Author's Note :: This is the first fanfic I've done in a very long time, so please bear with me.
Yes, this chapter lacks a lot of action, but I made it as exciting as I could. Once these painful introductions are through with, we can move on to the real drama. Yay~! Anyway, please read and review. Constructive criticism is welcome; I am a writer looking to improve, so if you have any tips, that'd be great. Hope you enjoy this!
Credit for the cover photo goes to Cizu on dA.
Lexia
"Those in the light know we die in the dark."
"A so-called epidemic has broken out and has spread quickly over the course of the past few days. Many are calling it 'The Green Flu'. What it does, exactly, is still not quite clear. More on this after the break."
The single sentence leapt out from the low drone of the television, capturing the pale-haired girl's attention. The Green Flu. She tore her emerald gaze away from her food-foraging activities, eyes flickering to the television's screen just as it cut to a commercial. A too-happy family took the place of the news reporters, the mother laughing as her children made an astronomical mess and she proceeded to clean up the disaster with the help of some oh-so-amazing paper towel brand.
Lexia snorted at the sight and turned back to the open refrigerator, scanning the shelves for her potential breakfast.
The house was empty, save for herself, and the sound of the fridge door swinging closed echoed deafeningly. The background humming of the TV did little to break up the silence, the sound emanating from it seeming to be confined to the small area that was the living room. She didn't mind, not really; solitude and silence were her elements. The quiet isolation lulled her mind into a peaceful state.
She couldn't stand to be around people.
Dropping the yogurt cup onto the countertop, Lexia reached for the silverware drawer, one hand rifling through the utensils until her fingers closed around a spoon.
Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep
I'm tired, and I, I want to go to bed
Metal clattered against granite as Lexia let the spoon slip from her grasp, sighing and reaching for her cell phone. It vibrated, buzzing against the counter and spouting off a depressing song as it announced an incoming call.
Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep
And then leave me—
"Hello?" Lexia shouldered the phone, her eyes briefly darting back to the TV and the commercials that still danced across it.
"Lexia?" Her aunt's voice was loud in her ear, as if she was shouting above something else, and Lexia cringed. "Hey, honey. I'm just calling from the hospital. They took your Uncle Austin, but I haven't gotten any news from them yet." The woman sighed, the sound of her breath loud against the phone's microphone and abusing her niece's ear. "This place is packed! You wouldn't believe it!"
The verdant-eyed girl shook her head. "No, I believe it," she said, pulling at the aluminum tab of her yogurt. Even though most were dismissing it as nothing, alarming numbers of people were falling ill.
"Are you okay? Are the doors locked? Do you have a gun?"
Lexia placed her fingers against her temples. "Yes, yes," she responded, briefly glancing at the P220 pistol that rested on the edge of the counter. Her aunt and uncle's house was several miles out from the nearest town, and if something went wrong in the middle of nowhere, help might not arrive in time.
The red CNN logo flashed onscreen.
"Shh! The news is on!" Lexia abandoned her breakfast, scrambling around the counter and into the living room.
Aunt Ellie fell silent as Lexia grabbed for the remote, her fingers scraping at the sofa's upholstery as she snatched it up from the couch arm. She mashed at the volume button, a news reporter's voice growing louder.
"Just three days ago, outbreaks of what is being labeled as 'The Green Flu' began spreading. CEDA, the Civil Emergency and Defense Agency, has been spreading advertisements that recommend evacuation and the use of gasmasks to help citizens protect themselves." A short clip featuring CEDA tents, evacuation centers, and even quarantined zones appeared in one corner of the screen. "They have begun quarantining hospitals and other medical centers to slow the spread." The reporter paused, clearing her throat. A concerned look passed over her face. "What is this 'Green Flu'? What does it do? Why is it spreading so quickly?"
"Lexia, what are they saying?" her aunt asked, breaking the long moment of silence, but Lexia only hushed her. She stared intently at the display, listening for the reporter's next words.
"Panic has broken out in the streets of urban Pennsylvania as more become infected. Rumors of zombies have spread as quickly as the virus, causing great alarm among the people." Another clip appeared, showing the rioting city streets of Philadelphia. "The President has yet to speak on the issue. If the situation grows any worse, martial law may soon be going into effect."
