The Girl who Shot First: The Death Fields Read online

  He gives me a once over—eyes lingering on my thin arms and the hatchet. He thinks I’m weak—a liability.

  “You’d rather be on your own?”

  He shrugs his broad shoulders. His eyes are blank. Emotionless. Didn’t I think the same thing earlier? How I shouldn’t get attached to anyone. He’s right, I know this, but it’s also nice to have someone watch your back while you wash your face and cry in the bathroom.

  Shit. He heard me cry.

  We stare at one another and I’m trying to decide if I’m pissed or relieved. Neither matter as a noise sounds from behind Wyatt, a familiar low moan, followed by a howl of rage.

  Wyatt’s composed stance comes alive, turning just in time to see an Eater crashing from behind the “Out of Order” sign, smashing the door to splinters.

  Besides his drooling mouth, I see the black-spidery veins in his eye.

  Wyatt pumps his gun, loading the cartridge.

  “Duck!” I scream, tossing the hatchet, full force. It spins past Wyatt’s ear, forcing him to drop fast to his knees. The Eater face splits in two, blood oozing from the wound. He starts to fall forward, arms stretched toward Wyatt. Before the Eater lands, Wyatt kicks him hard, pushing him back into the bathroom. He’s dead—for real this time, blood oozing from the wound.

  “Holy shit, Alex.” His voice trembles, out of fear or awe I’m not sure.

  I walk over and retrieve the hatchet, pulling it out of the Eater’s decimated face with a loud, nauseating suctioning sound.

  Gross.

  I spare Wyatt a glance and grab my bag, daring him to challenge my strength. I bite back the desire to tell him to “fuck off.” I don’t need to. The dead Eater says everything. Even so, with my hand on the front door I can’t help but say, “Sure you want to split up?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  ~Before~

  7 Weeks Ago

  The graduation party is truly the end of the world as we know it. I make it home unnoticed by pressing flat against a tree in the woods, hiding from the helicopter search lights that comb our neighborhood looking for anything out of the ordinary. I use the spare key to get in the back door of the house. I hug my friends, all three drunk and unsteady on our feet, and I close the door quietly.

  I sneak past my mother. She’s fallen asleep in front of the news, flour streaked on her face. The “news” is now more of a continuous loop than anything else. Under the covers of my bed I relive my speech. The way it felt. The way my classmates embraced it—and me. It may have been better than the real thing in some sort of John Hughes version of the apocalypse.

  In the morning, with a pounding punch-fueled headache, the text I sent to Liza told me shit has hit the fan at her house.

  Busted.

  One word. I wait for more but nothing comes.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, finding her in the kitchen. She’s at the counter next to the pantry with a sheet of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other. I walk to the refrigerator, looking for milk and find barely half a cup. “Is there any more milk?”

  “No, honey,” she says with a heavy sigh.

  I close the refrigerator door, empty handed. “What are you doing?”

  “Inventorying our food. Seeing how much we have—the news says the grocery stores are pretty wiped out, but I’m not sure how long we can feasibly go.”

  I guess I should be glad she’s snapped out of denial baking but the worry lines on her face are deeper and her hands tremble when she makes a note on her paper. She’s panicking and that makes me uneasy. My mother isn’t one to overreact. If anything she likes to pretend everything is fine and normal. Whatever is easiest. Inventorying our house isn’t easy.

  “Mom, when is Dad coming home?” I haven’t brought it up in days. It’s beyond clear now that he’s knee-deep trying to cure the E-TR virus. It’s even clearer that at some point he involved me in the testing. The thought makes me realize it’s Thursday. Shot day. Dad hasn’t been home since my last injection.

  “I don’t know. I hope today. Maybe tomorrow. They’re getting close to a breakthrough, I think.” She clutches my arm. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

  “I won’t. Who would I tell?” I laugh. The sound falls flat.

  “Help me sort these canned goods and pull out anything else we have. I want to have a good idea of what we have and how to ration it.”

