"Listen guys, this isn't helping. It's the now we need to figure out. I don't want to pop a five-point AFTD on the APs. They're what, a week away? My dad," Carson rolled his eyes and I ignored him, plowing forward, "says that puberty is the exact time they test because scientists have proven that abilities come online then, sometimes for the first time." Not for me, I added silently.

The first bell gave its shrill beckon exactly then. I looked at Brett and Carson. "I need you guys to cover for me. At least until the tests are finished."

I was appealing to their good side.

You can't force us to, Hart," Brett said.

"Yeah, just because daddy's famous doesn't give you clout," Carson echoed.

So much for that.

"How about doing it because it's the right thing to do?" asked Jonesy, out of the blue.

"The human thing to do," interjected John.

"He's not human." Carson said, stabbing a finger toward my chest.

Prejudice at its finest. But what did I expect from these two?

"You got that right," Brett agreed, walking off with Carson.

We watched them move away into the multicolor sea of kids.

"Did ya see that bruise necklace Brett was wearing?" Jonesy asked.

Yeah, some people had more than corpse-raising to worry about.

"It's the dad," John said.

Jonesy turned those liquid eyes to me, "Feel sorry for him Caleb? Don't go soft on me bro. You're always giving jackasses the benefit of the doubt."

Not yet, I thought, saying nothing.

Seeing my expression he said, "Yeah, my cup of care is empty too."

My conscious teetered on the balance of right and wrong. Brett had it bad, but he chose to act bad. It didn't make things easier, it made it more complicated.

Jonesy clapped me on the back and John gave me the nod. My friends had my back.

It was gonna be a hurricane of crap and I was in the eye of it. The Js and I walked off to Shop class. Time to make my mom a heart-shaped box, when my heart was definitely not into it.

DEATH WHISPERS, book one of the six book Death series, can be found FREE at most online retailers!

*WHISPERS begins as young adult novel with the final three installments firmly in the new adult (17+) genre.

BLOG: http://tamararoseblodgett.blogspot.com/ FB: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorTamaraRoseBlodgett GR: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4755913.Tamara_Rose_Blodgett Vanessa Booke Dead Run "The only good human being is a dead one."

-George Orwell CARLY.

I know his gun is in the top drawer. I've watched him place it there. Tonight is the last night I'll ever let him touch me. I watch his breath rise and fall rhythmically as he sleeps. From where I stand, he doesn't look so threatening, anymore at least, not compared to how he looked earlier that night. My cheek still burns when I touch it. A bruise is starting to form underneath my swollen skin. I step into the darkened bedroom cautious, as the wooden floors squeak beneath me. He can wake at any moment. My hands tremble as I make my way toward his nightstand. It has to be here, unless...Tom hid it somewhere else. As I pull the top drawer open, I'm relieved to see the gun is still there. It sits shining in the moonlight that cascades down through the cracks of the boarded-up bedroom window.

I pull the gun from the drawer, but pause midway. My stepfather's snoring has stopped. Fear paralyzes me, and I freeze, still. Is he awake? Is he watching me? I hold my breath, my eyes squeezed closed, waiting. Several seconds pass, and then like clockwork, I can hear the sound of his snoring again. I look down at the handgun and then back at my sleeping stepfather. I shiver in disgust at the memory of his hands on me; no amount of soap could ever wash away how dirty he makes me feel. My stomach rolls at the memory of the way he whispered how I would always be his.

Not anymore. I step into the hallway, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind me. A small sense of relief washes over me. I did it. Before I know it, I'm all the way down the hallway of our one story home. Tonight is our last night behind the safety of the community fences. It frightens me to think about what's waiting for us outside, but staying isn't an option anymore. I stare down at the gun in my hands. I've never held one until tonight. The sound of a soft voice catches my attention.

It echoes down the hall. Michael must be awake. I slip the gun behind me. There's no reason for him to see it; it will only scare and confuse him. He's been pretty quiet these past few hours. He keeps asking for our mother. I don't have the heart to tell him that she's gone. The only thing left is a shell of the woman she used to be. It's been seven days since she became infected.

I made her a promise when it happened. I promised her that no matter what, I wouldn't let her become one. I know what I have to do, and despite what my stepfather Tom tells me, I know my mother is sick and she isn't getting better.

Our home is made up of three rooms. Tom sleeps in the master bedroom. I share a bedroom with Michael, and my mother is in the guest room. We live in a town sectioned off from the outside world. It's better than what most survivors have, but it's temporary. Our emergency supplies were never meant to last past six months. We're going on our seventh month and our food and water is nearly gone.

Tom keeps my mother isolated from everyone here. A cold draft hits me as I enter her bedroom. I can hear her heavy breathing, her lungs crackling as she inhales. Small white clouds of air escape her mouth. It's freezing in here. I switch on the emergency lantern near her nightstand. The fluorescent light reminds me of a hospital room as it chases away the darkness. I gasp at the sight of her; she's gotten worse. Her eyes are bloodshot and her pupils are dilated. I touch her skin to check for a fever, but she feels ice cold. I grab her hand and place it in mine. Her skin is pale yellow and she's starting to bloat like the others. She has a day at most, maybe less. The bloated skin on her finger engulfs her wedding band. It's the one my father gave her before he died.

