Chapter One
Dry leaves crunch under my bare feet, and the sound is like a gunshot in the silence of the woods. Thorny branches slap at my exposed arms, tearing into my skin and ripping away. Blood drips down my arms to my wrists, dropping to the dark forest floor to mingle with the crushed leaves, dirt, and twigs that litter the ground.
I try to watch where I'm running, but every time I look over my shoulder I manage to trip over every root and step on every sharp rock. My feet are torn and bleeding like the rest of me, and I worry about getting some kind of infection out here all alone in the woods. Only God knows what's mixed in with this dirt, waiting to slip into my body through any opening it can find. And once it gets in, I'll turn into one of those things, and everything I've done so far to survive will have been in vain.
Stubbing my toe on a large rock half-buried in the dirt, I fall to the ground and the air explodes from my lungs with an audible oomph. My arms and legs are trembling from exhaustion, and I don't know if I can run for much longer. I think about just lying in the cool dirt to catch my breath and regain my strength, but the sound of stumbling footsteps reaches my ears, and I know that they're close by, waiting to sink their teeth into my skin. They'll eat me alive if I don't manage to get away.
How much longer can I run, though? I can't keep going like this! The thought crosses my mind without permission, and I quickly try to banish it, but it lingers behind, filling my mind with doubt. I may be doomed, but I sure as hell won't make it easy on them!
I force my aching limbs to push off from the ground, and slowly but surely, I regain my footing. Without another second of hesitation, I dash off into the nearest clump of trees, hoping to find a river to cross. It might slow them down just long enough for me to get away. My only hope currently rests with a river that for all I know might not even exist. Slapping the branches away to avoid more cuts, I run through the trees, praying to whatever god might be listening that this isn't my last day on earth. I've never been a religious person, but if this isn't a good time to start praying, then what is?
Each step I take feels like it should be my last. The muscles in my legs scream with the effort it takes to push myself forward. My lungs burn with each deep breath I take, and there's a sharp, stabbing pain in my side that makes it nearly impossible to breath. When my vision starts to go hazy, I know that I'm not getting enough oxygen, and I'll need to stop soon or risk passing out. An unconscious meal can't fight back.
Suddenly, a sound catches my attention, and I stop my mad dash to listen. It's faint, but I can just barely make out the sound of rushing water nearby. A massive smile spreads across my face; I can't help it. My feet begin to move in the direction the sound is coming from, and after a few dozen yards, I find myself standing at the edge of a steep bank. Beneath me are rushing rapids.
The water is dark and mysterious, and it swirls around dangerously. Swimming was never my strong suit, but it doesn't look too deep. My feet might be able to touch the bottom if necessary, but the thought of stepping into unknown rapids is not a pleasant one. There could be anything down stream: sharp rocks, rapids that might drown me, or even a waterfall. For all I know, I might die going over the falls.
Something slams into my side, knocking me to the ground. A stick digs into my spine before snapping under the combined weight of myself and the thing on top of me. My hands come up as it lunges down at my, and I press against its chest, trying to keep its teeth from reaching my throat. They snap ravenously at me, making a sharp clicking noise as they come together. Bloody saliva dribbles down its chin, and I turn my head as it falls to the ground beside my face, missing my mouth by mere inches.
A bloody hand reaches for my face, and I swat it away with a hand. I bring up my knee to press against its chest so I can free my hands. One grasps around the dirt at my side, reaching for anything that can be of use, and my fingers close around half of the stick that just snapped beneath me. The bloody hand clasps around my wrist, halting me from bringing the stick up and using it as a weapon. A scream forces its way through my closed lips. It's muffled, but in the silence of the woods, I fear that it may attract more unwanted attention.
I struggle with the creature on top of me for another minute, before finally managing to get my feet under his stomach. Using all the strength I have left, I shove as hard as I can, and send what used to be a man rolling away from me. He growls at nothing in particular while I get to my feet. The stick is tight in my hands, which feel abnormally warm and sweaty.
I've seen people kill them before, but I've never had to do it, and I worry about what will happen if I miss. I'll have just one chance before it's on me again, and next time I probably won't be able to throw him. I shift the stick in my hands so that they pointy end faces away from me, and when the man gets to his knees, I charge at him. Another scream tears from my throat, but this time it isn't one of fear.
