Glory (Book 1) Page 5

  "I'm sorry…I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

  Jane let the first shovelful drop onto her child. Most of it covered the little girl's face. Though she could still see Becky's eyes, staring up at the sky.

  She placed more dirt into the hole. And some more.

  Then she heard something behind her.

  Jane quickly turned to see what it was -who it was. Standing there was her neighbour's son, Harold. He was a teenager, maybe fourteen years old. He stood there looking at Jane as though he was trying to figure out what was happening.

  Jane didn't know what to make of him, either. Until now, she had thought that she might be the only person alive.

  "Harold?" Jane finally managed to say. "Is that you?"

  Harold didn't reply. At least, not in the way she had expected. Not the way that she hadhoped. He screamed. Then he charged toward her, fists held out in front of him.

  As he approached, Jane's mind continued to race until it came upon a very simple solution. She raised the shovel and waited for the teenager to get closer.

  She couldn't panic. She knew that she wouldn't survive if she didn't concentrate.

  She watched as he ran toward her, his feet pounding against the lawn.

  When he got close enough, Jane closed her eyes and swung the shovel at him with all of her power. She didn't see it connect, but she heard the dull whack as it connected with his skull.

  She opened her eyes and saw that she had knocked him to the ground. He hadn't given up. He was growling and trying to get to his knees.

  Jane lifted the shovel and smashed it back down against his head. There was another dull thud. And another. She kept hitting him until he was no longer trying to get up. Until he stopped moving. Until he was dead.

  When she finally stopped, Jane looked at the young man. His face was unrecognizable. Nothing more than battered flesh and blood.

  And she had done that.

  She took a few deep breaths. More out of exhaustion than anything else.

  Then, without a word, she turned back to the grave and finished burying her daughter.

  Chapter 2

  Claire woke up the next morning. The man hadn't touched her. He hadn't let her go, either. She was still stuck in the garage, attached to the desk.

  She wanted to pull at the handcuffs again, except she knew that it wasn't going to work. If anything, it would just make a lot of noise. Then the man would come back in. She didn't want to see him.Ever.

  She knew that she wasn't going to bethatlucky, though. The man wanted her to thank him.To fuck him was more like it. Claire felt sick at the thought of it.

  Maybe there was something she could use to fight him off.

  The idea flew into her head and gave her somewhat of a rush. She didn't feel as defenceless. She might be able to find something to help her.

  She looked along all of the shelves. There were tools everywhere. Any of them would have helped her. Unfortunately, they were all too far away. She couldn't reach them.

  She looked on the desk. There were a few things there. Nothing that would do much damage. Some paper. Some bolts.

  Then she saw a pen lying underneath the desk. It was within her grasp.

  That might work!

  She quickly reached over to grab the pen. Her handcuffs rattled as she did. She didn't pay it any attention. She needed the pen.

  She felt the tiny plastic tube in her hand. It felt strong to her. Like her salvation. She'd just have to wait for the man to come back. When he got close enough she'd jab it into his neck. She didn't know if it'd work, but she had to try.

  Claire sat there holding the pen when the man returned. In his hand was a bottle of water. He held it out in front of him.

  "Want some?" he asked.

  Claire nodded her head. He hadn't given her anything since he had captured her. But the real reason was that she wanted him to come closer. She needed to be able to reach out to attack him.

  "What do you say?" the man asked. His voice took on the sound of a parent trying to teach his child manners.

  "Please."

  "What was that?"

  "Please," Claire repeated, a little louder this time.

  "I can't hear you. Speak up."

  "Please!" Claire shouted. She couldn't contain herself. Everything was getting to her. Her situation. The anticipation of getting out of here.

  The man burst into laughter. "I'll give you more than water in a little bit, you slut."

  He threw the water at Claire. She could have easily caught it, but the pen was in her hand and she didn't want to risk losing it. She also couldn't let him see that she had it. The bottle bounced off of her shoulder and rolled onto the ground.

  "Are you fuckin' joking me?" the man almost screamed. "Anyone could have caught that!"

  Claire looked up at him. "I wasn't ready," she said. She made herself sound more useless than she felt. "I'm sorry. Could you please hand it to me?"

  "Hand it to you?" The man took a step toward her. "Fuckin' hand it to you? You're lucky I even offered it to you!"

  Claire nodded her head.She just needed him to get a little closer.

  He walked over to the bottle and picked it up. Then he held out for her. Both knew that it would be too far for her to reach. Claire didn't even try.

  "Now, what will you give me for this water?" he asked.

  "Please. I'm thirsty. Let me at least have a sip."

  "I will. But what will you give me for it?"

  Claire looked down. She wasn't going to answer. She knew what he wanted. And she wasn't going to give it to him. Not if she could help it.

  The man came a bit closer.

  "How about a kiss?" he asked.

  Claire continued to look down. She squeezed the pen tightly, preparing herself.

  "Just a little one," he added.

  The man came closer still. Claire kept her head down. She needed him to keep coming. Just a little bit more.

  "Just one little..."

