Chapter 9

Two days of fishing with no luck left me eating through my supplies quicker than I thought. Rationing didn’t go as planned. Squirrels announced my presence with every step, but my rocks never struck. They didn’t even have the decency to pretend I scared them.

  The ponds were empty, and I had no experience hunting. Although it was risky, I would need to scour the villages from now on. Highway exits in the mountains didn’t always lead to a town. Some connected to county routes without nothing for 30 miles or more.

  I stepped through a shallow stream, enjoying my new boots, and hiked through the forest for another hour before I came to a ramp that looked promising. I didn’t see any signs for towns, but signs were rare anyway. Unfortunately, right before I reached the exit, a noise like fireworks in the distance went off, and so did the alert in my helmet.

  A hill blocked my line of sight, but seven pops in succession told me everything I needed to know.

  I darted across the ramp and climbed through the mess of fallen trees and boulders. The hill wasn’t tall, but rugged ledges and cracks made the trip difficult. By the time I reached the top, the workout left my body covered in sweat, and my mind had a hard time processing the view below.

  The scabs were at war—with themselves.

  Scabs converted two rest stops—one southbound and one northbound on the highway—into bases and fought like rival gangs claiming territory. If two sides were fighting over territory, then they made hiding easier. While they killed each other, I could slip by, going unnoticed. But if they were fighting over resources, I’d have to worry about their range and numbers. They’d comb through every part of the forest and strip it bare, eventually finding me.

  Sadly, we never learned how scabs organized outside of handlers controlling those that lost their minds. It was unclear how they communicated, and nobody knew how sentient they were after a full soul collapse. But communicated well enough for the handlers below to create an army.

  Concussive booms like a cannon echoed through the mountains. The hilltop was bare, and I didn’t want them to spot me, so I sat in a hollowed area of the rock face. Scabs postured, attacked, and fell back while pops from gunfire ringed in the distance. My lenses didn’t have a way to magnify vision, but I estimated at least one hundred scabs—the largest group I had seen since the cities fell.

  When newscasters first reported on the abnormalities, doctors called it Acute Essence Disorder. There was always a period of adjustment after a breach, so nobody questioned them. It changed to Chronic Essence Syndrome by spring, and news broke that soul collapse was the culprit, but scientists were confident in a cure.

  In late June, the first visible symptoms appeared. A skin condition termed Soul Collapse Abscessing.

  A bright light, then a burst of flames, temporarily blinded me. Two seconds later, a shockwave knocked small stones from the ledge, and a blast of warm air washed over my body. Once the cloud of smoke and dust cleared, the cause became apparent. A scab lit a tanker on fire, and it exploded. Parts of the burning rest area flew into the forest, setting the dry sticks and leaves ablaze.

  The suicide attack was brutal, with each scab that caught fire transforming into a running torch. Even then, the scabs didn’t stop, and they raged on through the pain. It was almost as if they had no survival instincts and only cared for destruction.

  After reports of violent behavior leaked to the public, anyone with a skin blemish became the target of vigilante attacks. People panicked and hid their loved ones. Sadly, those decisions backfired. Many died when their family members lost their minds. On August 16th, just over a year ago, the government passed the first of their quarantine mandates. A month later, the roundups and euthanizations began. Cities went up in flames, like the firestorm near me.

  The blaze spread rapidly, eating through the forest like a wild beast. I needed to run. The flames didn’t reach the other side of the highway, so if I crossed quickly enough and escaped the area, I wouldn’t die as a pile of ash. I jumped from the ledge and landed 10 feet below, then rolled to a stop. I had no time to stroll down the gentle side of the hill.

  In the distance, the scabs howled and almost sounded human again. I could understand the mindless scabs creating a wildfire, but the handlers had to realize the consequences. Not that I was against them blowing each other up. Far too many survived, anyway. Like they thrived in the mayhem.

  Even before the fifth breach opened, society was on the verge of collapse. CES afflicted ten percent of the population, with the US home to 35 million. The government couldn’t handle those numbers. Life became miserable. I still remembered the shrieks in my dorm and the bodies in the stairwell.

  They deserved better, and so did the scabs who were no longer screaming. We all did.

  The noise died down, but the flames continued to spread. Apparently, sealed containers like the tanker made excellent bombs, even if the gas was old. I sprinted to the median and stopped when a bullet sparked on the pavement less than 50 feet away. I couldn’t tell if it came from a wild shot or if someone spotted me. A single shot wouldn’t kill me, but injuries were getting harder to deal with. Without enough food, recovery slowed.

