I shout without realizing. Everyone in the room stands frozen, some midway through taking off shirts or socks or belt buckles. All wear a stricken expression, like the same copy of the same face pasted over and over again as the guy Oreo just eliminated slumps quietly to the floor. He's already dead. Oreo knew what he was doing when he took that shot. He just killed a person. He just killed a person.
"Check him," he says dispassionately to the two captors.
Together they kneel and cut the bindings on the body's hands, then begin to strip it without ceremony. They only need to remove its shirt to find the first red patch. It's splayed across the guy's collarbone where the drips running down his neck end. But not just end. They disappear into his skin, and the red patch there is spreading. Infected, Oreo said. Yet he said the group didn't know if this version of Sleeping sickness was contagious. If it's even the same as Sleepers at all. I've never heard a proper Sleeper make a sound, let alone one as horrifying as what came out of this guy's mouth, or Psy's before him.
"Well, that answers one question, then," says Oreo. His knife glistens in the red light of the room as he turns and tips its point towards the rest of us. "Who's next?"
I expect the room to explode into angry protest at what just happened. I'm proven wrong. The first person to start moving again drops her skirt with hands that shake uncontrollably, then squeezes her eyes shut and turns in a circle, wearing nothing but her underwear and bra. No red patches.
"Triptych, you're good," says Oreo. "Next?"
Triptych scrambles to don her clothes again as everyone else remains frozen, eyes fixed on the walls or floor or ceiling like the body on the other side of the room no longer exists. Like they're trying to pretend that didn't just happen. One of the former captors wipes his hands on his clothes compulsively.
The tough-looking woman is next to move. She's not wearing a bra, but stands without shame as she too turns for inspection like this is some twisted exhibitionist display.
"Bryn, you're good," says Oreo when she's done a full 360. "Next?"
People start darting glances around at one another as they unfreeze one by one. I doubt any of them want to do this. If they banded together, they could easily overthrow Oreo and whoever else imposed this sick system, but the fear that thickens the air sits too heavy for anyone to make a move. They're terrified of that knife, but they're just as terrified of their companions. Stripping down and risking death if they have red patches must be the trade-off they've made for the reassurance that everyone else in the room is clean.
This is wrong. This is not how a group of survivors who're supposed to be looking out for one another should act. I want to cry out in protest, to fight back, to do anything at all, but something keeps me rooted. After hearing the Sleeper that was once Psy walk slowly up the stairs, I can't even move.
Did the guy Oreo killed even count as a person anymore? Or is this the piece we've been missing: the stage of the infection that makes nameless survivors tear up their rooms and attack each other before the Redding kills them for good? This isn't a zombie apocalypse, but the tradeoffs being made are scarily similar.
Gasps shred the silence. I drag my eyes from the body as everyone in the room recoils from one side of it. The latest member to undress stands rigid as his predicament dawns on him. In the middle of his back is a red patch.
Oreo grimaces and walks towards him. This man, though, hasn't started turning yet. When Ember closes in from the side, he bolts. Oreo shouts. The guy hurls himself shoulder-first through the front window with a deafening glass-shatter. Curtains rip. The curtain rod is torn from the wall, and Patrick and Calico J dive out of the way of it. Through the cacophony, the guy hits the lawn outside with a splat and tumbles out of his curtain-shield and into the rain, buck naked. He staggers to his feet again.
"Fuck you!" he screams back at us. His voice is shrill with unmitigated terror. "Fuck you all! I'm not dying here!"
He slips on the sodden ground and goes down on his ass. In seconds more, he's scrambled up and fled across the dawn-grey clearing to disappear down the Maplegrove driveway. The reek of Redding rolls in through the window.
Oreo unleashes a string of curse words, his face a mask of fury and fear as he shouts, "Triple watch tonight! That fucker will be back just like Psy. Fuck!" Before we can move, he's rounded on our group. "You! I should never have let you into our territory; I bet you brought it with you. Strip down before you kill the rest of us!"
Only a visceral fear of the Red Rain keeps me from diving out the window. Before I can move, I'm seized from both sides. A wild shout escapes me. I lash out, kicking and twisting, but I'm overpowered; three of the Anport Rescues take my stick and knife, spin me around, and force me to my knees. They tear my shirt clean down the back, and the whole room goes silent.
I now know how that man felt.
"I knew it," says Oreo with such intensity, his voice quakes.
"Sorry," says Ember, and winds up with her club aimed for my head.
"Touch her and you die."
That icy, deadly proclamation freezes Ember to the spot. I'm facing my companions still, the fist in my hair giving me a view of nothing but their shins and feet. Ditzy, I realize, has really nice feet. In fact, they might just be the most amazing feet I have seen in my life, as they brace against the floorboards in a stance I know the meaning of without needing to look up. Ditzy has her flail poised over her shoulder, and while I've never seen Ember swing her club before, there's a not-small chance Ditzy is faster.
It's a standoff. I don't know who has my weapons, or if they know how to use them. We're outgunned and outnumbered, I'm infected, and something about having my entire life resting in the hands of Ditzy being the faster baseball player snaps what bit of sanity still held back the "me" who responds to crisis situations.
The idea pops into my head of its own accord. It's so crazy, it actually makes me laugh. One of the three people holding me whips his hands off at the sound. That just makes me laugh harder. It's hysterical. I'm hysterical, and if this doesn't work, I'm probably dead. But I'm probably dead anyway. If Ditzy can't strike first without everyone else attacking, I have literally nothing to lose.
"You know," I say with a bit of a wheeze. "Psy did just prove that this is contagious."
