She inhales, exhales.
As she breathes out, she delays her next inhale, knowing she has about ten seconds of perfect stillness to shoot. Her finger touches the trigger.
Just a little more pressure, and BOOM.
Ray grins just before a man steps in front of her shot.
Anne pauses, blinking, and lowers the rifle.
Something strange is happening.
A large number of the Infected are streaming through the crowd, converging on her target.
Ray
Ray sits on the porch steps and watches the Infected bring him gifts. He thought about how hungry and thirsty he was, spoke the words aloud, and now here they come like robot servants, dumping pieces of jerky, cans of pasta in sauce, bottles of water, warm sodas, lint-covered Life Savers, sticks of gum, trail mix and a bag of multigrain tortilla chips crushed to the consistency of sand. He wishes for cigarettes, and soon has his choice of brands. He wishes for a stiff drink, and is given a metal flask with a bullet hole punched through the top and a little vodka in the bottom.
Saying the words is not even necessary. Picturing it in his mind, and willing it to happen, is enough to get what he wants.
Ray laughs.
He takes a long snort from the flask and gasps, raising it in a toast.
“I drink to your health.”
He is starting to process what is happening to him.
The Infected stand around, staring at him with their glazed, needy eyes. He pulls his STEELERS cap lower over his face and wolfs down his meal of junk food and water. Ray doesn’t want them to see him crying.
He feels defiled. Diseased.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“
He looks up at the Infected crowding around and feels something else, too. A fierce pride. They belong to him now. They are, in a sense, his children.
A dark defiant thought seeps into his mind and replaces his guilt.
That was not the bug thinking. That was him. He lights a Winston and leans back on his elbows.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“You got it.”
He smokes in silence, listening to the Infected growl, and tries to reason things out.
In any case, it’s nice to finally feel safe. Like a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
On the other hand, the idea of living among the mindless Infected for the rest of his life is enough to make him doubt his sanity. He may be a bit of a misanthrope, but he is a sociable misanthrope. He may have a history of abusing people, but he needs people to be happy.
Ray smiles at the gray faces. If he can control the Infected, he can make them all walk off the nearest cliff, or turn on each other. He could be a major weapon
He might, in fact, be capable of saving the world using this power. What would that idea be worth to the right people?
He chooses to believe in this possibility. It is, after all, his one hope. Like he already learned, anything can happen.
Ray stands and stretches.
The Army is in Washington. That’s where he must go.
The lump in his side buzzes with appreciation.
“I’m glad the idea pleases you.”
The solution is simple enough: All he needs is a vehicle with a full tank of gas. Maybe a pickup. He’ll take a bodyguard of Infected with him, and ditch the rest here.
“Unit 12,” he calls. “Get your lazy asses over here.”
His old police unit streams through the crowd. He can hear the clatter of their gear and their glottal grunts. They stop in front of him in their black T-shirts and load-bearing vests bristling with shotgun shells, grinning wolfishly, their heads cocked and their fists clenched at their sides. Two of them still wear pistols on their hips. Ray laughs and whoops.
“Holy shit. Look what the cat dragged in.”
Tyler Jones shoves through the milling horde, ridiculous red suspenders and all, the front of his gray work shirt black with dried blood.
“Good to see you alive, buddy,” Ray says. “Even with the bug.”
He holds out his hand, but Tyler ignores it.
“I guess Jonesy didn’t make it. Sorry about that, bud. May he rest in peace.”
Tyler grimaces, but says nothing.
“You boys,” Ray tells them, “will be my Praetorians. I’ll bet you dumb shits don’t even know what a Praetorian is. Maybe you, Tyler, but that’s about it.”
It feels good to talk, and oddly, it doesn’t bother him to have a one-sided conversation with a bunch of crazies. It’s not quite like talking to himself; it’s more like talking to a pet dog.
“Now let’s see how good you people really are.”
He pictures a pickup truck and a set of keys.
His mental image of the truck expands to include several big-chested blondes giving it a soapy wash. He laughs.
He is amazed by how powerful he feels. Before he made it to the camp, all of the fight had been sucked out of him. Now he feels like a king, with a nation to do his bidding.
He finds the thought depressing. How does one know if he has free will? How much free will can you have if you have a parasite craving to be spread?
