Alive Again 2: A Zombie Apocalypse in a Dystopian World by T.W. Piperbrook

Author:T.W. Piperbrook [Piperbrook, T.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Post Script Publishing
Published: 2022-11-16T16:00:00+00:00

26

OLD GHOSTS

Disbelief freezes us in place. I start to speak, but the words won't come. Jessa’s got to be mistaken, right? At any moment, Brandon will round the corner, pale-faced, and we’ll all breathe huge sighs of relief, celebrating another close call. But the tears on her face are no joke, and she and Cody are already heading back into the hallway, desperately beckoning us on. Our spell broken, we speed from the kitchen, trampling the last intact party favors to salty sawdust.

Goose’s voice echoes behind us, “I’m gonna check the living room, make sure that dude’s dead!”

And he’s off. We’re so consumed with worry that we hardly process his statement. Brandon’s been shot. I can barely register much else. We run under the archway, circling around the carpeted staircase, finding ourselves in a perfectly arranged room.

A flowery throw rug announces what looks like a suburban museum. The velvet-covered couch and loveseat sit in an Isosceles triangle with a majestic hutch; it looks like they were arranged by slide rule. An array of portraits lines the walls, surveying the room, scrutinizing the fine china, and, for a moment, I imagine them deploring the dust that's settled. It's the cleanest room I've seen in a year...until I look at the floor. Bloody footprints track a course to the center of the room, where they abruptly stop at the edge of a collapsed body.

Brandon!

So much gore covers our friend’s stomach that, for a moment, I’m convinced we’ve stepped into a television crime scene. His face is pale; he’s breathing (thank God!), but it’s in ragged wheezes. He lets go of his bloody abdomen, reaching for us with dripping red fingers. This is a waking nightmare.

“Am I g-gonna be okay?” he stammers.

Suppressing our shock, we rush to his aid.

Stevie flies past me, dropping to his knees next to his prone friend, while Cody and Jessa take up on his other side. I crouch beside him with everyone else, inspecting the ugly, bubbling wounds visible through his damaged t-shirt. Stevie gently lifts Brandon's soaked garment, hesitating as it sticks to his body. It looks like bullets punctured him more than once—several tears blemish his skin, exposing deep, dark cavities. I look away before I gag.

“Am...am I gonna be okay?” Brandon repeats.

Striving to maintain my cool, I say, “You’ll be fine, Brandon.”

Unable to mute her panic, Lily bursts into tears. “Somebody do something!”

“We need to put pressure on the wound!” Stevie instructs, placing his fingers over Brandon’s bleeding belly.

I follow suit, and so does Jessa. All at once, I’m part of an emergency room staff, the only one available, leaping to work on our critical patient. God, please! I beg, but for what? I'm not sure. We’re not doctors or medical assistants; we're not even parents. We’re just a handful of young survivors, roaming this world alone.

Nauseatingly warm blood flows over our hands. The injury’s too severe; the blood’s not stopping.

Stevie looks around and yells, “I need a towel! Anyone?! We need a—”

“I’ll get one!” Jessa cries, rushing away to do something, anything to help.

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