Chapter2

"I'm not going to sit here and wait to die!" Thomas slammed the pickup truck door heavily, his eyes full of stubbornness.

I tried to snatch the car keys, but the veins on the back of his shriveled hands bulged. Backing down became the only option.

"I'll guard the farm, you guys get back as soon as you can." Bell racked the bolt of his rifle. A heavy entrenching shovel was planted in the dirt next to his boots.

The tires crushed the morning's lingering snow. Less than five miles out, the pickup suddenly slammed on the brakes.

Outside the windshield, the familiar small town had turned into a slaughterhouse.

An overturned school bus was still smoking. Shredded pieces of a down jacket hung from a street sign, fluttering in the wind.

A mutilated body lay across the middle of the road. From the chest up, there was nothing left but a bloody, unrecognizable mess.

The strong metallic smell of rust mixed with the stench of excrement seeped into my nasal cavity through the cracks in the car windows.

"Lock the doors and don't make a sound." I pressed down on Thomas's shoulder and pushed the car door open alone.

Using a burning sedan for cover, I crept toward the supermarket in the center of town.

The flames crackled. Through the heat waves, five or six swaying figures with their backs to me were gathered in front of the steps.

It was the young cashier's uniform. Nauseating chewing sounds and the tearing of fabric intertwined.

The sedan's gas tank suddenly popped, sending flames shooting higher.

The group of monsters flinched. Their hollow eyes turned toward the firelight, and their stiff limbs shuffled backward.

They were afraid of fire. And high-frequency noise.

Intermittent static crackled from the speakers on the town's broadcast tower.

"...State of emergency... shelter in place..." The residual recording looped over and over, like a sick joke.

I gestured toward the pickup. Thomas approached, pushing a scattered delivery cart.

We quickly picked up the canned goods and bottled water scattered on the ground and tossed them into the truck bed.

"That's enough, let's go right now." I kept my voice low and reached for the car door.

The iron fire escape stairs overhead suddenly rattled violently.

A dark silhouette lunged out from the blind spot of the side alley. Its target wasn't me, but Thomas beside me.

My father stumbled and fell. Pale teeth instantly pierced through the leg of his jeans.

I swung the butt of the Remington and viciously smashed the monster's jaw.

I pressed the muzzle against the back of its head and pulled the trigger. Warm, dark blood splattered across the back of my hand.

Thomas clutched his calf, breathing heavily. Dark red liquid was gushing through his fingers.

The roar of the engine couldn't mask the sound of chattering teeth from the passenger seat.

In the cabin on the way back, Thomas's body temperature was burning hot to the touch. Sweat soaked through his flannel shirt.

"My veins... feel like they're burning..." he slurred a few words, his eyelids drooping weakly.

Gravel flew beneath the tires. The moment the pickup rushed into the ranch yard, Bell raised his weapon.

"He's been bitten. He needs to be isolated immediately!" Bell's gaze locked onto that bloody leg.

Mary rushed out of the house, spreading her arms to block the car door.

"Are you crazy! He's been your friend for decades! He needs antibiotics!" My mother's voice was choked with sobs.

"There are no doctors left in town, Mary!" Bell strode closer, his finger pressing on the edge of the trigger guard.

I squeezed between the two of them and pushed down the cold gun barrel.

"The backup sheep pen." I clenched my jaw, avoiding my mother's pleading eyes. "It's reinforced. I'll guard him myself."

The heavy cast-iron padlock let out a crisp click. The sound was exactly like a gavel falling in a courtroom.

Holding the shotgun, I sat on a molded pile of hay outside the sheep pen. The cold wind howled through the gaps in the wooden planks.

The groans from behind the door changed. Human syllables gradually peeled away, turning into a thick, murky hissing.

The sound of nails scratching against the oak boards began. "Scrape—scrape—" The rhythm was mechanical, tireless.

The sheepdog Buster tucked his tail, whimpering as he backed up several steps, then turned and fled into the pitch-black woods. He smelled death.

I stared at my own bloodstained hands. In this catastrophe, I have no privileges; I am just an ordinary person who could lose everything at any moment.