Duality (The Hitchhiker Strain) (2 page)

Cole and I are scheduled to work in his father
’s office today. He runs this entire operation and always seems to have a thousand pieces of paper that need to be properly filed away. There are hard copies of absolutely everything here so that no matter what happens their research will have a chance of survival.

We'll probably spend the rest of our day sorting through spreadsheets or something equally tedious, but I don't
really mind because it's the last day we'll get to hang out before I'm cleared for field operations. The deal was that I’d be stuck inside where I could be monitored until I was given a clean bill of health—which, with any luck, I'll be getting by tonight—and then I can get out of here, at least for a few hours a day. Seeing as I barely passed biology, it’s pretty clear I’ll be more helpful on supply runs and the like than trying to help the scientifically inclined.

"Want to stop in the atrium for a few?" h
e asks, motioning with his head in the opposite direction of where we’re supposed to be going. "Today's a big day. You should get to relax for a bit."

"Now that you mention it, I am feeling a little lightheaded from the blood loss." I bring my hand up to m
y forehead in a mock faint. "Aren't they supposed to give you a cookie after doing stuff like that?"

"The inj
ustice in this new world is staggering, right?" He offers a slow, dramatic head shake.

"Absolutely awful," I agree, pulling him to a stop.

I lean in for a quick kiss but somehow get lost in the way his lips feel against mine and the smell of his hair. I don’t know how long we stand there tangled up in each other, but eventually someone lets out an obnoxious cough as they pass us in the hallway and we’re forced to break apart. He’s blushing furiously, his hair wonderfully disheveled, but he’s grinning ear to ear. Nothing like a quick make-out session to start the work day.

Once we make it to the atrium, we settle into the only free couch in the entire
domed room. This is usually the busiest part of the entire complex, solely because the large ceiling lets in a steady stream of natural light during the day, something none of us see enough of anymore. Like every other room in this place, both the decor and the room itself are cold and pale, although the natural light makes a big difference, making the room appear modern rather than simply bleak. Three-story white walls rise up into an arch that borders the hexagonal sunroof. It's beautiful, but it taunts me, reminding me of everything I’m missing while I’m trapped inside.

The Veritas Initiative isn't exactly a small community. Their complex houses almost seven hundred people, more than I ever hoped to see in one place again. But they're all here, working t
oward making things better. Trying to fix the world they broke in the first place.

Okay, maybe it
’s not quite that simple. After all, their first supposed cure for the virus that was reanimating the dead really just served to create a stronger, smarter breed of enemy. Now they work night and day, hoping to cauterize the damage they’ve caused.

Pushing the thought from my mind, I stretch out on the couch and put my head in Cole's lap, sighing as he runs his fingers through my hair that's fanned out over his
jeans.

"Hey, have you seen Zack yet today?" Cole asks.

"Nope. Can't say I'm surprised though. I rarely ever see him after breakfast anymore.”

"I kind of figured you guys hung out all the time when you went to get your shot.”

“Nope. He works down there somewhere with Roger on tissue samples I think, but we were never in the same place at the same time for more than a couple minutes. He hasn’t said anything, but I think he still feels kind of off. Not totally like himself yet. I think he might be avoiding me.”

“
He was sick a lot longer than you were,” Cole reasons. “It’s probably been a tough run for him, fighting it all off.”

“
Yeah, I guess. He will get better though, right? I mean, he was still Zack when we got here, still hanging on to who he was. There’s no possibility that he’ll…” I trail off, unwilling to finish the thought.

The truth is, Zack has been a little off since we arrived at Veritas, like he
’s always on edge. He went through a lot though, with the destruction of our town and his capture by the Militia. He probably still needs some time to work through things. After the year from hell, we could all use a vacation.

“
He’ll be okay, right? We didn’t find him too late?”

“
You worry too much.”

“
That’s basically the motto of the apocalypse, isn’t it? Worry about what can, could, and will go wrong. Don’t act until you’re absolutely sure you know what the end result will be.” The last part comes out a little harsher than I intended, and by the way Cole’s looking at me, his eyebrows furrowing together, I know he noticed the tone, too.

