"Ana Cortez, please report to ICU Room Four. I repeat: Ana Cortex, ICU Room Four. Thank you."
She set down the sheaf of papers and shot a tired glare at the PA speaker mounted to the wall above the administration desk. Cora, the other nurse at the station, shot her a sympathetic look. "What is this, fourth time in the hour?"
Ana sighed loudly, massaging her temples with her index fingers. "Yeah. All about the same case, too."
Cora's fingers were busy flying over her keyboard as she periodically glanced down at a patient report. "The patient they quarantined in Radiology?"
"The very same." She brushed at the wrinkles on her faded green uniform and stood up. The hospital was in disarray today. She could hear the sirens from the ambulances outside even from her post on the fourth floor, and harried doctors had been rushing past all day, barking orders at the residents trailing behind them. Even the patients looked tense, as though they could sense the atmosphere was not that of a normal hospital.
"I thought they were keeping him separate from the rest of the patients," Cora piped up as Ana strode away from behind the nurse station.
"They are," she called over her shoulder.
And for good reason.
She had seen him for the first time yesterday. Patient Zero, they were calling him. She'd been instructed to pick up the results for several of his MRI scans, and had walked into the overseer's booth above the room. Three doctors—Carmack, Rosenberg and Ashford—were peering down into the room, their faces inherently grim.
"Ana? Good, you're here," Ashford had said, in his twitchy, nervous way. He shoved a messy pile of brain-scan images into her hand. "Please take these to Dr. Wong at once."
Ana frowned. Dr. Wong was one of the most talented doctors at Mercy Hospital, and the go-to guy for every seemingly hopeless or abstract case that surfaced. "Is there a problem, Dr. Ashford?"
"N-no problem, no problem," he muttered feebly, glancing back down into the room and seemingly paling at what he saw. Ana inched forward and peered downward. She caught a brief glimpse of a thrashing, white-gowned body being forced onto a gurney by four other men, each wearing gas masks. The flailing patient was snarling, too—deep, guttural snarls that seemed to seep right through the observation booth and into Ana's core. As she watched in astonishment, the man's flailing arm seized upon one of the masked men's wrists, brought a white-gloved hand towards his face, and bit down.
An agonized scream floated up from below. Ana gasped as she saw the masked man stagger back, clutching the gaping wound where his thumb used to be. Blood coursed over the once-white glove, splattering across the patient's face as he ripped his head back and forth—
"Ana." She felt Rosenberg's heavy hand on her thin shoulder, tightening as he steered her out the door. "You don't want to see this."
She shuddered deeply. That had been less than eighteen hours ago. Since then, from what the doctors were reporting, Patient Zero had been incoherent, maniacal, and completely unresponsive to any form of communication. He had bitten over thirteen of the hospital personnel sent to handle him, and from what Ana had gathered, over ten of them were beginning to exhibit the symptoms of a serious illness. The only way they were able to study him was by pumping him full of tranquilizer, and in amounts that should have killed any normal human.
What's wrong with him? She thought blankly, not for the first time, as she headed towards the quarantine room. Why is he attacking everyone that comes near him? And the look in his eyes...
She stopped when she came to the biohazard tape.
"Ana?" Dr. Ashford was hurrying towards her from the opposite end of the hallway, eyes bloodshot and tired behind his wire-framed glasses. The rosary around his neck bounced with his uneven gait, slapping against his stark white coat.
"Yes, Dr. Ashford?" Ana asked quietly. A hoarse gurgle came from the room down the hall, the one criss-crossed with glaring yellow tape and hanging biohazard posters, followed by a sharp exclamation.
"I need your help," he said gravely, falling into step beside her. "Patient Zero is showing no signs of improvement. Every treatment we've attempted on him thus far has proven ineffective. Truth be told, we're not even sure exactly what's wrong with him."
"Have you been in touch with Dr. Wong?" she inquired, as they stepped over the threshold and into the room.
"Yes," Ashford replied distractedly, seemingly forgetting what they were talking about. "Wong? Yes. He isn't sure what this is, and as for the..." he trailed off, frowning as he took in the sight before them.
Patient Zero was strapped tightly to a bed, his hands and ankles tightly bound with surgical tubing. Three other men were standing over him, casting him dark glances. Two were doctors. One of them was looking distinctly pale, with deep purple bags under his eyes. His sleeve was rolled up and a hand clutched at the crook of his left elbow, where a deep set of teeth marks adorned the skin. The area around it had turned a deep, mottled purple.
The last man was dressed in sharp camouflaged army fatigues. She briefly took in his salt and pepper hair, the cool grey eyes. Then her attention was drawn to the wickedly gleaming assault rifle that was clutched in his hands.
"What's going on in here?" Ashford asked slowly.
"He can't be controlled," the bitten doctor grunted, and Ana detected a rasp of pain and—something else—in his voice. Anger? Rage? He pressed tighter against his wound. "No treatments are working. He's bitten me, Harry, Ron, Colin. Six other patients before he could restrain him when he first succumbed to the symptoms. Then three residents."
"We're aware that you and Rosenberg were running the show before," the second doctor said, eyes flashing back and forth between his bitten friend. "Harry's been sent home due to sickness. He couldn't concentrate in his surgeries. And Colin lost his goddamn finger. Patient Zero bit it right the fuck off."
"I've seen the X-rays; I ordered them myself," Ashford said, his normally timid tone taking on a harder edge. "And who exactly are you?" he looked toward the army soldier.
"Colonel Garrett Hunt," the man replied. Ana shivered at his voice; it was smooth and level and as cold as his eyes. She instantly disliked him. "Civil Emergency and Defense Agency."
"And might I ask what you're doing here?" Ashford replied stiffly.
"This party's over, doc," Colonel Hunt replied dismissively. "This thing here—" he jabbed roughly at Patient Zero with the barrel of his rifle, sending the bound man into savage hysterics—"is no more human than a goddamned dog. Look at him." Five pairs of eyes turned to the struggling man, his eyes red and bloodshot, teeth gnashing, yellowed saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth. "He's sick. Infected."
"Infected with what?" Ana said in a small voice. The Colonel shot her a condescending look.
