I looked out the farm window over the moonlit fields. The pump-action shotgun at my side was a dull, shineless object in the living room. Ha. Living room. Apt name. No one living in this room but me. The others were upstairs. The radio still worked, at least. Dr. Philmore had been trying to get someone from Boston General for two years now, letting them know.
No one had responded. From this window I watched them wander along the fence line, wondering when they'd break in. I watched them tear farmers apart and pump their seed into pretty little farmgirls all day and all night until they got up and joined the horde. It wasn't just the bite that turned you...
I looked at the moon-illuminated mirror. There I was: Beth DeMoss, 21, redhead. I kept my straight hair short, cut at an angle so my ears could be seen and the points of it were level with my chin. Didn't want to get grabbed from behind. I looked at my pale skin, my glimmering blue eyes, the pout of my lips. My father was American, but my mother was Russio-French. I look just like her. Torpedo breasts topped with pink, soft nipples, slender waist and pouty lips.
Thanks to that, I found out the very first day I was immune to the disease. Not just immune...
A cure. |