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

production plays out at my house at least three times a week for as far back as I can remember.
    I hate him so much. His reign of terror over our family has gone on long enough. I’m so tired of taking his crap, and watching his drunk-ass smack everybody around. I wish he would fall off the planet. I hate this whole place—I want to get my license and a cheap car and put this place in my rearview mirror and never look back.
    I keep my silence, waiting for either my mom or my brother to notice me, before I take a seat on the back porch steps. I watch Sammy play in his greasy mess and my mom roam around trampling her garden—in her nightgown—like a psyche ward patient. Her eyes are fixed downward, as her head bobs back and forth. She must be running the whole fight back through her mind. It’s moments like this that I lose patience with her. Why couldn’t she have walked away from my creep dad a long time ago, at least for the sake of Sammy and me? But then, I remember where my frustration should be placed.
    I’m waiting for that bastard that goes by the name of Dad. I can’t believe that I didn’t hear him beating on her again. Where is he anyway?
    As though my thought had been heard, my dad comes stumbling out of the darkness shaded from within the shed. Drunk already? It’s like eight in the morning. He stumbles his way out of the shed and takes a face-plant right on the sidewalk. My brother gets up and wobbles his way over on unsteady legs, almost looking like he's sloshed too. Mom stumbles toward the shed as well. As Dad gets back to his feet, blood is pouring from his mouth as he spits out a broken tooth. Disgusting, but deserved. The blood all over his face and chin is dark, almost black looking. The fluid dribbles down his throat and drips off his chin onto his dingy, sleeveless shirt. I watch as Sammy and Mom bypass Dad. Both going into the shed, as if they hadn’t even noticed the drunken king of the house just knocked out a tooth. As Dad slowly raises his eyes, I notice that he looks terrible. Not even regular drunken stupor terrible, but like—seriously ill. Like—knocking on death’s door—ill. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.
    His blackened eyes fall upon me like an inescapable fishing net. I’m nearly paralyzed with fear as the look on his face could be described as nothing less than murderous. Breaking into an inhumanly quick run, he sprints straight for me.
    I jump up from the porch step and race into the house, flinging the spring-loaded door open and dashing through the kitchen and down the hall. I’m nearly to my parent’s bedroom, when I hear the back door slam shut. I burst into my parents room like I’m running for my life, and to be honest, I probably am. Brushing past their double bed, I race into the closet and pull down the old, black shoe box that holds Dad’s revolver.
    With terror in my heart, my trembling hands drop the box. The bullets fall all over the closet floor, inside shoes, in the laundry pile—all over. I find two bullets and with a shaky hand, load the chamber. My entire body tremors as if an earthquake had been triggered in my body alone. I know I have to make my shots count. If I don’t kill him, he will definitely kill me for trying, and he won’t need a gun to do it. I back myself deeper into closet with the gun pointed at the doorway.

THE SHOWDOWN
    Waiting for the showdown with my Dad, feels like an eternity. My heart is pounding so hard that it could burst right here, while hiding in his sweltering, musty closet. I feel sweat trickling down my temples and brow—my parents' room is like a sauna. The only sounds I hear are from my hammering heart and shallow breathing. On a shaky foot, I step forward, inching my way to the closet doorway. I squeeze the revolver tighter in my hands and poke my head gradually out of the doorframe, but he is not in the bedroom.
    Tactfully stepping out of the closet, I sneak my way to the bedroom door. It’s closed, but not