"How the hell should I know? You're the goddamned doctors here; you tell me what he has." He glared at the writhing form with thinly veiled disgust. "It's like he's got fucking rabies or something."
"His case is unlike any we've ever seen before," Ashford said sharply before she could respond. "But I wasn't aware that the dealings of a simple hospital were of any concern to the government."
"Thirteen bites," the Colonel said coldly. "Thirteen bites were given to others by this... Patient Zero, did you call him? No matter. And it seems to me that every victim is beginning to display the same symptoms as he is. And before he regressed to this state, how many other patients was he in contact with?"
Ashford did not reply. The Colonel looked to Ana, eyes roving over her body. She shivered, unconsciously crossing her arms over her breasts. "What about you, blondie? What was the procedure before you put him in quarantine?"
She looked to Dr. Ashford, but he was staring fixatedly at the wall. "We... he was in the general population, we didn't see any reason to—"
"Exactly," Colonel Hunt cut in. "If he so much as sneezed during that time, who's to say how many other patients caught what this fucker has?" He raised the rifle slightly. "I'm putting him down before this escalates into a national health hazard."
"You can't do that!" Ashford gasped, aghast. "He's a human being."
"Is that so?" Hunt said coldly. He jerked a shoulder at the bitten doctor. "And humans go around biting and maiming others, do they?"
"That – that may be true, Colonel, but we're all human beings in the end!" Ashford exclaimed. "Come to your senses."
"Oh, no problem there," Hunt said expressionlessly. "Stand back." He raised the rifle.
"No!" Ashford cried out. "This is not God's will!"
"I don't believe in God," Hunt said flatly. "I believe in facts. And the fact is, this man is infected with something, and unless I take action to stop it, a whole lot more people are going to get hurt." He switched the safety off with a loud snap. "Stand back, doctor."
"You can't do this!" Ashford begged. "It's not right!"
Ana backed away, eyes wide, heart hammering. Hunt's face could have been carved from stone. He raised the rifle.
"No!"
Ashford threw himself at the Colonel, broadsiding him. The CEDA officer grunted, the barrel of his gun knocked upward as it flashed. A sharp spray of gunfire roared in Ana's ears, obliterating the lighted ceiling fan above them. The room was shrouded in darkness.
"Jesus!"
Hunt struggled to throw Ashford off, who had wrapped his arms around the man in a bear hug. Rifle fire danced across the room, punching a series of holes in the X-rays of four-fingered hands that adorned the walls. One of the bullets shattered the surgical tubing near Patient Zero's right hand, and it burst free of the restraint.
Ana backed away, screaming. "Stop! Stop it!"
One of the doctors slammed into Ana as he went for Ashford; she stumbled and fell towards the centre of the room, hands outstretched to break her fall. They landed on something cold and thrashing. She heard a deep snarl. Two dark, glaring eyes shone red at her from the darkness. A cold hand seized her face and wrenched it down.
Ana screamed, then felt the teeth on her throat.
She saw spots and felt warm blood drench the side of her neck. Pressure built under her jaw. She wavered and fell forward, felt another hand scrabbling at her chest, fisting in her nurse's uniform. Sharp, yellowed nails seized the buttons on her front and pulled. She barely heard them ricochet into the darkness over the snarling, Hunt's cursing, Ashford's crying.
And her screaming.
The hand at her throat tightened, and another grabbed her breast. The pressure at her throat vanished; moments later she felt a deep, searing pain over her right nipple. Flesh ripped and she almost passed out, crying and screaming in the dark as blood ran down her pale chest and stained her uniform crimson. The hands released her and she fell away, blood gushing. She saw Ashford's eyes in the dark and she wordlessly reached out, fingers bloody and trembling. Her lips moved, but she couldn't utter words. She mouthed soundlessly:
Help... me...
With a look of horror and revulsion on his face, Ashford turned and ran.
The sounds of screaming grew sluggish and distant.
Ana fell next to the bed, eyes glazing, vision fading. She dimly registered a pair of feet leaping over her body; running full tilt at the door. She heard more screams in the distance, ever fainter, as she lost consciousness.
Two minutes later, she stood.
x x x x
Entry 42
There have been radio reports coming in from Fairfield for almost five days, I think. The police made a statement about a massive amount of strange phone calls coming in, people saying that their neighbours were running around like madmen outside. Yelling, breaking things. Attacking anyone around them. The radio said something about the military blockading the entire area. No-one's being allowed in, or out. I heard CEDA even has a hand in all this. They're guarding the road exits and all planes going out of Fairfield have been grounded. And the news report last night showed cell phone imaging sent in from Highway 17 – buildings were on fire, and you could see the plumes of smoke from the skyscrapers from afar. I don't know what's going on, but I hope the military fixes it soon.
Entry 45
Saw another news report tonight. This time some amateur photojournalist showed censored videotape footage from a CEDA helicopter of the military moving into Fairfield. I've never seen so many troops moving at once except in movies. According to CNN, police transmissions have been coming in more frequently from that area, an insane amount. Panicky, and disoriented. Nobody knows what's going on, but Chelsie's aunt lives over there, and her dad is going crazy from worry. I called her last night, but her line was busy. Guess she was on with Nick all night. I'll try calling Chelsie again tonight to ask her about it. I hope she's not too scared.
Entry 46
Tried talking to Chelsie today in school. She didn't seem too eager to talk to me, and she's going to the movies with Nick tonight. Whatever. I'm going to go running. I don't want to think about anything right now.
Entry 47
News said there's been radio silence in Fairfield since yesterday evening. They just stopped broadcasting, like that. News choppers have been showing footage of the city from the air, and it looks... something's not right. It's almost like there's a citywide riot going on. Crowds of people running in the streets, fighting, destroying. The riot police are out on the streets, but the footage didn't look good. You could see cars choking the streets, and massive roadblocks all across the highways every city exit. Everyone in school's talking about it. The Fairfield Crisis. Kinda catchy. I think I'll go call Greg – maybe he heard something on CNN on his way to school. Whatever the situation is, it's spreading. And it's spreading fast.
