Fate Page 6

  “How about you and Ashley work on the drapes, and I’ll look for the paint and tools in the shed?”

  “If that’s what you want,” Casey said, willing to accommodate him this time.

  Since the food boxes were the heaviest, Cain lugged those to the kitchen first. Then the clothes, blankets, and first-aid kits were temporarily stashed into the alcove in the living room, where the three of them would be sleeping together. The gasoline was taken to the shed.

  Later, as Ashley tossed the bundled velvet drapes out of the attic window, cursing up a storm as dust covered her hair, face, and navy Ralph Lauren sweater, Casey could only laugh and give her the thumbs-up sign.

  In response, Ashley raised both manicured hands and flipped her the bird.

  * * *

  Finding the police baton had been easy. It had rolled into the foyer, its handle trapped beneath a dead man’s body. His lined face was frozen in what looked like a desperate attempt to draw in his final breath.

  Mike reached over and closed the nameless man’s eyes, then gently tugged at the baton until it came free. Averting his gaze so that it didn’t land on the man’s eviscerated abdomen, he straightened just in time to see a pair of goggles peering at him near the hand railing on the second floor. The entity staring at him didn’t seem fearful in the least; rather, it crouched still, as if waiting for Mike to address it first.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he called out in a menacing tone, deliberately slapping the baton into his left hand. “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare at people?”

  Goggle Boy remained unfazed. Pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose, he rose to his feet and began padding down the stairs.

  “I believe that baton belongs to me,” he said in a sweet voice, “since my father was the last one to use it.”

  “Your father? You mean … this man here is –”

  “Yes. My father.”

  Mike groaned inwardly, swiping a hand down his face. “I’m really sorry about your dad. Where have you been hiding all this time … um, young man?”

  “In our apartment on the second floor. And my name is Trey Long.” The boy paused, his expression unchanging. “I despise this name as it sounds like a porn star’s moniker. The term ‘très long’ suggests several unpleasant connotations, most of them sexual.” He paused again, still staring. “As soon as I turn eighteen, I shall have it legally changed.”

  “I see. How old are you now?” Mike asked. The kid looked small, but he talked like he was spiritually channeling a stuffy old professor or a futuristic robot. Not to mention he was sensitive as hell about his name, even though it wasn’t as bad as he made it out to be.

  “I am ten months shy of thirteen.”

  Mike cocked a brow. “In other words, you’re twelve.”

  Trey glanced down the stairs, giving Mike the impression that this particular topic was done. “I hadn’t realized Aaron had survived the infection.”

  “Aaron? You mean Mr. Rothstein?”

  “I heard him performing Debussy’s Deux arabesques. He knows it’s one of my favorite impressionistic piano pieces.”

  “Are you one of his students?”

  “It would be more correct to say I am his protégé, a genius in the making.”

  This deadpan admission brought about an awkward silence. Hell, even the flies seemed to have stopped buzzing, at least to Mike’s ears.

  He cleared his throat. “You want to be a professional pianist like Mr. Rothstein?”

  “My mother wanted me to become a hip hop artist, since it was her childhood dream to become one. But Father advised me to go into the sciences, and to play classical piano as a second major to broaden my mind.”

  “Wise decision.” Chitchatting about possible porn names, classical music, and future goals while mutilated bodies lay inches from his feet and the infected snarled right outside … the whole thing felt surreal, like some twisted dream only weirdos might have. “I’m sure Mr. Rothstein – eh, Aaron – will be thrilled to see you alive and well. Why don’t you go see him now?”

  “Thank you, I will.” Unsmiling, Trey walked past Mike and knocked thrice on the front door before allowing himself in. A surprised gasp, followed by welcoming cries from Mr. Rothstein, filtered out into the foyer before the door shut closed behind them.

  Mike had a strong feeling the retired pianist was going to take the precocious kid along with them.

  And now we’re a merry band of three.

