Rise of the Plague (Book 0): The Sickness (Monte's Story) (5 page)

“Colonel Kennedy Channing. What is your name miss?” He asks.

“Monte,”

“I remember letting you in. Dirt bike. On your own,” He says.

“Yes,” I whisper, uneasy about what he may say to me.

“Listen, I don’t expect you to understand, but what happened here…” The Colonel looks away. Returning his eyes to mine, he continues, “The event you witnessed here is as bad as it gets. It is a memory that I cannot take from you, although I certainly wish I could. While I owe you no explanation, I would like leave you with a thought. The innocent people that were coming toward us were all over the road, leaving no clear shots for my men to fire at the horde behind them. Had we waited until the civilians were closer, there is no guarantee that my men could have stopped the horde and they could have escaped the town’s boundaries. That would have put you and everyone in this camp at risk, not to mention the towns beyond,” He says with empathy in his voice.   

I nod my head at him and watch him turn on a heel and go back toward the barricade. Taking in his words, I am finding myself both understanding his viewpoint, but also resenting him for the deaths of the regular people. I don’t know what he could have done differently, or even, if it was possible to save those people. I do know that those soldiers saved all of us at the camp by using their guns, but all those people are still dead, sick or not.

Turning toward the school bus, I take my time shuffling over. I’m trying to decide whether or not to still be angry about the massacre or put it behind me—along with all that has happened today. The bus’s engine is roaring and ready to go. As I make my way up the steps, I see the sweet woman who told me about the bus. She is standing beside the first seat, behind the driver, welcoming on new passengers. She reminds me a little of a hostess at a fancy restaurant. Her warm smile is welcomed, but then, she unexpectedly pulls me into an embrace. I awkwardly hug her back. The feeling is so bizarre, but I understand that she is attempting to be comforting.

My family had never really been the hugging type. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve had a hug, with this woman’s embrace included.

“You take a seat anywhere pumpkin. It will all be alright,” she says.

I take notice of a soldier sitting across from the woman. He is dressed in camo, with a blonde buzz cut and looks like he’s only a handful of years older than me. As I walk past him, he looks up from a clipboard and gives me a frosty stare with his glowing blue eyes.

The bus is nearly full, as I walk down the aisle looking for a seat. Chatter fills the bus. Everyone is explaining their stories of how they made it out or what happened to their loved ones. A few of the riders are sobbing and wiping tears from their faces. Even with most of the windows open, the pungent smell of body odor pollutes the bus. Halfway down the aisle, I see that nearly all the seats are taken. I might have to stand. How long is this ride anyway?
This day can’t get any better
.

“Monte, is that you?” a delicate voice sounds.

I look all around, but can’t find anyone familiar. Then a waving hand from the back catches my eye. I hurry toward the wagging hand, eager to find the owner. After squeezing by a gabby guy in the aisle, chatting up a cute girl, I see that the hand belongs to—Annabelle Sanchez.
Oh God
.

Annabelle Sanchez is the snobbiest girl at my high school, hands down—there is no competition. She comes from a family with money, and has on many occasions been shamefully wicked to me and my friends. Of all the people to find me on the bus, Annabelle is the last one I want to see.

“Monte, come sit over here,” she says with an unusually friendly smile on her face.

If she is trying to play some embarrassing trick on me, I swear, I’m going to kick her ass. I’m not going to take her crap—not today, not after what I’ve been through.

I take the seat beside Annabelle and offer nothing more than a nod at first. I look around, but don’t see her usual clan of tormentors anywhere around us.

“I’m so glad to see a familiar face,” Annabelle says. “Since this morning, I haven’t seen anyone I knew, until now.”

“Me neither,” I mumble.

“I don’t know what happened to my family. They have a disease or something,” Annabelle says with tears in her eyes.

“Mine too.”

Maybe Annabelle and I are not that different from one another. Take away her fancy clothes and fake friends; reduce her to the same situation as me and she’s not that different. She called out to me on the bus, not because we’re friends, or because she wanted to play some embarrassing joke on me, because I’m the only thing familiar to her in this mess. And she is the only thing familiar to me. Honestly, I am glad she called me over, being all alone sucks. Even if we aren’t friends and can hardly stand the sight of one and other, being with someone, at least a little familiar, feels better than being all alone, especially with all this craziness that’s going on.

