Infected Life: Outbreak

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The sound of my alarm clock woke me out of a cold sleep, a deafening ringing echoing in my ears. Leaning on my side, I smacked the hunk of plastic to shut up and began to rub my eyes. As I pulled my hands away from my face, I jumped out of my skin; standing at the foot of my bed with a creepy smile on his face was my little brother, Greg. Greg was at the age of 10, which was the 'beginning of the troublesome years', as my neighbor, Mrs. Gilmore, calls it. He had ruffled brown hair and glistening green eyes; he was still wearing his red onesie.

"Greg," I panted, trying to slow my heart, "what the hell are you doing in my room?"

With a look of shock, Greg threw his hands to his face. "Ooooooooo, you said a cuss-word. I'm telling Mom, and you're going to get in so much trouble!" He started towards the door.

I sprung up from the bed, grabbing the little boy's arm, stopping the kid before he was a yard away from my bed. "How about this," I groaned, grabbing my glass jar piggy bank from my bedside table. I pulled out $2 and handed them to him. "You don't tell Mom and you keep the money."

He studied the cash for a second. Then, he smirked, "Thank you. I'm not complaining, but what's with the other dollar? You only said a cuss once."

"For a future reference. Now, please get out of my room; close the door while you're at it. I need to get changed." I said.

"Okay! I'll see you downstairs, mom's making a big breakfast. She sent me up to tell everyone to meet her downstairs." he said, then the little boy slammed the door shut.

I sat down on the bed, rubbing my pounding headache. My back felt a little sore, too, but a bit of stretching eased that pain, getting the tendons and muscles popping. A quick glance at the clock told me the time; 6:01 AM. Picking up a dry erase board from the wall above my piggy bank, I wiped off two marks. My expenses were falling rapidly. I needed to start using code words for cuss words. I dropped the board, sulking to my veiled window.

With a slide of my hand, I pulled back the curtains and looked out on the street; the street lamps were still on due to the sky's dark shade. In the light of the lamps, I could almost read the street sign that read Anderson Rd. Parked cars were popping out of the deep mist. It looked deserted, depressing even. At the very least, the stray cats were having a good time; I watched as one tabby cat tackled a black cat and tipped over the Whitman's trash cans, my neighbors from a little up the street.

I abandoned the window, opening up my dresser, and pulled on a clean, long sleeved shirt, a pair of jeans, and a pair of socks, then a slick black belt from a hook on the side. After I got dressed, I grabbed a few things that I was taught to always have on me; but my most prized possession was a pocket watch that had belonged to my dad. I rubbed my thumb over the United States insignia etched into the silver, losing myself in the moment. I could hear his voice, echoing around in my head. It was . . . comforting, in a weird way. When I fell back into reality, I started towards the hall, hooking the long chain to my belt loop and pocketing the trinket.

Entering the hallway, I felt the soft runner underfoot, guiding me to the staircase as I passed many other rooms. Most of my siblings' rooms were up on the second floor, like mine. I first passed Margaret's room. Margaret was my 16-years-old sister; Margaret had long, curly black hair and blue eyes. She was being desired by universities all around the country for her incredibly high SAT score of 1450. Not the state, the country! She hasn't made up her mind, but she's been receiving emails about getting opportunities for up to four-years, fully paid for her to attend. I didn't hear anything from her room; not even her constantly airing weather broadcasts from her radio or the national news broadcast.