The Silver Death

chapter eleven - vale

Probably one of my favorite chapters. Enjoy!

I frown, feeling my jaw tensing. I grip my gun tightly. "Foamers? How many?"

"Enough to block the road. There's quite a few of them. We're using gas masks. In that box Matt sits on." There's a pause as Matthew stands and hands everyone a gas mask. They remind me of the masks runners sometimes use to constrict their breathing when training. I strap it over my face and hope it doesn't feel the same way. Vale continues, his voice slightly distorted from the filter. He looks at me as he speaks. "We might be able to take them out with those .22 rifles you stole from the soldiers. The scopes will be helpful, although we can't use a lot of ammunition. Once we've thinned down the herd, we can go in and use more close range weapons. All clear?"
Vale guides us onto a flat piece of land by the road. The back doors open and everyone hops out. I frown at Alli. Not to be condescending, but is it really safe for her to go out there? She can't load her Luger correctly, her hands are so shaky. Patrick steps in front of her and helps her. I peek out from the side of the truck. Indeed, as Vale said, there is a large group of Foamers, stumbling along, looking about stupidly.
Foamers aren't a pretty sight. The plague thins their bodies until they're nothing but walking skeletons, covered with pallid, sallow skin. Next it takes their eyes. The pupil dilates hugely, but what's left of the sclera is bloodshot and red. I assume they see in blurry shapes. Whatever is in their saliva makes it acidic, wearing away their teeth, foaming around their mouth like a rabid animal, creating red, burnt looking, raw skin. Late at night, I would think back to my seventh-grade science class, and speculate that it's like AIDS in the sense that antibodies are clueless to the danger, while the Silver Death works tirelessly away at the human body, wearing it down until the year has been used up and the body simply disintegrates. Some of the farther gone ones have nothing, their lips and most of their gums gone, revealing scarily long-looking teeth with several holes because of how far the gums have receded. That only happens when their year is nearly over. Their hair is thin and stringy, greasier in the more recent ones. With a jolt of amusement, I realize it reminds me of Gollum's hair, from Lord of the Rings. Normally when they see you, they run, eager to eat you alive. But as we haven't announced our presence, they walk. I can't figure out why they haven't attacked each other, if they're so hostile to the remaining humans. They don't treat each other like friends or partners. They're neutral. They won't attack each other, but they won't help, either. Most sport filthy pajamas, although a few limp along in only their underwear. I hate the Silver Death at this moment, taking these innocent people's lives away, reducing them to an insane, shambling creature we survivors are forced to kill for our own safety.
Vale slings one of the rifles over his shoulder. "Who here is best with scopes?"
"I used to hunt with my dad," says Matthew softly. "I was a pretty good shot."
Vale looks less than thrilled to hand over the gun, but no one else volunteered. He shares a look with Edward, and I understand that they share a mutual dislike for the lanky redhead. I can tell all of this from a single glance, because it's one of those friendships where you can read the person's face like a book.

I know because Kara and I had one of those friendships. Key word had.

"Alright. Matthew and I in front, approaching, everyone else out. Safeties off." A few resounding clicks answer him. I only pretend to turn off the safety on my .9. The rest of us hide behind the van, watching Matthew shakily cock his gun. Vale stands back, ready to size up his shot.
Matthew takes aim and shoots. A Foamer in the distance goes down. I squint and realize it's a perfect headshot. Exactly in the center of its head. The others look around stupidly, trying to figure out what is shooting.
Vale shrugs. "Nice shot, kid." He almost smiles, and kneels down next to Matthew, who looks extremely relieved. They carefully work their way through the herd, and only stop when the remaining ones realize we're here, and that's what is causing the death of their company. Vale turns to us. "About four Rabids to every person here. Think we can manage that?"

Edward punches his shoulder. "We're capable."

Vale punches him back, but both of them grin widely. If I couldn't tell before, I can tell now: The seriousness replaces the fun, however, as we all face the sprinting group.

I"m first. I take aim with my .9 and the chest of a Foamer clothed in nothing but a grimy pair of boxers explodes in red. He falls to the ground. Edward takes his .45 out of his belt and shoots the one nearest. Jaw shot. She cries out in pain and twists away. We carefully take out the Foamers one by one. With a jolt of pride that has nothing to do with the man crumpling to the ground in front of her, a bullet hole between his eyes, I see smoke curling from the barrel of Alli's Luger. She looks very surprised, but also determined.
It goes flawlessly, until Matt shoots the last one in the neck, and then we hear a scream. Fox is pinned up against the truck by a woman who doesn't look too far gone but is snarling like mad. Fox is only holding her back by the MP40 held with shaky hands. Edward starts running forward to help her, but a tall, lanky figure beats him to it. With a furious cry, Vale has actually picked up the woman and thrown her to the ground, away from Fox. A nasty crack tells me her back is broken. I assume he'll stop there to shoot her in the head, but he kneels down and brings back his arm to deliver a blow to the side of her face.

He is Foamer and human all in one.

"Vale? Vale, stop!" Edward bellows. He doesn't even flinch.

"Vale!" screams Fox, starting to cry. Again, no answer.
Everyone is staring wide-eyed at Vale as he starts to punch the woman's face into a bloody mess. Right now she's still faintly growling, but she'll soon be dead. I take off my gas mask and stare closer, realizing his arms are bulging with muscle he definitely did not have a minute ago. Matthew grips my hand tightly, and I realize how shaky we both are. Edward looks at Fox, who is crouched, her body curled around her gun.
"Where are his shots?" He yells. Shots?
"Th-the glovebox!" Her voice has risen an octave, but I barely notice, too busy watching Edward sprint to the door and yanking it open, throwing himself over the seat, almost tearing the glovebox off of its hinges. He turns back around with a clear syringe, pulling the small foam protector off the end. Vale's sleeves are red with blood. Edward grabs the back of his shirt and forces him away, plunging the end of the syringe into Vale's neck and pressing down.
His eyes flicker into confusion, and they fall closed as his muscles relax and his back curves in a graceful arc as gravity pulls him to the ground.