Gone Series: Plague Part 36

He thought he might die from the pleasure he felt, so much emotion, a flood, a storm, a cras.h.i.+ng of planets! Death! He was death, unleashed at last.

He snapped his whip and threw back his head and howled till his throat was raw.

Then he ran, leaped, cavorted through the swirling tides of insects, running and climbing, indifferent to the sharp rocks that lacerated his undead flesh.

Kill them all!

He raged when he reached the heights he couldn't climb but then the creatures rushed to lift him up and sped him up and up at dizzying speed through the endless caverns.

An army!

His army!

They vomited from the mine shaft and Drake leaped onto the rock pile. A single coyote waited there.

"Where is he, Pack Leader?" Drake demanded.

"Not Pack Leader. Pack killed."

"I don't care what you call yourself, where is he?"

"Who?" the coyote asked.

Drake grinned. "The one with the killing hands, you stupid dog. Who do you think? Sam!"

"Bright Hands is far. By the big water." He simpered and turned in a circle and then with his muzzle pointed to the west.

"Excellent," Drake purred.

Just then a rush of bugs, a new column of the creatures came over the ridge and poured into the ma.s.s of Drake's army. Different. These had bloodred eyes.

They were not alone.

Brianna stood, arms on hips, glaring down at him.

"You!" Drake said.

"Me," Brianna said.

To the creatures he said, "Red eyes, serve me! To the town. Kill everyone but Nemesis!"

"You talking to these bugs now?" Brianna said. "I have to tell you: I don't think they speak psycho."

"Blue eyes, with me!" Drake said. "Two columns, two armies: blues with me, reds back to town and kill. Kill!"

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" Brianna demanded.

"Me?" Drake laughed loudly. "I'm going on an epic killing spree."

"You'll have to go through me," Brianna said.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Drake said.

They walked out of the rain. Astrid and Orc and Little Pete. The cloud did not follow them. No new cloud appeared. The cloud remained, no longer expanding, but still pouring rain on the street and the ruined house.

Little Pete coughed directly against the side of Orc's face. It was getting worse, the cough, slowly but steadily worse.

Maybe it would kill him.

Go ahead. Shoot him. Kill Little Pete.

Astrid told herself she hadn't meant it. It was just a tactic. After all, if someone was using a threat you had to devalue the importance of the threat, pretend it didn't matter.

Lance's face exploding. Some of it had hit her.

Turk moaning in pain, writhing on the wet carpet.

It had to stop. It had to end. One death to save dozens, maybe hundreds of kids?

A simple act of murder ...

Astrid saw herself choking Nerezza. She felt again the way her fingers dug into the soft neck, fingertips finding the s.p.a.ces between tendon and artery.

Astrid had never felt anything like that red-misted rage before in her life. She had hated before-she had hated Drake. She had feared before-many, many times. But she would never have believed herself capable of that murderous rage.

The true revelation was the joy she'd felt at that moment. The sheer, vicious, uncomplicated joy of feeling the blood pounding to get past arteries blocked by Astrid's own hands. Feeling the spasms in Nerezza's windpipe.

Astrid let loose a whimper. It had to end.

"You okay?" Orc asked.

Would she ever be herself again? Or had Astrid, the old Astrid, died, to be replaced by this new creature, this angry, frightened witch?

Not for the first time she realized that this had been Sam's life since the coming of the FAYZ. How much rage and fear had he endured? How much bitter shame for his failures? How much guilt ate at his soul as it now ate at hers?

She wished he were here now. Maybe she would be able to ask him how he lived with it.

No, she told herself, it's not Sam you need. A priest. You need to confess and do penance and be forgiven. But how could she be forgiven when even now she was watching Orc as he labored uphill, seeing Petey's lolling head, and asking herself over and over again if she had meant it.

Go ahead. Shoot him.

G.o.d hears prayers, even from those who have not repented, she told herself. She wanted to pray. But when she tried she couldn't see the face of a patient Christ as she had in the past. She could see memories of crucifixes, paintings, statues. But the G.o.d she had believed in was not there anymore.