Entry 48
This was on television last night – they found a drifter about ten miles northeast of Fairfield. Our direction. The guy was screaming nonsense, yelling and snarling. He couldn't speak – just angry, guttural shrieks. Flailing his arms, vomiting blood. He reached for anyone who came close. They tried sedatives, but even six times a lethal dose did nothing. Before the report ended, they said they had to chain him down. And they found others too – coming from the rural areas. I'm freaked out now myself. Rumours are spreading that CEDA is coming to Riverside.
Entry 53
The army's here. They arrived yesterday afternoon. I can't believe all this shit just fell and landed on our doorstep. Who would have thought this thing could have spread so fast? CEDA's set up wire fences and barricades across the city's major "choke points," according to an article in the Riverside Daily. What the fuck's that supposed to mean? They've been taking in people who have been coming from the countryside. Survivors, they say, from whatever is causing the riots. They're airlifting people out, or at least that's what they told us. So far, the main part of the town is being kept completely separate from the barricades. They keep telling us to go about our business, and that everything's under control. But rumours are everywhere, and we keep hearing the whispers. Whispers that say all of Fairfield is gone. Completely wiped out.
Something's wrong.
I just don't know what it is.
x x x x
"Jon, wake up!"
He felt the bed vibrating under his body, bouncing up and down as something heavy collided with it again and again. He grunted, kicking out sleepily. He hit something soft and a split second later a heavy body crashed down onto his own.
"Oof!" He had been going for a colourful curse word, but as the breath was crushed from his lungs, all he could manage was an inarticulate grunt of surprise. "Whassamatter?"
"You're going to be late again, boy wonder," a teasing female voice said. "Better get up."
He rolled over, ignoring her.
"Mom's making pancakes."
He opened one eye. "Blueberry?"
"Of course," she laughed.
He grinned sleepily. "Well played. Alright, I'm up." She snuggled up against him and he groaned and shoved her sideways off the bed. "Hey!" Dark, tousled brunette locks surfaced next to his face. She frowned prettily. "What was that for?"
"You can't do that," he said idly, sitting up in bed and reaching up to move his wavy dark hair out of his eyes. "You always try to wake me up and then make me go back to sleep."
"Then maybe you should learn to get up earlier and avoid all this," she said, batting at his hand.
He reached out and flicked her nose. "Get out of my room, kiddo."
"Don't do that," she hissed, looking for a brief moment not like an innocent, playful tenth grader, but like a seething Amazonian warrior. He laughed, reaching out again, but she ducked under his hand and sprinted out the room. "Mom!"
Jonathan sat up and glanced sideways at the radio alarm clock that was resting on his dresser. Large, bold red letters were stamped across the display
7:59 a.m.
The alarm blared to life as soon as the hour turned.
"...believed to be a mutated strain of the rabies virus. Officials have urged citizens to remain and obey instructions set forth by public health centres. While the possibility of a terrorist threat has not been ruled out, government officials have stated that such an origin is unlikely—"
He reached out and shut off the radio before staggering, bleary-eyed, towards the bathroom, wiping sleep from his eyes. His normally flat black hair stuck up around his head like a bizarre halo.
He showered, dressed in his daily wear—dark-washed jeans and a dark blue t-shirt— and bounded downstairs towards the kitchen.
When he entered the room the kitchen was being flooded with the sound of the Fab Four— Abbey Road, to be precise. His mother was washing dishes in the sink basin and singing along to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" while his father attempted to simultaneously drink coffee while carrying on a heated conversation on the phone. Maddie was sitting at the table, a stack of blueberry pancakes heaped before her and a newspaper unfurled in her hand. She gave him a mock glare, and he winked at her. The corner of her mouth lifted reluctantly.
"Morning, good fellows," Jon said, as he sat down at the table and pulled a platter of pancakes towards himself. His father gave him a distracted salute with his mug and then continued ranting. His mother looked over her shoulder at him. "You overslept again, mister."
"I'm a growing boy, and all that," he yawned, dousing the pancakes in maple syrup and heaping strawberries on top from a nearby bowl. His sister reached over with her fork and stole a strawberry from the top of the mound, and he stuck out his tongue at her.
"If that's all, then. All right. Thanks." His father hung up and looked down at the phone, a slight frown on his face. "That was Coleson from the Municipal Courts. The military's ordered them shut down for today, so I don't have to go in for work."
"Score one, big man," Jon held out his hand. "Mad props."
"Good one," his father replied, standing up and walking past him. "I don't like this. Everything in town has been tense ever since the army arrived here."
"They say it's for our own protection," his mother spoke from the sink.
"Then why won't they tell us what's going on?" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair in a gesture much like that of his son. "All these damn questions."
"Language, Thomas," his mother warned. His father smirked. "Sorry, honey."
"Anything good in there, kiddo?" Jon asked. Maddie lowered the paper, glancing at him through her dark hair before vanishing behind the paper again. "There's news, but I wouldn't call it good. Looks like they found more of those weird cannibal things near the turnpike."
"Maddie!" Jon's mother said sharply. "I don't want you reading those terrible things. It's bad enough that so many incidents have popped up and people been attacked without you being exposed to that violence."
"I'm not a kid anymore, Mom," his sister said indignantly. "I wish you'd stop treating me like a child." The radio changed songs.
"She's got a point, Lydia," his father's voice piped up from behind the fridge as he bent inside. "She's not our baby anymore. Besides, I want her—and you too, Jonathan—" his stern face suddenly peered at him from behind the fridge door, "—to be extra careful and come home right after school. It's dangerous now, with all these military types barricading the entire town."
"If you insist," Jon sighed dramatically. "And don't worry about Maddie, Mom. She's half-smart sometimes. She'll be fine." His sister smiled at him, her green eyes sparkling, as their parents engaged in an argument about the recent development and Maddie's exposure to it. Jon shrugged and finished his pancakes. He was just grabbing his knapsack when a car horn blared from outside. "That's Greg. I've got to go, guys." He grabbed his keys and tucked them into his pockets.
"Don't forget, you said you'd quiz me for Canadian History when you come home," Maddie said.
"I know." He went for the door.
"You promised!" she called after him. He turned and grinned. "I know. See you later, kiddo."
