Chapter One
My eyes fly open just as Lilly’s voice fades from my mind. Moisture seeps from the corner of my eye, but I swipe it away so fast that I can almost pretend it was never really there. I can’t deny the ache in my chest, though. Not when the intensity of it feels as if it’s trying to crack me in half.
For a few minutes I don’t move. I stare at the ceiling through the shadowy darkness of the room, trying to force my body to listen to my brain and get up. The problem is, I don’t really want to move, and my body knows it. All I really want to do is curl up in a ball and hold on to the memory of Lilly.
But I can’t, and the longer I stay in one place, the more the ache in my chest will spread. There’s only one way to get rid of the pain.
I force myself to sit up and slide my knife from its sheath. A ray of light penetrates the darkness through a small hole in the wall, glinting off the blade when I raise it. I shield my eyes from its blinding reflection as I move farther into the shadows. I don’t need the light to see what I’m about to do. I’m used to the darkness.
I place the blade against my forearm only an inch or so above my wrist, then slide it across. When the sharp edge slices my skin, I grit my teeth against the stinging pain. A crimson line appears, barely visible in the shadowy corner of the room. Blood pools for a second before trailing down my wrist, cutting through the layers of dirt as if it can erase the past. It’s comforting. Not the pain or the blood as much as the line. It means I’ve lived to see another morning.
Particles of dust tickle the hair in my nose when I inhale. The room is musty, and breathing feels a lot like eating a mouthful of dirt. I cough to clear my throat, then slide my fingers over the notches on my right arm, starting below my shoulder and reaching down to my wrist. Then I move to the left side, repeating the gesture just like I do every morning. My fingers stop on the new cut, and I wipe the blood away. Pain pulses from the wound like a heartbeat, but I’m used to it at this point.
I take a deep breath and gather myself as I focus on the notch I just made. The pain makes me feel more human, and it helps me remember. It reminds me of the people I’ve lost and that I’m still alive. That I want to live.
The building I chose for my previous night’s shelter was once a bakery. The window is cracked but still intact, and there’s a giant wedding cake painted on the glass. It was probably done by a local artist or a friend of the owner. Small towns used to be that way, and this one seems like it might have once been the stereotypical Southern town. Only the cake isn’t pretty anymore. The paint is chipped and a crack has snaked its way across the glass, cutting the delicate tiers in half. The glass is as broken and dirty as I am.
When I’ve gathered my stuff, I crouch behind the damaged cake and study the street. My army green backpack rests at my feet and my knife is strapped to my waist. The cut on my wrist throbs. It’s possible I made the cut too deep. It wouldn’t be the first time.
After only a few seconds, sweat beads on my upper lip. It’s going to be a hot day. The sun is still low in the sky, and already the air is thick with humidity. I stopped trying to keep track of the date years ago, but I’m fairly certain it’s late June. A miserable time to be in Georgia. I’ll need to head north soon. Or east, toward the ocean.
The street in front of me looks clear. Nothing but weeds growing through cracks and the occasional bird. But I stay where I am with my breath held and my fists clenched, almost like I’m frozen. Leaving my hiding spot is always the toughest part of the morning. Despite my common sense, a part of me just wants to hide from the horror and desolation that has taken over this planet and the utter nothingness that has become our country.
But hiding isn’t surviving, and I promised Lilly I would survive.
After fifteen minutes or so of staring at the empty street, I decide it’s a good time to move. My pack is light when I sling it over my shoulder. Almost empty. Food will be my priority today.
Stepping into the Georgia sun is like opening the door to a hot oven. It takes my breath away, and within seconds my skin is even more moist than it was before. My filthy brown tank helps a little, but my legs are sweating under the thick fabric of my jeans. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of shorts.
I head down the main street in search of a sign that might tell me where the nearest refugee camp was. Most of the signs have been torn down, forcing me to keep my eyes open. Even then I almost miss it. The wood post pokes out of the ground, but the sign lays off to the side and is partially hidden by an azalea bush. If it wasn’t neon green, I probably would have walked right by it.
Just as I kneel down, something rustles in the trees to my right. The muscles in my back tighten and I automatically reach for my knife, but I don’t pull it out, and I don’t move from my position. It could just be an animal.
