Eaters (10 page)

Run!
It was a voice near her shoulder that sounded a lot like Mark’s.

She obeyed, and her feet grew wings. She flew down the street, running…running…
running to where?

There were seven Eaters on her heels. How could she know that there weren’t two dozen or more up ahead?

Just keep going.
It was Mark again in her head—his angelic voice, guiding her from above.
No time to think about it.

She gained another block then decided that there was no point in staying out in the open, being a constant target. She had to find shelter before she ended up being cornered somewhere. All the houses she’d seen so far were dark, and some had boarded up windows. Even if she went up to one and pounded on the door, it was unlikely that she’d be let in. They’d be afraid that she was infected—and maybe she was.

A painful stitch started on the side of her torso, and she was beginning to wheeze from the overload on her lungs. Some of the streetlights were out, and the darkness slowed her progress. She tripped on a tree branch in the road and fell hard on her elbows. As she picked herself up, she dared a glance back.

She didn’t know if they had seen her with their dead eyes or sensed her with some strange new dog-like power that came along with the fatal disease, but they had definitely honed in on her somehow, because they were gaining on her.

Still in excruciating pain, Cheryl darted around the curb and down the next street, where she spied a house down on the right that had a light on in an upper window like a beacon. She aimed for it, figuring that she could at least hide behind the large junipers in front if she couldn’t get inside.

When she reached it, there was no time for a polite knock on the front door. She threw herself underneath the bushes, ignoring the stabs from the sharp needle-like foliage and rough bark on the trunks.

She held her breath when the Eaters drew near then paused near the end of the driveway, grunting like a herd of pigs.

Could they smell her?

She prayed that they couldn’t, and honestly didn’t know what triggered their voraciousness and powered their unbelievable hunting skills. They did seem to be attracted to the smell of anything rotten and the mere presence of living people. Like a carnivore, motion or sound might also pay a role. She suddenly got an image in her head of the young police officer that had started firing on a group of them in the park until he’d run out of bullets and they swarmed his car. It was possible that the sound of the gunfire attracted them.

She realized just how close she could be to being one of them. Why hadn’t she gotten sick yet? Or, was she infected, and it was just a matter of time before she started losing her mind and the uncontrollable cravings began? She knew that she could be a ticking bomb. If she was still well, and hadn’t been infected by mosquitoes or the evil woman at the church, it was a good thing that she was wearing Mark’s heavy oversized camouflage uniform. Though it was uncomfortably hot, it protected her from being bitten, at least by small things. Inside the heavy material, sweat ran in rivulets down her body, and she was still panting, as quietly as possible, trying to catch her breath and make herself tiny and invisible.

There was just enough room near the ground below the junipers for her to lay her head and see through the underside of the branches. The group of Eaters wasn’t leaving. They just stood there, yards away, grunting and snorting, as if they had no idea where she’d gone, and not enough viable brain matter left to figure it out.

That hope immediately left her body along with every ounce of oxygen as one suddenly parted from the group and came up the walk towards her. There was just enough light from the moon and a streetlight to see that it was a man in firefighter gear—only he wasn’t coming to save her. The man in the yellow suit looked like a corpse excavated from a grave and dressed up in someone else’s uniform. His thin limbs hung like tree branches in the heavy garb, and his face looked like it had been through a meat grinder, with skin hanging in flaps down his cheeks, and crusty rivers of dried blood in the remaining trenches. Worst of all, his eyes were opaque like white ping pong balls, and his jaw kept opening and closing like a steel trap on some sort of broken remote control.

As he came closer, crunching over dried grass that hadn’t been watered in some time, she wondered if she’d have time to hop out and turn the gun on herself, but then she realized that her dead body would be devoured by the Eaters like a chunk of beef and going down without a fight didn’t seem like the right thing to do.

Shhh…stay where you are.

It was Mark again. Or, was it God? She didn’t know and didn’t care. Not having any better options, she decided to go along with the advice. She played dead like a possum as clunky boots appeared near her head.

Even though she was trying to hold her breath, the stench was unbearable: layered notes of rotten flesh, garbage, and sickness. The foulness made tears leak out of the corners of her eyes as the boots stood just inches from her head. A few seconds later, they swiveled around, dragging and scraping on the concrete patio and lumbered away.

She allowed herself a quiet sigh and a deep breath of fresh air, watching as the skeletal fireman rejoined the group underneath the shadow of an immense spruce tree near the driveway.

Without warning, they scattered like a flock of birds, flying from one side of the street to the other. Metal clanged as they knocked over trashcans, rummaging through the debris to search for any sort of rotten, slimy thing to eat or, if they were lucky, some discarded body parts.

Her attention was so focused on the departing army of hungry predators that she didn’t notice the gun pointed at her until she felt the cold metal on her neck.

Chapter Ten

“Don’t…fucking…move.”

She didn’t. If she’d been frozen with fear before, she was a concrete statue now—a solid chunk of flesh with a heart beating like a hummingbird.

He pressed the shotgun into her skin. “If you’re one of them walking dead things, you got two seconds to get off my property before I blow your head off.”

“I’m not,” she squeaked, too afraid to move.

“What’s that?”

There was a click as he cocked the gun.

“I’m not sick,” she said a little louder, slowly raising her head and lifting her hands in the air, ignoring the tug on her hair that was caught in the sticky needles of the juniper.

“Prove it. Let me get a look at you.”

With great care, and a bit of pain, she began to extricate herself from the bush. Her legs and arms filled with pins and needles as they unfolded, having gone to sleep from the cramped position that had cut off her circulation. She stood, stumbling when she rose to her feet, aware of the gun still strapped to her shoulder.

