The Living Dead (Book 1): Contagion (8 page)

            She was safe for the moment but she was also trapped. If they broke in below, there would be no escape. And where would she go? Thanks to the neighborhood “protection” group, the streets were blocked. She couldn’t get out of the subdivision.

            She unfolded the rollaway bed, sat down, and wrapped up in the blanket. It was bitingly cold up here. The alarms ululated through the night as she waited for morning to come.

Chapter 9

           
O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart
Cannot conceive nor name thee

-William Shakespeare

            Pulling the car into the driveway, she shut off the engine and sat, listening to the motor tick as it cooled. Pansies and ivy spilled over the edges of the enormous stone urns flanking the front door. Leaning against one of the urns were her mother in law’s mud caked gardening boots. Dusk had fallen and the partially open door was still warm from soaking up hours of afternoon sun.

             Pushing the door open she stepped inside. It was cooler in here. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light of the foyer. Silence greeted her tentative “Hello?” As she mounted the hall staircase, she saw movement up on the landing. She called “Anna, Greg? It’s mom.” She felt a chill when she saw small, bloody handprints on the wainscoting.

            She vaulted up, taking the stairs two at a time, slipping on the blood slick treads. She reached the top of the stairs and started down the hall. A low moaning sound from the floor drew her attention. Her father-in-law, his clothing saturated in blood, crawled out of a bedroom toward her. Torn skin hung in strips from his back and arms.  Muscles and tendons flexed visibly as he crept. Bone showed were his ears had been ripped from his head. She noted this with a sense of unreality. This wasn‘t really happening.

            Evading the moving remains of Dan she ran to the bedroom at the end of the hallway. Her mother in law lay on the floor beside the bed, the back of her head completely gone and a revolver still in her mouth. Two tiny mounds (oh dear God, so tiny) were on the bed. Someone had laid them out carefully then covered them with a sheet, as if trying to keep them warm. Fearfully she approached the bed and lifted the sheet. The sight of the torn bodies of her children hit her like a blow and she fell to her knees on the bed. Blood soaked their pyjamas. Their small faces were bruised and gray, their tiny mouths with shredded, bloody lips. Their eyes suddenly opened but they were not the eyes of her children. Their faces were devoid of any emotion but a desperate hunger.

            Pulling them into her arms she rocked back and forth, knowing she couldn’t make it all better this time and never would be able to again. She welcomed the pain as their teeth sank into her arms.

            Virginia woke, still sobbing, her whole body shuddering. She clamped her hands over her mouth and took deep breaths until she stopped shaking, still filled with grief from the nightmare. She lay still, looking up at the rafters and listening for unfamiliar sounds. Was the cold making the old wooden beams squeak as they contracted or were those things walking around in her house? She felt gingerly at the bandage below her rib cage. Still sore. Sitting up, she lifted her sweater and peeled off the bandage. There was no new bleeding and the area was only slightly swollen. Good, no infection. She replaced the bandage with fresh gauze and tape.

            Her breath created small clouds of moisture in the air as she walked across the plank floor.  She looked out through the attic vent. The snow had stopped. She was up so high she had almost a bird’s-eye view of the neighborhood. It resembled a war zone. A Lexus SUV had crashed into the living room window of the Lang’s house. She couldn’t see anyone in the car, just dark blood covering the driver side door. The Tudor with the enclosed rose garden was on fire, black smoke rising into the clear blue sky. Fire had gutted the tall red brick house next to it and burned itself out. Some dwellings looked untouched and she wondered how many of her neighbors were quietly hiding, hoping for eventual rescue. Erin Lang eagerly dragged herself through the snow by her one remaining arm toward a group feasting on an unlucky dog. Yun Li shuffled into her field of vision, dragging a broken leg behind him. One eyeball dangled on his shredded cheek. He moaned as he neared the group around the dog. She shuddered as she listened and he stopped mid stride. She didn’t know how acute any of their senses were and was terrified he had heard her or sensed her presence. She stood still, not breathing. After a few seconds he resumed his lurching stroll through the snow.

            She had to get out of here. Last night she had formulated the beginnings of a plan. Now, in daylight, she could look out and finish plotting. An entire row of houses on Somers Crescent backed up to the golf course. She needed a vehicle that could go off road and get out to the High street.  Bill had offered her the use of his Jeep before he died and she intended to take him up on it. It was a matter of getting across the street while avoiding the infected, finding the keys and not getting the Jeep stuck in any snowdrifts when she drove out across the golf course. Once out of here, she would make her way through town and over the mountain to Springfield. If the snow melted enough. And if the road re-opened.

            She listened for sounds in the house and hearing nothing but the drip of the gutters outside, she carefully eased the trap door open and climbed down the stairs. Nothing out of place. She picked up the envelope containing Bill’s notes and found an old backpack. She stuffed the papers inside, filled it with all the food she could cram into it then went to her closet. What do you wear to the Apocalypse? A red cocktail dress and jackboots? She settled on jeans and a sweater. Finding her old, leather, riding boots she hadn’t worn since college she pulled them on, sliding the KA BAR knife into the right boot.

            Quietly ascending the steps to the attic, she looked out. More and more infected shambled through the streets and lawns. Some she recognized as neighbors, others she had never seen before. They milled around with no clear purpose. Many were only partially dressed but didn’t seem bothered by the cold. Their eyes were filmed over and white. Except for an occasional moan and dragging sounds as they moved through the snow, they were eerily silent.

