Night Plague: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (8 page)

Gooseflesh ate his arms. “What?”

She looked back, a grin lighting her lips. “It’s just one guy. He’s turned away and going through his wallet – probably working through a recent ‘transaction’. It’s perfect!” She stepped back. “You need it more than I do, so you can have this one. Hurry and bite him while he’s distracted!”

“Eh?” The hair rose on his neck. “But… But I thought you –”

“The blood has to be warm and fresh. It’d probably be okay if I killed him for you, but it’d be better if you did it, yourself. You need to learn how!” She smiled reassuringly. “Go! Don’t think about it too much. Get as close as you can and just let your instincts do the rest. I’m here if anything goes wrong.”

Mason shook his head, refusing to kill anyone. He reminded himself of his conviction to not do to anyone what she’d done to him, to not become the monster she was. He turned and dashed off as quickly as his weak legs would allow.

Or at least, that’s what he should’ve done. He knew that was what he should’ve done. That was what he’d promised himself he’d do.

Instead, he took a few uneasy steps closer and claimed Sorrel’s place at the bend. He saw the man instantly, fumbling with his wallet. He needed to hurry.

He let his body control his legs instead of his mind, creeping forward. His eyes rested on the line bulging below the man’s neck and the familiar, aching thirst heating his cold limbs. He trembled for the life he saw throbbing there. That same bitter taste came back, but he ignored it, tuning out the disgust and focusing on the longing.

His feet kept slinking forward, and this time, he didn’t stop them.

His muscles tightened with the urge to leap. His jaw burned, cracking open to bar its fangs. His dry throat and tongue begged for fluid. His ribs warmed, yearning, waiting,
ready.

He didn’t resist the feeling. He gave in, letting it raze through him from his feet to the tip of his skull.

He leapt and sunk his teeth into the stranger’s neck in a single swift motion.

Something hot, wet, and thick spilled into his mouth before he had time to comprehend what it was. He’d hit the vein perfectly. The stranger yelled a garbled shriek, but the vampire wrapped an arm over his throat to clamp it shut.

Mason’s sense of taste came back to life with a potency it’d never had before. The syrupy liquid poured into his mouth and sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. It was salty and sweet, with a tangy edge and a sating, bitter aftertaste. His mind swam with a wash of ecstasy, his tense body tingling with satisfaction.

He swallowed, letting the life-giving liquid warm his chilled, lifeless body.

He drank. And drank. And drank.

A clarity
of mind and a sharpness of sense he hadn’t realized were gone returned as the hot fluid worked its way down his throat. He knelt to stay level with the stranger’s body when it sank beneath him. It’d stopped struggling, he realized somewhere in the back of his mind, but it didn’t deter him from sucking every last drop of liquid he could from what he’d sunk his teeth into.

Finally, nothing else came. The vein was barren, and all that remained was a metallic aftertaste. He’d drained the man dry.

Mason’s eyes widened, his spine jolting straight with horror.

The stranger stayed on the concrete beneath him, stretched gaze staring blankly up at him and the blackening sky. He didn’t move anymore. His chest no longer rose. His torn vein no longer pulsed.

He was dead.

Mason swallowed down a shriek, almost toppling over backwards. He shook his head, unable to believe what his eyes were showing him.

He’d killed that man.

A rancid, sickening sense of guilt gnawed at his stomach and bit at the traces of ecstasy lingering in his head. That warm taste had stolen away all the rest of his senses as soon as it’d entered his mouth. He’d swallowed that man’s life to sate his thirst.

His vision danced with vertigo. It’d been just about to knock him from his feet when firm hands propped him up from behind. Sorrel’s face peered over his shoulder. “Wow, clean and fast! Not bad at all for your first kill.”

He straightened and shoved her away. “I murdered him!” He shouted, to himself as much as Sorrel. “I…!

His eyes watched the corpse, wide with horror and disgust. He leaned back, lips curled with that same bitter dread. Mist at the edges of his eyes made the grim scene beneath him waver. Water – and perhaps something else, too – dripped from his chin, but he barely realized it was there.

“You’re a carnivore that scored its first prey.” She corrected, a smile lighting her lips. “Between this and what you did with that damn fire poker, I’d say you have talent!”

All he managed was a wordless, rasped moan. Talent for what?

She put a hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle. “It’s all right. He was a criminal.
A human who wouldn’t have lived long, anyway. You have as much a right to survive as he had. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His head shook on a quivering neck. This wasn’t all right! It wasn’t all right at all! It was very, very wrong!

“Don’t you feel better now?” Her voice was unusually slow, soft.