When the creeper steps from the trees less than twenty yards away from me, I jump to my feet. The thing’s black eyes move my way as his body shakes. His gray skin glistens under the bright sun as if he’s sweating. I didn’t know they could sweat. Hell, I’m not even sure if he is a he. But I do know one thing: he is more afraid of me than I am of him.
The knowledge doesn’t stop my heart from pounding harder.
I slide my knife from its sheath and take a step toward the creeper. His limbs are gangly and his neck unnaturally long. When he reels back the motion is fluid, like his body is being blown in the wind. His already big eyes grow larger, morphing from black slits to ovals. His mouth opens in what can only be described as a gasp, revealing three rows of sharp teeth. He raises his hand toward me, spreading his four fingers out as if to ward me off. I step closer and raise my knife. His skin seeps moisture like the fear is trying to escape from his pores. Liquid runs down his torso and legs. It drops from his arms and falls on the red Georgia clay below him. The energy between us crackles with electricity.
Like the electricity they used on us in the camps.
My hand tightens around my knife. “No mercy.”
His eyes get bigger. They are smooth like onyx, but somehow I can tell when he glances toward my knife. His neck moves almost like he’s trying to shake his head. But I’m not sure they’re capable of that movement, and he just ends up reminding me of a bobble head. Not that it would matter, anyway. I meant what I said. They didn’t show us any mercy.
I rush forward as he steps back, trying to flee. I’m faster. He may be almost two feet taller than me, but when I jump onto him, his body drops to the ground. Dust flies up around us, growing thicker as he squirms under me. The red dirt stings my eyes, making them tear up, but I don’t stop. My knee digs into his stomach, and I jam my arm against his ridiculously long neck. His skin is smooth and slick.
Almost reptilian.
That’s what he is. A snake. A snake who invaded our planet and destroyed everything. Who captured and tortured and killed.
A snake that deserves to be skinned.
When I run my blade down the side of his face, he screams. The sound rips through me like a tornado, making my ears ring. It sounds more like a siren than a noise something living would make.
I don’t stop, though. I can’t.
His body moves under me like rubber. Arms fly, smacking me in the face and stomach. The chest. Somehow, he manages to get a handful of my hair. Hot pain spreads across my scalp, and a cry that’s somewhere between agony and rage rips its way from my chest. But I keep slicing. Down his face to his neck, then over his chest. When I cut across his stomach, my hands are already slippery from his black blood. It’s thicker than ours. Similar to molasses, but not sticky.
Oily. Like they are.
I squeeze the handle of my knife tighter as I move it up the other side of his body. The ground under us is no longer red. It’s black. As if someone spilled a bucket of tar. By the time my blade has made it up the other side of his face, he’s stopped fighting. His chest still rises and falls, but his black eyes are glassier than ever and I know death isn’t too far off.
I gasp for air as I slide off his near-lifeless body. My hands shake when I put down my knife, but it doesn’t stop the fury from building inside me. Even when I peel the skin away from his face, I can’t control it. It’s all I can see. All the pain of the last four years has melted away, and all I have left is rage.
My shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and the muscles in my forearms ache when I stand with the creeper’s skin clutched in my hands. It blows in the breeze, dripping black blood onto the mutilated body at my feet. Skinning him didn’t help ease my pain. Not that it ever does. My legs still shake and my head still pounds, and the ache in my chest is just as volatile as ever.
Nothing can make it go away.
I exhale and drop the skin. It slaps against the creeper’s body with a sickening, wet sound that turns my stomach inside out. My legs wobble and I sink to the ground. Right onto the muddy earth.
Wet from the blood of my victim.
Am I any better than they are? It doesn’t feel like it.
My pants cling to my legs in the uncomfortable way that only jeans can when they’re wet, and my arms are black almost to my elbows. Blood is splattered across my chest and most likely my face too. I need to wash up.
The hot sun pounds against my head, burning my scalp. It feels like a hot iron pressed against my skull. I touch the sensitive area and wince when my fingers brush skin. There’s a bald spot that has to be the size of golf ball. The hair that was ripped out by the roots is still clutched in the creeper’s hand. Brown and grimy, it resembles a dreadlock more than what I remember my hair looking like. I try to work my fingers through my remaining locks, but it’s pointless. They’re a tangled mess.
Just like me.
My knife lays on the ground next to the creeper’s head, and I reach for it just as a foot comes down on my hand. The thick sole of the boot crushes my fingers. It sends a shock through me, making it impossible to react for several seconds. Too long in a world like this.
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