the Lair

Kayla woke with a start. It was almost as if she heard the blast of a gun, but she knew that she had no more heard one now than she did eight months ago when Mark was shot and killed. You never hear the sound of a sniper's shot. You only feel it. You only die from it.

She had had the dream again. It had been coming to her less frequently, but each time she dreamt it, it became more vivid. Atlanta had fallen quickly. Everyone, all the medical professionals, the news media, those in the know, said that the virus had been contained. The talking heads all agreed, there was no cause for alarm or even worry. The CDC assured the populace that the odds of anyone in the United States contracting the virus were slim to none. It was not an air borne disease. Unless one submerged oneself in an infected individual's bodily fluids, you were safe. So everyone thought that since the government assured us that we were safe, we were safe.

The infected patient had been brought to Emory under cover of darkness. It was reported that he had walked into the hospital on his own strength. Therein was the problem. Security was lax because he was a doctor. A strong doctor with the Ebola virus, a non-airborne virus, was not a threat they assured the public.

What was not reported was the hospital had allowed his partner unsupervised visitation. A one time visit was all it took for the virus to escape the confines of the quarantine. What was also not reported until it was too late was that the virus had mutated, as viruses often do. And now, it was airborne. And it spread. And it spread quickly until those same officials who had earlier reassured the people that all was safe, were walking up and down the streets, wearing hazmat suits, yelling, "bring out your dead. Bring us your dead." The dead would be collected, wrapped in a medical-like Saran Wrap, almost like last night's leftovers, and burned on the pyre that had been built in the middle of the square.

There had been rumors that the CDC had an antidote to the original Ebola Virus. Conspiracy theorists believed that the government had vaccinated it's own employees against possible germ warfare as long ago as 1973, which included its military personnel.

Mark Thomas, his wife Kayla, and their two year old son, Jaxson Raye, were a very few of the lucky ones who did not contract the virus and had survived. Mark had been in the Army since he graduated high school, and Kayla was his high school sweetheart. Mark had been deployed to Iraq for 13 months and still had sand in his teeth when he was brought back to the states to be part of the police action, and to help take care of the growing insurrection. The thing was, dying people don't insurrect for long. It was his decision to go AWOL and flee the City when it seemed the end was coming. He and Kayla had gathered weapons, freeze dried food, gathered water, and headed South toward Quitman. They had hoped that a remote area would be their hideaway and safety.

You never know how stranded and alone you are until there is no one else who is stranded and alone. Mark and Kayla were stranded and alone. But they walked, hid, fed their son, fed themselves when they could. The travel was slow going and exhausting and, as it was the middle of August, also exceedingly hot and humid, so they tried to only travel in the coolness of the morning or early evening.

Mark was beginning to feel the fatigue of this day's travel and was about to suggest they find shade to rest under until dusk when he turned a bend and saw the farmhouse up ahead.

Excitedly he said, "Kayla, I think this is the place we have been lo

Mark dropped like a stone and was dead on the spot.

Kayla threw her body over Jax and buried her face deep in the dirt.

Earlier in the day, David had positioned himself in the attic as before; camp chair, loaded Springfield, strap wrapped around his left arm for stability, barrel pointing ever so slightly through the attic vents that he had enlarged giving him a better vantage point. He panned his rifle to the left and back to the right, searching for any movement through the scope. He would not take any risks. He would not allow his camp to be contaminated.

He saw the man first, and as he sat with his finger on the trigger, he saw he was sweating. This is a dead man walking, David thought to himself. But, hey ho, who is this lovely along side? This was an easy decision for him to make. He could use the woman for his own needs, the man would be a liability, but this child would give him control. David squeezed the trigger.

"Hello? Hay! Walk toward my voice. You and your boy! You are safe here. My name is David."


She lay there in her own sweat soaked sheets cursing the fact that the dream had come back after three months. But she knew why it had. She rolled over and saw that David had already gotten up. She knew that he would be taking care of Jaxson until she went downstairs.

Jaxson. My boy, Jax, she thought. Kayla had been hanging the laundry out the day before when Jax came running up. "Mama, wuk wha I fund! I gots a new toy!" "Jax, baby boy, let me see." In his three year old hand was a 30-06 cartridge. She knew what it was. She and Mark had reloaded those many times.

"Baby Boy, honey. Where did you find this? Where did you get your new toy?"

"Iss mine, Mommy."

"I know, sugar. Show me and we'll get another."

Jax, knowing a fun game had started, ran back toward the house. "Catch me, Mommy!"
"I will, buddy. Let's go get your new toy!"

Jaxson, little chubby feet running as fast as they would go, headed toward the house. Kayla followed silently. Up the stairs. Into the crawl space that lead to the attic.

"Mommy! Here,"

Kayla followed her boy up into the attic.

"Mommy! Here. Me sees more toys!"

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness as she walked up the attic stair. When she reached the top rung of the attic ladder, Kayla saw a light to her right. Sun rays streaming through an enlarged vent window, light from the morning sun. Strange shapes shrouded in sheets covered in dust. Her son's new foot prints mingled with the older ones he had obviously left before on his first trip up into the attic. But also larger, booted prints. Brass objects lay scattered helter skelter on the floor.

"Jaxson, come here to Mommy. It's naptime."

As she led her son back down the attic steps, and she looked over her shoulder and saw the sniper's lair, she knew what had happened. She also knew what she had to do, now.

photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/zakh/365573975/">Austin & Zak via http://photopin.com">photopin http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc