Wither excerpt

Wither Chapter 1

The lights flicker overhead.

I stare up at them, listening to the intermittent hum of the dying fluorescent bulbs. The dim lighting provided by the backup generator casts an eerie glow on the room. Shadows multiply in the corners. My head twitches at every sound, sure that I hear someone creeping down the hall.

A chill has fallen on the room. The fever that arrived earlier this morning has left me flushed and weakened. I didn't tell the nurses. Part of me didn't want to bother them. Another feared that they might throw me out onto the streets like the rest of them.

Condensation from my breath hangs before my mouth and a slight tremor has begun in my lips. My fingers cramp as I tighten my grip on the pistol in my lap and try to ignore the aches in my legs.

The gun, though small and easily managed, feels foreign in my grasp. It's not mine. I took it off a man on the street early this morning. He had four rounds in his pocket and several lay scattered around his body in the gutter. A single hole in his right temple, and the splatter of crimson on the brick behind, told me that it wasn't stealing. Not really.

Halos of light dot the window before me, fires set long before the sun fell behind a blanket of heavy cloud. Intermittent gunfire to the east sounds muffled through the panes of glass. That is the direction I saw the men coming from.

Dark shapes converged on the frozen hospital lawn less than half an hour ago. Twenty of them in total. Some appeared slighter in stature. Others large enough to wrestle with a grizzly. All seemed focused on the fortified front doors of the building.

It was only a matter of time before the survivors came for us.

Unease settles heavily in the pit of my stomach as I glance toward my mother lying in the bed beside me. No expression. No movement, apart from the slow rise of her chest. Her lips hold a tint of blue, but that is nothing unusual.

I draw my legs up into the chair, crossing them before me.

What are they waiting for? They must have found a way inside by now.

The scraping of chairs and rapid staccato of voices from down the hall faded away a few minutes ago. I watched from the door of my mother's room as those few remaining nurses and doctors emptied the waiting room in an attempt to barricade the doors. It won't last long, but maybe someone can get away.

I should have left the city when the turmoil first began. The news anchors tried to spin their pretty little lies about how the military had everything under control, but all you have to do is look out a window to know that things are falling apart faster than anyone could have predicted. Anarchy rules the streets.

Little more than a week ago, the world sank right into hell. I just stood by and watched it.

What else could I do?

People started disappearing. Tanks and armored military trucks rumbled through the streets at all hours of the night. Quarantines were established and martial law was enforced for a time.

I could have escaped before the rioting really began, before the gangs formed and innocent blood painted the streets of St. Louis.

It would have been easy to slip by unnoticed, clinging to the shadows. One person can hide well enough. But I didn't leave; I stayed...because of her.

I remember the last words my mother ever said to me: "I love you." But it didn't matter. Those words could never be enough to wipe away years of bitterness and resentment, to heal neglected wounds left to fester, to right a thousand wrongs. Too little. Too late.