Chapter 1

This was for the best.

Bryce Delmar chewed quietly on his mediocre dinner. The beef was overcooked, the potatoes were lumpy, and the peas were straight out of the can. Margie’s cooking had plummeted over the past year but no one criticized it except their youngest. He pushed his peas around with a prominent pout. Bryce swallowed the tasteless potato and glanced at his wife. 

The lines around her mouth had deepened from the permanent frown she wore. Was it permanent or only when he stepped through the door? Margie was never a good liar. No matter how many times he asked, the answers were the same, said in the same robotic tone.

“Nothing’s wrong, dear.”

“I’m just a little tired.”

“Of course, I still love you.” Then came the weak smile and the kiss on the cheek, devoid of any lust or passion. She’d turn away before the frown reappeared. She was never fast enough to hide it.

This was for the best.

Between them, sneaking glances at her phone was their daughter, Christine. Bryce had hoped that she would be a replica of her mother. Blonde locks with bright eyes and a brighter smile. Instead, the fifteen-year-old had inherited his mousy brown hair and thin mouth. She barely had any friends or boys call on her. Only other loners she talks to through some online communities where they talked about Japanese comics and cartoons. Bryce tried to limit her access to the internet. Push her to go out and meet physical people, but her mother insisted nothing was wrong with it. Bryce disagreed, but when did he ever have a say in his own house?

This was for the best.

Margie barked at David that he wouldn’t be able to leave the table until he finished his meal. The seven-year-old sighed heavily and stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth. He was too young to understand what was going to happen, which worked fine. Put him out of his misery before he realized exactly what life had to offer.

This was for the best.

Margie cleared the table when David suffered through his last bite. Christine whisked herself to her room and locked the door. David rushed off to play a video game. Bryce stayed at the table to watch his wife clean the dishes. Her face set in stone (when was the last time that she smiled?) as she scrubbed and dried. She occasionally shot an accusatory glance his way, but said nothing. 

No, she would never say anything to his face. Margie was too passive for that. She’d rather complain to her mother, her friends, or their single neighbor. That’s when Bryce remembered the last time she smiled. It was when she was chatting with the man across the street. Just moved here a month ago. Bryce didn’t know his name, but his wife surely did. They’d catch each other outside every so often and chat. He would watch from the window. Margie’s face brightened with a wide smile, she flipped her hair to one side. She had acted the same way with Bryce when they were younger. 

When Margie slipped off to the bedroom without a word, Bryce sat in the living room, taking in the details of their dinner. He could have tried to reconnect with them. Make their last meal something to remember, but their memories and souls would fade in a few moments.

Bryce drew in three deep breaths, then slowly walked to his car. He worked at Cameron Institute, working in teams to research various experimental medicines that targeted heart and brain function. One test had gone horribly wrong. Bryce hadn’t been part of that team, but he heard tidbits. The only thing he cared about was death. A coworker whispered to him that the patients perished. Some did, but he never got to hear what happened to the rest as they interrupted. That’s all Bryce needed to know. He snuck into that particular lab and took four vials.

He held the cool vials of sickly yellow liquid in one hand and a silver gun in the other. The softest of warnings whispered in his head, but he ignored them as he entered the quiet house. His family had always been early to bed and early to rise. The lights in all the rooms were off or dimmed and he already heard the rhythmic breathing of his children.

Bryce went to his daughter’s room first. She was lying in her bed, headphones blasting music of another language in her ears while she slumbered into her pillow.

He should have gone to Margie first. If Christine woke up and began screaming, Margie would lock into fight mode and the night would have to be messier than planned. 

But he couldn’t face her yet.

He bent over his daughter and positioned his hand near her mouth as he swiftly injected the syringe into her neck. He emptied the contents and removed it as she stirred, absentmindedly wiping the spot. He kissed her on the forehead, then went to his son’s room. David jerked when the needle hit his neck. His eyelashes fluttered, then fell back into slumber.

Now for Margie.

Bryce opened the bedroom door. She was resting on her back, her face still and serene. He thanked God for making this so easy for him. Bryce stood over her, a mixture of longing, disdain, grief, and relief. When he struck her, he used more force. Whether it was intentional or not, it had served its purpose. She hadn’t moved at all. Even gave a slight mumble for his trouble.

