A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1) (18 page)

I pose the idea to Joey. He offers only a, “Maybe,” and a shrug, as unnerved
by the prospect as I am and equally unwilling to give it any thought.

It would seem that ignorance is bliss for this matter.

So we walk in silence, our nerves still frayed from the encounter this
morning. Both of us cast nervous glances around the road, our heads snapping in
the direction of any small movement. A grey blur zooms over a lawn and I think
for a second that it may be a rat. But I quickly realize how unlikely this is.
I haven't seen an animal in months. They must have all moved someplace safer,
or they've all died off, like majority of the human population.

No,
I snap. They haven't all died off. I kick at the dry ground below
my feet, knocking loose a dust cloud. Humans might be nearly extinct but I
don't want to think that animals are too. They've probably moved someplace
greener, with rivers and lakes and trees that actually have leaves. Not like
the thin skeletons we have here, sticking out from the dead earth. I like
animals, I don't want to think that they're all gone.

It isn't long before we reach the supermarket, old and chipping away. Cracks
crawl up its walls like vines, making patterns in the brickwork. Peering in
through a shattered window, I can tell that majority of the store is empty.

Looks like we're searching for dog food after all.

Stepping through the broken window, my boot crunches on the remaining shards
not yet blown away by the wind. From the front of the store I can see over the
few aisles that haven't been knocked over. It doesn't look like there are any
infected inside, so I begin walking up and down the lanes, picking out anything
that looks somewhat edible.

Unfortunately, that turns out to be dog food. I pick out a rucksack from the
sporting goods section and begin stuffing it with the cans. I glance at my red
backpack slung over Joeys shoulder while I do this, wondering when I'll be able
to get it back. Wondering if it's a good idea to let him have it in the first
place.

I begin zipping up the rucksack when I hear the familiar crunch of broken
glass at the front of the store. I pop up from the ground, peering over the
aisles towards the culprit. Joey too swivels towards the source of noise. I'm
surprised when I find two men walking into the store. They haven't seen us yet.
From a glance it doesn’t look like they have any weapons on them. Grabbing onto
Joey's arm, I pull him down to the floor, moving to crouch beside the aisle. We
share a look when they start talking.

"We can't go back to Las Vegas man! That place is crazy!" His
voice is nasally, high-pitched and moaning, it makes the infected sound like
opera singers.

"Well where else can we go? There isn't much out here," the second
man says, his voice far deeper and raspier than his counterpart, almost like
he's been drinking sand.

"Anywhere is better than back there! That diner full of wackos! I
thought they were gonna kill me!" He's a notch down from hysterical, his
loud voice making it easy to pinpoint their position in the store.

Their conversation falls into a quiet lull and I can hear them moving down
the aisle beside us. Digging into my back pocket, I pull out the knife and move
down the aisle in step with them.

"Well what about that school bus of people just down the road? Think we
could take em'?"

"Maybe, there's a few of them, but they look like they're in pretty
rough shape."

I share a look with Joey. If these guys aren't friendly, there's only one
way that this can end. I’m just glad that there aren’t more of them. I can
handle two unarmed men with Joey. And at least there’s no chance of getting
infected when dealing with people. They reach the end of the aisle and I
realize that this will be my only chance. I pounce from the floor and stab at
the nearest figure. The knife sinks into the man's neck. Blood streams from the
puncture like a faucet, drenching his shirt before he even has a chance to
comprehend what has happened. His eyes are glazed by the time I look into them.
His friend jumps back with a curse, tripping and falling over the aisle behind
him. I remove the knife, an overflow of blood coming with it.

As he slumps to the ground, Joey moves to grab the other one. The stranger
lashes out wildly, his fist clipping Joey in the face. With the knife firmly
clenched in my grasp, I step over the crumpled body at my feet and towards the
other man. I jump to stab at him, but pull back when Joey gets in the way. The
two of them wrestle between the aisles, knocking loose the remaining items from
the shelves. I wait for an opening and find one when Joey has him pinned
against the shelves. Thrusting the knife out, I stab into his gut.

He screams, the sound ripping through the air. The shock makes him freeze
long enough for me to pull the knife out and drive it into his head. I expect
an emotion to cross his face. Shock. Pain. Anger. But none do. He falls to the
floor with a blank expression.

We stand over the bodies, panting, neither of us uttering a word. The knife
is slick in my hand. I bend down and wipe it on their shirt, the one with the
annoying voice.

