The Infected.

Chapter - 8 -

"And in the silence there was a scream."

*

"Francis!"

"Francis!"

My brothers wails had me up abruptly, his pleading cries pounding in my eardrums and in my chest.

My head was spinning, my feet fumbling over themselves as I followed his cries into the corridor.

"Max!" I called out. He was running down the stairs, his face a cool white, shaking he ran into me. His arms wrapping around my ribcage.

My dad ran past us, and up the stairs as I smoothed down Max's bed head, Violet peering around my shoulder. The front of my red sweater had become wet with tears, Max's shoulders shaking.

I sat him back down in the living room and looked over his paled skin. His wrist was held outward, his long sleeved shirt torn at the wrist, red velvet pouring through the cream coloured shirt and spreading like food dye in batter.

Lifting his shirt, a sob passes my lips as a bite mark meets my gaze, festering and irritated--

I wake up with a gasp filling my lungs, my throat burning as tears fill the corners of my eyes. My hand clutches my chest as I breath hard, looking to my left, my brother sleeps peacefully and my breathing seems to calm.

I clutch the front of my head in my palms, my fingers softly prodding at my hair as I breath.

He's okay.

My mind repeats itself, reassuring my nightmare wasn't real, my gut aching with pain reminding me it could be a reality. I point my eyes upward, I'm met with my dads ruffled sleeping bag, and a wrapper of a granola bar. Standing up, my feet softly sink into my sleeping bag, I curl my toes in the fabric and I yawn.

Stretching, I wander off into the hall, listening for my dad.

I find him fast, the house being smaller than average. I open up the older chipping door to the back garden, my shoulder resting against the door frame.
"Anything fresh?" My voice is rough with sleep, my left hand rubbing my eye.

"Oh! Hey kiddo." His face is red and covered in a sheer of sweat. "Theres not much, the cold weather these past few weeks must've ruined most of em.'" He pulls his jacket more together on his chest.
I click my tongue and shake my head, my ankles crossing as I continue to use the door frame for support.
"How well do you know these people we're meeting up with Dad?" I sounded tired, exasperated as my shoulders slumped slightly.

"Well enough." His tone had gone cold, his fists clenching and unclenching as he dusted off his hands on his old blue jeans. His shoulders tensed. I put weight on my opposite foot, my bottom lip between my teeth.

"Okay." My tone has gone soft, timid. I can tell he's just as worried about these people as myself. "I just want to be sure." I mutter.

"I'm sure. Stop worrying Francis." His shoulders tense as he shoves the shovel into the torn up soil, before putting his coat over his shoulders.

"Go wake em' up."

*

We were up in a rush, my dads attitude turning sour thanks to me. I've decided not to ask about the people we're meeting up with until we arrive there.