The Withered Series (Book 1): Wither (11 page)

I
clutch my head with trembling hands as I remain crouched. Three more
shuffle past me.  One has a huge gouge out of her leg. Teeth
marks have torn through muscle and scored bone and I wonder if a dog
got ahold of her.  As soon as my immediate path is clear I rise
and come face to face with three men less than eight steps before me.
 Their eyes are vacant, unseeing.  The one on the right is
missing an ear.  A  gaping wound oozes with blood, trailing
down his neck and soiling his white suit coat.  The nails on his
right hand have been torn away, leaving flies to swarm the fleshy
beds of his fingers.  

The
second man’s cheeks are shredded.  Between strips of
flesh, broken teeth  jut upright like shark’s teeth.  His
neck looks like ground meat.  The stench surrounding him nearly
debilitates me.  My eyes water as I raise my shirt to cover my
mouth and nose, only sucking in tiny, necessary breaths.

The
third man is covered in muck, his hair and every inch of his body is
coated in bits of old garbage, soot and refuse.  His clothes are
torn and bloodied.  He walks with a pronounced limp but he
appears to have fared better than most.  

The
three Withered Ones seem to keep in pace with each other walking side
by side, though they show no conscious thought in doing so.  I
duck beneath the raised arm of the limping man on the right only to
find myself face to face with another small group.  

My
throat clenches as I realize I’ve burrowed into the heart of
death central.  “Just breathe and keep moving,” I
whisper to myself as I crawl forward on my hands and knees.  I
stifle my cries as I bounce between legs. Their fingers claw through
my hair, tugging me back as they continue on their mindless walk.
  My shoulders grow slick with gore.  I pause and
flick a patch of skin off my shoulder and shake out my hair. Bits of
fingernails fall from my matted curls.

“Oh
shit.”  I allow only small gulps of breath as I fight to
still my rising panic.  The air tastes foul on my tongue.

“Almost
through,” I try to reassure myself as the legs before me begin
to dwindle.  

I
cry out as a piece of glass on the street slices my palm.  I
falter to the right, slam into the leg of a man, and buckle under the
weight of him falling on top of me.  I scream and flail,
writhing to be free in spite of the shattered glass beneath me.

Blood
splatters my face and enters my mouth as I beat against the man.  He
doesn’t fight back, doesn’t yell or show any sign of pain
from my attack.  His arms and legs continue to move, as if he
were still walking.

Slowly
I crawl out from under him and drag myself up onto the curb and press
back against the wall.  I stare at the Moaner, horrified to find
most of his left side has been torn away.  

I
roll to my side and hurl as bits of what looks like ground beef slide
off my sleeve.  I wrench my hand away.   As I empty my
stomach onto the sidewalk, I realize that the scent is actually an
improvement.

Wiping
my mouth clean, I’m forced to gasp for breath and my stomach
instantly begins to churn anew.  I long for a fresh country
breeze instead of this vile, stench ridden street.  I beat at my
arm, removing any signs of that man from me before I pull my legs
into my chest.

My
fingers tremble as I hold myself, watching the Moaners, walking side
by side.  I bury my head in my arms and count slowly to 100.  I
listen to their stunted steps until they move on, like a herd without
direction.  

Slowly
the air begins to clear and I raise my head.  I wipe tears from
my face and glance toward the pharmacy.  It’s only a block
away.  Determined to save Eva, I force myself to my feet and
scan the surrounding streets, peering around the corner for any sign
of more Withered Ones. I spot two females at the end of the block to
my right and four more to my left but the path directly to the
pharmacy is clear.

“Eva
needs me.”  I gather what few shreds of courage I have
left and sprint toward the glass doors of the shop.  I slip
several times in dark puddles and pray that it isn't urine.  Less
than a minute later I hit the front door and bounce off, my footing
unsteady in the collection of glass on the doorstep.

I
peer into the darkened shop and feel the hairs on the back of my neck
rise.  There is a moan from within.

I
turn and press back against the wall, swearing under my breath.
 “Really?  Does someone have me on their ‘let’s
fuck with Avery’ radar today?  Scenes like this in horror
movies never turn out well.”

