Try Hard: a post-apocalyptic thriller (180 Days and Counting... Series Book 7) Page 2

  Rocks were directly below the two-story drop off and Bailey doubted she’d make it, let alone Jessica.

  If they stayed inside, Bailey would have to run the risk of facing Jason. He wanted to kill the baby and he would probably hurt Bailey to get to Jessica. He was slowly destroying doors to get to them.

  If Bailey stayed, she would have to shoot Jason. There was no doubt about it. But in the small area, would she be able to get more than one shot off? She wasn’t a great shot yet. She might miss under the pressure.

  When would Scott and Bailey’s mom get back? They hadn’t even been gone long enough to get down to Post Falls, load up Beth, and come back. They needed to hurry. Bailey wanted to see her mom one more time. Was it too much to hope that Jason hold off on breaking in until someone came?

  Realistically, Bailey didn’t think they’d make it back for a while, which left her survival on her shoulders – her survival and Jessica’s.

  Jason’s survival was off the table. Bailey had no idea what was going to happen, but the banging on the door was getting to her and she had to make up her mind fast.

  She screamed again, standing and banging on the door with the flat of her hand. “Jason, you stop it, right now! I’m in here, too. You can’t hurt me! Why? Why would you do this?” She closed her eyes and sank to the toilet, her shoulders slumped. “Why?” She whimpered.

  Jason stopped banging, rubbing his hand down the panel, the sound soft but far from comforting. “Bailey, let me in. It’s me. I know it’s hard to accept, but that thing is going to kill us all. I’m trying to save us. Don’t you want me to save us?” His words became more cajoling, more soothing. “I like you, Bailey. Don’t you like me? You should let me in. I’ll make sure I kill it fast. I promise. Then we can be together.”

  The calm way he spoke suggested he was in there and functioning just fine, but his words to kill Jessica belied his tone. No one in their right mind would talk about killing an infant with such peace.

  Bailey shook her head, wiping her cheeks. She glanced at the small baby she’d been left in charge of and then at the thin door between Jason and herself. She took a deep breath and stood. She wasn’t going to let him in. Not for anything.

  Which meant she had to make her choice, no more waiting.

  She stood, turning to face the window set up above the toilet. She needed the sound of her actions covered up so he wouldn’t suspect what she was doing.

  Taking a deep breath, Bailey said, “I don’t trust you, Jason. You’re not yourself. You’re not safe.”

  His replying roar and subsequent banging on the door roused Jessica from her exhausted sleep and her screaming cries joined Jason’s noises to cover Bailey as she reached forward and pushed up the window. Using the tabs on the bottom of the screen, Bailey pushed the screen pane from its spot and let it fall to the roof where it slid on the ice to land on the ground.

  Bailey hung her head and turned back to face Jessica. The baby’s face was red with her eyes scrunched tight as she screamed. Tiny fists waved in the air as she sought comfort. Bailey reached down and picked up Jessica, using both hands. She didn’t have long to get out.

  As she thought it, the door splintered in its frame from Jason’s beating fists and his rampage against the wood.

  Bailey jerked back.

  If she didn’t get out that window, Jason would be through the door in no time. Then what would Bailey be forced to do?

  Chapter 3

  Cady

  Leaving the neighborhood flooded Cady with relief, no matter how offsetting seeing the stacked dead bodies was. Beth gasped at the sight, drawing Cady’s gaze over her shoulder. She nodded sympathetically to her friend. The horrible stuff was just beginning and Beth had already been through so much.

  Cady glanced at Scott in the driver’s seat as she turned back to face forward. He smiled reassuringly at Cady, his lips curved lopsidedly with a wry tilt to the curve.

  She had to avoid looking at the dead bodies so Cady turned again to look back at Beth. Reassurances weren’t worth much at a time like that, but Cady had to try for her friend. “Are you okay?” She kept her volume low, but had to talk a little louder than normal to be heard over the rumble of the engine. Could she snap Beth out of whatever mania the loss of her family would bring on? Images of her neighbor, Rachel, after she’d lost her children to the virus would haunt her the rest of her life – no matter how long or short it might be.

