The Withered Series (Book 1): Wither Page 4

  “Hey! That’s my gun!”

  “Not until you learn to use it.” He chambers a round and tucks the gun into his waistband. “I’m going for supplies and to see if any of my men made it out. Stay here and stay down. If you’re quiet they won't know you’re here. If you get into any trouble, just barricade the door and wait for me to get back. I won’t be longer than an hour or two.”

  He grabs a gas mask from the table beside him and pulls it down over his head. He places the hood over his head and slips into gloves, concealing nearly every inch of bare skin. It’s not the cold that he hides from, but from the invisible killer he thinks is out there.

  When he opens the door, I consider asking exactly who they are, but I don’t. I consider lying back down to rest while he is gone, hoping that he will bring water to still the unease in my stomach, but I don’t. I even consider barricading the door like he said and hiding in the corner until he returns, but I don’t.

  I don’t do anything that I should.

  Later...I will regret that decision.

  THREE

  I grew up in a sleepy town in northern Kentucky, not too far from the Illinois border. One stop-light. One mom and pop grocery store that still had small glass jars of candy near the register. Old tree-lined streets with a tire swing dangling in nearly every backyard. White picket fences straight out of the Leave It To Beaver era. Everyone knew my name. I could trust people back then.

  I miss that place. Especially right now.

  Looking out from behind the black trash bag covering the grimy window of Cable’s fourth floor hide out, all I hear is chaos in the night. I can almost smell the fear and smoke fumes filtering in through the glass and try to prepare myself to enter a world where people have run amok. I guess in a way I don’t blame them, not after what Cable told me.

  I never wanted to come to St. Louis. Of course, I never wanted my Dad to bail on us either, but as my mom used to say, “shit happens to the best and worst of us.” My older brother Connor made out better than I did. Not long after we moved here he took off to be a groupie for some stupid rock band touring the east coast and I haven’t seen him since. He never even knew about mom’s accident. Never wasted a single minute at her bedside.

  Bastard!

  With a pained grunt, I force myself to focus as I slip on a navy blue hoodie I scavenged from the bottom of the closet. It smells of stale man sweat. I pinch my nose and second guess myself for the twentieth time since I stumbled off the futon. Is it really safer out there on the streets than in here? Cable did save my life. That’s gotta count for something, right?

  I shake my head and wince at the throbbing in my neck. It coils down into my shoulder and makes my fingers tingle. I’ve always done best on my own. I’m not about to start needing people now.

  Discovering a pair of jeans on the floor, I slip them on. They are loose at the waist, tight around my hips and nearly three inches too long. I sink onto the bed to roll large cuffs then pad across the hall to the bathroom.

  After relieving my swollen bladder, I lean against the sink. Judging by the ring of yellow staining the porcelain bowl and the thick coating of lime scale residue on the faucet, this apartment definitely used to belong to a single guy. A very disgusting guy.

  I glance at my reflection in the mirror. The skin around my right eye is puffy and angry looking, the bruising dark and extensive. I have several small bandages patching my chin and cheek, hiding some of my freckles. Dark ginger hair lies in tangles about my face, the fringe around my forehead still matted from fever sweats. My lower lip is a deep shade of purple and split down the middle. My hazel eyes are lifeless, dull. Dried blood trails the curve of my cheek. I knew I looked bad but I had no idea it was this bad!

  “Maybe I’ll look roughed up enough that no one will want to mess with me when I leave.” Wishful thinking, but it’s all I’ve got.

  After digging through the contents of the medicine cabinet and down a couple pain pills then stuff the bottle in my pocket. I grab some stomach pills for good measure then turn away from my image and limp back across the living room, feeling a sense of urgency to escape before Cable returns. He would try to stop me. I can’t let that happen. Gun or no gun, I’m not waiting around.

  I feel out of place in a strange man’s clothes as I grab a plastic bag to stuff my jeans in. My sweater is still too damp to defend against the frigid night air. My red Chucks bear a hint of moisture but they will have to do. Even with Cable’s scrubbing, blood still stains the white soles.