"Love you," his father called after him, as Jon's hand closed over the doorknob. He didn't know it then, but it would be the last time he ever heard it.
"Love you too, Dad."
The door closed.
Jon walked across the lawn in the bright sunlight, towards the grey Pontiac Vibe idling at the edge of the curb before his house. "Took you long enough," Greg said, grinning at Jon as he tossed his knapsack into the front seat and climbed in after it. "But we know you need your beauty sleep."
"Shut up, loser," Jon replied, smirking. "Now quick, step on it, or I'll be late for World History."
"Sure thing, Daddy-O," Greg replied, and he put his foot on the pedal and pulled into the street. Jon shook his head, bemused. Gregory Palmer, eighteen years old, a senior in his final year at Riverside High, just like himself... and as insufferable as always.
"You hear anything else about the Fairfield thing?" Jon asked as Greg pulled onto Woodhaven Boulevard. The sun shone brightly overhead, a blazing ring in a haze of blue and white. To Jon's left, a girl looking to be in her early twenties rollerbladed past, with a golden Labrador running alongside her, tongue dangling from one side of its happy grin.
Greg shook his head. "Nothing so far. Last I heard was they were putting the people they found in the suburbs into quarantine."
"So check the radio," Jon suggested, twisting the knob; there was a sharp burst of static and then a sharp male voice came out of the speakers.
"...bizarre reports from military staff detail victims breaking out into a violent, cannibalistic rage..."
Jon sighed. "Same as last night."
They swerved out of the subdivisions onto Main Street. Cars rumbled and honked down the road, big yellow buses lumbered past, and pedestrians strolled to and fro, talking, rushing, commuting. The time melted away as they drove onward, through the hum of early morning traffic, until they swerved into the parking lot of Riverside High.
Jon opened his door and stepped out, glancing towards the front of the school, where students milled to and fro, laughing and talking. A football was being tossed around by several sophomores outside the main doors.
Jon pulled his knapsack onto his back as Greg got out of the car, shutting his door behind him. "And with time to spare."
"Well, you were bound to get lucky sometime," Jon smirked. Then he looked over Greg's shoulder and the grin slid right off his face.
Nick's silver Beemer rolled past the Pontiac and slid into a parking spot a few cars from them. Greg looked over, immediately taking in Jon's darkened expression. "Fuck, you've got it bad, man."
He grunted.
The driver's door opened and Nick Canfield stepped out. Tall, light brown hair, deep hazel eyes. Riverside High's very own all-American poster boy. He was also coincidentally the son of the richest man in town.
Jon watched dully as Chelsie Stevens got out of the passenger seat, her serene face lit up with laughter. Her head swivelled and her mahogany hair danced in the sun. Then her gaze caught his and her smile wavered, just a fraction. He felt his heart lower as he realized she was still afraid of him. Not afraid, per se, that was too strong a word. But uncomfortable? Awkward? Those were right on money.
"Let's go," he said quickly, turning to walk away, but Nick's voice rang out after him.
"Jon! What's up, man?" He strode over, flashing a genuinely warm smile. Chelsie hesitated, then followed a split second later. Jon sighed inwardly. He didn't know what was worse—the fact that he felt so annoyed by Nick, or the fact that Nick didn't even have a clue about it. They were even friends before he had started dating Chelsie. Not best friends, but close. Jon had fallen out of touch with him since, but Nick didn't have any idea why.
Because of that night...
He remembered Chelsie's soft breathing, the arch of her back. He brutally crushed the memory down.
"What's up?" he asked guardedly as they approached.
Chelsie shot him a strained smile. "Not much. I was up late last night—"
His stomach twisted.
"—finishing Mr. Cooper's philosophy assignment."
He was immediately disgusted with himself. What the fuck is my problem?
"Bit late, aren't you, Cricket?" Greg smirked, using her nickname from sixth grade when she had accidentally nailed their gym teacher in the groin with a cricket bat by the baseball diamond. Chelsie giggled and swatted his shoulder. "Get off my back. I had other stuff to do."
Jon watched them with a detached sense of longing. He hated the fact that he was actually jealous, actually felt sick at the thought that it was Greg who was able to make her laugh, when he, her best friend since grade school and neighbour until three years ago, could not. But Greg had plenty of girlfriends, and Chelsie had never shown any interest in him.
He was saved from his thoughts as Justin, Chelsie's brother, came ambling over from the front gates, dirty-blonde hair glinting in the sun. "Yo, losers."
"Top of the morning to you as well," Jon gave an exaggerated bow. "Might I take your hat, good sir?" Chelsie's mouth twitched and she bit her lip quickly. Justin noticed her expression and grinned evilly.
"Big sister!" he exclaimed, as though he had just noticed her. "I'm quite surprised to see you here. As I recall, you overslept this morning, did you not?"
"Justin, shut up," she hissed, glancing at Jon furtively beneath her curtain of hair.
"What?" he shrugged easily. "I'm just saying, all those extra-curriculars you were up to must have tired you out. Also, try to keep it down next time; it was frickin' annoying. Or at least have the common decency to turn your music up or something. Shit, we share a wall, woman."
Chelsie looked away, her cheeks pink and burning. Nick was grinning sheepishly, looking slightly disconcerted, but not as embarrassed as Jon would have been in the same situation. He felt a sour taste in his mouth.
"Whatever. We're going to get to class." She grabbed Nick's arm and tugged him away. "See you later, Greg. Jon." Nick nodded after them. "Later, guys!"
"At ease, Cricket," Greg called after them. The pair joined a wave of kids heading into the front gates before Greg turned to Justin and socked his arm, hard. "What the hell was that for, douchebag?"
"What the fuck?" Justin gasped, sounding highly affronted. He rubbed his muscled shoulder. "Give me a break. They've been going for five months, man. He's gonna have to get used to it some time."
"I'm standing right here," Jon said irritably.
Justin shook his head pityingly, his face half-hidden under the brim of his Midnight Riders hat. "Dude, just forget her. My sister lives in her own little world. I know you guys had something special in the past. I've been trying to get the details out of her for ages, but she just won't crack. Anyways," he shook his head slightly, as though getting back on track. "Just let it go."
