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Virus of the Damned

As the man's eyes widened in horror, a chilling realization crept over him as he lifted his head from the mobile. The dead bodies he glimpsed, their ghastly appearance etched in his mind, sent shivers down his spine. He knew instinctively that danger lurked nearby. Frantically, he gathered his wife and son, a sense of urgency gripping his heart as they raced to escape the unfolding nightmare. The car ride, turned into a harrowing journey of uncertainty. The deafening crash shattered the night, their fate sealed in a twisted dance of fate. At the accident scene, the people and the rescuers, their faces contorted in horror, struggled to comprehend the grotesque scene before them. Eyes bulging, necks swollen, mucus and blood oozing from every nose and mouth a silent terror gripped the onlookers. As the doctors grappled the inexplicable horror, a sense of dread settled over the nation. The need for quarantine loomed large, a desperate attempt to pause the spreading darkness. Will the cure be found in time, or will the shadow of death cast its long reach over the land, leaving only silence and despair in its wake?

JaveriaAwais0007 · Kinh dị ma quái
Không đủ số lượng người đọc
11 Chs

What about abortion...?

As they drove back to Brisbane Park, the tension in the car was palpable. Freya sat with her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the passing trees. Jim focused on the road ahead, his expression unreadable.

When they reached the parking lot, Jim turned off the engine, and they sat in silence for a moment.

Then he spoke, his voice subdued, "I'm sorry, Freya, for hitting you. I never meant to do that. You know.I don't know what came over me. I'm really sorry."

Freya nodded, her eyes still fixed outside the window. "I know," she said quietly.

"Are you going back to Moreton Bay?" She asked tentatively.

"I don't think so. I'll stay here tonight. I'll call you in the morning," he replied.

Jim reached across and gently patted her thigh. "It's your decision, Freya. Whatever you choose, I'll support you. If you decide on an abortion, I'll find the money."

Freya gave a small, sad smile. "Pun intended?"

Jim shook his head. "No, not at all." He leaned in and kissed her lips chastely, leaving them wet with his tongue. "I love you, Freya," he whispered.

I don't believe you do anymore, Actually I don't believe any of it all now. She thought to herself, but aloud she said, "I know."

"It's the Brisbane Manor Hotel," Jim said, pulling away. "Call if you want."

"Okay," Freya replied softly.

As Jim got out of the car and walked to his bike, Freya felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. She slid into the drive seat clutching the steering wheel.

Her tongue throbbed painfully where she had bitten it. She watched him unlock his bike and ride off into the distance, feeling a mixture of emotions swirling inside her.

He walked to his bike that was locked to the iron railing. "I hope you will call me, Freya. He spoke louder and waved at her.

She fake smiled at him. "I'll see. So long, Jim". There was a sad smile appearing on Jim's face.

He unlocked the chain of the bike and put the bike on the road to ride. He gave her one last nod when he disappeared onto the road.

Turning her attention to the houses lining the street, she couldn't help but wonder about the lives of the people who lived there.

"Who even owns these slum apartments?They are all torn down and paint is chipping off from them" she mused aloud.

"They must have made a fortune when the original owners sold them but I would rarely believe they can even reach 5 or 6 figures."

She sighed heavily, shaking her head in frustration at the disparity between the lush greenery outside and the rundown apartments.

Spitting out the window, she felt a strange sense of release as the car pulled away from the park, leaving behind the complexities of her situation and the uncertainty of the future.

_________________________________

Ivan Norman woke up to the cacophony of kids fighting outside his bedroom window and the incessant blare of the radio. It was 9 in the morning, and Ivan was already fuming.

He exhaled sharply, muttering to himself, "These kids will see me now." He lumbered to the back door in his saggy, crinkled shorts with white and blue linings and an undershirt that had seen better days.

Throwing the door open with a bang, he yelled, "You kids better shut the fuck up!" Ricky and Max, startled, looked up from the old, crusty chain they had been arguing over.