“I’m not convinced. You look like shit.”

Cheryl knew she probably did. Her shoulder-length blonde hair hadn’t been brushed in days, her makeup was probably smeared all over her face, and there were likely still traces of blood from the carnage she’d fallen into when this had all begun earlier in the week.

She stuttered a response. “It…it’s been a rough f...few days. I could use a place to stay…”

Sensing the pause that momentarily reduced the chance of being shot, she dared a look up at him. He looked to be in his late twenties, close to her age, but he was dressed like a frat boy in a white t-shirt with a Coors ad on the front, plaid shorts, and rubber flip flops. He had a round unshaven face and a wild tangle of curly dark hair that added to the impression that he was in vacation mode. Well, except for the gun in his hands that was still pointed at her head.

“How do I know you’re not infected?”

Not certain herself, she wasn’t sure how to respond. “I won’t be any trouble. I can sleep on the couch…the floor…in the garage, wherever. I’ll leave in the morning.”

He took a step backwards. “I’ll think about it, but, I want to see you in the light first. You stay there…” he said, holding his hand out in the universal halt gesture. Then he backed up to the open door, reached inside and flipped on the porch light.

He came back, keeping the gun aimed at her. “You look even worse than I thought. Bet you clean up good, though. Might even be pretty. Alright, you can come in, but you do everything I say, got it?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

He motioned for her to go around him, so he could keep the gun trained on her back.

She was thankful to have found some shelter, but it was awkward going into a stranger’s house. She decided that he looked harmless enough. Even if he turned out to be creepy, she figured it was better to take her chances with him than on the streets with untold numbers of roaming Eaters.

She was almost to the door when he said, “Wait. Gimmee your gun.”

No
.

“I said gimme the gun.”

“Fine.” She unshouldered it and turned around to hand it over. “But, I’m not leaving without it.”

“If you’re going to be sassy, I might change my mind.”

The sound of a grunt made them both stop and look down the street. The group of Eaters had returned.

“Get inside,” he whispered.

She wasted no time, darting inside the door. He followed, quickly shutting the door behind them, and locked the deadbolt.

“Shouldn’t you shut off the porch light?”

“Not now. It might get their attention. Stay there,” he ordered. He ran into an adjacent room and peeked out through heavy curtains, dingy from a layer of cigarette smoke.

Alone for the moment, she glanced around. There was a dim glow from a lamp in the living room, just enough light for her to see that the house was a pigsty. In the living area, amidst the worn furniture, there were video games, cereal boxes, beer cans, and even what looked like dirty tissues strewn about the dingy brown carpet. It smelled bad, too, like something rancid mixed with a more pungent scent, something decaying. She didn’t like it.

“They’re leaving.” He flipped off the outside light and came back. “I noticed they’re doing that more—traveling in packs. Sit over there.” He pointed towards the couch with her rifle.

She waded through the debris and pushed more aside to sit on the ratty couch with a faded floral pattern that looked like it was decades old.

“What’s your name?”

“Cheryl. What’s yours?”

He sat on the adjacent matching love seat, laid her rifle on his lap and began to stroke it. “An AK-47. Cool! You some sorta Army brat?”

“No. The clothes and the gun belonged to my fiancé.”

“Fiancé, huh? What happened to him?”

Cheryl looked down, pretending to study the oversized blood-spattered boots on her feet. “He got sick.”

“Hmm…you got any ammo for this?”

“No…I used it all,” she lied. “You going to tell me your name?”

He paused for a second, wrinkling his nose. “You can call me Sting. Yeah, Sting…that’s it.”

“Like the rock star? That’s not your real name.”

“Don’t matter what my real name is. This is my house, and all guests will live by my rules.”

Cheryl liked this
inn
less and less. She found herself fidgeting and feeling very uncomfortable. Morning couldn’t come soon enough. In the meantime, she’d have to make small talk with this self-absorbed freak and try to find a clean corner to curl up in for the night.

“So, you just holing up here all by yourself?”

He switched guns and started playing with his shotgun, swinging it around with the barrel pointed perilously close to her, then strumming it like a guitar. “Yeah, just me. Lucky me. I got lots of food, water, and beer. It’s a party until the government figures out how to round up all those sickies outside and put ‘em in a pen somewhere. Meanwhile, I don’t have to go to my stupid job bussing tables, I don’t have to mow the lawn, I don’t even have to wash my damn underwear if I don’t want to. It’s like finally getting some time off for good behavior.”

Her first impression was right; this guy was just a few licks short of his sticky chocolate center, and he was oddly relaxed, considering the apocalypse that was going on outside.
Or…maybe he was high on something
.

“You got power. Has it stayed on, or do you have a generator somewhere?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Stayed on, I guess.”

“What about water? Is that still running?”

“It was last time I took a dump.”

Nice.
At least it was good to know that civilization hadn’t completely broken down. That meant there was a better chance that she might still have family alive. When this had all started, and she was holed up with a group of survivors, she had assumed the worst. Now, it seemed possible that miles away, in Arizona, her father and her aunt might still be alive.

“Hey, you hungry?”

She had to think about that for a moment. She hadn’t eaten anything since earlier that day in the church shelter when she’d snatched the moldy donut, an event that still worried her.
Had it been nerves, a survival instinct, or…a sign of sickness?
Truthfully, at the moment, food was the last thing on her mind. Her stomach felt a little queasy, and she wondered if it was from the brew of smells in the house. “Not really.”