ZE Outbreak Novel, Chapter 6

continued from chapter 5

Pharmacy, Afternoon of Wednesday, May 9, 2012

A few customers ran near us and grabbed items off the shelf, stuffing them into bags without a second thought. As I peeked out farther, more people were doing the same. The only safe store in Philadelphia had fallen to looters.

"What do we do?" Amber asked, placing her hand on my shoulder. Her tremor ran through my body, making me want to wrap my arms around her or kill everyone in this store who made her feel like this.

"We need to go. We need to look for an opening. Until then, we stay low. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. If we see an opportunity, we take it and get out of here—”

"But I need my medication, and my dad's."

Before I could move, a handful of customers rushed the pharmacy counter. Their hands clawed at the metal gate, trying to pry it open. One guy climbed onto it, his shoes slipping as he tried to wedge his fingers and feet through the wire, shaking it like he could tear it down by force.

A security guard fired a shot, the bullet slamming into the gate with a metallic clang. That single shot pulled every eye in the room. The mob turned on him, chasing him down the aisle until both the guard and the crowd disappeared from view.

It felt like an opening if there ever was one. My hand fell to my Glock, and I chambered a round. But in that moment a strange feeling came over me. It wasn’t fear but something else. Excitement? Anticipation? While Amber was fidgeting next to me, a calmness washed over my body. It was the same sensation I received when I was killing Daniel Thorne.

Amber grabbed my arm, pulling me out of our hiding spot. For a second, I just stared, then I saw her heading for the pharmacy’s back door, cracked open. Two tech stood in the doorway, a young woman named Sarah and a middle-aged man named Malcolm, based on their name tags.

"We can't just leave everything behind!" Sarah shouted. She was twisting the metal doorknob over and over nervously.

"And staying here is a fucking death wish!" Malcolm shouted back. “I’m not sticking around for twelve dollars an hour and a chance at a bullet in my head.”

As Amber and I approached, Sarah and Malcolm tensed, ready to back away.

"We’re not here to cause trouble," Amber said with a smile. She held up her phone and pointed. "We just need our prescriptions. My dad has a bad heart, and I’ve got asthma. We’re not here to steal anything. I’ll pay for everything, I swear."

Another round of gunshots cracked from the front, making all of us flinch. Sarah yanked us inside and Malcolm slammed the door, shutting out the noise from the main store.

Malcolm’s head snapped toward the gunfire, his jaw tight and his shoulders tight. "Get your own medicine. I’m out," he said, already running for the back exit.

Sarah squeezed the bridge of her nose, shoulders slumped. "I can’t believe this is happening. I really thought we were the one store that would make it through today."

People slammed into the metal cage surrounding the pharmacy. The gate rattled and clanged as they tried to shake it loose. Sarah’s face tightened, eyes darting from the gate to us.

“Take whatever you need. That gate isn’t going to hold them for long. God bless you both.” Sarah grabbed two bottles and a box labeled nitroglycerin, her hands shaking as she checked the labels. She swept a row of antibiotics into her bag, added three boxes of insulin pens, and snatched up a handful of inhalers. Painkillers, bandages, and blood pressure meds went in next. She moved between the shelves and the buckling gate, stuffing her bag until it bulged.

Amber was already moving, weaving through the shelves, grabbing medication and her inhaler. I stayed by the door, pistol out, and eyes locked on the gate. The chain holding it to the wall stretched with every slam, the metal groaning, but somehow it stayed up.

This was unreal. At any moment, that gate would fall, and that mob was going to tear into this back room and rip it apart like locusts. I was a good shot, but I couldn’t stop a few dozen people from trampling us. Two or three people would fall before the sheer numbers would overtake me. There was no telling what would happen after that.

"I've got them," Amber said, holding up the medications. The bottle in her right hand rattled as she showed me, and she was biting her lip so hard, I thought she might bleed.

"Good, now grab antibiotics and pain meds. Look for Amoxicillin and Oxycodone. Grab as many as you can fit in your bag. We might need them."

Amber lunged for the shelf, her hand snatching up bottle after bottle. She found more inhalers on a back shelf, double-checked the labels, then tossed them in with a handful of albuterol refills. She barely glanced up and kept her focus locked on grabbing everything she could before the crowd broke through.