  “You think it will go that far?” I ask taking two cans of beans from her and a bag of rice.

  She turns and places her hand on my cheek, her blue eyes meeting mine. “It already has.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  ~Now~

  We head to the reservoir, passing a handful of other travelers and one convoy of military vehicles. We spot the army green trucks barreling down the hill and Wyatt pulls the truck quickly to the edge of the road under a grove of shade trees.

  “Why are you hiding?” I ask. It isn’t that I disapprove, I’m just curious about his motives. He doesn’t know what I’ve seen.

  “Last I heard the military is hoping to round everyone up to the evacuation centers. That’s not really a detour I’m planning to make.” He tilts his head in my direction. “You have a problem with that?”

  “Nope.” I don’t explain further.

  The convoy passes and we wait a few minutes just to be safe. Wyatt revs the truck to life and eases back onto the road. We’re on one of the lesser traveled highways—sort of off the beaten path. Before we lost the news it was clear the main highways were a mess. Typical apocalypse stuff: traffic jams, wrecks, an overturned tractor-trailer. Sometimes the movies do get something right. The back roads are easier. Encounter a stalled out car? Drive around it and keep going. The problem is the never ending trailers and houses that line the two-lane highways. God knows if they’re empty, filled with survivors or just a breeding ground for Eaters. We agreed early on to avoid them.

  “Have you been to the reservoir before?” I ask.

  “No, but I have a map.”

  “Well, I have been there—a bunch of times. What are we looking for? A place to camp over night?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got to find gas and I need some sleep.”

  “My aunt had a cabin here. I can show you the way.”

  He cuts me a look. “Was this information you were planning on sharing, Sunshine?”

  “No.”

  The reservoir doesn’t have a lot of housing—it was created for fresh water and run by the Army Corp of Engineers but there are a few cabins scattered here and there on property grandfathered in. Or at least that’s what my mom told me. This had been our destination all along. Get to the cabin. Get to south. One step at a time.

  “We’re looking for a dirt road,” I say glancing around.

  “You’ll need to be more specific.” The irritation of me not telling him about the cabin is clear from his tone.

  “Well if I remember right, there are two other dirt driveways around the same area. It’s pretty hard to find even when you know what you’re looking for.”

  We drive back and forth down the road a couple of times. We’re about to make our third pass when I grab his arm. “Stop! I think that’s it. That tree looks familiar.”

  He tugs on his ear. “You said that before with the stump.”

  I ignore him and point to the almost invisible path. “Follow that.”

  Wyatt takes the truck down the road. Being late summer the foliage is thick. We’re almost at the cabin before we see it. Dark wood planks and a tin roof. Three rooms total. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen/living room.

  “There’s a small carport to the side.”

  He parks and we get out, listening for a moment. It’s quiet. The good kind. I walk to the back of the house and move the fake rock. The key is inside. Just like my mom said.

  Wyatt follows me to the tiny front porch. I can see the reflection of the lake below. Looks smooth as glass. He stops me before I open the door. “Why didn’t you tell me about this place?”

  I catch his eye a
nd to my surprise they softened just a little—betraying more emotion. Right now it’s curiosity. “I wasn’t sure I trusted you.”

  “And you do now?”

  I shrug. “Not really. I don’t know? In the last thirty-six hours I’ve had to kill my mother, run over Eaters with a truck and split one of their faces in half. I had to save your ass. I am capable, despite my size and age. I’m exhausted, and I’m too tired to deal with the semantics of trust.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means if you give me a reason not to trust you I have no problem handling that.”

  He nods like this makes sense (which I have no idea if it does or not. Seriously, I’m exhausted). I open the door with the key and we step inside the dark, musty cabin. The sound of scurrying feet race across the floor—just mice, hopefully. I flip the light switch. Nothing.

  “What happened to your aunt?” Wyatt asks, dropping his pack on the floor and crossing the room with his shotgun. He passes through the tiny kitchenette and nudges open the two other doors.

