First Light (The Daylight Cycle, #1) Read online

His fingers twitched, then stilled.

  Though his companion’s skull had been cracked and excavated, Rose repeated the process on her before dropping the driftwood and beginning her search.

  She found the gun a few feet away.

  Not wanting to risk catching her ring on debris and potentially infect herself while handling the bloodied gun, Rose slid her class ring from her finger and stepped forward.

  Though covered in blood and grime, she was able to pick the gun up and wipe it clean on her pant legs without issue.

  She checked its cartridge, found it still had bullets, sighed, then inserted it back into the chamber.

  She’d never imagined being a graverobber.

  Her first inclination had been to believe that she’d been marooned on a secluded coast. She never imagined she’d end up at the foot of civilization.

  The field before her was desolated—not in the fact that there lay carnage, but that there lay nothing at all.

  Like a ghost town, Rose thought, through a haze of hunger-induced dysphoria.

  “Like a fucking ghost town.”

  Her voice was the unsung nails upon the chalkboard of life, grating unnaturally in a place where there existed absolutely nothing but death.

  Here there were no people, no animals, no sights or smells. What vague notion of human impression lay in the vehicles whose doors had been opened, where papers proclaiming bills or taxes, celebrity gossip or the end of the world sputtered near gutters. The broken glass in the faces of some buildings could’ve been days, even weeks old. To think that anyone could’ve ever been here—

  But where did they come from?

  A sharp clap that she initially mistook as something colliding with a nearby vehicle turned out to be nothing more than thunder.

  Even after all this time, she was still wandering in Mirabelle’s shadow.

  Get a hold of yourself, she thought as she continued to scan the area. You’re getting paranoid.

  She couldn’t blame herself. Months aboard a ship had acclimated her to a life of invisible threats. The weather could be judged only by chance, fish by the number they pulled from the sea. The dead—they were everywhere. They could be around any corner—watching, waiting—

  Rose had just stepped forward when the slap of flesh hitting glass entered her ears.

  She turned, gun in hand.

  The creature whose cruel fate had lent it an eternity trapped in a seatbelt glowered at her from behind a fractured windshield—its torn neck contracting, its pale eyes calculating her every move.

  She sighed.

  A silent, captive zombie served no threat.

  Swallowing, she set her eyes on the one building she felt might have even a modicum of food inside it, and started toward it.

  The convenience store was likely empty. A window display of collapsed glass and spattered blood gave no indication that she would find anything inside.

  Still, hunger drove her on.

  Compulsion made her want to sink her teeth into anything she possibly could.

  It was there: throbbing, churning, waiting.

  The pain was monstrous.

  Gun steady, she pushed open the partially-cracked door and made her way inside.

  The panorama of windows allowed her what light she needed in a space whose electricity had long since died out.

  Overhead, fluorescent tubes dangled from severed beams and arrays.

  To her right, the cashier’s display, relieved of cigarettes.

  And to her left—where, she knew, hope was lost and fragile and in only the smallest place—there appeared to be little more than trash: items spilled across the floor, crushed in the mob of desperate people, shelves knocked over, the smell of cleaning fluid acrid in her nostrils.

  Bracing herself, Rose aimed the gun and swept her sight from one end of the store to the other.

  There stood two doors—one employees only, the other for restrooms.

  Though the latter was closed, it was the former that opposed her ideal of safety.

  Something’s been in here, she thought.

  Or is, if she wanted to be realistic.

  If she squinted just the slightest bit—if she allowed her eyes to level with the darkness permeating the corners of the room—she could see what was inside.

  A painting, a linoleum floor, an L-shaped junction that disappeared into a deeper section of the hall—nothing out of the ordinary. There wasn’t even blood.

  But the door’s open.

  She’d never been one to back down from her problems.

  Before starting toward the threshold, Rose took care to navigate around an upended disability cart whose wheels had long since stopped spinning.

  Teardrops of glass speckled the floor.

  Bullet holes littered one wall.

  The lottery machine was broken—as if someone had thought that even in death, fortune would save them all.

  She was just about to reach the doorway when something shifted.

  She spun, gun raised, and aimed toward the restrooms.

  She’d heard it—just beyond the first shelf. If something were there, surely she would’ve…

  The slight shuffle, then patter of little feet revealed a raccoon—snout plastered with orange coloring, a bag of cheese puffs tugged in its wake.

  “Thank God,” she breathed.

  The creature regarded her for only a moment, then hissed and skittered out the front door.

  Rose sighed.

  Stepping into the threshold, she turned, and after a moment of thought, closed the door behind her.

  If anything, there were at least crumbs.

  She could make do with that.

  The manager’s office was a barren wasteland whose contents had long since been ransacked. The desk overturned, its contents spilled, its drawers cast aside—Rose had to fight to remain standing as she wandered the labyrinth of papers that threatened to send her to the floor.

  Several times, she’d slipped, and once, when she only just barely managed to catch herself, she’d looked at the corner of the desk and thought with morbid apprehension how easily it could’ve split her skull.