"He's got a point," Greg said as they made their way across the parking lot. "She's known you for how long, Jon? Since you were kids?"
"Eleven years."
"Yeah. But she wouldn't go with you. But Nick, she only knew him for about two months before they started dating."
They joined the flow of high school students making their way through the front doors. "You have a point?"
"You already know it," Greg said, slapping his shoulder. Jon sighed, because they knew each other too well.
They went past the entrance towards A Hallway. A group of pretty girls lounging at their lockers giggled slightly as Greg passed through, casting appreciative glances their way. Jon shook his head. Girls went nuts over Greg; that was just the way it was. With his dark chestnut skin, powerful physique born from constant soccer practice, and his easygoing, nonchalant nature, he attracted girls like moths to a flame. Teachers loved him, guys wanted to be him... at the height of the popularity food chain, everyone and everything wanted a bite of Gregory Palmer.
Jon did not resent his friend for this; on the contrary, he found all the hubbub rather amusing. While Greg was as laid back as they came, preferring to breeze his way through school while making it big as Riverside High's star soccer player, Jon was more academically oriented and tended to overanalyze things. While polar opposites in personality, Jon and Greg had been best friends since first grade, and nothing would change that.
Justin, on the other hand, was Maddie's age and a sophomore. He'd already had his share of girlfriends, due to his amiable grin and strong arms from working down at Ted's auto repair shop. He paused at the entrance to his classroom and jerked his head. "I'm this way. See you guys at lunch."
"Peace," Greg called at his retreating back.
"Hey, Greg! Jon!" Jon turned to see Katie White, a girl in his philosophy class, wading towards them through the sea of students. With her bright blond hair that lit up the hallway, Katie could always be seen from a mile away, with her radiant smile and perfect teeth. A seasoned tennis star and incredible flute player, Katie was lusted after by most boys, but Jon knew she harboured a spark for Greg. Surprise!
"Hey Kat," Greg said easily, smiling at her and glancing appreciatively at her as she approached; Katie was dressed all in white: a short, flowy skirt coupled with a rather snug tennis shirt. Katie tucked her hair behind her ear and beamed back at him. "How's it going, guys?"
"Hellish," Jon said with an exaggerated grimace. "As you can see, a deeply virulent pathogen known as Gregory Palmer has struck the fair town of Riverside."
"Ouch," Katie grinned. "Are you really gonna take that, Greg?"
"Silence, minion," Greg laughed, shoving Jon in the shoulder; Jon collided with a locker and made a face. "Just kidding." Greg turned to Katie. "Shouldn't you be in Music now, Kitty Kat?" he immediately dodged sideways, avoiding the punch she aimed at his face. "I told you to stop calling me that!" she cried playfully, throwing more punches his way.
"Now, now," Greg chuckled, catching her fists in midair. "It comes from love, you know that."
"Gross," Jon said idly, heading off down the hall. "I'll leave you two lovebirds at it. I've got World History in five minutes."
"One, actually," Katie giggled, twisting her body to glance at her watch, suspended above her head as Greg held her wrists. Jon gaped. "One? Shit! I'm out of here. See you later!" He sprinted off, barely registering the chorused "bye" that echoed behind him.
Got to get to the third floor in sixty seconds, kill me now...
He burst into the classroom as the bell rang, breathing a sigh of relief. His teacher, Mr. Kramer, looked at him bemusedly. "Cutting it rather close, Mr. Brooks."
"Sorry, sir," Jon gasped. "Won't happen again." It wouldn't.
"Oh, I've no doubt of it," his teacher said wryly. "Grab a seat."
Jon walked towards the back of the class, through the rows of desks filled with chattering students. Chelsie was sitting by the window, twirling a strand of chocolate hair around her finger as she bit her lip, studying a textbook on her desk. He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away. Before he realized what he was doing, he had dropped into a seat next to her.
"Hey," he said cautiously.
She started, looking up in surprise. "Oh... hey," she said quietly, casting her eyes downward.
"Look," he started haltingly, as the class began taking out their notes. Jon wasn't even sure why he was talking. He hadn't spoken to Chelsie for more than two minutes at a time for over three weeks. "I, uh... Chelsie, do you think we could talk?"
"Not now," she said flatly. "We have class."
"Later, then," he insisted.
"I don't think—"
He cut her off. "We're best friends, Chelsie. We've been friends since second grade. I don't just want to let that go. Do you?"
For the first time in a long time, she looked at him without flinching.
"Look, I don't like what's happened with us," he muttered. "I... you know how I hate change and stuff. And—lately, we've been drifting. A lot. We hardly talk anymore. Fuck, even Greg sees you more than me, and he's got soccer practice almost every day."
She still had that pinched, saddened expression and it made him feel sick. She shrugged evasively. "It's not like you ever want to hang out with us, Jon. How many times have I asked you to come out with Nick and I?"
He snorted. "Right. So I can be your third wheel?"
"Fuck you, Jon," she spat at him, cheeks flushed with anger. "Why can't you just let it go? What happened before is never going to happen again, and it's time you get used to it. Get over it."
"Have you?" he said simply.
Her mouth dropped open in surprise and for a moment she looked vulnerable and scared. "Jon—"
"Settle down," Mr. Kramer said from the front of the room. He swallowed and looked away from Chelsie as the teacher turned and began scrawling with chalk upon the blackboard. "We're continuing where we left off on Wednesday. Hitler's foreign policy, and we'll touch base on his domestic policy if we have time."
Time seemed to slowly melt away as Jon scribbled into his notebook. Next to him, Chelsie looked pensively from the board and to him and back again. He ignored her and dully concentrated on his notes.
"Hey!" someone in the front row suddenly piped up. "Outside! Check it out!"
"What is it, Andrew?" Mr. Kramer asked, turning around.
"Car crash! Near the edge of the subdivision!"
There was a cacophony of scraping chairs and students rushed towards the windows, pressing their faces against the glass panes. Jon bolted to his feet, shoving his chair backward as he pushed into the students grouped around the four windows.
"What's going on?" Chelsie asked, shooting him a worried look as she pushed in next to him, their earlier argument forgotten.