He choked on the lump in his throat. He did. Or at least, his body did. Hunger no longer dulled his senses and his limbs no longer dragged with fatigue. It’d been nearly instantaneous – an eruptive, terrible burst of energy. He didn’t say anything.

“I’ll report the kill back to the scouts. All you have to do now is go home. You don’t need to think about it anymore.”

He didn’t say anything, eyes never leaving the empty human shape spread across the ground. For a while, that was all there was in the world.

Sorrel craned her neck to catch his gaze. “You better stop pouting before my opinion of you drops again.” She grinned teasingly, voice light despite her words. “But hey, I’ve helped save your life now, too, so you can’t keep holding that grudge. Just relax for a while and let all of this go. What’s the point of a second life if we can’t enjoy it?”

“W-what about the…what about the body?”
He sputtered, forcing his tongue to move. His shaken mind reached weakly for the logic he valued so much. “Someone will find it!”

“It’s okay.” She assured. “We can just leave it here. Causes of death aren’t heavily reported – it will enter the paper as another likely plague death. Convenient, isn’t it?”

He forced down another hard swallow, the tangy aftertaste lining his throat.

Could he really just go home – back to the house he shared with Martin and Merril – after something like this?

He finally looked at Sorrel. “W-why are you letting me go? You aren’t going to make me stay at the prison?”

The prison…maybe that
was
the best place for people like him.

Sorrel tensed, her tongue clicking against her fangs. “Dale said it was okay, so long as you’re really careful not to let anyone else know about what you are, or where the rest of us stay.”

He blinked, trying to clear the black edges from his eyes. “But why…?”

“Don’t worry about it. Dale was just trying to scare you a bit, make sure you listened.” She smiled. “But keep in mind that we’ll have to kill anyone – including that girl – who finds out.”

He didn’t say anything, just staring.

“So don’t let that happen.” Her face brightened. “And remember, the prison is always waiting if you change your mind.” She turned, already walking away. “I’m going to go do some hunting of my own, but you should get out of here. Sleep well, all right?”

And she was gone, disappearing around the bend and up a banister with feline grace.

He simply stood there, the body burning a deep red image into his eyes before he spun and ran for home. His boots pounded the cement with frantic claps.

Sleep well? How could he ever sleep well again?

But he did. Exhaustion overcame him, and he rested comfortably with no thirst to disturb his slumber.

What a monster he was.

Chapter Seven: Dead Days

Mason and Molly sat alone in the living room, the dog resting her furry chin on her master’s knee with eyes closed peacefully. He envied her.

It was just now 7:30 in the morning. He’d always been a late riser, but he’d dragged himself from sleep earlier the last few days. His gaze wandered to the dishes he’d planted in the kitchen sink, wet as if they’d recently been washed.

By waking before the others, he could pretend he’d already eaten. They’d always wanted him out of bed earlier anyway, so neither of them complained. He would then say he wasn’t hungry during lunch and take dinner up to his room, where he’d feed it to Molly and Tilly. It’d become routine.

He unconsciously rubbed a hand over his belly and bile climbed up his throat. He still felt full. According to Sorrel, a meal once or twice per month was enough, so long as they didn’t suffer any injuries. He figured he’d be okay for a while…he didn’t even want to think about what would happen when the thirst came back.

An image of that man’s empty eyes, still wide with fear, bit him in the back of his head. He drew in and released a shaky breath, burying his brow in his fingers. He swore he could still taste the blood in his mouth. Two days had passed since then, but none of it – not the pictures or the sounds or the smells – had faded.

It’d sapped the innocence right out of everything. His body felt able and energetic, but his mind was heavy, racing with horror in the day’s quiet moments. He could no longer even read a book or watch a movie without a grim weight dragging down his stomach and pushing against his ribs, whispering in his ear the reminder that he’d killed someone. That someone else could no longer read a book or watch a movie because he could.

He closed his eyes. Color was gone. He lived in a world of gray.

The weekly paper had sat waiting for him on the porch this morning, and he’d found the man in the obituary section. Nowadays
, the dead got nothing but a small thumbnail and blurb. His name was Joseph Krell – no one that he recognized. ‘Assumed plague’ was listed as the cause of death, just as Sorrel said. No one ever had to know how Joseph Krell died.

Was this…really okay? Was it really okay to sleep in his same
bedroom, go to the same school, and share the same home with his brother and girlfriend? What would they think if they knew they lived now with a murderer?

“You’re up early again, I see.”

His head jolted up at the sound of his brother’s voice. “Y-yeah, I…want to make it a habit.”

