(Big ol' fat chapter for the dedicated. There you go, guys! Thank you for reading!)
Two months later, Kieran started college.
By now, he was numerically much older than some of the participants – the quad and pathways were crowded with nervous new adults just barely out of their teenage skin, where as he was already in his twenties. He often felt the nervous urge to make up for the time he lost while he had been dead, running around and killing. He was trying to do more than he could, which was a coping method that the brochures had warned his parents about. He didn't fit everything on that bulleted list, but that one was certainly right.
His cashiering job was doing well. He was a steady worker with a shy smile and a quick hand for money. His condition was the only thing that ever stood as a detriment to his work ethic, as he found it hard to smile with children open-mouthed, staring.
He did everything he could to comfort these kids – even going so far as to throw in a free cookie and thank the mother after the transaction. He wondered how it felt, growing up in this world. These kids had no idea of the outbreak. They knew vaguely that before their birth, something monsterous had happened, and now there was a whole different breed of human in the world. What would they think growing up? Would they care, or would they sleep through that part of their history lessons, skinny preteen arms resting on their textbooks and sliding off their desks?
He had recently submitted three art pieces to a scholarship contest and was checking his email on his phone for any reply when a familiar face loomed at the edge of his vision. How had they gotten in so silently? He immediately slipped his phone in his back pocket and smiled as big as he could to compensate for his sloppy attention, but the grin fell off his face.
"Kieran, you need to come home."
"Why are you here? You could've just called me. I'm working."
His mother twisted her hands together and he knew immediately it had to do with his condition.
"There was a warning tonight, some terrorist graffiti at city hall about killing PDS sufferers tonight. It's all over the news. I didn't want you taking the bus. I'm here to drive you home."
His first reaction was to push her away, annoyed at her motherly worries and her coddling nature, but this was the name of the game now. If there were threats, there were serious possibilities of him being singled out and as much as he hated hiding, the best thing to do was the hole up at home until the all clear sounded on the news.
"I need to talk to my boss first. Don't worry, okay? I'll be a few minutes."
He disappeared into a back room, slim hands untying his apron behind his back, as his mother tapped her nails on the counter and checked the local news on her phone. Good thing it was dead in the store, she thought, or else she would've had to wait to take poor Kier home.
"I hate doing this, honey."
"I know."
They were silent as they walked out to car and Kieran thought weakly of ways to resist and strike back at his faceless oppressors. He had needed that money and he had only been on shift two hours before his mother showed up. All because of an ignorant threat.
"Better safe than sorry, y'know."
"I know."
He ducked into the car and buckled in, instinctively sliding downward in his seat to avoid chances of a driver looking over and being spooked. His entirely life had become catering to the living population in an effort not to scare them.
They drove home without incident and Kieran stared out the window at the gentle sunset, scratched and bisected by the dark, leafless trees. It was chalking up to be a creepy night even without the lockdown.
"I'm pretty sure all the families are doing this, or at least I hope," his mother said as she ushered him into the house and bolt locked the door. "I'll get the supplies. Just in case."
His father wouldn't be home for another three hours and Kieran stood around numbly in the hallway, watching his mother dash out to the shack in their yard where she kept her 'supplies', an apply named chainsaw and several nasty-looking bashing weapons.
He'd never get over the ease with which she wielded the chainsaw, but then she remembered what she had lived through and the hell she had to fight against every day of the Rising. She dropped the chainsaw next to the door and set a club against the couch. "I hate these, but I have to," she repeated. "May as well get some food and settle down for the night, hmm?"
"May as well," Kieran echoed. "Stay away from the windows, doll," she called as he drifted into the kitchen, wondering what he could pretend to eat that night.
…
Aside from a gunshot that made his mother jump out of her skin, the night was calm, punctuated by anxious coughs from either of his parents, who had sat rigid on the couch together for quite a few hours, TV down low, hands on their knees. Kier had hid in his bedroom, trying to draw, nerves too fried.
The body count surfaced the next day as Kieran was getting dressed.
Two 'rotters' burned alive, one family robbed. Who mourned? The news was unsure of how to frame and resorted to just spitting out the information and then getting testimony from shaken living counterparts. He could've spit. He had a lot to say, not that they would've aired it. Media coverage of his 'kind' was scarce, as people generally didn't like dead opinions.
He was thankful his mother had picked him up from work.