Night Plague: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (4 page)

His lungs bellowed with all the air they had left. He pulled at the floor and the knob, fighting to free himself, but she held onto his leg so tightly that her nails carved red lines in his skin.

Something was wrong. His foot prickled numbly. His vision stirred. His head spun. Dizziness replaced the blood leaving his body. It tingled and traveled under his skin, gathering at his ankle before disappearing completely, as if it were draining away.

It was. She was sucking it. She was
drinking
it! The same pleasured coo he’d heard before left her lips while she consumed the liquid that kept him alive.

Vampire!

His shaking fingers found the iron still in his hands. He raised his core with the last strength he had and desperately thrust it forward.

It pierced her throat. She’d been too busy enjoying her meal. She hadn’t seen it.

Mason’s eyes widened. Her skin popped, letting the jagged tip sink through her meat and rip at her throat. He could
hear
it – a sick, wet slush. He shuddered, pale fingers nearly dropping the iron, but held on, pushing it harder. The edge broke through the other side of her neck. Torn flesh. White bone. The image sunk into his skull.

Her shriek swallowed his
. Blood – his blood, not hers – flew from her jaw. The poker fell from her neck, but no crimson spilled. Just raw, red flesh. She recoiled back and clawed at the wound, face twisted in pain.

The vampire shot him just one last glance, hostile blue eyes meeting brown, and then she was gone. She disappeared the same way she’d come, leaping through the window.

Air moved heavily through Mason’s tight lungs.

She was gone. She’d survived, and somehow, she was gone.

Two red puncture wounds marred his ankle, blood spilling openly from his veins to the carpet. He blocked off his fear and tried to remove his head from his mind. He needed to stop the bleeding.

He sat up to fetch a pillow from his bed and toppled back down, head tingling and vision blackening.

Dizzy…so…dizzy… Was it just the blood loss?

His stomach lurched, and almost without warning, vomit crawled up his throat and over his tongue. His body heaved, forcing him to roll to the side to avoid choking. His limbs jerked without his permission.

Was…it…just the…blood…loss?

Something sparked in his mind, dragging him back to what he’d read just two nights before. A poster saw a friend suffer a bite by one of those things, only to die almost immediately afterwards from plague-like symptoms
, even after they’d managed to fight it off.

The crazed, frantic terror in his stomach hardened into the cold ice of horror.

If that person had been telling the truth…

“Molly…!” Mason pleaded, eyes watering as he struggled again for the doorknob. The dog wasn’t even there – she was barking by the front door while the girl fled. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t reach it anymore. His arm was weak – too weak – when he raised it. It shuddered and shook before collapsing back down, limp.

His gut lurched and pushed another wave of bile up his throat.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay like that, vomiting and seizing until he could do nothing but simply lay there, too exhausted to resist.

Wet warmth seeped over his legs as his bladder gave out, the sour musk of urine mixing with the tang of blood. He was sure that wasn’t the only thing failing. Black edges grew from the corners of his vision, each breath harder to force than the last.

…He was dying. This was it. He was dying.

This was everything that happened to a victim in the final hours before the plague took them, but to him, it was happening on fast-forward.

He heard a car pull into the driveway through his broken window, the engine throbbing with its familiar stutter. It sounded impossibly far away.
Merril. Martin. He reached again for the knob, but could barely lift his fingers.

The front door below swung open, but by the time they came in, his voice was gone. Everything was black. He couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open anymore.

They say that before a person dies, their life flashes in front of them.

For Mason, it didn’t. All he saw was one, simple memory.

He was a small toddler, lying across his mother’s knees. Her arms cradled him in place and her warm fingers held a wooly blanket over his chest. She stared down at him through strands of black hair and soft brown eyes.

Baby's boat's the silver moon,

Sailing in the sky,

Sailing o'er the sea of sleep,

While the clouds float by.

She was singing, her voice tender and low. She rocked, the chair beneath them creaking while he gently swayed atop her lap.

Sail, baby, sail,

Out upon that sea,

Only don't forget to sail,

Back again to me...

Back again to me.

He laughed, stretching small, stubby fingers for dangling strands of his mother’s hair. She tucked it away behind her ears, smiling patiently.

Baby's fishing for a dream,

Fishing near and far,

His line a silver moonbeam is,

His bait a silver star.

He finally began to feel tired. …So tired. He stared up at his mother’s face one last time before closing his eyes and letting his limbs go limp.

Sail, baby, sail,

Out upon that sea,

Only don't forget to sail,

Back again to me...

Back again to me.

Chapter Four: Another Morning

“Mason!”

Knocks pounded the door.

“It’s seven. Get up!”

Pound
, pound, pound.

Mason stirred, the noise slowly dragging him from the black abyss of slumber. He could easily sleep in until noon, but school started at eight nowadays, so on weekdays
, he had to get up way too early. It seemed especially horrible today. He was
exhausted
, his limbs aching in protest at the simple thought of sitting up. His eyes didn’t want to open. He just wanted to lay there some more.

“Mason!”

He opened his mouth to yell an indignant ‘just a few minutes!’, but no sound came out. It was like there was no air in his lungs at all.

…Eh?