It's a war cry.
The man turns his head to stare up at me as I bring the stick down as hard as I can. The sharp end impales him through the left eye, which bursts with a disgusting wet sound. The man shudders once, before slumping to the ground, wrenching the stick from my hands. He stares up at me with eyes that are once again lifeless, and a striking shade of green.
That one thought rushes through my mind, forcing me to take in every single one of his very human features, from his dark green eyes to his dirty and disheveled light blonde hair, all the way down to the crocs he's wearing on his feet. His business suit torn and stained with blood, and even though I know all of the blood probably isn't his, I can't help but feel sorry for the creature I just killed.
My mouth goes paper-dry, and I find myself swallowing rapidly to keep from puking. I try to fight it, but the vomit forces its way up, and I lean on a nearby tree for support as I dry heave. Not much comes up, since I haven't eaten in more than two days, but it sounds noisy and messy, and will no doubt attract more attention than my fight already has.
When my stomach finally settles, I look up and into the trees around me. There are shadows lumbering around clumsily in the trees, marking more foes for me to be wary of. All I have is the other half of the sharp stick, and I know it won't do me much good against more than one of those things. I can't fight them; I don't have the strength or weapons to do it without getting bitten and infected. My only choice is to flee.
Turning my head, I examine the river one more time. The rapids don't look any more inviting than they did the first time I saw them, but my options are gone, and I have no other choice. Taking a deep breath, I run to the edge of the bank and jump, closing my eyes and praying for the best.
The water is frigid cold even in the middle of summer, and the shock of it forces the air from my lungs as cold, dark water closes around me. I claw my way to the surface as the rapids toss me around the river like a rag doll. My back slams into a boulder and I cry out, and my lungs instantly begin to fill with water. The water carries me downstream, unforgiving and cruel as the raw force of it drags me under.
My mind begins to race with each passing second. My lungs burn from lack of sweet oxygen and my vision begins to fade around the edges. All rational thought and movement becomes impossible, and I feel myself sinking to the bottom. The current continues to drag me along, and all of the fight goes out of me.
Everything fades away as I peacefully accept my death, and I resign myself to afterlife. My final thought before everything goes dark is, At least I won't have to be one of those things...
XXXXX
Sunlight falls inconveniently across my eyes, gently warming my face. It feels so good after days of hiding out in trees and damp caves that I turn over, intent on falling back asleep. If I have a chance to rest, I'm going to take it. When my hand brushes a small pillow, my eyes snap open and I sit up quickly. My head pounds and my vision blurs, and I clutch the sides of my head in my hands, trying to drown out the intense pain and sensitivity.
I groan as everything begins to come back. I remember the run through the woods, the fight with the man, the water, and then darkness. After everything begins to settle, I manage to form one coherent thought: I should be dead right now. I should be dead, but for some reason, I'm not. Somehow the water didn't claim me. Somehow I'm not lying in a watery grave at the bottom of a river. Somehow I'm warm and rested, and even though every last inch of me aches and throbs with a dull pain the likes of which I've never felt before, I'm alive.
When the room stops spinning, I sit back down on the small sleeping bag I was wrapped so warmly in, and I take a look around. My resting place seems to be a small gray tent that is filled with little more than the sleeping bag, a small pillow, a knapsack of what looks like clothes, and a canteen. I reach for it slowly, wincing as the muscles in my back scream in protest, and open it. A quick sniff reveals no odor, but there's no way to tell if the water's been drugged or not. My mouth feels bone dry, and I desperately want the water in the canteen, but I can't risk it. I cap it again and set it back down on the ground at the foot of my sleeping bag.
The sound of laughter reaches my ears, and I freeze instinctively. The laugher comes again, and I can't believe what I'm hearing. It sounds like a group of children, and they're not screaming or crying. They're laughing and running around outside my tent. Inching slowly and carefully over to the open clap that allows the sunlight in, I peek out.
