Oh my Lord, all these updates. The third one in a week? That's
unheard of! Espically for my lazy ass. There is one more that I
have partially finished and I think that might be the last I'll be
able to push out for a while...depending on my lovely Ducky,
whom both harasses my lazy but enough to get up and actually
do something-ily hun ;) This chapter to you as well as Tiff, even
though Taveor isn't mentioned in it-he'll be back next chapter-
I swear!

I just felt like this needed to be written. Darien deserves this
much, plus I also need an explination as to why Taveor knows
his name; the anklet. Enjoy?

Saliva.

Darien P. Hawthright was a twenty-four year old Biology major in the University of Augusta. Sophomore year in college, paid courtesy of his father (as well as a hefty scholarship). Fluent in three different languages; German, Russian, and English. German he had learned in high school back in Georgia, Russian he had picked up since birth, namely from his father whom was there some 200 days of the year on business. His mother raised him on home-style teachings and love, his father called every other day or so to be sure they kept close.

When their boy told them he wanted to become a surgeon for the peace core the back up behind him was enough to study has ass off the last two years in high school. He passed through with flying colors once his act cleaned up. When scholarships from across the east coast began knocking on the front door of their tiny one-bedroom apartment no one was surprised. When the voted high school prom queen Levan Sendinson began knocking, however, everyone was shocked.

She and Darien began their own mismatched 'prom queen-4.5 GPA nerd' relationship. What was more surprising than the couple themselves was the fact that it worked. If asked she would swear left and right about how stupid she had been for not admitting sooner that they should get together. When he went off to Maine she was right next to his mother showering him with kisses and words of 'good luck' and for him to call at least twice everyday.

And they were faithful. Two years down the road he promised her the day he set foot out of college he's take her to any chapel she chose and they'd be married like a proper couple. Despite how 'fruity' he felt about wearing the anklet she sent him engraved with their names on his 24th birthday in response to his offhand proposal the sterling silver never left his tanned form.

On the off occasions he would write he would mention all the types of details only a college boy would think to mention; how there were quite a few 'purdy' girls on campus but none of them could compare to his two golden girls back home. His momma, and his Levan. How he'd recently gotten into sports such as soccer and parkour courtesy of a few of his Russian friends. How Maine was "so much fucking colder" than sweet ol' Duluth, Georgia.

Then the broadcasts began. Evacuations started down in Louisiana as well as Texas. Warning people to wash their hands, to go to the hospital immediately if they felt anything even remotely sick. Face masks were broadly distributed in public places by CEDA officers. And then the rumors began. They began as whispers, whispers such as how the virus changes you. How it turned you into a monster. A monster with the munchies for flesh.

People down south were being shot on sight if they were to so much as cough in the wrong place. That was the last straw, Darien called up his father whom wired him enough money to fly down to Georgia, pick up his mother-as well as Levan and her family-and to fly them over to Russia. There they could stay safely with him in a nice motel until the whole ordeal over in America blew over.

He packed seven changes of clothes, his wallet, and the sterling silver chain that night and caught the first flight down. Levan was waiting for him in her blue Honda. Face sallow as they kissed hellos. She told him in the car ride back that her parents and Jonathon-her younger brother-had already left the state while she stayed back for him. And that his mother wasn't answering any calls, that she knew she shouldn't be worried but she was. Darien was as well.

When they arrived at the apartment the rooms were dark. Nervous, they nudged inside. Sides all but glued to each other as they scoured the four rooms. Nothing. No signs of a struggle. No blood. No puke. And when they checked out back, no car. Nothing. They agreed to wait a day or so for her to return before they left out for Russia. That she was bound to be home soon-she must have just stepped out, the oven was still on.

By the morning their duo had become a quad, in the night the neighbors from across the street, Jonse and Phylis Kendrix, came pounding on the little white front door. Begging to be allowed in, that there was something in the thicket behind their house that was gurgling like mad. Darien relented, allowing the two to the bed room while he and Levan folded out the couch. By her request the news was turned on.