“
All right, enough of this slacking off," I say, plastering a smile on my face. I pull myself up into a sitting position and hop off the couch. "Let's go see what our fearless leader has in store for us today.”

When we
make it to Doctor Silvers’s office, we find the room empty. As usual, there are stacks of paper and clutter everywhere, but nothing stands out as being intended for us.

Cole scratches his head and peeks back out into the reception area, looking for his dad
. "He said he'd be here. He probably ran out for a coffee break or something."

"Mmm, coffee," I say. "I could go for some coffee.”

Ever since I realized there were enough coffee beans here to keep me awake for a year, I’ve basically been mainlining it into my system. It’s a small reminder of life
before
. Every time I drink it, I can spend a few seconds imagining that I’m in a coffee house or sitting at my kitchen table on a school day morning while my parents putter around me.

“
You go grab that and hopefully my dad while I’ll get started on all this.” He gestures at the mess in front of us. “Drag him back here by the ear if you have to. We have a lot of stuff we’re supposed to get through today, and I don’t even know where to start.”

“
Or I’ll try asking nicely and see how that goes.”

“
Good luck with that.” He winks at me before I back out of the room. Hopefully I can remember how to get from here to the closest kitchenette without getting lost within all of the identical corridors that make up the administrative section.

I poke my head into each open door as I pass, smiling awkwardly at anyone who sees me. I don
’t
think
any of these rooms are supposed to be restricted.

I make it through two rows of office suites before I
’m officially lost. I’m not even sure I could make it back to Cole, let alone to my destination. If only life were more like a cartoon and the delicious aroma of coffee could lead me by the nose to where I need to go. I’m about to stop and ask for directions when I catch the stilted sound of raised voices coming from a few rooms to my left.

Usually, I might have
slowed down as I walked by to catch as much information as I could without technically spying on anyone, but I recognize one of the voices. It’s Cole’s dad, Craig Silvers, and he sounds royally pissed off.

I can
’t help myself; I move in a little closer. Technically I’m supposed to be getting him anyways, right? And I can always pretend not to have heard anything. I inch toward the room, casually pressing myself against the wall so as not to be seen through the slightly ajar door.

Coffee will have to wait.

Chapter 3 - Chelsea

I’m ambling down an abandoned suburban street—they’re all abandoned now—when the feeder comes out of nowhere, shoving my body to the ground in a frenzy of hunger and instinct. The corpse is half decayed, its clothes in tatters and with a few remaining clumps of stringy hair, but still strong. So strong. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t have enough sense left to tell the difference between me and a defenseless human.

I
’m strong too.

The same infection that gives the feeders their strength fuels me, supercharging my muscles and pushing my survival instincts to the forefront of m
y mind. But there’s one crucial difference: I survived the infection. My body is intact, powerful, and equally as driven as the undead who attack without thought. They are the true zombies.

I am a
hunter
.

I
’m on my feet again before the fumbling corpse knows what’s happening. He lets out a disgruntled groan before lunging again, his one remaining eye constantly following my movements. His fingers latch on to my side, digging the stubs that were his fingers into my skin—the term death grip comes to mind—before attempting to fling me to the ground once more. Angling my body toward him, I kick out, loosening his hold slightly, but it’s enough to get free.

There
’s a brief moment before he charges again. Like all the others who came before him, the attacks are as repetitive as clockwork, never taking time to formulate a strategy. But I don’t need a plan either. Not anymore. I could do this in my sleep. If it weren’t for the beast pushing at the back of my mind to end this quickly and move on to something edible, this might even be fun.

I dodge out of the way
at the last moment, leaving my right leg in his path, sending the gruesome being face first onto the sidewalk. With a satisfying squish, my boot sinks into skull, splintering weakened bone with a fatal blow to the brain. My opponent stops struggling immediately and the rush of victory courses through my every cell. I live for the kill now. This is my Christmas, my birthday, and my prom all wrapped up into one glorious moment.

I take a mo
ment to catch my breath, letting my heartbeat settle back to its normal rhythm. It’s a struggle to remember what it was I was trying to do before the attack. Where was I headed? I’m not especially hungry, but I don’t remember eating. Still, I could always eat again. Yes, ten minutes to recover and then I’ll hunt.

