The Silver Death

chapter two - latino boy

I instinctively dive behind the counter, throwing my backpack against the wall and climbing inside a cabinet that probably held food at one time, but is now empty and big enough for me to hide inside. I curl into a ball with my hands over my head, my gun resting in my lap. I hear crashes and rustles and assume the two others have hidden as well.
The hum gets louder. And then it stops. I hear a man's voice yelling, and several footfalls coming to this gas station.
They aren't Foamers.

Foamers are very loud, stomping their feet as they run, throwing and demolishing everything in their way without fear of being heard, only trying to get to their prey. They're very strong and fast, but they're very stupid and you can hear them from a long way off. These people, whoever they are, have a set rhythm and pace, and they're at least trying to keep their noise down (failing, but trying all the same).
I hold my gun up and cock it quickly. I hope they don't notice the noise.
"Waylan, check the counter!"
My eyes fly wide open and I tense as a pair of feet jog to the counter. There's only a short amount of time before I'm found out.
The footsteps stop in front of me. And the cabinet door creaks open.
I see a round-faced, button-nosed Latino boy not much older than me, crouching in front of the cabinet in a navy blue shirt and pants, holding a rifle in his chubby, caramel colored hands. Buzzed hair, uncertain eyes, round like his face. He sits there for a moment more before rising up to his full height, his eyes momentarily wide with the shock of finding me in the cabinet.

My fingers jerk on the trigger before I know what's happening. A gunshot. A ringing in my ears.
The round faced Latino boy crumpled against the bloody wall, a bullet hole in his brain.
Footsteps pound to the counter. A man about forty with salt and pepper stubble leans down to become face level with me, and I shoot without hesitation, my gun kicking back again in the close quarters and almost hitting my eye. His thigh blossoms into a red flower, staining his pant leg. He screams and falls backward, onto the wall. He fires at me with the rifle he holds, a clumsy hip shot, but in his frenzy misses and hits the plaster behind me. I shoot him once more, in the head. He falls silent. White powder lands on my leg from where the older man tried to shoot. I hide behind the counter again, tense. Half of me is waiting, jacked up with adrenaline, ready to shoot any more soldiers should they come.
The other half is staring wide-eyed at the spatter of blood behind the man's head, the blank look in his eyes, the huge hole in his forehead that I created.
I have killed.
I scream. I should be keeping quiet in case any more come, but I can't contain the horror inside me. I've killed someone, he could have had a family, a wife maybe, and I've prevented any chance of him going back to her. My eyes move to the boy. He had siblings, maybe, a family he was trying to protect. Chubby Latino boy, who was just trying to survive, just like me. And he can't do that now, and it's my fault, all my fault...
But I have to keep moving. I wipe my rapidly tearing-up eyes and cautiously step out of the destruction. I can't let this break me. I have more important things to do. The virus has killed billions and it hasn't stopped yet. I squint through the window through teary eyes and see they are hauling the woman with crutches onto the helicopter. She's screaming hysterically. A tall, broad man with sleek black hair stands at the foot of the helicopter, speaking to more soldiers in navy blue outfits. They nod simultaneously and board the helicopter. I can only assume they've taken the redhead man as well. I don't know why and I'd like to keep it that way. I have enough on my plate already without getting into this mess. I still have to find Mom and Winston; who even knows where they are now? But that wedding ring and that butterfly knife are getting back to their owners before I kick the bucket, and nothing is going to stop me from being sure of that.
I grab my pack and check out the rest of the store. No more people, but I find a huge stack of cans in the back. Plus, the biggest score, a 24 pack of untouched water bottles. I actually laugh while putting every single bottle in my pack. I stock up as best as I can, not worrying about the weight. I'm staying at that farmhouse until a) my food runs out or b) a Foamer or something nastier finds me. And once that happens, back on the road I go.
Still holding my gun, I wait for a while inside the gas station. I start on a can of peaches. I'm hungry, yes, but not starving like I was when I found Jared and Kara.
Jared and Kara... I close my eyes briefly. It only brings back memories that I'd rather not uncover for a long time. Back to the present.
It's hard not to feel bad for the man and woman I met today. They didn't seem dangerous, just beat up. I shouldn't feel bad, since pity gets you nowhere in this place''. That old man that I shot not once, but twice? I knew he was going to kill me. He had that look in his eyes. That battle hardened, weathered, beaten look. I've seen it enough in my own. It scares me sometimes. Not that I don't regret shooting him, because all I can think about now is his lifeless body only a few feet from my own. But the boy...he looked terrified. Scared, unsure. He wouldn't have tried to shoot. I know it. And somehow I regret his death more than the man's.

I don't feel any remorse, however, for the victims, the zombies, whatever you call them (normally I hated zombie movies making up creative names for the zombies, but once it happened, I realized how stupid the name zombie was for something so serious, and resorted to the name Foamer). The Silver Death, the Fatal Foam, several other nicknames that had cropped up, most of them having to do with the silvery-white foam around their mouths - whatever it is, it's awful. They said it was a new strain of rabies. Even those who actually had the rabies vaccine were powerless to stop it. The madness took you over. And once my father realized he was a goner, he killed himself within the first week. Foamer's intentions are always clear. They have a certain path and they will make pit stops anywhere to spread their plague before their year is up and they drop dead. Shoot them before you can breathe in their breath and get sick. Humans are more confusing. They could be there to murder you, torture you, kidnap you, or help you. And while the negatives outweigh the positives, there's still a chance.
I look at the dead man, polishing off the peaches as I do. Both him and him and the Latino boy carried a rifle. I stand up and take it out of the Latino's hands. I look it over. My dad had a gun like this. Semi-automatic .22 rifle, with a scope. He gave it to Mom along with his wedding ring before he died. I search his pockets and come up with four full clips. Same for the man. It disgusts me for a second that I'm robbing dead people, but this is the apocalypse. They're dead. I'm not. They don't need this. I do.
I hear a noise. I silently unload both of the rifles, including the magazines, and put them in my pack, so the barrels stick straight up. I stick all ten clips (the ones in both rifles and the eight extras) in my pocket plus the one in the Latino boy's gun magazine, the plastic and metal clicking together. It's coming from...outside?
I stop. It could be a trap, the people in the helicopter trying to lure me out to murder me, torture me, kidnap me.
Or help me. I look out the window and see that the helicopter is gone. It could be a scout they left behind to put a bullet in my brain for whatever reason. They might not want witnesses. But I've seen scarier things. And besides, who am I going to tell? The brain-dead Foamers? The unseen, unknown survivors, both of us too scared to team up and make it together? Ha. Fat chance.
I cock the .9 and slowly move through the doors with a velvet tread. I can't hear my own footsteps, so there's a good chance that they won't either.
It came from the side. I wait by the corner, my hand lingering on the trigger before I whirl around and point my gun in the general direction of the thing waiting behind the store.