Red Hill (Red Hill 1)

They were slow. Not as slow as I thought they might be, but they were slow enough that if we had to head out on foot, as long as we didn’t let one get too close, or get surrounded, we could make it. Some of them that had more extensive injuries moved slower than others. One guy’s foot was completely gone, but he continued walking on a bloody stub. They weren’t distracted by pain.

“I wonder if you can really only kill them by obliterating the brain,” I thought aloud.

Skeeter raised his hunting rifle, situated it between the boards, and aimed. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.” He picked out a target, and then breathed. “Sorry, Mr. Madison.” Skeeter squeezed the trigger, and the fabric of Mr. Madison’s shirt, in the spot where his heart would be, popped and sprayed open. Dark blood oozed from the wound, but Mr. Madison didn’t seem to notice. “Okay. So that doesn’t work.” Skeeter squeezed the trigger again. This time a red dot immediately formed in the middle of Mr. Madison’s temple and simultaneously seemed to burst, leaving a perfectly imperfect round wound. The man stopped midstep as his head jerked to the side, and then he fell onto his side.

I waited for a moment, watching for any signs of movement. Nothing. “You think we have to burn them, too?” I asked.

Skeeter frowned, his eyes darted over at me from over the sights of his rifle. “Now that’s just silly.”

“Skeeter, honey, I think Jill’s not feeling well,” Doris said. She was wringing her hands, clearly unnerved.

Skeeter hopped up and rushed into the kitchen. I followed behind, seeing Zoe sitting in the corner, watching her aunt Jill as she sat in her chair, crumpled over and heaving into a bucket.

“Zoe? Zoe, come here. Come sit in here for a bit.” I motioned for Zoe to join me in the sanctuary. Zoe slid off her chair and walked toward me, and when she gripped my fingers, the strength in her tiny hand surprised me.

We sat together on a pew beside Gary, hoping the hammering would drown out some of the noise coming from the kitchen. Between the moaning noises Jill made while she vomited, she whimpered and cried for Skeeter to help her.

“She’s sweating, Daddy,” Zoe said, “a whole lot.” Her eyes were heavy with worry. “Then her face went all wonky and she threw up on the floor. She said her whole body hurt like she had the flu.”

I nodded. “Did that scare you?”

“It all scares me,” she said. The skin around her eyes tightened, and I could see she was trying not to cry.

No one knew what would happen to Jill, but I had an idea of what might be happening, and I didn’t want Zoe to witness it. Short of Skeeter moving Jill somewhere else, the only way to keep Zoe from witnessing her aunt’s death was to take her away from the church. That meant taking her outside where it wasn’t safe.

“I’m so sorry, honey. I wish I could make this all go away.” I hugged Zoe to my chest, trying to buy some time before a solution came to mind.

Jill was sobbing now. She probably knew what was happening, too.

I cupped Zoe’s little cherubic face in my hands, scanning the splash of freckles across her nose and light-brown hair. She’d kept the same simple shoulder-length hair cut since she was four. Her natural waves made it bouncy, but it seemed like her worry had weighed that down, too. “I’m going to try to help Uncle Skeeter. I want you to stay in here, okay? You’re safe in here. I won’t be gone long.”

Zoe nodded quickly, glancing back to Gary and Eric as they pounded the last nails into the last board.

“Good girl,” I said, kissing her forehead.

Skeeter was on one knee, both arms wrapped around his wife. She leaned against his chest, her face blotchy and glistening with sweat. Skeeter stared at the floor, whispering something to her, with the same hopelessness in his eyes as the woman we passed on the bridge. His young and healthy wife was dying in his arms, and they both knew it.

Doris filled a glass with water, and leaned down to hold it to Jill’s lips. She took a few sips and then spit it out, leaning down to the bucket, emptying her stomach once more.

“We need the doctor,” Doris said.

“The doctor’s dead,” Gary said, dropping the hammer on the table next to Jill. “So is his wife, and kids. They’re all walking around out there with milky eyes and bite marks.”

Jill sniffed once, and looked up at her husband. “Skeeter.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, still staring at the floor.

“Skeeter, what if I hurt the people in here?”

“No.”

“What if I hurt you?”

“No!”

“What if I kill Zoe?” she pleaded, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks. Her breath skipped, and she pulled Skeeter’s face down so his eyes met hers. “Don’t let me hurt that baby, Skeeter.”

Skeeter’s bottom lip quivered. “But what about our baby?”

I stood up straight, away from the doorjamb I was leaning on. “What?”

“What was that?” Doris said.

“Jill’s pregnant,” Skeeter said, his voice desperate. “Seven weeks. Dr. Brown just called her this morning.”

I leaned down and grabbed my knees. I couldn’t imagine the agony he was feeling. They didn’t deserve this. They’d been trying to conceive since their wedding night, and now Skeeter would lose them both.

Jill touched her forehead to Skeeter’s chin, and then looked up at him with a weak smile. “We’ll be together, and we’ll wait for you.”

Skeeter broke down, burying his face into Jill’s neck. “I can’t do it, Jillybean,” he sobbed.

The first window in the sanctuary crashed, and everyone but Skeeter froze. Sounds of searching hands on the wooden boards made my skin crawl. I leaned back to see Zoe, Barb, and Ms. Kay turned around in their seats, staring at the broken glass on the floor. The boards were holding, but I could still feel my heart pounding against my rib cage. Eric stood next to the broken glass, inspecting the board, and then he nodded, assuring us that they would hold.

“Wait. What are we talking about here?” Reverend Mathis said, bringing my attention back to the kitchen.

Doris was still wringing her hands. “I can’t say I . . . we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“It’s okay,” Jill said, cupping her hand over Skeeter’s head until she had to bend over again and vomit into the bucket.