It wasn't the infection that took him away from us. He was in a motorcycle accident when I was fifteen. He suffered an injury to the head and went into a coma.

I twist the ring off her finger.

My mother sold our old house to pay for his medical bills. She didn't have the heart to pull the plug. Not too long after his accident, they flew him to a fancy medical hospital in Colorado. I thought he died. She told Michael and me that he did, but a few days ago I found some old hospital bills stashed in a shoebox. She lied. For the past three years she's been paying to keep him alive. At least, she was until the outbreak happened.

"Mom."

She stares at me blankly, making it clear she no longer recognizes her own daughter's face. I'm sure in her eyes I'm only a stranger, someone she's never seen before. I reach down for the wash pan at the foot of her bed, and I cringe at the sight of the brown, murky water inside it. Tom refuses to bathe her with any of our clean water, and instead subjects her to the dirty-brown, rusted water from the faucets. As far I know it isn't hurting her, but she deserves more than that. Tom wants to keep her around because of the food rations. Each person in the community is given a certain portion of food, no more, no less. He takes hers for himself. I hate seeing her like this.

A moan escapes her lips. I pull the gun out from behind me, fearful that she's turning. I have to do what she couldn't for my dad. I have to let her go. I have to.

I raise the gun toward the front of her face. My hands tremble, the gun is heavier than I expected. Through her confused and sickened state, she looks up at me as if she has a moment of clarity. I close my eyes and turn my face. I picture her as she was before the outbreak. In my mind, she stands radiant and beautiful as she smiles down at me. I can almost hear her saying everything will be all right. They say goodbye is the hardest thing you'll ever have to say. So I don't say it. I breathe in and pull the trigger.

CARLY.

-One-Week Earlier- I stare down the empty halls of my old high school Maple Hills. The memories of walking with my friends to class now seem like pieced-together memories of an old movie. My fingers trace across the cold metal lockers as I walk down the hall searching for mine. So much has changed. Posters that were once filled with drug-free advertisements and S.A.T. announcements are now replaced with quarantine signs and warnings that read: THE UNDEAD AND THOSE INFECTED WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

At the end of the row of lockers, I find mine; number 513. I still remember my old combination 12, 42, 0. The locker pops open and inside sits my old textbooks. I smile as I turn them over; my pre-calculus book sits on top. I can remember Mr. Robinson spouting off about how pre-Cal would be important in our future. I'm pretty sure he didn't mean to fight the undead with, although it is pretty heavy book. I slide my hand to the back of the locker and pull out a box of shotgun shells. I've been saving these for the right time.

When the outbreak began, it started in small numbers, rapidly growing into what seemed like an overnight cataclysm. Cities like ours were scheduled for evacuation procedures that never came. The infection spread too quickly, taking out whole neighborhoods and leaving behind small numbers to fend for themselves against the undead. A few families like mine were saved and taken to quarantined areas outside of Los Angeles. It wasn't long before even those sites were compromised and overrun by death.

Nothing was ever normal again. Sometimes, I sit and think about what it would be like to have a normal life again. Maybe I would've gone to college and majored in Biology like Mom, or maybe history, like Dad. The Civil War is still my favorite time period. It would've been nice to get my first job in LA, maybe even an apartment. Somewhere far away from Tom.

Everyday I wake up hoping this is all a bad dream. That none of this is real, but I wake up disappointed daily. It's not good to dwell on the past, my mother would say, but sometimes the past is all you have.

I shut my locker and head back toward the infirmary to find my mother. Today she's making her rounds across the community. There aren't very many people left who know a thing or two about medicine. My mother was a nurse at a prominent hospital in Los Angeles. Most of the people she worked with died immediately during the outbreak. My mother was taking her scheduled vacation days at home when the news reported the first incident. It was never confirmed how or where the outbreak first happened, but the television stations stopped reporting not too long after.

The sound of footsteps catches me off guard on my way through the main hall. The exit is not too far from me, but I pause for a moment, holding my breath in fear of hearing the dreaded sound of shuffling feet. The footsteps stop completely.

"You know you shouldn't be in here by yourself."

Nathaniel Thorne, one of the commanding soldiers in the community, steps forward from the shadows.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, startled.

"It can be dangerous," he says, avoiding my question. His stare lingers over me ever so slightly. "Something could've hurt you."

Or is it someone?

"There aren't any shufflers inside the community," and even as I say it, I know that it doesn't mean that there couldn't be. I am reminded of it daily when the school bell rings at 3:00 pm preceded by the cold voice of a soldier that announces, all clear over the loudspeaker. Every day I listen for even the slightest tone of panic in the voice, but it's always the same cold, emotionless tone.

