Night Plague: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (3 page)

“We don’t know. We have no way of knowing.” This time, her eyes didn’t stare back at him – they stared at nothing. “We could live another four years, or we could die tomorrow.”

“Or they might find a cure.” Mason interrupted. He regretted it as soon as he spoke – saying words he didn’t believe left a bitter taste on his tongue. Giving comfort was sort of like a game, devising a strategy and finding the right words to lift the other person up regardless of
their honesty. And like all lying, he sucked at it.

“Stop it. Just stop it!” Merril spat. “I know you don’t believe that. Countries have emptied their fortunes in search of a cure and come up empty! The researchers all say they aren’t going to find one, anyway. Don’t you get it? This is it! It’s over…”

He bit his lip when he saw the water welling up in the corners of her eyes. “I know.” He admitted. “Just…calm down, okay? There’s nothing we can do about it, so worrying won’t do any good.”

The plague had already wiped out three thirds of the population since its birth four years ago, and scientists predicted that within another four years, it would claim everything left. The human race would soon be extinct. Again, there was no need to exaggerate or exasperate the situation
. That was simple fact. False comfort served no purpose.

No one was certain what had caused it to be
begin with. Some claimed that it resulted from a failed biological weapon, while others blamed birth by pollution. Others still heralded it as divine retribution. But all the same, it'd spread to every corner of the planet. Every single person still alive was already infected. It was only a matter of time. The disease progressed at different rates for different individuals, for causes equally unknown. Those who remained may as well have just been lucky, as far as anyone understood. The disease was prone to bouts of rapid, aggressive progression that could take a person out in under eight hours. Those still living had simply learned to live with that constant shadow over their heads. That shadow of impending, imminent death.

Merril nodded weakly. “It’s just…” Her throat bobbed. “I’m scared, Mason. I’ve lived my life on the sidelines and tucked into bed. I don’t want to die that way.”

Mason swallowed, too. She really was scared. He could see it in her gaze and hear it in her voice. She was an expert of brave faces, but all her masks were off tonight. Maybe she’d fed off his unease. He took her hand and held it tightly. “I’m scared, too.”

Their eyes met, shivering green orbs reaching desperately for brown. She inhaled a deep breath.
“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry, I…” Her cheeks flushed white. “I’ve just spent too much time in this damn room.”

He held her gaze a while longer. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She assured one last time. “What about you? Will you be okay when I’m gone?”

Her words sucked the air from his ribs. He let go and rose to his feet, but
she held on to his wrist.

“Hey.” She started before he could argue. “Stay with me.”

He looked down at her silently.

Her fingers clenched so tightly
that her nails dug into his skin. “Please?”

He surrendered, sinking into the bed beside her. Who knew how many nights together they really had left?

****

Mason paced across his white carpet until foot-shaped imprints dented the fiber. The adrenaline lacing his veins wouldn’t let him rest no matter how drained and exhausted he was. Every nerve stood on edge.

He’d crept out of Merril’s room as soon as she’d fallen asleep. It wasn’t the type of night when their clothes came off and they enjoyed the evening away from Martin’s watchful eyes. It was the type of night when they slept beside each other because they were afraid to be alone. But he couldn’t sleep. How could he sleep after what’d happened earlier? Images of empty eyes and bloodied teeth played across the back of his eyelids each time he closed them.

He allowed himself to think of what he’d seen, just once.

The girl raised her chin and stared his way with blue-gray eyes. Raw puncture marks oozed red from the man’s neck.

He bit his lip.

“I have a friend who knew Elsie well, and you know what she said? She said that Elsie’s family found her behind the house with stab wounds in her neck. It wasn’t the disease, it was murder!”

“She was stabbed? Like, with a knife?”

“Maybe, she said the holes were small, though…”

“Wait, you don’t mean like a bite, do you? I’ve seen people talking about it online. Err, vampires, I mean. You don’t actually think that…?”

His eyes stopped on his computer desk.