"I'm not sure," Jon said, peering out across the grassy field at the back of the school. A large plume of dark smoke was rising from the street at the entrance to the subdivisions. As hushed and excited voices flowed around him, Jon stared at the wreckage, suddenly flinching as another bright ball of red and gold burst to life a little further down the same street.
"What the hell was that?"
"Why did he swerve into the other lane?"
"Did you see that? There are people over there..."
"Look! He's getting out of his car!"
"But... he doesn't look right, what's he doing? He looks fucked up –"
"Holy shit! He tackled that guy! Did you see that? He's beating the shit out of him!"
Jon gaped in astonishment at the distant flurry of shapes. People running, darting to and fro. A mangled wreck of metal that might have passed for a car at one point. Smoke, and fire. A window exploded in one of the houses and human shapes flooded from the broken glass.
"Jon?" Chelsie whispered, her eyes fearful as she gazed outside. "What's going on?"
"I don't know," he said quietly.
"All right, settle down," Mr. Kramer said, trying in vain to calm the buzzing classroom. "Everybody just relax, and we'll figure out what's –" suddenly, a hand clamped down on Jon's arm, and he jerked sharply to look at Ben Cosine, who was pointing with the other hand out the window.
"The trees!" he shouted. "Look at the trees!"
Thirty pairs of eyes swivelled to fix themselves on the tree line, the brink of the forest leading to the rural areas on the edges of Riverside. Through the smoke and haze, shapes were emerging from the wooded pines – dark and murky, blurred by the distance. As the figures materialized out of the mist, Jon realized they were humans – but they didn't look right. They were covered with dirt, and some had horrible red stains coating their clothes. Blood. Men and women, rushing out of the forest. Some stumbled aimlessly about, twitching erratically. Others tripped and fell to the dirt and burst into spasms; others fell only to get back up again. But most of the crowd was running full tilt across the grassy field, heading straight for Riverside High.
"What the hell?" Jon whispered, eyes fixed on the terrifying sight before him. "What's going on?"
"Oh, my God," Chelsie gasped, her hand clutching at Jon's bare arm tightly, her nails digging in sharply. "Their faces. Look at their faces."
He looked.
Their skin was pale, almost ashen in colour, as though the natural pigment of their skin had been drained and nothing was left but grey dust. Their eyes were sunken, with huge purple bags beneath their lids, streaked with red. Yellowed, decaying teeth were displayed atop blackened gums, and wordless snarls flowed from their lips, which were purple and stained with blood. Their eyes glowed with hatred and murderous intent as the massive crowd ran towards the school.
Jon tore away from the window and out into the hall, and Kramer did nothing to stop him. Chelsie followed close behind. All up and down the corridor, doors were bursting open and students were flooding the halls, talking hurriedly, their voices flowing over each other. Teachers appeared in the doorways, trying to calm everyone down. Jon joined the bustling throng of students, all of them pushing towards the stairwell at the end of the hall. Someone knocked into his side; Jon didn't see, or care, who it was. His hand moved through the tangled mass of limbs, brushing against the side of someone's jeans and the softer pliancy of a passing girl's chest, until he found Chelsie's hand.
"Don't let go of me," he shouted over the noise.
She didn't reply, but her hand tightened in his own, holding his fingers closely.
Jon moved with the crowd down the stairs, out of the stairwell and past the cafeteria, which was full of a mob of students, towards the atrium, tugging Chelsie along with him. A contingent of people had already assembled there, students and teachers alike. Jon pushed his way through the crowd as students staggered out of classrooms and down the halls. Random drifts of conversation filled his ears as he passed through.
"Did you see them? They're all around the building—"
"They're completely covering the field, I saw it, it was like a sea of them—"
"They look like hell, they're all bloodied and torn—"
"Did you see the town? There's smoke to the south. Something exploded."
"Someone crashed on Main Street. I saw it—"
"Those people are all coming towards the school..."
"What are they?"
Jon stood under the massive glass dome ceiling of the atrium. He turned to Chelsie, whose chocolate coloured eyes were wide with fear. "Whatever happens," he told her urgently, "stay with me. I'll look after you." She nodded, and squeezed his hand tighter.
From behind them, there was a loud slam, followed by a harsh shout. Jonathan turned.
Someone stood in of the doorways leading to the outside of the high school. Through the small rectangular pane of glass, Jon could see two bright red eyes, glowing like coals in the sunlight. The eyes were filled with rage, their irises bulging and pupils dilated. Fresh blood dripped from the darkened gums and crooked teeth. Spurts of it flecked against the doorway as the person breathed erratically.
"Holy—"
The person raised its hands and hammered them against the door, screaming and shrieking like a banshee; a split second later the door burst off its hinges and a tide of the sick people burst through, snarling like a pack of wolves. Screams erupted and kids began to stampede in all directions as the deranged people surged forward.
Jon was barely aware of Chelsie's panicked scream as a hand reached out from the midst of the throng and, groping wildly, seized a passing student. With a jerk, the boy pulled away, only to be grabbed by another pair of arms. The deranged man thrust the kid backwards against a row of lockers, and began slamming his fists into the kid's face, ignoring the horrified yells of pain and terror. Fingers hooked into claws, the man savaged and ripped away at the boy, until his face was unrecognizable, and he slumped to the floor in a spreading cloud of blood.
Oh my God...
Jon couldn't move, standing stock still, in a daze as students sprinted past him on either side. All around him, the pale, sick looking people were clutching at students that were too close, and beating them senseless. One large, muscular looking man, his red eyes blazing with rage, grabbed a passing girl's face with both hands, pressing his large thumbs into her eye sockets. The girl screamed, a high-pitched, terrified scream that to spiral even higher as the man's thumbs dug deeper into her eyes, until they were buried up to the base of his palm. The girl's hands waved, and blood poured in torrents down her face, on either side of her cheeks. The man then stuck his face into the crook of her neck, and ripped a chunk of skin away with broken teeth; the girl's agonized screams wavered and gurgled away into nothing as her body was dropped ruthlessly to the floor.
