The Ending Beginnings: Clara (An Ending Series Novella) (The Ending Series) Page 6

  It was Andrew…with another woman.

  Clara focused on the woman. She had long, black hair pulled back in a ponytail that swung back and forth as she walked and laughed.

  “No,” Clara whimpered. Her stomach lurched, and a painful chill emanated from the base of her spine and raked over her body as reality hit her. It was worse than she’d thought. Andrew wasn’t just walking with some woman; he was walking with Joanna.

  Seething hatred burned to life. That fucking black hair. Clara’s heart seized, and she felt her fingernails gouging into her palms as she squeezed the steering wheel. Joanna hooked her arm through Andrew’s before resting her head on his shoulder. Leaning to the side, he kissed the top of her head. He was ruining everything…Joanna was ruining everything…

  That arm Joanna was clinging to was the same arm that had been holding Clara against Andrew’s body only two nights before. That smile he was flashing her was the smile he reserved for Clara. He was hers.

  Clara couldn’t breathe, and her jaw ached as she clenched it. All of the reasons she hated Joanna came back to her like rows of playing cards turning over with one quick sweep of the hand, revealing each and every one of the horrible memories Clara had tried so hard to forget.

  This was her Prince…her Prince. Clara had worked so hard to find him, and he was hers, and they were happy…

  A piercing scream filled the car and sent Clara into action. Pressing the gas petal to the floor, she felt a sense of liberation wash over her as Joanna glanced back, her eyes filled with terror.

  “Josie, look out!”

  Although Clara heard his voice, she was too enveloped by the sound of the revving engine and the sight of Joanna’s pretty little body hitting the Volvo with a solid thud. She was pinned against Andrew’s truck, hopefully dead, and would never be able to hurt Clara again.

  The tension left Clara’s body, and a smile tugged at her lips. She was finally rid of Joanna.

  Peeling her eyes open, Clara focused on her surroundings. The walls of her room were white, barren, the blinds on the window behind her were drawn, and the air smelled of vomit and sweat.

  With a groan, Clara sat up, the ache in her head was duller than before, but it was still there. She felt different, lighter somehow. Glancing around the room, she noticed that it was in complete disarray. Her desk chair was on the opposite side of the room from the desk, her bedside table was moved further away from the bed, and the books that had been stacked on her desk had fallen on the floor; a mound of white rags, mostly stained with yellow and green, were piled in their place. There was puke on the side of her bed and a small garbage can against the wall filled with more vomit.

  A loud bang emanated from the hallway.

  Clara jumped, confused and immediately regretting the motion. As her hair swung into her face, a hard, clumpy mass of it brushed up against her jaw. She froze. Pulling at the strands with her fingertips, she cringed. Vomit was matted in her hair, and she stank horribly.

  Gag reflexes kicking in and forgetting about the noise, Clara ran for the bedroom door, flung it open, and ran down the hall and into the bathroom. She made it to the toilet in time to empty what looked like water into the toilet bowl. Although there was nothing left in her stomach, she continued dry heaving, unable to stop. She felt like her insides were tearing apart, and her muscles were fatigued, barely able to support her weight.

  Trembling and using the wall for balance, Clara inched her way toward the closest shower stall. She turned the nozzle with all her might until, finally, water starting streaming from the showerhead. Twisting the nob all the way to the left, she waited for it to heat from cold to warm to near scorching before stepping, fully clothed, under the falling water. She didn’t have the strength, nor the energy, to strip out of her soiled tank top and pajama pants.

  Although steam filled the air around her, soothing her raw throat and prickling skin, her bones felt brittle with cold. Huddling in the corner, she sat on the tiled floor in a haze of heat and weariness. Beyond the sound of water pouring ceaselessly over her, Clara heard Roberta’s voice echoing in her mind. She felt the pressure of fingers and the discomfort of her muscles as they strained and moved. She felt the roughness of terrycloth against her skin and the biting cold as she was rushed out of the bathroom.

  Words bounced around in her mind, but her eyelids were too heavy to open, her mind too numb to process.

  “…bed…warm…sick…dead…careful…”

  Teeth chattering and body convulsing, Clara felt a soft pressure cover her, comforting her, and something malleable cradled her head.

  “Sleep,” was the last thing she heard before her mind grayed and her thoughts were lost in darkness.

  6

  A crash and screaming woke Clara from a deep sleep. Her mind had been dormant, warm and safe in the fissures of her consciousness. But the crashing sound…it riled her awareness, and the cool air lapped at her exposed cheeks and her nose.

  Annoyed, she sat up in bed. Her room was dark, and she glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand. 7:46 PM. Her stomach gurgled with hunger, and her mouth was stale and dry. How long had she been asleep?