  “My mom’s aunt, actually. She lives in Charlotte. She’s pretty old.”

  Translation: I don’t know. Probably dead.

  “So she hasn’t been here recently?” He finally laid his gun on the small wooden table in the center of the room. I lean against the door.

  “No. I doubt anyone has been here for years. That’s why we decided to head this way. Get out of the city—go somewhere safe.”

  He seems satisfied—and tired. I offer to take the first watch and he agrees heading straight for the creaky dusty couch. “There’s a bed back there,” I say. “At least there used to be.”

  “You can have the bed. This is fine.” He pulls a sweatshirt out of his bag and makes pillow. He’s asleep in minutes.

  I sit at the hard wooden chair at the table and fish out a granola bar. I eat it slowly, watching Wyatt sleep. He snores lightly, deeply, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to turn it on and off like he does. Shut down when it’s time—turn it on when I need to. Sure, I’m playing a good game. I killed that Eater today. I found the cabin. I’m useful—but what I really want is for the pain to stop. For the memories to disappear. I want the blank eyed look and game face that Wyatt seems to have mastered.

  Maybe, if anything, that’s something I can learn from him before we go our separate ways.

  Chapter Twenty

  ~Before~

  7 Weeks Earlier

  My father arrives midway through our inventory of the medicine cabinet. Once we’re finished we’ll have to ration and figure out a schedule including the additional supplies. He hands over a bag of groceries, nothing much, mostly basics, sugar, flour…

  “What the heck is this?” I ask holding up a red can.

  “Canned milk.”

  “Milk comes in a can? It’s all…warm.”

  We add it to the table, knocking over half-full bottles of aspirin and allergy tablets. My mother’s eyes light up as much at the sight of the food as my dad.

  His face is covered with a thick mask and he wears protective clothing from his fingers to his toes. His eyes narrow when he sees our organizing, but I know he must be pleased. He’s a planner—a trait he has tried desperately to instill in my mother. She all but runs into his arms once she really realizes he’s here and I’m overwhelmed by their connection. Suddenly, more than anything else, shit seems very, very real.

  “Alex,” he says. “Come here.”

  I give him a hug and look over his shoulder. I see we’ve got company. “Who’s that?” I ask, eyeing the men in a similar uniform. I feel underdressed. Exposed. What are they afraid of? Us?

  “Some people from the lab—well, that one you know.” He pointed to one of the men. “I think you call him “LabGuy.””

  He looks up and I catch sight of those killer blue eyes. “Oh, right, hey LabGuy, welcome to our lovely home. I’d offer you something to eat or drink but well, we don’t have enough.”

  “Alex!” my mother cried.

  “Too soon?” I smile weakly.

  My father shook his head. “He’ll take your blood and give you the injection. I need to talk to your mother a bit.”

  They disappear down the hall and LabGuy comes over with his weird looking lab kit/briefcase. The other guy waits by the door and I ask, “What’s his deal?”

  “Security.”

  “You and my dad got a security detail to visit the house?”

  He nodded and pulled out his materials, arranging them on the table between us.

  “Are you like apocalypse famous or something?” I wait for the crinkle by his eyes, the one that tells me he’s laughing at my jokes, but it never arrives. His normally bright, happy blue eyes are rimmed in red. He’s tired.

  Per our routine I gave him my hand and let him swab it with alcohol, feeling the coolness before the sting of the puncture. “So tell me the truth, LabGuy, is this the last time I’m going to see you?”

  “This is your last injection. That’s why it was important for us to come here today.”

  “Am I the only one still getting these shots?”

  His eyes tightened. “Classified, Alexandra, you know that.”

  “I thought with the end of the world and all maybe you’d cave.”

  He wrapped the Band-Aid around my finger and moved to give me the injection in the crook of my arm. “If it makes you feel better, if I could tell anyone, it would be you.”

  “Aww, thanks, LabGuy, you know just how to warm a girl’s heart.”

