Free Falling Sky by Rajan Khanna Page A

He couldn’t have gone too far, I think. And if he’s not back now, something has gone horribly wrong. Odds aren’t good, the gray voice says.
    But I push it back. He could be hurt, sure, but that doesn’t mean he was infected. Maybe he broke his leg falling off Rex. He pulled himself into some crevice somewhere, and he’s just trying to figure out a way to get back. I make sure to shut off the Ferrari’s engine, strain to listen beyond the bird calls and the rustling of the trees.
    Nothing.
    The gray voice stirs again and again. I silence it. I wonder why I’m spending so much time on this. But it’s fairly simple in the end. Viktor saved me. I want to do the same.
    What if you can’t? This time the gray voice doesn’t go away. It’s not like you’re good at saving people. Better at getting them killed.
    Since I’m already out, I decide to try another house. The one I choose is smaller—less to check—and so I carefully kick in the door and enter with my pistol out.
    Nothing moves, but a smell washes over me. Not the stink of Ferals but the smell of death. Something died in here. And relatively recently.
    I take in the room quickly. It’s a large open space, with a kitchen area ahead of me and a lounging area to my right. I move through the open area to make sure there’s nothing hiding and then check out the kitchen.
    Unfortunately, any of the dry goods were rotted by a broken-in window and the weather it let in. There are a few bottles of sauces and condiments, but nothing with real nutrition.
    There’s also a dearth of electronics here. Just a pair of old guitars that have long since rotted through.
    A set of stairs leads up to a second level. I take them up.
    The scent of death is stronger upstairs. A long corridor winds its way around the top floor with doors leading off it.
    I take them one by one, willing myself to be quiet, hoping not to alert anything that might be hiding here. The first room is just a bedroom—bed, bureau, and rocking chair. I open the drawers, but there are only moldy sheets inside.
    The next one is the same. And the next. Maybe some kind of boarding house?
    The last room reveals the source of the smell. A figure is twisted up on the ground at the foot of the bed. Dessicated and stiff.
    It’s a Feral. Female. The nakedness doesn’t give it away, but the long, dirty nails do. I don’t get close to it. The Bug almost certainly died with it, but I don’t think I can bring myself to approach.
    I can’t help but wonder why it came in here. Maybe searching for food, I think, but then why not just leave? Maybe it had been sick with some kind of Feral disease?
    It was almost certainly on its own, otherwise other Ferals would have eaten it. Miranda says that in addition to stealing away reason and increasing aggression, the Bug speeds up the victim’s metabolism. So they’re always hungry. They’re as likely to eat each other in extreme cases as they are anything else.
    But they prefer other meat, be that animal or human.
    I’ve often wondered what happens when we’re all infected. When the human race is dead and there are only Ferals left, will they just feed on each other? Will they hit some kind of equilibrium where enough are being born to keep the others alive?
    I can only consider that for so long.
    I carefully shut the door and go back down the stairs. This time I look for any closets or storage spaces or anything to indicate a cellar.
    I don’t find the latter, but I do find a door under the stairs that opens into a storage space. I see what looks like an old music player, which I pull out. And behind that, dusty and covered in cobwebs, is a radio. I clear myself a path and carefully remove it, cradling it in my arms. It looks battered and neglected, but there’s a possibility I could coax it back to life.
    The trip now worth my while, I bring my prize back out to the Ferrari