  Ouch, she’d thought.

  Her brief search of the remaining furniture revealed nothing more than extraneous documentation and 1980s Playboys. Even worse was that, when she finally discovered what she thought to be a cache of bagged goods, she found it to be merely chip wrappers haphazardly stored away.

  “Fuck.”

  She brushed off the idea that the office could be a safe place and made her way back out into the lobby. The storm waning, the rain now falling in drizzles, she cast a glance back at where the raccoon had been and started forward, hopeful that whatever treasures it’d plundered might remain.

  The moment she looked into the store, she recoiled.

  The sight struck her instantly.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  Though she’d only seen it once, it was enough.

  The corpse was long gone; dead in the only sense the word should have. It didn’t help that it appeared to be screaming—head back, neck extended, jaws and flesh picked away by animals and insects.

  Rose closed her eyes.

  I didn’t even smell the body.

  How would she, though? It was mostly just bones now.

  Except less bloody.

  She shivered, spun about, and shuffled into the aisle, trying her best not to look at the body.

  After finding only one personal-sized pack of chips under a display, Rose started toward the entryway.

  She couldn’t stay.

  Death lived here.

  She ate the bag of barbecue chips by pale grey light. Fingers licked clean of spicy residue, stomach expecting and demanding more, Rose pulled her legs to her chest and sighed as the wind ruffled the hem of her tattered shirt.

  Was this the way things would be now—alone, starving, and running for her life?

  She glanced about her surroundings and tried to consider the pot
ential worth in other buildings. For all she knew, she could be sitting on a goldmine of survival—not in the nail salon arranged flush to the convenience store, or the walk-in cellular center, but maybe the bait and tackle store.

  You’ll never know if you don’t look.

  “I know,” she mumbled. “But—”

  Footsteps broke her thought.

  She waited—trembling unnecessarily, due to the lack of protein within her body.

  The corpse lurched into view. Battered from what looked like a high fall, with several ribs protruding, its gait inhibited by a limp, it swayed uneasily in the light wind and turned its head as if looking for wayward stars.

  If it turned its head just the right way—if it caught sight of her—

  Rose looked down at the empty bag of chips, then back up to the zombie before crouching and taking the battered plastic in hand.

  Once on her feet, she waited for the wind to pick up before letting go.

  Like some guardian angel, the bag floated for almost a minute before colliding with a distant pillar.

  Though faint, the noise was enough to draw the corpse’s attention. Cocking its head, it surveyed the piece of garbage that Rose could only just barely make out, and opened its mouth, shredded lips parting to reveal a jagged array of broken and misshapen teeth.

  Please God, Rose thought as she watched the thing stare, its glossy eyes not even blinking before its lips closed, then parted again, as if prepared to sink into flesh. Just let the fucking thing go and—

  It lurched.

  Her diaphragm seized.

  She’d never thought breathing would cause so much pain.

  Her stomach—how it felt it would simply burst.

  Taking a slow, careful step, Rose arranged herself in the cranny between the pillar and the wall and waited for the footsteps to pass.

  Moments seemed like eternity.

  Masked by the sound of the wind, each step gave rise to panic.

  You have to wait, her consciousness said. If it hears you and it screams, everything will come down on you.

  She shook her head and fought to keep from pushing her hair behind her ears.

  No sooner had she allowed clarity than panic returned.

  She hadn’t heard a footstep in several moments.

  Fuck.

  She flicked the safety off the gun and peered around the corner.

  Nothing.

  She was just about to look to her left when she heard a footstep behind her.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  She spun and slammed her fist across the zombie’s nose.

  Blood and bone caked her flesh as she pushed the corpse away from her and ran.

  A guttural moan—unlike the scream she was used to hearing—ululated from its lips.

  The sound wasn’t likely to draw attention. Her footsteps, however, were a different story.

  She’d little time to rationalize a decision.

  The city bore undead. The wilderness spelled death. Remaining in one spot could mean starvation, but moving from this one could mean exposure.

  Whatever way she figured it, she was fucked.

  It took only a second for her to sprint into the fastest run she could manage.

  The slap of her feet against the concrete, the pale hiss of the afternoon rain, the rumbling clouds that loomed overhead—all mocked her as if they were God and she His measly servant, who in her darkest hour was meant to run through the straits of Hell. What scared her the most, however, was that she’d not been greeted by screams.

  Does that mean they’re gone? she thought. Decayed? Destroyed? Wandered off? Or does that mean—

  She’d just passed a darkened alleyway when the first bay went up.

  “Oh shit,” she moaned.

  The chorus that followed was but a few—two additional, maybe three at the most. Regardless, it struck home a panic she’d not experienced in weeks.

  Adrenaline spurred her on.

  The flurry of footsteps pushed her forward.

  While the head start would only offer a slight advantage, it could possibly save her life.

  The sprint wouldn’t hold for long. She knew it before she even crossed the ten-foot mark. As such, her body fought to rebel. It told her that it was time to stop—to cave and allow muscles starved of nutrients to rest—but survival said otherwise.

  The human machine refused to give in.

