Surviving The Virus | Book 8 | Pestilence

of his neck stand on end.
He opened his eyes. Stared up into the darkness. He must’ve been sleeping, but it didn’t feel like he’d been sleeping all that deeply. That was kind of the way these days, at summer’s end. He never slept deeply. Not while he and Iqrah were so under pursuit from forces on all sides. Not when someone could stride in and take her away from him at any damned moment.
He heard rain pelting down onto the stone roof of the bus stop above. Outside, he heard it falling from the trees and onto the road. The vague outline of an old country pub, long ago abandoned. The smell of warmth to the air, a freshness that always followed the downfall. A taste of phlegm in the back of his throat that always accompanied a lack of sleep.
And those footsteps.
No doubt about it. Someone was out there. Someone was stalking them. Society? Likely. They’d been hunting him and Iqrah down for six days now, ever since they escaped the Folkesmithe labs. They’d run into the odd infected, but their numbers seemed pretty limited despite the stories of their prevalence in No Man’s Land. Really made Noah wonder just how much all that was a control mechanism after all. Create fear to isolate the people, to put them all in one easily controllable place. Convince them it’s dangerous outside. Wasn’t that how society had always worked, really?
He heard those footsteps edging closer towards the bus shelter and looked around. Saw Iqrah lying there, fast asleep, Bruno by her side, snoring away. He was glad they were here, at least. Glad nobody had already come in here, snatched them. And glad they were asleep, too.
Especially Iqrah.
He didn’t want her seeing what he had to do.
He never liked her seeing violence.
Even though he knew damn well she’d already seen—and been the cause of—so much of it.
He stood up slowly. His knees cracked as he crept to the front of the bus shelter. He stood there, against the slimy, moss-covered wall, and he held his breath. Peeked around the corner.
He didn’t see anyone outside. Only the movement of the rain, flickering in his eyes like white noise.
He squinted over at the off-white walls of the pub, in need of a good wash. And then at the bus shelter opposite. Then further across the street, over towards a green space where people would once have walked their dogs and engaged in normal, ordinary activities.
He didn’t see anyone.
Maybe it was in his head.
Maybe it was—
Movement.
Movement across the street.
Over by the pub.
Walking this way.
He backed into the bus shelter. He didn’t want them to see him in here. He wanted the upper ground of anonymity.
But at the same time... he wanted to know they were safe.
Anyone out there could be a danger to them.
Anyone out there could be a threat.
He stood there. Heart racing. Iqrah and Bruno still sleeping away. He listened to those footsteps as they walked along the road. Splashing through the rain. Getting closer to the bus shelter. And closer.
And he tightened his grip on his knife.
There were ordinary people out here. Good people. He knew that. Stayed aware of that.
But the chances that some ordinary person was just wandering around a village in the middle of nowhere—a village he happened to be in?
That didn’t seem likely.
He stayed stood still. Held his breath. Rain pouring. Heart racing. Footsteps splashing through the fallen water.
And when he was absolutely sure they’d passed by, he found himself at a crossroads.
Wait here. Because they were okay here. They were safe here. There was nothing to worry about in here.
Or go out there.
Stamp out any threat before it even had the chance to become a threat.
He flashed back to the community at Westfield. That day in the woods, before things fell apart. The day that got him locked up. He’d taken out two innocent people. Dumped himself in a huge mess.
But at the same time, he thought of other times. Times he hadn’t acted. Times he’d let things go.
He tightened his grip on the knife and stepped outside.
He saw them walking up the street.
He couldn’t tell, but in the moonlight, he swore they were all in black.
Holding a gun.
Society colours.
He crouched. Crept along. Stalked him as quietly as he could. He swore he heard something crackling. Something like a walkie talkie.
His heart raced even more. His certainty about what he needed to do.
Take this person out.
Eliminate the threat.
Protect Iqrah, and Bruno, and himself.
He crept further down the road. Approached the semi-detached houses, as this person—a man, no doubt—walked on past.
He crept closer to him and raised his knife when the man stopped.
He went to look around.
Noah knew he had no time to waste.
He ran at the man.
Lifted his knife.
Buried it in his neck.
“Pl—please! Ple...”
Noah pulled the knife away and buried it again.
But something was wrong.
Something was wrong, as the warm blood splattered over his hand.
This man. He wasn’t wearing a mask.
He wasn’t wearing Society gear.
And he was holding a fishing rod. Not a gun.
Noah looked down at this gaunt, crying man, lying on the road beneath him, and he felt a wave of guilt crash up to him as he spluttered away.
“Please... please...”
Noah’s jaw tensed.
Tears stung his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m...”
That’s when he heard more footsteps behind him.
The hairs on his neck stood on end.
He spun around and lifted his knife, ready to take down any attackers, anyone who ambushed him.
But when he saw who stood there, his heart sank even more.
Iqrah stood there.
Bruno by her side.
And she looked at the blood dripping from Noah’s knife, at the spluttering body of the man on the road behind him, and Noah saw the crushing disappointment and horror in this girl’s eyes.

Chapter Three
Iqrah didn’t speak to Noah the following morning.
They woke to bright blue skies. A slight chill to the air, teasing autumn to come. Birds chirping overhead. A light breeze rustling the leaves of the trees all around. It was quite a peaceful, serene scene,