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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Front Matter

  Free Book!

  Unraptured

  Author's Note

  About the Author

  Unraptured

  by

  Sherry D. Ramsey

  Copyright © Sherry D. Ramsey 2019

  Cover Design by Sherry D. Ramsey ©2019

  Cover image by by Nathan Wright on Unsplash

  Cover font: Boycott by Flat-it

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  All rights reserved. The author retains all copyright in the content of this book.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission from the author.

  This book contains a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, entities or settings is unintentional, coincidental, or entirely attributable to the whimsy of the multiverse and fluctuations in the space-time continuum.

  Ramsey, Sherry D., 1963-, author

  Unraptured / Sherry D. Ramsey

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.sherrydramsey.com

  Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada

  Unraptured

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-9995756-3-2

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  The rapture wasn't all it was cracked up to be, at least for the unraptured. The dwindling supplies. The feral victims. The collapse of civilization as they'd known it.

  Kellianne's current challenge was more personal—she couldn't bring herself to kill her stepmother. Kellianne hunkered in the rooftop garden of their two-storey house, listening to the sounds filtering up from the open kitchen window two stories below. Ellen—now one of the soulless, aimless horde blanketing the world like restless insects—bumbled around, colliding with furniture and knocking things off the counters. Ellen had met Kellianne with a vacant stare and slack face when she'd come down for breakfast earlier this morning, not recognizing her stepdaughter.

  Raptured.

  Incubation of the rapture virus was only about eight hours, so when Kellianne saw Ellen’s blank face, she’d sprinted back upstairs, grabbed her always-ready evac pack, and scrambled up the narrow stairwell to the rooftop garden, heart pumping in muted terror. She felt no effects of the virus herself, so she probably hadn’t been exposed—or exposed, but immune. Only a blood test could tell, which sucked. She’d had opportunities to visit an immunity testing post, but she'd delayed. It was one of those things. If she were immune, she could stop worrying about ever catching the virus. But if she wasn't...if she wasn't, the worry would never end.

  They'd discussed this possibility. Everyone with any sense did.

  "If I get raptured, Kelli, just find someone to put a bullet in me," Ellen had instructed her three months ago, with the virus spreading like wildfire. Ellen's voice had been flat and lethargic ever since Kellianne's father had gone to work one day and not returned. "Mr. Carson, if he's still around, or your Uncle Jeff. They'll help you out." She swiped aimlessly at a spot on the countertop with a hand-knit dishcloth she'd made a few months before the virus had hit. Its bright, variegated colors had faded to a barely-discernable pattern of greys now. It didn't look particularly clean. "It won't matter. You don't have to feel bad about it, okay? I won't know. I won't understand what's happening. And you can still live here, there's nothing to stop you."

  Some days, Kellianne had thought asking someone to do that job wouldn't be so hard.

  But now, in the moment, it was horrible. From her rooftop vantage, the small-town landscape spread out around her, familiar but oddly alien. The streets held piled garbage and stalled vehicles instead of playing kids; empty backyards grew wild and tangled; houses sported broken or hastily-boarded windows. Brushing away a cloud of gnats that had risen from the leaves she disturbed, Kellianne dug morosely in her backpack for a granola bar. She unwrapped it and took a bite, munching as she thought. A slow-burning hot coal of anger had ignited in her gut the day of that conversation with Ellen, and still smoldered. Why hadn’t Ellen tried harder to avoid this? They should have left town months ago, tried to make one of the rumoured refugee camps. Uncle Jeff scoffed at their existence, but he didn't know everything, did he? They could have tried.

  A pebble hit the roof near Kellianne and she started, dropping her granola bar wrapper and stifling a yelp. A breeze caught the foil and wafted it into a garden box. Cautiously, she moved closer to the railing her dad had strung around the edge of the roof platform. It wasn't a sturdy thing—just a warning of the edge to deter accidental falls when tending the garden. She peered past the railing and saw old Mrs. Romero from the next block staring up at her. She moved jerkily, like a puppet controlled by an inept puppeteer, face slack and eyes dull. Her clothes looked clean, a pink sweater and long black broomstick skirt, but hung off her as if they used to be a better fit. She’d been raptured, but someone was looking after her. Or had been.