There were rumors online.
Plenty of rumors. But he’d never taken them seriously. After all, vampires? How could he waste thought on something so blatantly ridiculous?

His skin crawled, something shifting in his mind as he considered the rumors. In the end, he plopped into his computer chair with a defeated groan and took off his distance glasses. This was the final time he’d acknowledge what he’d seen.

His computer was easily his most treasured possession, and also his most valuable. He’d built it himself, and it could run any game out there with precision and speed. All in all, it’d cost him well over two-thousand dollars. It was a bit excessive, perhaps, but on the other hand, it’d given him something to do.

When he wasn’t tinkering with
or updating the hardware itself, he whiled away his free time with games and the web. Sometimes, he wondered if he spent as much time in the virtual world as he did the ‘real’ one.

Real.
He’d always hated that term; the virtual world was ‘real’, it was simply made of data instead of material. The logic behind it was as authentic as anything comprised of flesh.

And in the virtual world, it was much easier to forget how quickly their last days
hurried by. Message boards still existed, and even though activity lowered by the month, they remained a way to connect with the rest of the world. People still talked about things besides the plague there: films, television shows, video games, and music.

Classic media – entertainment produced before the pandemic – made for an even greater escape. Characters there never mentioned the plague. They didn’t shove messages about enjoying limited time to the fullest down consumer’s throats. Publishers hadn’t scrapped the bottom of the barrel.

Media was still produced, but the quality and quantity were lower. The post-plague mindset left its mark on everything. It wasn’t the same. The only way to escape it was to return to the past, where the characters and creators both believed they had a future.

When he’d believed that, he’d wanted to be a programmer – a software engineer. He’d still tinker with code now and then, but…what was the point?

He grimaced into the monitor. What was wrong? It wasn’t like him to be so nostalgic. He jiggled the mouse to wake his machine from sleep.

His face flushed as he typed the term ‘vampires’ in his browser’s search bar. Giving the idea even a slot in his head was humiliating enough, and acknowledging it with his fingers was worse. But, after what he’d seen…

Even if it hadn’t been a real ‘vampire’ – which it hadn’t, of course – the incident still fit what he could remember of the rumors. There had to be some kind of connection there.
Something
was going on.

Plenty of articles and forum topics came up in his search results. Nothing official – it was all user-generated, and he’d come across most of it before in his many online hours. He clicked a few links and read them more thoroughly. Generally, he’d lent them little more than quick skims before rolling his eyes and closing the tab.

The details behind the various rumors coincided almost eerily well. The consensus seemed to be that people had discovered bodies with small puncture wounds – they were typically located near the neck, which is what’d spurred the use of the term ‘vampire’ – or in some cases, witnessed incidents similar to what he had. He shivered.

A few of these people reported what they’d seen to the authorities, but very few incidents were ever investigated by law enforcement or reported by the press as anything other than a typical alleyway murder or plague death. Some writers suggested it was a large scale cover-up to prevent panic
, or hide some new impending doom. None of it was surprising.

There were a few posters who took their claims further, saying they’d witnessed the dead or disappeared lurking by their old houses and haunts. One claimed to have seen a friend get bitten and die of violent, almost plague-like symptoms
, even after they’d managed to fight the assailant off. There were also posts made by people claiming to be these ‘vampires’, before they vanished and stopped responding to comments and questions.

Cold fingers crawled up Mason’s spine.

The puncture marks. The way her mouth kissed the victim’s neck. The blood framing her lips.

He ground his teeth. It was perfect. It all fit the rumors perfectly, which wasn’t actually what he’d hoped to find. All he’d wanted was to put his mind at ease, but instead…

It was hard to know how many posts weren’t simply written by copycats and trolls looking for attention. He reminded himself of that almost too desperately. It could still be a coincidence. Some of the more outlandish details, certainly, were exaggerated and fictionalized. Such was the case of all rumors.

