Snowfall by Patrick S. (read out loud books TXT) 📕

effort, she started stabbing again and again, into his crotch and thigh and stomach, twisting and slicing with the blade to ensure he could never survive. He must have fallen sometime, because she was straddling him, gouging his eyes and slitting his throat and screaming all the while.

When she finished, she somehow crawled to the front porch, stood, and opened the door.

Her name was lost again. She opened her mouth to say it, but all that came out was blood-streaked spittle. She had remembered her name once, but it was replaced now by an urge to kill, kill, kill. Anything. Anyone. Kill

.

She was walking through the snow without knowing why.

There was a part of her—a nameless, quickly-fading part—that knew her murderous thoughts were caused by the storm. She didn’t want to kill anyone, certainly not in the throes of madness like that man...or had it been a man? She couldn’t remember anymore, but she knew that somehow she must stop before she found someone else alive. If she saw anyone, her rage would not be containable. There was no way she would become one of those things. No way in hell.

When the wind picked up, the woman without a name trudged onward.


1:01 a.m.

It was getting worse outside.

Courtnie Eller huddled in a warm blanket, peeking out the window of her second-story bedroom and trying to tell herself that it wouldn’t happen to her. This infection wouldn’t find her.

A dented red truck came driving into view, faster than the icy dirt road permitted. The driver saw the sharp left turn too late, slammed on the brakes, twisted the wheel, and lost control. Courtnie watched as the truck skidded sideways, sliding as if on a smooth sheet of ice. Then it hit a fencepost and ricocheted off with a bang

that she could hear all the way up in her room, rolled twice, and came to rest on its side, the tires spinning in the air. And then came the infected. They must have been hiding in the bushes, hoping for someone to show up, because Courtnie counted four of them, all wearing skimpy sleepwear. They approached the truck from all sides, jerking and dodging like apes, wary of any hidden dangers. One of them climbed the overturned pickup, crawled to the driver’s door, and reached in. Soon he was dragging a limp form out of the shattered window hole. Courtnie watched, terrified yet awestruck, as the other three surrounded the driver as he toppled to the snow-covered ground. She knew what was coming, yet it still made her gasp when the four infected started kicking, hitting, and mutilating the driver. They became entangled within one another, and soon she couldn’t make out any specific person: just a large mass of devilish, mindless humans tearing apart one of their own.

Shivering, Courtnie slumped away from the window. It was really happening. Dear God, it really was, and still there was no help. The phones were down. Whatever assistance had been promised to those inside the storm was not quick in coming. The storm could span miles, and the infected area could be even larger. She had to face the fact that help wouldn’t come for some time. Until then, she was on her own.

Downstairs, a window shattered.


11:32 p.m.

The TV kept flickering, but sound was steady for the moment. Dressed in sleepwear—a white, long-sleeved shirt and shorts—Courtnie Eller sat on her couch and hoped to find an explanation for the unusual sounds and events she’d been seeing outside.

Ten minutes ago, she’d been awakened by a woman screaming. Alarmed, Courtnie came downstairs, looked out her window, and saw a man break the woman’s neck not a hundred yards away from her country house. It happened so fast that she couldn’t understand what it was, but luckily the murderer ran in the opposite direction, into a copse of trees. Since then, she’d heard screams and yells, blaring horns and soft explosions, as if her peaceful neighborhood was being transformed into a warzone.

Now to the TV, wondering if the events would have made news. She was rewarded: on every local station, an emergency broadcast was playing.

“We are advising everyone to stay indoors at this time,” a man’s deep voice was saying. “If at all possible, seek shelter underground or in a well-defensible area. Do not go outside—I repeat do not

go outside—unless it is absolutely vital. The less exposure to the air you have, the better your chances will be of staying free of the contagion. We are sending men in now to correct the problem, but we cannot guarantee your safety if you choose to exit your houses. Do not let anyone inside your house for any reason. I say again, do not

give anyone from outside shelter. If they have been in the snow, they are infected. Try and stay safe until our men can come to you. If you hear this message, take comfort. We are on the way.”

The message stopped, and a few prolonged beeps accompanied the static image on the screen. Courtnie had a hand over her mouth. The hand holding the remote was shaking. That couldn’t be the whole warning, could it?

Just then, another long beep preceded the man’s voice. Apparently, this message was on a repeating schedule.

“To anyone within Harrin County,” the voice began, “It is important for your survival that you heed this message. There has been an accident at the scientific research facility several miles away, on the state line. Contaminated particles of a classified nature escaped and were dispersed into the air. We have reason to believe that those particles have laced themselves within the stormclouds now over Harrington County, and they are being released in the snowfall. The snow is tainted, people. I say again: the snow is tainted

. The air is no longer safe to breathe. These particles have a very specific effect on the human population. Symptoms include memory loss, irrational urges, hallucinations, and very noticeable rashes. Put in layman’s terms, anyone infected is likely to be very aggressive. They may try and attack anyone, even people they know. We are advising everyone to stay indoors at this time. If at all possible, seek shelter underground or—”

Courtnie shut off the television.

Outside, distant, a man howled in rage. Car tires squealed on a far-off highway.

Like always, the televised warning downplayed the danger. Likely to be aggressive

? Courtnie had already seen a man snap a woman’s neck. That qualified as a bit more than aggressive. That was barbaric.

She didn’t have a basement in this house. There was a storm cellar, but to get in she would have to go outside.

The snow is tainted

.

So she would wait. The message had said that men were on their way. Her house was secluded, and if she turned off all the lights, it would likely not draw anyone’s attention. As for the infected air...well, this was a new house. Her bedroom could be sealed off enough to hopefully trap the air outside. She could put a few shirts over her nose and mouth as well.

She would survive this night. She was a fighter, after all, and at twenty-six, was not ready to die.

Trying to hold down her fear, she took the steps three at a time to her bedroom.


9:34 p.m.

Sipping a mug of warm milk, Courtnie Eller went to the window. She had finished reading her current novel and was having trouble shutting off her mind after a stressful day at the office.

The grey stormclouds overhead, visible by only a few lingering strands of sunlight, might have discouraged others, but not her. She had always loved the snow. In fact, it felt nice to know that she would fall asleep and wake in the morning to a world transformed by nature’s power.

She smiled as the first flakes drifted to the ground.

Imprint

Images: Cover Image Taken From http://www.betterphoto.com/uploads/processed/1051/1012130139201snowfall.jpg
Publication Date: 05-29-2012

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