Rise of the Plague (Book 0): The Sickness (Monte's Story) Read Free

discovering that my entire family had the sickness, I’d only hoped that it wasn’t part of a bigger problem.
    The pounding is becoming nearly unbearable. After fiendishly fighting off my dad, I had managed to lock him in my bedroom. He was quiet at first, but I think he can hear me walking on this old, creaky, wood flooring.
    Thrashing and pounding on the walls, he growls and bays as though he is calling for help in his new tongue.
    I head into the laundry room, off the kitchen and snatch a dirty rag off the top of the laundry basket, near the dryer. I wrap it around my wrist securing it with the tightest knot I can tie—using my good hand and teeth. The grime on the dirty rag is no bother to me at this point. A sickness much more powerful than whatever bacteria or filth is on the rag—is already ravaging my body. Pulling a folded, black hoodie from atop the dryer, I slide it over my head, concealing the wounded wrist beneath, and then I head back into the living room.
    I tap the disintegrating floor planks with my foot until I find the one that sounds hollow. Moving the rusty coffee table and lifting the board, I kneel down and pull out my dad’s shotgun and its coiled strap. One of three guns, he has, not-so-well hidden in the house. And there’s no way I’m going back down the hall for the revolver. I load the weapon. Standing up, I steal one last glance back toward my bedroom, eyeing the name placard hanging from the door--Monte. Sammy got a hold of it a few years back and scribbled it black with permanent marker. I had tossed it out, but then fished it from the trash bin and repainted it. Now, nothing is left for me in this house. I take one last look around, before walking out the front door.
    Pausing momentarily on my front porch, the view out here is like a riot scene from the news. About twenty people with the sickness are in the road, on neighboring lawns and chasing after speeding cars.
    I don’t recognize most of these people from the neighborhood, but Emma Sampson, Mr. Hilt, even the paperboy, Javier—all have the sickness. The sick ones all have the same posturing, pale skin and dark veins. Some are shuffling along slowly, while others bolt after their victims. They’re monsters like my dad, chasing down men, ladies and little kids and attacking them like starving beasts.
    Emma has caught up with Manuel Rodriguez—a boy she’s had a crush on for the last six months—and has tackled him to the ground. He’s fighting her back, kicking and socking her with the bottom of his fist. She seems as though she feels no pain and whips her head down at his arm. Manuel is wailing in pain as Emma rips a mouthful of his flesh with her teeth. She is soon joined by some unfamiliar faces, all making a meal out of poor Manuel.
    Mr. Hilt is in his sixties and has lived in this neighborhood since before I was born. He and two others crouch over a little boy, no older than Sammy. They are attacking the kid, burying their faces in his chest and stomach like raging animals. The kid is screaming and smacking Mr. Hilt in the head. They are eating him alive .
    And Javier, still has his newspaper bag on his shoulders, while chasing down an old man. As he catches up to the white-haired man, newspapers are bouncing out of the front and back of his bag, before he and the senior take a tumble to the ground.
    I wick a tear from my cheek and look away. It’s unbelievable that my street has gone to crap so fast, that all these people could have the sickness. I don’t understand what happened to make all these people sick. What kind of sickness could be making these people kill each other and then… eat each other? The gory scenes are too gruesome for me to let them sink in. I feel as though I need to be stone-hearted right now.
    Stone-hearted, is how I make myself feel when Dad’s is on a rampage. I just shut down every bit of emotion, make myself feel nothing, like my heart is made of stone. I won’t let myself feel sadness or