  Shaking his head at the sudden turn of events, he climbed the stairs back to his studio apartment, taking two steps at a time – sometimes even three – to speed up the process. Once inside, he hurried over to the closet and yanked out a duffel bag large enough to fit all of the essentials he’d need for their journey. He tossed in the police baton he’d retrieved moments ago; his high school baseball bat; clothes; his wallet with cash totaling three hundred dollars; and discounted cereal bars, canned spaghetti, frankfurters, and juice boxes he’d gotten from the convenience store. After a moment’s consideration, he shrugged and tossed in his toiletries as well, because personal hygiene was always important.

  “Your apartment is small,” a disembodied voice said behind him, and Mike whirled around in surprise. When he saw Trey standing at the threshold, he felt relieved, then berated himself for being careless. More than ever he had to practice vigilance, and one of them was to lock a fricking door at all times.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, zipping up his duffel bag. “Curiosity brought you here?”

  “Food brought me here.” Trey stared at Mike, his glasses slipping down his nose. “We will have lunch in Aaron’s apartment.”

  “What are we having?” Mike wasn’t expecting much, maybe a can of reheated chicken soup and saltine crackers.

  “Linguine with store-bought pesto. Aaron is also making waffles as we speak.”

  “Sounds like a feast. Let’s go.” Mike bent down to pick up his duffel bag.

  “Aaron said we should spend the night here, despite its cramped conditions. According to him, it’s not safe to be on the first floor or near the foyer after dark.”

  “Yeah, I suppose that makes sense.”

  Trey stood still, his gaze unwavering. “You look strong, Michael. If you could help me pack my things later, I would appreciate it.”

  So Mr. Rothstein had already extended the invitation to his protégé. It was faster than Mike had expected. “Are you planning to bring your encyclopedia set with you?” he joked.

  Trey looked solemn. “It is my intention to bring as many books as possible.”

  Mike’s smile quickly fell. “Those aren’t essential items.”

  “They are essential to me.”

  “And the grand piano is essential to Mr. Rothstein, but you don’t hear him insisting on taking it with him.”

  “That is his prerogative.”

  Even though the kid was calm, he was also being an infuriating smart-ass.

  “What does Mr. Rothstein say about this?” Mike demanded.

  “Aaron says he defers the decision to you.”

  Mike could practically imagine the twinkle in the elderly man’s eye. “Then my answer is no. We need food and medicine and blankets, not leather-bound doorstops that’ll weigh the RV down.”

  “In that case, may I propose a total of fifteen books? Softcover titles, of course.”

  “That’s still too much. Ten books, and that’s my final offer.”

  “Done.” Trey held out a hand that was too big for his frail-looking arm. “Ten books.”

  For some uncomfortable reason, Mike felt like he’d just been had.

  An hour later, as he followed Trey into the two-bedroom apartment on the second floor, he realized his suspicions had been correct. “You don’t own any encyclopedia sets.”

  “I never said I did.” Falling to his knees, Trey adjusted the waistband of his pants, then crouched low to peer under his bed. He began pulling out exactly ten softcover textbooks on science and medicine that
probably contained over a thousand pages each.

  Oh, Mike had definitely been had.

  He glanced around the small room, wrinkling his nose as he surreptitiously sniffed the air. There was a slight odor, somewhat strange and unpleasant, but seeing as it would be rude to mention it, he kept his mouth shut and strode over to the closet instead.

  “Don’t forget your clothes and shoes,” he said, yanking open the doors with more force than necessary. “And pack your underwear, too.”

  “Could you help me, Michael? I’m terrible at folding.”

  Mike glanced over his shoulder and saw Trey standing beside a worn suitcase, holding a bundle of clothes against his scrawny chest. He looked smaller and a lot younger than most twelve-year-olds, helpless even, and Mike’s heart squeezed painfully. It was a miracle that he had survived the outbreak.

  “Hand those over. In the meantime, go find some winter clothes as well – jackets, boots, beanies … anything that’ll keep you warm during cooler nights.”

