A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1) (16 page)

"Uh uh," she says with a shake of her head, "not you."
Joey looks at her. Even in the dark I can see the pain in his expression.
Stella shifts her way between them, knocking Rocket's hand loose.

"Just leave it, Rocket," she says, her words monotonous as she
moves to try and steer Joey away.

"Just
leave it
?" Rocket spits, pouncing in front of them.
"People are dead! And I'm supposed to just
leave it
!"

My brows furrow. Why is Stella sticking up for him? I told her what
happened. She knows that it's all his fault. So why the hell would she defend
him? I'm about to speak up when Aaron jumps in.

"Look, Rocket, now isn't the time for this," he says, cautioning
her with his eyes.

"Now is the perfect time! I ain't keeping him around any longer just so
he can get more people killed!" Her words are spoken quietly, but the
emotion carrying them is loud. I'm surprised she has the self-restraint to keep
her voice down.

"Rocket we'll discuss this later," Aaron states, trying to stare
her down. She holds his glare as I move to stand beside her.

"Rocket's right," I say. "Joey has no right to stay." A
flicker of emotion crosses Stella's face, but it's gone before I have the
chance to catch it. "Do you even know what he did, Aaron?
He
blew
up the bus! It's his fault everything you worked so hard for is gone!"

"He didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," Stella offers, her words
calm as her eyes bounce between Rocket and I. Rocket shakes her head.

"Girl when we first met I thought you were smart, but you acting dumb
as hell now!" Rocket sneers. Stella glares back at her, taking a
threatening step forward. Aaron throws out a hand, holding her back.

"Alright let's just all calm down!" he shouts, his words louder
than intended. He casts a nervous glance around the street while the two women scowl
at each other heatedly. "Look, we need to stick together, okay?"

"Bullshit!" Rocket snaps, Aaron becoming her prey once again.
"What the hell is this Aaron! What's the real reason you're sticking up
for him?"

The question surprises me, one I haven't considered before. I've been
wondering why Stella is sticking up for him, I completely forgot about Aaron. A
tense moment of silence stretches out between us as his jaw clenches. As
another moment stretches and the silence grows thicker, Rocket asks again.

"Well?"

All eyes have centered on Aaron. Even in the dark I notice his muscles
tense, his hands curling into fists. It's only when a gentle breeze brushes
past that he relaxes, his shoulders sagging slightly. His eyes traverse to
Joey's. As they share a silent conversation, he sighs, a long and heavy sound.

"Joey is my brother."

Silence. Three pairs of eyes widen at the revelation and bounce between the
two men, analyzing every feature and trying to see the similarities, the family
connection. It takes me awhile, but eventually I notice it in their eyes. Even
though Joey's are blue and have aged worse, while Aaron’s are brown, they share
a familial resemblance. The connection is feeble, like a thin band tying them
together. I'm not surprised I never noticed before, it's the only similarity
they share.

The silence stretches itself out, becoming unbearable when Rocket scoffs.

"You've gotta be kidding me." She hits them each with a venomous
glare, watching them for another moment. Expelling a breath, she turns away,
shaking her head and muttering as she goes.

I give Aaron a look before following her inside. I can't exactly blame him
for siding with Joey now, but that doesn't mean that I have to accept it. And
it still doesn't explain why Stella is on his side.
I'll be damned if she
turns out to be his sister,
I think. I shake the thought away. Inside,
people mull about blindly, bumping into each other and cursing softly. As I
move to shut the veranda door, Stella and Joey walk in, with Aaron bringing up
the rear. He closes the front door and delves the house into darkness. People
mutter, but no one panics.

"Alright, listen up everyone!" Aaron calls from the front door.
"We're gonna spend the night here, so pick a spot in the living room and
get comfortable."

Disgruntled mumbles this time erupt as shapes move about in the dark. I
close the curtains and stand by the door a minute longer, my eyes finally
adjusting to the lack of light. Waiting until the movement settles, I move
towards the kitchen counter and slump down in front of it. I absently wonder
where Rocket has gone, but quickly spot her orange hair on the other side of
the room. Even in the dark it appears bright.

Grunting, I shift in my position, trying to find a somewhat comfortable
spot. A feat that doesn't prove too difficult, especially when you consider
other positions I've had to sleep in. Granted I was usually drunk.

Just as I become complacent with my arrangement, I notice a couple sit down
across from me, underneath the main window of the living room. I stare at their
silhouetted figures for a moment before realizing that it's Stella and Joey. A
wave of irritation washes over me as I watch them whisper to each other. She
shouldn't be sitting with him; she shouldn't even be talking to him. Hell! She
shouldn't even like him! I need to talk to her as soon as possible. Tell her to
stay the hell away from that freak.