After all, the idea of these ‘vampires’ being the deceased was…

He froze, an image of the girl’s face flickering through his memory. Her icy eyes. Her pointed features. Her dark brown hair and the way it’d curled behind her ears. Had he seen that face somewhere before?

Following an impulse, he searched up a page listing death and disappearance reports for the last couple of years in his area. He scrolled through a thick chunk of articles and pictures, not finding anything.

Then he saw her.

Her face peered out from a report filed two years ago. She stared back at him with a smile, her ponytail hanging over a lacy white blouse and her eyes a sunnier sky blue.

The details were brief. Her father found her dead one morning, lying face down on a sidewalk not far from their house, after she’d failed to return home the night before. But at some point between the initial investigation and when the body would’ve been taken to autopsy, the corpse vanished. The article mentioned no supposed cause of death – it closed with a comment asking readers to call the authorities with any information that might lead to the arrest of their resident body-snatcher.

Apparently, no criminal had ever been found – similar reports had reached his ears as recently as last week. His skin pulsed with gooseflesh, fingers going numb with the chill invading the rest of his body.

He met eyes with the virtual face. It was her. There was no mistaking it. It was her.

He’d seen her before, he realized. She died a senior in school, just two years above him.

He mouthed the name printed at the top of the page in big, bold letters. “Sorrel Falley.”

Chapter Three: Sailing in the Sky

“But…” Mason’s voice trailed off beneath Martin’s heavy stare.

“No.” His brother didn’t budge. “You’re staying here and catching up on work around the house. You’ve been slacking off all weekend.”

Merril passed him a painted smile, her hands folded over her stomach. She was always so much stiffer when Martin was around. “I’ll be fine. It’s just the doctor’s – not like I’ve never been there before.”

His gaze drooped with a twinge of guilt.

Merril wasn’t any better. In fact, she was worse. It was late Sunday now, and Martin had decided they had no choice but to take her to the city’s single remaining clinic. Mason intended to come, only to be told by his brother that he needed to stay and finish those chores he’d put off.

It wasn’t so much that he was worried about Merril, though. It was…

Rain. Blood. Alley. Wet. Dark.

His eyes jerked to the partially open door and the dim street outside. He didn’t want to be alone.

Despite his valiant efforts to keep the incident from his mind, it’d haunted him relentlessly over the weekend. The images burned like a candle that refused to go out, flickering by day and by what little sleep he’d managed. Maybe things would be better on Monday, when Martin would force him back to school, but he’d spent nearly the whole of the last two days in his room. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on his chores. Those ridiculous chores he’d have to do unless, and until, he moved out. It wasn’t like he could say he was afraid to stay home, though.

Out of options, Mason just gave a small nod.

“We’ll be back sometime between six and eight, depending on how busy the place is.” Martin ushered Merril out the door. “I want those chores done when I get home.”

And with that, the door closed and Mason was alone. He bolted the lock and stood aimlessly for a while.

The only face left was Molly’s. She pawed at the window like always, watching Martin’s rugged, red pick-up vanish down the street. He swallowed a deep breath and patted her head. “It’ll be okay, huh?” He assured more to himself than the dog.

He made a round through the house, locking the back door, bolting every window, turning on each light, and closing the curtains. He lifted the blinds just enough to see
, and peered through the living room window a last time.

It was clear and cold that evening, streetlamps bathing the neighborhood with metallic white light and casting shapes and shadows. Nothing moved, save for Tilly’s black silhouette licking its paws on the porch.

He was fine. He repeated the phrase that had become his mantra for the last few days. Just fine.

But, this was his first time home alone since…

No. Everything was fine.

What he needed to do
was busy his mind with something else. He ignored the pounding in his ears and yanked his thoughts to Martin’s list of chores. If he wanted to escape his brother’s wrath, he needed to wash the dishes, take out the trash, catch up on his laundry, clean the bathrooms, and take Molly for a walk.

That last one wasn’t going to happen. Taking out the trash was bad enough.

He smirked at the dog. “Mol, let’s not and say we did, all right?”

Molly just whimpered.

