Then I heard a popping sound. It was coming from the lower end of town. I scanned and saw a group of about fifteen people running toward the community building. They were shooting behind them. A horde of maybe twenty or thirty people followed them. They ran, shot, and ran more. Someone fell down. The horde behind swarmed over them, and I saw a flash of red blood. I nearly dropped the binoculars.
Again, gun shots rang out. Another group emerged from a side street. My heart sank. Ian was there; Kristie was beside him. Ian’s older brother, Jamie, was with him, and so were Summer and Ethel. They joined the larger group, and they all headed toward the community center.
I sat down on the boulder. My senses were on edge. I could hear every bird and insect around me. My system, sensing danger, had gone into over-drive; yet, there was no danger near me. I was isolated. But Ian, he was in trouble. The group entered the community center, but a huge horde circled the place. Drawn by the sound of gunfire, the sick began to gather and claw at the windows and doors. The place was completely surrounded.
I lowered the binoculars. My hands felt ice-cold. A cold wind whipped through me and a feeling like electricity filled the air. It was that same strange static buzz I’d felt the day I had arrived.
“Help them,” a male voice said from behind me.
I leapt up, nearly losing my balance and going over. I righted myself at the last moment. I found myself staring at and staring through the figure of a Native American chief in full ceremonial regalia. He was young, very handsome, and his feathers and beads were braided into his long hair. He was clearly there and clearly transparent all at once. He knocked an arrow on his bow, and the illusory weapon shot directly toward town. I watched the arrow fly toward the community building and then fade.
I turned back.
“Help them,” he said again. Another strong wind swept through. Like he was made of sand, the chief’s image blew away, disintegrating back into the wind, until nothing but the image of the bow remained. Then, it too faded, blowing back into the realm of the spirit.
Chapter 5
My whole body shook as I raced through the woods to the cabin. My mind was in a fit of fear and adrenaline. I clambered over the back fence and rounded the barn. I was about to call for my grandma when I saw Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, whose farm was closest to our cabin, standing, just standing, in the driveway. The driveway gate was slightly ajar. I gasped and slid back behind the barn. I could not get to the house. I could not get into the barn. I checked my pockets. My car keys were there.
Quickly, I ran from the side of the barn to my SUV. The “beep beep” of my doors unlocking woke the Fletchers from their sick slumber. They both turned and lunged toward me. They were amazingly fast. I ran. I opened the back passenger door and jumped into the backseat. I slammed the door shut behind me, locking the doors with a thump. The Fletchers were at the SUV in moments.
They were sick or maybe even dead. Their skin was corpse white and their eyes were cloudy white with red blood shots striking through. Their mouths frothed and they lunged, over and over, biting and snapping at me. Bloody saliva smeared across the black-tinted windows of the Range Rover.
I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I climbed over the backseat and into the cargo space. Suddenly I touched something hard. My swords. Who says it doesn’t pay to be a medievalist? I pulled the shashka from the bundle and strapped its scabbard around my waist. Then I unsheathed the weapon. I had to find my grandmother.
The Fletchers were flailing about at the passenger side window. I took a deep breath and opened the back. I slid out and headed toward the driver’s side. The Fletchers moved toward the back of the SUV. Dropping low, I swung around the front of the car. They were at the back. I leaned down and watched their feet. I didn’t know what to do, but I needed to do something fast.
I took a few deep breaths and turned toward the house. With the shashka poised in front of me, I kept one eye on the Fletchers as I backed toward the cabin. The moment they saw me, they closed in.
“Stay back!” I said, but they did not seem to hear. They came toward me, grabbing at me, snapping while bloody saliva dripped from their mouths. I swished the sword in front of me to deter them, but they didn’t seem to care.
Mr. Fletcher grabbed at me.
“Get back,” I pleaded as I backed toward the porch. He lunged forward. I sliced his arm, but it did not faze him. His wife hissed and swiped at me.
He grabbed at me again. This time he ignored the sword entirely and pushed the blade aside as he tried to grab me. I watched in horror as the shashka sliced his fingers off. They fell to the ground. Mrs. Fletcher, her feet bare and bloody, stepped on them as she advanced. I ducked and dodged sideways. They pursued.
In that moment, I remembered what the man from the CDC had said: “brain activity.” Victims were experiencing “brain activity” post-mortem. Was that what I was seeing?