FEAR

I’m mostly quiet, sitting next to Annabelle, as the bus makes its way onto the highway. Annabelle is doing most of the talking, telling me about what happened in her house this morning, like we are old friends. I still have my guard up, I’ve gone through too much taunting at her hands to completely open up to her. From the sound of it, it seems like her morning had been quite similar to mine. We are a few miles outside of our hometown of Port Steward, in Bayberry Hollow—the next town up, when I overhear a man talking about his experience.

“I read on the internet, before I lost cell service, that they’re saying it’s a terrorist attack,” the guy began. “Some kind of bio-chemical weapon and that it can go airborne at any time. Our town has gone to shit, if it’s not the ones with the disease, than it’s the rioters that are looting and destroying The Port. We won’t be coming back, the whole town will be shut down for months or even years and you know what else—” he pauses looking up the aisle.

A very old lady, about four rows ahead, began coughing—more like hacking, loud and uncontrollably. Those around her spread out all over the bus trying to get as far away from the coughing woman as possible.

“Pull over this lady is sick,” a guy not much older than me yells to the driver.

Soon others shout for the driver to pull over as well. It doesn’t take long before he surrenders to their requests and pulls the bus to the side of the road, just outside of the downtown area. The soldier from the front of the bus makes his way to the woman—who has now stopped coughing—and escorts her off the bus.

Annabelle and I look out the half open window on our side and see the soldier walk the woman a few feet away from the bus. He yells at her to show him where her bite is and to tell him when it happened. The woman maintains that she has no bites, but suffers from emphysema. He doesn’t look like he believes her as he yanks up her peach, satin sleeves and tugs at her blouse before lifting her polyester skirt. The elderly woman looks to be in her seventies or so. She is so offended by the soldier’s behavior that she screams and slaps him with a soft hand. He grabs her arm and cruelly yanks her behind a section of overgrown bushes. A few seconds later, a lone gunshot rings out.

I shudder at the sound and look at Annabelle with terrified eyes. That soldier killed that poor woman. She probably wasn’t even bitten. We look back out waiting for the soldier to return, but it feels like it’s taking forever. He finally emerges, alone. Wild-eyed and out of breath, he boards the bus and takes his seat.

I’ve seen that wild look that is on his face before—but on my dad. It’s the look of a madman. This guy is a lunatic. He’s not like the other soldiers or like the Colonel, no, he’s like five seconds from a psychotic break down.

“Was she bitten?” The driver asks, closing the door.

“No, I checked her whole body, no bites. But she was going to turn, I could tell. She had the disease. Yeah, I’m sure of it. She must have got it some other way. Let's move out,” the soldier replies.

“Are you sure she really had it? I mean, if there wasn’t a bite, than how can you know for sure?” The driver mentions casually as he pulls away from the curb.

“I’m sure,” the soldier says in a stern tone, leaning back in his seat.

As we pull down the road, I crane my neck, leaning over Annabelle, staring at the overgrowth. Before it’s out of sight, I catch sight of the elderly woman lying on her stomach. Her clothes have been taken off and tossed onto her back.

Closing my eyes, I feel like my own sanity hanging on by a frayed shoelace. When that paranoid jerk checked her body, he took off all her clothes. And when he couldn’t find a bite, he tossed them on her back and left her naked body to rot behind overgrown weeds.
I am in hell
. I would happily take a beat-down from my dad any day—over the crap that’s been happening today. When we get to the shelter, with or without Annabelle, I’m not staying for long.

THE SHELTER

The ride to Moss County on the overcrowded, smelly bus was a bumpy one, but uneventful for the remainder of the trip. When we finally pull to a stop at the new shelter, I’m in a daze—thinking about what Lieutenant Lunatic did to that poor old lady. Annabelle nudges my shoulder to get my attention. The seats behind us are already empty as everyone pushes and shoves in the aisle. Annabelle and I are the last to leave the stinky bus. I’m hot and sticky, and sleepy too, as we step onto the curb. Before us is a humungous building, larger than any I’ve ever seen. It looks like an arena for basketball games or concerts. I notice that the street in both directions is empty. There aren’t any cars driving around, or parked on the street. No people are walking around or riding bicycles. It seems really strange to me.

