Chosen, Christine Pope [e reader pdf best .TXT] 📗

watering the flower border or getting the mail — anything so he could stand there and watch me with his pale eyes until I disappeared inside my aunt and uncle’s house.

Back then, his behavior hadn’t worried me too much, because I knew if he actually tried anything, my father would have made sure it never happened again. But now, with the whole world dead except for me and Albuquerque’s biggest creep?

My fingers tightened around the rock I held, but I kept it behind me and hoped he hadn’t noticed as I picked it up. Hard to say, because I hadn’t even heard him approach. He was wearing his typical costume of baggy jeans and an oversized T-shirt — this one emblazoned with a Captain America shield — and his high-topped Converse apparently hadn’t made any sound as he crossed the flagstones of the patio.

“Chris?” I finally managed, because one of us had to say something, and it seemed he was content to just stand there and stare at me with those weird pale blue eyes of his.

Finally, his mouth curved in a smile. His teeth were slightly yellowish, as was his skin and hair. Everything about him seemed vaguely yellow, except his eyes. “You’re immune,” he said, and made the oddest sound, like a choked little giggle.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Maybe,” I replied. “Or maybe I just haven’t gotten sick yet.”

“No, you’re immune.” His pale gaze raked me up and down, and I tensed. The clothes I wore were anything but revealing, and yet the way he was looking at me made me feel as if I wasn’t wearing anything at all…that he’d spent way too much time imagining what I looked like naked. “Just like me.”

I wanted to retort, I am nothing like you, but something held me back. Yes, I had that rock in my hand. Belatedly, I realized that was all I had, since in my haste to get out of the car and up to my aunt and uncle’s front door, I’d left the gun in the glove compartment of the Cherokee. Shit.

“This is perfect,” he went on, his tone almost dreamy. “Everyone gone except you and me. Just the way I always wanted it.”

Jesus Christ. I could feel the sharp edges of the rock biting into my fingers and palm. If I threw it, would it be enough to knock him out, or at least put him off balance enough for me to bolt to the car? I had no idea. Normally, I’d say I was pretty strong…but was I strong enough?

“Um, Chris,” I said, figuring that ignoring his comment seemed safest in that moment, “what about your parents? Your neighbors on the other side?”

An expression of annoyance crossed his lumpy features. “I told you. They’re all gone. Everyone on the whole street. I checked.” A pause, and then he added, “Your aunt and uncle, too, and your cousins. I went in and looked, then locked the door when I came back out. I figured no one else would be going in there.” The annoyed look morphed into one of sly knowing. “So you won’t need that rock to break in. Why don’t you give it to me?”

I didn’t reply. He frowned, taking a step toward me, eyes fixed on my face, greedy, hungry. A pale pink tongue darted out to moisten his lips, and I felt my stomach heave.

Now, Jessica!

Without stopping to think, I whipped my arm around and hurled the rock at Chris’s head with all the strength I possessed. It hit him square in the temple, and he let out a shocked cry, eyes wide and disbelieving, then backed away from me as blood began to pour through the fingers he put up against the wound.

That was the only opening I would get, I knew. I tore out of there, bolting as if someone had just shot off a starter pistol at a track meet. Behind me, I could hear Chris cursing, calling me a bitch and worse — but he was also coming after me. And though he was soft-looking and most likely out of shape, he was also almost a foot taller than I, which meant his legs could cover the ground a lot more quickly.

If I looked back, I’d be lost. I could only continue to pound my way toward the Cherokee, one hand scrabbling in my pants pocket for the key as I ran. My fingers closed around the fob, and I hit the “unlock” button while I was still a good twenty feet away. The lights flashed, and from the passenger seat I could hear Dutchie bark — not a friendly bark of greeting, but a sharp, strained one, as if warning me.

A cold, clammy hand caught hold of my bicep and spun me around. Chris’s washed-out blue eyes, even more blindingly pale now that they were circled by bright red blood flowing down from the gash in his head, bored into me.

“You’re going to regret that.”

