michael paterson

It was no use.  Just like a rag doll, the boy was tossed aside to bleed out on the ground. His eyes glazed over in death while his mother was savaged beside him. The spell broke, and at last, Rachael looked away. She leaned over and locked the passenger door, the click loud in her ears. With an iron grip on the wheel, she steered the truck around the family and drove away. The entire time, she whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, " until the words were branded into her mind.
That was the last stop she made. Rachael headed for the village where her parents lived. It lay on the edge of town. If they were lucky, the infection hadn't reached there yet. As she drove, the streets became quieter, and her hope grew in her. A hope squashed once she reached her destination. Around a dozen infected crawled on the front lawn of a neighbor's house. They were feeding. As the group shifted, a bloody arm flopped out.
Rachael swallowed as a flood of bile rushed up her throat. She recognized the next-door neighbors, the Robertson's, in the pack. Mrs. Robertson still wore a robe with curlers in her hair which prompted a hysterical laugh from Rachael, one she quickly swallowed.