He took a step back, shaking. He went back to check on Christine. Maybe it was his imagination, but he could see the difference from the doorway. Her body was completely still. A cold paleness had taken over her skin. She was gone. And soon the others will follow. As will he.

Bryce’s legs were numb as he walked downstairs. His entire body trembled like static was bouncing under his skin. When he sat down at the table, he surveyed his options. The gun had been here for years for basic protection. He was never much for guns which is why it tended to stay in its safe unbothered. He took it out last week and had been carting it in his car.

He traced his finger along the smooth handle. He had debated his method for months. Besides the mess that would have to be cleaned after, the silly thought that passed his head was that it would wake his family. But they were somewhere where the noise would no longer reach them. Bryce gripped the handle and this is when his hands begin to shake. Perhaps he should inject himself as well. But Margie, Christine, and David were asleep, so perhaps they didn’t feel anything at all.

His fingers brushed over the final syringe.

Just one push it’s over.

Bryce assured himself. He had to. He had to.

Thump!

The syringe clattered on the floor and smashed.

Thump!

He jumped up, picking up the gun to the floor. It was coming from directly above him. His bedroom. 

Bryce cursed under his breath. He walked around the sofa and glanced up the stair way. 

Thump!

A figure slumped past the stairway, rocking slightly from side to side. Margie. Still in her nightgown, hair covering the side of her face. She didn’t seem to be in pain. Couldn’t be. She wasn’t making any noise except for her heavy footsteps.

It didn’t work. Now he was left to handle it himself. He didn’t want it to end this way. He didn’t want them to know it was him. He slowly lifted his gun, aiming at her head. No need to worry about waking the neighbors now. He could do this swiftly. They’ll all be gone before help arrives.

Bryce shuddered, “Margie, I’m so-”

His wife’s head snapped in his direction with a loud crack. Bryce dropped his gun. The yellow content hadn’t killed her but it had eroded her skin. Her lip were gone, leaving little strips of greyed skin flapping over black teeth. Thick red blood gushed from her nostrils and ears, splashing upon her gums and shoulders. A blackness had consumed her pretty eyes. Now the brown iris had reddened and shook violently. 

“Oh Margie.”

His wife leapt from the stairs. Bryce flung himself back far enough for her to slam against the floor, her nails digging into his ankles, shredding his skin. The gun had been flung across the floor, resting halfway under the sofa, far out of his reach. Margie clambered over his body like an animal. Teeth gnashing. Dark saliva dripping from the side of her jaw. 

Bryce grabbed her throat and squeezed with all his strength. He had dreamt of this multiple times. Daydreams of Margie being asleep, climbing on top of her and choking her until there was nothing left of her but an empty body. But not like this. He quickly realized his hands were doing nothing but temporarily holding her back. She continued to push against his grip, longing to bite into his flesh. 

“Mommy? Mommy, stop.”

Without hesitation, Margie leapt off of Bryce and crawled to the foot of the stairs. Bryce saw little socked feet carefully step down, attached to the ankles of a spiderman onesie. David used the railway as he descended the stairs, staring at his mother with sorrow. Behind him followed Christine, in the same state as her mother. Red and black eyes, blood running down her face, mouth eaten away. Her eyes found Bryce and before her body reacted, like he had expected it, David snapped, “No. Both of you go sit at the table.”

Margie and Christine obeyed, throwing their bodies into chairs. Christine fell off, like she had forgotten this simple act. She struggled until David came to assist her, forcing her behind into the chair. Then he sat in his regular chair and looked around at Bryce.

“Dad, come sit with us.”

Bryce glanced at the gun, glistening underneath the sofa. But they were watching him. Though they remained seated as David commanded, the black eyes watched him. Their chests heaved up and down in an uncontrollable hunger. He didn’t risk lunging for it. That might set them off and he wasn’t sure how long David’s grasp on them went. 

He stood and slowly crept to the seat, trying to avoid looking at his wife and daughter. He kept his eyes on his son, watching for signs. He looked as normal as he did before he went to bed. The only difference was his eyes. Not any change in color, but they seemed older somehow. That knowing look that one gained with age and experience. A look that seven-year-olds shouldn’t have.

“H-How do you feel, son?”

David blinked, contemplating his answer, which he had never done before, “I’m not sure. My neck feels a little funny.”

