. Rothstein tilted his head, slightly bemused. “Yes, of course. Trey has it as well.”

  Before Mike could propose his own theory, Myrtle stuck her head between the two men with an exasperated grunt, startling them both. “Now listen here, you babbling Neanderthals,” she growled. “I don’t know why you’re sitting on your hairy asses yapping about music and perfect bitches – of which I am one, just as a heads-up – but we need to heave our butts inside that building, pronto. It’s growing hellishly dark outside.”

  Damn the woman for interrupting … and for also being right.

  “Yes, thank you for reminding us, Myrtle.” Mr. Rothstein smiled at Mike. “Shall we?”

  There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Mike whirled around in his seat, zeroing in on Trey who was sitting quietly behind the dining table.

  “C’mon, buddy. Let’s head out. And bring your little backpack with the toiletries in it.”

  The boy stood up wordlessly, and Mike noticed the backpack clinging to his thin frame. He released an amused exhale and thought to himself that Trey was always a step ahead when he least expected it. For some reason, it made him ridiculously pleased.

  They stepped out into the rain, holding a pitiful collection of weapons consisting of a baseball bat, a police baton, and a utility knife Myrtle had picked up from the RV’s minuscule kitchen. As they stood there getting drenched from head to toe, Mike considered how absurd they looked – an elderly gentleman who’d played the piano all his life, a soft-bodied woman who was probably a professional couch potato, a bespectacled prodigy who looked as if a gust of wind would blow him away … and then there was Mike, who’d once been the victim of high school bullies.

  They were the most non-threatening group any lucky fool could stumble across.

  With a heavy sigh, Mike raised his baseball bat. “Trey, stand behind me. Mr. Rothstein, if you could sandwich him between us.” The pianist nodded and took his place. “And Myrtle, guard the back and sound the alarm if you see or hear anything suspicious.”

  For once, the woman didn’t kick up a stink.

  Walking in a line, they marched toward the building’s unmanned entrance with as much bravado as they could muster.

  Chapter 17

  To Casey’s relief, it wasn’t a handgun Vlogman whipped out from behind him, although she had to admit a twenty-inch-long machete didn’t exactly do wonders for her palpitating heart. She watched as he waved the wicked-looking blade at the twins, his luscious lips curving up in delight.

  “You blind, Goldilocks?” he rasped. “Or are you too stupid to count? It’s three against two, dumbass. And as you can see, you’re not the only one who came prepared.” Laughing at Cain, Vlogman waved the blade around as if he was attempting a ritualistic saber dance.

  It took all of Casey’s self-restraint not to snort in utter derision. He might be a sight for sore eyes, but there wasn’t a lot going on inside that skull of his. Even his cronies seemed a little taken aback by their leader’s maniacal performance under the splattering rain.

  She lifted her gaze toward the darkened skies. This was bad … really bad. At this rate, a lone infected roaming around the woods could rip through their bodies, and they wouldn’t even realize what had happened until their own eyes saw their still-pumping hearts plop wetly on the rain-soaked dirt. They had to relocate to a safer place, and the truck was the only thing she could think of.

  “Let’s find some shelter,” she shouted, addressing Vlogman for the first time. “It’s too dangerous out here.” For a split second, she thought she detected movement in her peripheral vision, but she was soon distracted by Vlogman’s irrational response.

  “Shut up, bitch. We’re staying right here.” He shot an exasperated glance at his friends. “What are you waiting for? Grab ‘em!”

  The two hulking meatheads blundered toward the twins, their thick arms outstretched.

  Casey whirled around, squinting at the trees to her right. This time there was no doubt. She’d seen a shadowy presence move past them; it could have been a deer or an infected, but she definitely wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

  “Put that away,” she muttered to Cain, gesturing at the rusty garden shears, “and climb a tree. Go up as high as you possibly can. I’ll do the same.”

  “But –” Startled, he stared at her for a second, then headed for the sturdiest-looking tree.

  Vlogman crowed with triumph, stabbing his machete toward the ominous clouds. “You pathetic cowards! You can’t hide up there forever.”

  He was right – the branches were wet and slippery, and it was hard to gain purchase on some of the thicker branches. Blinking rain from her eyes, Casey paused to take a breather by hugging the trunk. She pressed her cheek against the scratchy bark and watched as her twin climbed with his usual athletic finesse.

  “Keep going,” she instructed when he stopped to look at her, worry marring his features. “Put a maximum amount of distance between you and the ground.”

  “Why?” he shouted.

  “Just do it!” With a grunt of herculean effort, Casey pulled herself up, silently cursing the weight of her wet clothes. It’s here, she thought, gritting her teeth. Any second now.

  It happened as she grasped a thin branch overhead. A soft, slithering sound whooshed underneath her and, in her shock, she jerked down hard on the branch.

  It bent slightly with a soft creak, and just as Casey frantically reached her other hand up to grip the thicker side, the branch snapped in two.

  “Kay!” Cain yelled as she tumbled off the tree, landing painfully on her back. Dazed, she had no time to answer, no time to register the high-pitched screams or the ringing in her ears except for the critical fact that she needed to get back up on that tree.

  Warm liquid splashed over her head, followed by a stomach-churning metallic tang that assaulted her nostrils. She didn’t pause to investigate the nature of this terrifying substance; it didn’t take two brain cells to figure out what it was.

  Blood. Dear god, so much of it.

  And all over her damn face.

  She was already scrambling up the rough trunk, the fastest she’d ever moved in her life. Keep going. Go much higher than this. When vertigo suddenly hit her like a falling tile on the head, she slowly sat on a branch and forced herself to collect her wits. Once h
er desperate breath returned to normal, she dropped her reluctant gaze to the scene of slaughter below.

  The two cronies were all over the place. Literally. An arm here, a head there, a leg flung over a branch … where Vlogman was currently taking refuge. His ashen face was a mask of sheer terror, his frozen body clinging to the tree.

  So he’d managed to save his own hide while his buddies were being ripped apart.

  A shadowy movement caught her eye. No, make that four. Casey stared at the infected tweens crouched over a torso, tearing at bloody organs and feeding on them. Most likely they were tweens from the same campsite where Casey and Cain had been working, though it was hard to detect any identifiable features from her vantage point. The growing darkness and rain didn’t exactly help, either.

  So here we are, back at square one. When the infection had spread across the campsite, they’d climbed up oak trees for temporary refuge. Fast forward to several days later, and they were stuck on trees (again!) with ravenous tweens feasting on human flesh below. Only this time, there was a plus one in their company.

  “Hey,” Casey shouted at Vlogman, who was talking to himself like some madman, his words fusing into fevered gibberish. Maybe that should be his new online moniker – Madman. “Try going up higher. And don’t leave your legs dangling like that. Those infected tweens may be small, but they can still jump and unbalance you.”

  “Forget him!” Cain raged. “Just focus on getting out of here alive.”

  Easier said than done. The splattering rain may have drowned out the tweens’ frenzied feeding, but it was pretty apparent that they’d also fallen silent. No hisses, no snarls, and no growls to give away their presence.

  As much as Casey didn’t want to admit it, the infected kids were now in their element. They were the apex predators of the night, and their prey were the three idiots shivering in the trees. How would they survive for the next twelve hours, trapped outside in the unrelenting rain? And with a bunch of infected lurking below who’d silently switched to superior hunting mode?