The Withered Series (Book 1): Wither Page 8

  “She’s only sixteen, Alex. Can you really live with yourself if she dies on your watch?”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “What is something happens to you? What if someone follows you?”

  I bite on my lower lip as I look around for a solution that will placate him. So close.

  And then I remember Eva’s story. “Do you still have the radio Eva brought with her?”

  “Sure.” He motions toward the closed door. “We’ve been monitoring the military’s movements with it.”

  “Ok. If anything happens to me, if I don’t come back, I will find a way to contact you. Keep it with you, no matter what.” The moment his shoulders sag in reluctant defeat, I race for the door, shoving Victoria aside. I barely have time to feel vindicated when I hear her topple to the floor as I race down the metal stairs and through the vast warehouse.

  The first time I came through this darkened maze I had no real idea of how large the factory was. Shadows rise up before me just seconds before I slam into a piece of machinery and bounce off. Battered and bruised, but fueled by a new round of screaming from behind me, I rush past the endless row of windows in search of a door.

  Years of disuse and grime smudge the glass, affording only a dim light to see by. The sun looks to be on the rise and I’m desperate to feel it’s warmth on my skin again.

  The blustery cold steals my breath away as I throw open the door. The wind tugs the handle from my hands and it bangs loudly against the brick wall. I squint against the brilliant dawn, shielding my face until my eyes have a chance to adjust. I don’t recognize any of my surroundings. In the distance I can see the arch gleaming like glass against the brightening sky. A bank of storm clouds move off to the East leaving the city in temporary sunlight.

  Without thinking I sprint down the road, weaving around potholes and abandoned cars. Graffiti decorates the brick walls around me. Some of the roofs have caved in, charred and left to ruin by the fires. Bullet holes scatter the streets, in car doors, through glass windows and mailboxes.

  I skirt the opposite sidewalk to avoid a burst fire hydrant that gushes water high into the air. A Jeep is jacked up on the hydrant, its alarm blaring and lights flashing. There is no one inside, but I spy a puddle of blood beneath the open door as I jog past.

  Before all of this happened I would never have walked down these streets, even in broad daylight. Every city has its places that you don't go alone. This was one of them. The other lies across the river, my path of escape should I ever make it out of here.

  I hold the stitch in my side, counting the slaps of my blood stained chucks against the pavement as I run in spite of the pain in my ribs. I grow warm beneath my scavenged hoodie and pull it over my head, tying it around my waist. The cold air feels amazing against my exposed skin, cooling the heat trapped within the black tank that I wore beneath.

  After several minutes the arch begins to rise into the sky and I discern shops dotted along the street, interspersed with offices and entrances to condos. I race around a corner and come up short.

  Less than a block away people mill about. The stench wafts my way and I’m forced to double over, clutching my nose and mouth. The scent of rotting flesh, urine and feces hits me like a wrecking ball. Death lives here.

  I rise to my full height and then up onto my toes as I spy a familiar sign. Nearly thirty Withered Ones stand between me and a pharmacy on the corner two blocks away. It is small but should have something that I can use to help Eva.

  Glancing down the street I look for a way around the Moaners but the path is blocked by a pileup of cars. It’s either go straight through or adds a few extra blocks to my journey. Time is not on my side.

  “You’ve got this,” I whisper to myself as their raspy moans echo down the alley toward me. “Nothing to it.”

  I walk cautiously forward, watching those closest to me. A girl wearing a Washington University sweatshirt slams into a wall ten feet in front of me. She stumbles back and slams again, repeating the action with maddening persistence. The flesh of her forehead clings to the trail of blood she has left on the wall. Her shattered nose gushes, the bone and cartilage concaved into her face. The bones of her right cheek splinter, poking through her flesh.

  Clutching my stomach, I step past her and try to ignore the squelching sounds each time she hits the wall. I come upon a man of Asian descent wearing a business suit. Shattered metal-framed glasses slide down his nose as he bounces off the trunk of a car and veers into my path. I swallow my scream as I duck to miss his flailing arm. The scent of gasoline is strong on him as he passes.

