Omega Virus_Beta Hour by Jake A. Strife

Author:Jake A. Strife [Strife, Jake A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-08-05T04:00:00+00:00

LEVEL 22 – WEEKENDS

My mom's voice came up the stairs. “Zachary, your friend is at the door!”

I didn't have any friends. What the heck did she mean?

Sitting up in bed, I looked around. Something felt different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I'd gone to sleep somewhere else, but where? And how did I get home?

As I ran my hand through my long hair, I furrowed my brows. My hair hadn't been long in several years.

My mom yelled again, “I’m sending her up!”

Panic-stricken, I called back. “Sending who? I'm not even dressed!”

Glancing at arms and legs, a horrible truth hit me. I wore footie Mickey Mouse pajamas. I dove out of bed and scrambled to the closet in a desperate search for something else to throw on. Any second, my mystery visitor would make it up the stairs.

“C’mon!” I tugged at my closet door; it didn’t want to open.

I pulled as hard as I could, but the old wooden doors wouldn't budge. Why were they locked? I kicked one, hoping to jar it free, and immediately cried out in pain. My toes cracked against concrete-like wood. I fell to the floor grabbing my foot, feeling each toe to see if they broke.

“What did you do that for, dumb dumb?” A girl asked.

Dropping to my knees, I crawled around the side of my bed to hide.

The girl cheered, “You’re wearing the pajamas I got you, yay!”

A wave of confusion flowed through me. “Who is it?”

“Really?” she asked. “You're joking, right?”

“Just tell me!” I groaned, still pinching the pain out of my toes.

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh em gee! You’d think you’d recognize your girlfriend's voice!”

The confusion boiled over. Girlfriend? I didn’t have one. I peeked my nose up over the bed. The girl standing there wore a violet shirt, baggy jeans and a backward hat. Her golden hair hung to just below her chin. Sure, I recognized her now; Tiffany Gainsborough. But two things bothered me. One—I never dated her, and two—she seemed shorter and younger than I remembered.

“Tiffany?” I whispered.

“I told you never to call me Tiffany!” She snapped. “I hate that! I like the nickname you gave me, Tiffa.”

The confusion kept smacking me harder and harder. She stood with her hands on her hips, and a backpack slung over her shoulder.

Things had to be cleared up. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I suppose so.” She walked in, kicked off her shoes and socks and sat on the edge of my bed, throwing her feet onto a chair.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“What kind of question is that?” She scoffed. “I’m the same age as you, dumb dumb!”

That couldn't be true! I jumped up and turned to the mirror. Sure enough, short and scrawny, my face appeared rounder and still plump with baby fat.

“How old?” I asked.

“Duh,” She said. “Eight! We’re both eight. And I’m older by two months. Count 'em; she held up one foot then the other; two!”

I shook my head. “This can’t be. There is no way this can be!”

“You’re acting funny.

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