The Withered Series (Book 1): Wither by Amy Miles Read Free Book Online Page A

become
Moaners?
    The
florist at the end of my street back home was among the first to go
missing near me.  She used to set up her wares each afternoon
and sell to the businessmen as they returned home to their wives or
rushed to rendezvous with a weekend lover.  Next, it was the
mailman.  An entire week went by without a single delivery.  At
first I thought it was a little odd.  Then it became downright
worrying.  The post office never bothered to send anyone else.
 I haven’t seen either of them in two weeks.  I’d
like to say that I believe they caught wind of the coming panic and
skipped town, but I don’t.  
    The
kids that used to hang out on my street corner, playing chicken with
taxis or dodging in and out of stores in small groups vanished not
long after.  Poof.  Gone.  
    Ten
days ago, during those hours in the night when I was halfway between
sleep and dreamsville, I heard shouting and the rumbling of engines.
 Men on loud speakers directed soldiers who scurried out of open
bed trucks and Humvees.  They broke down doors and ransacked
homes.  I curled my pillow around my head and hummed as loud as
I could to cover the shouting till the sun rose. When I awoke,
 silence had fallen over my street.
    That
was the last night I slept in my house alone.  After that I
stayed at the hospital.  
    The
sound of glass crunching underfoot behind me makes me freeze.  I
strain to listen, praying that I’m mistaken.  Maybe it was
a cat. Judging by the smell there are plenty of those still around.
    Another
crunch.  And another.  The shuffling gait makes my pulse
thump in my ears.  I hear heavy breathing now, a rasping that
sounds like wind funneling through a moist cloth.
    “Oh
God, no!”  
    If
it were day, I would easily be able to see vacant, glassy eyes.
 Pallid skin.  Oily, unkempt hair falling over her face.
 It is a her.  I can sense that.  Maybe it’s her
body odor that alerts me, or the small catch in her breathing.
    The
thing walking toward me doesn’t move fast, doesn’t show
any sign of hesitation at the sound of nearby gunfire. It just keeps
coming.
    I
back toward the light, terrified of being seen but there is no way
I’m staying in this alley with her.  At the exit, I pause
and glance around.  I’ll be exposed when I step out but
it’s a risk I have to take.
    I
take three steps backward and hit something cold and solid.  A
scream erupts from my throat as I turn to see a man standing behind
me.  His cheek-length blond hair is matted with filth.  A
deep gash has peeled back the skin over his right eye.  Flesh is
torn from his jaw, revealing six teeth buried in his gum.  There
is no recognition of pain.  No attempt to stunt the blood
seeping down his face.  He does not look at me, but beyond me.
    His
right foot is turned inward.  He steps toward me and I panic.  I
trip over the gutter and land hard on my back side. Still he comes.
 Unseeing.  
    I
have never been so close to one of them.  Judging by the foul
scent clinging to his clothes, he turned a while back. Perhaps as
much as two weeks ago when people first started disappearing.
    Over
my shoulder I see the woman behind me.  She can’t be more
than five steps away now.  The stench of feces emanating from
these two makes my eyes water.
    Scrambling
to my feet, I ignore the pain in my palms and knees as I narrowly
miss the man’s step.  He jerks as his broken foot lands
unevenly in the storm drain.  His hoarse moan grows deeper as he
twitches, trying to yank his foot free.  I cower against the
wall, watching in wide eyed disbelief as the woman emerges from the
alley and walks straight into the man.  
    Turning
to the side, my stomach heaves in response to the sickening snap of
bone.  The woman barrels over him.  Together they fall
toward the street, the man’s foot now attached only by a
stretched bit of skin.
    I
can’t look.  I hear the sounds of their struggle but I
can’t bear to see it.
    A
hand falls over