The
sun has risen over the top of the nearest building, the heat helping
to ward off some of the biting cold.  The wind whips mercilessly
down the city streets, chilling me as it seeps through my bloodied
clothes.  “At least it’s not nighttime,” I
mutter to myself, though walking into a pitch black building makes
this fact pretty much irrelevant.

Glass
crunches beneath my shoes as I duck and slip through the empty-framed
front doors.  The open sign jangles against the door as I reach
for a shopping basket to carry my items in.  I freeze and wait
for the metallic clanking to cease, holding my breath.  I hear
nothing, but the knowledge that I’m not alone makes me
cautious. There is at least one of them in here. Most likely more.

After
moving only a few feet into the store, the amount of visible light
diminishes drastically.  I rise onto my toes, squinting against
the dark in an attempt to see the aisle signs.  “I don’t
even know what I’m looking for,” I mutter under my
breath.

The
shelves are ransacked, much of their contents either stolen or left
scattered on the floor.  I force myself to tiptoe past the
shampoo and conditioner aisle, though I would dearly love to grab a
few bottles for later.  I pass a row of sunscreen and cold
medicines, canes and those little round pillows people sit on after
surgeries.  When I hit the vitamin aisle I stare long and hard
into the shadows to make sure nothing is moving before darting down
to find prenatal vitamins.  I snatch boxes of gauze and tape,
hydrogen peroxide and pads to help with the clean-up.  

I
snag a box of gloves and am heading to find baby formula when I hear
it.  Sluggish footsteps.  I press back against the shelf
and listen, trying to drown out the sound of my racing heart as I try
to decide where the steps are coming from.

My
head whips around at the sound of a loud crash, followed by the
cascade of cans falling.  It must have hit a display.  Crouching
low, I inch toward the back of the aisle and peer out.  The
light spilling in from the windows on the far side is blinding,
making it hard to see anything in the shadows. Something hits my foot
and I clamp my hand over my mouth to still my cries.

I
hear thrashing and more cans spiraling across the floor.  I
reach down and grab the can at my feet and hold it up right. “Of
course it would be baby formula!”

If
Eva is too weak to push without help during the delivery, there’s
no way she will be strong enough to feed her baby.  I don’t
have a choice.  Tucking the shopping basket beneath my arm, I
creep forward in the dark, collecting any cans I find in my path.  I
reach for one final can, praying that I have collected enough when a
hand seizes mine.  

It
is unnaturally cold, the skin loose and sagging.  I scream and
buck as fingers curl around my wrist, locking down.  The rasping
moan grows louder and I feel myself being tugged forward.

“Get
off of me!”  I beat at the hand, scratching and clawing,
yanking with all my might.  That’s when I smell it: a new
scent of sweat over the scent of death.

I
hear a footstep behind me a second before a bag is pulled over my
head and I’m yanked to my feet. The gruesome grasp releases me.
 I hear a gunshot nearby as something sharp stabs into my upper
arm and my protests grow weak.  

“No.”
 My head swims and my eyes flutter closed.  “Eva
needs me…”

My
wrists are pinched together in cuffs as I am hauled to my feet. I see
dots of light through the dark hood but trip over my basket and
nearly face plant when my legs don't react as fast as I need them to.

“Easy
with this one.  We need her unharmed.”  I turn my
head at the voice.  

“Who
are you?”  My question goes unanswered.  Strong hands
grip my arms as I’m lifted off the ground and carried out of
the shop.  I hear the rumble of a large engine, feel the heat
from it as I’m placed on my feet, held aloft by the men beside
me. Their grip on my arms is tight, though I can barely keep my head
upright as I sag against them.

“Why
are you doing this to me?” My words slur as my head falls
backward.  The muscles in my neck pull taut.

The
sound of clanking metal chains sounds distorted in my ears. A
tailgate squeals as it lowers before me and I’m hauled inside.
Darkness rushes in as my head hits the metal floor; the pain
insufficient enough to keep me lucid and I lose consciousness.

My
head hurts.  Not like a small sinus headache.  More like
someone using a buzz saw to separate the two hemispheres of my brain.
 