Sarah bolted for the back door, her bag stuffed full. The alley swallowed her up just as the gate started to buckle. I slipped into the aisle beside Amber. "It's time to go."

We followed Sarah, feet slapping the cracked pavement. I slammed the door behind us, the metal frame rattling as I threw the bolt. Almost right away, a crash echoed from inside, followed by a fresh round of shouts and boots pounding the floor. Something hit the door, making it vibrate under my hands. Amber shrieked but let out a nervous laugh as the door held.

We sprinted the length of the narrow alley and burst out onto the street. Pure luck and Amber’s fast thinking had gotten us out. If she hadn’t spotted that open door to the back of the pharmacy, we’d still be trapped inside the store, or worse, lying on that tile floor.

“Everything’s out of control,” Amber said, crouching with her back to the brick wall, arms wrapped around her handbag. “We need to leave, like you’ve been saying. But I need to get to my father and give him his medicine. Is there any way we can take him with us?”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t speak. She wouldn’t want to hear what I said. She caught my hesitation, and her cheeks turned red and her eyes narrowed.

“It’s going to be tough to bring him if he’s not in good health,” I said. “But he’s your father. We’ll take him with us. It might be difficult, but we’ll make it work.”

Amber let out a shaky breath, her shoulders finally dropping. Faster than I could blink, she pressed herself against me, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. Her head tucked into my neck, breath warm and uneven. For a moment, she just held on tight, like she was trying to forget the world. I wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer.

Amber and I kept to the edge of 12th Street, weaving around abandoned bikes and piles of trash bags. The city was coming apart one block at a time. Looters smashed glass storefronts and clambered over the counters, stuffing backpacks with whatever they could grab. Families loaded up minivans, suitcases and plastic totes stacked in the trunk, everyone shouting at once. Little kids were running around in the street or crying on the sidewalks. The mother was shouting for help somewhere high up in one of the second stories of a home. Ahead of us, blue lights flashed as a wall of police blocked off Arch Street, making the whole stretch impassable.

“He’s on the first floor of a duplex,” Amber said, panting as we power walked. “He’s been there almost twenty years. He always fought me on moving in. Said a woman my age should be out in the world, not stuck taking care of her old man.” She paused, staring ahead, her mouth set in a thin line. “I didn’t want to leave him. Then the cruise ship job came up, and I had to take it. He tells me not to worry, that his buddies from the VFW check in on him, but—” She trailed off, her mouth twisting to keep herself from crying.

When we turned onto her dad’s street, we ran straight into the aftermath of a head-on collision. Two cars had smashed together in the middle of what should have been a one-way street. Broken glass and bits of metal littered the road. A bent fender blocked part of the sidewalk, so I steadied Amber as she climbed over it, not that she needed help. She swung her leg over the fender with barely a pause, landing light on her feet. She was a dancer by trade, and I had to remind myself I was probably going to slow her down.

When we got to the house, the front door was wide open. The sound of running water came from deep in the house, and a pigeon flew out and over our heads, causing us both to duck.

Amber froze at the open door, her breath catching. "Oh my God," she whispered, planting her feet at the threshold.

I caught her arm, holding her back. "Stay here. Let me check it out first."

She twisted in my grip, her eyes wild. "It’s my father in there…"

“Amber, let me go first. We don’t know what’s inside.” I pulled out my Glock and chambered a round.

Amber’s fists clenched, knuckles white. She blinked hard, swallowing tears, but wouldn’t look away from the door. Her jaw tightened, and she set her shoulders, breathing in short, angry bursts. She looked like she might bolt through the open door anyway, but for now, she took a step backwards and gave me a simple nod.

I crept up to the door and tucked my pistol against my ribs, just like they taught us in training. The door hung open, swinging slightly on its hinges, creaking with every breeze. It felt like walking into a trap. I shot a look back at Amber, still by the pavement, hugging herself with her eyes locked on me. I held out my hand, and she nodded again.

The place was a wreck. Couch cushions were tossed onto the floor, drawers were yanked open, and papers and old photographs were scattered everywhere. A chair lay overturned by the window with one of the legs nearly broken off. It didn’t look random. Someone had torn through this place like they were looking for something. My pulse hammered in my ears as I stepped over the mess.