Jon stumbled backward as one of the people bit into a teacher's face, tearing a great chunk of her cheek off, and more screams lit the early morning air. Beside him, Chelsie was sobbing and screaming hysterically, her hand tugging on his own numb fingers, as one of the sick people, a thin, emaciated looking woman with dark, unkempt hair, glared directly at him from her sunken, purple eye sockets.
No –
With a shriek the woman bounded forward, moving with surprising speed, and swiped at Jon's ribs; he fell backward against a row of lockers, the padlock digging through his shirt and tearing a line into the flesh of his back. He cried out in pain, collapsing onto the floor as the woman began kicking at him, stomping away at his chest.
Chelsie's hand slipped away.
Snapping out of his terror-induced paralysis, Jon grabbed her foot as it came down and jerked sharply, causing the woman to slip and fall backwards. The top of her head dashed against the edge of a water fountain, and blood sprayed from the wound, leaving streaks on the wall as the woman collapsed, unmoving.
Jon staggered to his feet and stared in abject shock at the motionless woman, blood streaming from the dent in her skull. She was either dead or unconscious. He didn't wait to see which one.
He took off down the hall, his heart beating painfully fast. Chelsie was nowhere to be seen. Fear welled inside him like water in a dam, threatening to overcome him. Shock and revulsion over what he had just done threatened to make him throw up. Dwell on that later. Not now. No time. Got to find Chelsie, and get out. Get out. Get out.
Students were running along the halls in a panic induced frenzy. With all the chaos, Jon could hardly see who was sick and who wasn't. To his left, a boy in a red football jersey was yanked into a classroom by a large man in a construction worker's vest. The man bit down into the boy's throat, eyes savage. Blood sprayed like rain.
Jon ran onward, past the open doors of classrooms, away from the atrium and the screams, the loud smashing of glass. In one room, a crowd of the sick people were hunched over in a group, beating away at a writhing, screaming shape on the floor. In another, the windows were broken, and bloody hands were reaching through the jagged glass in a thick mass.
Jon's breath came painfully fast. The terrified shouts echoed bitterly in his ears. He shouldered past three Goth kids at the entrance to C Hallway, when a hand grabbed his shoulder roughly and spun him around.
Though pain flared roughly in his wrenched shoulder, Jon barely registered it as he stared at the thing before him. It was the boy in the red football jersey, his throat torn and ragged, strips of flesh completely ripped away. Blood coursed down his throat, staining the jersey. But that wasn't all. Somehow, the boy was standing – and his face was shockingly pale, an ashy grey. Cold, red eyes bored at him from above a bloody, dark mouth. Hate flowed from every pore.
This can't be happening. This is impossible. I saw him die. I watched him die.
The boy reached out and grabbed Jon's throat.
Jon drove a fist into the boy's ribs, hearing a sharp crack split the air. The boy didn't even flinch, but instead snarled and began squeezing the air from his lungs. Jon sputtered, slamming his other hand into the broken ribs. The cold, steely grip did not falter in the least.
"Fucker..." Jon rasped, and he jerked his head forward and, feeling repulsed, slammed the top of his head into the kid's bloody face. The football jersey kid staggered back and collapsed on the floor, growling. Ignoring the dull pain – and sticky blood – at the crown of his head, Jon turned tail and ran.
Where are you? Fuck, Chelsie, where are you?
He turned a corner and suddenly she was there. Standing stock still in the centre of a hallway, the floor littered with corpses and blood smears. Three of the sick people came at her from the other end of the hall, shrieking with blood lust. Chelsie didn't move, but remained motionless, eyes empty and fixated on the horrible spectacle before her.
Jon looked frantically for a way to help her, and his eyes alighted on a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall. He drove his elbow into the glass pane, shattering it, and wrenched the red cylinder from the slot. He ran at Chelsie, praying that he'd reach her in time. "Duck! Chelsie, duck!"
She didn't. The clawed, greyish fingers were an inch from her jugular when Jon rammed the fire extinguisher into the man's face. He careened backward, blood gushing from the mangled lump that used to be his nose. A spurt of it landed directly over Chelsie's heart. Putting all his weight behind it, Jon swung the extinguisher like a club, hitting the next man directly in the side of the temple. There was a dull thud and he collapsed, motionless. With a quick jab, he hit the last woman in the stomach, and she doubled over, angry hollers bursting from her lips. Jon swung again, and the woman's life burst apart in a spray of red and white. The first man writhed on the floor, snarling up at him. Jon stomped on the man's throat, and he fell still, gurgling. He wanted to throw up. He didn't.
"Chelsie," he gasped, turning to her and grabbing her hand as he dropped the extinguisher with a clatter. "We've got to move, now." She didn't respond, but simply stared ahead with a haunted, blank expression. Jon shook her. "Chelsie!" he shouted. She turned to look at him. "Run, now!" Half-tugging, half running, he managed to get her feet moving, and they both took off down the hallway and into another stairwell, joining another crowd of students heading towards the back exit. Some were even running up the stairs. What the hell are they doing? he thought frantically, as the crowd throbbed around him. There's no hope in that direction.
He ran right into someone heading in the opposite direction and bounced back, startled. "Greg!" he shouted, feeling an intense swell of relief wash over him. His friend gaped in open-mouthed shock, before seizing him by the shoulder. "Jon! The back exit is blocked, they're all over the field!" Katie was next to him, eyes wide and fearful, but otherwise unhurt. Someone's blood had splattered in a vicious smear across the stomach of her tennis shirt.
Jon pointed. "Through the business hall. It's the fastest way to the main doors. Hurry!"
The foursome broke into a run, darting through groups of terrified students. A door burst open on their left and a sick person careened into the hallway, snarling. Greg punched it in the face and it fell backward. The crowd tugged Jon along as they moved through the business hall. The murderous people were everywhere, gushing through windows and doors like a virus. He gripped Chelsie's hand, and Katie held fast to Greg's arm. Further up ahead, at the end of the hall, several kids were bracing themselves against a door leading to the band hallway. Suddenly, the doors flew open as the sick people threw their weight against them. They swarmed over the fallen students like flies to carrion. Screams floated upward as the mob overwhelmed them, ripping and biting at clothes and hair and flesh. Blood flowed across the floor. When the horde moved past, the fallen students got sluggishly to their feet. Red eyes burned in sagging sockets. They were infected.