My
body feels weird, heavy and lethargic.  Shooting pains rise
along my neck.  As I try to lift my head, I realize that my
wrists and ankles are bound.  I am seated upright, my chest and
thighs strapped down tight enough to cut off circulation.  A
blindfold covers my vision, pressing tightly against my closed
eyelids.

Dripping,
as maddening as it is constant, sounds around me.  There is a
high pitched beeping coming from somewhere behind my head.

“Hello?”
 My voice cracks and I clear my throat to try again.  “Is
anyone there?”

I
hear breathing in the dark.  Slow and steady.  Rhythmic.
 It scares me.  Almost like a prank call gone too far.

“I
can hear you.”  I hate that my voice trembles.

Nothing.
 No response.  I call until my throat is raw but no one
answers my pleas.

Slowly
my other senses begin to kick back in.  I become aware of the
beat of my pulse in my neck and realize that it pulses in time with
the beeping from behind my head.  It must be some sort of heart
monitor.

I
smell nothing.  Literally nothing.  It is as if the space
has been sanitized and then stripped of all recognizable scent. A
clean room.  My lips part and I breathe deep, hoping to taste
something on the air but even this test fails me.  

I
am alone in the dark.  No. Not alone.  Just ignored.

“Let
me out of here!” I scream.  I listen as my cry echoes
around me, twisting against my restraints but manage only to burn my
skin.

“Hello?”
I listen again, focusing on the echo.  I’m in a large
room.  That much I do know.  The sound does not bounce back
at me but diminishes as it travels away.  I turn my head this
way and that, attempting other calls.  As best I can tell there
is a wall to my left not far away.  Nothing before me or to my
right.

“Think,
Avery.  Just focus on what you know.”

I’m
in a shitful of trouble, that’s what I know!
My
panic begins to rise and I struggle to squash it down.

I
freeze at the sound of grinding gears.  The sound is distant.  I
let my head roll back to my shoulder as a door bangs open.  Heavy
footfalls head my way.  Several people approach but they don't
seem the least bit concerned about being heard.

“Where’s
the new one?” A man asks.

“At
the end.  She’s been...resisting.”

A
disgruntled harrumph greets me less than a minute before I sense
movement in front of me.  I wish that I could open my eyes,
sneak a glimpse of my captors.  Instead I rely heavily on my
other senses.

I
note the ticking of a watch.  Smell the scent of cologne
attempting to mask alcohol.  I feel a cold breeze on my arm and
wonder if the door they entered through was left open.

“Is
she awake?”

I
keep my breathing slow and steady.  A hand presses to my neck
and I force myself not to react.  The man steps back.  “Her
vitals are steady.  It is possible that the sedation has begun
to wear off again.”

Again?
 I don't remember waking up here before.

“How
much have you managed to collect?”  The gravelly voice
belongs to a seasoned man, perhaps in his fifties or later.  His
words are clipped, no nonsense.  This is a man who is obviously
used to giving orders and having them instantly obeyed.

“We
have removed two pints so far, but I’m still waiting for the
test results to come back.” A meek voice speaks up.  I
hear the rustling of papers and imagine him to have a clipboard in
hand, sifting through my charts.

“Not
good enough, Doctor.  I want triple that.”

“But
sir–” his protest is cut off.

“No
excuses.  We are running low. Our soldiers’ lives depend
on it.”

I
have to fight not to react to that.  I remember giving blood
when I was a bit younger at a mobile red cross unit that stopped at a
church just down the street from me.  To be honest, I went for
the food afterward, not for some noble notion that I was helping
people.  I was hungry.  My mother had been on one of her
drinking binges again and the only things in the fridge were baking
soda and butter.  

That
day they took one pint of my blood and it was enough to leave me
woozy for a while.  I didn’t like that feeling.  In
the end, I decided the food wasn’t worth it.

Now
this guy wants to take half of my blood and call it a day?  Oh,
hell no!

“I
have rights,” I croak, lifting my head.

“Rights?”
 Thick fingers paw at the blindfold over my face, tearing stands
of hair from my scalp.  The blindfold slides down around my neck
and I’m forced to blink several times before my eyes adjust to
the brilliant light overhead.