Virus

Chapter 4

Contains violence and mature language.

               It takes 250 milliseconds for the brain to react to a visual stimuli, 170 milliseconds for an auditory stimuli, and 150 milliseconds for it the brain to react to touch. In that moment - the moment after the glass shattered and the rotters started reaching for us - it seemed like it took a lot longer than 250 milliseconds for my brain to react. Suzanne's screaming didn't help our case of certain death by rotter, either, but it brought David down the stairs faster than anything else probably could have.

               Pale, dead hands reached in through the window, and a rotting face pushed itself past the curtains that still covered the empty space. The smell of blood and rot filled the space around us as the snarling and moaning continued and the hands reached for us - deer in the headlights. Discolored eyes and gray lips crowded around the window, yellowing teeth were anticipating the feast we'd offer with snaps of the jaws.

               David reacted first. His arm was brought down in a series of quick jabs, and the sound of squelching and bone crunching joined the moaning and screaming. Despite the injuries the corpse had sustained to it's brain, it still continued to reach through the window with its bloodless hands. The knife he'd been stabbing it with was covered in infected blood and the pale remains of a brain. Still, the corpse continued to snap its jaws and reach and clasp its hands around nothing at all.

               Bill's look of terror is what grounds me the most. His innocent eyes spoiled with fear, his muscles tense with paralyzation. He must have known some of these people, I realize. He said he grew up here, so he must be able to connect names with faces now. The young boy backs away, horrified, his eyes becoming glassy and the muscles of his face growing taut with his coming tears. To be attacked by people you used to call friends or neighbors is something very few can imagine, but today, right now, it was common.

               My hands reach out, clasping the handle of a knife that rests on a chair. A knife someone thought they didn't need anymore. A knife left because someone thought they were safe.

               Bitch thought wrong, I think, bringing it down on the back of the neck of the rotter reaching for us. It's fingers clasp around thin air one last time before it collapses, falling robotically against the edge of the window frame. More hands reach in around it, desperate at the prospect of fresh meat. One hand barely has fingers, either gnawed off or fallen off, and another has blood and dirt caked under its fingernails.

               The smell of death - rotten meat and blood - haunts the air. The look of yellowing eyes and bloody lips will never be able to run from my mind. Once they were normal people. Once I might have said hello to them in the grocery store or out on the street. Now all of our chances were lost, and we would never meet and exchange names. Now, I would drive a knife into them as many times as it took for them to drop dead forever.

               The knife in my hand drips infected blood. The dark red-becoming-a-murky-brown falls into the threads of the carpet.

               "David," I look to him for guidance, just as everyone else does. "What do we do?"

               His eyes reflect the same panic I imagine my own eyes hold. His knife hangs from his fist as his arm hangs limply at the side. It's obvious that he always expected Travis to be here to take charge when something like this happened.

               Screaming fills my ears, distracting me from everything. Frantically, I turn, trying to find the source. Suzanne is standing there, mouth open like the screws in her jaw have been screwed loose. Her vocal cords are working overtime, eliciting a noise so inhumane and high pitched that the other windows must have shattered while we were trying to save her life.

              My lip curls. "Shut up, Suzanne!" I snap, rendering her silent. Her brown eyes are big and full of tears, and I realize she's been sobbing along with her screams. Her cheeks are wet and shiny.

               David glances momentarily at the front door, then back at the window full of reaching dead people. "You have a car, right?" I nod, then turn to slash at the head of a rotter reach for Suzanne. "Does it have gas?"

               "It might," I grunt as my arm comes down on the base of the head of a rotter. It slumps and falls over the first left lying on the frame. "It's the best chance we have right now."

               He nods, eyes watching the blade wrench free of the bone. "We leave in pairs. Suzanne, come with me. Ash, take Bill. If we can, we'll wait in the car until the others come."

               David reaches over, grabbing Suzanne gently by the arm. Her brown eyes are still wide and terrified, but at least she's quiet now. Carefully, they begin to make their way to the dark hallway. The way they walk, it seems as though David is leading a docile rotter.

               Light spills into the house, leaving only the silhouette of the two. Bill follows as I follow. His fingers lock with mine, grabbing tightly, never letting go. My other hand grabs the handle of the knife I'd been using to finish all of death's work.

               David and Suzanne are not far ahead of us, seeming to walk quicker and quicker with each passing moment. Silently, I urge Bill to walk faster and try to speed up my pace to get the message across, but he's completely stopped. Turning - irritation and fear consuming me - I go to snap at him, and possibly tug him further. His face is turned away from me completely, and his eyes are fixed on something to the right of us.

               The mob of rotters show absolutely no sign of hesitation as they shamble toward us.