  I clutch my head with trembling hands as I remain crouched. Three more shuffle past me. One has a huge gouge out of her leg. Teeth marks have torn through muscle and scored bone and I wonder if a dog got ahold of her. As soon as my immediate path is clear I rise and come face to face with three men less than eight steps before me. Their eyes are vacant, unseeing. The one on the right is missing an ear. A gaping wound oozes with blood, trailing down his neck and soiling his white suit coat. The nails on his right hand have been torn away, leaving flies to swarm the fleshy beds of his fingers.

  The second man’s cheeks are shredded. Between strips of flesh, broken teeth jut upright like shark’s teeth. His neck looks like ground meat. The stench surrounding him nearly debilitates me. My eyes water as I raise my shirt to cover my mouth and nose, only sucking in tiny, necessary breaths.

  The third man is covered in muck, his hair and every inch of his body is coated in bits of old garbage, soot and refuse. His clothes are torn and bloodied. He walks with a pronounced limp but he appears to have fared better than most.

  The three Withered Ones seem to keep in pace with each other walking side by side, though they show no conscious thought in doing so. I duck beneath the raised arm of the limping man on the right only to find myself face to face with another small group.

  My throat clenches as I realize I’ve burrowed into the heart of death central. “Just breathe and keep moving,” I whisper to myself as I crawl forward on my hands and knees. I stifle my cries as I bounce between legs. Their fingers claw through my hair, tugging me back as they continue on their mindless walk. My shoulders grow slick with gore. I pause and flick a patch of skin off my shoulder and shake out my hair. Bits of fingernails fall from my matted curls.

  “Oh shit.” I allow only small gulps of breath as I fight to still my rising panic. The air tastes foul on my tongue.

  “Almost through,” I try to reassure myself as the legs before me begin to dwindle.

  I cry out as a piece of glass on the street slices my palm. I falter to the right, slam into the leg of a man, and buckle under the weight of him falling on top of me. I scream and flail, writhing to be free in spite of the shattered glass beneath me.

  Blood splatters my face and enters my mouth as I beat against the man. He doesn’t fight back, doesn’t yell or show any sign of pain from my attack. His arms and legs continue to move, as if he were still walking.

  Slowly I crawl out from under him and drag myself up onto the curb and press back against the wall. I stare at the Moaner, horrified to find most of his left side has been torn away.

  I roll to my side and hurl as bits of what looks like ground beef slide off my sleeve. I wrench my hand away. As I empty my stomach onto the sidewalk, I realize that the scent is actually an improvement.

  Wiping my mouth clean, I’m forced to gasp for breath and my stomach instantly begins to churn anew. I long for a fresh country breeze instead of this vile, stench ridden street. I beat at my arm, removing any signs of that man from me before I pull my legs into my chest.

  My fingers tremble as I hold myself, watching the Moaners, walking side by side. I bury my head in my arms and count slowly to 100. I listen to their stunted steps until they move on, like a herd without direction.

  Slowly the air begins to clear and I raise my head. I wipe tears from my face and glance toward the pharmacy. It’s only a block away. Determined to sa
ve Eva, I force myself to my feet and scan the surrounding streets, peering around the corner for any sign of more Withered Ones. I spot two females at the end of the block to my right and four more to my left but the path directly to the pharmacy is clear.

  “Eva needs me.” I gather what few shreds of courage I have left and sprint toward the glass doors of the shop. I slip several times in dark puddles and pray that it isn't urine. Less than a minute later I hit the front door and bounce off, my footing unsteady in the collection of glass on the doorstep.

  I peer into the darkened shop and feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. There is a moan from within.

  I turn and press back against the wall, swearing under my breath. “Really? Does someone have me on their ‘let’s fuck with Avery’ radar today? Scenes like this in horror movies never turn out well.”