  I pass by a stack of plates piled haphazardly with molding food on a small two-seater table and chair setup in front of a lifeless TV. Stacks of credit card bills teeter on the edge, unopened and long forgotten. I tread as lightly as possible on the wooden floor as I press my ear to the front door. The peeling paint scratches my cheek as I listen for sounds. I hear nothing beyond my own labored breathing.

  Brushing my hair back out of my eyes, I take a deep breath and draw the hood up over my head. “You can do this. Hit the stairs and don't look back. Don't slow down. Just move.”

  I glance back at the gas mask lying on the floor. Indecision hits me. What if Cable is right to be cautious? What if I can get sick just by breathing?

  My pulse dances in my throat as I make my decision and turn away from the mask. I unbolt the lock and grasp the knob, slowly opening the door to peer out. The hinges squeak loudly. A gust of frosty wind seizes me from the right and I realize the window at the end of the hall is blown out.

  Gathering my courage, I release the door and hobble for the stairs. The door slams behind me with enough force to vibrate the bannister beneath my palm. I wind down a stairwell that has an overwhelming stench of mold and body odor. It seems to leach from the walls.

  In the flickering of light entering through the window before me, I notice that the wallpaper to my left is yellowed and peeling. At one time it appears to have been a pale pink but it’s hard to tell under the water stains that trail from the walls above. The floor is old wood, knotted and gouged over the years.

  “And I thought my place was rough,” I mutter under my breath as I pause on the bottom floor, breathing hard. I stifle a cry and duck low as a car alarm bursts to life. Headlights spill through the windows then disappear again, leaving me in near darkness.

  Leaning forward, I wipe the window with my sleeve and peer out. Flames pour through a shop down the street. Maybe at one time it was a small pharmacy or liquor store. The fire rises high into the night, flickering against towering brick and wood sided buildings. In the light I spy four men jumping and shouting, glass bottles illuminated in their hands.

  I’m trapped.

  Despite the cold flowing under the wide crack at the bottom of the door, a bead of sweat trails down my brow. My head feels weightless as I pause to focus on my breathing. It won't do me any good to step out there if I’m just going to pass out.

  I glance to my right and spy several cars weaving down the streets. There is debris in their way, making the path treacherous in the dark. The men celebrating down the road turn to inspect the new arrivals.

  Shouts are quickly followed by gunfire. I watch in horror as a man slams his elbow into the rear window and drags a woman out by her hair, kicking and screaming. Seizing my chance, I decide to make a run for it, ignoring the shrieks of fear. The instant I open the front door I am assailed by the scent of garbage left out to rot. Cat urine is nearly as potent. I press my sleeve to my mouth and take a shallow breath as I keep to the shadows and move away from the fight, wishing that I could plug my ears against the screams and laughter.

  My hoodie catches on the brick as I weave around overturned garbage bins and discarded bicycles. Suitcases spill from forgotten vehicles, their engines dead and cold. Car doors stand open like empty tombs as I pass. Apartment windows remain dark, blinds pulled and curtains drawn. I wonder if anyone has remained in this part of the town.

  Gunfire up ahead makes me eat pavement. It chews at the skin of my palms and kne
es but I choke down my cry. That was close.

  At the ping of bullets hitting metal and brick, I belly crawl toward an abandoned car. Crouching in the space of an opened passenger side door, I peek into the back seat to make sure nothing is going to leap out at me. A vacant child’s car seat sits behind the driver’s seat. Its pink material is splattered with flaking blood. I shiver and draw my gaze away, checking under the car to be sure I’m safe.

  Screams spill out into the night, shrill and filled with terror. A man’s bellow cuts off suddenly. An eerie silence follows. I clutch the seat belt for support, feeling the fibers dig into my bloody palms as I frantically look all around. Which direction did that come from?

  The narrow streets and tall buildings make it nearly impossible to determine the location of the screams. A loud explosion comes at me like a rolling echo and rumbles in my chest as a fireball rises into the sky from two or three blocks away.

