What if the MC Never Went to Help Tommy. (Patreon)

Tommy jogged down the street to the boarded-up home where the only person he knew lived. And “lived” meant “still alive” and he only hoped they were still home. Everyone else he knew was dying or infected. Some of the lucky ones had fled Nightfall, but few made it out before friendly fire or roving mobs of infected cut them down. In twenty-four-short hours, the population of the small Colorado town had been decimated. His mother was one of the last to survive, but if he didn’t get help soon, she would be lost to the virus, another claimed soul.

His mind raced as he ran to the end of the street. A thousand scenarios played out like complex moves on a chessboard. No matter how it ended, he saw loss. The only chance to save his mother was to find someone to treat her wound and maybe stave off the infection.

Tommy cleared the porch steps with a single leap and pounded the door with quick, constant blows. As his hand moved, he saw the flecks of red on his skin and the smears of blood up and down his arms like strokes of paint.

"Please, I need help!" he called out, over and over, his voice loud and crackling. He screamed like it alone could save her. He knew if they were home, they could save her. At the Makarov’s house last night, they took over the crowd, gained control, ended it all peacefully. They could help his mother.

He yelled until his voice gave out, and then he ran to the window and peered inside. Long wooden planks covered the glass, and thick blankets hung like curtains blocked his view. No lights nor shadows showed through the cracks.

Tommy fell to his knees and felt his chest tightening, Tears formed in his eyes. An image of his mother filled his mind.

How could I let this happen? How could I let her convince me to leave our home, to visit Mrs. Ortega? It’s all my fault. If she dies, I’ll never forgive…

His voice too hoarse to call out again, he banged on the front door again and winced. No one answered the door. He stood and trembled, kicked the door one last time, and took off down the street again for home.

He ran along the road without pause, weaving between abandoned cars, hopping low fences, and cutting through yards. Too much time had past. Going for help was a mistake. What would he do if she had already turned? Did he have the strength to give her peace? How could a son kill his mother, staring at her face, that sweet smell of her perfume, as she wears that sweater he bought for her for Christmas? How would he even do it? Reddit said to kill the brain. He broke down at the thought of it, but no more tears came. He was flush with rage: at himself, at Mrs. Ortega for needing help from his mother, and at Mr. O’Leary for being infected.

Rounding the end of the avenue down Barnberry Road, he darted past a pair of cars crashed front-to-front, the drivers both dead with shots to the head. He ignored the accident and walked across a well-kept lawn. He had just cut the grass a few days ago, a fact which now angered him even more. His mother always paid for lawn care, but with the outbreak, no one showed at the scheduled time. Janice Monroe always needed her grass cut down. One summer, when they had taken a trip to England to visit family, the lawn had overgrown, and she received a citation. Tommy was always responsible for the lawn. So upset by it, Janice hired a company to take over. Now, when they failed to show, Tommy took it upon himself to do the lawn again.

He climbed the steps to the paneled cottage home. The door was unlocked and open. Had he forgot to close it in his haste?

Much of the living room lie in discord, with the sectional couch pushed in one clump along the far wall and the TV cracked and lying on top of the pile. A display case was tipped over, and from it have spilled dozens of his mother’s prized porcelain figurines of clowns and cats and angels. The dining room table was toppled with several legs cracked, and a large empty chest was turned on its side, the lock broken. Pictures framed and hanging on the walls showed Tommy or his mother, Janice. His favorite one hung near the fireplace, taken at Easter, the two of them together in a Sears Portrait Studio.

“Mom?” he called.

At the edge of the living room near the kitchen stood a gaunt man standing over the body of Foofoo, his mother’s white-haired poodle. The dog was lying on his side, and his back was bent at an unusual angle.

“What are you…,” Tommy started. “Peter? Peter Makarov?”

Peter straightened his back and walked toward Tommy, a strange expression on his face. He was smiling, but his lips twitched. He wore ragged jeans and a Chipper Ridge Beavers baseball shirt with the name Monroe embroidered over the left chest. An almost imperceptible squeal rose in his throat like a kettle whistle. He was excited.

“You’re home,” Peter said and rubbed his hands on the front of his jeans.

“Where’s my mother?” Tommy made a move to pass him, but Peter stepped sideways to block his way.

Giggling, Peter slid out a screwdriver tucked in his sleeve. “Sorry. She was in pain. Maybe not anymore.”

“Move!” Tommy shouted.

Peter jabbed at Tommy with the screwdriver. It was a casual stab, like he was poking at ice to see how hard it had frozen. Tommy stepped back and crouched in a fighting stance. With a quick left palm strike, he knocked the screwdriver from Peter’s hand. Tommy had trained and sparred for so long, his moves were automatic. His left hand coiled to a fist and hit Peter’s cheek.