"Civilians aren't allowed in unmonitored areas, even inside the fenced walls." He says, gesturing to the restricted sign on the entrance doors - how could I forget. We've been warned and forbidden to leave the community and although we practice evacuation procedures weekly we're never allowed to leave. A few have learned the hard way. The other day I watched David, a boy not much older than me climb the fence and when he returned soldiers were there to block him from re-entering. I overheard his mother crying during one of the evacuation procedures, she had pleaded with him not to go, but food is scarce these days and his family was starving. It's almost certain that he's dead by now.

"I was just on my way to meet my mother," I reply.

Thorne comes closer. "Do you have a boyfriend Carly?" he asks, running his finger along my arm.

I try to pull my arm away, but he grabs my wrist and pulls it to his lips.

"Such a pretty thing," he says, pressing his lips on my wrist.

"Stop." The feeling of his lips on me makes my skin crawl.

"Thorne?" someone calls out.

A voice echoes down the hall. Before Thorne can make another advance, a figure appears near the end of the lockers. It's another soldier. He makes a beeline toward us. As he comes closer, I can't help but notice something familiar about him.

"Thorne, they need you over in Avenue C."

That voice.

"Code 3."

The sound of another soldier's voice comes crackling out of his hand radio. "Tremell! Do you copy that?"

It's him. Joshua. My heart flutters at the sound of his name. He looks different taller, leaner, and so much more serious than I remember him. He stops a few feet away and turns, lifting the radio to his face. "Negative." A flood of voices flow from the radio, barely audible, but somehow Joshua can discern their message. "Ten-four." He carefully reattaches his radio and then looks up at me, as if just realizing I was still there. The shock registers on his face immediately. He wasn't expecting me to be here to be alive.

My eyes are drawn to the fusion of emerald green and golden flecks in his eyes. He stares back at me, slowly looking me over. It's hard not to stare at the fine muscles that have replaced the scrawny arms he once had. Two years have passed and I hardly recognize him. Joshua is three years older than me, but it never felt so, until now.

He reaches out, and for a moment it seems like he might actually touch me...my skin hums with excitement. Did he miss me as much as I missed him?

"You know this girl?"

Thorne's cold voice pierces my thoughts, drawing me back to reality. Joshua's hand drops and he looks away, clearing his throat. The magic of the moment is over.

"She used to live on the same street as me when we were children," Joshua mutters.

His dismissive tone strikes a chord in me. We were more than just neighbors.

Thorne smirks, "Ah, I see."

The silence between the three of us is uncomfortable. My cheeks warm in embarrassment. I should've known that I didn't mean anything to him.

"Let me escort you back to your mother, Ms. Rios."

Joshua gestures toward the hallway exit with disinterest.

"I can find my own way," I say, cutting him off.

The exit isn't close enough. I hurry down the hall and out the door before anyone can follow me. It's one thing having Joshua barely remember me and another thing letting him usher me around like some little girl. As I turn, I catch a glimpse of Thorne and Joshua in heated conversation.

Joshua's stare follows me. The look on his face is strange, and yet so familiar.

Outside the fences of the community, buildings sit abandoned, slowly crumbling from neglect. Mounds of trash litters the streets, broken TV sets sit smashed on the sidewalk pavement, thrown from shop windows. Looters have come and gone, stripping cars and stores for whatever they can. There are rows after rows of cars alongside the street.

There are nights where I dream about walking outside the fence and taking one.

"Carly?"

I turn, startled by my mother's voice. She stands outside the medical supply shed leaning against the ramp railing.

"Carly, are you ready? Didn't you hear me calling you?"

"Sorry mom, I was just..."

"Day-dreaming again?" She smiles.

Always.

"I'm ready."

She hands me a basket of medical supplies as she heads toward the first street of community houses. The town is divided in houses for military and civilians. Our walk is brief, but silent; we haven't spoken since the fight we had the other night about my stepfather. A part of me feels compelled to say I'm sorry, but deep inside I know I'm right about Tom I know firsthand.

"Carly, I know it's hard for you to accept Tom, but your brother and you need a father figure and Tom is a good man."

I scoff at the word good. She looks at me, pleading with her eyes. It's impossible to see Tom as my father.

"He's really trying this time; you should give him a chance."

I gave him a chance last time and when you weren't looking he put his hands all over me. The memory of his touch hits me with violent shivers.

"What's wrong?" She asks.

I swallow my tears back and stare out into the vacant town around us. It's early enough that few people are awake. From a distance something moves in the shadows catching my eye. I focus in on the movement past the fence. A gasp escapes from my mother's lips and I know she sees it too. He's running towards us breathless and behind him is a group of three shufflers, except they're not shuffling, they're running. His face is contorted in horror as he pushes his legs to run faster, but they're catching up.

"That's David, Martha's boy."

"I've never seen them run before."

"Carly, we have to help him!"