Who says Christmas can
’t come twice in one day?

It
’s when the adrenaline starts to leave my body that I notice the throbbing pain coming from one of my arms. Something isn’t right, but it takes me nearly a minute to fit all the pieces together. The bastard bit me! I’ve been steadily oozing blood for at least five minutes and didn’t even notice.

How
didn’t I notice this? How did I not feel his teeth tear into my skin?

I am such an idiot
. I had every advantage, and I still let him take out a chunk of my skin.

Now that I
’ve noticed it, I have no trouble feeling it. My arm is screaming in agony from the bite.

Could this kill me?

No. I won’t let it. My head feels suddenly clear as I assess the injury. I need to think this through. Be smart. Stay alive.

Blood loss is a bitch. Unlike the feeders, our bodies need to stay alive if we want to keep going, keep feeding. No blood, no heartbeat, we cease to be.

If I die for real, would I wake up as one of them? I have no idea; I’ve never seen it happen. I have no intention of putting my feet up and waiting around to find out. I need to take care of my injury right away, before it slows me down.

I press my good hand against the seeping wound in my arm and take off to
ward the closest house—but not before giving the one-eyed wonder one final kick in the ribs. He deserves that gaping hole in his head a thousand times over.

Injured, I have more control over my own thoughts and actions than I
’ve had in months. I’m better equipped to handle impending threats than the beast, more competent at thinking things through, and ultimately we both benefit from my ability to play medic. Giving in to my instincts and taking off in pursuit of our next meal right now would be an undeniably bad call. Blood is still streaming slowly through my fingers, and it shows no sign of letting up.

The semi-detached house I enter is unlocked but has been stripped of anything useful. No antibiotics or bandages in any of the usual places. Nothing.

Grateful that I’m not limited to the lumbering stride of the undead and careful to keep the pressure on, I run to a neighboring home, but the next three houses are all the same and I’m starting to feel lightheaded. I can’t risk going back out—if I have to fight again today, there would be no guarantees. Instead, I head up the stairs to a small bedroom in the fourth house and pull a shirt out of the closet to tie around the bite.

The wound isn
’t large, just deep. Sitting down to brace myself, I have to use my teeth to pull against and knot the fabric tight enough to maintain steady pressure. When the sleeve drops from my mouth, blood stains the light pink fabric.

The part of me that is Chelsea recoils in horror.
I have blood on my mouth?

Maybe it
’s mine. I try to push through the fog of my mind and remember what I was doing before the fight, but nothing surfaces. Every memory I try to touch slips away like water through my fingers. As I slam my head back against the wall I’ve slumped next to, a cry of frustration forces itself from my lips, startling me in its urgency.

My lips. My voice.
My
voice.

Hearing my voice again is jarring to say the very least. I haven
’t spoken in months. Or is it years now? Silence has been one of my greatest weapons. Groaning or yelling only serves to give your prey warning.

The thought of trying to speak, of saying something coherent, sends my heart racing in an excited flutter. Do I even remember how to do it? The idea of forming various sounds and syllables seems so foreign. Do I sound
different after everything that has happened? Hearing my voice might break me once and for all. Knowing that I could still be Chelsea underneath this shell… I don’t know.

I can
’t do it.

It
’s worth a try.

My mind is still sluggish. Halting. I must sit ther
e for over an hour because the sun is starting to set by the time I make a decision. I’m going to try. If nothing else, the challenge has distracted me from the now searing pain in my arm. I’m going to try.

I lick my lips before pursing them together then
pause. What do I say? It’s like my first word all over again, except I get to the make the decision. It’s the most monumental decision I’ve had to make in a long time. My first word.

And possibly my last. Who knows if I
’ll ever have this chance again?

Any final words, Chelsea Zimmerman?

My tongue presses itself to the roof of my mouth as I try to form the sound of an N. The only sound I make is a weak moan. My vocal chords tense with the effort. I try again, and the results are better. More human.

But w
hen I try a third time, all I can manage is slurred gibberish. My vision starts to blur.

I can
’t remember what I was going to say. I push myself to try again, but all at once I feel myself falling. Falling asleep and falling away.