“Chris, please — ” I thought I’d been scared before, watching my family die, wondering when the fever would rise up to consume me as well, but that was an entirely different species of fear from what I was experiencing now. This was far more personal, in a way, because I knew all too well what Chris Bowman wanted from me.

“Shut up.” His fingers tightened on my arm, and he began to pull me toward him. Overcome by panic, I struggled against him, tasting the sourness of bile in my mouth, knowing if he touched me in a way that was any more intimate than this, I would be sick. I drove my knee upward the way my father had taught me, and I hoped I could catch Chris in the groin, but he seemed to guess what I had planned and kicked out at me, catching me in the shin and sending me flying to the ground, where I hit the sidewalk with a jolt, pain lancing up through my wrists as I jammed down into them with almost all my weight.

Tears of pain and fury leaped to my eyes, but I couldn’t lose it now. I started to crawl toward the SUV, only to feel Chris’s hands on me again, this time around my waist. I kicked back at him, but he let go of me with one hand so he could catch my ankle and flip me over.

Then he was looming over me, his horrific bloodstained face getting closer and closer. I knew what he was going to do, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop him — he was bigger and stronger, and just plain crazy, and I now had at least one, if not two, sprained wrists.

And then…then it was as if a pair of invisible hands caught hold of him, pulling him away from me, flinging him backward as if he weighed nothing, was only a child’s toy someone had left out on the lawn. He hit the trunk of the palm tree in my aunt and uncle’s yard with a sickening crunch, then slid down, his head hanging at a strange angle. Was his neck broken? No way was I going to get close enough to find out.

I didn’t even realize I was saying the words out loud until I heard them coming from my mouth. “What the — ”

The voice sounded stern and sad. Do you see now why I did not want you to come here?

“Point taken,” I panted, and got shakily to my feet. Both my wrists were aching, and I hoped I’d be able to get the Cherokee home. Not that I had much choice. It was the only safe haven I knew.

Wincing, I dug the key out of my pocket and climbed into the SUV, trying to maneuver with my elbows so I wouldn’t have to bend my wrists any more than was strictly necessary. Dutchie whined and tried to lick my face.

“I’m okay, sweetie,” I told her, more for her sake than because I really believed what I was saying.

Trying to put on the seatbelt would have been excruciating. Besides, with all the wrecks littering the roads, I wouldn’t be driving much above twenty-five miles an hour anyway. Somehow I managed to get the car started, then bit my lip in pain as I put the Cherokee in gear. At least I’d been parked at the curb and not in the driveway, so I didn’t have to worry about backing out or anything.

The throbbing ache in my wrists prevented me from thinking about anything except getting back to the house. I drove slowly, grinding my teeth whenever I had to maneuver around abandoned cars by going up on the curb. Every jolt and jounce felt magnified a hundredfold.

Finally, though, I made it back to my street and eased the car into the driveway, then turned off the engine. I knew there was no way I could reach across and open the passenger door from the inside, so I slid out and went around the front of the SUV. Dutchie bounded out the second she was free to do so, and I retrieved the gun from the glove compartment before shutting the door behind her and clicking the lock button on the remote.

Limping, since I’d realized in that moment just how much my right knee hurt as well, I went in through the back door and locked it behind me. Then I headed to the front of the house to test the lock there as well. All was as it should be, but I couldn’t stop shaking.

Dutchie sat in the living room and watched as I secured the house. Then she tilted her head toward the clock over the fireplace, as if to say, It’s lunchtime, you know.

Despite everything, I couldn’t help giving a rusty chuckle. “Soon, Dutchie. I need to take care of me first.”

We had a very well-stocked first aid kit in one of the cupboards in the service porch. It hurt just to reach up and get it down, but I made myself do it. First I attended to the superficial scratches on the palms of my hands, gritting my teeth as I swabbed them with alcohol pads, and then I wrapped both wrists with Ace bandages. They still ached, but not as badly. My knee was banged up, but I hadn’t torn my jeans, so I figured any bruises I’d gotten would heal on their own.