  Kellianne tossed the stone back over the edge. Mrs. Romero must have had the virus at least a week, if she'd managed to get out of her house and do self-directed things like throwing rocks. For the first few days, in phase one, the victims bumped and lolled around, the virus stealing their coordination and self-awareness. Some internet comedian had been the first to call the virus the "rapture," joking about how this was what you had after you pulled out someone's soul and took it to a higher plane. They didn't just leave the clothes behind, like the old joke had been, but the body, too. After all, you didn't need that in heaven.

  The name caught on, although Kellianne didn't find it funny. And the virus infected the righteous and the sinful indiscriminately. Everyone was vulnerable, and immunity had no obvious common ground.

  Another stone hit the roof and skittered across. Kellianne sighed. Mrs. Romero stood in the same spot, creepy blank eyes wide and fixed on Kellianne. The raptured followed their own impenetrable impulses. Kellianne moved around the two-foot-high, deep-bed garden frame filling most of the roof platform, out of Mrs. Romero's line of sight. Maybe the woman would leave if she couldn’t see Kellianne.

  An especially loud crash sounded from the kitchen window below, and Kellianne winced. What had Ellen inadvertently wrecked now? Kellianne drew a deep breath and mentally kicked herself. She needed a plan. She should have made Ellen talk about it more. But after her husband didn’t come home, Ellen had just lived day to day, as empty as if her soul had already been ripped away.

  "If you could call it living," Kellianne breathed to herself. "More like dying in advance." She kicked the garden frame. Ellen—the part that made her Ellen—was dead for real now. What was left was Kellianne's problem. She blew out a long sigh. If she couldn’t end things for Ellen, she’d have to at least make sure her stepmother stayed contained in the house, especially if she became violent.

  Ellen's plan—such as it was—was useless, because Mr. Carson had been raptured a week ago, and Kellianne had no idea where to find her Uncle Jeff. She didn't think—wouldn't think—he'd succumbed to the virus. He'd been at the house six days ago.

  "How's my girl?" he'd asked her, chucking a big canvas bag of canned food on the kitchen table and wrapping one strong, tattooed arm around her shoulders. Uncle Jeff was six-foot-five, with a short, sandy blond ponytail and muscles that testified to long hours at the gym. He was her real mom's brother, a constant in Kellianne’s life. Uncle Jeff was cool. She vaguely knew he'd fought in a war. He
was smart; he read a lot and could talk about anything. The onset of the rapture virus had turned him into a roving scavenger, heading out in his big rebuilt truck and returning with the truck bed full of supplies. He worked with the band of survivors who had, so far, tried to keep the town running. What he scavenged, he distributed as he saw need, and no-one ever questioned his decisions.

  "Where'd you go this time?" she'd asked him, like she always did. The world had shrunk, with schools closed and malls abandoned and streets deserted. Anything beyond her small town seemed as faraway and mythical as another galaxy.

  He jerked his head to one side. "Out past Washburn, to the mall on the other side of Red Gorge Bridge," he said. "Highway's in bad shape out that way—wrecked and abandoned cars everywhere—but I got a path open eventually. Seems like hardly anyone's been there, stores are still full of stuff."

  They didn’t talk about how that meant few people with the mental or physical ability left to scavenge.

  "I wish you'd take me with you sometime," she'd said, also as usual.

  He squeezed her shoulders again and then released her, shaking his head. "Too dangerous." He frowned. "A lot more zombs on the move these days. Phase twos everywhere." Uncle Jeff always called the virus victims 'zombs', although they weren't like zombies in movies and books, shuffling around and moaning for brains. They might attack people but didn’t try to eat them. They weren’t dead—or undead. Just…soul-dead.

  "They're not all dangerous, though," she protested. "Unless they hit phase three."