  Surprisingly, Trey was quite obedient when it came to packing. Mike folded the T-shirts, pants, and jackets quickly, wondering if half were hand-me-downs; their thinned fabric and faded colors gave off the appearance of having been washed too many times.

  Well, hand-me-downs and second-hand vehicles are pretty much the norm in this neck of the woods. Teaching gifted students like Trey was probably the reason why Mr. Rothstein had relocated here after his retirement. It made a lot of sense now.

  The last item was a small music box, which Trey placed carefully on his folded clothes. An odd decision for a boy his age – a handheld game console seemed a more appropriate choice – but Mike no longer cared what the boy chose to take with him.

  He checked his watch. It was a little after three. To be on the safe side, they needed to batten down the hatches by sunset.

  “Let’s take this to my place,” he said, zipping up the stuffed suitcase with some effort. “Then we’ll go see what’s taking Mr. Rothstein so long.”

  Chapter 8

  In Casey’s opinion, the lake house had transformed into a semi-decent fort. They’d painted all the glass, hammered the velvet drapes over the floor-to-ceiling windows, and created two-meter-tall barricades from left to right. At this rate, it would be impossible for light to filter in or out.

  The lake house now resembled a mausoleum.

  Only the attic window had been left alone, mainly to be used as a lookout. Still, just to be safe, Casey had insisted on putting dark curtains over them, too.

  “It’s hard to breathe,” Ashley said, gulping in air. “Feels like I’ve been buried alive.”

  “It’s all in your head. Once you get used to the closed drapes, you’ll be fine.” Dropping sleeping bags, pillows, and blankets near the alcove, Casey made a mental note to tape up the thin gaps around the doors for extra measure. They simply couldn’t afford to have a sliver of light escaping from the house.

  While the girls were finishing up, Cain rested on the couch and trawled the dark web on Ashley’s cell phone. He’d been at it for a while, cursing under his breath, then pausing to read other content with growing interest.

  “Found something for you,” he said when Casey plopped down beside him, swiping a wet wipe over her sweaty face. “I think you’ll like it.”

  “Yeah? What’s the site called?”

  “Um … it’s actually a message board within a larger discussion forum. It’s the only one that contains actual information; the others are filled with posters offering sex in exchange for shelter and other similar deals. One of them even expressed a desire to be killed by one of the infected!” Cain raised his head, his eyes bulging. “Who the heck would want that?”

  “An autassassinophiliac,” Casey said absent-mindedly. “A person who gets aroused by the thought of being killed. Mind you, they don’t actually want to die; it’s just the possibility of death that excites them.” When he looked at her askance, she started laughing. “No, you idiot, I’m not into that sort of thing. I only learned about it after reading about a controversial murder case last year.” With a shrug, she added, “It was interesting, so it stuck in my head.”

  Cain tossed the cell phone onto her lap. “Sounds like you’ll get along with these people quite nicely. Have fun with these automaton-philiacs or whatever they’re called.” He stood up and strode toward the kitchen, bumping into Ashley on the way. The two immediately started bickering like a married couple in their tenth year.

  Ignoring them, Casey tapped on the board titled “We Are the Voice” and started reading.

  * * *

  Her twin had done well. Many of the posters were journalists, writers, pundits, and vloggers who’d been chatting since the media “shutdown.” Amid the arguments and theories thrown around, there were a few that most seemed to agree on.

  1. A pharmaceutical company, probably local, was responsible for the outbreak.

  2. The government was somehow linked to it; hence the media censorship.

  3. There were rumors going around regarding some elusive vaccine.

  Casey leaned back, frowning. As far as she was concerned, the third one sounded more like wishful thinking. But one of the posters with the handle “Vlogman” was adamant about its existence.

  (Reply #3) “It’s definitely true! A friend of mine was vaccinated sometime ago, and she’s immune to the contaminated water.”

  (Reply #5) “Think I’m exaggerating? You’ll find out soon enough, especially when you see people who don’t change even after getting bitten.”

