N87 Virus | Book 1 | After the Outbreak Kadin, Karri (booksvooks TXT) 📖

but what was worse were the feelings that went along with them. Allison relived every emotion she had in those moments. She enjoyed the fear, the hurt, the chaos she caused.

Sometimes a flashback drained her emotionally and physically, leaving her unable to support her body weight. When she was too weak to stand Dave would scoop her into his arms and carry her to bed, tucking her in gently. Sometimes Sandra would place a pillow under Allison’s head and cover her with a throw from the couch and leave her where she was. Allison would awake hours later, slightly dazed, feeling empty and numb. Every moment she was forced to relive pushed her to the same conclusion each time: Only a monster could do the things Allison had done.

During her downtime, she flipped through the old magazines Sandra had given her, engulfing herself in the sleek pages filled with designer clothes and articles with titles like “How to Please Your Man in 5 Easy Steps.” On good days this temporarily distracted her from reality. On the bad days this pastime caused depression and tears, Allison realizing her life was so different from the ones depicted in the shiny pages. Remembering what was, what could have been, what may never be again.

Then came the dreams. At first, she would wake up in a sweat, shaking, crying, unable to be calmed. Sandra would rush into her room like a mother hen, clutch Allison to her chest, and rock her. Sandra would tell her that the dreams weren’t real. But they were real. They happened. All of those things happened, and, worst of all, Allison was responsible. In the same way that people can never seem to say the right thing to comfort those who have suffered the death of a loved one, there was nothing Sandra could say to make this better, to make it bearable. Allison was a monster who had destroyed people’s lives. Sandra could not fix that.

On a particularly dreary day when the sky was full of gray clouds and it was raining so hard Allison was sure God himself was crying, she found a box in the top of the closet in her bedroom. It was flimsy, dusty, and had obviously not been opened in years. She opened the box and found it full of school supplies. Pencils, pens, some glue, packages of looseleaf paper, and a beautiful leather journal. The journal had a beautiful tree with an intricate border around it embossed into the soft brown leather. The inside had a tab that held a maroon pen with gold details, and the pages were blank. Allison removed the journal and put the box back in its place. She wandered into the kitchen, journal in hand.

“Well, what do you have there?” Sandra asked in the motherly way she spoke to Allison. She was standing by the counter rolling out dough destined to become a peach pie.

“I found a box in the closet. It had this really cool empty journal in it.” Allison held up the journal as she spoke.

“Oh, you found my box of extra supplies. I always kept it stocked to help supply my students with the things they needed for our lessons. Even before the outbreak this area was struggling. Many families had no extra money for school supplies. So, I did what I could.” As she spoke Sandra spread the pie crust into a pan and filled it with a jar of home-canned peaches. “I really don’t know why I even bought that journal. It wasn’t something I would typically keep in my stockpile. But it was just so pretty, I just felt I had to have it.” She sprinkled the top of the peaches with sugar and different spices, then began working on the lattice for the top of the pie. “You are welcome to it. I have never been much of a writer but my best friend in high school, Margret, was. She always said it helped clear out her head. Maybe writing could do that for you.” She finished the latticework for the top pie crust, then brushed it with an egg wash, sprinkled it with sugar, and popped it in the oven.

“I’ve never written anything before, but anything is worth a try, I guess. I didn’t know you were a teacher.” Allison sat at the table, placing the journal in front of her, tracing the embossing with her fingers.

“Yes, third grade. I loved it. I don’t know if I will ever get to do it again.” A darkness dulled her eyes as she frowned. The look quickly passed and was replaced with a forced smile. “I am going to go see if those lazy chickens have laid any eggs. They haven’t given us any in days.” She grabbed the basket from the counter and went out the back door, leaving Allison at the table with nothing but her thoughts and an empty journal.

Before she knew it, her pen was moving and words were flowing out of her mind onto the paper. Tears clouded her eyes, and she used the back of her hand to wipe them away. Feelings that she had been ignoring for weeks clawed their way to the surface and ended up on the pages of that journal. All her mental notes from her dreams and flashbacks. She wrote down every detail she could remember, from the color of her victims’ eyes, to the smell of decay that filled empty towns, to mini maps of areas she recalled frequenting. She wrote down all the horror, heartache, and death from her dreams. She wrote about her last normal night that she could remember, the night of the party, the night everything changed. The music blaring, the fear, and the dead woman on the ground below her. She wrote about the cabin where she killed the man at the sink. But another memory was there, buried deep within her subconscious. The cabin filled with the screams of . . . a