  "Still too many violent ones, and phase twos can hit phase three in a blink. I want you here, where it's safe," he'd said. This time, though, Kellianne caught a hint of uncertainty in his voice. He'd stayed with them for supper, climbing up to the rooftop garden with Kellianne and complimenting her on how well she'd kept things growing, the excellent size of the carrots and beans and the lovely, lush clumps of herbs. And then he'd gone off on another scavenging run, promising he'd be back in four days or less.

  And now it was six days.

  She thought she understood that uncertainty. Kellianne stroked the soft fronds of a carrot top. Where was safe, anymore?

  What if he doesn't come back this time?

  The words pushed to the front of her thoughts, but she fought them back. He would come back. He had to come back, because he was all she had left.

  Another clatter came from the kitchen, just as a stone landed in the row of yellow wax beans to her left. She looked down. Mrs. Romero had made her way around the house, as if searching for Kellianne. That didn't seem right. That seemed too...smart, for a virus victim. She picked up the pebble and tossed it back carelessly. It bounced off Mrs. Romero's shoulder, leaving a smudge on the pink sweater. The woman didn't react. Her blank eyes met Kellianne’s, empty as a waiting grave. Kellianne shuddered.

  "Nonna!"

  Mrs. Romero didn't move. Skittering footsteps ran along the sidewalk, and then Allison Romero rounded the corner and ran up to her grandmother. She took the older woman's arm and pulled roughly.

  "You can't be out here, Nonna! Come on!"

  Mrs. Romero staggered but righted herself. She might have been stone, for all the attention she paid her granddaughter.

  Allison Romero was the best-liked girl in Kellianne's class—or what had been her class, before the school shut down. They weren’t friends. Allison was one of those people who made you feel inferior without even trying. Kellianne froze and hoped the other girl wouldn't look up.

  Mrs. Romero bent and plucked up another pebble to hurl at Kellianne. It went wide, but Allison followed the stone’s arc and saw Kellianne peering down at them. For the first time in her life, Kellianne saw Allison blush.

  Now Kellianne noticed that Allison’s usually-shining fall of dark hair looked dull and unwashed—she’d pulled it back into an unbecoming knot, but greasy strands had worked their way free. Her pale blue t-shirt was wrinkled and stretched out at the neck, and a long streak of grime ran across one leg of her jeans.

  "She didn't hurt me," Kellianne offered, raising her voice.

  Allison gave an impatient shake of her head. "She's not violent. She's just confused."

  Aren't they all? Kellianne wondered, but she didn't say it. "My stepmom is, too, just this morning," she heard herself say, and wanted to bite the words back. Why share with this girl? She had her own problems. Still...

  "She hasn't figured out how to leave the house yet, but be careful."

  Allison nodded once, then tugged harder at her grandmother’s arm. "Come on, Nonna, we've got to get you home."

  Mrs. Romero didn’t budge.

  Kellianne took a deep breath. "You want some help?"

  "It's fine," Allison said, without looking up. But it obviously wasn't fine. Her grandmother stood immovable and unresponsive as a granite angel in a graveyard.

  Kellianne crossed to the fire escape ladder her dad had installed. The easiest access to the rooftop garden was from inside the house, through the attic hatch, but the ladder was useful if you didn't want to go back inside. Kellianne pulled the release and the bottom half of the ladder slithered down with a metallic clatter. She glanced over to see if the noise had frightened Mrs. Romero, but she stood silently, watching Kellianne with her unnerving fixation. Kellianne quickly climbed down the ladder to the grass.

  Allison tugged feverishly at her grandmother, trying to get her away before Kellianne reached them. The girl's eyes were bright with tears; of sadness or frustration or both. Her face looked naked and vulnerable without the mask of perfect makeup she’d normally worn. Wordlessly, Kellianne took Mrs. Romero's other arm, feeling the thin fragility of bones that belied the woman's obvious strength. She tried to turn the older woman toward Allison and was surprised when she complied without hesitation.

