Metastasis

Chapter 1.b

Between the duffle, his backpack, the pistol at his hip, and the baseball bat sheathed through the backpack's top handle, he's probably carrying at least thirty pounds. In the beginning, it had been rough hauling the weight, even just walking around, but now he's used to it. The last time he really worked out for honest was back when he was still running track for his university team six months ago, before he got diagnosed. After that things changed.

Just two weeks of this new life and already the weight on his back is a familiar, steady pressure. It's the one thing he can rely on other than himself. Possibly more than himself.

He goes through the kitchen on his way out to look for food even though he doesn't expect to find anything. It's a pleasant shock to find half a dozen canned goods left in the far corner of the bottom shelf, forgotten by homeowner and overlooked by lazy looters. Two canned peaches and three different Campbell's Chunky soups. His stomach churns, but he pulls the cans out and hunts down a spoon. It's been a full day since he last had something to eat, and while he hasn't been hungry he knows better. As it is in the last two weeks he's lost enough to make his pants loose. Not because food's that rare, but because it's hard to remember he needs to eat it when he's never hungry.

He's been keeping his eyes pealed for herb shops in the hopes of prompting an appetite, but hasn't had any luck. Then again, this is the first real town he's come across since coming out of the mountains that isn't the size of Avery, meaning miniscule. In Sacramento though... he should be able to find some pot somewhere in the garbage can that is the state's capital.

For now, he forces himself to sit with his back to the pantry shelves, door mostly closed in on himself, unbuckles the wolf mask, and eats beef stew that, if he's honest with himself, will probably be making a reappearance sooner rather than later, and not out the back. His stomach may not growl with hunger, but it doesn't have any problems showing lack of enthusiasm. Instead of focusing on the likely immediate future, Lowry enjoys the flavors and the silence and the relative safety of solid windows and doors barred with furniture.

Fifteen minutes later, now with five added pounds of food stuffs dragging at the bottom of his newly acquired duffle, Lowry shoves the half-bookshelf that he'd been using as a lock out of the way of the back door and steps out into an eerily pristine backyard. The grass is long, obviously in need of a good mow, but other than that it looks like any other backyard, with sprouting greenery and trees and children's toys littering the patio. Places like this are dangerous. Dangerous because Lowry just wants to sit down and let himself forget about what's going on in the world and his life and believe, just for a little bit, that the world is still normal.

Then his stomach churns and he leans over the railing of the back porch to puke.

He's not going to be having beef stew again anytime soon, that's for sure, because it's only been a few minutes and it looks almost the same coming up as it did going down. The observation stirs another round of nausea and he's sick until there's nothing left to come up and his stomach is cramping.

Hoarse growling comes from somewhere close. His head snaps up, eyes scouring the backyard. There's a tree, it's the only thing anybody could hide behind, but it's empty, nothing and nobody staggering around it. A thick thud comes from off to the left and he turns to see fingers wrapped over the top of the fence separating the yard from the neighbors—another growl, lower and louder and angrier. A chill slides up his spine and the aching pain of post-vomiting in his abdomen fades into the background of his consciousness. The puking must have gotten its attention.

The wolf mask is heavy in his hands and Lowry takes a moment to put it back on, not bothering to think too hard about how it makes the knot at the base of his sternum loosen until his shoulders are drawn back and he's feeling solid again. This is nothing new. Infected are nothing new. This is just life.