            Time to go. Virginia placed the handgun in her belt and filled her pockets with shells and bullets. Taking the shotgun and easing over to the attic vent she placed the tip of the gun between the louvers and took aim at the white Cape Cod on the corner. She knew the Maynards were in Florida for the winter but she was still taking a chance. A chance that the house had an alarm system and it was activated. A chance that the infected in the street would not pinpoint her location when she fired the shotgun. She fired and hit the side of the house. No alarm. The infected began to turn in her direction. They had found her. Firing again she hit a window on the top floor. Still nothing. She knew she wasn’t a good shot but had thought she could at least hit a window in a house. Her hands shook as the throng drew closer. They moaned excitedly now, almost in unison. She fired again. This time she hit a first floor window and the alarm shrieked to life. The horde stopped their slow shuffle and turned toward the corner house. Not all of them but most. This was her chance. Descending the stairs, she grabbed her jacket on the way to the door. She turned the doorknob then stopped. She ran back upstairs, grabbed her son’s blanket and then, fumbling through the dresser, found her wedding ring and slipped it on.

            Outside, the sun sparkled on the blanketing snow. It was easy to evade the few stragglers in the street but she knew they would follow her. She ran under the arbor to Portia and Bill’s front door and went inside.

            The smell of death filled the house. Bill’s crumpled body lay near the hearth and she tried to avoid looking at him. Grabbing all the keys from the rack by the garage door she went outside. The jeep was unlocked. She climbed in and tried the keys, one after the other. None fit the ignition. Looking around she saw three infected heading her way. Two were in the yard of the house next door and one near the bottom of the driveway. Grabbing the shotgun she ran back into the house. Where else would the keys be? She remembered Bill had taken the jeep out for gas. Reluctantly, she went to the living room and rolled Bill onto his back. The key was in the right hand pocket of his encrusted khakis. She palmed it and turned to go just as a soft step broke the quiet of the room.

            Portia had come downstairs. Neck broken, her head rolled and wobbled on her shoulders as she jerked forward, gnashing her teeth. A string of intestines caught on the newel post, effectively chaining her in the foyer and blocking the way out of the room. She strained forward until, with a wet plop, her intestines broke free and splattered to the floor. She lurched toward Virginia who raised her gun and fired. She hit Portia’s shoulder but it just spun her around. Her head bobbled wildly as she struggled farther into the room. Virginia took aim again and this time hit her dead on in the face. Her head exploded into a malodorous mass of bone and flesh chunks spread on the floor and wall. She whispered, “Oh Portia I‘m so sorry,” and fled the house.

            She knew now that these things were not alive. She had watched when Bill tore his wife’s body apart and she had
seen
her die. No one survived injuries like that. People were being reanimated, just like the Spanish friar had written about. If it was the same disease though, it must have mutated, become more virulent.  Hadn’t that happened with the Black Death in the Middle Ages? She couldn’t remember details but she knew the deadliness of that plague waxed and waned several times throughout history.

            Two of the ghouls were just yards from the driver side door. She dodged their grasping hands and jumped inside, locking the doors. The jeep started with a satisfying roar. She hadn’t been this happy to be in an automobile since her first car. Reversing, she backed down the driveway, striking a dead man with organs blooming out of the gaping hole in his belly. His bones made a sickening crack as she ran over him. She headed over to Somers Crescent. A few infected were in the streets but most were attracted by her diversion and mobbed the still alarming house. She turned into the driveway of a house that backed up to the golf course and made it to the backyard when she caught a glimpse of movement in an upstairs window. Stopping the jeep, she looked up. A mittened hand waved to her and she saw a small face pressed against the glass. A child.

            Virginia turned off the engine, grabbed the handgun, and walked around to the rear of the house. The glass panes in the back door were smashed and the door was open. Inside, the kitchen was in shambles and blood was everywhere. No bodies. Maybe they had left the house? She heard footsteps coming slowly down the stairs and held her breath as they continued around the corner into the kitchen. Her breath frosted in the air in front of her. She kept a firm grip on the gun.

            “I’m ready ‘cept for my coat. Can you zip me?” A sturdy little figure stopped in front of her and held out the ends of the zipper on his coat. His snow boots were untied and on the wrong feet. Virginia guessed his age at somewhere between five and six.

            She released her breath and smiled. “Of course sweetheart.” She knelt in front of him, aligned the zipper then pulled it closed. “I’m Virginia. What’s your name?”

            “Do you know my Mom and Dad? If you’re a stranger, I can’t tell you my name.”

            She racked her brain for a name. She didn’t know everyone on this street that well. Wait, it was Simpson- no- Simmons. Something like that.

            “Mrs. Simmons is your mom but I haven’t met your Dad.” It was a guess.

             “His name is Mr. Simmons. I’m Daniel Simmons. I think someone broke into our house last night.” He looked around the room. “Someone broke our kitchen too. I woke up when the alarm outside started this morning. I saw my Mom and Dad leave. They were still in their pajamas.” He started to cry. “I got dressed as fast as I could but they didn’t wait for me.”

            Virginia knew she couldn’t explain what had happened to his parents. It was time to go.

            “I’m leaving to go look for my little boy and girl. Do you want to come with me? We can look for your Mom and Dad too.” She hated to lie but she had to get him out of here.

            “I can’t. I have to ask first.” He looked uncertain.

            “We’ll ask them when we find them.”

            “Why do you have a gun?”

            “Because there are dangerous people outside. Daniel, we need to leave right now.”

            “Ok.”

            Taking his hand she went hurriedly out the door. She lifted him into the back seat and buckled him in. Breaking through the split rail fence that surrounded the golf course the jeep bounced and jerked but made it without getting bogged down. She drove across the fairway and pulled out onto the High street, heading for the turnpike that would take her to 531 and eventually, to her family.