I have never in my life been let go so fast. I lift my head and slick my hair back out of my eyes as I turn around. What I find is so outside my realm of comprehension that it sets me laughing all over again, doubled over for a moment as I catch my breath. Every member of the Anport Rescues stands braced with some variant of shock, fear, or anger on their faces. Pasted on their faces, with such comical intensity that they look for a moment like cartoon characters. I half expect their eyes to start popping out of their heads.
My torn shirt tangles around my arms as I unfold myself. I pull it off and discard it. I'm still wearing a sports bra anyway. Still nobody has moved. Now I feel like I'm in one of those cartoon scenes where time slows down for the whole world minus one character. I look around for my weapons. One of the guys who jumped off me is sitting on my hockey stick, but my knife was just thrown to one side of the room. If I dive for it, I can probably grab it before the nearest person does.
A gust of wind sprays rain in the window at our backs. It doesn't say anything, but in that moment, the most bizarre sensation comes over me. I suddenly know, without a shadow of a doubt, that the Redding has found this house.
"You have Redding in your basement," I say, looking Oreo in the eye. "You should probably leave."
"Get out," he says hoarsely.
It's the first sound to break the silence besides my own voice. I'm almost surprised I can still hear other sounds. The presence of the Redding in the basement has latched onto half my consciousness, and it won't let go. There's a lot of it already.
"Can we get our stuff?" I say, because that's what smart people ask when a literal murderer tells them to leave.
"Do whatever the fuck you want," rasps Oreo. "Just get out. Get the fuck out, you motherfucking demon spawn. Go back to wherever you crawled from."
A man in the room's corner crosses himself.
I run a quick inventory of my current state. I still seem to have full control of my body, so I get to my feet. Ember is still poised in front of me, her bat raised. Her eyes fly back and forth between me and Ditzy like she's not sure who to strike first if she strikes at all.
"Back off," I say. "And we'll let you live."
It's a cheesy threat, but Ember actually stumbles away. When we don't attack her, she bolts to Oreo's side. Unfrozen by her escape, the few Anport Rescues on our side of the room scuttle backwards like bedbugs from a mattress when you turn on the lights. Now our path to the door is clear.
I address my companions without turning around. "J? Patrick? Go get our stuff. Make sure you grab the car keys. Ditzy, stay with me."
Patrick and Calico J flee the room. It's only a minute before their footsteps gallop back down the stairs, heavy with all the stuff they're carrying. I throw a glance out the window behind me. It's almost dawn. The rain has slowed to sporadic drops, a cessation as rapid as its onset a few hours before. None of that has slowed the Redding in the basement, which has spread to cover the floor at least an inch deep.
"We should be good to run to the car," I say. My voice warps and rings in the deafening silence. I hope that's just my audio processing and not a symptom of Sleeper onset. "Ditzy, can you go open it? I'll help carry things."
"Get your knife," she says.
I remember again that I don't have my weapons. "Right."
She covers me while I retrieve both my knife and hockey stick. When she's gotten the car keys from Calico J and ducked out the front door, I tip the stick towards Ember. She's probably saner than Oreo at this point. "By the way, I wasn't kidding about the Redding in the basement. You guys really should leave. This is how it chased us out of our Chesnet houses, and it's coming in fast."
With that, I turn to join my companions. It's the first time I've seen their faces since before I was attacked, and the sight drops my heart into my stomach, then my stomach to the floor. Calico J and Patrick are loaded up with all of our backpacks, but they're both staring at me with the same terror as all the Anport survivors. This time, it's not funny.
"I'm fine," I say in a quieter voice. "For now, anyway. Can we leave? Please?"
They step back when I step towards them, so I hold out a hand for the food bag. Calico J passes it to me. I sling it over my shoulder and slip past them out the door. Nobody comes after us as we pile into the open car with our bags in our laps and yank the doors shut behind us.
"Get us out of here," I say to Ditzy.
She revs the engine and swings us around so fast, it tumbles Patrick and Calico J together in the back seat. When we straighten out, Patrick sinks down as far as he can, pressed back into the opposite corner of the car from me. I take the moment to feel my back. I know immediately where the red patch is. Right at the nape of my neck where I've been aching for days.
I wince at the realization. "J? How bad is it?"
He doesn't answer. Not out loud, at least. I look over my shoulder to find him holding up both hands to make a triangle with his fingers. If that's the spot size, it's the size of my hand at least.
"It's not growing, is it?"
"Turn back around."
I face forward so he can see it again. Ditzy pulls onto the main road and turns right, taking us back the way we came the night before. I'll correct her when I've confirmed whether I'm going to start snarling and attacking people within the next five minutes.
At least a minute passes before Calico J says, "I don't think it is..."
I feel it again. It's a little sore to the touch, but otherwise fine. I readjust the bag in my lap and drop my face to it, hugging the rough, cold nylon as stress and the draining tiredness of having pulled an all-nighter beat down on my head. "Fuck."
"You still sound fine," says Ditzy.
"I still feel fine." That's a lie. "I mean, I feel like I've been run over by a truck and I could have done without seeing... that, but I don't want to attack any of you, so that's a plus?"
"Do we have permission to kill you if you do?"
"Please do."
Never in my life could I have imagined myself having this conversation so casually, no matter the circumstances. It's a little amazing, actually. Or maybe I'm just tired and nauseous and freaked out enough that the only thing my brain can do is be amazed.
I hope the nausea isn't a symptom.
I still have my head down when Ditzy hits the brakes so hard, the car tires squeal like pigskins. Only the bag I'm hugging keeps me from being flung face-first into the dashboard. We skid to a halt at an angle on the road.
Ditzy's voice pitches up higher than any I've heard yet today. She sounds terrified. "What the fuck is that?"
Like this chapter if you guessed the Anport group was trouble...
Comment what you think is on the road!