  I wince from the pressure of the injection, happy it’s the last one. This time I get a bandage with smiley faces on it. I watch as he packs up the equipment, feeling once again a heaviness in this moment. I lay my hand on his and meet his eyes. Quietly, I ask, “Things are bad, aren’t they.”

  His eyes hold mine for a beat. He says nothing but we both know the truth. I watch as he latches the lab kit and stands, leaving me with a throbbing finger and a dozen questions. I ask the only one I think he’ll truly answer. “You never said, will we see each other again?”

  LabGuy stares at me and all I see are his sad eyes. For some irrational reason it all comes down to this, like a game of chance or risk. Like he’s a Magic 8 Ball and my future depends on his reply.

  “I really, really hope so, Alex.”

  And with that he shuts the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ~Now~

  Wyatt sleeps for hours. Eight to be exact. I watch him while he sleeps—trying to figure out his story. His looks fall somewhere between ROTC recruit and off-the-grid mountain man. He’s lean, but I see curves of hard muscles on his arms and shoulders. His bag lies at his feet and I can’t help but wonder what he carries in it. Something makes me doubt it’s family photos and his favorite book.

  It’s the smell of food that finally rouses him. The kitchen has a gas stove and I’m able to heat a couple of cans of soup. It feels like a luxury.

  The couch creaks and whines under his weight and I watch him as he rubs his face trying to acclimate himself. The top side of his hair is matted down, plastered to the side of his face and sleep lines from his sweatshirt zig-zag across his cheek.

  “What time is it?”

  “Around ten.” P.M. He’s slept half the night. This way I can sleep the other half. “Here, I made some soup.”

  He lumbers over and grabs a bowl, gruffly saying, “Thanks.”

  We eat in silence, the scrape of our spoons on the shallow bowls the only noise between us. I’ve been thinking the whole time he slept, wondering about this man and where he came from, how we would go forward together. Did it even make sense?

  “You’ve got something on your mind,” he said.

  “Just some questions.”

  “About me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You said you checked out once the borders closed down. What do you know about the E-TR virus?” I ask.

  “I know people started getting sick. Acting
high and crazy. First they thought it was drugs, then a virus, but there are rumors it’s something else. Something that mutated and burns up the brain. Making them delusional and hallucinate. Major aggression. One minute they were beating the crap out of people—the next they were eating them.” He tipped his bowl to his mouth and drank the rest without a spoon. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “Am I missing anything?”

  “My mom was obsessed with the news. It was hard to narrow down on the right information since they talk just to hear themselves talking but one thing that came out is that it’s definitely not drugs. It’s a parasite and causes an infection in the brain.”

  “A parasite?” he asked.

  “Yeah, and then the person becomes a living, breathing parasite and latches on to the next thing he or she can find.”

  “By eating them.”

  “Yeah.” I stirred my spoon around the bowl, fishing out a stray noodle. “They aren’t dead—not like zombies in a book or movie. They’re just sort of…rabid is a good word.”

  “And once they go rabid?”

  “There’s no turning back.” At least without a miracle cure. “Once their eyes get black spidery veins it’s like their brain has melted for good. Those are the ones that can pass on the parasite—the infection, for sure.”

  “And before then?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. That’s sort of the big question, right? They aren’t dead, but they’re sick and do you want to risk it?”

  He shook his head. “And there’s no cure or anything?”

  I touch the pouch under my shirt. “Not that anyone knows about. I don’t know how long they can survive after they’re infected. Do they need food? Or will they just decompose on their own? Or God knows, maybe something worse.”

  “So the “I don’t knows” are bigger than anything else.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I suppose the end of the world was never meant to be logical.”

  Wyatt rubs his chin. It’s covered in several days scruff but not a full beard. He must have shaved at the house he’d been holed up in a couple of days ago. His nails rake against the scratchy whiskers, his eyes deep in thought. I’m about to fall over from exhaustion and I say, “I guess I’ll take the back room, if that’s okay?”