"Aunt Ellie…" Lexia's voice trailed off, and her aunt immediately began rattling off questions.
"What did you see? Don't tell me you believe any of that nonsense…"
"I don't know. I might. CEDA is really locking things down."
The woman scoffed, and Lexia could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "It's just a flu."
"You're only saying that because you think Uncle Austin's caught it."
The words left her mouth on an impulse, and on the other end, there was a soft sound, like an intake of breath. The silence that followed was stiff and painful. As harsh as the statement was, Lexia didn't regret it; it was the unspoken truth that had hung between them for some time now.
A strangled cough broke the silence. "It's just a flu," Eleanor repeated, her words much quieter. "I'll call you when I get a report on him."
Click.
Lexia's fingers curled tightly around the device, a ragged, exasperated sigh escaping her lips. She set it down on the cushion beside her, taking up the remote in its place and muting the television. The news had moved onto other important issues, moving past the potential apocalypse and onto the usual murders and politics.
Twisting locks of pale hair between her fingers, the nineteen-year-old rose from the couch, bringing the long tresses up to her nose. I need a shower, she thought, snagging the discarded yogurt cup and spoon and heading for the bathroom.
Nearly an hour later, Lexia curled her thin, pale fingers around cool metal, twisting the knob to stop the stream of almost scalding water. She leaned back against the brown tiled wall, watching rivulets of water slide down her porcelain-like flesh and onto the sepia slab beneath her feet. Straggling streams of water winded down into the center of the shower floor, vanishing down the drain. With the clouds of warm steam gone from the small space, she could feel the tendrils of cold trying to close in.
She took a moment to wring out her hair, twisting the limp, waist-length strands in her hands. As soon as she brushed the curtain aside, the icy air swept over her, her fair skin prickling as gooseflesh rose along her arms and legs. One arm wrapped around her shivering torso, Lexia stretched her other arm up and yanked a towel down from the shelf to her left, shaking it free of folds and draping it around her shoulders.
She turned to the counter, pulling open a drawer and withdrawing her hairbrush. Time to set to work on taming her wet, platinum blonde mane.
Lexia ran her fingers over her slightly damp braid, her eyes skipping along the image of herself in the somewhat foggy mirror. Her pale skin was no longer flushed from the heat and had returned to its usual pallid complexion. The neck of her grey, quarter sleeve shirt made a 'V' just below her prominent collarbone, the garment hugging the straight, angular contours of her body. The top of her worn, black jeans was visible just above the lip of the counter, the rest of her thin legs disappearing behind it.
The sharp features of her face gave her an elfish appearance, one that made her look eternally sullen, like she was irritated with something. Not that it was untrue; ninety percent of the time, she was bitter and sullen.
Snatching up the empty plastic cup and her spoon, Lexia left the room, flicking the lights off and heading down the stairs. Her bare feet thumped loudly against the wooden steps, and then the floor transitioned to soft beige carpet, and then again to frigid tile as she entered the kitchen. Her toes curled instinctively, away from the cold linoleum, and she half-limped her way over to the trashcan. The plastic cup landed in the bin, and from where she stood, Lexia tossed her spoon into the sink, listening as it clanked against other dishes.
A loud, sudden sound shattered the peace of the empty house.
Bang.
The girl froze where she stood.
It was a sound she couldn't identify, like someone colliding with something very solid.
Bang.
Slowly, she pivoted, turning and looking at the hall, the one that led to the foyer, beside the stairs.
Bang.
It was the front door; of that she was sure. Someone was trying to get in.
In one fluid motion, she sprang into action, snatching up the handgun from the counter and bounding to grab her cell phone.
Bang. Bang.
The sidearm jerked wildly in her hands as she tried to adjust her hold on it, her eyes flickering up to the television that continued to play in silence—and stopped.
The screen no longer showed the image of a calm report—no, it was flooded with panicked images of running people. And zombies. Lots and lots of zombies.
The phone nearly slipped from her grasp as her fingers jabbed at her aunt's name, the number dialing and sending the call through.