If she was my daughter—

But I stop myself from thinking that, because she isn't my daughter.

My daughter is dead.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

Logan

A hazy orange bathes the room, seeping in through the
sunlight soaked curtains. Their material is thin, failing to filter out the
warmth. But I don't mind, I like it. The warmth is nice, soothing. I try to
remember the last time I just sat out in the sun, enjoying it. But I can't.
Maybe back when I still had my car. Shaking the thought away, I decide to
forget about memories, labeling them useless. Basking in the sun's tepid glow,
I close my eyes again, savoring the moment.

I almost don't notice the flicker that takes it away. Only for a second, but
long enough for me to catch it, to feel the cold again. My eyes snap open as I
sit upright, my gaze immediately falling upon the window. Soft breathing fills
the room, but no one is moving, still blessed with sleep. I begin to wonder if
I imagined the flicker, when another one flits past.

The shadow a shape of a body.

My breathing stills as I listen and hear the suppressed sound of footsteps
outside. I begin to push myself up from the floor when another figure runs
past. I flinch at the movement and almost end up falling back down, but manage
to catch myself before I do. I pause a second longer before lifting myself up
the rest of the way, only to freeze as another one runs past.

What do I do? I glance around the room, my eyes sweeping over every sleeping
face. Should I wake them, or do I let them sleep and hope no one makes any
noise? Two more figures dash past and I realize with a sinking dread that it’s
most likely a horde, chasing the tower of smoke. My fear is realized when an
orchestra of the undead begin singing, their voices slowly growing in volume.

A trembling panic leeches to my skin like glad wrap as I quietly step around
the room. I find Aaron slumped against a wall near the front door and give his
shoulder a soft, but firm shake. His eyes are red and crusty when they crack
open, struggling to remain apart. He glances up at me, the alarm on my face
waking him.

"What is it?" he asks, his words choked with sleep. I press a
finger to my lips and help pull him up from the ground. Once he rubs the sleep
from his eyes, I point towards the window as another three shapes blur by. His
jaw locks at the sight.

"Horde?" he whispers, the word barely louder than the subtle
snores of those around us.

"Could be, there's been a few of them."

He nods. "Wake everyone up, tell them to be quiet and,
slowly
,
start barricading the doors and windows."

I wonder if this is the best course of action, barricading ourselves inside.
Willingly building our own tomb. But I do as he says anyway, moving around the
room and relaying the message. I have no other choice. I wake Stella, but leave
her to inform Joey. I don't want to wake him; we would probably have a better
chance of survival if we left him sleeping.
That way he can't screw anything
up
. Once everyone in the room is awake and alert, we start pulling the
furniture towards the window. I grab one end of the couch while Aaron grabs the
other. Together, we slowly pull it towards the window, pausing every time a
figure appears. We stack chairs on top once it's firmly pressed against the
wall, locking the curtain in place.

I stand back, evaluating our work. It's not very effective, practically
useless actually. If one of them try to burst in through the window, the sofa
and chairs will do little to restrain them. But it does make it harder for them
to see us, which is something. My wrist begins to burn again as we move to
block off the veranda door with the dining room table. I ignore the ache, along
with the pulsating heat it brings.

The pain almost distracts me from the falling vase. The round woman, while
moving to place a chair on top of the dining room table, brushes against the
cabinet behind her with her sizable rump. The ceramic vase wobbles
precariously, like a pin grazed by a bowling ball. I'm on the other side of the
room, too far away to steady it. So I watch helplessly as it tumbles over the
edge, my heart leaping with it and shattering on the kitchen floor.

The sound is sudden, piercing the air with its broken shards. Everyone in
the room jumps at the noise, fear twisting their expressions as they look down
at the small mess.

A shadow pauses at the window and my breathing stops with it. A few others
notice the figure. For a second I fear that someone will scream, or whimper.
But no one does.  Everyone slowly begins to back away from the window and
towards the kitchen.

Even confined within the house I can hear it's ragged breathing, coming out
in wet snarls. It's hand works as a defibrillator as it slaps its palm against
the glass, my heart jumps in my chest. The window rattles in its frame, shaking
with every tap. My heart palpitating in step with the rhythm it chooses. I
console myself with the fact that his knocks are light, lacking a vicious
certainty. It doesn't know we're in here, not for sure. Yet still I begin to
fear that the glass is going to crack, when it stops.

