The Sickness: Monte's Story

By Jeannie Rae

Monte wakes on a seemly ordinary morning to find an extraordinary event has occurred. An insidious sickness has cursed her hometown of Port Steward. Strangers, neighbors, friends and even her own family have fallen victim to the sickness. Monte soon discovers that a bite from someone with the sickness is how the gruesome disease is spread. Once infected with the sickness, it transforms normal people into ravenous monsters with a craving for flesh.
Monte struggles to make her way to safety in a town thriving with disease. As loneliness and paranoia set in, she finds that her newfound freedom from an abusive father is not all she’d hoped for. While faced with the near certain chance of defeat, Monte is unbending in her quest to stay alive, making grim decisions that test her humanity. With a tremendous will for survival, will Monte make it to salvation or fall victim, like so many others, of the sickness?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeannie Rae
• Release date: Dec 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301356942

Jeannie Rae

Jeannie Rae has been writing short stories, poems and book reviews for decades. The last three years have been spent honing her craft and focusing her efforts on novels. Jeannie Rae is a California native, currently residing in Central California. Having both the forest covered, mountains and the sandy shores of the Pacific coast only a few hours from her home, she enjoys the wide range of possible sceneries that her location provides. When not writing, she works full time in the accounting field and spends her time with her husband and daughter, along with their three dogs.

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The Sickness: Monte’s Story

By Jeannie Rae

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Cursed Pen Publishing

[e-mail], www.cursedpen.com

Copyright © 2012 by Jeannie Rae. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the uploading, scanning and electronic sharing or reproduction of any part of this book without written permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than review purposes), prior permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [e-mail]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-3013-5694-2

Title Page art work by Jeannie Rae © 2012 Jeannie Rae

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents Either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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For my beasts- Sissy, Coco & Ginger. –JR

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Table of Contents

Awakening

Showdown

Discovery

Stone-Hearted

Ms. Andrews

Safe Home

Downtown

Wake Up

In Hiding

Hands Up

Displaced

The School Bus

Fear

The Shelter

Deserted

Blue Falls

Freedom

The Sickness

Still Hungry?

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AWAKENING

Sluggishly opening my eyes, I can feel the light and warmth of the sun peeking through the slight opening in my drapes. The window in my minuscule room faces the rising summer sun, if I’m not up by eight, that ball of fire cooks me until I get up. My skin is tacky with sweat, already. There’s nothing I hate more than being penny-saver poor and living on the south side of town. It’s not safe to leave my window open at night—or even at day for that matter. A swamp cooler hangs out of our living room window—the only source cool air in this place, which Dad refuses to turn on until dusk and only for an hour on days when it’s hot as hell.

My name is Monte. I’m sixteen and on the all-girls softball team at Druid High School, in the small coastal town of Port Steward and work part-time at the Taco Shell Taqueria around the corner. All that keeps me going in this miserable existence is playing ball and the thought of getting out of this filthy place.

Rising from my second-hand mattress on the floor, I’m fully clothed in yesterday’s outfit. After a quick change into a pair of blue jeans and a faded blue tee, I stumble my way to the door. Jerking the hair tie from my wrist, I yank up my knotted, blonde hair into a side pony tail. I steal a glance over my shoulder at my room, it’s a sty—but who cares. It’s not like there’s anything remarkable about this second-rate place, so why should my room be any different?

As I shuffle down the hall, the house feels humid and sticky as usual, with almost a wet smell of nicotine. Mom and Dad both smoke enough cigarettes in a day, to penetrate a hole in the ozone layer. They do most of their smoking inside, which leaves behind a smoke so concentrated that it’s nearly a solid. The house is quieter than normal for a Saturday morning. Ordinarily, Mom is in the kitchen fixing breakfast, while Dad is reading the newspaper. And my ten-year-old brother—Sammy, is usually causing trouble, with Dad always hollering at him. Hollering, that’s Dad’s word. Maybe Sammy’s already outside playing. I tiptoe through our empty living room eyeing the primordial, mismatching couch and recliner. There’s no carpeting in this old shack—only ancient wood flooring that may have been used from the same lumber that made George Washington’s teeth. A couple of holes in the rotting, wood floor are located in the bathroom and kitchen—no step zones—as Dad calls them. Moving into the kitchen, I see that our small, discolored table and plastic chairs are empty, as is the rest of the tiny space.

Where is everyone?

After searching the rest of the house and finding it void of all but me, I wonder, do I want to find them? Or should I just take in a moment of peace? Against my better judgment, I head out the back door off the kitchen. The sun hasn’t found its way to the backyard yet, as the house shades most of the patio at this early hour. A gust of cool air hits me when I open the back door, it must be at least fifteen degrees cooler out here, than it is in the house. As I soundlessly step out onto the porch, I see Sammy first, sitting on the ground with his back to me. My kid brother is hunching over like an old man, and his head is hanging low, snaking back and forth. He’s tracing his hands in a circle on the sidewalk in a blob of goo. It looks like motor oil or something. Dad’s going kill him for this one.

My eyes widen as I notice my mother near the shed. Her shoulders are slumping forward and she’s shuffling through the garden, toppling over her marigolds and daisies. She’s still in her nightgown and slippers. And the front of her gown is caked in dark-colored gunk. It looks similar to