"That . . ." Joey begins, but trails off into silence. I look up
at him, noticing the frown on his lips and the blemish of a growing bruise
where he was struck.

"That what?" I ask. His eyes bounce between the bodies for several
seconds, before reaching up to meet mine.

"That didn't feel right," he says, his eyes vacant. I don't think
I've ever seen him look like this before. Not even when we were on the bus.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I don't know, it's just," he pauses,
struggling to pick the words. "It feels like we didn't give them a
chance."

"Did you not hear what they said?" I ask, quick to pounce.
"They were wondering if they could 'take us.'" His frown hardens at
my tone, as if he expected me to react like this.

"I know that, but." He stops to shake his head, "when you
stood up I thought you were gonna talk to them. Scare them off or see if they'd
be willing to join us. But you didn't even hesitate. You had your knife in his
neck before he even knew what was happening."

"Jesus, Joey, you're acting like you've never seen someone die
before!" I spit back, not understanding the point he's trying to make. He
wanted me to give them a chance? Strangers that had threatened us within the
first two minutes of meeting them. He shakes his head.

"Just, forget I said anything," he mumbles, receding back into the
reserved shell he has been inhabiting since we left the school. I stare at him
a moment longer, focusing on the back of his head as he steps over the bodies
and towards the front of the store.

He's wrong. If we had given these strangers a chance, they probably would
have killed us.
Probably.
Even though they were unarmed. But I've lived
alone in this world long enough to know that giving chances gets you killed,
and just because someone is unarmed doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. I look
down at the two bodies by my feet, and the pools of red congregating around
them. I'm not wrong for not giving them a chance.
He's wrong
, I think
again. I did the right thing.

I know I did the right thing.

So how has he made me feel like it's wrong?

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

Stella

Dropping the food off at the house, we receive the
exact reaction I had expected. Genuine excitement followed closely by its ugly
brother, false enthusiasm. Scattering the cans out across the kitchen counter,
nobody jumps at the opportunity to take one. I can't blame them. The smiling
dog plastered across every tin doesn't exactly scream
appetizing
.

I begin to think that my trip to the supermarket was a pointless risk, when
the woman who gave me the knife steps forward and takes a can, nodding at me
with a smile. I don't stay to see if she actually eats any, the gesture is
enough. We leave the small home the same way we came in, quietly. Stopping
outside the front door, we pause, wondering if we should bother speaking to
Aaron.

When we came back from the supermarket we ignored them completely, focused
only on dropping the food off. I should probably tell him that we weren't able
to find much, but with Rocket glaring at Joey and Logan glaring at me, we
decide not to approach them. Instead we begin walking down the street, crossing
a few lawns before skipping over to the road.

I continue to glance around nervously, but the area, for the most part,
looks deserted. All of the infected must have run off at the sound of the
fireworks, or stumbled after the trail of smoke. I keep my guard up anyway,
because I know that there may be a few stragglers still stumbling about.

We turn left where Rocket said to, already spotting the hospital in the
distance. It doesn't look like much, almost indistinguishable from the shops
surrounding it. A low, one story building that spreads out along the road a
little wider than the buildings next to it. It pales in comparison to most of
the hospitals I've seen and I feel it better deserves the label of pharmacy.

Although I suppose I shouldn't complain. If the building is small, that
means that there are less corners for things to hide and less hallways for them
to lurk. It's a small thought, but it works to console me, massaging the
anxious knots from my mind. But it doesn't take long for them to twist back up
again as we near the hospital doors.

We come to a slow stop just before the little steps leading up to the
entrance, our eyes mutually transfixed on the same thing. A steel chain that
has wrapped itself around the door handle, twisting around the bar like a
snake. Walking up to it, I reach out a hand and run a finger along its length,
weaved artfully in loops and held in place with a significantly sized padlock.
I pull my hand back and look down at my finger, smeared with an orange grime.

Rust.

Whoever put this chain in place did so a long time ago. Maybe even at the
beginning, when the outbreak had first started. I try to imagine the chaos of
being in a hospital, where all the sick had first fled to. A breeding ground
for the infection. Joey reaches out, distracting me from my thoughts, and cups
the padlock in his hand. Holding it in his grasp for a second, he moves to pull
it away, giving it a harsh tug. It holds fast.

"I don't like the looks of this," he mumbles, dropping the lock
and leaving it to clank against the chain.

