The Withered Series (Book 1): Wither

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real
people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters,
places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Copyright © 2014 by Amy Miles Books, LLC.

http://www.AmyMilesBooks.com

The
lights flicker overhead.  

I
stare up at them, listening to the intermittent hum of the dying
fluorescent bulbs.  The dim lighting provided by the backup
generator casts an eerie glow on the room.  Shadows multiply in
the corners.  My head twitches at every sound, sure that I hear
someone creeping down the hall.

A
chill has fallen on the room.  The fever that arrived earlier
this morning has left me flushed and weakened.  I didn’t
tell the nurses.  Part of me didn’t want to bother them.
 Another feared that they might throw me out onto the streets
like the rest of
them
.
 

Condensation
from my breath hangs before my mouth and a slight tremor has begun in
my lips.  My fingers cramp as I tighten my grip on the pistol in
my lap and try to ignore the aches in my legs.

The
gun, though small and easily managed, feels foreign in my grasp.
 It’s not mine.  I took it off a man on the street
early this morning.  He had four rounds in his pocket and
several lay scattered around his body in the gutter. A single hole in
his right temple, and the splatter of crimson on the brick behind,
told me that it wasn’t stealing.  Not really.

Halos
of light dot the window before me, fires set long before the sun fell
behind a blanket of heavy cloud.  Intermittent gunfire to the
east sounds muffled through the panes of glass.  That is the
direction I saw the men coming from.

Dark
shapes converged on the frozen hospital lawn less than half an hour
ago.  Twenty of them in total.  Some appeared slighter in
stature.  Others large enough to wrestle with a grizzly.  All
seemed focused on the fortified front doors of the building.

It
was only a matter of time before the survivors came for us.

Unease
settles heavily in the pit of my stomach as I glance toward my mother
lying in the bed beside me.  No expression.  No movement,
apart from the slow rise of her chest.  Her lips hold a tint of
blue, but that is nothing unusual.

I
draw my legs up into the chair, crossing them before me.  
What
are they waiting for?  
They
must have found a way inside by now.

The
scraping of chairs and rapid staccato of voices from down the hall
faded away a few minutes ago.  I watched from the door of my
mother’s room as those few remaining nurses and doctors emptied
the waiting room in an attempt to barricade the doors.  It won’t
last long, but maybe someone can get away.

I
should have left the city when the turmoil first began.  The
news anchors tried to spin their pretty little lies about how the
military had everything under control, but all you have to do is look
out a window to know that things are falling apart faster than anyone
could have predicted.  Anarchy rules the streets.

Little
more than a week ago, the world sank right into hell.  I just
stood by and watched it. What else could I do?

People
started disappearing.  Tanks and armored military trucks rumbled
through the streets at all hours of the night.  Quarantines were
established and martial law was enforced for a time.

I
could have escaped before the rioting really began, before the gangs
formed and innocent blood painted the streets of St. Louis.  It
would have been easy to slip by unnoticed, clinging to the shadows.
 One person can hide well enough. But I didn’t leave; I
stayed...because of her.

I
remember the last words my mother ever said to me: “I love
you.” But it didn’t matter.  Those words could never
be enough to wipe away years of bitterness and resentment, to heal
neglected wounds left to fester, to right a thousand wrongs.  Too
little.  Too late.

A
part of me will always wish that I could have said
I
love you
back
to her just that once and actually meant it.  That my final
words were not spoken with animosity.  We never had that sort of
relationship though.  Never hugged.  Never flopped down on
the couch just to chat.  We were co-habitants in an empty home,
and even then I hardly ever saw her. Not until the accident that left
her void of speech, thought or any other basic human activity.

I
don’t really know why I came each day to visit or even why I
stayed.  It’s certainly not out of loyalty.  Maybe
some twisted part of me just wanted her to wake up so I could get
some closure.  Maybe I’m just that messed up. Or maybe I
was scared. Scared of being truly alone for the first time in my
life.

A
loud crash from beyond the door wrenches me from my thoughts.  My
messy curls tumble from their ponytail as I whip around.  Several
more crashes follow in rapid succession, each one making me jump.  

“We
need to turn out the lights,” a nurse says from down the hall.

“No.”
 Another speaks up.  Her words pinch with fear.  “They
already know we’re here.”

The
sound of shoes pounding against the floor reaches me as someone
hurries past my room.  I hear the stairwell door burst open.

“Wait!
 What about the patients?” A lengthy pause, interspersed
with loud bangs against the double glass doors that have sealed us
in, makes my pulse race.  I cling to my gun as I wait for the
answer.  

“It’s
too late for them.”

I
close my eyes as a single tear curls down my cheek.  
I
don’t want to die.  Not like this.

A
scream echoes down the darkened corridor as a rain of glass pings
against the tile floor. My palms feel sweaty.  I draw the gun
into my chest and lift prayers heavenward, though I find myself
unsure of how any god could allow such horrors to happen.

Pushing
up from my chair, I cast a glance back at my prostrate mother and
then slowly draw open the door to her private room.  Through the
narrow crack I spy men scrambling to climb over a pile of chairs,
tables and couches stacked chest high at the far end of the hall.
 Their clothing is wrinkled and smeared with dirt.  Their
beards and hair unkempt.

Blood
slickens the floor as the men rise to their feet among the shards.
 The  large glass doors behind them stand open with a
gaping hole smashed through.  A chained padlock swings useless
near the floor.