  The clap of feet was her only indicator as to how close they were. Her path blocked by cars and other fallen debris, she did her best to zigzag through the more clogged portions, though some prompted the need for vaulting, which she could not expect herself to do.

  The first corpse to hit a nearby car bounced off it entirely, its body slamming to the ground.

  Corpse two attempted to follow.

  Corpse three avoided the debris entirely and chose to stray toward the edge of the road, where the sidewalk was mostly clear.

  A traffic light whose base had been smashed by a convertible dangled close to collapse.

  If something were to hit it even slightly…

  Without thinking twice, she veered straight for the pole.

  The zombie who’d strayed off course bolted for her.

  Rose spun just long enough to determine its location before vaulting onto the convertible’s crushed hood.

  The zombie slammed into the vehicle.

  Held only in place by chance and dumb luck, the pole slipped off the convertible and smashed the zombie.

  A car positioned diagonally was eviscerated by the array of lights.

  The beam rolled, then slammed into another vehicle.

  The pandemonium resonated throughout the street.

  The screech of metal was ungodly.

  Rose’s ears screamed as if stabbed by needles.

  Here, the four-way intersection offered only two options: run toward an area of war-torn highway, or turn and continue into the suburbs. After what she’d endured on the yacht, she didn’t dare make her way toward the area where signs proclaimed ‘docks.’

  The bark of a revving engine tore across her consciousness.

  What the—

  She lifted her gun just in time to see a cargo van speeding up the road.

  The tires squealed as the vehicle came to a halt.

  “Holy shit!” someone from the passenger seat called. “Are you all right?”

  “Get in!” the driver screamed.

  “Look out!”

  Rose spun and fired a shot into a corpse’s face just before it could lash out at her.

  “Hurry!” the driver screamed.

  He revved the engine as if to spur her on and started forward—the vehicle’s pace slow but urgent. She used what little strength she had to propel herself toward the back of the van and snap her hand around the wrist of the man who reached for her.

  In one deft pull, he yanked her into the van.

  Rose collapsed, retching.

  The man slammed the door shut and the driver sped off.

  “Hey. Hey!” the man said, taking hold of Rose’s shoulder and shaking her when she found she couldn’t lift her head. “You ok, lady?”

  “I,” Rose managed, then coughed, reaching up to wipe blood from her cracked lips.

  The man tore the cap off a bottle of water and shoved it into her hand.

  She tilted her head, swallowed, coughed as she took too big a drink, then swallowed again before she said, “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?” the man laughed. “The question is: who are you? You have any idea how many dead fucks there are here? I’m surprised you’re even alive.”

  “I… you…” Rose swallowed. “Where am I?”

  The man blinked, confusion sparkling throughout his black eyes. “Where are you? Lady, you must be really out of it if you don’t know where you are.”

  “I was shipwrecked.”

  “What?”

  Rose coughed. This time, the raw, burning sensation in her nostrils surged to a fever pitch. She was fo
rced to shut her eyes as tears burned down her tear ducts. “Can you just… tell me where I am? Please.”

  “You’re in Newport, miss.”

  “Newport?” she asked, stunned, the haze before her vision thickening as disbelief took hold. “You mean… I’m on Rhode Island?”

  The man only stared.

  Rose blinked.

  She was practically home.

  The world spun.

  Her vision faded.

  She blacked out.

  Miss? a voice asked. Miss. Can you hear me? Are you awake?

  Awake?

  Wasn’t she dead?

  The fluttering wings of consciousness took hold. Trapped feebly in a world in which she could not move, the light appeared like a halo cast from Heaven, and engulfed her in white. So blinding was it that she couldn’t see, and when she lifted a hand to shield her face, she felt a sharp disconnect from the surreal atmosphere.

  The pain—

  Pain. Pain that proved that she hadn’t perished, that she wasn’t in a dream, that she hadn’t gone to Heaven and was by happenstance only just awakening.

  Pain that proved she was alive.

  The battle she fought to regain her sight was ungodly.

  When it came time for the world to surface, she could barely believe her eyes.

  I must be dreaming.

  But no. She wasn’t dreaming. She was here—on a hospital stretcher, with her legs bound at the knee and calf—looking at stone-white walls.

  “So much for being dead,” she muttered, then coughed.

  A shuffle of movement snapped her head around. After being prone for who knew how long, it caused an immense amount of pain.

  “It’s ok! It’s ok!” a teenage girl said. “Everything’s all right. You’re safe!”

  “Where… where am I?” Rose asked.

  The young woman uncurled Rose’s fingers and slid a bottle of water into her hand, her dark skin well-tended and bearing no signs of struggle.

  “You’re in a perimeter,” the young woman said. “A walled area where nothing can get in.”

  Rose struggled to maintain her sanity as she took in the pretty girl’s features. Her full lips, just barely coated with a pink gloss; her eyes, accented with silver glitter; her teeth brushed; her clothes clean—for this to be a dream in which she had reached Utopia would’ve been the greatest practical joke. But somehow, she didn’t believe that.