  Peering around her tidied room, Clara was confused. She remembered piles of rags and the stench of vomit. Now, her room was clean; the putrid smell was gone, and the rags and vomit-filled garbage can were nowhere in sight. All that remained was an empty wastebasket on the floor beside her bed, and a mountain of blankets covering her.

  She remembered Roberta’s voice and the warmth of the shower. Clara shivered at the memory. She’d been so cold, so tired. She’d thought she was dying.

  A clatter in the hallway startled her, and she threw the covers back and stepped onto the cold floor. Removing a clean sweatshirt from the bottom drawer of her dresser, Clara pulled it over her head before tugging on a clean pair of jeans.

  Her head was still hazy, and she rubbed her temple with one hand as she opened the door to the hallway with the other. Maybe some food would help…

  Stepping out into the empty hallway, she peered down at the bedrooms to the right. All the doors were closed. She peered to the left. The light of the television flickered in the darkened rec room, sparking a feeling of unease.

  Where was everyone? Clara couldn’t hear chatter coming from the rec room, and it was Sunday, so there shouldn’t have been any group sessions. At least, she thought it was Sunday. Maybe everyone was in the cafeteria for dinner?

  A loud crash startled her. It was coming from inside Alicia’s room, directly across from hers. Clara took a tentative step out into the hall. Another crash, closely followed by a bone-chilling scream reverberated through Alicia’s door.

  “Alicia?” Clara rasped, her voice hoarse from disuse. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Alicia?”

  But there was no answer, only the sound of more crashing and screaming.

  Hesitantly, Clara reached for the handle. The door was locked.

  BANG. Clara jumped back, her hand clasping over her mouth as she tried to control her breathing. BANG. The door rattled and the handle jiggled as what sounded like snarls and growling emanated from the other side. BANG. BANG.

  Fingers wrapped around Clara’s upper arm, and she spun around with a shriek. Roberta stood there, eyes wide with alarm. “That door stays shut.”

  Clara exhaled a shaky breath and let Roberta lead her down the hallway toward the rec room.

  “What happened? What’s wrong with her?” Clara asked, shocked and shaking.

  Roberta glanced down at her watch, and then up at Clara. “You’ve been asleep for almost three days. A lot has happened.” She stopped outside of Samantha’s room and glanced at Clara. “Wait here for a moment.” Slowly, Roberta opened Samantha’s door, poked her head inside, and then entered fully before closing the door behind her.

  Clara peered around the rec room. Most of the lights were off, and except for Greta, an orderly who was on the phone at the nurses’ station, no one was in there. A pile of bl
ankets were folded tidily on the couch as usual, but as far as Clara could tell, everyone else was gone. In their rooms?

  Clara turned back around, her eyes sweeping over all ten of the closed bedroom doors on either side of the hall. Was everyone in their rooms, sick like she’d been? The thought brought on a new wave of dread.

  When Clara’s eyes landed on Beth’s door, she swallowed. There was a large X taped on it. After a few tentative steps, Clara pressed her ear to the door, held her breath, and listened. There was no sound. Beth wasn’t humming, like she often did; she wasn’t talking to herself or screaming and throwing things like Alicia was doing. It was completely quiet.

  Clara tapped on the door gently. “Beth?” There was still no sound. Staring at the handle as if it might burn her, Clara reached for it to find that, unlike Alicia’s, it wasn’t locked. Throat dry and heart pounding, she turned the knob and inched the door open.

  Beth’s room was dark and reeked of the foul stench of bile. Through the dim glow of the moonlight shining through the window, Clara could see Beth’s silhouette on the bed.

  “Beth,” she breathed, willing the meek woman to answer.

  The light flicked on, and Clara screamed. Beth was gray and covered in vomit.

  She was dead.

  “I told you to stay in the hallway,” Roberta reprimanded, pulling Clara out of the room and switching off the light before she closed the door behind them. “There was a reason, you know.”

  “She’s dead,” Clara gasped. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Beth’s closed door.

  “I know,” Roberta said, patting Clara’s shoulder as she walked her toward the nurses’ station. “Most of them are.”

  Clara looked back at the doors, realizing how many of them had X’s on them. “But I’m—you’re…”

  “You were sick, but you got better. Don’t ask me how,” she said as she wrote something in a file. “I have no idea how you recovered while everyone else is either dead or more insane than when they got here.”

  “But, you seem fine.”

  “I was sick too, but it passed quickly. I came into work two days ago and found you in the shower, covered in vomit, and some of the others were already dead from whatever the hell this virus is.” She paused, then added, “Alicia killed Devon and Beatrice.”

  Clara blanched. “Why didn’t the police—”

  “Greta and I called them hundreds of time, but they never came. The last time we tried to get through to anyone, the phone just rang and rang.” She set the file on the counter.

