"My girl...my girl..." I croak, sobbing.”My girl, my husband,
my mum, my dad, my sister, my brother, my friends..."I cry harder, ever
harder, reciting all who I do not have. Half my friends are dead, rotting on
some sidewalk somewhere, probably. Forgotten. Overlooked. Stepped over.
Ignored.

 

And m-my sister, Nancy, she – she - our father...this WDI made her
devour our father…

I bury my face in the pillow, unable to take it. Why is the world so
evil? Why? I used to believe that somewhere…somehow there was this benevolent,
patient, omnipotent being, looking after us and caring about each and every one
of us. Now all my religious beliefs have disappeared like a dandelion seed in
the wind, and all that’s left for me is my family. And even now I’m separated
from them. If I don’t get a cure, I could end up turning into Nancy. I could
relish my daughter’s blood trickling down my throat, I could smile as I rip off
my son’s arm, I could hunt down my husband to kill and drink from.

I howl in despair, utter despair. And crying hurts. Physically as well
as emotionally, and that turns it into an indescribable pain. The infection
makes tears like...a liquid knife. They violently sear tracks across my face,
tracks that leave painful, bloody dents.

"Mrs Melody..." a helper at the hospital sticks his head in
the food flap, his                                                                            
 mouth tightly covered. It’s
quarantine, to stop the infection spreading even more lavishly. I get
three litres of water a day and a meal or two, usually consisting of
artichokes and cabbage and potato, which are pushed through that small black flap
at the bottom of the door, which is locked unless a my food is
being delivered.

I save half my water every day for a shower at the end of the
week. 

That is my agenda, you know.

 Up, cry, drink some water, beg for my relatives to come to me.
Sleep, cry, gulp down the bitter meal, drink more water, plead and yell for my
beloved to visit. Today I feel worse than ever .I want them to kill me. Now.
It’s best for everyone… But then the hospital member says, smiling at me, ”
Astrid Melody- Your daughter, I’m guessing- here to see you. And someone else.
Do you know a Richard...?"

"N-" I stop myself short. My son. How could I forget my son?
I'm getting worse, forgetting those I love already. I wrap my arms around my
feverish body as an unpleasant tingle runs up and down my body. I need the
cure. 

Three days left.

Chapter 3- Astrid

 

"Mum?" I say tentatively. The solid glass panel is pretty much
soundproof, but she can read my lips, if I mouth the words slowly and clearly
enough. 

I'm not allowed to talk through the food-hole like the staff in case I
catch infection. It’s reasonable, but unfair. So terribly, terribly unfair like
everything else in this cruel world.

I take in the bruised eyes, the unhealed scars down her
cheeks, and exhausted, defeated posture and it makes me want to cry and run and
hide like a child. Why? Why her and Dad? What did they do to deserve this? I’ve
been told that ‘why’ is a question for children. It’s not.

 It’s the question of the needy.

 The tears just flow down my
cheeks as I silently beg in my head for us to find enough cures to heal her and
Dad. Only two…

What about the other sick people though? Their families feel as terribly
helpless as I do, sob as passionately as I do, yearn for the antidote as much
as I do. How grey the sky seems today.

Oh, Dad. Oh, Mum.

"Astrid." Her voice is not her own; it’s strangled; garbled
speech, not her former soft tone which consisted of a hint of Scotch contours from
her ten years in Glasgow, and a little bit of the naturally rough German accent
from her childhood; what was a wonderful, interesting combination.

What doesn’t exist anymore.

The WD can’t talk. She’s already on her way there. I have to help. I
just have to. How, though? I’ll never get her that sacred elixir on time... I
banish the fearful thoughts from my mind with some difficulty.

“Richard,” she says, tenderly reaching out a hand to him but then
dropping it sadly by her side, remembering the imposing glass wall that
separates us.

“Astrid,” she says again, her face brightening again. There's a
wonderful golden shimmer of hope and love in her eyes, and that's more than I
can hoped for.

 Not WD yet, I tell myself. Not yet.

"I love you," I whisper reverently, shaking as the precious
words leave my trembling lips. She needs to know that I love her with every
inch of this heart that beats in my chest.

She.

Needs.

To.

Know.

 

My mother slowly advances towards the glass, staring at me with
longingly with her sharp emerald eyes. I impatiently wipe salty tears away from
my own. No time for weakness. You need to
be strong for her, I tell myself.

"Hello, Mum."

I whip around abruptly, forgetting that Rich is with me. His voice is
thick with emotion. Tears are clear in his words but no tears cascade down his
cheeks. Classic Rich.

