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

pain—I tell myself that I just have to survive. And that is what I need to do right now. I can’t do anything here—for any of these people—without having all of the sick ones coming after me. Right now, I have to survive. I have to be stone-hearted.
    “I’m outta here,” I say out loud to nobody.

MS. ANDREWS
    I sneak off my porch to the side walkway of the house. Clipping the strap on the shotgun, I sling it over my shoulder. My bitten wrist stings so bad that I want to scream out in pain, but I don’t want to risk the sick ones noticing my presence. The air is hot and thin outside. So much for Fall. Technically, the start of autumn is two weeks away, but it doesn’t feel like this heat will be leaving anytime soon. I can hear my dad still pounding on the walls in my room. He sounds like a trapped animal, grunting and growling.
    I yank my little brother’s dirt bike from its resting spot, against the house. A rebel teardrop skids down my cheek, as I hop on. Flicking on the start button, I thrust my foot down on the kick start pedal. It whines but doesn’t start. I try again, thinking to myself, that Dad was supposed to fix this stupid bike for Sammy, like ages ago. Three more tries and still no life in the bike, although my middle-aged neighbor has now taken notice of me.
    Ms. Andrews, as I know her, is a thick, stubby woman, who loves to bake goodies and give them away to the neighbors—and obviously keep a few for herself. But today, Ms. Andrews has no goodies in hand and no intention of giving anything away except for her disgusting sickness. Nearly everyone I’ve seen in the last half hour is sick with whatever’s going around. As Ms. Andrews topples over the white picket fence—separating our yards, her face looks like all the others I’ve seen so far. The whites of her eyes are as black as her tongue.  Her once creamy looking complexion is pale and dry, with her black veins road-mapping her vile skin. I pull the shotgun off my shoulder and aim it at the woman. With no fear of the gun, Ms. Andrews staggers forward.
    My panicked breathing becomes shallow as I pump the gun. My sixteen year old hands tremble as the woman approaches, shambling toward me. I drop the dirt bike and step away from it. With all that I have, I try to muster the courage to pull the trigger. Knowing that Ms. Andrews is no longer the sweet lady next door, and knowing that I will be killed by this woman if I don’t pull the trigger, I simply can’t bring myself to do it.
    This is different, not like with Dad. I daydreamt for years about ridding myself of him. But Ms. Andrews has always been kind to my brother and me. Even with her sickness, I just can’t hurt this lady.
    Stepping backward as Ms. Andrews shuffles forward, my heel hits a lip on the walkway. I try to catch myself, but it’s too late. My body tenses up as I fall, my elbow hitting the ground first. Then my tailbone slams onto the hard concrete, followed by my head and an echoing gunshot.
    I grope myself, anxiously feeling for any wounds. A tiny wave of relief washes over me, as I feel none, but it soon gives way to the pain in my head. My skull feels like it cracked open from that fall. I lift my head, rubbing the spot that hit the pavement. I don’t feel any blood or tears on my scalp.
    My eyes drift to Ms. Andrews. Her body is flat on the ground, motionless. I look down at the shotgun and then once more to Ms. Andrews. The thought of her biting me to death wasn’t enough to get me to pull the trigger, but the thought of falling three feet was?
    I half expect my neighbor to get back up, as I slowly rise to my feet. Swinging the shogun over my shoulder, I let my eyes wander toward Ms. Andrews’ head. The shot hit her in the face, and now, she is nearly unrecognizable. Her head is a mound of blood, exposed flesh and bone. My stomach rolls, as guilt burns up my throat. Turning away, I puke on the ground beside her. I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my hoodie,