The Omega Virus

Chapter 8

-Chapter 8-

            So.  He was the reason for our apocalypse.  His sick lust for power and a prominent position in this fading world had brought us to the brink of extinction.  Only we wouldn’t be extinct like the dinosaurs which became fossils, we would live in a constant living death…shadows of what we once were.  Travis Lamb was no lamb at all, but a wolf in sheep’s clothing.  He was the reason my son was a walking, rotting corpse.  My mind was muddied with rage, thoughts became random and confused.  Sure, there might be a cure.  Sure there might be another carrot to be dangled in front of us, but even so this so-called cure would still leave an un-crossable chasm between my son and me.  He would rise again to new life, while me—his mother—would descend into the pits of hell.  Travis Lamb was the cause and reason for all of it.

            “You!” I screamed, the forest reverberating my shout.

            His eyes never left mine, they were steady, unwavering, but resigned.  He didn’t raise his arms in defense.  He didn’t point his Remington at me in an act that would indicate murderous intent.  He didn’t even make an attempt at a hasty retreat—it was almost as though he welcomed any punishment I deemed fit.

            “You sentenced the whole world to death!”  I said in a voice so low that I wasn’t sure he heard me until I saw him shiver visibly.  A lone tear trailed from his eye.  Those eyes of his that I had thought of as loving and fatherly…

            “She was my world Mercy,” his voice trailed off, “you might have done the same for your son.”

            Rage thundered through me and I slapped him, leaving a bright red handprint on his slightly wrinkled face.  The fact that his words rang with an undeniable truth further enraged me.

            “I wouldn’t have given my son a living death you sick bastard!” I yelled.

            “I wanted to give her life, I never intended for her to be a monster.”  He sat back down on the bench looking centuries old.  His head was in his hands.  His shoulders shook ever so slightly as he silently wept.  All of this did not birth in me sympathy, only cold debilitating hate.

            After a while his tears came to an abrupt stop.  For a moment he just stared unblinking ahead through the trees.  Determination took root in his eyes.  He quickly took the Remington which had been slung across his back and laid it on his knees—studying it as if trying to come to a decision.

            I froze and backed away, his calmness felt anything but natural.  Putting my hand to my hip I realized with a sinking feeling that I was without my gun.  I had felt so safe and secure in his presence that I had allowed myself to be lulled into letting my guard down, and now I’d pay for my naïve foolishness.

            Run!  My mind screamed, but my body wouldn’t obey, my feet remained firmly rooted and frozen only a few paces away from him.  I couldn’t and wouldn’t dare to scream for Callum.  Even if I could, by the time he came I would be dead…or worse.  If I called for him I’d be sentencing him to death.  An urgent desire to live engulfed me, even though it was a hopeless desire.

            He finally stood up and began walking toward me.  Still, I couldn’t move.  His eyes were cold and determined.  I trembled.

            “Take it,” he said, offering the rifle as if it was a gift.  “Take it,” he repeated, this time making it a gruff command.

            I didn’t hesitate.  He was nuts, and you simply don’t argue with people who are nuts.  I snatched the rifle from him, quickly aiming it at his head.  My finger was ready on the trigger.  Cold sweat trickled down my back and forehead.  To shoot a living man—I’d never done that before, guilty, deserving or not, his blood would be on my hands.