"We’re going to find a cure for you and Dad," he says determinedly.
"And everyone else. We're trying Mum. We're trying."

"I know," she murmurs at both of us, nodding continuously in
gratitude as her eyes glass over with inescapable tears."I
know."

"You need to leave now," says the hospital helper. Not much
sympathy. He’s probably led families towards their infected loved ones, to find
the victim of WDI screaming for their blood. And how the families break down
and give up all the hope they had nurtured inside of themselves.

I nod, reluctantly tearing myself away from her.

"Let's see Dad, “Rich mutters, quickly taking off down the hall.

*

Our squad has run out of cures, and we don't have a clue where
to attain them.

Well.

There are many cures somewhere, if I’m remembering correctly. But at
Benton Park. The biggest WD lock-up we have. And they are escaping from their
cells, a lot of them, performing many catastrophic massacres.

Too many.

No-one has even tried to control that, so it’s worse than it should be. But
we have to go.

I run Rich and say: "Rich, we have to go to Benton Park."

He looks at me, his face solemn. "You sure you're up for it?"
he inquires.

No, not really. But I have to.

"Yes."

We silently walk side by side, out of the…What do they call it again?
This place is a vast construction by the hospital .It used to be hotel; I think
it’s the Infection Centre now or something like that.

I spend most of my time with my Cure-seeking group or lying on my bed
with only my numerous thoughts company. My team hasn’t met for a fortnight now because
cures are nowhere to be found- except Benton Park.

It feels grey today, but in
fact the sky is a brilliant, unbroken blue, with fluffy balls of clouds
cruising serenely along .The large sun seems closer and brighter than usual,
and warms my face while the breeze gently caresses my bare skin. Beautiful and
pure and perfect.

Mocking me.

I scream suddenly, injecting all my feelings into that scream.

Which, obviously, makes it sound lonely yet horrible and scared and
abusive.

“Astrid? What’s wrong?” says Rich sharply, starting abruptly and then
studying my face with concern.

“Mum and Dad are four days away from becoming zombies and you ask me
what’s wrong?” I snap. This guy is so thick it makes my skin crawl.

“Astrid…”

“ ‘Astrid’ what?” I stop in my tracks and face him defiantly. I’m sick
of this. Sick of everyone pretending that it’s all ok.

“You’re not the only one who’s spiralling down into depression, you
selfish mutt!” he bursts , his mood changing in a heartbeat, green eyes blazing
furiously, For a second , my mind goes blank and I gaze numbly into them. His
eyes are so much like Mum’s, it hurts.

And scared, hurt people do crazy, dangerous, unkind things.

“Well no-one has it as hard as me, actually. You just sit by and label
everything as ‘ok’, Richard. You’ve force-fed false hope to me so often, and
it’s not fair. Every time I get my heart ripped out again. There’s nothing
worse than false hope. And you, Richard, are a flipping false hope machine!”

He looks at me, shocked by my sudden outburst and crushed by my harsh
words. Which makes me even more frustrated. I want him to feel like he - he
resents me or something; I want him to yell at me; I want to see him as bitter
and malevolent as I am. I want to know that I’m not the only one who’s losing
it.

 I don’t want this poignant look
of betrayal and disappointment and extreme sadness that fills my senses to
overflow.

“Aaargh!” I scream.”It’s not fair! IT’S NOT FAIR.”

“Astrid...”

“Shut up!” I throw my hands in the air, crazed.”Just SHUT UP!”

His eyes plead with me. “Astrid, it’s ok…”

I screech again, loud and piercing and furious. See? There’s that
infuriating ‘It’s ok’ thing again. He just can’t help it, can he? Can’t help
but destroy me.

Running.

 Away.

I don’t know where, I’ll just go where my legs take me. I can hear him
pelting after me, but I’m not going to stop. Because I’ll do something   terrible, something… anything…

Even though he’s a man, and I’m only a young female adult, I’m still
much faster than him. I’d always excelled at cross-country as well as short sprints,
and almost always came top of my class at P.E. when I was younger .

So I just put on speed and desperately race away. He doesn’t relent
following me for about three miles; then he is forced to stop.

“Astrid!” he calls. I can tell that simply shouting two syllables is a
struggle for him.

I plough on, tears blinding me; I could be running into anything.
Eventually, of course, I trip over something; a large stone in the road, I
presume. I bellow loudly in rage and humiliation as I tumble head over heels
several times before I ground to a halt, blood and tears impairing my vision,
my hands severely grazed, my jeans torn open at the knees with dirt in the
wound that bleeds freely from it.

