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

locked. I must have flung it shut when I raced in here. Listening at the door, I hear nothing. Maybe he’s still outside?
    I slide to the wall beside the door and lean up against it, letting my arms relax at my side. My brain is on overload, trying to figure out this situation. Without yelling at me or anything, he just came after me—like he’d been waiting for me to come into the backyard. And he looks so sick. I’ve never seen anyone alive, who looked so…dead.
    I notice the window near the bed that leads to the backyard. Making my way over, I pull back the curtain and see Mom and Sammy on the back steps. They are trying to get into the house, but neither of them have their hands anywhere near the door knob. Clawing and biting at the door, their faces are encrusted with the oily mess that Sammy was playing with on the ground. As my eyes drift downward at their clothes, the oily sludge is
    all over them and changes color from a dark, tarlike hue to a reddish one.
    Oh god…it’s blood!
    My eyes move to the pool of gunk Sammy had been rubbing his hands in. As the emerging sun over the neighbor’s roof reflects on the sidewalk, the fluid has a red tint to it. It is blood.
    What’s wrong with all of them? Why do they have blood all over their faces and clothes?
    “What the hell is going on?” I say aloud.
    Thundering knocks and punts coming from outside the bedroom door fill my heart with fear. I flinch so hard, I feel my knees weaken. The frightful sounds rock the door back and forth with such force that it looks as if the door is made of liquid. I can hear the cheap wood giving way with each powerful whack to it. My dad’s hands and head bust through the hollow-cored door.
    I sidestep away from the window, falling over the bed. Dad charges through the half broken door toward me with fury and a speed like I’ve never seen. I spring from the bed and fire the first shot. The bullet takes flight from the barrel and strikes him in the left shoulder. He barely reacts, only a slight jolt in the shoulder area, then he stumbles over the bed.
    His mouth hangs open, caked in his darkened blood. A black tongue and decayed-looking teeth fill his mouth. His skin is paler than usual and black veins web his face and arms.  The whites of his eyes are filled with black nothingness. I do not know this creature standing before me, wearing my dad's body.
    I move around the foot of the bed trying to get a good target on his chest but he’s moving too fast. My dad charges toward me, and in that moment, I find my shot. With a steady breath, I aim and pull the trigger. The bullet smashes into the left side of his chest, but it has little effect on this monster. He tackles me to the ground. His teeth look and stink as if they are rotting chicken as he repeatedly snaps his gnarly mouth near my face. I try to push him off me, and that’s when he sinks his nasty teeth into my wrist, right down to the bone.

DISCOVERY
    The searing pain from the bite on my wrist, caused by my dad’s disgusting teeth, is far worse than any other pain he has inflicted upon me over the years. What’s worse—is that his mouth still is latched onto my wrist like a leech to flesh. He holds my wrist in his mouth, digging his repulsive teeth deeper into my skin and tissue.
    “Get off!” I scream, extending my free hand for the gun that I dropped when he tackled me.
    Dad is straddling my torso, snarling as blood drools from his lips onto my shirt. The gun is just out of my reach. Stretching my arm as far as I can, my fingertips stroke the cold, metal tip of the revolver. He yanks his head back, and I can feel my flesh on my wrist beginning to tear. I clutch the barrel of the gun and whack the handle at his face. Smacking at his nose and eyes as hard as I can, I feel like my life is at stake. He finally releases his bite, seeming slightly distracted by the blows to his face.
    I seize the opportunity to buck him off me and scramble to my feet. Racing into my room,