GARRY FARRELL peered through the dirty white drapes that covered the four by four window on the front side of his trailer. Spinning blue and red lights hit his bright green eyes in an instant.
Cops.
So then someone had discovered the little mess he’d made and called it in? With his right hand Garry ran his fingers through his unruly black hair. After a moment the hand fell back to his side.
He started to bite his fingernails soon afterward, something he always did when he was deep in thought. I best get a movin’…don’t wanna get caught!
Garry stole a look through the drapes again just to satisfy that the police weren’t coming to knock down his door. They weren’t, which made him chuckle.
With the quickness and stealth of a cougar Garry stole away into the dark hallway to his left, which branched off into three rooms–the bathroom, the master bedroom and the laundry room.
Garry wasn’t interested in the bathroom or the laundry room, though. All the necessities of life were in the bedroom, which is precisely where he went.
Once inside the master bedroom Garry went to work, quiet as ever. He reached onto his bed and picked up a small backpack, which he opened and set on the floor. Then he rushed across the small room to his chest of drawers, where he withdrew three items: a cell phone, a wad of cash split into twenties (the wad was about the size of his hand from wrist to top of his middle finger) and a .44 caliber Magnum revolver. The moon cast a glare onto the cool steel body of the gun and out of paranoia Garry put the revolver into the leather hip holster he had with it.
He strapped the gun to his left hip quickly enough and tossed the wad of money into his backpack, whereas he put the phone in the front pocket of his jeans.
He didn’t plan on packing clothes, as he never changed while on the run. He would just buy more when he got to his new destination.
Satisfied that all of his valuables were in order Garry hurried back to the living room and over to the front of the house again. He peered through the drapes and realized that the dumb cops were still assessing the scene of the crime. How long does it really take to do that? he wondered. Someone’s been killed. They’ve been stabbed four times in the back and neck area, shot between the eyes and thrown inside a garbage bin.
Garry smiled and shook his head.
“Alright, Mikey…time to get moving again!”
Garry turned on his heel and looked across the room at a white Labrador; it had a large brown patch of fur around its’ right eye. It was lying on its side, white coat dyed red from the blood of three bullet wounds, though it was now dried and the wounds scabbed over. This dog, “Mikey” was surely dead, and had been for some time now.
Garry stood still for a moment, staring in sick admiration at Mikey.
“Stubborn beast,” he mumbled. He took long strides across the living room, making it in just three to the deceased canine.
Garry bent over and pushed his hands under Mikey, lifting him up on his shoulder but immediately regretted it–this beast was beginning to smell and it wasn’t pleasant. Garry dropped Mikey over his back and stood where he was for a moment, biting his nails again.
“Well?” he raised his voice to Mikey. “Do you want to come with me or do you want to stay here for the cops to find and arrest?”
The dead animal gave up no response.
Before Garry could speak again a loud bang came from his front door.
“Police! We would like to have a word with you!” the door said.
Garry swore. They had found him so quickly?
He leaned down and whispered into the dog’s ear: “Meet me in Miami, pal!”
With those last words Garry Farrell slipped out his back door into another breezy April night.

LUCIEN WALKED DOWN the hallway, looking back and forth. The familiar smell of hospitals surrounded him. Everything sterile. He realized that he couldn’t live in such a healthy environment.
Not after tainting the earth with death.
Where, oh where are you at? Lucien thought. 104. 119…122.
Finally! Lucien had a slight adrenaline rush, but it passed just as quickly as it had come. Now, how would he go about all of this? He couldn’t just simply kick in the door and take him.
No, that would never do.
Lucien had a spark of genius. He retrieved his 9mm (millimeter) Glock from his thigh holster and checked the chamber. Loaded. He replaced his Glock and shuffled through a pouch in his trench coat pocket.
He looked through the contents of his pocket quickly, moving a bundle of long, silky red hair from his vision. He checked his other pocket and smiled with satisfaction.
From his pocket he removed a loaded magazine for his Glock. He also held a long–about 5 inches–black, tube. A suppressor.
Lucien rushed to put in the magazine, screw on the suppressor and then check the chamber and safety one last time. He was ready.
Three. Two. One!
Lucien–ready with his Glock–made a rapid kick and took the door off its hinges. The metal door dented under the blow and fell away with a loud clatter.
Lucien rushed into the small hospital room; made a quick sweep of the room to ensure safety–or somewhat. Satisfied that there were no “unfriendly eyes” in sight.
Still ever careful, Lucien kept his Glock at the ready.
‘Where are you?’ Lucien was furious now. Where was he?
He was nowhere. Lucien swore.

“Guess I’ll have to look harder, my friend.”

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Caleb

Caleb

Welcome to eternity…
—Lucien

The story that is contained within the following pages are a story about just that: sacrifice.

What if you are infected?