  Claire stabbed the pen at him, but the man was too quick. He lifted his arm and blocked Claire's attack. She felt her wrist slam against his. He grabbed her arm and pulled the pen free. Once it was out of her grasp, he hit her across the face.

  "What the fuck is this?" he asked. He looked at the pen, carefully. "You were going to try to kill me with a pen? Are you fuckin' joking me?"

  Claire looked up and spat at him. Her plan had failed. But that didn't mean that she was going to give up.

  He hit her again.

  "You fuckin' slut!" he shouted.

  "Fuck you!" Claire shouted back.

  "Fuck me? Fuckme?"

  He hit her again. And again. Each blow sent waves of pain through out the whole of her body.

  "You dare talk to me like that?" the man said after he had stopped hitting her. "Do you even know who I am?"

  Claire didn't answer. She wasn't even sure that she could. Her lip had already swollen and was covered in thick blood and spit. She moved her tongue over top of her teeth and felt a sense of relief that they were all still there.

  The man reached down and grabbed her chin in between his fingers. He forced her to look at him in the eyes. She was close enough to him now that she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

  "I'm Big Mike!" he said. "You don't fuck with Big Mike!"

  At this, Claire started to laugh. It wasn't loud. But it was enough to bother the big man.

  "What the fuck are you laughing at?" he asked.

  "Your name," Claire said. She wanted her voice to sound louder, stronger, but it was too difficult with her face grasped between his fingers.

  "What about my name?"

  Claire chuckled again. "You're a cliché!" She spat at him.

  "A cliché? What the fuck is that?"

  Claire started to laugh louder, red spit spraying from her mouth.

  "Tell me," Big Mike said. He continued to squeeze her chin. "Tell me! What's a cliché?"

  Claire finally managed to pull her face away from his cruel
fingers.

  "You!" she screamed. "You're a cliché! Just one big fuckin' cliché!"

  Big Mike couldn't take it anymore. He slapped her across the face. She fell backward and hit her head against the desk. He punched her a few more times. She tried to pull her arms up over her head but she couldn't really defend herself. Her one arm was still handcuffed down.

  Big Mike stood up.

  "A cliché?" he said. "I'll show you a fuckin' cliché!"

  He reached down and pulled Claire up. She couldn't do much to fight against him. Her head was spinning and she had very little energy.

  He spun her around. Her wrist tugged at the handcuffs. She felt a searing pain run through her arm. Then Big Mike put his hand on the back of her head and pushed her down onto the desk. The side of her face smashed heavily against it.

  "You wanna see a fuckin' cliché?" Big Mike screamed. "You'll fuckin' see it!"

  He pulled at her hair and then smashed her face down once more. She felt the side of her cheek explode with pain. She knew it had busted open. She could see her blood starting to smear the top of the desk.

  "A cliché, a cliché!" Big Mike continued. "A fuckin' cliché!"

  She felt him reach around her front. He was grabbing for something. She didn't know what.Then she realised that he was unbuttoning her jeans.

  He quickly pulled them down and whistled loudly. "My, what a fine piece of ass! You're gonna get all the cliché you can handle right now!"

  Claire still couldn't move. She didn't have the energy. And though she wanted to fight back, she couldn't.

  She felt him slip his fingers greedily underneath her panties. He pulled them down too.

  He slapped her ass and whistled again.

  He unbuckled his belt next. It clinked loudly. Then he pulled his pants down and pushed up against her. She could feel his weight pressing down on her from behind. She could feel his erect penis pressing against the back of her legs.

  He put his head down closer to her.

  "Are you ready to thank me now?" he asked.

  Claire couldn't speak. She could barely breathe with him on top of her. She wanted to push him off. But all she was able to do was close her eyes.

  She felt his lips press against her ear and give her a soft kiss. Then he pulled back and grabbed his penis. He shoved it into her. She moaned in pain. Big Mike mistook it for pleasure.

  "I knew you'd like it," he said, thrusting deep into her again.

  Claire bit down on her bottom lip as he continued to rape her.

  *

  Claire woke up a few hours later. She was lying on the ground. Her hand still cuffed to the metal desk.

  She looked around.No one.

  She touched her face. It burst with pain.

  She licked her lips. They tasted of blood.

  It was difficult for Claire to move, but she managed to sit up. She looked down. Her bottom half was naked, except for her socks. Big Mike had kept those on.

  Claire didn't know where Big Mike was. She really didn't want to. She was tired and thirsty. She hurt badly.

  In front of her she noticed the bottle of water. She reached over and picked it up. Her whole body screamed out as she did so. Especially her arm. But she needed to drink something.

  Carefully, she tried to open the top. It was hard for her fingers to manage. They were weak and continued to shake. Eventually, she managed. She put the bottle to her mouth and took a few sips. The water was warm, but tasted good, nonetheless.

  She rinsed out her mouth and spit onto the floor. Blood-filled water splattered everywhere. She tensed at the noise. She hadn't meant to make a sound. She didn't want Big Mike to come in and see that she was awake.