  “Yeah.” Beth reached up and pressed her fingers to her forehead. She, too, ignored the bodies as they disappeared behind them. She looked straight ahead as she spoke. “I just can’t believe everything that has happened. I’m kind of numb to it all, like I’m spinning.” She shifted her gaze and smiled wanly at Cady. “Thanks for coming when you did. I couldn’t… I was trying to figure out what to do. My house is a tomb now.” She glanced out the window, away from Cady as if avoiding eye contact. Why would she want to do that? The only reason to avoid Cady was due to shame and Beth had nothing to be ashamed about.

  Cady reached behind her and patted Beth’s knee. “I’m sorry… about the kids and Steven.” She twisted her lips into an attempt at a sympathetic smile when Beth finally glanced her way. “I know, empty words.” They were exactly empty words.

  “Thanks.” She shrugged after shifting her gaze again. “I’m kind of numb, though.”

  Cady nodded and glanced at Scott. Who wouldn’t be numb after losing everyone in their family? Considering the alternative, Cady hoped Beth stayed numb for a while. Maybe she could offer her a place to feel somewhat safe after the chaos in her neighborhood.

  They fell into a companionable but tired silence. As the endorphins wore off of finding her friend and hurrying to get out of the house and neighborhood, Cady struggled under the weight of her weakness and fatigue returning. Yawning, she glanced at Scott. “I can’t believe we did that and we were just sick.” She especially. The longer she realized it, the faster she seemed to sink into an aching, tired mess.

  Her eyelids dropped to half-mast as she struggled not to fall asleep.

  “You got sick?” Beth’s incredulity surprised Cady.

  “Yeah, I guess I’m still technically sick. I used your oils. Remember? I told you that at your place.” Or had she? Cady blinked at Scott and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Scott? I don’t feel so well.”

  He looked at her worriedly and reached across the space between them to pat her arm. “We’ll get there as soon as we can. Bear with me.” He waited for her to nod and placed his hands back on the steering wheel.

  How was he functioning so well? He’d been worse than Cady and there he was pushing through while she was dangerously close to passing out. If she kept still, maybe she could keep herself from falling asleep. Just preserve as much energy as she could.

  Scott reached across her and popped open the glove box, pulling out some energy bars and tossing one to each of the women. “Here, eat this. Your blood sugar might be low which will make you feel much weaker than normal.” He glanced meaningfully at Cady. “Even if you’ve been sick.”

  Cady slowly tore off the wrapper and bit into the bar. The crinkling of a wrapper in the back attested to Beth’s hunger as she ripped into it and chewed noisily.

  After a moment, Beth spoke up, breaking through the quiet and pausing in her binge. “This is like that movie Contagion, isn’t it? Where’s Matt Damon now?” Beth laughed and coughed into her hand. “Uh, oh. Maybe I’m contagious.”

  Cady laughed. “Matt Damon? I bet he’s just as sick as the rest of us, if not dead.” The sad thing was, it didn’t matter how prepared a person or family was. Look at Cady, she had access to the information beforehand and she’d still come down with the sickness. True, she hadn’t taken the vaccine Jackson had sent her, but she’d known ahead of time about the disease and taken precautions.

  No one was safe.

  Turning from Greensferry onto Highway 53, Scott chuckled with them and no one really knew why they were laughing.


  Cady looked behind her again to say something to Beth, but she stopped at the image of a van pulling onto the street behind them. Scott was already driving at a steady speed above forty miles an hour. The van easily stayed behind them by about one hundred feet. Cady turned back, swallowing her comment and forgetting what she was focusing on. She gripped the hand rest on the door and glanced again at Scott. Reaching across the space between them, she touched his hand.

  Without looking at her, he nodded. Scott saw them, too. Which, she knew he did, but she had to make sure she wasn’t imagining things. Anything was possible when one wasn’t completely done with a sickness that caused hallucinations and delusions – or could. Anything was possible with a virus no one had enough information about.