  "Hey!" Allison yelped. "How'd you get her to do that?"

  Kellianne shrugged. "I don't know. She's not resisting me."

  They led Mrs. Romero out the driveway and down the street, skirting wrecked cars and the disquieting detritus of previous lives. A shoe here, a jacket there, maybe a shopping bag, its contents half-spilled into the road and long-spoiled or strewn by scavenging animals. Unexplained but ominous stains marked the pavement here and there. The girls walked in silence, but close to Allison's house she looked past her grandmother to Kellianne.

  "You say your stepmom got raptured today?"

  Kellianne nodded and swallowed hard. "She's still in phase one, so I don't know if she's going to be one of the violent ones or not. I was waiting it out on the roof."

  Allison turned her eyes back on the sidewalk, watching for obstacles. "Nonna never got violent, just went from one to two and stayed there with no trouble. But she wanders. I can't keep an eye on her twenty-four-seven." She sounded defensive.

  Kellianne nodded her understanding. "It was just me and Ellen, so I don't know what I'll do if she's like that." Privately, she thought that throwing rocks qualified as ‘violent.’

  Kellianne let go of the woman's arm experimentally at the Romero’s driveway. The older woman stopped in her tracks and Allison grimaced, brushing wisps of dark hair out of her eyes with one hand.

  "Oh, for god's sake," she muttered. "Would you mind helping me get her in the door? I don't know why she'll move for you but not for me."

  "Sure." As soon as Kellianne took her arm again, Mrs. Romero moved quiescently forward, and Allison opened the door. She moved inside a couple of steps, just enough for the older woman to get inside. She seemed to be shielding Kellianne's view of the house’s interior.

  Kellianne dropped her hold again as soon as Mrs. Romero was past the threshold and stepped back.

  "Thanks," Allison said. "You made it a lot easier."

  "No problem."

  Mrs. Romero clutched for Kellianne's arm with curled, bony fingers, trying to pull her inside. Kellianne shook her off.

  "Nonna!" Allison scolded.

  Kellianne forced a tense smile. "I think she wants me to stay, but I ca
n't. I have to get home and check on—check things." Had Ellen regressed further since she'd left? Maybe she shouldn't have left her stepmother alone.

  "If your stepmom—I mean, if you need—" Allison seemed at a loss, but Kellianne thought she understood.

  Do you have a gun I could borrow? She couldn’t say the words.

  "I'll let you know if I need help," she said, and turned away. Nothing good waited for her at home, but she didn’t want to hang around Allison’s obvious pain and embarrassment.

  Uncle Jeff, where are you?

  Kellianne flew down the street toward home, suddenly very aware of being alone. But imagine the joy if she rounded the corner and saw his big truck parked in her yard!

  The truck wasn't there. The house lay ominously silent, no sound emerging from open windows. If Ellen had progressed to phase two, she might be violent, and lash out at Kellianne the moment she saw her. Maybe she could barricade her stepmother in one of the rooms. Kellianne wished she'd had the presence of mind to sneak downstairs and herd Ellen into the spare room while she was still in the initial phase. Then the only danger was if she barrelled into you by accident.

  Or infected you. That fear had sent Kellianne to the rooftop like a silly, overwhelmed kid.

  Angry tears pricked at the back of Kellianne’s eyes and her throat cramped as she fought them back. Crying like a baby wasn't going to help her now. She stood listening, indecisive, at the end of the driveway. Maybe Ellen had fallen and hurt herself.

  Or she could be lying in wait.

  Kellianne frowned. No, that would take volition. Ellen might be violent in phase two, but she shouldn't be able to reason. Kellianne took a couple of steps toward the house, trying not to think about Mrs. Romero’s insistent pebble-throwing.

  "Hey!"

  Kellianne startled and half-smothered a shriek with the back of her hand.

  A boy about her age stood from where he'd been crouched behind Ellen's Honda, making shushing, placating movements with his hands. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." He moved toward Kellianne and she involuntarily stepped back.