"Answer, answer, please answer," the girl begged, her knuckles white as she gripped the device, praying that the woman would pick up and bring an end to the nonsense, to again tell her it was just a flu, to again tell her that it would be gone by next week.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
She could hear the door shuddering, hear it buckle against whatever—whoever—pounded on it. The phone rang. And rang.
brr brr
brr brr
Her eyes darted back and forth between the TV and the hall to the foyer.
brr brr
Bang.
The grip of the pistol was cold in her clenched fingers; the counter collided with her lower back as she instinctively backed into it.
brr brr
brr brr
Click.
Hi, you've reached Ellie. I can't—
Lexia swore loudly, dropping the phone down on the countertop behind her. Her free hand flew up to her mouth, clamping tightly over her lips as she felt sudden tears threaten. Quick, ragged, panicked breaths were drawn in through her nose, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, whole body quavering badly. Images of the absolute worst flickered across her dark mind, sending her emotions spiraling down, down, down into an abyss.
No. No. No.
Her aunt. Her poor aunt. One of the few people she had actually cared about in this world.
Bang.
The sound of a fist—or something—rattling the door jolted her shaken mind back into action. The threat was still very much present. This wasn't like her. Emotions weren't like her. It was time to get down to business.
Her arm dropped down to her side, her thin fingers curling into a tight fist. One more ragged, steeling breath entered her lungs—and she ran for the stairs. The pounding of her feet on the stairs was filled with much more urgency than it had been mere minutes before; her socks slid on the hardwood as she grabbed hold of the doorframe and swung herself into her own bedroom.
This room had a window view of the front yard—and the front door.
Curling her second hand around the P220, Lexia held the weapon out in front of her as she approached the window, as if a monster was lurking just behind it. Her feet glided silently over carpet as she leaned toward the wall, peering through the blinds that blocked her view through the glass. Verdant eyes skipped over towering trees, their swaying branches, the cobblestone path winding past the base of their trunks. Her gaze followed the stones, the sound of the blood in her ears growing to a roar as she traced it up to the front door—
—and its assaulter.
Something like a gasp escaped her, or maybe she was spontaneously choking on air.
The figure was tall, donned in torn, dirty, bloodied attire—but that wasn't what lodged a scream in her throat. It was his skin; grey and ashen, dirty and bloodied, chunks of it missing. He swung another blow at the door, his fist colliding and sending him staggering backward a step or two with sluggish, delayed movements. A look of horror glazed over Lexia's face as she watched this creature, unable to move for what seemed like an eternity.
Rumors of zombies have spread as quickly as the virus…
No, no, no. This wasn't a zombie. No, that was just a flu, like swine flu or bird flu. It was going to go away; people would get sick, and then they would get the vaccine out and it would gone. No, this was just… this wasn't a zombie.
But that was just what she had been trying to convince Ellie of.
He continued to beat on the door with his fists, clawing and swinging wildly, the door rocking and shuddering hard on its hinges.
An icy certainty finally settled in Lexia's churning stomach, slowing the blood in her veins, quieting the roar in her ears, and easing the racing pace of her heart. It was acceptance, resignation to what was, that brought a level-headedness to the whole situation. This was bad; no, this was a nightmare, something straight out of a horror movie. But she had to face it. She had to.
Whoever this was, she had to shoot him.
She grabbed the string that dangled from the blinds, twisting it around her wrist and jerking it down to the right, pulling the hindrance out of her way. Setting the pistol down on the sill, Lexia unsnapped the window locks, her fingers hooking under the wood and slowly easing it open.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of zombie's blows grew alarmingly louder, now that the window had been opened.
Eyelids fluttering, the girl's emerald eyes slid closed, letting the sound of her breathing dominate her head. She took in a deep breath, feeling her lungs expand, before she released it, air slipping past her lips. Another breath, another exhale, and a moment later, her eyes snapped open, confident that she was in control—or as much as she was ever going to be.
Inhale, breathe steady, exhale like you're ready, if you're ready or not.
She could do this; she knew how to shoot. Uncle Austin had taken her down to the range enough times, saying that self-defense was essential in the ever-changing and ever-growing more dangerous world. But, this time, it wasn't the gun. It was her target.
Both hands secure around the P220's grip, Lexia lifted her no longer trembling arms, leveling and taking aim at the zombie's head. Her thumb hovered over the safety, her skin brushing over the small button. And then she clicked it off. It was a small sound—but not small enough, evidently.