  I trip over my laces as I get to my feet, using the car to steady me. Staggering back toward the edge of the building, I slip down the darkened alley. The sound of my shoes slapping the ground is covered by more gunfire. This time it sounds closer.

  Headlights pass by, zipping erratically. A crunch of metal is followed by a steady honk of the horn. They will hear the sound. They will come.

  I know who they are now. Cable tried to warn me about the rioters but I didn’t listen. He said they were in another part of town, over by the hospital. That’s at least ten miles to the west by my best guess. Have they moved into this area so quickly? Has the entire city already been lost?

  I look around to get my bearings. I’m not overly familiar with this part of the city. I lived further west, towards the outskirts of town. I used to take the Metro each morning to see my mother and return long after dark. That was before the Moaners arrived.

  Reaching the end of the alley, I hug the wall and peer around. This street is not as well lit and that scares me. Shadows mean plenty of hiding places for things lurking in the dark.

  As I step forward, glass crunches beneath my sneakers. I look up to see that the streetlight overhead has been knocked out. My hands seek purchase on the building for support as I gulp in air. Darkness encroaches along the edge of my vision.

  “Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.” I chant to myself for a minute until the dizziness passes. I clutch my stomach with my free hand and double over, desperate not to be sick. Grabbing the stomach meds, I fight with the plastic cap then toss back a couple of pills without looking at the dosage. I hold my breath and count. After a minute I feel better and rise.

  As I push off the wall my fingers sink into a hole. I turn and trace the indentation. Six more span a two foot radius. Bullet holes.

  I search the fire lit street behind me. My mind imagines all sorts of foul things crawling toward me in the dark. Evil men with lurid thoughts. Faceless people endlessly walking the streets. I listen for the tell-tale moan of the Withered Ones but hear nothing.

  I look to the darkened windows all around and wonder who lived in these homes. Did they make it out alive? Did they become Moaners?

  The florist at the end of my street back home was among the first to go missing near me. She used to set up her wares each afternoon and sell to the businessmen as they returned home to their wives or rushed to rendezvous with a weekend lover. Next, it was the mailman. An entire week went by without a single delivery. At first I thought it was a little odd. Then it became downright worrying. The post office never bothered to send anyone else. I haven’t seen either of them in two weeks. I’d like to say that I believe they caught wind of the coming panic and skipped town, but I don’t.

  The kids that used to hang out on my street corner, playing chicken with taxis or dodging in and out of stores in small groups vanished not long after. Poof. Gone.

  Ten days ago, during those hours in the night when I was halfway between sleep and dreamsville, I heard shouting and the rumbling of engines. Men on loud speakers directed soldiers who scurried out of open bed trucks and Humvees. They broke down doors and ransacked homes. I curled my pillow around my head and hummed as loud as I could to cover the shouting till the sun rose. When I awoke, silence had fallen over my street.

  That was the last night I slept in my house alone. After that I stayed at the hospital.

  The sound of glass crunching underfoot behind me makes me freeze. I strain to listen, praying that I’m mistaken. Maybe it was a cat. Judging by the smell there are plenty of those still around.

  Another crunch. And another. The shuffling gait makes my pulse thump in my ears. I hear heavy breathing now, a rasping that sounds like wind funneling through a moist cloth.

  “Oh God, no!”

  If it were day, I would easily be able to see vacant, glassy eyes. Pallid skin. Oily, unkempt hair falling over her face. It is a her. I can sense that. Maybe it’s her body odor that alerts me, or the small catch in her breathing.

  The thing walking toward me doesn’t move fast, doesn’t show any sign of hesitation at the sound of nearby gunfire. It just keeps coming.

  I back toward the light, terrified of being seen but there is no way I’m staying in this alley with her. At the exit, I pause and glance around. I’ll be exposed when I step out but it’s a risk I have to take.

