The Colony Read online

  The Colony

  Kathleen Groger

  Leaf & Thorn Press, LLC

  Contents

  Also by Kathleen Groger

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Also by Kathleen Groger

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright Warning

  Ebooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Leaf & Thorn Press, LLC

  Edited by Donna Alward and Nancy Cassidy of www.redpencoach.com

  Book cover designed by Deranged Doctor Design

  All rights reserved. Copyright © 2016 by Kathleen Groger

  First Electronic publication: April 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-945040-00-9

  Print ISBN: 978-1-945040-01-6

  Also by Kathleen Groger

  Rasper Series:

  The Colony

  Seam Stalkers Series:

  The Shattered Seam

  Silencing The Seam

  For my mom. Thank you for showing me how to be a butterfly and letting me soar. I wish you were still here to read my book.

  1

  It’d been 118 days of suffering and suckage.

  Today was just supposed to be a food-gathering day, but everything about it felt wrong. My nerves twitched and my skin seemed a size too small. I inched my way along the concrete side of the Walmart, my gun leading the way. When I reached the corner, I poked my head around.

  All clear.

  I tied a scarf over my mouth and nose, then darted into the abandoned store, trying to avoid the broken glass, but shards crunched under my boots, the noise echoing in the silence. The blue-vested grandmother type wasn’t around to greet me. That all ended when the world went to hell.

  Now I received a very different kind of welcome. Flies swarmed above my ponytail, dive-bombing my head in an endless stream. I swatted at the insects and clicked on a flashlight, checking for wild animals. The stench of rotting food seeped through my scarf and boiled in my stomach. I breathed through my mouth and worked my way to the first aid supplies. I stuffed the last box of bandages in my bag. If I tried really hard, I could still picture the way the store, and my life, used to be. I wanted to erase the mess they were now. Wanted things to go back to normal. Wanted to forget the Great Discovery was ever discovered.

  The creepy sensation of someone—or something—watching me raised all the hairs on the back of my neck. I whipped around and checked out the aisle. Empty. There couldn’t be Raspers in the store. I would’ve heard their erratic breathing.

  I backed up and slammed into the shelving. Bottles of vitamins showered to the floor, adding to the vandalized chaos. The shadow of a small animal scampered across a shelf. Oh, God. Rodents. I ran to the clothing section to get the essentials. I glanced over my shoulder every few seconds as I stuffed socks and underwear into my backpack. I could wear other people’s clothes, but using their socks and undies grossed me out.

  A scratching sound carried over the buzzing of the flies and I ducked behind the closest shelf of shirts. More scratching.

  Rats? Raccoons? Raspers?

  I couldn’t control the shudder that rippled down my body. Rats might be worse than finding a Rasper. Rats were fast and could run up my legs before I could shoot them. Raspers, at least, provided much bigger targets.

  I had to stop freaking out.

  I slipped my backpack off my shoulders, pulled out the pepper spray Dad had given me last year, and tucked it into my front pocket. At the time, I’d told him he was being paranoid. Now, I was glad for his over-protectiveness. I raised my first two fingers to my lips and blew a kiss to the air, wanting to yell, “Thanks, Dad,” but settled for whispering it instead. I missed him—and Mom—so much it physically hurt when I thought about life before.

  With my bag back in place, I continued to the canned food aisles. The vermin invasion made anything that wasn’t in an airtight container off limits. I moved past an end display stocked with cereal and my flashlight illuminated at least five beady-eyed rats feasting from the boxes. Nausea swirled in my gut. The store’s stench and the sight of the rats overwhelmed my stomach until it revolted. I moved, pulled away my scarf, and got sick. After wiping my mouth, I shuffled back a few steps, keeping the vile critters in my sights. A fat one waddled off the cereal stack and scuttled over. The rat’s nose twitched back and forth, then it dove into the remains of my granola bar lunch. I covered the fleabag with pepper spray and it squealed at such a high pitch that my teeth rattled. So gross.

  I gagged, then rewrapped the scarf. I had to eat, but I didn’t know if I could handle the store a millisecond longer. The stench, the flies, the maggots. And oh, man, the rats. I heaved and chills hijacked my body. I needed to grab the basics and get the hell out.

  I raced through the aisles and snagged bottled water, canned Spaghetti O’s, beans, and tuna. The scratching intensified and I dumped my stash in a plastic bag. The image of hundreds of rats following me sent me sprinting out of the store.

  Outside, I leaned against the wall, pulled the scarf off my face, and sucked in fresh air. There was no way I could do that again. The store had finally crossed the line between food source and garbage dump. I tried to calm my breathing.

  I ducked into the alley between Dollar World and Vincent’s Pizza.

  Then I heard it. No. Not possible. It was still light out.

  I tightened the straps on my backpack, set the bag of supplies on the ground next to a pile of fallen bricks, and flattened myself against the wall.

  A scratchy, asthmatic-like breathing filled my eardrums. The sound came closer and closer. My breaths came faster and faster.