I should just let a WD drink from me. Give joy to at least one person-or
is a WD a thing?

Anyway, that’ll greatly benefit everyone.

I don’t think I’m good for anything else.

Putting my head in my hands, I sob uncontrollably, large, gut-wrenching
sobs. I don’t remember being this bad, even when I was told that Mum and Dad
had been infected. I was sad and horrified an all, but then, like, I thought, I’m a cure-seeker                    ; I’m bound to get
something soon.

Through my tears I laugh inanely, humourlessly. Oh, fate. How your cruel
game must be so riveting.

I bang my head against a wall, relishing the pain.

I deserve it.

God knows, I deserve it.

For an hour I just sit there, sit there in urine that had spurted out of
me in all my sadness, crying piteously and begging pathetically and smashing my
head-hard- against the wall, harming myself in various ways, until I see Rich
in a truck, wasting precious fuel for me, me, stupid little useless ungrateful
worthless me.

No. No no no.

I can’t bring him more misery.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve and start tearing away again.

“Astrid, please!”

The desperation in his voice stuns me; I finally. “I don’t get it,” I
cry out, turning round.” Why do you still care after all I do?”

He sprints towards me and I back away, but stumble again and surrender
into his arms, too fragile and too fatigued to do anything else. He doesn’t care
about the fact that I’m a mess of tangled hair, tears, blood, and excretion; he
just keeps rocking me, rocking me, never leaving me while I let out all the
moisture in me in the form of an endless torrent of tears. Caring.

“I don’t deserve it,” I whisper, so quiet he can’t even hear me. “I
don’t.”

He hands me a bottle of water and a handkerchief. With shaky hands I mop
up my face and gulp down the water, hiccupping about every five seconds.
“Rich?” I say.

He removes several strands of hair that obscure my face. “Yeah?”

“Why-“

“Because you’re my sister; I love you,” he cuts in, knowing my question
before I’ve asked it. My younger brother Rich, who acts like my older brother.
Always there. Always loving.

“Let’s get you home,” he says, lifting me onto his back like a child.
“See? You get a piggyback. Extra-nice treatment. Enjoy it while you can,” he
jokes in a light attempt to cheer me up.

“I always get extra-nice treatment from you, Richard,” I say. “You’re
always so…so..”

“So handsome? A tall, pulchritudinous- absolutely gorgeous that means,
of course- hunk who you would want to date if I wasn’t your brother?”he
suggests, grinning, while he helps me into the truck . “Oh and I guess I might
have a touch of benevolence.”

I laugh, actually laugh. He’s the only one who can tease this sort of
real, happy  chuckle out of me. “Yeah,” I
say. “All that. And more.”

He drives back towards town, spewing out a dictionary-fool of words even
slightly related to ‘good-looking’ and ‘awesome’.

We settle down in his flat, one of the ones reserved for Cure-seekers
and WD-hunters. I refused to reside there; I live in my former home.

Now it’s just a place I sleep in.

Not a home.

Just a large, empty building; I have it all to myself. I’m lonely, you
know, a grain of caster sugar rattling around in a great big teacup of a house.

His flat consists of a miniscule bedroom with a mattress squashed up in
one corner and a small chest of drawers in the other, a tiny washroom with a
shower and a basin with black hair speckled all around it, a kitchen of about
two metres in length and one metre in width, and then his living room. There’s
a tiny table with a laptop and a TV, an old one, as well as a sunken couch.

“So,” he says, sinking into a sofa. “We have a lot of talking to do.”

I nod in agreement. “Yes, we do,” I say, my face apologetic and my gaze
not quite reaching his eyes.

 

I slump on the bed, distraught. Only two days remaining and no sight of
a cure. I should be getting worse at this stage, though; so I guess I shouldn't
be complaining this much.

Each room has a couple of books in them. Since there were no adult cells
left, I was put in one of the children’s areas. So all I have to take me away
from this world are some fairytales and a crappy joke book. Picking up the fairytale
book, I open it. I don’t get carried away into the story. I get lifted back
into sweet childhood memories of my parents reading softly to me by my bedside,
of me running towards their room because I had a foolish nightmare that the big
bad wolf was coming to eat me up, and then that flows to me reading them to
Astrid and Richard…which makes me cry again.

Throwing the book onto the floor and stamping on it, I lean against the
wall, crying yet again while my cheeks flame. When I’ve worn myself out, I sit
heavily back on my bed, awaiting my meal.