Then I saw a streak of blood trailing down the hallway, smudged in spots like someone tried to crawl or was dragged. It led to a bedroom at the back of the house with the door half-open. Everything told me to grab Amber and run as far from here as I could. But she wouldn’t run. I had no choice but to move on and see what I feared.

I followed the blood and tightened the grip on my gun. As I entered the bedroom, I saw the old man lying on the floor, blood already drying on the back of his neck. I had never met Amber’s father, but he was dead in front of me.

The bed sat in the middle, sheets twisted and bunched, and a dark smear of blood marked the fabric near the pillow. A sock and an old Phillies T-shirt lay tangled near the edge. Family photos crowded the far wall. One showed Amber as a kid at the Jersey shore, her dad in a VFW cap. Their frozen smiles stared out at the mess in the room.

A sharp tang of blood cut through the lingering scent of aftershave. Shards from a broken lamp spread across the carpet, crunching under my boots. I stepped around the glass, trying not to leave prints, but the trail was already set. A single bloody handprint on the wall streaked downward, pointing toward the foot of the bed.

One window stood open, curtains billowing in the breeze, letting in the sounds of distant sirens. I caught the faint creak of floorboards in the hallway behind me and tightened my grip on the Glock.

Footsteps grew louder, approaching the bedroom. I stepped into the hallway, my gun held low, only to see Amber walking towards me. Her face was pale with her lips pressed together. Tears filled her eyes.

"Is my dad—"

She took a few steps and bolted towards the door, trying to run past me. I grabbed her, pulling her against me. She collapsed into my arms, her body shaking with sobs.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."

I held her, letting her press her face against my shoulder. Her grip tightened, her breath coming in uneven bursts. I didn’t know what to say. I was never good at this part. When people died in my life, I felt little. When my mother died, I remember wondering not how I would never see her again or even where I was going to live, but what I was going to have for dinner that night.

The world outside had gone to hell, and now Amber’s was splintered too. When she stopped crying, she pulled away, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and straightened up.

“We should call the police. They need to know what happened here.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

I nodded and reached for my phone, when a sound came from within the house. We both turned our heads towards the staircase going down. Feet shuffled over hardwood, and something clattered against a wall.

"It's coming from the kitchen," Amber whispered, her eyes wide.

I stepped towards the railing and looked over, holding my going out with both hands. "Stay here," I told her.

But Amber was already moving, following close behind me as I stepped along the hallway. I can’t blame her. If I just found my father dead, I’d be wondering if the killer was still in my house.

The sound grew louder as we approached the kitchen. An odd noise flowed from inside the room. It sounded like moaning from deep in the stomach like an injured animal. I raised my gun with my finger on the trigger, as we rounded the corner.

A figure stood in the kitchen, with his back turned to us. The hood of a gray sweatshirt hung low, the fabric torn at the shoulder and spattered with dark, rusty stains. His jeans sagged at the waist and were threadbare and streaked with filth. What used to be white tennis shoes were now yellowed and thick with grime. A sour, rotting smell drifted off him, like a sourness of something rotting deep in a garbage can.

As the figure turned to face us, everything in my world flipped upside. He had jaundiced skin. Green lesions broke through the yellow and marred his face, oozing with pus and blood. His eyes were milky white, shot through the center with a bead of red, like the yolk of a spoiled egg floating in cloudy water.

He stumbled forward like he had forgotten he had to be a human. His mouth sagged open and let out a shrill scream that sent Amber tumbling backwards, tripping over her own feet.

I wasn’t afraid of him. I wasn’t afraid of much in this world and stood frozen as I tried to figure out this thing in front of us. He wasn’t even a person anymore. Whatever he used to be had rotted out and was replaced by something running on empty. The virus had hollowed him out and left behind this walking disaster. Looking at him, it was obvious that whatever made him human was long gone. He was a shell, shuffling around, looking for something to tear apart.

I raised my pistol and leveled it at the infected guy, lining up the sights with his ruined face. My pulse hammered in my ears. That old surge of adrenaline was back, making my hands perfectly still. I wanted to shoot him, but part of me wanted to see what he would do next.

He stared back with those milky, ruined eyes, not even blinking. I drew in a breath and let it out slowly, focusing on the simple rhythm of aim and breathe. It was just me, the gun, and whatever this thing had become.

continue to chapter 7