There are more soldiers out in front, checking our decontamination bracelets and pinning index cards to everyone’s chest. As we approach, a female soldier makes eye contact and offers a grin.

“Bracelet,” she says with softness to her voice.

I hold out my wrist and she examines the bracelet, scribbling onto an index card.

“Can you state your full name and age,” she asks.

“Monte Barrett, sixteen.”

The conversation goes back and forth as she makes notes on a clipboard. I tell her my address and the names of my parents and brother. I leave out the part about what happened to them. I don’t know why I did that, but I have a bad feeling about telling her that I’m all alone in the world. The lady soldier gently pins the card to my shirt and points out the area where my bunk is located. She explains that the index card—that must to remain pinned to my shirt—includes my name, home address, and bunk number which doubles as a meal number during serving time.

Annabelle is next and she gives up her information too, but she tells them everything about how her whole family having the disease and that she narrowly escaped with her life. It was all very dramatic in my opinion. After all, I don’t think that these soldiers really care. It seems more like they want us to move along, so that they can quickly get everyone inside.

In looking around the expansive space inside the building, I can see cots in rows filling nearly the entire space. On the other side of the building I can see a cafeteria area and a line snaking a quarter of the way around the inside of the building. I’m not hungry, but I feel exhausted. Annabelle heads off to join the line and get some food, while I try to make sense of the numbering system of the cots.

I take careful notice of the exits, there are six in all. They are all closed and have a soldier stationed before each set of double doors.
Are they keeping everyone inside?
I begin to wonder whether or not we are allowed to leave. I don’t want to stay here long, but I feel so tired that finding my bunk is my first priority. I need to take a nap, at least for half hour or so, and then I’ll find a way out of this place.

When I finally reach my bunk, I’m exhausted. I fall into the lumpy cot with hardly any energy to spare. I feel uncomfortably hot and slightly weak. I think it’s because I am so tired. I want to take off my hoodie, but I’m a little self-conscious about my wrist—which is itching like crazy. I don’t want Annabelle asking about it, or anyone else for that matter. Thumbing the wrist band as I laid on the bunk, I drift off into a deep sleep.

DESERTED

I wake up with a chill creeping down my spine. Sitting up, in my cot, I don’t see Annabelle on hers. In fact, there’s no one around. My eyes drift to the cafeteria area, empty. The rows of cots are deserted as well. Not another soul is within eyeshot. The startling silence and abandoned arena can’t be a good thing.
Why didn’t anyone wake me and where did they go?

I make my way to the door we used when we arrived. I pass dozens of empty cots, purses and backpacks left behind, half empty soda bottles and even a few pair of shoes on my way to the exit. Opening the door, I’m surprised by the brightness outside. As my eyes begin to adjust, outside the arena is as vacant as the inside. The bus is gone as are all the cars and people. It’s as if everyone left in a hurry, leaving behind their belongings.
No one noticed that I was left behind?

I feel like I’m in a newly built city that no one has been admitted entrance to. Or maybe, instead of newly built, it’s more like—ready for destruction.

I jog down the street, my mind making its best attempt to rationalize what I’m seeing. The city is empty—void of all people and traffic. It feels like in no time, I come upon Coastal Acres Forest. It lines the highway for miles. I can’t believe how close we are to the highway. Maybe my mind is racing too fast as I jog, that I don’t even realize how far I’ve gone.

As I enter the forest, I can’t hear anything. No birds or wildlife, no insects, no cars on the highway and not even the ocean on the other side. No way is this happening—where is everything?

The forest is probably the last place I should be, but I feel like I need to keep going. I need to find Annabelle or someone—anyone. I was all alone this morning when I first discovered the sickness. And I was alone when I ran into Edgar and lost Haley. I can’t do this alone anymore. I’ve wanted to be on my own for years, while living in my house of misery. But now, the thought of being alone, is almost as terrifying as the thought of being eaten alive by the ones with the sickness.