Bryce nodded. Christine had leaned closer to him, her chair slightly turned his way. 

“Do you feel funny, Dad?”

“No.”

“Oh,’ he tilted his head. “I wonder why you’re the only one.”

Bryce leaned back from the table. There was a squeak from his wife’s chair as it turned. “It seems to have only affected Mommy and Christine.”

David stared at his father, saying nothing. Then he muttered, “Oh.” He looked at his mother and sister, “Stop moving.”

Again they obeyed, but their heads didn’t turn from Bryce. 

“They want to hurt you, Dad.”

He glanced at the gun again, seeming farther away then it had ever been. 

“You’re not like us,” David said.

“You mean they’re not like us,” Bryce shifted his feet towards the living room.

David shook his head as he left the table and went to the kitchen. Bryce heard him shuffling through the drawers. “Dad, I had a strange dream before I woke up. A man was standing over me and then I felt something sharp touch my neck.”

Should I move now? No. Not when he’s away.

David returned holding something behind his back, “I feel like the same thing happened to Mommy and Christine. But not you, Dad.”

Bryce leapt from the chair. In his haste, he hit the sofa, accidentally knocking the gun further. His hand frantically searched underneath until his fingers grasped the handle. Looking back, Margie and Christine had not moved, except to turn their heads to watch him. David was out of sight.

Bryce yanked the gun out, pointing wildly at them. The last thing he felt before he could pull the trigger was steel slicing into his skull.

        #

David stood on the couch, silently watching blood ooze around the knife lodged in his father’s head. He was proud of himself. He lasted for so long. Usually he could never control himself around an open candy bag or the last cookie on the plate but with Dad, he held himself for a long time. The moment he walked down the stairs, he wanted to hurt him. Not because he was mad at him. Just to do it. And it felt good to do it.

David took the knife, the big sharp one his parents told him never to touch, and pulled it out. His daddy slumped over on his side. His eyes staring across the room at nothing in particular. 

“You can come now.”

The table knocked over, with it the glass vase that Mommy had bought at a yard sale. The blue glass spread like marbles across the floor. Christine and Mommy ran to Dad and sank their nasty looking teeth into his arm and leg, ripping the flesh apart. There was a lot of blood. 

David watched quietly. He never liked horror movies. Never liked blood and guts and screaming. The only blood he saw were in the action movies that his dad liked. That was okay. There’d be a little bit when someone got kicked or shot, but then the hero would move on to the next person and David didn’t have to look at it anymore. But right now, it didn’t bother him. Right now, he kind of wished he had cut up his dad a little more to see how much blood would come out. 

Then a brilliant idea came to David.

He jumped off the couch, careful to keep the knife pointed to the floor like his Mommy taught him. “Mommy, Christine. Let’s go outside.”

Smacking their red jaws together, they jumped at his word, waiting patiently as he rushed up stairs to get shoes. He had to help put Christine’s on. It was funny, how she used to have to do that for him before he learned and now, he was doing it for her. 

David opened the door for them, not looking back at the mess on the living room floor and walked outside. Except for a dim streetlight, the street was dark. All the houses were closed up for the night, curtains pulled, and doors locked. David walked next door to his classmate’s, Taylor, house, making sure not to step on Mr. Bryant’s grass because he didn’t like that. He had to remind Mommy. She couldn’t walk straight.

He knocked on the door, but no one came. Then he rang the doorbell a couple times, but still no one came. So he decided to scream.

“HELP! HELP ME, PLEASE!” He fake cried so well that tears came down his face. He banged on the door as loud as he could as he cried for help. Then a light in one of the upstairs windows came on. Then the one on the porch. 

The door swung open and there stood Mr. Bryant in his blue pajama pants and robe, “David What’s wro-” His eyes widened when he noticed Margie and Christine, “My God. Carol! Carol, call 911!”

“You can have him,” David said.

They pounced over him and tore into Mr. Bryant. His scream was terrible. It sounded painful. Mrs. Bryant thundered downstairs with a phone pressed to her ear, her face whitening as she watched her husband being devoured. Shock had blinded her from David’s presence as he walked past her. He shoved her down the stairs. Mommy was on her the second she hit the floor. 

David didn’t stay to watch. He walked to Taylor’s room to see if she could scream as loud as her parents.