  Clara couldn’t even blink, she was so overwhelmed. “What about Dr. Mallory and—”

  “I haven’t been able to get a hold of any of them, either. It’s just Greta and me for now, until either someone comes to help us or…” She shrugged. “Who the hell knows.” Roberta’s exhaustion was evident. “What happened here and what little I’ve seen on the news is all I have to go off of.” She turned on the stereo they used as a PA system and pressed RADIO. “You should listen to it. I have to go get Samantha some clean sheets. I’m running low on everything…” Roberta continued to mutter to herself as she passed through the rec room and down another hallway.

  Clara turned the volume up on the radio.

  …is at war, yet our enemy is not one we can fight openly. Our enemy has swept through every nation, attacking discretely, killing indiscriminately. We lost thousands before we even knew we were under attack. Many have already fallen, and many more will fall. But we cannot give up the fight.

  Clara wrapped her arms around herself, dread filling every ounce of her as she prepared for what she might hear next. She fingered the backs of her sleeves, drawing her arms tighter around herself.

  Over the past century, through technological achievements, we made our world smaller. We made the time it takes to communicate across oceans instantaneous, and the time it takes to travel those same routes nearly as fast. We made our world smaller, and in doing so, we sowed the seeds of our own destruction: a global pandemic.

  I regret to tell you that as of midnight on the 10th of December, over eighty percent of the world’s population has reported or is assumed dead. It is estimated that the death toll will continue to climb. This news is devastating, I know, but all is not lost.

  Some of us are surviving. This is how we will fight our enemy—by not giving up, by being resilient and resourceful, by surviving. We are not a species that will go out quietly, so I task those of you who are still alive with one essential purpose: live.

  Survive.

  Thrive.

  If you believe in a higher power, ask for guidance. If you don’t, believe in your fellow man. You, the survivors, have the chance to start over, to build anew. Learn from our mistakes. Let the world remain big.

  And most importantly, live.

  God bless you, my beloved citizens of this great nation. God bless you, and goodnight.

  Hearing another crash from down the hall, Clara started trembling. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t care if it meant she was weak and pathetic. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to lose herself to complete madness or get sick again. She didn’t want to turn into whatever Alicia had become. She’d killed Devon. Clara had been with him only days earlier, and now he was dead.

  Absently, she walked toward the window, her mind racing with destructive, fearful thoughts of what might happen next.

  Hurried footsteps bounded down the hall, too heavy to be Roberta’s. Cautiously, Clara turned from the reinforced window as a man rushed into the room.

  When his eyes met hers, he straightened. “The nurse sent me in here…are you Clara?” He was holding a shotgun at his side, and his chest was heaving.

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  “I need morphine and antibiotics. She said you’d know where I could find them.”

  Clara continued to stare blankly at him. Who was he?

  Taking an assertive step toward her, he inhaled deeply and pointed out toward the road. “There’s a man dying out there,” he said slowly. “I need meds.”

  Clara nodded and showed him to Nurse Hadly’s office down the hall. As she suspected, the door was locked. “I don’t have a key—”

  He kicked open the door like it was made of cardboard.

  Clara flicked on the light and couldn’t take her eyes off of the stranger while he rummaged through the cabinets. He embodied strength and determination, and while she thought she should distrust this stranger, a man who’d wandered into a psychiatric ward, pleading for help and carrying a shotgun, she could only admire him. There was an air about him that made her skin tingle with excitement.

  He would keep her safe, she realized. She just had to make sure that she stayed with him, no matter what. Maybe he was her real Prince Charming.

  This concludes the fourth installment of The Ending Beginnings. The fifth novella, The Ending Beginnings: Clara, will be released in May of 2014.

  Carlos, Mandy, Vanessa, and Jake are also supporting characters throughout The Ending Series: (1) After The Ending, (2) Into The Fire, and (3) Out Of The Ashes (TBR Summer 2014).

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  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Lindsey Pogue has always been a little creative. As a child she established a bug hospital on her elementary school soccer field, wrote her first YA manuscript in high school, and as an adult, she continues to express herself through writing. Her novels are inspired by her observations of the world around her—whether she’s traveling, people watching, or hiking. Whe
n not plotting her next story line or dreaming up new, brooding characters, Lindsey’s wrapped in blankets watching her favorite action flicks or going on road trips with her own leading man. www.lindseypogue.com

  Lindsey Fairleigh lives her life with one foot in a book—as long as that book transports her to a magical world or bends the rules of science. Her novels, from post-apocalyptic to time travel and historical fantasy, always offer up a hearty dose of unreality, along with plenty of adventure and romance. When she’s not working on her next novel, Lindsey spends her time reading and trying out new recipes in the kitchen. She lives in the Napa Valley with her loving husband and confused cats. www.lindseyfairleigh.com