Free Rise of the Plague (Book 0): The Sickness (Monte's Story) by Jeannie Rae

AWAKENING
    Sluggishly opening my eyes, I can feel the light and warmth of the sun peeking through the slight opening in my drapes. The window in my minuscule room faces the rising summer sun, if I’m not up by eight, that ball of fire cooks me until I get up. My skin is tacky with sweat, already. There’s nothing I hate more than being penny-saver poor and living on the south side of town. It’s not safe to leave my window open at night—or even at day for that matter. A swamp cooler hangs out of our living room window—the only source cool air in this place, which Dad refuses to turn on until dusk and only for an hour on days when it’s hot as hell.
    My name is Monte. I’m sixteen and on the all-girls softball team at Druid High School, in the small coastal town of Port Steward and work part-time at the Taco Shell Taqueria around the corner. All that keeps me going in this miserable existence is playing ball and the thought of getting out of this rotten place.
    Rising from my second-hand mattress on the floor, I’m fully clothed in yesterday’s outfit. After a quick change into a pair of blue jeans and a faded blue tee, I stumble my way to the door. Jerking the hair tie from my wrist, I yank up my knotted, blonde hair into a side pony tail. I steal a glance over my shoulder at my room, it’s a sty—but who cares. It’s not like there’s anything remarkable about this second-rate place, so why should my room be any different?
    As I shuffle down the hall, the house feels humid and sticky as usual, with almost a wet smell of nicotine. Mom and Dad both smoke enough cigarettes in a day, to penetrate a hole in the ozone layer. They do most of their smoking inside, which leaves behind a smoke so concentrated that it’s nearly a solid. The house is quieter than normal for a Saturday morning. Ordinarily, Mom is in the kitchen fixing breakfast, while Dad is reading the newspaper. And my ten-year-old brother—Sammy, is usually causing trouble, with Dad always hollering at him. Hollering , that’s Dad’s word. Maybe Sammy’s already outside playing. I tiptoe through our empty living room eyeing the primordial, mismatching couch and recliner. There’s no carpeting in this old shack—only ancient wood flooring that may have been used from the same lumber that made George Washington’s teeth. A couple of holes in the rotting, wood floor are located in the bathroom and kitchen— no step zones —as Dad calls them. Moving into the kitchen, I see that our small, discolored table and plastic chairs are empty, as is the rest of the tiny space.
    Where is everyone?
    After searching the rest of the house and finding it void of all but me, I wonder, do I want to find them? Or should I just take in a moment of peace? Against my better judgment, I head out the back door off the kitchen. The sun hasn’t found its way to the backyard yet, as the house shades most of the patio at this early hour. A gust of cool air hits me when I open the back door, it must be at least fifteen degrees cooler out here, than it is in the house. As I soundlessly step out onto the porch, I see Sammy first, sitting on the ground with his back to me. My kid brother is hunching over like an old man, and his head is hanging low, snaking back and forth. He’s tracing his hands in a circle on the sidewalk in a blob of goo. It looks like motor oil or something. Dad’s going kill him for this one.
    My eyes widen as I notice my mother near the shed. Her shoulders are slumping forward and she’s shuffling through the garden, toppling over her marigolds and daisies. She’s still in her nightgown and slippers. And the front of her gown is caked in dark-colored gunk. It looks similar to the stuff Sammy is playing in.
    I sigh, shaking my head. Dad must have tuned her up again. Damn! I didn’t even wake up. I want to say something across the yard to her as she dirties the cotton on her slippers, while trudging through the dirt, but what would I say? This whole