𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐒 || ʲᵒᵉˡ ᵐⁱˡˡᵉʳ

𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑭𝑨𝑪𝑬

Boston, 2009

She gazed at her mother as the woman cried out in silent horror at the feeling she was experiencing. One hand was clutching her stomach, the other tightly gripping around her child's. The girl flinched at the harshness of her mother's hand and she knew something was terribly wrong since her mother had never once acted this way.

Colette couldn't describe the fear boiling within her as she saw her mother's pained face. There was nothing she could do to help, the woman had said, casting her previously reassuring eyes downward. A tear dropped to the floor almost unnoticeably, but Colette saw it in an instant, and never before had she felt more like crying, too.

They heard it then, creeping around below the stairs, slowly finding its way toward the room they had barricaded themselves in. Colette gripped her mother's hand tighter at the terrible sound, wishing they could go back to where they were staying before. Where there had been no one else.

No one but her and her mother and the nice man that Colette had seen sneaking in to bring them provisions and other supplies. However, he had stopped showing up a few months back, and their supplies ran out and they were forced to leave because their area had been picked dry.

Colette wasn't sure if she liked the man anymore, he had done this to her mother, to both of them. They were going to die, Colette thought, and wanted to cry so badly but no matter how hard she tried, no tears appeared.

It was closer now—Infected her mother called them—so close she could see its feet shuffling beneath the closed door as it banged violently against it.

"Lettie," her mother said and pressed her toward the closet that stood pushed up against the wall. It had been too heavy for the girl and her mother to move.

Colette listened, she didn't trust what would happen if she didn't, and slipped into the confines of the giant oak closet. Her mother shut the doors, though they were crooked so much so that Colette had a clear view of her mother still. The older woman slid down against the wall; head thrown back in pain as the petty barricade was shoved away.

The Infected came at her with no hesitation, fueled by the deep hunger within. With snapping jaws, it fell atop her mother and Colette had to physically hold her own lips shut to stop herself from screaming.

From her pocket her mother pulled a switchblade, fighting the Infected off with one hand as she plunged her knife into its head. Again and again, until its screeching ceased.

It was silent for a moment, her mother's eyes finding her own through the slit in the door, though the peaceful aftermath didn't last.

A small wail pierced the room and Colette flinched, thinking that the Infected wasn't dead after all. But it wasn't the Infected, in fact it was from a being so small, Colette couldn't even understand how the sounds it made were so strong.

Her mother picked up the small baby, a hand beneath its head and gazed at it lovingly. She cried, happy tears falling onto her cheek as she bounced the wailing baby, whispering sweet nothings into its ear.

"Lettie," her mother called, a sob accompanying her name. Hesitantly the young girl stepped from the safety of the closet, her worn-out shoes slowly moving towards her mother. For the first time, she was close enough to be able to see the baby her mother was holding, the crinkles of its nose and weirdly big eyes that barely managed stay open.

"This is Ellie," her mother spoke and lifted the bundle in her arms further. She had wrapped the baby in her jacket carefully—the nights were getting colder after all. "You have to take her," she said, voice barely more than a whisper. The girl didn't question why, merely listening to the instructions her mother was giving her. Colette frowned at how light the baby—Ellie—was, keeping an arm underneath her head just like her mother had said.

"Go, Lettie," her mother hushed and cried. "Go and hide, okay? Help will be here soon."

The girl's frown deepened and she was about the question why when her eyes landed on the wound on her mother's thigh. She grew rigid. Whatever words her mother spoke, she couldn't hear them anymore, all she heard was the struggle of her own breathing. She knew what it meant; she was ten—a big girl as her mother used to call her.

Colette opened her mouth, ready to argue but the weakness of her mother's movements stopped her. Instead, even if she didn't want to, she nodded and held Ellie closer, retreating slowly.

It was hours later, her eyes had been falling shut already and Ellie was getting so fussy, she couldn't have kept her quiet for much longer, when footsteps sounded within the house. They were slow and quiet and nothing like the ones of the Infected, but it meant they belonged to people.

And her mother had always told her people were dangerous.