His eyes blearily fluttered open. He was lying on his stomach, with a view of his right hand. White carpet framed his fingers and contrasted the dark grime lacing their tips.

Wait, why was he lying on the floor?

Ah!

Adrenaline shot him to his knees. He didn’t have to wonder whether the night before had been a nightmare. It hadn’t.

The carpet was painted red beneath his left ankle. Crusty black fluid stiffened the fibers and stuck to his skin. Blood. He lay in a mess of blood, vomit, and he didn’t want to know what else. It was his lack of voice that stopped him from screaming.

“Mason! You’re already half an hour late!”

Had he…survived?

“Get the fuck up!”

He opened his mouth and moved his tongue, but stayed silent. What was wrong? Why couldn’t he talk?

Then it hit him. He wasn’t breathing.

The burst of panic was enough to get him to his feet. He fought for air and gulped it down before pushing it back out with a shaky sigh. His chest stopped moving as soon as he exhaled, his lungs heavy and stiff. He could force breath through, but he wasn’t breathing naturally.

“What, did you die in there?”

He drew in another forced gasp, just enough to find his voice. “J-just give me a f-few min…minutes.” It wilted as the air leaked away.

“Be down in ten
, or you’re going to school without breakfast!” Martin’s footsteps receded down the stairway.

Mason grasped for the place above his ribs, where his heart should’ve been beating. He checked his throat and strangled each wrist in search of a pulse.

Nothing. His body was still and quiet. A cold spider crawled up his spine and bit the back of his head.

…Was he dead? He had no breath, no pulse,
no heartbeat. Maybe he had died last night. Maybe he was a ghost.

No. He pinched an arm. It still hurt. It still felt like flesh. He still felt bone beneath meat. There was no body on the ground, either – of course not, he was still inside it.

So then…what…the hell…was this…?

He searched again for his own vital signs, half expecting them to suddenly spark back to life. But they didn’t. They weren’t there. They were gone.

His skin was cold, too. So cold… He wrapped his arms around his chest, realizing for the first time that he was shivering.

His eyes drifted to the mess on the floor. He felt dried saliva caked to the side of his mouth, and something else – he didn’t want to know what – crusted around his legs and feet. A rancid menagerie of scents slipped through his nose every time he forced in air, enough to make him wince.

Corpses leaked every manner of fluid as their organs shut down. Saliva. Urine. Feces. Blood. You name it. It was all there on his once white carpet.

He shuddered, dragging his eyes away to the sterile gray walls. Fresh bile threatened to crawl over his tongue.

He’d undoubtedly died that night. He was still dead now. His body was nothing but a corpse.

So then, why was he still in it?

His head throbbed, monitor-framed images of what he’d read the night before drifting through it with the soft metallic glow of the screen.

Sorrel Falley died. Her body disappeared. There were still occasional reports of missing corpses. People had seen the ‘dead’ lurking outside their old homes.

Mason stared down at the palm of his hand and wiggled his fingers to make sure they still moved. They were paler than he remembered. He ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth, searching his teeth. His canines were just slightly longer now. He pricked his tongue at the tip.

Oh…

He swallowed an instinctive rasp, legs shuddering beneath him.

Oh lord.

Was he…like
her
now?

“Mason, five more minutes!”

What…was he going to do? He couldn’t go down there like this! He couldn’t go anywhere like this!

He swallowed another batch of breaths and tried to force his lungs into a rhythm.

Would they notice? Would they be able to tell? Would anyone notice that he wasn’t breathing if he forgot to keep cycling his lungs?

He couldn’t stay in his room, though – Martin wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t stay up there forever. He needed to go downstairs. He needed to act like everything was normal until he figured out what was wrong.

First things first: he needed to take a shower.

****

Mason scrubbed at his limbs with frenzied, wild fervor, as if he could pull
it
off. It. Whatever it was that’d happened to his body. But no matter how much he pulled and rinsed, nothing changed. His legs were raw and red. The skin on his calf broke, but didn’t bleed.

He slouched against the shower wall, knees curled to his chest while water splashed against his scalp and d
ripped from his hair. It gathered at the tip of his chin, plopping down in dull, rhythmic drops. His eyes stared blankly at the two red marks marring his ankle. They were already nothing but scars, yet they’d been fatal.

He was dead. He’d simply never abandoned his corpse.

At least his senses still worked. He could still feel the water pounding atop his skull. It was warm. Hot. It tingled almost painfully against his cold skin.

No. Maybe he wasn’t dead. The dead couldn’t feel anything, after all. But he certainly wasn’t alive, either. He existed, he was there,
he felt the same inside, but…

He took a deep breath and let it warm his innards. His limbs remained cold no matter how much steam he swallowed. They probably always would.

A knock echoed from the bathroom door. “Mason? Is something wrong?” This time it was Merril’s voice that came with it. “I’m going to school today, but we have to leave soon. Aren’t we going to walk together?”

“C-coming…” He stammered with forced breath.

Should he say he was sick and try to get out of school for the day? Sick was an understatement, after all. He could spend the day doing more research online, for all the good that would do.

