Resurrection: A Zombie Novel, - [ereader manga .TXT] 📗
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The motorcycle made a terrible racket that seemed like the only sound on earth. Every infected person within a five-mile radius must have heard it, but there was nothing else they could do. They might die looking for food, but they would surely die if they stayed in the cabin. Leaving at least gave them a chance.
They rode fast and hard on the back road, but the main road was snarled with cars. Blake steered carefully around them and had to take the bike onto the shoulder a couple of times. After clearing a Greyhound bus on the road, they were mobbed by a swarm of the infected and thrown over the handlebars. Four or five of them poured on Blake at the same time. She was unarmed. She couldn’t save him. So she ran away screaming and one of them, also screaming, launched itself at her from the side and they went down together.
It bit her on the back beneath her shoulder. She remembered it clearly now. The pain was exquisite, like someone was digging out her flesh with a jagged-edged scoop. That thing actually tried to take a bite out of her. It wanted to eat her alive. But she turned over and flailed, kicked, and punched it as hard as she could, then she jabbed her thumbs in its eyes. It shrieked in rage while she shrieked in terror and pain.
Blake had stopped screaming. He was gone. He was being consumed. The five that killed him were so busy with his body that they forgot all about her.
She ran into the forest, stumbling in shock and pain and alarm. She ran for maybe an hour before collapsing next to a log, then fell asleep and woke as a monster. A vicious thing, a hungry hungry predator that stalked humans and killed them and ate them.
She was not going to talk about it. The others would kill her for sure. Probably not Kyle, but Lane and Roland certainly would. Parker, too, and perhaps even Hughes. Hughes had already shot at her once.
But she wasn’t infected. At least not anymore. She was immune. Her body fought off the virus and she recovered.
Right?
That’s what happened, right?
She wasn’t going to turn again.
Was she?
She didn’t think so. She wasn’t stupid. She knew how viruses and immunity worked. Every virus meets effective resistance in some people, even among populations that have no immunity. Some people got Ebola and lived. Some people used to get smallpox and live. Some survived the bubonic plague. Even Native Americans, who had no effective resistance to European diseases, survived in small numbers. No virus killed everyone. Otherwise the human race would no longer exist—though the health of her species wasn’t looking too good anymore.
But no, she was no longer infected. She was immune. She probably wouldn’t get sick again even if she recontracted the virus.
Probably.
But that’s not necessarily how the others would see it. They might look at her and see carrier. Typhoid Annie. With blood and sweat and spit boiling with the virus even if it no longer affected her. Maybe they’d be afraid she’d relapse.
And maybe she would.
What if the disease is less like the flu and more like AIDS or malaria or herpes? Malaria victims relapsed. People with herpes had relapses. Maybe she ought to stay away from everyone else for the rest of her life.
She had no idea, so she wouldn’t tell anybody. She didn’t dare.
She also couldn’t tell anyone because she couldn’t bear the fact that she’d killed people. She actually ate people, or parts of them anyway. Her mind had been completely and utterly bent.
She did worse things to her fellow human beings than everyone else in that grocery store put together, including Lane and Bobby and Roland.
And she knew now why Lane recognized her. She had attacked his crew in a house somewhere in the area. It must have happened within the past couple of days. She killed one of his people and he saw her do it.
The reason Lane couldn’t remember where he saw her face was because he was cycling through his memories of all the healthy people he’d seen and met. He came up empty because it never even occurred to him—and why would it?—that when he saw her face, she was one of those things.
Parker sat silently in the cooler and plotted. He couldn’t take it anymore. He liked exactly one of his companions—Hughes—and to hell with the rest.
Wouldn’t be a bad idea, once he got to a proper location, to dig trenches around a house or a cabin and fill them with Punji sticks. The Viet Cong did that during the Vietnam war. They smeared shit on those sticks to infect everybody who stepped on them. That wouldn’t work with these things. Sure, an infection would eventually kill them. They weren’t vampires. You didn’t have to stab them in the heart or shoot them with silver bullets or cut off their heads. But they had to be taken down instantly. He’d need a deep trench, a moat, and some really long sticks.
Okay, everybody,” Lane said from his guard post near the door. Annie hated that he stayed put up there. She knew why he did it. He could see almost everyplace in the store when the light was good, but mostly he did it to make sure no one got past him and out. “We can’t stay here any longer.” He had his hands on his hips. “It’s too dangerous. I’m sending two of you out on another run for some bicycles. Maybe Annie and Kyle, but first I want to be sure Annie’s up for it.”
She didn’t like that he was even thinking about her, let alone talking about her. It was only a matter of time before he figured out where he’d seen her before. She wanted to melt away into the walls.
“Annie,” he said. “You okay, hon? Let’s go talk in the back.”
Hon? Who the hell was he kidding calling her hon? As if he had any affection for anyone but himself. She didn’t even want Kyle calling her hon. Not yet, anyway.
“Come on,” Lane said and headed back toward the bathrooms. Roland took his place at the front door like the guard he was with his arms folded over his chest and the butt of his pistol prominently protruding from the top of his pants.
She patted her right pocket. She still had Bobby’s small knife. She wasn’t going anywhere near Lane without it, especially not alone. But she didn’t move. She just stood there next to the empty donut rack.
“Come on,” Lane said again. “I’m not going to do anything. We just need to talk.”
He sounded reasonable, like he was concerned for her well-being after a really rough night, but she didn’t buy it. She walked toward him with tremendous reluctance, knowing he could force her if he had to and that he would.
He stopped in front of the men’s bathroom. “Let’s go inside. So we can talk privately.”
She froze again. He could see that she was afraid. It was all over his face and hers.
He put his hands up like he was surrendering. Then he untucked his gun from the front of his pants and tucked it into the back of his pants. As if that made any real difference. “I swear to you, Annie, I just want to talk.”
He sounded so sincere, almost hurt that she was afraid of him, as if she’d misjudged him. It was an act, but a damn good one because she actually felt, against her better judgment, like she was being unreasonable. She wanted to pat her right pocket again and feel the knife, but he’d notice if she did. And the knife wouldn’t help anyway because she’d have to fish it out and unfold it before she could do anything with it.
“Annie, please,” Lane said.
She found it amazing that she was just as afraid of being rude as she was of being alone with him in the bathroom. What kind of dysfunctional thinking was that? It was nuts, but people felt that way all the time, and dangerous men knew how to exploit it.
She followed him into the bathroom but did not lock the door. The men’s room was the mirror image of the women’s room, only with more graffiti on the walls.
His tone changed at once.
“What’s up?” he said, but he didn’t say it the way friends and acquaintances say it. He said it like an angry boss wondering why an employee can’t get their shit straight.
“Excuse me?” she said. “You’re the one who wanted to talk.”
He leaned against the paper-towel dispenser and folded his arms. “You said your memory came back.”
She swallowed like she was gulping a frog. He saw. She was never any good at
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