His head immediately snapped to face the noise.
Her breath caught in her throat.
An inhuman shriek met her ears as he bolted into action.
Link
"It's hiding in the dark; its teeth are razor sharp."
So far, Lincoln Grant was enjoying the zombie apocalypse.
This 'Green Flu' epidemic, whatever it was, wasn't shaping up to be too bad. Not as bad as he'd envisioned. Well, except for the fact that he couldn't get in touch with his mother or sister. But he'd moved past that. Everyone was becoming Infected, not just his family; he couldn't sit around and weep and act like he was special.
The boy was an optimist. He had to look at the glass as half full.
Once people started getting sick, he hightailed out of there. Good thing, too; Philly was crawling with Infected by that point. But he was free. No more work, no more annoying girls attached to his arm. Sure, it sucked that the world was deciding to kick the bucket once he'd just reached his prime—twenty-one—but you can't have your cake and eat it.
He tore down a dirt road, the Pennsylvania countryside dissipating into a blur, a cloud of dust lurking behind him. Theory of a Deadman blared and crackled from the speakers of his old pickup, nearly drowned out by the howling wind that whipped about the truck's interior, tousling his already messy hair. Bright, warm sun shone in through the open side window, splashing light over his tanned skin.
Today was a good day. For the zombie apocalypse.
The boy hummed along to the lyrics belting from his radio.
You know I'll be the one who gets fallen down drunk
At my neighbor kid's soccer game
I got an '82 Fiero with a car seat in the middle
Broken down on the interstate
A wide, crooked grin lit his features, exposing rows of white teeth and crinkling the edges of his cobalt eyes. Yes, today was turning out to be quite nice.
Every now and then, an occasional gaggle of zombies—Infected—would spot his truck hurtling past and make an attempt to chase after it, like dogs, but he left them in the rather literal dust. Their awkward, lopsided gait was just no match for his wheels.
And that was when he spotted her.
His foot eased slightly off the gas as a figure came into view, some distance ahead. She (he?) stood in the center of the road, appearing stationary. Even as the truck drew nearer, she didn't move. He smashed down on the brake, tires struggling for traction on the dirt road before finally coming to a halt with a soft squeak. Eyes squinted and mouth hanging open as he tried to survey what was before him, the look on Link's face slowly morphed into one of mingled horror and revulsion.
Absolutely repulsive, the creature was, with her elongated neck, monstrosity of a mouth, and her... unusual choice of attire. This was undeniably a zombie, and a Special one, at that.
Twisting around in his seat, Link snagged one of the rifles, shouldering it and popping the driver side door open. Remaining seated, he leaned out toward the open window, bringing the scope level with his eye—only to discover that the thing had waddled closer to him, much too close for comfort. With disgust, he noticed that green slime trailed from her mouth, a thin line of it left in her wake. At the rate she was moving, he wouldn't have time to stop and take aim before she was upon him. He dropped the hunting rifle, snatching up a Magnum and scrambling out of his seat. He certainly didn't want to be caught in his truck with that thing.
The soles of his sneakers collided with asphalt, and he scurried around the truck's open door, lifting the pistol that was clasped in steady, experienced, well-trained hands. He was preparing to take a shot when she suddenly stopped, drew herself up, and… spat at him.
"What the—!" the young man exclaimed, jumping back from the luminescent green puddle that was spreading over the pavement before him. Curses streamed from his mouth as he slapped at the droplets that sizzled on his forearm. "It burns!"
Hearing her gag and gurgle, Link brought his arm up, quickly squeezing off two shots. Bang. Bang. The bullets hit home, striking her in the stomach and chest, and he was rewarded with inhuman squeals of pain. "Take that," he growled, a smirk curling his lips. Wounded, she staggered towards him, to which he responded by firing off a couple more shots.
She dropped dead.
The boy whooped with victory—just as he saw the green goo seeping towards his tires. He knew it burned skin, and he definitely didn't want to know what it would do to his tires. Tossing the pistol onto the passenger seat, Link hoisted himself up behind the wheel and yanked the door shut, his foot smashing on the gas and speeding forward over the Infected's body.
His shots would probably attract more Infected, but it didn't matter; he was already gone, tearing down the road again.