The Fairfield Virus. It's here.
Greg shoved Jon roughly in another direction. "Quick. B Hallway."
They ran, bypassing snarling monsters and terrified students. Up ahead, a wave of students hit the main doors, throwing them open.
A crowd of students rampaged through, spreading out in panic and running out towards the streets. Jon was swept along in their wake, borne along by the panicked students. Kids, and even a couple teachers, bolted from several entrances. Some went straight for the parking lot and leaped into their vehicles, screeching away on hot tires, heading for home. Others ran out into the street, trying to reach the first house in sight. As Jon watched in horror, a young sophomore was struck by the hood of a moving Honda. It didn't slow down as the broken youth slammed into the pavement and was immediately set upon, screaming, by a group of infected.
As the crowds around the doors grew larger, infected began pouring from the school, striking out at all those within reach. More of them came from around the sides of the school, tackling students and bashing their faces into the cement. Jon chanced a look towards the field and saw a choking mass of them, sprinting towards the parking lot.
Greg pointed; his grey Pontiac was within sight. "Move it!" he yelled. He took off between rows of parked cars. Jon followed, breathing hard. All around them, smoke rose from ruined houses and buildings, darkening the morning sky. Horns honked everywhere. Infected ran from the field, behind houses, from the trees, and the surrounding neighbourhood. In the distance, something exploded. A bright ball of red mushroomed into the sky.
A snarl to his left drew his attention as a young girl, infected, swiped at Jon's face. He ducked the blow, shouldering the once-student aside. Up ahead, Greg fumbled with his keys, wrenching the car door open. Katie slid into the back, while Greg ducked into the driver's seat. Jon put on a burst of speed and tugged the passenger door open, leaping into the van. A group of several infected near a trashed Sedan saw him and ran towards the van.
Greg gunned the engine and prepared to pull away when Jon started. "Where's Chelsie? Where the fuck's Chelsie?!"
"Jon!" Katie screamed, pointing past Greg's head out over the dashboard. He looked.
Chelsie was on the hood of a beat-up Chevrolet, which was surrounded by four infected, swiping at her. She kicked valiantly, knocking one back, but another grabbed her leg and began pulling her off the roof of the car as she screamed for help.
Jon reached under the seat and groped for something, anything, to use as a weapon. His fingers grazed the cold steel of a lug wrench. Pulling it from beneath the seat, Jon unlocked his door and jumped out. "Hey!" he shouted. One of the infected whirled, eyes blazing, and Jon clubbed it in the head, knocking it to the ground. He moved forward, swinging the lug wrench like a baseball bat. One of the infected sprawled to the ground with a shattered kneecap, another with a broken collarbone. Jon ran to the last, which had just succeeded in pulling Chelsie from the car, and slammed the wrench down in an overhead blow. The back of the infected's head caved inwards, and it collapsed in a pool of blood.
Jon pulled his sobbing friend to her feet as the Pontiac pulled up alongside them. "Get in!" Greg shouted, and Jon obliged, pushing Chelsie towards the back door, which Katie yanked open for her. Chelsie slammed the door shut, and Greg hit the gas, roaring away in a screeching U-turn from the mass of cars. Several infected slammed against the doors, leaving smeared handprints of blood. Katie screamed and shrank back. The Pontiac straightened out and sped across parking lot as the infected swarmed the school.
"Are you okay?" Jon asked frantically, turning around in his seat to look at Chelsie; her cheeks were streaked with tears, and she was trembling, but looked unharmed. He felt for her hand, grabbed it, and squeezed it tightly between his own palms. Katie reached over, wrapped an arm around her friend. "You're safe now."
"Holy—!" Greg exclaimed, twisting the wheel to avoid a bloody woman with one of her eyes torn out; she roared at the van as it passed and began to give chase. Behind her, a sea of infected followed. Jon watched them disappear into the distance, as they left the high school behind.
"What happened back there?" Katie choked out, tears streaming down her cheeks. Jon just shook his head numbly, staring out the window at the ruined neighbourhood. Main Street was a murder zone. Burning wrecks that were once vehicles littered the middle of the street. Small children ran across the sidewalks, pursued by the hellish, violent infected. Cars swerved down the streets, fleeing the carnage behind; others passed in the opposite direction, headed for who knows where.
"Greg!" Jon shouted, as a Jeep barrelled directly towards them, driving in the wrong lane. Greg jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right, ramping the sidewalk with a sharp squeal of tires. The Jeep collided head on with a unlucky Mazda; there was a screech of metal, followed by a terrific explosion that shook the seat under them. Greg twitched the wheel and eased back onto the road.
"Jesus Christ..." he muttered, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ."
The van moved past an overturned car, its ruined hood gushing smoke. A man slowly crawled from the driver's window. Two infected spotted him from the sidewalk and rushed forwards as the van flew past. Jon turned away, sickened, as both the car and the infected disappeared as they turned a corner.
"Where do we go?" Chelsie croaked from the backseat, the first words she had spoken since he'd found her. "What do we do?"
Jon pointed at a street sign as they drove past. "Parkland Drive. Who lives closest?"
"I do," Katie said.
"Then let's head there," Jon replied quietly. "We can check the news and find out –"
"No, wait," Greg interrupted. "Brent lives closer. Just about five minutes away, over by Ocean Avenue."
"Who?" Katie asked.
"Brent Gordon. He goes to our school. Jon and I know him." Greg turned the wheel and pulled onto a side street, passing a group of infected running at a panicking jogger. One of them leaped at the van as it passed, latching onto the roof. Several seconds later, loud thumps broke the air as the infected began raining blows upon the roof of the van.
"Greg—"
"I see him," Greg grunted, slamming the brakes. The infected man was tossed from the roof, hitting the blood-stained asphalt before them. Greg floored the gas pedal, and with two loud thumps, the car jerked up and down as they moved over the body.
"What's going to happen to us?" Chelsie moaned from the backseat. Jon gritted his teeth as the van moved onward, though the flaming debris and torn cars, leaving the unmoving body very small, very lost, against the empty road.