  The sun has risen over the top of the nearest building, the heat helping to ward off some of the biting cold. The wind whips mercilessly down the city streets, chilling me as it seeps through my bloodied clothes. “At least it’s not nighttime,” I mutter to myself, though walking into a pitch black building makes this fact pretty much irrelevant.

  Glass crunches beneath my shoes as I duck and slip through the empty-framed front doors. The open sign jangles against the door as I reach for a shopping basket to carry my items in. I freeze and wait for the metallic clanking to cease, holding my breath. I hear nothing, but the knowledge that I’m not alone makes me cautious. There is at least one of them in here. Most likely more.

  After moving only a few feet into the store, the amount of visible light diminishes drastically. I rise onto my toes, squinting against the dark in an attempt to see the aisle signs. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” I mutter under my breath.

  The shelves are ransacked, much of their contents either stolen or left scattered on the floor. I force myself to tiptoe past the shampoo and conditioner aisle, though I would dearly love to grab a few bottles for later. I pass a row of sunscreen and cold medicines, canes and those little round pillows people sit on after surgeries. When I hit the vitamin aisle I stare long and hard into the shadows to make sure nothing is moving before darting down to find prenatal vitamins. I snatch boxes of gauze and tape, hydrogen peroxide and pads to help with the clean-up.

  I snag a box of gloves and am heading to find baby formula when I hear it. Sluggish footsteps. I press back against the shelf and listen, trying to drown out the sound of my racing heart as I try to decide where the steps are coming from.

  My head whips around at the sound of a loud crash, followed by the cascade of cans falling. It must have hit a display. Crouching low, I inch toward the back of the aisle and peer out. The light spilling in from the windows on the far side is blinding, making it hard to see anything in the shadows. Something hits my foot and I clamp my hand over my mouth to still my cries.

  I hear thrashing and more cans spiraling across the floor. I reach down and grab the can at my feet and hold it up right. “Of course it would be baby formula!”

  If Eva is too weak to push without help during the delivery, there’s no way she will be strong enough to feed her baby. I don’t have a choice. Tucking the shopping basket beneath my arm, I creep forward in the dark, collecting any cans I find in my path. I reach for one final can, praying that I have collected enough when a hand seizes mine.

  It is unnaturally cold, the skin loose and sagging. I scream and buck as fingers curl around my wrist, locking down. The rasping moan grows louder and I feel myself being tugged forward.

  “Get off of me!” I beat at the hand, scratching and clawing, yanking with all my might. That’s when I smell it: a new scent of sweat over the scent of death.

  I hear a footstep behind me a second before a bag is pulled over my head and I’m yanked to my feet. The gruesome grasp releases me. I hear a gunshot nearby as something sharp stabs into my upper arm and my protests grow weak.

  “No.” My head swims and my eyes flutter closed. “Eva needs me…”

  My wrists are pinched together in cuffs as I am hauled to my feet. I see dots of light through the dark hood but trip over my basket and nearly face plant when my legs don't react as fast as I need them to.

  “Easy with this one. We need her unharmed.” I turn my head at the voice.

  “Who are you?” My question goes unanswered. Strong hands grip my arms as I’m lifted off the ground and carried out of the shop. I hear the rumble of a large engine, feel the heat from it as I’m placed on my feet, held aloft by the men beside me. Their grip on my arms is tight, though I can barely keep my head upright as I sag against them.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” My words slur as my head falls backward. The muscles in my neck pull taut.

  The sound of clanking metal chains sounds distorted in my ears. A tailgate squeals as it lowers before me and I’m hauled inside. Darkness rushes in as my head hits the metal floor; the pain insufficient enough to keep me lucid and I lose consciousness.

  SEVEN

  My head hurts. Not like a small sinus headache. More like someone using a buzz saw to separate the two hemispheres of my brain.

  My body feels weird, heavy and lethargic. Shooting pains rise along my neck. As I try to lift my head, I realize that my wrists and ankles are bound. I am seated upright, my chest and thighs strapped down tight enough to cut off circulation. A blindfold covers my vision, pressing tightly against my closed eyelids.

