The Silver Death

chapter one - the helicopter

The house gives off an air of abandonment. No dust has been disrupted, except for what I've stirred up. I watch the slowly twirling particles fall to the floor again for a second, highlighted in a ray of sun shining its way through the grubby window, before continuing to move into the hallway on silent feet.
No one. The kitchen and dining room are undisturbed. I check the cabinets and the unplugged, broken fridge. Nothing. My heart sinks. All the bathroom has in it is a bucket.
After checking the rest of the rooms, I decide to settle down in the master bedroom. No smell of decay. No rat droppings. Clean, neatly made sheets. They must have left when the first outbreaks started happening, leaving their bed for lost people like me to live in.
I sit on the bed, crinkling the blankets, and start to sort through my pack, an expensive hunting one salvaged from the wreckage of a Cabela's that buckles around my waist and rests on my hips, helping for a quick escape and reducing the strain on my shoulders. I have all the necessities – bullets for my .9 millimeter, spare pocket knife, First Aid kit, gun cleaning kit, can opener, pads and Ibuprofen for my monthly thing, ChapStick, toothbrush, toothpaste and floss sticks, isopropyl alcohol and hand sanitizer (understandably, I have become quite a germaphobe since the start of the apocalypse), etc. – and everything I've decided to keep but isn't crucial to my survival. Glasses and case, contact solution, empty (as of now) contact case, hairbrush, two spare changes of dirty clothes plus a filthy My Chemical Romance sweatshirt way too big for me (presently tied around my waist), three packages of spearmint gum, books, nearly six decks of cards stolen from various gas stations, a red folder for my drawings and a spiral notebook for writing. A Band-Aid tin with her wedding rings inside of it, his butterfly knife taped to the side.
And a small, sad can of Spaghettios and a single disposable bottle of water. I lean back on my heels, frustrated. I resolve to find more food, especially water.
I unpack some of my things, since I don't need them for a short mile or so ride around looking for food. I hoist the pack onto my shoulders, buckle it, and walk down the hall, out the unlocked door, and to my bike. It's beat up, scratched, dented, but right now it's my best friend. I was 15 when the outbreaks started, and I was 16 by the time they reached Wyoming. My dad bit the dust before he could take me out and teach me to drive, the plague made sure of that. I knew some, but not enough to get by without regularly crashing into herds of them. I was too scared for my life. And Mom was terrified of leaving our boarded house except to get supplies once a month. Bikes are second best to cars. I'm not like Rick from the Walking Dead, who just uses it once and abandons it. Bikes are useful, and you don't burn as many calories riding them as you would running, or walking. Which means you aren't as tired. Which means you can get away from the Foamers quicker.
I hop on and start pedaling down the hill again. I hope to find a grocery store. Or a convenience store. Grocery stores are better. They usually have healthier stuff. In the apocalypse you can't be picky, but the fat ones always get caught. Cardio. Like from Zombieland. I crack a smile, remembering the countless nights my family and I watched that spoof. If only we knew it would really happen, two years later.
Luck finds me. A beat up gas station, vandalized by graffiti, torn apart by weather and people alike. I step through what used to be the door, preparing to avoid the shards of glass.
There's none there. I frown. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I pull the .9 millimeter from my holster and hold it ready. I know there's a bullet inside. I don't cock it. Yet.
I peek into the checkout area. Most of the cigarettes and chewing tobacco are gone. I'm not sure why people would want to keep harming their bodies after the outbreaks. It only makes your death come ever closer.
There's nothing on the floor. What little products remain are put away - not neatly - but they're put away.
And there's no dust.
I whirl around and train the gun on his head. He stands there, a bandage on his head. His forearm is scraped. He has a pair of lopsided horn-rimmed glasses and short, wavy carrot-red hair that falls over his forehead. He's no older than twenty, and has a strongly bridged nose that is peppered with freckles. He has no visible weapon, but he blocks my way out and is a foot taller than me. Still, I could easily overtake him. I have a gun, and I'm healthy.
But I feel like this guy wouldn't creep around a gas station scaring lonely eighteen-year-old girls by himself.
Neither of us say anything. I back up against the wall so whatever allies he has can't sneak up on me. I can take them out with my gun if I'm cornered. And I'll hear a Foamer before it gets to me.
He looks over me sadly. And finally he shatters the silence:
"How'd you survive this long?"
I had allies but they left me. I try to hold my gun steady. Of course, it shakes and wobbles like I just had four espressos. I'm energized, but with pure adrenaline. No caffeine. "How did you?"
He starts laughing, then coughing. He hacks and spits. As best I can without letting him know I am, I glance at it. No blood. At least he isn't turning into a Foamer. "I have a friend. She's around here somewhere." His voice is soft. And nice. He isn't brash or loud like I expected.
If only it was my back to the door and not his! I almost sigh with frustration. I can't escape without breaking a window and possibly cutting up my arms badly. And the way he's revealing information about himself so casually makes me doubt him more.
He tilts his head. "What about you? You have any friends?" He doesn't say it in a mean way. It sounds genuine. Like he wants to know. I tighten my grip on my gun. I can't shoot him if he makes me feel bad for him.
I hear the crutches before she appears at the end of the aisle. Her foot is wrapped in bandages. I back up, swaying my gun from the redhead to the newcomer. She's much older, about forty, with dark hair tied into a ponytail and kind blue eyes, crow's feet at the corners, heavy violet bags underneath. A tired, caring face that reminds me of a mother, thin lips that look like they could be from pressing them together too much, smile lines engraved on her face along with creases between her eyebrows and on her forehead. She was stressed. Still is, probably.
"Who's this?"
The man opens his mouth to reply, but never says anything.
The hum of the helicopter overhead makes sure of that.