Martin eyed him for a while, then turned away and searched the closet for his coat. He was already in his work clothes, as neat and unwrinkled as always. Mason often wondered why he bothered getting so done up at all for a simple clerical job at Hobby’s Hardware. 

“Good. You’re taking some initiative. I like it.” Martin pulled on his non-slip boots. “Beats waiting to die in front of that computer of yours.”

Mason didn’t answer.

Martin’s eyes stopped on the wet dishes when he went to the kitchen for his keys. “Y’know, if you’ve started making breakfast, you could save some for us.”

Mason stifled a groan, irritation wining over his anxiety. “You never leave any for me when you’re the first one up.”

“By the time you usually get up, it would be as cold as a corpse.” Martin grumbled.

Mason stiffened.
Corpse? Was there something pointed in his brother’s voice, or was he just imagining things again? Yeah. He had to just be imagining things.

“Ah well, not hungry anyway.” Martin decided. “You might want to make something for Merril, though. She was pretty sick last night.”

Mason frowned. “She got worse again?”

“Getting up early is well and good.” Martin lectured distractedly. He was so well practiced at it that he could scold even while skimming messages on his cell. “But not if you go to bed so early you miss a good half of the day.”

Mason answered with an indifferent shrug. Still…he had surrendered to sleep around six and hadn’t seen much of Merril the night before. She really must’ve been ill for Martin to bring it up.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and go see how she is.” Martin
suggested, a grimace in his voice. “Or are you so lazy you won’t check up on your own sick girlfriend?”

Mason blinked, slightly startled. He hadn’t realized Martin knew they were anything more than best friends. Maybe he’d been naïve to think they could keep it hidden. They’d all shared the same house for a couple of years now, after all. His brother had simply never said anything about it.

Martin laughed, apparently reading Mason’s surprise. “You really aren’t as sneaky as you think you are.” He shoved his phone into his pocket with a sly zip. “But what a good, solid girl like her sees in you, I’ll never know.”

“That’s not –” Mason sputtered, flustered.

“Come on, this house is too small for secrets.” Martin shot him a smirk.

For a few tense seconds, Mason wondered if he knew.
Blood. Death. Murder. How could his brother have found out? He pretended to eat. He forced himself to breathe. He hid his pale skin under long-sleeved shirts. He was as quiet and reclusive as ever. So how could –

Martin turned away with another laugh. “You need a more original place to hide those magazines and bottles of booze than under your bed. Be glad you have an understanding big brother, huh?”

He reddened, but exhaled an instinctive breath of relief. So much relief, in fact, that it overpowered the angry twitch that came with the thought of his brother rooting around his room.

“But really, Mason,
hentai?” Martin teased with another wry smile.

“Shut up.” Mason grumbled, trying not to flush. “I’m surprised you even know what that word means.”

His brother just laughed, trudging for the door with his hands tucked into his jeans.

“Don’t you need to bring a lunch or something?” Mason realized, happy to change the subject.

Martin paused. “Nah. The boss will probably have some cold pizza lying around like always. But don’t you go worrying about me when you should be worrying about Merril and your own lazy ass.” He slipped through the door without waiting for an answer and locked it behind him.

Mason blinked at the wall, slightly perturbed, before dragging himself off the couch and up the stairs.
“Merril?” He knocked at her door. “You want something to eat?”

A muted voice piped up behind the thin walls. “I…think I want to keep sleeping.
Just a little longer, okay?”

He bit his lip. “Do you want me to bring anything up, at least?”

“I’d like a glass of water.”

He returned downstairs and fetched a drink. She probably wouldn’t eat it, but he grabbed a plate of cheese and crackers, too – his former favorite sick meal.

Merril was still lying in bed when he came back to her room and stepped inside. Her face was nearly as pale as his, her lids resting drowsily over her eyes. She looked small and thin beneath her big red quilt. He set the food and drink on her bedside table and ran his fingers over one of her cold hands. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t feel well.” Her tone was casual, but her voice was weak. “It came on fast this time.”

He frowned. “How so?”

“I just…feel really tired.” She sighed. “I don’t feel nauseated or have a sore throat or anything, but I have a bit of a headache. Maybe it’ll go away if I sleep a while longer.”

He found her green gaze. She never liked to complain, but a terrible sadness rested there, just beneath the surface. Her chest rose and fell heavily, too heavily. The same pulse he’d thirsted for suddenly seemed frighteningly frail. “Sleep well, okay?”

He left the room without saying anything more.