“Oh my,” Peter said, stunned by the blow. He blinked hard a few times. “I got hit.”

Tommy lashed out again, driving his heel into the thin man’s stomach to push him aside. Peter howled like an injured monkey, a chortling noise, half-pain and half-laughter. He rubbed his gut and panted.

“Where is my mother, you psycho?” Tommy yelled and grabbed him by the collar.

Peter reached up and drew his long fingernails across Tommy’s cheek. Tommy recoiled and lashed out again, hitting Peter in the mouth.

“Where is she?” Tommy hit him again and again, asking the same question each time. He felt the sudden desire to hurt the man. His rage had peaked, and every minute kept from his mother meant a greater chance of her being lost. Peter’s presence was not just keeping Tommy from her--it was a sign of a far greater problem. He had broken into their home and was stealing from them. He took the time to put on Tommy’s shirt and to hurt the dog. What had Peter done to his mother?

Tommy stopped hitting Peter, whose head was wobbling like a speed bag. “Where is my mother?”

Peter looked up, his mouth bloody, his nose bent, and one eye with a purple welt below it. He smiled and licked away some blood. “Hi, papa.”

Tommy followed Peter’s gaze to the top of the staircase. Sam Makarov stood there with a rifle aimed down.

“Move from my son,” he said, his voice too casual, like he was giving driving directions.

Tommy released Peter who fell to his butt.

“I just want to get my mother and go,” Tommy said, raising his hands. “Take whatever you want.”

Sam yelled at his son in Russian, angry shouts showing frustration.

Peter wiped his injured eye with part of his sleeve. “I took her to the yard. She’s alive, but the bug’s got her.” He winced and whenever he tried to look up at his father, he squinted.

Sam shouted again in Russian and then switched to English. “And you, your name is Tommy? You left your mother and hurt Peter.” He fired once.

Tommy fell backward against the fireplace, stumbling. Intense pain spread through his ribs. He wheezed, and when he tried to take a deep breath, the wheeze turned to a whine. No air came in.

Sam walked down the staircase and stopped halfway. “Stupid boy, can you take care of this? Bring him to his mother. Let them be dead together.” He turned and plodded up the stairs, cursing his son and his son’s mother as he went.

Tommy slumped to the floor. Blood was pouring fast. Pain ebbed and flowed in his chest and ribs. Saliva dribbled from his lips. He pushed off the mantle of the fireplace and made it to a crouch. When he tried to stand, a warbling scream escaped his lips. He didn’t care about the pain or what injuries he sustained. He had to reach his mother---to help her. If only he could stand, he would knock out Peter and go to the yard. His mother was still alive. 

“Where are you going?” Peter said in a low, excited voice. He searched his hand along the ground, never taking his eyes off of Tommy. Finding a broken table leg, he held it up in two hands and swung it down. The edge of the stick hit Tommy’s shin, dropping the young man back to the ground. His mouth hung open, but nothing came out. This new pain was overwhelming, and he had no air to use to shout.

“You played baseball, right?” Peter asked, taunting. He wound the chair leg and hit him again. He heard a snap, and Tommy rolled to his side, clutching his knee.

“Everyone likes you. Big-shot baseball player.” Peter hit him again. “Think you can hurt me?” He swung again and then stomped down on the leg.

Tommy’s shin cracked, and this spun him into a whirlpool of pain. He saw pure red and writhed on the floor. In that red was an image of his mother, and they were walking along the path at the Milford estate, the ones lined by cherry blossom trees. Light rain had fallen, and though he was getting wet, he looked up to his mother who laughed and spun in a circle, dancing and singing. She picked him up and swung him around, letting him hold out his arms like he was flying. A sudden pain rose in his other leg now, but he didn’t care. For all he knew, he was dancing in the rain with his mother.

---

Sam Makarov walked downstairs to the first floor, a tied sheet of bedding made into a knapsack, flung over his shoulder. His son was where he left him, and Peter stood over the Monroe boy with a bloody screwdriver in his hand. Tommy’s eyes were gouged, his shirt was bathed in blood, and both of his legs were inverted at the knees.

“Why do you do these things?” Sam said at the bottom of the stairs.

Peter cleaned off the screwdriver on curtains lying on the floor. He shrugged.

From the kitchen came a low wail and the sounds of shuffling. Janice Monroe, now animated, limped at them. Her feet were mangled, limiting her mobility, but she held her arms out and growled, unliving will driving her forward.

Sam lifted a suitcase. “Stupid boy, let’s go. Take those bags. Be useful.”

Peter rushed to the front of the house and lifted a duffel bag, the weight of which carried him backward a few steps. Once he found his balance, he lifted a backpack. “What about them?”

Sam stepped to the front door, never looking back. “Leave the boy for his mother. They are nothing to us now.”