across his cheek.
“What time is it?”
“Around ten.” P.M. He’s slept half the night. This way I can sleep the other half. “Here, I made some soup.”
He lumbers over and grabs a bowl, gruffly saying, “Thanks.”
We eat in silence, the scrape of our spoons on the shallow bowls the only noise between us. I’ve been thinking the whole time he slept, wondering about this man and where he came from, how we would go forward together. Did it even make sense?
“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said.
“Just some questions.”
“About me?”
“Yeah.”
“Go ahead.”
“You said you checked out once the borders closed down. What do you know about the E-TR virus?” I ask.
“I know people started getting sick. Acting high and crazy. First they thought it was drugs, then a virus, but there are rumors it’s something else. Something that mutated and burns up the brain. Making them delusional and hallucinate. Major aggression. One minute they were beating the crap out of people—the next they were eating them.” He tipped his bowl to his mouth and drank the rest without a spoon. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “Am I missing anything?”
“My mom was obsessed with the news. It was hard to narrow down on the right information since they talk just to hear themselves talking but one thing that came out is that it’s definitely not drugs. It’s a parasite and causes an infection in the brain.”
“A parasite?” he asked.
“Yeah, and then the person becomes a living, breathing parasite and latches on to the next thing he or she can find.”
“By eating them.”
“Yeah.” I stirred my spoon around the bowl, fishing out a stray noodle. “They aren’t dead—not like zombies in a book or movie. They’re just sort of…rabid is a good word.”
“And once they go rabid?”
“There’s no turning back.” At least without a miracle cure. “Once their eyes get black spidery veins it’s like their brain has melted for good. Those are the ones that can pass on the parasite—the infection, for sure.”
“And before then?” he asks.
“I don’t know. That’s sort of the big question, right? They aren’t dead, but they’re sick and do you want to risk it?”
He shook his head. “And there’s no cure or anything?”
I touch the pouch under my shirt. “Not that anyone knows about. I don’t know how long they can survive after they’re infected. Do they need food? Or will they just decompose on their own? Or God knows, maybe something worse.”
“So the “I don’t knows” are bigger than anything else.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I suppose the end of the world was never meant to be logical.”
Wyatt rubs his chin. It’s covered in several days scruff but not a full beard. He must have shaved at the house he’d been holed up in a couple of days ago. His nails rake against the scratchy whiskers, his eyes deep in thought. I’m about to fall over from exhaustion and I say, “I guess I’ll take the back room, if that’s okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” he replies absently.
I get my pack and carry it through the small living room, making sure to have my gun and hatchet with me. It’s not that I don’t trust Wyatt…I mean, I don’t but life has changed. We sleep with weapons. We scavenge for food. Thinking about it too much makes my head—and heart—hurt.
“Alex,” he says when I’m halfway through the bedroom door. “Thanks for making dinner.”
He gives me a smile—or something close to one. I nod in return, holding my hatchet close to my side, thankful for his smile—for that one, very human gesture. At least we still have that.
Chapter Twenty-Two
~Before~
Seven Weeks Earlier
My dad calls me to his office, the one down the hall from my bedroom. I pass my mom who can’t even pretend things are okay. That’s my first signal this isn’t going to go well. The next sign is the look on my father’s face when I enter the room. He’s
“What time is it?”
“Around ten.” P.M. He’s slept half the night. This way I can sleep the other half. “Here, I made some soup.”
He lumbers over and grabs a bowl, gruffly saying, “Thanks.”
We eat in silence, the scrape of our spoons on the shallow bowls the only noise between us. I’ve been thinking the whole time he slept, wondering about this man and where he came from, how we would go forward together. Did it even make sense?
“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said.
“Just some questions.”
“About me?”
“Yeah.”
“Go ahead.”
“You said you checked out once the borders closed down. What do you know about the E-TR virus?” I ask.
“I know people started getting sick. Acting high and crazy. First they thought it was drugs, then a virus, but there are rumors it’s something else. Something that mutated and burns up the brain. Making them delusional and hallucinate. Major aggression. One minute they were beating the crap out of people—the next they were eating them.” He tipped his bowl to his mouth and drank the rest without a spoon. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “Am I missing anything?”
“My mom was obsessed with the news. It was hard to narrow down on the right information since they talk just to hear themselves talking but one thing that came out is that it’s definitely not drugs. It’s a parasite and causes an infection in the brain.”
“A parasite?” he asked.
“Yeah, and then the person becomes a living, breathing parasite and latches on to the next thing he or she can find.”
“By eating them.”
“Yeah.” I stirred my spoon around the bowl, fishing out a stray noodle. “They aren’t dead—not like zombies in a book or movie. They’re just sort of…rabid is a good word.”
“And once they go rabid?”
“There’s no turning back.” At least without a miracle cure. “Once their eyes get black spidery veins it’s like their brain has melted for good. Those are the ones that can pass on the parasite—the infection, for sure.”
“And before then?” he asks.
“I don’t know. That’s sort of the big question, right? They aren’t dead, but they’re sick and do you want to risk it?”
He shook his head. “And there’s no cure or anything?”
I touch the pouch under my shirt. “Not that anyone knows about. I don’t know how long they can survive after they’re infected. Do they need food? Or will they just decompose on their own? Or God knows, maybe something worse.”
“So the “I don’t knows” are bigger than anything else.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I suppose the end of the world was never meant to be logical.”
Wyatt rubs his chin. It’s covered in several days scruff but not a full beard. He must have shaved at the house he’d been holed up in a couple of days ago. His nails rake against the scratchy whiskers, his eyes deep in thought. I’m about to fall over from exhaustion and I say, “I guess I’ll take the back room, if that’s okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” he replies absently.
I get my pack and carry it through the small living room, making sure to have my gun and hatchet with me. It’s not that I don’t trust Wyatt…I mean, I don’t but life has changed. We sleep with weapons. We scavenge for food. Thinking about it too much makes my head—and heart—hurt.
“Alex,” he says when I’m halfway through the bedroom door. “Thanks for making dinner.”
He gives me a smile—or something close to one. I nod in return, holding my hatchet close to my side, thankful for his smile—for that one, very human gesture. At least we still have that.
Chapter Twenty-Two
~Before~
Seven Weeks Earlier
My dad calls me to his office, the one down the hall from my bedroom. I pass my mom who can’t even pretend things are okay. That’s my first signal this isn’t going to go well. The next sign is the look on my father’s face when I enter the room. He’s
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