Whoever had locked this place up had obviously intended for it to stay that
way. I don't even want to imagine why. But I have to look on the positive side
of things. If this place was locked up when the infection first spread, and
it’s still locked up now, that means that it probably hasn't been looted. I can
already envision the dusty shelves, lined with rows of prescription drugs, ripe
for the picking.

Unfortunately, it also means that whatever patients the hospital was holding
are probably still inside too. It's the only reason I can think of as to why
someone would lock the doors from the outside.
Because they had something to
lock in
. The thought sends a shiver running down my spine. Thinking of all
the possibilities that lie within, my mind forms one question.

Is it worth it?

Shelves pregnant with medicine cloud my sight as I ponder the idea. We'll
probably never have an opportunity like this again. My mouth begins watering at
the idea of an un-looted treasure chest crammed with painkillers. God only
knows how much is in there. It's a good bet that there's enough to keep us
going for a very long while. And with that flickering fantasy waving before me,
my mind is made up.

I look to Joey, his eyes still running up and down the chains. Uncertainty
has settled in his eyes and I wonder if I am going to have to convince him. I
decide to test the waters.

"Maybe we can get in through one of the windows." His gaze snaps
to mine as I move past him and I know what his opinion is.

"Are you serious?" he asks, for once not bothering to follow after
me. I wait until I reach the nearest window before turning back to him.

"What's the matter?" I tease, "afraid?" I don't know if
this is the best way to manipulate him, but it's a start.

"Did you see that padlock? I don't want to know what's locked in
there!" he exclaims, throwing his hand out towards the door. I ignore him
for a moment, looking at the window in front of me. Curtains hide the interior,
but even still I notice the thin bars running up and down the glass. I point
this out to him.

"What?" he snaps, his attention still on the door.

"There are bars," I repeat, "on the windows." He gives
it a glance now.

"So?"

"Well it's a hospital, don't you think it's odd that the windows are
barred?"

He turns away with a sigh. "There are bars on all the windows, it was
probably just a rough neighborhood." I look around at the street we're on
and realize that he's right. All the shop windows have bars in them. I'm
surprised I didn't notice this before. "It doesn't matter," he
continues. "We can get antibiotics somewhere else."

"Oh come on," I snort, stepping away from the window. "I
thought Gale was the coward, not you." He gives me a look before shaking
his head.

"We don't know what's in there."

"Exactly," I smile, "there could be gold." A thought
dawns on me now and I suddenly realize how I can convince him. I jump in before
he has a chance to start protesting again. "No but seriously, think of
what we could find."

"A horde?"

I ignore his comment.

"Morphine." His jaw clenches at the word and already I know that I
have him. "Vicodin." His lips press together. "Codeine,
adderall." He throws his hand up to stop me from listing anymore, a flash
of pain crossing his face. With his eyes trained on the ground and his jaw
locked, he lets his hand slump back down to his side.

"Are you really gonna use that against me?" he asks, the words
broken. "Really?"

His gaze lifts to mine and I can see the pain in them, the agony that I've
caused. My brows furrow at the sight, guilt catching me in its snare. I didn't
mean to make him feel like this.

"I'm sorry," I say, the words rushed out in a single breath.
"I just don't want to go in alone."

His eyes are cold as they stare at me and I can't help but flinch from the
pressure of their frigid burn. A silence settles over us for what seems like an
eternity, and there’s nothing I want more than for him to look away.

When he does, he spits a curse and steps around me. I turn and watch him go,
disappearing round the side of the building. I wonder if he wants me to follow
him or not, when he calls out, "There's a window here without bars on
it!"

His voice is still gruff, but it isn't angry. I follow it to find him
standing in front of a window, dead bushes climbing up his legs. I move to
stand beside him, twigs and brambles crunching underfoot.

"If we can find a rock we can smash it open," he says, looking
around our feet. I don't question his change in attitude, I'm just grateful
that I now have him with me.

"Well, have you tried just opening it?" I ask, wedging my fingers
in the gap. I don’t pause to wonder why this window has no bars while all the
others do; I just take it as the universe's way of cutting us some slack. The
window hesitates before stuttering open, groaning from the exertion put on it.
With a final heave I manage to lift it up high enough so that we can climb
inside. I duck my head in, my nose scrunching at the stale air. The window
opens into a small office, furniture its only inhabitants.

"I'll go first," Joey says, gently pulling me back and stretching
his leg over the ledge. I watch him climb in, slightly unsettled by his
enthusiasm. I can't tell if he's doing it for me, or for the drugs he now
thinks are inside.