  I ducked behind an overflowing nasty dumpster and waited.

  Any time now. Any. Time.

  I pulled out my Glock and set my grip. It couldn’t end now, not after all I’d done to survive—the running, the hiding, the stealing…

  The killing.

  A guy wearing sunglasses and dressed in a brown deliveryman-style uniform turned the corner and entered my alley. I squinted, staring at his skin. It was tinged yellow. A Rasper. Crap. I glanced back, making sure the bastards weren’t cutting off my escape.

  He sniffed the air, then broke into a run straight toward me. Shit. He moved fast. Faster than I’d seen them move before. I darted out f
rom behind the dumpster.

  Aimed.

  Fired.

  A burst of crimson blossomed across his arm. The brass casing blew back into my shoulder, the burn slicing through my shirt. My focus zeroed in on the Rasper’s right hand. Instead of a fingernail, his index finger ended in a pearl-white stinger. And he had the finger-weapon pointed right at me.

  I jumped out of the way and fired again.

  A direct hit to his chest. The creature went down, landing on his face. My heart plummeted. Not only had I killed another one, but the other Raspers had to have heard the gunshots—and could probably hear the booming of my heart.

  I made myself approach the body and kept the gun aimed at his head. I couldn’t afford to have him spring back up like the first one I’d shot. With the toe of my boot, I rolled him over. Blood stained his filthy shirt, but his chest remained motionless. His broken sunglasses dangled over a goatee that reminded me of my dad’s. Dad was the one who’d taught me how to shoot. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead.

  Pushing the memory away, I jogged to the end of the alley. Nothing moved. A popping sound echoed behind me. What the hell? I turned back.

  The Rasper’s jaw broke open with a crack, his lips ripped apart, and skin detached from his facial bones. All of his front teeth shot out of his mouth like darts. My mind shouted for me to run while I still had a chance, but my feet carried me back to the body.

  A silver, bug-like creature the size of a golf ball crawled out of the dead Rasper’s mouth. It scuttled down his chin on six long steel legs and slipped onto the ground, avoiding the still expanding pool of blood. Holy shit.

  It took all my focus to keep from screaming.

  I stumbled back, watching the thing, but it turned as if it heard me move. Its front legs rubbed together in a scissoring motion and the squealing noise of metal on metal filled the air.

  This couldn’t be real. Maybe I’d hit my head during one of the recent aftershocks. Maybe I’d imagined the thing. Maybe it was a frickin’ hallucination resulting from me not sleeping more than a few minutes at a time.

  I closed my eyes for a second, hoping the creepy thing had disappeared. Nope. The damn bug still sawed its limbs together, the metallic song grating down my spine.

  The creature shifted in my direction and I fired, my aim dead on. It flew into the air, exploded above my head, and shards of metal rained down. One sliced my right hand, and warm blood seeped across my skin.

  I bolted and snagged the bag of supplies. At the end of the alley, I jumped a chasm in the road and ran until I reached the shopping center parking lot across the street. The buildings here were burnt-out shells in shades of black and gray, while the stores in the next lot over remained relatively intact. All were devoid of human life.

  Carcasses of vehicles filled the ruined parking lot. The nose of a red sports car rested buried in a gaping hole in the asphalt, as if it had tried to hide from the surrounding decimation. I ducked behind a minivan with its side door open, then raised my head and peered through the windows.

  Nothing in the lot.

  My gaze fell on the empty car seat in the van and a shiver crawled up my back. I tried not to picture the angelic face of my two-year-old neighbor, who I used to babysit. What had happened to her?

  I checked through the windows again, then sprinted toward the closest store. Matt’s Sporting Goods had once been lit up in red neon, but now it read Mat Spo Go in broken, unlit letters. I cleared the pile of glass filling the doorway, dove behind the busted checkout counter, and landed on my stomach. My backpack crashed into my head, snagging my ponytail while the bag of food shot across the floor. Swallowing a groan, I shoved the backpack into place, scrambled to a crouching position, and retrieved the food.

  Quiet. I needed to be quiet. Quiet and calm.

  I checked out the window. Nothing yet. They would be coming soon though. It didn’t matter if the body was human or not, the Raspers always came to collect the dead.

  Two deep breaths later, I looked at my hand. Blood blanketed the back and streams of red snaked down the inside of my arm. Crimson spots decorated my favorite tee, my Alberdine High Volleyball shirt with ‘Val’ stenciled on the back. I’d practiced forever to make the team, but never got to play a game. Now the shirt was ruined. Just like the world. Just like my life. Spectacular.

  I grabbed a bottle of water from my backpack and rinsed away the blood. The words, which filled my arm from wrist to elbow, reappeared.

  My Rules.

  I’d written them in permanent marker to remind myself of the code for my survival:

  Trust no one.

  Never go out in the dark.

  Always carry a weapon.