  The fire continued to grow, and I could feel the heat rising behind me. Smoke billowed from the hill I left behind, so I took a chance. Another shot ricocheted, and I leaped into the forest. A handler must have spotted me while they fled the rest stop.

  The fire covered the mountains, releasing thick white smoke, and hot ash fell all around me. It wouldn’t be long before everything caught. What little wind there was came from the southeast towards the northwest. I couldn’t remember if that meant a storm was coming, or if it would get hotter, but it decided which direction I needed to run.

  Another bullet whizzed past my head, and the ash continued to rain down. The scab thought killing me was more important than fleeing.

  Massive trees felled by the beasts half a year ago dried like firewood and became hurdles. I didn’t know how old the trees were, but that wouldn’t matter soon.

  I twisted my foot on a rock and fell face-first into a log. The handler fired again and missed to my right. He was fast, but a terrible shot. Smoke spread through the forest as embers created new hotspots, making it harder to breathe. But I couldn’t afford an injury from the scab.

  I crawled through the gap between the tree and the ground and waited until he hopped over the log, then I pulled him under.

  He kicked and yelled, but I dragged him towards me until I stabbed my knife into his stomach. I didn’t dare look at his face. I didn’t want to remember how he looked. Handlers were more human than beast, and I didn’t want to build an identity in my mind. It didn’t matter if he was a loving father at one time. None of it mattered.

  His obscenities became pleas, then stutters. I twisted the knife and tried to end it quicker, but his death was slow. His punches to my helmet weakened, and the twitching in his legs ended. The last thing he said was “please” as his fingers slid down my helmet. It wasn’t my fault; I knew that. He gave me no choice; I knew that as well. It still hurt.

  I didn’t like myself anymore. 

  I gave up the duffle bag of clothes, then strapped his rifle around my back and took the belt with bullets. Nobody taught me how to shoot a gun, but I hoped it was easy to figure out. The bullets had to go in somewhere, and the trigger shot them through the hole. It didn’t look too hard.

  As the leaves near me burned, the smoke became so thick the sky turned dark, and every breath was a struggle. I followed the bank of a dry creek bed until the ground turned flat and opened up to another road. I didn’t recognize the region, but Vermont wasn’t too far, which meant Lake Champlain wasn’t too far. Before the fifth breach, everyone knew the stories of the lake monster were fake. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  The road ran parallel to the highway, but the orange glow above the treetops never came closer. Single-family houses lined the street, and some survived the destruction. The route opened to a broad intersection, and an old gas station with a single pump somehow remained standing. I needed to stay ahead of the fire, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to find food.

  After prying at the handle for a few minutes, the knob popped free, and the door creaked open. Weary of attacks, I held the mace in my hand and stepped in, only to find shelves on the floor and an empty tip jar. I jumped out and crouched low.

  The owner wouldn’t knock the shelves down and lock the door. Someone entered before, stripped the place bare, and locked the door behind them. My alert didn’t go off. There were no large essence signatures. But it felt like a trap. I didn’t move until ash fell from the sky like a blizzard, and something called to me.

  There were no identifying signs or street names, but my legs carried me like they knew where to go. I raced down the main street until I reached an old church with shutters covering the windows. My entire body tightened, and I held my breath. The steeple locked my eyes to the cross on top, and my body refused to move. The whole town was wrong.

  A burning tree cracked behind me, and my heart jumped to my throat. I backed away and turned down a side street, past an abandoned firehouse on the way out of the town. Nothing destroyed the village. Something kept the beasts away. Something I didn’t dare confront.

  I stopped once the town was out of sight and removed my helmet long enough to wipe the sweat from my face. The fire never crossed the intersection. To the north and south, the flames still spread, but they never touched the village. My mind raced through the possibilities for so long I hadn’t realized how far I walked until the pings in my helmet broke my thoughts.

  Chained to a treetop 100 feet away, a scab with no legs or arms wailed at the sight of me. Soon after, another screamed in the distance, and then another. To the north, south, and east, screaming scabs created a web and alerted everyone of my presence.

  Somehow, I found myself trapped between wildfires and lake monsters, in a forest filled with haunted churches and screaming scabs. My head hurt, and I stumbled back. I sat on the ground and pulled my legs into my chest to rest my head. Everything was heavy. Everything was dizzying. If there was a way out, I had no idea where it was.

UYScuti

A little more exposition. A further look into how things became what they did. Why they are called scabs. And a sense of the pain she feels when she is forced into these situations and has to take a life. She’s just a college girl with no training, and she has relied on others to survive. She grows, though. If you have comments or thoughts please let me know. And thanks for reading.