Ezra
"I'm on the front line; don't worry, I'll be fine."
In the corner of the cabin, an old TV blared news about the flu—but the men around the table paid little mind to it. Their attention was drawn to the card game scattered before them and the bottles in their fists. Sluggish shouts were exchanged, insults and taunts as they challenged each other.
The nineteen-year-old sat on the old couch, bits and pieces of his combat rifle strewn across the lumpy cushions as he cleaned them for what felt to be the umpteenth time. Every now and then, his dark eyes would dart to the grainy display and the disturbing images lay across it. The reporter's voice just barely reached his ears over the obnoxious shouting of the card playing men.
"Large numbers of both healthy and Infected individuals are fleeing Philadelphia and spreading this so-called 'flu' to surrounding areas," he said. "It is believed that the virus may have gone airborne by this point, but it has yet to be confirmed. Evacuation is strongly recommended for anyone living near Infected areas."
Those words set a very cold feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. Grabbing at the parts to the combat rifle, he slid and locked them into place, quickly reassembling the weapon on his lap with practiced hands. If he spent another moment cooped up in that small space, he was going to lose his mind. As he rose from the couch, he could feel eyes turn to look at him, feel them bore into his skin as he crossed the room to the door.
"Where'y think you're goin'?"
Ezra froze, his fingers brushing the doorknob. His shoulders dropped, his whole being seeming to deflate as he turned to face the man that was his father. "Out. Get some air."
The man seemed skeptical, and Ezra was sure that if not for the bottle of alcohol held in his grasp, he would've instructed his son to stay. But he shook his head, turning back around in his chair, mumbling. "Fine. Be careful." He paused to take a swig of his beer, and nearly choked as a deep-throated cough erupted from him. "Keep your gun," he forced out as the fit subsided. One finger pointed to the counter. "Take some more ammo."
The boy turned in the direction his father had gestured. He nodded his appreciation, snagging his ammo belt from the counter and pushing the door open.
The door eased closed behind him as he hopped down the steps, pulling the belt over his head and letting it fall, slung about his hips. He treaded out into the center of the small hunting camp. His father had brought him here on a hunting trip, but once the flu broke out, they had become stranded here. The quarantines and floods of panicked people made traveling a hellish nightmare. Ezra couldn't fight his own panic at their location in relation to Philadelphia; he wanted to run as far from there as he could.
He continued walking, past the couple of other cabins scattered about the small clearing, and into the dense cover of trees. A soft wind passed through, rustling the interlacing branches. A shower of green leaves rained down, fluttering to the ground all around him. The clean air and fresh scent of the surrounding forest did him well, easing the flustered thoughts that filled his mind.
But he still couldn't shake the bad feeling he had.
He peered into the surrounding trees, looking for… well, he wasn't sure. Looking for what? Zombies? As absurd as the notion seemed, he couldn't quite shake it; after all he'd seen, all he heard, it was a very plausible idea. It scared him to death.
You have nothing to be afraid of, an angry voice whispered as his grip on the combat rifle tightened. You're perfectly capable of defending yourself. He strode forward with more confidence, leaves and twigs crunching underfoot.
Not much light reached him hear; the cover of the boughs overhead was thick, filtering much of the morning light that tried to break through. It had gotten considerably darker from the time he'd traveled from the clear, open camp—not that he was going to let such a fact bother him. The shade would be welcome when the midday sun began bearing down.
He continued to wander, gazing about him as he walked. The sound of crunching and snapping was routine with his footsteps; yet, he was convinced that he could hear other sounds, rustlings and murmurings of something else. The back of his neck prickled with the sensation that he was not alone.
Ezra stopped and listened.
His ears were greeted with the sound of silence. Try as he might, he could hear nothing; a bird twittered, a squirrel scampered across the branches above him, the leaves rustled in a breeze. A sort of tension eased itself from his shoulders. He was only being paranoid—again.
And that's when a screech shattered whatever peace remained.
The sound erupted from ahead, sending his senses rocketing up into high-alert again. Some distance to his right, a chorus of shrieks responded; and to his right, the same. But he could not stop to survey these sounds, for he heard something else.
Gunshots.
He broke into a run, his ammo belt jostling against his thigh as he sprinted for the sound.