Still… He pictured Merril’s hopeful face, and Martin’s stern one. Merril was finally feeling well enough to go, and that meant that if he stayed home, he’d be alone with Martin. He frowned at the thought, in spite of himself.

Suddenly claiming illness might also draw attention. He didn’t want that. The best thing he could do was try to act as if everything was normal.

He chocked down a laugh. The last time he’d decided that, it’d worked out brilliantly.

He dragged himself from the shower with stiff, shaky limbs, snatched a towel from the hanger, and dried himself at the mirrored sink.

Well, at least if he was a walking corpse, he was now a very clean one. His skin had paled, but he’d been pasty to begin with, so if he was lucky, then no one would notice. He bit his graying lips. At least his eyes looked normal – they weren’t glazed or, he shivered, rolled back.

He startled and sucked his teeth in, though. Fangs. He leaned in close to the mirror, hesitated, and opened wide. Fangs replaced his upper and lower canines. He ran a finger along the thin white shapes, their tips sharp against his skin. They weren’t terribly large, but all the same, he was going to have to be careful when he smiled. Heh. Like that was something he had to worry about.

His slight amusement wilted away as the pale face in the glass chuckled with him.

So…he really was like a ‘vampire’, then. He didn’t want to think about what else that might entail. Vampires were creatures of fantasy, but this was reality. He wanted to believe that the rest of the stories wouldn’t apply, but the memory of blood sucked from his ankle left dread in his stomach.

No. He couldn’t dwell on any of that right now. It was impossible to come up with answers he simply didn’t have, and there was no sense in worrying about what ifs.

He brushed his teeth and got dressed, the daily motions so routine he didn’t have to think about them. He wiped the steam off his glasses and settled them on his nose. It was all just like any other day.

Mason gave himself a final examination in the mirror. Yes, he looked normal enough.
Pale, but normal. He wasn’t suddenly going to start…erm, rotting or something, was he? He cringed, before realizing that if that were the case, he would’ve already been right in the middle of rigor mortis. Perhaps nothing would progress beyond coldness and paleness. After all,
that
girl had died over two years ago, and she’d looked plenty able when she’d broken through his window.

He heaved a bitter laugh and turned away from the glass.

Normal. Act normal! He paused, practicing his manual breathing one last time, before stepping out into the hall.

****

Rain pattered on Merril’s tartan umbrella, sliding off and binding her and Mason in a wet circle. It was a gray, misty morning. He walked quickly to keep pace while his eyes dragged on the sidewalk below.

Merril frowned. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

Mason shook his head.

He’d ended up missing breakfast. Hell, he hadn’t even had time to pack a lunch. But it didn’t matter – he wouldn’t be able to hold anything down. Even the thought of food made his stomach clench.

“Come on, I’ll even give you my Cheetos!” She grinned. “I snuck a bag from the cupboard when Martin wasn’t looking. Well, I won’t give you all of it, but we can split!”

“No.” He didn’t look up. “Keep your lunch. I’m fine.”

She stared for a while, trying to catch his eye. When she failed, her hand reached for his. Soft, warm fingers brushed against his wrist before he flinched away and tucked it in his pocket. He couldn’t let her feel how cold it was. She blinked, just staring while her hand returned to her side.

“Sorry.” He started, before remembering how much she hated empty apologies. “It’s, uh…” He licked his lips and fell silent, throat clenching so tightly it was hard to swallow the air he needed to speak. It didn’t matter
– it wasn’t like he could tell her either way. It felt strange, keeping secrets from the one person he shared everything with.

Her eyes dimmed with disappointment. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine!” He assured, almost too quickly. “Just…tired, that’s all.”

A brief silence slipped over them and Merril’s eyes returned to the road.

“T-thanks, though.” He stammered, afraid he’d put her out. “And for sharing the umbrella. I, err…can’t imagine where I left mine.”

“Hmm.”
She passed him a mischievous smirk. “Well, you are quite the bother, and we’re going to be even later if you keep dragging your feet. We’ll have to stop at the store on the way home and pick another up for you. Can’t have you holding me back.”

He tried to smile.
“Y-yeah.”

Good. He could grab something to clean his carpet with while he was at it. In the meantime, he could only hope Martin didn’t go in his room for any reason. He could come up with an excuse for the broken window, but for the macabre mess on the floor, not so much. He grimaced at the thought.

Neither Merril nor Martin seemed to notice anything odd aside from his own evasiveness, but he’d flown out the door without time for idle chatter. It was going to be harder when he arrived home with a handful of hours left in the day. At least Martin allowed them to spend their time and meals in their rooms. His brother had abandoned his mother’s tradition of eating at the table several years ago. If he could just make it through the school day…

“Oh!”

He startled, stopping beside Merril as she smiled at the sky. “It stopped raining! Looks like we might have a clear day after all.”

Mason let his eyes follow hers. A tint of blue peered out between monochrome clouds and brightened the dull horizon. Something else seeped through, too – the sun.

He tensed. Vampires and sunlight weren’t supposed to mix well, were they? He hesitated, almost afraid it would swelter or melt away to ash, before holding out a hand, away from the umbrella’s shade.

Nothing happened. The sun felt comfortably warm against his cold skin.