  She suddenly wasn’t as tired feeling. Either a sugar rush or adrenaline, or both, coursed through her. The crash was going to be atrocious.

  Who was following them and why were they getting closer, flashing their headlights?

  Chapter 4

  Jackson

  Feet aching, Jackson pushed himself down the road. The last few days of rest and recuperation had been enough to stave off initial bruising and give his feet time to develop a solid scab, but that was about it. The pain as he walked was more consuming than his mission to find a car. He leaned against a wooden pole street light – did they even make those anymore?

  Jackson chuckled to himself. Of course, they didn’t make them anymore. No one made anything anymore. His chuckle grew to a full belly laugh and he reached up to wipe the tears out of his eyes. Ah, that felt good to laugh. He hadn’t planned on being alone this long. He should be with Cady already.

  He straightened his jaw. Time to put on his suck-it-up hat. So what if his feet hurt? He’d survived exposure to the Cure. He’d gone manic while trying to keep himself safe, hurting himself while he thought he was protecting himself. That’s okay. He wasn’t going to die at this point.

  He’d been exposed to the virus multiple times. Now that his system had been exposed to the toxic chemical of the Cure, he had nothing else he had to be safe from. All he needed was a gun and a car.

  And food.

  Walking down Main Street may or may not help him with any of those goals. He glanced up and down the abandoned-looking city. It may look empty, but the fact was, no one had left. They’d all just died, holed up in their homes while waiting for salvation to come.

  Regardless of where the townsfolk were, the main part of the town was empty. There wouldn’t be any cars along the business section. Who would go to work when they were so sick or had sick family to take care of? If there were cars, most likely they wouldn’t be ones that Jackson could use.

  Jackson pushed away from the pole, adjusting his stride to land more on the balls of his feet since the majority of the damage had been to the soles. Why had he taken off his socks in the first place? Breaking those chair legs over his feet and walking across broken glass had torn up the flesh on his feet and bruised the arches.

  Walking on his toes threw off his center of gravity and he used the weight of the backpack to keep him balanced.

  Headed west, a few blocks from the motel, as the sidewalk faded to gravel-strewn grass and muddy dirt, Jackson took the first right. Hobbling along the edges of unkempt lawns and large draping tree boughs, he searched for an easily accessible car that would be more likely to have good fuel economy.

  As appealing as the older Ford F-250 was sitting in the front yard of a house on his left, the big block 460-gas motor it most likely had as an engine would guzzle through the tanks before Jackson made it past Missoula. He needed a car to get him to Coeur d’Alene and further without any stops. He didn’t need to grab a vehicle that would make him stop every twenty minutes to fill up.

  Especially without gas stations to use.

  A minivan parked under a lean-to with garbage stacked around the side caught his eye. Jackson stilled under the boughs of a well-aged willow tree, the long branches swaying in the slight breeze.

  A minivan hinted at a family, certainly more than a couple people. Jackson wasn’t sure what the survival ratio was for the virus. Was it two in three died? One in four? He had no idea. He’d hoped for six out of seven, even better for nine out of ten. The not-knowing was what would be his downfall in strategizing. So, not knowing who would most likely be dead or alive made his risk factor in approaching the house hard to define.

  Jackson was a fan of the data, but if he couldn’t track it, he’d have to take that chance.

  The house could have been empty or full, the lack of power hid that fact from any passerby. Jackson hiked his backpack higher on his shoulders and approached the rear-end of the minivan. He glanced repeatedly at the house with each step closer. Once he made it past the front window’s view, his shoulders relaxed. At least for a few minutes, he was out of any occupants’ line of sight.

  Inspecting it from the back forward, Jackson noted the van looked like it was well-maintained. The passenger side of the vehicle was unapproachable with bags and bags of garbage blocking the entrance. The driver side, however, was exposed and in the shadows under the covering Jackson still didn’t feel he was protected from any survivors inside.

  Inching closer to the driver’s side door, Jackson glanced over his shoulder once more. Peering through the window, he pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. Keys. Would he need to get them or were the podunk residents of Clinton dumb enough to leave their keys in the van?