  I take three steps backward and hit something cold and solid. A scream erupts from my throat as I turn to see a man standing behind me. His cheek-length blond hair is matted with filth. A deep gash has peeled back the skin over his right eye. Flesh is torn from his jaw, revealing six teeth buried in his gum. There is no recognition of pain. No attempt to stunt the blood seeping down his face. He does not look at me, but beyond me.

  His right foot is turned inward. He steps toward me and I panic. I trip over the gutter and land hard on my back side. Still he comes. Unseeing.

  I have never been so close to one of them. Judging by the foul scent clinging to his clothes, he turned a while back. Perhaps as much as two weeks ago when people first started disappearing.

  Over my shoulder I see the woman behind me. She can’t be more than five steps away now. The stench of feces emanating from these two makes my eyes water.

  Scrambling to my feet, I ignore the pain in my palms and knees as I narrowly miss the man’s step. He jerks as his broken foot lands unevenly in the storm drain. His hoarse moan grows deeper as he twitches, trying to yank his foot free. I cower against the wall, watching in wide eyed disbelief as the woman emerges from the alley and walks straight into the man.

  Turning to the side, my stomach heaves in response to the sickening snap of bone. The woman barrels over him. Together they fall toward the street, the man’s foot now attached only by a stretched bit of skin.

  I can’t look. I hear the sounds of their struggle but I can’t bear to see it.

  A hand falls over my mouth and I rear back. “Don’t make a sound.”

  I buck against the stranger’s grasp but he holds me tight, pressed against the length of his body. He is taller than me and much broader. His hand across my mouth muffles my screams.

  He pulls me backward down the street, forcing me to stumble to keep up. After dragging me a full city block, he pauses at an intersection. I can feel his torso shifting to look behind. “We’re almost there.”

  I fight against him, digging in my heels to slow us down but he doesn't relent. His grip on my mouth shifts so that I’m incapable of biting him. His arms tighten across my shoulders, leaving me with little option to fight back.

  In the distance, the Withered Ones continue to struggle against each other in the street. They don’t stand up. They don’t roll off each other. Instead they lay, one on top of the other and flail, like a fallen infant.

  “In here.”

  The grip on my mouth falls away and the hand across my chest releases me. In the split second that I consider screaming for help, I am thrust into a darkened doorway and fall into darkness.

  FOUR

  Pain ripples through my palms and knees when I h
it the floor. Dust rises up around me, choking out the clean air. I pound on my chest and roll onto my side.

  “You’ll get used to it,” a masculine voice says from behind me. The metallic ring of the lock sliding into place feels foreboding as he steps around me. “Follow me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I wheeze, gripped with a dizziness that leaves me temporarily immobile. My arms quiver as I try to push off the ground but they give out on me.

  “That’s not the right answer, missy.” An arm wraps around my waist and hauls me to my feet. I beat against his grip but my escape into the streets has left me weakened. The man chuckles and hoists me easily into his arms, ignoring my pathetic rebuff.

  I feel suffocated in his embrace, though I’m not sure if the blinding heat is coming from him or me. I stare blurry-eyed at a row of tall grimy windows as we pass. The light is a stark contrast to the darkness surrounding us. I stop counting after we pass the tenth window and realize somehow I have made my way down toward the river where the old warehouses stand.

  The sound of my captor’s footsteps echo around me as we burrow deep into the building. It feels hollow, enormous in size. Hulking shadows fill the room. The man weaves effortlessly around them, as if he has the eyes of a nocturnal feline or a really great memory. I’d bank on the later.

  My head bounces against his chest as he ascends a set of stairs. My eyes droop with heaviness. “You are safe,” are the final words that I hear as my body betrays me and my eyes fall closed.

  From time to time I think I hear whispers in the dark. Voices hushed and muffled, but I can’t place them. My forehead feels damp, cooler than the rest of my body. I try to turn my head but am held still.

  “Don’t move. Not yet.”

  “Who are you?” I taste blood as I swallow. My lower lip splits down the middle and I almost welcome the blood over the cottonmouth taste lingering.