I've made a mistake, I think. I shouldn't have goaded him like I did,
playing on his addiction. He looks around the room before stepping aside,
giving me space to climb in. I hesitate, suddenly uncertain if it's a good idea
to have him along after all. But the vision returns, of overflowing rooms and
shelves that are stacked so high we'd be able to fill the bus. And the vision
wins.

He has begun rifling through the desk when I climb in. His movements are
quick, darting between the drawers and I hope that he is like this because he
is anxious to leave, and not because he is eager to find something. One look
around the room and I know that he won't. It looks more like a study, with
books lining the shelves instead of pills. We need to find the storeroom. I
step towards the closed door and press myself against the wood, tucking my hair
behind my ear.

I listen. The only sound I perceive is the heavy thrum in my chest, like the
beat of a bird’s wing mid-flight. Holding still a minute longer, I allow all
the fear to pass through me now so that I won't hesitate later. It comes at me
in droves, a wave of dizziness followed by my stomach sinking low and falling
endlessly. Only now do I realize the situation.

Anything could be waiting behind this door.

But there are no sounds
, I tell myself, silencing all apprehension. I
must be taking too long because Joey clears his throat.

"Are you going to open it?" A thread of urgency lines his words
and I find myself not liking the way he has asked. But I ignore it and twist
the handle, prying the door open.

Death's perfume billows in, wafting like waves into the small office. A
bone-crushing vice, my hand clamps to my nose, a cough and a heave tightening
my rib cage and gripping at my lungs. I feel like I can't breathe, or maybe I
just don't want to. Tears sting at my eyes, blurring the body lying at my feet.
I jump back, surprised that I didn't notice its outline when I first opened the
door.

It lies on its stomach, a tattered jacket all I can see. The kitchen knife
is pulled out of my pocket and in my hand before I even register what I'm
doing. With it held out in front of me, I stare down at the body, my eyes
running along its figure. It doesn't move, but there's no blood, not that I can
see anyway.

"I think it's dead," Joey states, peering over my shoulder. I nod,
because it must be. They don't lie down unless they're dead. Yet still I feel
unsettled. I take the smallest of steps towards it, but only so I can peek
round the side of the wall.

The hallway is littered with bodies, just like the one at my feet. And just
like the one at my feet, none of them are moving. The hall itself looks
strangely sterile, the way a hospital should normally look. The walls white,
barely tainted by the dark spots of aged blood. I step out from the office,
careful not to nudge the body below me.

Most of them are patients, covered in hospital gowns that open at the back
and reveal withered and grey skin. The hall is dark, submerged in gloom by the
thick curtains hanging over the windows. I think of opening them, but decide
not to. I don't want to go anywhere I don't absolutely have to. So I turn my
attention back down the hall, picking a path that I can walk between the
bodies.

The severe lack of blood confuses me. But then I remember that these people
were carriers. They were never bitten. So how then, did they die? Is it
possible for them to succumb to starvation? Is that what happened here? Locked
in a building since the beginning with no prey to hunt, left to wither away
like abandoned house plants.

I'm wasting time
, I think. It doesn't matter how they died, I should
just be grateful that they have. Joey doesn't say anything as he looks down the
hall, stepping out from the office to stand beside me. His hands are erratic,
clenching one second only to pop open the next. I watch him for a moment,
curious and worried as to what he's thinking. Again the thought strikes me that
I've made a mistake bringing him in here. But it's too late now.

Looking back down at the bodies, I choose spots on the floor that aren't
covered by a limb, and, like playing hopscotch, I jump to them. It reminds me
of a battlefield, each body a landmine waiting to go off. I look back to Joey
to see that he is doing the same thing, taking long leaps over sprawled arms
and legs. Usually I wouldn't care if I stepped on one. But it doesn't feel
right here.

I'm grateful when I reach the end of the hall and there are no more bodies
to step over. It would seem that in their last moments they had all flocked to
the front door, as desperate to leave as I am now. The building opens out into
a waiting room, just as immaculate as the hall. Unified chairs line a wall
before the reception desk, not a single one out of place. Even the potted
plants, although dead, remain upright.

There isn't a single indicator of the chaos that took place here.

Three more hallways branch off from the reception room, all appearing empty.
From where I stand I can see that most of the doors are open, although it's
impossible to tell which room is the storeroom. I think for a second that we
should split up, before quickly realizing what a bad idea that is; for more
reasons than one. I glance over to Joey, stepping over the last of the bodies
he looks ready to shoot off.