Evacuation notices became more frequent with the night. People were cautioned to 'arm themselves'. To wash their hands and to wear their face masks, even in their own home. Most importantly, that if they were to see anyone with the following symptoms to not allow them inside your home. Lock your door-barricade it-and dial 911-…

"One day" became one week. Four became six. And the pantry was beginning to give way. Campbell and Mark were two high school buddies of Darien's, they had been smart enough to get out of their dorm in downtown Atlanta and plead to be allowed in after their car had broken down about a block away. Claiming some psycho was chasing after them. They slept atop a bed of blankets on the living room floor weaving tales into the night of being followed and witnessing people shooting-killing-each other for cans of food. The drone of monotonous News broadcasts listlessly chorused in the back ground, almost ominously.

On the eighth day it was simultaneously agreed they needed to out of town. Soon. Levan's Honda would only comfortably hold four people. Campbell's Ford would seat eight. It, however, was out of gas. Levan agreed to drive the two boys out to the closest gas station about two miles back so they could pick up a few gallons. She and Darien would kiss a brief goodbye before they left off. The return was fruitless-the store had already been looted of its goods, the gas pumps wouldn't flick on. It appeared that half of the city's power was out.

Jonse offered that he might have a tank in his garage, it was only half full but it would be enough to get them to the BP up north some ten miles away. He and Phylis armed themselves with the handgun Mark had brought with him as well as a metallic bat. In the end Mr. Kendrix took the bat while the Mrs. Took the handgun. "Less work for my little lady." He had said. There was no argument after that. The farewell was brushed off with a shower of 'good luck's from the younger four survivors.

They didn't return. Darien and the others waited with baited breath. Levan was at the window the entire time they were gone. As minutes melted into hours their tension grew. It was well past sundown when any remote sign of life kindled from the house across the street. When an utterly shocked gasp resonated through the house everyone heard. The reaction was immediate. Outside limped a bloodied Mrs. Kendrix, the handgun limply gripped in her hand. Green eyes wide, alert. Unnerved. Levan rushed to let her in.

Her first broken words were something along the lines of "Jonse is dead. My baby is dead.."

"It's ok Mrs. Kendrix, please, calm down." Levan tried to soothe with a cup of hot tea, Phylis didn't touch it. She simply shook her head and continued on babbling on.

"There were so many of them; my Jonse asked the boy in our house what he was doing but when he turned around the snapper was covered in blood." She spat out the word as if it in-pained her to even think it. "He-he ran at my Jonse and, and bit him. Took a chunk right out of his neck, and the blood, oh God there was so much of it…" Levan, whom had been stroking her shoulder comfortingly put a hand over the woman's. Nodding that she didn't have to say anymore, that after rest they would all leave tomorrow in the Honda. That there would be other cars and they would make room in the back. That she would feel better in the morning.

She was fatally wrong. It must have been four in the morning when the pounding began. Fists upon hard wood. The four college students startled awake, turning to the front door. Levan did so much as to get up and check the window. Nothing was out there..and then it occurred to them. The pounding was inside.

"Mrs. Kendrix?" The approach to the bedroom door was lethargic, painfully slow. Tension was on the rise. An almost animalistic snarl escaped as the wood began to splinter. Darien was first to react, jerking Levan by the shoulder away from the door. Mark grabbed the handgun from the coffee table, aiming it at the door which was slowly being torn off its' hinges. Whatever was in there wasn't the little old lady from across the street. Darien found this out quickly as he was suddenly thrown into by a 48 year old snarling monster.

Instinct was enough to drive him to catch her by the wrists as he was thrown to the ground, above him two sepia irises shone down-wild. Insane. He was sure someone was screaming, something about not having a good shot with the thing so close to him. Mark's voice? Levan was frantic. Her trills was enough to break through the almost rabid noises of Mrs. Kendrix. His name. Darien, Darien. There was a struggle. The monster above him must have been aware of the gun aimed at its head because it began wriggling in earnest as soon as a metallic 'click' spoke up through the chaos.