****

A loud clang came from somewhere outside. Mason jumped, before two short, high-pitched yowls followed and his muscles relaxed. It was just Tilly scuffling with the neighbor’s fat tabby again. Molly barked and scratched at the door. He looked up from the sink long enough to shoot her a glare. “Shut up, Mol!”

Focusing on his work was a taxing endeavor. There was a piece of thread tied to the back of his scalp, dragging his head away from the task at hand and towards what he’d witnessed at the slightest tug. He shook his neck as if he could brush it off.

At least the bathrooms were the last thing on the list. After that, he could go upstairs and watch TV on his computer until Martin and Merril got back.

A second thud sounded from somewhere outside, like a branch brushing against the house. He flinched. It was rather breezy that night. He could only pray they didn’t lose power. That might just be the end of him.

Molly barked with renewed vigor, and his muscles tensed in agitation. His heart rate surged each time she snarled. There was just something about that shrill, sharp noise. “Mol,
shut
–”

The doorbell rang.

He cautiously stepped out of the bathroom and stared at the front door. It rang again, followed by a light, rhythmic knocking when no one answered. His toes went cold.

Who…was that? It certainly wasn’t Martin or Merril – they both had their own keys – and as far as he knew, they weren’t expecting anybody. Should he answer the door or ask who they were? No. No, it would be better to pretend not to be home at all. The car was gone. An outside visitor would be none the wiser as long as he stayed quiet. He
waited, every muscle in his body tense.

The knocking ceased. He heaved a sigh of relief, about to return to the bathroom when the knob started jiggling. It twisted and turned in its socket, the door creaking against its hinges.

Whoever it was, they were trying to get inside.

He
swallowed, the chill crawling up his legs as he stepped back.

Then it stopped.

His eyes stayed on the door, the clock ticking quietly while the dog barked. A handful of minutes passed. His breath was just beginning to even out when a creak came from the side of the house.

His throat tied itself in knots.

A deck wound around their house from the front porch to the back door. Another small creak sounded. And then another. Whoever it was, they hadn’t left. They were still there, walking along the deck. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Something banged against the front window. It rustled, shaking on its hinges.

They…were trying to force it open.

It took all of Mason’s restraint not to yelp.

Molly spun from the door to the window, yowling at the closed curtains. It wasn’t her usual restless howling – it was a violent snarl.

The rustling stopped, succeeded by more creaky footsteps speeding towards the back door. The dog followed, growling and baying. The knob twisted and jiggled, but didn’t open.

Someone…was trying to get inside. They were really trying to get inside!

The heaviness in his stomach jumped into his throat with the realization that his fears hadn’t been for nothing. An image of the killer’s face smacked into the back of his skull.

No! No no
no
!

His feet lightened as all feeling left them. He spun with a sudden surge of
adrenaline when the footsteps retreated to the other side of the house.

He needed a weapon.
Something. Anything!

His first instinct was to run to the kitchen and grab a knife, but something else caught his eye first. The fireplace!

He raced up and snatched the iron poker. It was sharp, heavy, and long in his hands. He waited a moment, almost wondering if the stranger had gone. He gripped his makeshift weapon with sweaty fingers, so tightly that his knuckles went white.

A second bang echoed from the front window. No
.
She
was still there. She’d come back.

Molly charged the glass, teeth bared in the most brutal sneer he’d heard from her furred lips. Her claws dug at the window until
the curtain threatened to tear.

The seconds seemed to pass in tune with the throb of his heart.

What should he do? Should he wait in the living room with weapon in hand? Should he find a place to hide? Should he try to sneak out the back while she was at the front? Should he approach the window and pull the curtain aside?

No. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t do any of those things.

His feet made the decision for him when another bang shook the glass. He turned and flew up the stairs as fast they could carry him. He clenched his throat, trying not to scream. He threw himself into his room and bolted it shut.

He instinctively curled up by the side of his bed, fire iron still in hand and head to his knees, as if that’d somehow make him smaller, harder to see. His gaze shakily traveled to his window,
his thudding heart throwing the rest of his body off balance.