There are trees off in the distance, but the tent appears to be in a large clearing. There are a few vehicles parked off to one side of the clearing, and I see an old-looking RV with a name that I can't make out painted on the side in flowing script. If I angle my head, I can just barely make out a man sitting on top of the RV. He's reclining under an umbrella with a rifle in his hands, and my gut clenches painfully at the sight of the gun. However, when I finally take in his features–a tan floppy hat, white hair, and a white full beard–I feel myself start to relax a bit.
What kind of dangerous group has children running around and an old man on guard?
The tent flap opens, and a middle-aged woman pokes her head in. Her hair is cut very short, almost boy-like, and even though it's a startlingly gray color, she doesn't look that old. She might be in her mid-forties. She's wearing a pair of khaki pants and a plain tan blouse with short sleeves, revealing thin, bony limbs. Every last bit of her looks fragile, and the lines around her eyes and mouth make her look tense and insecure. But when she sees me up and awake, she smiles, and instantly looks ten years younger and much more carefree.
"You're up," she says calmly, entering the tent the rest of the way. In her hands is a pile of folded clothes, and she sets them down at the foot of the sleeping bag before backing up a bit. For a moment, she doesn't say anything else. She just watches me with a caring, obviously motherly expression in her eyes. She reaches out with a bony hand and sweeps back a strand of dark hair from my face, tucking it behind one ear. The gesture is so gentle, so comforting, and so normal that I feel myself relax all the way. "You must be hungry."
"A little," I say quietly.
"Why don't you come out and have some breakfast. I'm sure the others will be glad to meet you." She turns to exit the tent, and I reach out to stop her.
"Wait!"
She stops and looks over her shoulder at me, confused. Then her eyes widen in surprise and she offers a small, polite laugh. "I'm sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. My name's Carol. And don't worry about the others. They don't bite." The smile fades from her face instantly, and I know she's thinking about those things. "I'm sorry," she says again, though this time she looks down and refuses to meet my eyes. "You can change into those clothes and join us when you're ready."
She ducks out of the tent quickly and without another word. I watch her go, surprised at the immediate change in her personality, and wonder what could have possibly been the cause of it. I wasn't exactly open and friendly, but I certainly wasn't being rude or hostile. I shake off thoughts of the older woman, and reach for the clothes at the foot of my sleeping bag. They're standard blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and my dried sneakers. When I see my shoes, I look down at myself, startled to find I'm wearing an over-sized holy shirt as a nightgown and little else.
Dressing in a hurry, I exit the tent. The bright sunlight hurts my eyes at first, and I squint, fighting tears. When my vision clears, I find myself standing at the edge of a camp full of busy and bustling people of all kinds. A dark-skinned woman rushes by me with an armful of damp clothes, and she begins to string them up on a makeshift clothesline with quick and efficient fingers.
There are two campfire pits settled in the center of the camp, and one has a small fire going. A tall, thin, dark-haired woman crouches down beside the fire. She pokes at a pan of what looks like pancakes, and she looks up. Our eyes meet, and instead of a friendly smile like Carol gave me, this woman's eyes narrow just a bit, and she looks at me with obvious suspicion. I wonder for a second what could bring such a subtle change over her, but I get my answer when a young boy plops down beside her. This woman has a child with her, and is obviously worried about my presence.
If I had kids, I'd probably react the same way to anyone that came near me…
Carol joins the woman at the fire, and she waves me over. I don't want to step on this other woman's toes, but my stomach is growling so loudly I'm surprised everyone around me can't hear it. I come up meekly beside Carol, and she offers me another friendly smile, looking much happier than she did just moments ago in my tent. She hands me a plate of pancakes and a plastic fork. "Sorry we don't have any syrup. We're lucky we have pancake mix. It's kind of a treat we have once in a while, when someone finds a box of mix during a supply raid."
The pancakes are dry and pretty tasteless, but that doesn't matter. I wolf it down in minutes, and the little boy watches me with fascination. "Wow! How did you do that?" he asks excitedly, leaning closer to me. Instead of tensing, his mother actually relaxes a bit, and she goes back to cooking more pancakes over the fire.
"I'm sorry," I said, swallowing a mouthful of pancake. "I haven't eaten in days."
