Safe & Alive, Book Two, Angel's Story: Safe & Alive, #2

Acknowledgement

I WOULD LIKE TO GIVE my love and thanks to my husband for believing I could realize my dreams of becoming a published author. I would like to thank my friend Jessica for encouraging me to keep writing and for believing in me to continue in my writing journeys. And for also making the handlette featured on the front cover!

I would like to thank authors JJ Kīmmorist and Kimberley Shead for their time, critiques, and wonderful insights for this story.

I would like to thank my editors, Cassie Snow, Jill Worley, Julie Warren, and Melissa Lanner, for their time and commitment, their insightful edits, and great advice on how to make this story the best it can be!

I would like to thank Norm D. for taking my photo and providing the fantastic picture of me on the back cover.

I would like to thank Dar for the beautiful book cover and her help with my photo.

Everyone involved in this book is special and dear to me, and I wouldn’t have gotten this far without any of you!

Copyright © 2024 by T.L. Humphrey

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact T.L. Humphrey.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

This book is entirely the product of human creativity; no AI was involved in its writing.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

Book Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

Safe & Alive, Angel’s Story

First Edition 2025

Mary

YOU PROBABLY WON’T like me, and I don’t give a shit if you don’t. This is my story. I lived it; you didn’t. You can judge me if you want, hate me if you want, or like me if you want. I don’t care. So, here’s the lowdown...  

This world went to hell.

What was once only speculation turned into so much more. It happened, and there was no stopping it. A virus swept through the world, and now, here we are. Those who lived through it and died, lived again. And whether one succumbed to the virus, or died another way, one thing was always certain: everyone came back. So now, those who are alive and run into the ‘lived again’ learn to avoid them or kill them—again.

We all think of what we’d do if the world died and chaos reigned, but honestly, until you’ve survived it, you don’t know. You think you need to hold on to the person you were. Those ideals that made you the way you are. Those morals you clung to so tightly and were proud of; those hesitations, quick judgments, snap decisions... or not-so-snap decisions. Whatever it was that made you, ‘you,’ you question. What was right for one world is not necessarily right for the other.

But that came after the neighborhood fell.

Chapter One

Mary

LOOK, THERE GOES ANOTHER, I whisper. I was worried I’d get sick, but I haven’t. Neither has Shawn. And the dead get wheeled away on gurneys onto the back of trucks at night when they think no one is watching.

He nuzzles my neck while we lie on a blanket hidden between two vacant homes. I don’t care about that, he tells me between kisses.

I moved in with my friend because she lived closer to the college I was going to. I was in my third year and on course to graduate early, since I crammed in a few extra classes over the summer. I kept seeing Shawn patrolling by the house I was staying in. When the military moved in, they assigned him to the street I lived on. I started off by waving at him. Then I’d wait outside. I found out about his interests and got him talking. Then he ‘stole’ a kiss, and, well, here we are.

I shrug away and hook my bra, feeling his fingers slip underneath. I put my shirt on anyway, and his entire hand is under my bra cup. I make a face at him, and he removes his hand.

You better get dressed. If your boss comes by...

He laughs. He’s not a boss. That’s not what they’re called in the military. He shrugs into his shirt.

I pull up my pants, then stand and shove my feet into my shoes. Whatever. You know what I mean. I cross my arms and look away, out to the street where stillness reigns.

Don’t forget your bag. He gets up to pull his pants on, the V of the zipper catching.

I glance at it—small price to pay. When’s the next shipment coming in?

He hops to get the waist over his hips. The warehouse is another state over, about midway. So, maybe another day? He shrugs.

He continues speaking about where the warehouse is, and I stare off in the direction I think it is. We’re about four hours from the state border, maybe a little less.

How many hours? I ask.

Uh, I don’t know. It’s off Route 50. I haven’t made the run yet. My rotation should be coming up. He buckles his belt.

What? I turn and face him. He’s putting on his jacket. You’re leaving?

He leans in and kisses me on the lips. He buttons up. Yeah, I was going to tell you. It slipped my mind when I slipped into you.

I shove him, making a face at his grin.

I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, baby. He shrugs into his jacket.

Don’t call me baby.

Okay, doll.

I flip him off, and he captures my finger and pulls me over. He hugs me, and grudgingly, I return the hug. He kisses my temple and sets me away to grab his rifle.

My eyes rest on it. You should show me how to use the rifle.

He holds it out for a moment. Point the muzzle, pull the trigger.

Asshole.

