Free Strain of Resistance (Book 1) by Michelle Bryan Page A

to those parasites for the past eight years. They look too fresh."
    Kingsley's words chill me deep in my bones. Is it true? Are the aliens somehow infecting us again? And how? There's been no report of that strange mist since the invasion years ago. Have they learned to pollinate, or is it now conveyed through a different medium? The thought of the black drippings that had fallen on me earlier sends a shiver crackling up my spine, and I wipe my cheek roughly with the back of my hand.
    A terrifying, echoing yell shatters the night’s silence. I jump in fright, my heart slamming into my ribs. That damn screaming never fails to unnerve me, no matter how many times I hear it.
    "Ravagers," Luke says, glancing back the way we had come. "And close. They must have heard our little gun fight. They're on the way. Probably hoping to find some carcasses to pick over. We better move out. We're not far off from a safe zone; I'm thinking we should lay low for the night."
    Another yell follows the first, and we head out without another word. Our discovery has rattled us for sure, because if what Kingsley says is true, then God help us. And He’d better be listening this time.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER SIX
     
    The old, dilapidated leather factory had been the producer of a top of the line sneaker in its heyday. A multi-million dollar business. Now it just looks sad in the predawn light.
    Hulking monstrosities of machinery loom in the shadows like ghostly dinosaurs, just waiting to be brought back to life by workers that no longer exist. Half the ceiling has long since caved in and now litter the floor with bits of steel, broken tile, and glass that crunch under our feet as we walk. Graffiti covers the remaining walls, dire warnings of doom and death and end of the world predictions along with passages from Revelations. One budding artist, Rocky according to his tag, has even done a very lifelike spray painting of a leech erupting from a person's throat, with all the exploding blood and gore that accompanies it. His message underneath simply reads, 'We are fucked.'
    No shit, Sherlock, I think as I read the message for the umpteenth time. Like always, I find myself wondering what happened to Rocky. Had he found a place to survive or had he, in his own words, been fucked? I guess I’ll never know. But if I ever come across a survivor someday with that moniker, I’m sure as hell gonna ask how handy he is with a can of spray paint.
    We stop in front of the rickety stairs leading up to the office. Luke and Badger pull away the heavy metal shelf placed strategically across the bottom steps, just enough so we can squeeze by. To any outsider it looks like it had simply toppled over, but for us it’s a security measure.
    "Gordo, check the seal," Luke orders and the boy nimbly climbs the ten steps to the metal door.
    "Still intact," he calls down. I breathe a sigh of relief. An intact seal means it hasn't been breached by other survivors or ravagers, and that nothing is lying in wait for us on the other side of that door. Plus it means none of our supplies have been looted.
    Each of our safety zones are set up with anything and everything we need when out on patrol. That in turn keeps what we carry in our backpacks down to a bare minimum so we can move faster- including sleeping bags. As pumped as I’d been at the run in with the leeches, the past 24 hours are catching up with me, and all I can think about now is sleep.
    We take the stairs one at a time, not trusting it to support all of our combined weight. By the time I make it up, Luke already has the lamp lit, so I go to work on setting up the paint can heater/stove he taught me to make. Simple enough, it consists of a roll of toilet paper, cardboard center removed, stuffed into an empty paint can and then saturated with rubbing alcohol. It burns amazingly well, is smoke free and safe enough for us to use inside to keep us warm in the drafty old building.
    Toilet paper and rubbing