I let out a breath, for once finding myself grateful for the reproach of
silence. But it doesn't last long. Almost at a run, the shadow moves to the
front door, the handle shaking violently seconds later. Shock that they can use
a door handle subsides when part of it snaps and the door props open. Aaron dives
towards it, throwing his weight against it and slamming it shut.

The infected screams. Startled by the sound and resistance, it begins
pounding on the door, the frail wood rattling mercilessly on its hinges.
Someone whimpers and another yelps. Aaron leans against the door, his back
firmly pressed against it. His body shakes in unison with the wood, jolting
along with its hinges. I move to help him when he throws a hand out, telling me
to stop.

With a shaking hand, he presses a finger to his lips. He wants to play dead.
Wait until the infected gets bored and wanders off. I scowl at the idea.
There's little chance of it actually working, especially now that it knows
we're in here. I want to tell him this, but I don't dare make a sound. A sweat
has broken out across my brow as I watch the door.

The sound is loud and frenzied. It'll attract more of them, if there are any
around. Playing dead isn't going to work, I know this, I just need Aaron to know
this. His eyes are shut, his face contorted and scrunched in concentration.
Perspiration drenches his skin as he holds the door at bay, his muscles tense
and shaking. The bangs become louder but further apart as the infected begins
to throw its entire body against the wood. Like a battering ram it pulls back,
holds a second to build momentum and then crashes down.

Everyone stands still and silent, all eyes locked on the door. Every jolt
and someone will flinch, a different person each time. I begin to doubt that
Aaron can hold the door by himself, when it stops. The door rests for a moment
before it returns with scratches. I cringe at the noise, its brittle nails
digging into the wood and clawing down its surface. Ripping out splinters that
are probably sinking into its soft flesh. My brows pinch together, my own nails
feeling weak at the sound.

It isn't long before it presses its head against the wood, trying to use its
teeth as a shovel. The sound is blunter than its nails, but still elicits a
cringe. It continues without pause, changing tactics every now and then. Its
nails are the worst. The scraping sound like that of a vulture, clawing at a
carcass that's already been stripped clean.

I glance around the living room, noticing everyone is in the same state of
suspension. Joey and Stella stand in the kitchen, their bodies twisted towards
the back door but their heads swiveled in the direction of the front. The large
woman hasn't moved from where she knocked over the vase, her rump still resting
on the cabinet. Rocket stands by the sliding door, holding a chair in place
over the dining table. Gale stands in the corner of the room, his hands acting
as earmuffs as he clamps them over his ears, his eyes shut tight. Everyone else
is spread out evenly, quietly waiting and watching.

The orange haze that felt so calming before is now transformed. Mutated into
an ugly light that feels heavy and hot, draped over us unwillingly. It begins
to recede as the sun crawls higher, but not fast enough.

I try to play with the noise of the infected, pretend that it is something
it's not. Like a hummingbird, knocking on the side of a tree. Or the annoying
rumble of a jackhammer, rustling somewhere within the confines of a
construction site. But the task proves impossible. There is no sound like it.
No sound as violent or intense.

So I take the noise for what it is. I listen to it intently and wait along
with everyone else. I count the hits, like the beat of a drummer. I listen to
the scratching, the clawing and the thrashing. I listen to it all until the sun
has completely drained from the room. I grow so accustomed to the noise that it
almost feels wrong when it stops.

It stops.

Its hand falls away from the door with a slump, before its awkwardly
shuffling feet move away. We all stand a minute longer, listening to the drag
of its shoes as it pulls itself away from the house. Aaron let's out a breath,
the first noise to breach the newfound silence. I almost can't believe it,
playing dead worked. Or maybe it has only gone to recruit the help of others.
Everyone else must be thinking the same because no one dares to make even the
smallest of noises. We all remain quiet, too nervous to make a sound.

The infected has left, but the tension hasn't. The room still feels heavy,
thick and suffocating with the overbearing presence of fear. Fear that if we
breathe too loudly, they'll come back. Fear that they'll come back with more.

So nobody makes a sound. Nobody moves a muscle. We all remain exactly where
we are, straining to hear any sound, any evidence that it might come back. I
flinch as another shadow runs past the window, my muscles trembling violently.
I breathe a sigh of relief when it doesn't stop, it runs straight past,
disappearing from sight. Still, nobody dares to move or speak, the sight of
another shadow rebuilding everyone's defenses.

An eternity seems to pass by and I grow frustrated not knowing how long it
has actually been. Has it been a minute? Or has it been an hour? In a world
that has abandoned time, I can only imagine. So I begin to count the seconds,
ticking like a clock in my mind.

I count to three hours before someone finally speaks.