He grins again, kisses my cheek, and leaves. I crouch and fold the blanket before reaching for the bag he left. It’s weighty. I heft it over my shoulder and cut through the backyards of the houses without fences to get to my own. My friend Sarah and her mother were grateful for the extra income I had produced for rent. My mother and Sarah’s mother were friends, and that’s how I got to know Sarah. She’s younger than me, having only turned eighteen. I’m going to be twenty-one in... well, not sure since I stopped keeping track.

We live in a neighborhood of homes that are at least twenty years old. It isn’t an expensive neighborhood, not in the least. However, they are well-kept homes in a quiet maze of streets. The more expensive neighborhood is across the field. We can see those homes peeking through the lining of the trees on the other side, teasing us with their newness, the paint without blemish, and the peak of the yellow house which always seems to catch my eye no matter where I am in this neighborhood. I always thought I should head over there and look at it. But then, I’d always find a way not to do it.

Things were normal here in the neighborhood, and you could count on a routine with people coming home from work, school, or grocery shopping. Mrs. Beltzer would always prune her rosebushes or dig out the weeds every Saturday, wearing shorts that rode up every time she bent over—it wasn’t exactly a pretty sight. Every Sunday morning, Mr. Capps would walk out in his robe and slippers and pick up his newspaper, snapping it open to read the headline before turning and reading it on his way back to the house.

The Petzles lived down the block, had three kids and one on the way. Their kids would ride their bikes up and down the streets. They hopped on and off the sidewalks like daredevils. The Crabbs, at the other end of the block, and yes, they lived up to their name, would watch those children, daring them to cross even the sidewalk in front of their house, ready to shout, shake a fist, and threaten the cops on them.

But overall, it was a peaceful neighborhood with growing families and kids playing in the streets. Nothing bad happened here, and there was no crime. I would sit outside with my friend and shoot the shit, smoking stolen cigs until I was old enough to buy them legally. We’d sit outside while the world slept with only the owls as company. We’d hear the occasional coyote in the distance, but I’d never seen one. Every day was typical and predictable, if not boring.

But all of it changed one day when a long caravan of tan trucks rolled in, filled with military men and women.

They hopped out by the twos, and one who looked to be in charge carried a bullhorn. He spoke through it; the sound carrying farther than was perhaps necessary. And it seemed, one by one, we all exited our homes and gathered around. Even those from the blocks over showed up, slowly walking, trying to determine whether there was a threat. The man with the bullhorn spoke about a strange virus and how we all needed to be kept safe. He told us they would erect a chain-link fence around the blocks, and it would keep us protected. We were confused; what kind of linked fence keeps out a virus? A few of the braver of us asked more direct questions—which were expertly diverted.

But in the end, they told us it was for our own good. Like trusting fools, we listened to them. Yeah, we’d seen the news before it went off the air—until static filled the screens, then black. It was so surreal; it seemed fake. Like it was another way to generate interest or stoke the low fires of fear—until it wasn’t fake—until we saw it firsthand.

Then the rest of the military moved in behind him. They got to work erecting the fencing, issuing orders to everyone, and asking for civilian help to get to know the neighbors. They kept the peace and redirected our anxious worry to the medics, who had a script they repeated, calming fears and stalling anymore questions. And when that stopped working, they held a meeting in the middle of the street. The neighborhood grumbled or praised, depending on one’s level of trust. And soon, it wasn’t unusual to see three or four soldiers patrolling up and down the blocks. They erected a tent barracks over by the first entrance they arrived through. In the opposite diagonal corner was another entrance with more tent barracks. It appeared there were more military here than civilians.

What they were protecting us from was, at first, a big show, like pomp and circumstance. I mean, we heard what they had to say upon their arrival, but soon, even the news and social media weren’t hiding what was happening, and in an effort to stave off panic, they quickly pulled those videos. However, like usual, many people saved those videos, sharing them across text messages and emails until there was no more service. And when the electronic world went dead, people panicked. They couldn’t find or speak to their loved ones. People in the neighborhood demanded to be allowed to leave, but the military refused. And just like that, what they did to keep us safe was now a prison.

It was scary, and since most of us in the neighborhood did not have the firepower to match the military, we were stuck.

But despite the fences erected to keep us safe, they could not keep out the sickness that seemed to sweep through, thinning us out—not only us civilians, but the military too. They increased patrols to create the illusion that they hadn’t been infected, but the sick tent remained constantly full.

MOM’S SLEEPING, SARAH tells me right away. She takes the bag from me and takes out the cans and other supplies. Mary, you don’t have to do this, you know.

I shrug. I like Shawn okay enough. He’s been a wealth of information, and he’s not a bad lay, either. I watch Sarah put the cans away. She’s been more frightened of what’s happening than I have been. Maybe it’s because I’ve got an inside source, and he tells me things to keep me informed. I’ve refrained from spilling too much. Sarah is one of those people who needs to be eased into things.

