DISEASE: A Zombie Novel by M.F. Wahl

“political dissidents”. Opie has an ear for this sort of thing and tonight’s events are sure to start up the underground gossip wagon. Already he has heard three different recollections of what happened here tonight.
    What really sticks with Opie is Alex. He isn’t shocked to see Lot’s interest in the child (she certainly has a type), but it’s been a while, years in fact, since Opie’s had to cover her tracks. Now that child is running loose in the hotel and there’s much unwanted attention on the situation. Opie’s stomach burns.
    All of this uncomfortably reminds him of when his many suspicions about Lot were confirmed. He hadn’t known, not for sure, not until that very moment when Danny, then a distraught little boy, reached out. Opie felt bad, but not bad enough to stop it. Besides, it was the way of the world and it was better the child learn that quickly than harbor a delusion that someone would, or should, save him.
    He had scolded Danny, acted as if he didn’t believe a word the boy said. Opie shamed him so badly that Lot’s secret remains well kept to this day. It was then he realized he had never needed to sell his soul to the devil. His soul, he thought, had been slowly and willingly leaked away day by day. Finally, it was just gone, with barely a shrug of the shoulders.
    Opie rarely allows his mind to drift near Lot’s true nature. He knows her for what she is and knows he will never do anything about it. Not as long as it benefits him not to, that is.
    Acid bubbles in his stomach. The residue of Opie’s humanness often has trouble mixing with his need to put himself first. He can’t stop thinking about the new blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, but doesn’t really matter how he feels, it will be what it will be.
     
    ***
     
    Darkness blankets Alex. It’s comforting and if he could, he would fade into the wall pressed against his back.
    CASEY IS DEAD.
    His muscles are stiff and his joints ache from hours of crouching, wedged between long forgotten janitorial supplies. The smell of cleaning fluid, spilled ages ago itches his nose. Still, he refuses to move, won’t gratify himself with a sneeze. It’s unsafe.
    The doorknob turns. He can’t see it, but he can hear it. It scratches. It booms.
    CASEY IS DEAD.
    The door opens, just a crack, not enough to escape. Alex stays still.
    CASEY IS DEAD.
    He breathes heavily as the door opens a bit more and candlelight reaches its fingers into the closet. The pulsating light ricochets off the walls, distorting everything. Alex squints, his eyes adjusting slowly. A face floats behind the glare of flame, he’s seen it before: Lot.
    She lowers herself to sit cross-legged in front of the door, her body blocking the way out. In her hand is a plate that she shoves a short distance into the closet. On it rests a sandwich, crusts cut off.
    Alex stares at the plate. His heart pounds furiously in his chest and his knees creak as he readjusts himself for a better view of the food. His belly aches so deeply that it’s hard to remember that CASEY IS DEAD.
    He sways on his feet slightly, rocking.
    The sandwich, just an arm’s length away, beckons him. Thick slices of bread leak globs of dark red jam onto a bright white plate that seems almost phosphorescent. His stomach rumbles and it’s all he can hear.
    Alex shoots a dirty arm out of the darkness and swipes the sandwich, leaving the plate wobbling on the floor and crams the sandwich into his mouth. The bread is warm, heavenly, fresh. Sweet, sticky strawberry jam coats his eager tongue. He barely chews, can’t take the time to savor, his stomach demands food.
    And then it is gone. Eaten. And he is still famished.
    Alex, squatting like a true Tarzan-child, grabs the plate and licks the crumbs and leftover jelly from it. It isn’t enough, his stomach screams, he can’t get enough.
    “I made that just for you, Alex.” Lot is speaking. It’s supersonic. Her mouth is moving, her head is shaking and it’s so loud