Was she losing her faith?

Had she lost it already?

A simple act of murder ...

Leslie-Ann knew about the quarantine. But she also knew she couldn't stand being thirsty and hungry any longer and her two brothers couldn't stand it, either.

The one good thing about being Albert's maid was that Albert made sure she had enough to eat. Albert always had food and water. He wouldn't let her starve.

So Leslie-Ann made her way from the house she shared with her siblings to Albert's much fancier house.

She noticed a strange thing over toward the west: a cloud. Leslie-Ann frowned, wondering why that seemed so strange.

But she had no time to wonder: the FAYZ was full of weird stuff. If you'd seen Sam shoot light from his hands-and she had-you stopped being amazed by strange things.

Albert's front door was open. That in its way seemed weirder than the cloud. Albert never left his door unlocked. Never. Let alone open.

Leslie-Ann approached cautiously. She felt for the hilt of the knife she carried. She was nine years old, and not exactly big or scary. But once she had waved the knife at a kid who wanted to steal her cantaloupe and he had run away.

"Albert?" she called out.

She pushed the door all the way open. She drew her knife and held it out in front of her.

"Albert?"

She thought she heard something coming from the living room. Her foot slipped on the Spanish tile. She looked down: a red smear.

Blood. It was blood.

She turned and ran back to the door. Ran outside, waving the knife around her.

She looked around, wis.h.i.+ng Edilio or someone would come along. But if they did she'd be in trouble for going outside during the quarantine. Her brothers would still be thirsty and hungry, and so was she.

Leslie-Ann steeled herself and headed back inside, knife first. She stepped over the blood smear.

Her foot kicked a can. It rolled noisily. A can on Albert's floor? Who would have made that kind of mess? She would have to clean that up or Albert would fire her.

She bent down and snagged the can with her free hand. It smelled of food. Her mouth watered. She held the knife awkwardly as she ran her finger inside looking for anything that might be left. She came up with maybe a tablespoonful of tomato sauce and licked it greedily from her finger.

It tasted like heaven.

She carried the can with her to the living room. And there the full extent of the mess became clear: cans and wrappers everywhere. And tomato sauce all over the white carpet.

Only here it wasn't tomato sauce and Leslie-Ann knew it.

Then she saw Albert. He was sitting with his back against the wall, which was splattered with gore.

His eyes were closed. He wasn't moving.

"Albert?"

She fought the desire to run and run and keep running. Only, she was still thirsty and hungry. And there lay a water bottle with a few precious sips still. She drank it. Not enough, but something.

She went to the kitchen and with shaking fingers dug out the plastic trash bags. Then, quick, quick, before someone stopped her, she gathered all the cans and bottles and thrust them into the bag. It wasn't much, but her brothers could find a couple of ounces of food.

She glanced at Albert, feeling sorry for him and a little guilty and ...

His eyes. They were open.

"Albert?"

She went closer. Were his eyes following her?

"Are you alive?"

He didn't answer. But slowly, slowly his eyes closed. And then opened again.

Leslie-Ann ran from the room and from the house. But she did not drop her bag.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

4 HOURS, 8 MINUTES.

BRIANNA DREW THE bowie knife from its sheath. "Cutting you in three pieces didn't do it," she said to Drake. "So this time I'm going to dice you like an onion."

She blurred and Drake split open at the waist. Not clean-through, but she'd finish it with the next one.

"Get her!" Drake yelled.

She twirled in midair, kicked off the back of a bug, and brought the huge knife down again, chopping Drake's whip hand and leaving it like a reddish python, squirming but no longer attached to Drake.

She struck! Again! Again! In the blink of an eye.

But the creatures were reacting now, a ma.s.s of them, rus.h.i.+ng her. Slow, too slow, but still she had to sidestep them, and that cost her a precious second.

And Drake was still alive. Or something like alive.

She threaded past gnas.h.i.+ng mouthparts and scything mandibles and buried the knife in Drake's skull. The blade sank into the bone, stuck.

She yanked on it, but Drake's upper body came with it. The blade would not come free.