Monday, March 16, 2009

More Real

June 21, 2007
Chicago, IL

The golf club fell from her hand with a thump on the carpeted floor of their living room, her brother was motionless on the floor. He wasn't breathing anymore, she'd just had to bash his head in with her father's golf club after he attacked her. He'd been crazed.. so had her mother.. just like so many others around them going instantly insane and becoming violent. She couldn't speak, there were no words for what she'd just had to do. Roger stood not far away, her mother's body on the floor across the room. She shook her head as he tried to tell her it was alright, holding up her hand and cringing away from the sound of those words. "No.. no it's not.." She whispered, backing away from her brother's body. The tears starting to slip silently down her cheeks. Delaney turned to head into the bathroom down the hall near her room.

She didn't know how long or how short of a time she'd been in the room or how she ended up where she was, huddled on her knees in the tub, sobbing. The shower was running, turned all the way up on the hot side, but she didn't even notice the scalding water pouring over her and making her skin beet red it stung and nearly whipped her with it's force and temperature, leaving welt like marks on her here and there where it hit bare skin, she was fully dressed still, hadn't even taken off her shoes.

Patrick hadn't heard from her, hadn't seen her, what was he to think? Delaney was either dead or in hiding. Whichever the case, he couldn't stay away, not knowing for sure. Expecting the scene he found in the living room, so similar to others he'd seen before the news stations went dark, what he didn't expect was Delaney's absence from it. Where was she? The hiss drew him through the rooms, one by one, following the sound and being leery of looters, or the merciful dispatchers still being within the otherwise-quiet home. Roger? His friend was also missing from the scene though that was hardly unexpected. When had he ever been there for her to help when he should? Patrick's thoughts reeled through the darkest of dark scenes envisioned before peering in each room as he passed, coming closer to the washroom and the source, the running water he now recognized though it sounded strange. The next scene was one that altered before he'd gotten so far as opening the door. It was opened for him... Roger! It was hardly worth the thought with the way the man lunged, covered in blood, acting before thinking... infected, Pat was certain! No, don't... were the last words Roger had said in that moment, the swing of the crowbar sinking the metal into soft flesh and scraping into bone underneath. He couldn't take the chance having seen the rest of the house and the blood on the man. He swung again.. and again. His friend, a companion for more than a dozen years, lay motionless. Pat slipped the covering from his face to breath and leaned against the wall, listening to the strangeness of the water in the shower. A voice, soft sobs... "Del?" He gasped for anything resembling air and pushed away from the wall, strangely exhilarated, charged yet cautious. He picked up the crow bar and moved into the washroom to find her in buckets of steam, folded against the pulsing stream. He reached in and shut the water down, first cooler, then softer, then off.

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