  (Reply #9) “Hey, Roswell47, you sure you’re a journalist? You should be asking me for details instead of shutting me down. Try this on for size, dickwad. My friend got the vaccine at Deen & Blatt Pharmaceuticals, weeks before the outbreak. You honestly think I’m so deluded that I’d lie about something like THIS?”

  “Go any closer, and you’ll be French-kissing that phone.” Ashley yanked her cell phone from Casey’s grasp. “Seriously, you look like an addict.”

  “Wait, I haven’t finished reading –”

  “I don’t care. It’s dinnertime, so go and make something for us.”

  Casey was outraged. “Stop treating me like your personal butler and make it yourself, you useless sack of cellulite.”

  Behind them, Cain guffawed in amusement and settled in for a catfight.

  Ashley’s green eyes flashed in fury. “First, I’m way slimmer than you. And second, you know I can’t cook! I’ll end up making mush with a hefty serving of salmonella poisoning.”

  Unfortunately, the last part about food poisoning was a highly possible threat. They’d all end up dying in excruciating pain and soiled pants before any of the infected got to them.

  Sighing in defeat, Casey pointed toward the kitchen. “Cain, it’s your turn. Go and whip up something edible.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Still chuckling, he disappeared into the kitchen.

  Ashley plopped down beside Casey, her anger forgotten. “Ugh, I need a shower.”

  “We all do. But wet wipes will have to suffice for now.” Casey swiveled around to face her friend. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask; what happened to that jock who swam in the lake?”

  “I told you, he mauled two of the frat boys.”

  “But was he eventually killed?”

  “What – no, of course not. He ran off into the woods and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “I … I wasn’t expecting that answer.” Casey had assumed the two wounded frat boys had killed him first. A sense of foreboding began settling over her like a thick, gray cloud.

  Dinner was a simple fare consisting of reheated beef patties, canned cocktail fruit salad, and grilled cheese sandwiches. As they sat cross-legged on their sleeping bags and devoured their meal, Casey silently thanked Ashley’s grandparents for having the foresight to use solar power at their lake house. If their situation didn’t change, the three of them could stay here comfortably until a better solution came along.

  But th
ere was an infected jock running around in the woods nearby, which put a damper on that plan. None of them knew how to kill an infected; hitting them with the truck hadn’t worked so well before. And from what she’d seen on the highway, handguns didn’t make the slightest bit of difference, either.

  As if that wasn’t troubling enough, there was nighttime to consider. Those things turned lethal once the sun slipped below the horizon, and there was nothing anyone could do except hide in the darkest recesses and pray that they remained undetected til sunrise. But how long would that even last? Three days? A week? A fortnight before the infected got tired of playing cat and mouse and smashed through the glass to rip them to pieces?

  “Something on your mind?” Cain asked, finishing off his cheese sandwich.

  Casey put her lukewarm beef patty down. “You sure you didn’t see anything last night? Or maybe you heard something, sort of like” – she recalled the sound the infected had made as they’d whooshed past the truck – “snakes moving.”

  “Well, sure. I mean, there are loads of snakes in the woods, including all sorts of critters and wildlife, after all.”

  “I wasn’t referring to actual wildlife.” Even Casey knew she wasn’t making much sense. “Listen, I think we should stand watch during the night.”

  Ashley snorted. “No fricking way.”

  “I’m aware we’re all exhausted,” Casey hurried on, “but this isn’t optional. We can do it in the attic where we won’t be easily noticed and observe him from the window.”

  “Observe him?” Cain tilted his head at an angle, studying his twin curiously. “Who are you talking about?”

  “She means Roy, the jock who got infected swimming in the lake,” Ashley said, rolling her eyes. “But I’m telling you, he’s long gone. We don’t have to worry about him, okay?”

  Cain seemed to think otherwise. “We’ll spend a few hours in the attic tonight,” he said, ignoring Ashley’s little interruption, “just to make sure. Is there anything else I need to know, something you’ve been keeping from me?”