He swallowed when he realized the blinds were open, but at least it was locked. Maybe it didn’t matter if it wasn’t drawn – his room was on the second story, the glass facing nothing but open air. No one could get up there, not even alleyway murderers. The only thing he had to worry about was his door.

Molly’s barks seeped through the floor from below. Perhaps he should’ve taken her with him, but if nothing else, she seemed to be effectively guarding the windows.

His eyes suddenly found the cellphone sitting on his bedside table.

…Martin.

His trembling fingers reached up and snatched it. For a moment, he couldn’t remember his brother’s number. The noise pulsing in his ears made it hard to think. It finally came to him when his fingers hovered over the numbers, appearing on the screen more through rote memory than conscious thought. He held it to his ear as it r
ang, ribs throbbing.

No answer.

He fought back the urge to cry while Molly kept snarling downstairs.

Should he call the police? All he had to do was tell them someone was trying to break in. His fingers loomed over the phone when the dog below let out a loud, panicked howl. It traveled the house, no longer the steady bark at the window. Fast, frantic footsteps carried the canine up the stairs.

Mason froze.

Why…was the dog coming upstairs?

Something clanged against his window.

He spun around, his heart skipping a beat. It nearly flew from his mouth when his eyes found the glass.

She was there. The killer peered in at him through the open blinds. She shot him what almost looked like a smile.

Sorrel Falley.

This time he screamed. He struggled with his legs, lifting from the floor only for his limbs to tangle over themselves. His arms flailed, wild and uncooperative.

H-how had she –?

The glass shattered, spraying shards across the white carpet and his pale blue bed sheets. All it’d taken was her elbow. She looked perfectly unharmed, no blood seeping through her torn sleeve. The girl once named Sorrel Falley swung herself inside.

Inside.
She was
inside
his room.

Mason backed across the floor, frantically trying to get to his feet. He clung to the side of his bed and just barely pulled himself up before she sprung.

She was a feline stalking a mouse – a single elegant leap swallowed the space between them, her teeth aimed for his throat.

He reacted on impulse, holding out his fists to shove her off. But she was stronger…far too strong for a high-school girl. One
push, and he was on the floor. Air gushed out of his lungs at the impact, and any hope he’d had left evaporated with it. Too strong. She was too strong. He was screwed. Cold inevitability washed over him, carving a deep pit in his stomach while hot adrenaline rushed to his head.

No. His fingers tightened around the fire iron. It couldn’t end like this!

She looked down at him, eyes narrowed in silent tenacity. It was neither contempt nor regret. It was simple resolve. She wore the eyes of an animal on the hunt. A predator simply doing what it was made to – kill. Her lips curled and revealed her teeth.

Fangs! She had fangs!

Mason instinctively thrust out the fire iron just as she lunged, aiming for
her
throat.

She was fast, swift. Her neck swung to the side and avoided the sharp tip, but she backed off when he shoved the bar against her throat. He gripped it with both hands, using the rusted pipe as a shield.

Molly howled and snarled outside his door, her claws scrapping the wood.

“Molly!” Mason pleaded, reaching just one hand up towards the knob. He grabbed it and turned, but the door didn’t open. It hit against metal a few feet up.

His house didn’t use knob locks; it used chains.

“Molly!” The chain lock was too high up – he couldn’t reach it no matter how far his fingers stretched.

He abandoned his desperate endeavor and returned both hands to the iron before the girl tried another lunge. He swung it into her shoulders, nearly knocking her far enough away to give himself an opening to reach the lock.

But she never stopped, never gave him the chance. Her mouth raced for his left ankle. He swiped with the poker, clumsy and frantic, but it didn’t hit. He hadn’t been ready.

He screamed, his skin breaking beneath her lips.

Hot, searing pain ripped through his body, blood gushing violently under her mouth and towards his white carpet. Her teeth sunk right into his tributary vein.