His heart ached at the sight of them, dressed in hand-me-downs that were a stark reminder of their poverty. Their worn-out clothes were akin to those worn by the children in impoverished parts of the world.

"Yes, Daddy."

"Yes, Daddy," they chorused in a subdued manner. Ricky was ten and Max eight, their innocent faces marred by the grime of their tussle.

Ivan stood there for a moment, glaring at them, before slamming the door shut. The sound reverberated through the house, amplifying the chaos in his head.

Inside, Ivan glanced around the disheveled room. The bedsheets were tangled from his restless sleep, and a pile of clothes lay discarded from the night before at Jack's pub.

"That cunty Bitch!!" His mind drifted to Lily. "She didn't even do my clothes."

"Lily!" he bellowed in anger, expecting her to come running. There was no response.

He considered tearing the door open again to demand from Ricky where the hell she was, but he didn't.

He muttered to himself, "I swear to God, if she's at that hospital for employment, she's such a fool."

He felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, his head pounding with a relentless headache. It felt like a hangover, although he had only had a couple of beers the previous night.

But the accident—the woman and the baby dead in the car, the man dying on the way to the hospital—was etched into his mind.

By the time Jack had arrived, the police had already come and gone, taking statements. Hendrick had provided the law statement for all six of them.

The undertaker, who doubled as the county Sheriff, had refused to speculate on what might have caused the deaths, simply stating it would all come out in the autopsy.

"What got to them will be in the news, You'll read about it in the newspaper," he'd said. "And hear it on the radio too."

Ivan dressed slowly, pulling on yesterday's clothes from the floor, each movement making his headache worse.

"Those kids better be quiet, or they're going to have broken legs and their mouths ripped off," he grumbled to himself. "Why the hell can't they have school all year round?"

He made his way to the kitchen, shutting off the blaring radio that was driving him insane. There was a note beside the radio.

He picked it up, squinting to read the scribbled writing.

"My dear Ivan, Emily Roger says she needs somebody to babysit her kids this morning and says that she'll give me a dollar. I'll be back up for lunch, and there is a sausage if you want it. I love you, honey."

Ivan put the note back and stood there, trying to make sense of it.

"God damn it," he muttered. "Babysitting for a fucking dollar?"

The note crumpled in his fist as he thought about his wife, Lily, who was likely off babysitting for a measly dollar while their own kids ran wild outside. The kitchen felt stifling, the air thick with frustration.

He was mad. The three things came together in his mind: that Lily was gone off to babysit, just to earn a fucking dollar, and that meant he was stuck with Ricky and Max.

By God, there were hard times when a man had to babysit his own kids. Staying home and wiping their noses and butts so his wife could go and scratch out a fucking dollar .

That wouldn't even buy them one meal of the day. That was fucking hard times. Dull anger came to him, making his headache even worse.

"Fuck this bitch.! My mood is already ruined."

He shuffled slowly to the fridge. The shelves were mostly empty except for the leftovers Lily had put up in their refrigerator dishes.

He hated those plastic Tupper wares and the food wrapped in foil paper. He fucking hated it. Old beans, old corn, and some half-eaten burrito. Nothing a man liked to eat that was fresh.

"Can't this lady make a single proper meal for Christ's sake!!!" He muttered under his breath.

There were three old sausages done up in a plastic wrap. He bent down, looking at them. It was a plastic wrap, and the familiar helpless anger was now giving him a hard jab in the head.

"Those fucking sausages look like the cocks that are cut off from the men," he muttered to himself, the absurdity of his thought lost in his rage. He didn't feel like eating anyway. It made him damn sick.

He went over to the stove and lit it up, putting the pan on it to boil some water for coffee. Then he sat down at the kitchen table, waiting wearily for the water to boil.

Just before it did, he sneezed violently, three times in a row. "Achoo, achoo, achoo."

"Isn't it a great deal after all nice things and after everything that has happened?" he mocked himself, his voice dripping with sarcasm.