  Dripping, as maddening as it is constant, sounds around me. There is a high pitched beeping coming from somewhere behind my head.

  “Hello?” My voice cracks and I clear my throat to try again. “Is anyone there?”

  I hear breathing in the dark. Slow and steady. Rhythmic. It scares me. Almost like a prank call gone too far.

  “I can hear you.” I hate that my voice trembles.

  Nothing. No response. I call until my throat is raw but no one answers my pleas.

  Slowly my other senses begin to kick back in. I become aware of the beat of my pulse in my neck and realize that it pulses in time with the beeping from behind my head. It must be some sort of heart monitor.

  I smell nothing. Literally nothing. It is as if the space has been sanitized and then stripped of all recognizable scent. A clean room. My lips part and I breathe deep, hoping to taste something on the air but even this test fails me.

  I am alone in the dark. No. Not alone. Just ignored.

  “Let me out of here!” I scream. I listen as my cry echoes around me, twisting against my restraints but manage only to burn my skin.

  “Hello?” I listen again, focusing on the echo. I’m in a large room. That much I do know. The sound does not bounce back at me but diminishes as it travels away. I turn my head this way and that, attempting other calls. As best I can tell there is a wall to my left not far away. Nothing before me or to my right.

  “Think, Avery. Just focus on what you know.”

  I’m in a shitful of trouble, that’s what I know! My panic begins to rise and I struggle to squash it down.

  I freeze at the sound of grinding gears. The sound is distant. I let my head roll back to my shoulder as a door bangs open. Heavy footfalls head my way. Several people approach but they don't seem the least bit concerned about being heard.

  “Where’s the new one?” A man asks.

  “At the end. She’s been...resisting.”

  A disgruntled harrumph greets me less than a minute before I sense movement in front of me. I wish that I could open my eyes, sneak a glimpse of my captors. Instead I rely heavily on my other senses.

  I note the ticking of a watch. Smell the scent of cologne attempting to mask alcohol. I feel a cold breeze on my arm and wonder if the door they entered through was left open.

  “Is she awake?”

  I keep my breathing slow and steady. A hand presses to my neck and I force myself not to react. The man steps back. “Her vitals are steady. It is possible that the sedation has begun to wear off again.”

  Ag
ain? I don't remember waking up here before.

  “How much have you managed to collect?” The gravelly voice belongs to a seasoned man, perhaps in his fifties or later. His words are clipped, no nonsense. This is a man who is obviously used to giving orders and having them instantly obeyed.

  “We have removed two pints so far, but I’m still waiting for the test results to come back.” A meek voice speaks up. I hear the rustling of papers and imagine him to have a clipboard in hand, sifting through my charts.

  “Not good enough, Doctor. I want triple that.”

  “But sir–” his protest is cut off.

  “No excuses. We are running low. Our soldiers’ lives depend on it.”

  I have to fight not to react to that. I remember giving blood when I was a bit younger at a mobile red cross unit that stopped at a church just down the street from me. To be honest, I went for the food afterward, not for some noble notion that I was helping people. I was hungry. My mother had been on one of her drinking binges again and the only things in the fridge were baking soda and butter.

  That day they took one pint of my blood and it was enough to leave me woozy for a while. I didn’t like that feeling. In the end, I decided the food wasn’t worth it.

  Now this guy wants to take half of my blood and call it a day? Oh, hell no!

  “I have rights,” I croak, lifting my head.

  “Rights?” Thick fingers paw at the blindfold over my face, tearing stands of hair from my scalp. The blindfold slides down around my neck and I’m forced to blink several times before my eyes adjust to the brilliant light overhead.

  It is a medical light, round and domed, like what you see on TV. My mom used to have a thing for watching reruns of ER. As I look around I see several machines that look vaguely familiar.

  “And what rights do you think you still have?”

  I turn my head to the right and glare at a stern looking man. His temples are flecked with white against his cropped graying head of hair. Lines mar his face, streaking his forehead. His eyes are dark and cold, demanding.