And then there was pain. Teeth with strength that didn't belong to such an old woman bearing into sinewy arms. Somewhere in his mind it registered that he was screaming. Get back, Levan. Go away! Stay away from it. Mark! Campbell! Help! Someone, please God get it off! It never occurred to him what had just happened when what used to be the face of his loving neighbor was blown to disgusting bits. Folds of skin flopped uselessly for a moment before the corpse went limp atop him.

Dark emerald irises widened as the dead weight lurched upon him. And then it was gone, his ears were ringing as he registered Mark's face above him. Then Levan. Then Campbell. There were words exchanged, but it was but a dull hymn as blood pumped through his eardrums. Like rushing water. Endless and empowering. It hurt. His arm, oh God it burned. Then it clicked; scream. So he did. Crimson lifeblood oozed out of the crescent shaped incision on his arm. Left arm, forearm, whatever. Damn it hurt. So much.

"Darien, Darien calm down!" Arms were on him, holding him down.

"Dude, get back! You know how it is; if you get bit you're screwed!" Then there was a choked gasp, Levan? No, nono. Please don't cry, beautiful. Don't cry. It didn't occur to him that he said this aloud. Voice slightly rugged from the screaming.

"Darien, oh God, Darien. Please, please stay with me."

"I'm right here, beautiful." More tears as she pushed away the other two boys, cradling his head to her chest as she cried into his hair. He inhaled deeply, it hurt. It hurt to move. To breath. To blink. To be. There was a long pause filled only with the soft, almost silent cries of his girl as she embraced him yet closer. Then Mark finally spoke up.

"Lev, honey. He has to go. He's one of them now." A pointed look at the body of Phylis, rolled over onto its' stomach to avoid seeing what used to be a loving face-or what was left of it. She didn't take this well, turning to the brunette and lashing out.

"No! Look at him! He's still talking, he's not trying to kill us! He's still Darien."

"No.." A wet cough resonated from her lap, all eyes flicked down to him. Dark hair matted, emerald eyes glassed over; half in-pained, half just..dazed. "No, no love. Please; shoot me-I, don't want to be like that." She was shaking her head before he even finished the sentence, eyes brimming with more tears. The word 'no' slipping through pristine enamel like a mantra.

"Oh god, please Darien, don't make me do that. Anything but that." Campbell finally spoke up, agreeing that he could do it if Darien was serious. The question didn't need to be answered. Mark knelt down, ignoring the way Levan jerked back away from him as if scalded when he asked if he could help up their wounded. There were just tears. So many tears. Four years of labor, work, and love put between the two so easily ripped away by two college boys with a .45 colt handgun.

The trudge out to the back porch was like an execution march, in a way, it sort of was. His head hung low, breathing labored, ragged, tired. And the pain. Oh god, was there pain. Each step was a firecracker through molten veins. He swallowed this down as they strode into the white picket-fenced backyard, the empty lot where his mothers' '69 Sedan usually lay made his stomach jolt for her. Where was she? Did she know her son was becoming a monster? Did she know he had asked to die in her back yard, in the petunia bushes she had once strived so hard to keep trim.

For the first time tears gathered in dark irises before he turned to his two killers. Their eyes just as broken as his own. Marks' hand shuddered on the trigger. Lucid enough he closed his eyes, smiled. Thanked them. And then the bullet was out. There was darkness. Darkness had never been so sweet. Four days later he would find himself half dead in a drainage pipe, the bullet had ripped through skin, but ricocheted off calcium backed bone-at most cracking them. Missing its mark; no doubt a cause of an unsteady hand.

Blood would have soaked through his body. Blinking was difficult, moving as well. As if wading through molasses. When he tried to call out for help no words would form. Wet gurgles, however, were abundant. Throat scratchy, as if he had swallowed a cotton ball. Darien P. Hawthright was no more. Outside he noted it had started to rain. With a twang he realized that it was a pity that showers didn't wash away everything.