The Serum

O N E .

"You know what to do, sweetheart. Food's in the fridge, keep the windows closed, don't answer the door to anybody. Stay safe, alright? I'll try and come home as soon as possible."

"Alright, Mom, I know." I tell her, rolling my eyes. What am I, thirteen? 

"Love you."

"Love ya too." I end the call. I feel a twinge of guilt as I grab my paints and lace up my sneakers. Mom has enough on her plate as it is trying to make ends meet. She doesn't need to undergo a heart attack when she finds her daughter missing. 

Stop freaking out, idiot. You'll only be gone for a few hours. 

Popping in my AirPods, I clutch the strap of my worn bag and stroll around town, looking for an empty wall. Some people might think me old school for using AirPods, which are considered vintage, but I've never been one who cares about what other people think.

That's one of my favorite things about you, Liz. 

Sam's warm baritone echoes in my mind and I shake my head midstep, trying in vain to get it out of my head. I don't need to break down on the middle of the sidewalk. I don't want to think about Sam or Dad, unless I want to start sobbing. Mom thinks it's worrisome that I'm still in my mourning faze, considering they've been gone for two years. It's odd, not being in total control of my feelings. I've always been the kind of person that never displays their emotions on their face, but ever since they turned into Creepers, my whole world has flipped. 

Forcing one foot in front of the other, I continue to walk, head high. I find a chipped, old gray wall and break into a trot, the cans jingling merrily. I come to a stop and purse my lips, painting the image in my mind. After looking about discreetly, I bring out my cans. I've had my fair share of encounters with the police and even though my mom always bails me out each time, it's still quite annoying to be caught by men who look like sumo wrestlers. Honestly, how do those men run with all that fat? 

The thought brings a bitter smile to my face. 

Shaking the can, I test out the paints on a small portion of the wall. Satisfied, I let inspiration pour from me in the form of spray paint as I transform the wall. There's something infinitely soothing about creating something so vivid, so alive. When I pass by any of my paintings, I feel a rush of warmth. Pride. 

When I'm out here painting, time has no meaning. 

*

By the time I finish, the sun has completely disappeared. The neon colors I used in my drawing shine and I step back, satisfied. It's my favorite picture of Sam; he's playing his guitar, eyes downcast, but there's a look of pure, unadultered joy on his face. His smile lights up the night sky. 

I feel tears collect behind my eyes, burning. It blurs the picture in front of me until all I see is a mix of colors. 

This isn't you, love. 

Sam's voice rings in my ears and I grate my teeth. I will not bawl like a mindless toddler. I can see his face in my mind. He would smile at me, wrap his arms around me, and tell me something cheesy that somehow sounds incredibly wise coming from him. I would tell him everything, and he would listen intently. He always did. 

I let loose a soft sob, letting my face drop into my stained palms. 

How am I supposed to survive in a heartless world like this without either of them? Dad used to tell me stories about the old world, one that was filled with laughter and love and joy. One that was filled with sunshine and open skies. I look up wistfully and frown when I see the tinted dome above me. I've never seen the sky before, only in pictures.

What would it be like, to see such a vast expanse of blue? 

The dome is tinted, but the inhabitants can still see the sun's light. It's the only way we've survived here. Without the sun, all would be lost. 

I sigh and gather my things, slinging the bag over my shoulder. I try to never dwell on what-ifs. It also succeeds in just making me feel more crappy. At 19, I'm considered an adult, but I still live with my mother. I haven't gone to college, or gotten a job, or anything even worth talking about. Considering the high hopes Dad had for me before he turned, I'm almost glad he isn't here to see what a disappointment I've become. A disappointment I still am. My feet slap against the pavement, in tune with the chirp of bugs. 

Our little town of Ardmore is nothing special, tucked in the middle of nowhere. Forgotten, overlooked. 

Yet somehow, not overlooked by Creepers. 

They're everywhere, their moans filling the night. I try to remember that they used to be real people, with real feelings, but every time I see a video or clip of them, cold fear slinks through me. They're true monsters, with spines protruding from their limbs. They have razor-sharp fangs and claws that could impale you in an instant. 

The thought makes me increase my pace, eager to get home. 

Suddenly, my cell shrieks, and I jolt. When I retrieve the vibrating device, I huff in annoyance. I thought my heart was going to stop beating when it began to ring. 

"What?" I snap.

"My, my. Aren't you in a mood." Vincent's lilting voice holds a hint of amusement.

"If you want to say something, say it now. Don't waste my time."

"Are you going to be there tomorrow?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer," he says, infuriatingly calm as always.

"Yes, I will."

"What about Kaylie? Did you ask her?"

"Maybe. What's it to you?" 

He sighs and I grin. "I honestly question why I even put up with you sometimes."

"Took the words right out of my mouth," I tell him cheerfully. Before he can say anything, I shut off the phone and stuff it in my pocket. I'm really not in the mood to listen to Vincent rambling about complete, utter nonsense. Which happens far too much, in my opinion. 

I turn the bend and jog to my house, thankful when I see my mother hasn't come home yet. She would hit the roof if she learned of what I did today. You would think she'd get used to it but she still manages to put on a whole show every single time I sneak out. 

Jamming the rusty key into the lock, the door opens with a squeal. I glance at the clock. It's 11:00. Mom never comes home later than 11:30. I drop my paints on the foyer bench and sprint up the stairs. If she sees the paint on my hands, I'm a goner. Slamming my bedroom door shut, I grab a ratty towel and leap into the shower. Thankfully, Mom's job pays well enough for us to have hot water. I scrub myself silly, thinking giddily about what I'm about to do tomorrow. Vincent, Kaylie, and I have been planning this for months; I'm not going to chicken out now. 

It's going to work,  I say to myself. Because I don't know what will happen to us if it doesn't.