Spring Awakening

Spring is meant to be a season of rebirth and growth, it is not meant to foster terror.

Yet, Hawthorn’s heart jackrabbited in her chest as she took in the inch of pollen that dusted the road.

She ducked back into the collapsed pocket of the roof where her sister, Mahonia, slept. Mahonia curled in on herself and wrapped her hands around her head. She slept in the Tornado Warning position that the schools used to teach them. Though when the Infection happened, three years ago, she had been a year away from starting kindergarten.

The house they slept in was not their own. It was abandoned and ghostly but cold enough to keep anything lurking away. Mahonia shivered with only the clothes on her back to shield her from it, but freezing was always better than being stung. Being stung meant losing everything.

Hawthorn shook her sister and began collecting their meager belongings: the patched blanket they slept on, a stolen canteen, and a torn piece of map Azarole had given them before becoming a Drone and tearing the other half. In bloody ink one location was frantically circled, lamely named: Safe. Safe was all they were looking for. Safe was all they needed.

Mahonia blinked away, curling further into herself before Hawthorn took her legs and wrapped them around her waist, hefting her onto her back. According to the map, they weren’t far. And once they got there, Mahonia could sleep all she wanted.

Hawthorn crawled back down the attic to the furnished house. Cracked frames held photos of a mother and young boy, both grinning. The boy looked no older than her, around twelve years old. A bright orange wool cap topped his head. A heart-shaped locket hung around the woman’s neck. Both of them with the same dark skin and coiled hair, there was a gap in the woman’s teeth that reminded Hawthorn of her own mother. Her parents were long gone. The people who’d lived here were long gone.

Down the stairs crude drawings were left in crayon. Cobwebbed toys lay scattered in the living room, the last remnant of a life, abruptly stopped like the scratch of a record.

Once outside, the spring sun shone down on their faces. Mahonia sat up and looked around. The neighborhood they’d moved around in, breaking into various houses every night, was drenched in yellow. Pollen. The world had shaken off the last remnants of winter and bloomed into newer, fiercer danger. The Infection was an airborne fungus that thrived when the flora thrived. And when they thrived, everything else died.

Mahonia slipped down Hawthorne’s back and grabbed at her hand. She tugged on her hand to get her to look down.

“How far?”

She pointed toward the overgrown woods that bordered the neighborhood. “Not far.” They intended to go through the forest to reach Safe a day quicker. The roads were open and open meant dangerous. In the winter they might travel by the side-streets. Many Drones died in winter, their zombified brains not concerned enough with freezing temperatures and pneumonia. Then the Infection simply moved on to someone else whether by touch or breath.

It had started with a fascination in researching zombie ants and the like. Which led to the discovery of a new breed of fungus. Then, the bees. Zombie bees who lost interest in their biological niche and took interest in stinging humans. In their minds, spreading it was infinitely more important than pollination.

Most houses in the neighborhood had mostly crumbled over the past three years the Infection had ruled, the Earth having retaken what was stolen from it. As Hawthorn took her sister’s hand and creeped down the slope to the woods, the kudzu outline of homes loomed.Vines crawled along the siding and choked the windows, shattered glass scattered among the grasses. Cars held in the driveways, stuck in time, a bouquet of honeysuckle bursting in the driver’s side. Invasive species no longer invasive. Invasive was the species.

The cover that the canopy provided shaded them from the blazing sun. Under their feet, leaves crunched and Hawthorn again lifted Mahonia onto her back to lessen the sound. Mahonia held the map in her small hands, pointing towards where they needed to go. Hawthorn struggled as she trudged with the weight of her sister on her shoulders. When her knees began to buckle, she stopped and took a breather. Quietly she uncorked the canteen from her bag and held it out to Mahonia who quickly grabbed at it. There wasn’t anything to eat, but water was better than nothing.

“How much farther?” Mahonia asked.

Hawthorn took the map from her and looked over it, let her fingers brush over the ink on Safe, red staining the pads of her fingers. “Before morning probably.” Hopefully.

A crunch alerted both their attentions. Hawthorn grabbed Mahonia and ducked behind a tree that barely spanned wide enough to cover their backs. Hawthorn dared a glance, her arm still wrapped tightly around her sister, tucking her into her side. Mahonia curled her knees to her chest and clasped her hands on her head.

Across the way, a woman stood, shoulders hunched and breathing labored. Hawthorn recognized the dark skin now glistened by sweat, the coiled hair that stuck to her head fell around her head as if in a deadened state. A locket hung around her neck, reflecting in the light that came through the gaps in the canopy. The hitch in her breath had the woman turning to face her, the gap in her teeth now visible.