Food and water slips silently into the room after ten minutes. I
hungrily attack it and stuff three cabbages and an artichoke down my throat,
unaware of the bitter taste, washing it all down with water .Since all the
hospital water comes from a still it- at least, it usually is.

But all of it- the cabbages, artichokes, and water- tastes sweet. Like
blood.

I freeze, replaying what I just thought in my head. Blood. I
glance at my arm and do a double take. I bit myself. Blood is seeping out of a
tooth-shaped wound. 

"Oh…Oh no, please no…" I whisper. 

But I can't help it.

 I bend my head and lap up the candied, luxurious, ruby-red
liquid.

And love it.

 

 

Chapter 5- Astrid

 

The evening passed with a lot of tears and a lot of mugs of hot milk. I
asked him whether he’d come back to our house…asked if we could make it a home
again.

“If that’s what you want,” he replied.

“Only if that’s what  you want, “ I told him.

“Then definitely,” he had said, smiling at me and I smiled back. Warm
and happy for the first time in over a long, long year. But that was brief
happiness, not the type that lasts for ages and ages. I still feel useless. He
cares about me so much and look what I’ve done to him in return- insulted him
and accused him. I just have to be nice, now. Nice until I die. Which should be
pretty soon.

Word of advice: Never trust or love or associate yourself with Astrid
Melody. All she’ll do is deliver a huge punch to the stomach.

 

*

I stand before Mike Danielson, the General of our group, in his office.
One of the few places that haven’t been looted, raided, or used as a
toilet. No rooms are even on the verge of decent anymore, no clothes that are
worn are half-way clean. But Mike is always impeccable.

"We have to go to Benton Park,” I press on, exasperated.”Vast
amount of the WD escaping. No cures. How do you think this is going to turn out
if we ignore it?"

Rich and I have been debating furiously about this for half an hour with
this unyielding man and Mike's starting to get on my nerves.

 Mike says, yet again: "Too risky. We can't endanger anyone in
going off..."He sighs irritably." We just can't lose any more people,
alright? This will probably turn out to be a disaster."

"My mum and dad have two days left. TWO, Danielson, TWO." I
hiss at him. Anxiety has driven me into anger.

"Maybe you won't let anyone else come with us, but we’ll go
ourselves," Rich tells him.

“You two are going to get killed.” He swivels round on his
spinning-chair and stands up. “We have lost enough already, and the amount of
uncured is drastically increasing. There have been thoughts of another
infection centre running about for ages, but we are already low on staff with
even the single one we have now. And know you two” – he stabs a finger in the
air in our direction - “are disappearing off and not pursuing any cures that we
at least have a chance of attaining.  My
guess is that our op is just going to collapse soon. And we’re the only
Cure-seeking group in this town.”

“And what if we come back with bag loads of cures, huh?” Rich retorts

“The chances of that are so slim it’s stupid to even think about it,” he
replies,glaring at me.

“Mike-“

“No no no no no. What part of ‘no’ don’t you get, the ‘n’ or the ‘o’?”

“The actual word ‘no’, “Rich replies.

“Hah hah, very smart.” He drops back on his seat.

“Can’t lose anyone else, Melody.”

“We can’t just sit on our butts forever, Mike! The antidotes aren’t just
going to walk on over here.”

“Discussion closed,” he says, spinning round on his seat to gaze out the
window.

“We’re still going.”

“I forbid you to ask anyone other of the group members.”

“Then we’ll just go,” Rich answers simply. “C’mon Astrid.”

“Melody!” Mike thunders.

  

 

I crave desperately for more, so much that I feel like screaming
and pummelling the walls; demanding .

More blood.

Lots more.

I want that glorious, saccharine taste to wash over my tongue.

Seeing the hand slip in the food-flap, I lick my dry lips.

That hand has blood in it. Fresh, delicious blood, red and sweet and hot

I can smell it; tickling my nostrils as I quiver with anticipation.

There.

Gone.

I've missed my chance.

 

*

Somewhere in my brain there’s this insistent voice screaming at me to
not give up, to not become an evil beast. Think
about your children, it says, you could
harm your own beloved children: stop it!

I don’t know which I should listen to. But I want more blood, though.
How I so want it. So I resolve to do what my body wants-the path of a WD. But
less of the crazy, I guess. I’ve always hated wacky or odd or mad or unusual. I
prefer…normal.

Yeah, and drinking
blood is so normal, that voice says
sarcastically.

Is when you’re one
of the WD, I shoot back, Is when you’re one
of the WD.

 

This time I don't keep it in. What's the point? I don’t even
see the point in life, really. You die eventually and just leave those you love
in pain. And if you’re WD- well, then you’re dead but alive forever. Unless one
of the hunters-like my daughter- cut you down. Like my daughter…not a hunter, I
remind myself. She’s a cure-finder. Whatever. Pretty much the same, anyway.

I fling the plastic plate at the glass panel, yelling at the top of my
voice, even though they can't hear me.

"Blood is my food, my drink, my one and only love," I shout,
furiously, beating the glass with my fist in a moment of pure, angry insanity. "And
I will stop at nothing to get it."

Absolutely nothing.

I'll be waiting by the food flap next time. I’ll grab that hand. And
I'll feast.

But it still won't be sufficient enough.

It will never be.

Chapter 9 –Astrid

 

We look up at the tall, grey; foreboding building that looms before us. Glass
from a smashed window falls and tinkles on the pavement, making me jump. I swig
some water from my half-empty bottle and pass it to him, trying to ignore the
fact that my hand is still  shaking, even though I’ve entered many
buildings with WD in them.

We stand there for a few silent minutes."I'm scared," I
admit grudgingly. "And there's just the two of us..."

"I know." He knocks back his head and deeply gulps in the
fresh air. "Could be the last time…" he trails off dramatically.

"Stop making me more scared," I say, taking my pistol out of a
large pocket in my combat jeans."Come on. I’ll cover you."

“Ok,” he says, chewing his lip, serious again. “Watch out.”

“Didn’t I say I’ll cover you?” I tell him.

We slowly advance towards the entrance. My gaze lasers round,
searching for any hint of danger. We are faced with a vertical hallway with
lino floors stained with blood.

I swallow and quickly assess our surroundings.

Two doors on either side. No windows. Where the corridor ends, there are
two other passageways leading off to the right and left.

I cock my head towards the first door on our left, indicating that
we should check there first. Richard nods, braces himself, flings open the
door, and quickly steps to the side, pistol raised, finger stroking the
trigger.

I peer inside after a few seconds. No WD. Just an office with rows and
rows of files. I quickly check the drawers to see if there are any cures
concealed in them while Rich waits at the entrance. Unfortunately, I find
nothing and go back to him empty-handed.

We work methodically, moving down the hall, examining each and every
room, not letting our guard down or relaxing in the slightest. 

Tense and taut, ready for action.

"Right or left?" I whisper as we reach the end of the short
hallway, still lacking even a single cure.

"Um...left," he chooses.

We proceed down that corridor. There are no rooms for about a
hundred meters; just dull, dusty windows with reinforced steel bars.  At last we come to a flight of stairs leading
up to a door . I hear horrible snarling and ripping and
other stomach-turning sounds.

I think we've found the WD.

 

I don't need a 'cure' anymore. This blood-consumed life is wonderful-but
only if I actually have blood. If I don't have that glorious crimson fluid, I
ache so hard and it hurts so badly and I am reduced to punching and kicking in
a screaming frenzy while froth foams up and spills out of my mouth.

I hear footsteps drawing closer and quickly scoot to the side
of the door, pressing myself flat against the rough, beige wall so as not to be
seen. I lick my lips and wait...wait...already dreaming of my love dribbling
into my mouth.

"Mrs Melody?"

A different voice today; young and female.

Several frantic calls later, I hear the same voice yell:
"She's not here! She's not here!"

I sigh as froth drops onto the floor. She was supposed to shove her hand
through the food-flap so that I could grab it and yank it off her body. This
isn’t the  foolproof plan I had thought
it would be. Stepping out of the shadows, I stare into the eyes of the
young woman. Woman? She looks about fifteen, with eyes of a beautiful turquoise and
honey-coloured hair, a smattering of freckles perched upon the tip of her nose.

A dainty little female, with fresh blood. I can smell it, even from
here. O-type. Rare. Sweeter than the rest...much sweeter…I know from the way it
really makes my nose really tingle.

My eyes light up with inhuman greed and my hand slaps
repeatedly against the glass, trying to reach out to her...trying to get that
blood...I have to sink my teeth into that flesh...I can feel my canines
extending...I snarl as she screams and flees.

Then I let back my head and
shriek until my throat is raw and I start coughing up blood. 

Oh. Blood.

There's still blood in me.

Lots more.

I’m still human-ish too, so I can
drink from myself and still live to become fully WD…

A grin slowly spreads across my
face.