"You could probably eat more, huh?" Carol asks kindly. She frowns and touches my arm lightly, and hands me a can of fruit cocktail that is already half-empty. "We don't have a lot of food here, so you'll have to wait until lunch to have any more."
"Have you all eaten?" I ask politely, not wanting my saviors to go hungry just because I haven't eaten in a while. "I don't want anyone else to go without because of me."
Carol waves off my worries. "Don't worry. We'll manage. Everyone here understands how tough our situation is." She turns her attention to the tall, incredibly thin woman. "Lori, are you still planning to go mushroom hunting?"
She nods curtly. "As soon as Amy gets back. Hopefully between the two of us we can find enough to go around." Lori looks at her son and smiles. "Carl, while I'm gone, I want you to stay in camp and always in Dale's line of sight, alright?" When he just nods, she prods him gently. "Carl?"
"Alright," he mumbles quietly. "Can I go play with Sophia now?"
She ruffles his hair. "Yes. Just be careful." When he dashes off to play with a young blonde-haired girl, Lori looks over at Carol. "Will you keep an eye on him while I'm gone? I worry about him; he never seems to listen to anything anyone other than Shane tells him."
Carol nods. "Of course," she says softly. "Just go. We'll all be fine until you get back."
Lori grabs a red bucket, gets to her feet and walks away, disappearing into the trees and leaving me and Carol alone at the fire. She takes a spatula and flips a pancake to check the underside, before sliding it off the fire and onto a sturdy paper plate. She adds more batter to the pan before looking at me again. "I didn't get a chance to ask your name earlier," she says, staring at me intently. Her eyes are a beautiful grayish blue, and are a little unnerving to look into.
"Um, Alexis. Alex," I say quickly, wanting to not be called by my full name. The only person that ever called me Alexis was my father, and now that he's gone…I banish those thoughts, refusing to think about my family. They're all long gone, and if I'm not careful, I'll end up like them.
"Um, I think your pancake is burning."
Carol's eyes widen and she hurries to flip it. The bottom is a little burnt, but it still looks perfectly edible. Her hand begins to tremble just a little, and her head tilts up a bit. Her entire body freezes, and I look in the direction she's facing. A man is leaning against the side of the RV with his thick arms crossed over his chest. His gut presses against the dirty fabric of his wife-beater, and a lit cigarette perches between thin lips. One of his knuckles looks bruised, and my eyes immediately slide over to Carol, looking for the corresponding bruise on her body.
The man uncrosses his arms and walks over to the fire with the cocky arrogant walk of a man that believes he's god's greatest gift to women. He stops at the edge of the fire, and for a minute, he just stands there without saying anything. Finally, he speaks with a gruff, low, dangerous voice. "You outta pay more attention to what you're s'posed to be doin'. You think I wanna eat burned shit?" He spits into the dirt at Carol's feet. "Answer me!"
She doesn't react other than to hang her head even lower. "I'm sorry, Ed. I'll eat the burned one."
"Now see, we ain't got enough food to go wastin' any 'cause you can't cook worth a damned," he says coldly.
I'm torn about what to do. I've seen enough men in my nineteen years to know that he'll do or say anything to put Carol down. I also know that the second I speak up, I'll most likely make her into a target. Men like that always find a way to blame their wives or children for their own faults or anything that goes wrong, and I don't want to give him another reason to mistreat her. But she's been nothing but nice to me, and I can't just sit here and be ignored.
So I speak up. "It's my fault the food got burned," I say lightly, trying to pretend like I don't know what kind of man he is. "I was asking her all sorts of questions, and she was trying to get me to stop so she could concentrate, but I just wouldn't listen. If you wanna blame someone, blame me," I say with a light chuckle. "I tend to talk too much when I'm nervous."
His eyes zero in on me, and he scowls. "Don't think I asked for your input." He flicks his cigarette, dropping ashes into the ground near the plate of pancakes, missing what little food is there by centimeters. "Frankly, it don't matter that you were wasting her time. She knows better. Or at least she aught to," he said, glaring at Carol, who shrinks back under his reproachful glare.
My hands clench into fists at my side.
"Problem, Ed?"