I
shudder as the men survey the hall.   Dark circles shadow
their eyes. Their gaze is wide, crazed.  I know that look.  The
look of desperation.

My
heart hammers against my ribs as two men break off from the pack and
leap onto a middle-aged nurse fleeing into a patient’s room.
 Her scream is shrill as she slams against the wall. Fragments
of drywall fall to the ground as the unconscious nurse slumps toward
the floor.

The
men begin tearing at her. I’m paralyzed with fright as I watch
them raise bloodied hands to their lips.  They lick their
fingers, ingesting the warm, sticky fluid. Its bright red stains
their beards.  

They
have gone mad!

Closing
the door, I lean against it and cover my ears as new screams replace
the nurse’s.  A fog settles over my mind, combating the
adrenaline pumping through my veins. I shake my head, fighting to
remain focused.

Sweat
clings to my brow and upper lip.  My head feels light and airy
as I scold myself.  
Keep
it together!

Two
doctors remained behind to care for the patients too ill to evacuate
or those left behind by family members too afraid to enter the city
to collect them.  Four nurses stayed as well, though I’m
sure more than one has fled.  

The
screams grow louder.  I hear grunting down the hall as men try
to break through a door.  The wood creaks and groans, finally
giving way.

“Grab
the supplies,” a man yells.  The sound of hurried
footsteps quickly follows.  By pressing my ear against the door
I can tell they are getting closer.

Doors
bang open and patients’ rasping pleas echo in my ears.  A
tremor works its way through me as I scan the room.  My mother
lies on the bed before me in a catatonic state.  The bathroom is
to my left, but it’s too small to hide in.  The window to
my mother’s right is made of thick glass.  Even if I could
break through it, I would never survive the five-story fall.

I
rush toward a supply cabinet and tear open the doors, rummaging
through bandages, cleaning supplies and bedding.  The handful of
bullets I scavenged this morning won’t last long. I will need a
backup weapon if I have any chance of surviving the night.

Nothing!
 
I
bite my lower lip as I realize there is nothing of use.  Not a
scalpel.  Not a pair of scissors.  Not even a needle.

The
lights flicker again overhead and then fade for the last time,
plunging the room into darkness.  I clasp my hands over my mouth
to suppress my scream as something large slams into the door of the
room.  I hold my breath and wait for someone to enter, but the
door remains closed.  I clutch my gun to my chest.

Think,
Avery!  
I
pound my fist against my head.  
I
can’t shoot them all.  

My
lips quake as I sink down the wall, covering my ears to muffle the
horrific clamor of death that fill the once peaceful ward.  The
sounds of butchering diminish, but the hammering of my heart in my
ears only increases.

Another
loud bang against the door sends me scuttling on my hands and feet
toward my mother’s bed.  The steady droning hiss of her
breathing machine catches my attention.  The battery pack must
have kicked in when the generator failed. They will hear it!  

It
is inevitable.  This hospital wing is easy pickings.

The
fifth floor is for long term care patients like my mother.  Some
are recovering from strokes or heart attacks.  Others, like my
mother, are trapped in a coma with a slim chance of ever waking
again.  None will put up much of a fight.

I
should have left when I had the chance.

“Check
that one,” a man commands.  It sounds as if he’s
only a couple of feet from my door. I stifle a squeal and dive head
first under my mother’s bed.  The mechanics of the lift
tear at my sweater.  I suck in and squeeze.  Sharp metal
jabs at my back, nicking my flesh.  

“You
been in here yet?”  

My
breath catches at the nearness of a feminine voice.  
Please
don’t come in here.  There’s nothing for you.

“What
are you waiting for?  Check it out!” the man yells back.

The
back of my jeans rips as I thrust my leg under the bed just before
the door swings open, spilling the dim glow of a dying flashlight
through the entrance of the room.  The feet that approach are
small, definitely those of a woman.  She walks with a hint of a
limp as she approaches the bed.  

I
bury my face in my arms, focusing on small half breaths.  
They
will see me.  They’ll know I’m here!

“I
found another live one!” she shouts.  I can tell by the
way her soles screech on the tile that she calls over her shoulder.  

I
stare through thick strands of ginger hair as two people arrive in
the doorway.  The sounds of screaming have died off, replaced by
an eerie silence.

“She
one of them?” The work boots on the right pause as they reach
the end of the bed.  

I
don’t want to die,
shuffles
on repeat like a skipping song in my mind.  I reaffirm my grip
on the gun, pointing it at the feet before me, but I don't pull the
trigger.  Not yet.  I wait for a good shot.

“Does
it matter? She’s still breathing,” the woman responds.

“Ignorant
cow!”  A wad of phlegm lands on the floor near her feet.
 “You put any of
their
blood in you and you’re as good as gone too.  Ain’t
you learned nothin’ yet?”

The
woman pauses less than six inches from my head.  The tips of her
shoes tread on the hem of my sweater.  “Fine.  Then
who’s gonna check her?”

A
gravelly laugh from the doorway sends chills down my spine.  “Why
do you think I sent you in here?”

“Aw,
come on Rhett.  You know I had to check the last one.  I
still have nightmares over that.  I swear that thing looked at
me!”

The
man at the end of the bed steps forward.  I hear gargled cries
as the woman’s heels lift off the floor.  “You know
the rules.  Bring back the goods or don’t come back.  If
I tell ‘em you ain’t done your part, whatcha think
they’re gonna do to ya?  Hmm?”