  Minutes ticked away. I needed to get out of here and get back to the house. Back to safety. I pulled a bandage from my backpack, covered the gash, then bee-lined for the hunting section and swiped the last few boxes of 9mm bullets, wiping out the inventory. I shoved the bullets in my bag and surveyed the parking lot from the busted front window. Nothing moved. Time to go.

  I slipped outside and made my way across the cracked, weed-covered pavement, stopping and hiding behind a grouping of dead cars. I raced to where I’d left the mountain bike my parents had given me four years ago for my twelfth birthday. It had only survived when the garage collapsed because I never put it away. I hadn’t appreciated it then, but now the bike, my bag, and the Glock were all I had.

  Everything else was gone.

  As I tied the bag of supplies onto the handle bar, the bottom ripped out. Everything I’d swiped littered the ground. No time left. I had to leave it or risk them catching me. I slammed my foot onto the pedal and took off toward safety, all the while shooting glances at the sun sinking low in the horizon. If one Rasper had been out while it was light, others would be out when the sun set. They were like roaches. For every one I saw, dozens lurked in the darkness.

  I had to make it. Had to. I pushed harder until my thigh muscles burned.

  Within a few minutes, the trail opened up to the street. I white-knuckled the handlebars and eased onto the road. The openness of the street made me a target—exposed—with nowhere to hide, but it was the fastest way.

  I maneuvered the bike closer to the woods to avoid a bigger-than-a-car hole in the asphalt. The earthquakes had almost destroyed this section of the street. The overgrown grass on the berm slapped my thighs and cars littered the broken road. The “Alberdine, MO Pop. 15,500” sign came into view. I swerved off the road, onto the gravel, and went around it. The 15,500 had been crossed out with a black marker and the number one written next to it. My once cute artwork now screamed, “Hey, come get me.”

  I should have just skipped searching for more food. If I had, I would be inside now. Hidden. Safe.

  A tall evergreen tree marked the entrance to my shortcut. I turned the bike down the trail into the park where the playground swings drifted in the breeze, as if pushed by an invisible hand. The creaking of the unoiled chains sent goose bumps down my arms and the prickly sensation of someone watching me returned. I glanced around, but didn’t spot anyone.

  The sun sat too low. I needed to get inside and end the freaked-out feeling of being tracked like prey.

  I pedaled faster. Harder.

  A warm breeze tickled my face and dried the moisture clinging to my back. It was winter and it should be freezing, but after all the destruction, it seemed like the seasons had shifted. Today felt like a summer day instead of the middle of February.

  The trail through the park ended and I turned down my worn path to the development. I stayed on the broken sidewalks until I reached a two-story brick house still decorated with plastic pumpkins, even though Halloween had passed months ago. The once-manicured lawn had grown uncontrolled, but a quick check confirmed the grass hadn’t been disturbed.

  I hopped off the bike and wiped the sweat from my face. The sun retreated and shadows crept across the ground toward the house.

  I’d done it. I’d beaten the dark. I’d
made it home. What I was calling home, anyway. I’d been living there for the last two months, but it wasn’t mine, or my family’s. I reached for the door handle, then stopped. The eerie feeling of being stalked pierced my skin. I drew the Glock and turned, ready to fire.

  There wasn’t anyone—or anything—there.

  I opened the door, went in, and slammed the dead bolt to lock. I holstered the gun, leaned the bike against the olive-colored wall, and shoved a folding chair under the knob. Not that it would hold the door, but it made me feel better.

  Pictures of the once happy—and alive—family covered the walls of the house. The photos never failed to remind me of my home. I wanted to go back there, but that wasn’t possible.

  Not after what had happened.

  “Hide in the basement and don’t come out until I get back…” I shook my head to clear away my dad’s last words to me. Otherwise, the hurt would rip open the still-scabbing sore.

  I walked into the granite and oak kitchen where I dropped my bag on the table, blew out a deep breath, and collapsed into a wooden chair. “Why does everything suck?”

  Today should have been the same as every other day. Instead, it had turned into a scene from an old horror movie like the ones I used to stay awake to watch, even though my parents told me not to.

  Images of the metallic bug crawling from the dead guy’s mouth took over my thoughts. What was it? Did every Rasper have one inside them? Did the other two I’d shot have them and I missed it?

  I needed a name for the nasty little things. Mom always said if I put a name to my fears, they would seem less scary. It worked when I was six, but not so much now. Still, I racked my brain for something, anything. Maybe just Bugs.

  “Bugs.” Not great, but it would work until I came up with something better.

  I reached for my worn backpack. It used to hold my schoolbooks, but now it carried the essentials for survival. My index finger traced the faded red heart on the front. I pictured my mom drawing it, her blonde hair tucked into a messy ponytail and paint splattering her shirt. A tear pooled in the corner of my eye and slid down my cheek. I wished my parents were still here to hold me and tell me everything would be okay. My gaze fell on the calendar I’d drawn on the wall. I’d marked today with a heart. It wasn’t just my birthday, but also the holiday my parents named me after, Valentine’s Day. No birthday presents or roses for me though. Just killing a guy and a crazy creature.