****

Mason sat at his place on the couch, the house silent
, save for the relentless ticking of the clock. “She didn’t look well at all.” He muttered into his cell. “I think we should take her back to the clinic.”

“I called last night, but they’re all booked up over the weekend. I made an appointment for Monday.” Martin answered through the speaker.

Monday. That was still two days away. Merril would be okay until then, wouldn’t she?

Mason chewed his lip. Her frequent illness wasn’t normally a cause for alarm – it was always something simple like a cold – but this time there was an unease he couldn’t shake. He would’ve felt better if she could’ve gone that same day.

Wait…!

He recalled Clifford
Seager’s pale face. His and Merril’s old physician. It wasn’t like he could summon a dead doctor for a house call, but could Cliff have some antibiotics left over from his human days?

“Mason, you there?
I’ve got to go, so –”

“Yeah.”
He answered almost too quickly. “Yeah, umm, good luck with work.”

“Hey, I know I told you to worry, but I didn’t mean quite so literally. Just stay with her and make sure she has everything she needs. That’s about all we can do, and besides...” His voice trailed with a chuckle. “Girls love a man who can play nurse. Keep at it for a while and I’m sure you’ll get something out of it.”

The line melted to static when Martin didn’t seem to get the reaction he’d wanted. “Mason?”

“Hmm?”
Mason startled.

“Nothing.”
Martin sighed. “Just keep an eye on Merril and sink into the couch, like always. I’ll be home before long.”

“Yeah.”
Mason repeated dryly and hung up the phone.

According to Sorrel, he was welcome at the prison anytime. He cringed at the thought of going back, but…

At least it was better than staring at the wall.

He stood and shouted at the door a story above him. “Hey
, Merril, I’m going for a walk. Give me a call if something comes up.”

****

Sure enough, the prison’s immense gate swung open with nothing more than a simple push. It creaked on its hinges, but put up little fight. Sorrel was as right as always. He couldn’t help but smile slightly at his unexpected strength before the guilt soured his lips. He meandered into cell block #2, head low, and legs hesitant.

He focused on finding familiar faces. Sorrel was absent. What might have been disappointment nipped his chest, but he shrugged it off and looked at the people he did recognize. Elsie Adams was there with a girl named Shanna May. Two former classmates – one who’d died just recently and one who’d gone missing over three years ago. They’d always gossiped together atop the stairs as he left school, and now they chatted casually again, leaning against the second floor railing. The two girls burst into a fit of giggles as Shanna whispered something in Elsie’s ear. He shivered, in spite of himself.

He’d hoped to avoid attracting much attention, and certainly that of the makeshift leader with a gun, but Dale’s loud, gruff voice reached him almost immediately. It echoed off the walls in well-guarded anger.

“No one made you the leader!” A shrill, feminine voice piped up in protest. “You have no authority over me or anyone here.”

“I’m the one who keeps this place safe – I’ve
earned
the title, and I won’t let your carelessness put the rest of us in danger!”

Mason stopped to watch the argument between the burly man and a much lither woman. Her curly red hair marked her even from behind – it was the girl he’d seen standing with the scout boys when he’d first visited the prison.

She laughed. “Danger? I’m the one thinking about the future here! You’d be content to let us all lie down and wait to die, just like the humans. How safe is that? My people and I claimed two risers in just the last month! We need to keep growing or the plague will get to our potential recruits before we do. There’s a big difference between .2% and 1%, Dale. Once they’re gone, they’re gone!”

“Let Cliff and Mercy worry about all that. It’s not our place to murder for a measly .8%.”

“Hah! And what are they going to do? We’re corpses, Dale! It doesn’t matter how much time they waste looking through a microscope – we’re never going to have children. What’s the alternative? Cloning?” She sneered with a tongue oozing defiance. Her voice was a taunt in itself, baiting him to bite. “A blood substitute? Sure, I can believe that. But you know as well as I do that these ‘alternate reproductive methods’ are a crock of shit. Nothing but wishful thinking, and that’s something we can’t afford when we’ll soon be all that’s left. There won’t be any going back, Dale, not once the humans are –”

“Alex!” Sweat glistened on Dale’s clenched fists. “I understand your concerns, but the bottom line is that you and your ‘people’ are taking this way too far. We’re hunters, not monsters.”

“Oh? There’s a difference now? A carnivore is a carnivore. It may not be for hunger, but we’re doing what we have to do to ensure our species survives. We will succeed the human race! The human race that’s already doomed to die whether we hurry it along or not. We must –”

Dale pulled the gun from his coat. “Alex, stand down or I
will
shoot.”