  She waited for his footsteps. They never came. There was no sound anywhere.

  Claire took the time to look around the garage again. There had to be something to help her escape. She was surrounded by tools.

  There had to be something within her reach!

  There wasn't. They were all too far away. Even the pen had been thrown to the other side of the room. She didn't think that would've been much help, anyway.

  She kept looking around. Her jeans were in a pile on the floor. As with everything else, they were too far away to reach.

  She put her back against the metal desk. And, though she tried her best, she couldn't stop herself from crying.

  Chapter 3

  When Adam opened his eyes, it was light outside. The sun was shining through his window. He stretched, shook his head and looked around his room.

  "Was it all just a dream?" he asked himself aloud.

  He wasn't sure if the events from last night had actually happened. They seemed too bizarre to be real. He must have invented them.

  He took a few deep breaths and got out of bed.

  Once up, he looked back over at his bedroom window and thought about checking outside. That would answer any of his questions. He'd either see a mess or things would be back to normal.

  But he wasn't ready yet. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to know.

  Adam walked into his living room. From here, everything looked fine as well.

  It must've been a dream. It really must…

  He heard a wild scream come from outside. And, just like that, knew that it hadn't been a dream after all.

  Adam went to the window and looked out. Below him, there were still several bodies strewn through out the road. Limbs were torn from them. Blood covered most of the road. Car windows had been smashed. As had store windows.

  He looked down the street and saw that his favourite restaurant had caught fire some time in the night. There was nothing left of it. It was simply a charred out place, black on the inside and out.

  He heard the scream again.

  Adam searched around the street below him and came upon a man wandering around. The man swung his arms around wildly. He looked frustrated with something. Angry. He continued to shout. Adam didn't know at what.

  As the man passed by he hit a car, kicked a few bodies. But, eventually, he wandered off and Adam was left alone.

  Adam kept staring out the window. He had no idea what to make of any of this.

  The TV, he thought.Maybe there'd be something on that!

  He rushed over to the television and grabbed the remote. His finger shook as pressed theon button. Nothing happened.

  He tried a few more times.

  Nothing.

  He remembered.The power had gone out.

  He placed the remote back onto the television. It wasn't going to work. He wasn't going to find out any news about what had happened.

  "Shit," he said. "This is bad."

  Adam sat down on his couch. He wasn't sure what else to do. He knew that he had decided last night to leave, that he couldn't stay here. But seeing the man outside in the light, seeing the destruction, didn't make that decision very easy for him.

  No, he couldn't stay here. Not with all of the dead bodies rotting in their apartments.

  If he was worried about all of the dead bodies in his building, it frightened him even more to think about all the dead people out on the streets. There could be millions of them. And with them would come disease.

  He'd have to leave his apartment. He'd have to leave the city. He didn't have much of a choice.

  Adam got up and went back to his room. He opened his closet and pulled out his backpack. He held it out in front of him, looking at it with a moment of fondness. After university, he had spent a few months travelling around Europe. He had done so withthis backpack. It had become important to him. It made him feel comfortable.

  It also reminded him that the world he once knew was gone.Probably. Part of him kept hoping that he might be wrong. That maybe it wasn't as bad as it looked.

  He began packing it with his things. He decided to only bring the essentials. He didn't want to be dragged down by too much. Plus, he figured that he'd be able to find a lot of things along the way. There would be stores that he could go into. Houses. Even thing
s on the street.

  For now, he just needed a few things to change into, to keep clean, to keep warm at night when the temperatures dropped. He threw them into the pack. He put the flashlight and knife in also.

  When he got to his desk he saw the notebook filled with the story he had been writing. He picked up the pages in his hand and leafed through them. He thought about his characters, the plot. It had all come out of him so easily. It was something that he loved.

  But should he take it with him?

  In the end, he decided not to. There was no point. He wasn't going to finish it. No one was going to read it.

  He put it down and walked over to get his backpack.

  Time to leave.

  He made his way to the front door. His heart had started to pick up its pace. He couldn't believe that he was actually about to do this.

  He grabbed hold of the door knob and squeezed it tightly. Images of the bodies outside his window flashed through his head. He thought about the man who had tried to get into his apartment yesterday. There'd be a bunch of people lying in the hallway too.

  He squeezed the door knob once more.

  Then he let go of it.

  He wasn't ready. Not yet.

  Help still might come, he thought.

  He walked back into the living room and went over to the window. He placed his backpack onto the floor as he looked outside once more. There was no one out there, nothing moving.

  But help might come.

  Chapter 4

  Jane walked back into the house. Her daughter had been buried underneath the maple tree.

  And she had killed her neighbour's son.

  That wasn't really Harold,she thought. She didn't know who it was -whatis was- but it wasn't Harold. She thought of his face, smashed. She pushed the image out of her mind.

  It wasn't Harold. It wasn't.

  She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She reached in and grabbed the juice container.

  Before she took a sip, she stopped and looked at her hand. It was covered in blood. She looked at her other hand. It, too, was soaked. She looked down at her body and couldn't believe how much blood there was.