The woman from the photo. Stung and Infected. A Drone. Caught in a constant state of acute anaphylaxis. Unable to think for herself.

Her eyes were wild and glazed and murky. She took a step towards Hawthorn who froze herself in place. If she moved, she would come after her, if she didn’t, she’d still be caught. She’d still get Infected.

“Run.” she told Mahonia.

She uncurled from her ball and looked to Hawthorn once, her eyes wide and lined with silver before grabbing their things and hiking the bag onto her back.

“Run. Now,” she said again.

“But-”

“Now, Mahonia!”

Her sister broke into a run. The Drone followed her. Hawthorn sprinted, drawing the Drone’s attention to the other direction and slid behind a tree, hoping she’d have enough time to let Mahonia get away before she’d join. Hopefully. Hopefully, hopefully, hopefully.

One touch, one breath- and she’d been gone. The Infection would spread and she’d be as wild-eyed as the woman. While she readied to run, breathing carefully in an attempt to calm herself down, Hawthorn’s mind drifted to the woman’s son. A distraction from the fear that seized her. She was here and he was not. Had he Infected her first? Or had she turned on her kin like hers had? The image of her mother grabbing her father and breathing into his face resurfaced in her mind. All it had taken was a single day, an outing at the park, the disregard about the rumors of Infection, a bee sting. And then everything- gone. They’d had Azarole for two years, two years of almost-safety and protection- until he’d succumbed too.

The Drone came at her quickly, lunging behind the tree and grabbing blindly. Hawthorn ran, twisting around the flora, shriveled shambles to what had once been. None of it provided protection against what wanted her. The side of the woman’s face was covered in the growing Infection and swelled, covered in hives. She’d been like this for a while, long enough for it to have spread from inside to her outside. The skin melded with the fungus, pulsing like a heartbeat. She recoiled and tripped. Tangled in her feet was the same woolen hat the little boy had worn in the photograph. He had been here. Perhaps he still was, under the Earth.

The woman grabbed for her, bearing down on Hawthorn, just like her mother had. After ruining her father and then turning on her. Any and all trace of the woman she’d known was replaced by an emptiness. As the woman struggled to touch her face or breath where she could inhale, something ran a path down her face. Tears. They came fast and uninhibited. At least she had Mahonia. At least Mahonia had run.

Hawthorn shoved the woman one last time, tearing the locket from around her throat and clutching it in her hand. She held her breath and waited for the lack of oxygen to get her before the sickness did.

The woman atop her opened her mouth and leaned in. The stink of her almost-rotted flesh swarmed Hawthorn. She waited for it but nothing came. The woman froze and, fell over. The side of her face where the fungus had pulsed bled profusely. Hawthorn looked up to see Mahonia, holding a large branch torn from a tree, panting above them, and scowling. When Hawthorn shifted, she turned it on her.

“Speak,” she demanded. A test. Drones didn’t talk due to the swelling of their tongues. A sense of pride bloomed in her at Mahonia’s cautiousness, but a smaller part of her hurt at the sharp stick held in her face.

“Thanks.”

At the words, Mahonia relaxed, becoming boneless, but she didn’t drop the branch.

“I thought I told you to run,” she said.

“I did- I was. But then I thought that you were… so I came back for you just to make sure." She paused. "I couldn’t do it on my own.”

Hawthorn looked to her sister’s small frame once before dropping to her knees and enveloping her in a hug. “You did great. Thank you so much.”

“I found something,” Mahonia said after pulling back. She smiled, bright and genuine.

Mahonia led her through the woods to a tall, wide-spanning structure. There was a lock on the door though the actual door lay partially open. Hawthorn took one look at the lock and stepped over it, motioning for Mahonia to stay behind her.

This could be it. Was this it? Were they Safe? The front room looked like the kind of place you’d place a receptionist, with a rounded desk and cracked glass panels and an empty chair. A reminder of where she was. Behind it lay many hallways, all branching off, scientific equipment, scrambled notes of the Infection. A lab.

Scampering footsteps alerted her of another presence. “Come out, Mahonia.”

Her sister’s large eyes peeked out from behind the door. The branch was still clutched in her hands. They made their way through the lab. The main room had the largest doors. When she opened them, her hands fell slack at her sides. She turned to find a boy, no older than her, with dark skin and coiled hair, wild but clear eyes- pointing a knife at her.

“Stop!” He motioned for Mahonia to drop her branch. She refused. “Who are you?”

Hawthorn pulled Mahonia behind her and stuck out her hand, the locket dangling from the chain. The boy’s eyes widened.

“Where did you get that?”

She only had one thing to say: “Is this Safe?”