  He stood back, reaching for the handle to the van.

  The door from the house leading to the carport opened and Jackson turned, surprised, his hand frozen in mid-air. He’d been right. Someone was alive. His surprise had to come from the fact that they were coming out – maybe they had a gun and were determined to protect their van.

  A middle-aged man with rounded shoulders and a balding pate struggled to lean against the doorjamb and peer at Jackson. Bloodshot eyes and pale skin suggested the man was either sick or dealing with the aftereffects. Patchy stubble added years to his sallow skin and when he opened his mouth to speak, he revealed crooked teeth which looked like he’d kept to a dental schedule before the CJ180D virus had hit. The man coughed into his empty hand and peered at Jackson like he couldn’t see as clearly as he was used to. “Can you help us?”

  Us? So, there were more. Jackson’s curiosity and need for keys to the van partnered to convince him to check out the inside of the house. He had to work to ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach, but the chance the guy had food was a large part of why he nodded. Concern plastered Jackson’s face. “Of course, what can I do for you?” He avoided mentioning why he stood by the van.

  Jackson had a feeling the man had no food, but what if he did? Anything would work at this point, plus, he couldn’t go anywhere without keys.

  Relief slackened the man’s narrowed gaze and he pushed himself carefully off the wall. Pointing over his shoulder, his voice dropped with his energy. “There were looters a while back and I held them off with my gun. I can’t get my… daughter… off the couch. She’s… she’d dead and I need her body moved.” He blinked back tears as he moved aside for Jackson to come in.

  Looters. They’d staved off looters? Who would want to loot this guy’s house? Unless the looters were looking for food or medicine. They would try any house for those items.

  “Did they get anything?” Jackson moved toward the door, looking up and down the street as if he were checking for looters himself. Why was the man inviting Jackson inside when Jackson was just looking at the van? Didn’t he worry Jackson would just steal from him? Why didn’t he think Jackson was a looter?

  Or… what if it was a trap?

  If the man wasn’t worried… he should be which was why Jackson was worried about all the possible things that could happen in the house.

  The man glanced toward the road but ushered Jackson inside. “No. I’m a good shot and I have plenty of bullets. They were Mexican. The boys went to school with my daughter. O
f course, they knew we had food and other items. Everyone did.” He turned toward the living room, walking through a relatively clean kitchen with its white stove and refrigerator and still well-stocked shelves.

  Jackson’s jaw slackened at the sight of all the food, but he followed the man. He didn’t want to get shot. Actually, he wanted the gun and the food. If moving a dead body was what he needed to do, then so be it.

  “Did you already have the sickness?” The man motioned toward the couch and sheet covered form with flies hovering around the thin material. The smell wasn’t overly strong at that point. Instead, there was an overly cloying smell of spray fragrance in the air, like the man worked hard to cover the smell of death in his home.

  “Yeah, some people are surviving it and some aren’t. It’s pretty horrible.” Jackson surreptitiously took in as much of the room as he could while the man paused and stared at the form on the couch.

  A microfiber couch and loveseat were set perpendicular to each other, half-framing a square coffee table littered with magazines, pop cans, and paper plates. The mess spilled onto the floor. A large-screen television manned the other side of the table with a collection of DVDs underneath the short entertainment center. Grungy carpet was worn, but from use not neglect.

  White vertical blinds covered the windows and over them were thick brown and blue curtains that stretched to the floor. A simple wainscoting gave the interior a richer feel than the popcorn ceiling confirmed.

  At the point where the two couches met, a nightstand of sorts held a lamp with a brushed-nickel base, a wad of used Kleenex, and the butt of a gun from under the tissues.

  Jackson had located the weapon, but how would he get to it? He had no doubt he could take the man, but he wouldn’t lie – even to himself – that the pain in his feet might keep him from moving fast enough. The man could still get the gun before Jackson.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. That has to be hard. How do you want to do this?” Jackson maneuvered around the coffee table and looked down at the body lying on the couch. He didn’t look at the nightstand, not when that would raise the man’s guard.