Your mom okay? I finally ask.

She shrugs, folding the bag and sliding it to me. She says she is. But she has bags under her eyes, and we’re almost out of aspirin.

I frown. It sounds like The Fever, and this isn’t good. The sick tent remains full despite the nightly removal of bodies. And while there are still many people in the neighborhood, I’ve noticed the street traffic has thinned out. I guess we should be thankful we have the military around to help us. I mean, weird shit is happening all over, and who doesn’t want to feel secure, right?

AND THINGS ARE STILL okay for a while. But the false sense of security soon turns into rations and curfews. I still sneak out to meet Shawn and receive my bag of goodies, but even he said it isn’t easy to get me supplies anymore. Then one night, he doesn’t meet up with me. I sit there for an hour, I think, swatting away bugs and flicking them off the blanket before finally having enough of that and stalk back home.

Nearing the house, I see six people in uniform, two outside the house and four inside, and Sarah crying and yelling. One woman tries to calm Sarah down, but she isn’t having it. When she sees me, she races over, her arms like steel bands around my waist. I hug her in return and demand to know what is happening. The woman, whose name I don’t catch, walks over to us, leaving the two others who wheel Sarah’s mother out on a gurney. The woman tells us they will help, but I have a feeling we’ll never see Sarah’s mother again.  

And it isn’t for lack of trying. And on top of this, I can’t find Shawn to see if he can help us. And when we go to the sick tent, the staff turns us away with a gruffness that shakes us. Eventually, since we show up every day, they finally tell us if we keep it up, they will quarantine us in the house under guard. While I doubt they have the resources for that, I duly note the threat and under my curses, Sarah pulls me away. I flip off the soldier, but he only laughs at me. I’m sure he has tougher skin than we do. But it was at that moment I realize things might not get better, and I need to make a plan.

Sarah is pretty numb, and content to let me decide. So, I do, often making decisions without consulting her first. I try to explain my reasonings, but she doesn’t seem to care, always with that one shoulder shrug. I scour the neighborhood for supplies, slipping in through windows out of sight from the road. In the stuffy houses, I find cans of food, boxes of food, and two backpacks. And on one such scouting run, I see a group of boys. There are four of them who act suspicious. I watch them for a moment, then follow them at a distance. They go back behind a home at the edge of the six-block area. They kicked loose the boards in one of the wooden fences, and I watch them sneak out. Mentally, I note this. In case things go bad, I need a way out.

Maybe I am naïve in some ways, always wanting to believe the best in others, but I am smart enough to know I need an escape plan.

Where will we go? Sarah asks one day.

I want to shrug one shoulder because my irritation with her has grown, but instead, I tell her we will make our own way. She seems okay with it. But honestly, I’m not what anyone would call ‘outdoorsy,’ and living off the land is a pipe dream. But I figure, like everything else, I’ll manage. Sarah is a little less sure. And I’m not sure how we will do in the long run and this sends me walking around the neighborhood, catching snippets of conversation whenever the soldiers walk by.

I catch words like dead and alive used interchangeably. The military keeps their secrets close, and it seems the neighborhood is now an annoying child they have to take care of. Shawn still hasn’t returned, so I figure I need to do my own recon. I decide to hang around near the chain-link fence to look out into the world they cordoned us off from. And it pays off. I see what I’d only heard snippets of—what they spoke about. Even though I see it with my eyes; it is still hard to believe.

It’s a man. He looks ragged, and he shuffles along. I wave and call out a greeting because it’s what one does, right?

He swings around fully, his eyes vacant, his mouth moving oddly, and a strange sound emits from his throat. In horrified fascination, I watch him shuffle over to me. He drags a foot that I realize he must have broken, but it doesn’t appear to bother him or slow him down. I ask him if he is all right, and he answers in a hoarse, guttural sound. Slowly he arrives, reaching the fence and clawing through the metal diamonds, rattling it like a snake. I glance around, but no one is near me. Yet.

Can you hear me? I ask it, staring at the oddity, my brow in a crease.

Arrrgghh, ucckkklle.

I step forward and study him, peering up into his face. His eyes are more than bloodshot; his skin like mushy leather. He keeps clawing at the fence, trying to reach me. Studying this man in front of me, I realize this—thing—is not alive. But neither is it dead. He gnashes his teeth and presses his now bloody fingers further towards me, the webs separating his fingers now split.

I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but I soon learn.  

Hey! I hear from behind me.

Two sets of boots run toward me. I jerk away and step back. The first soldier to reach me pulls his knife and stabs the man in the head. I make a distressed noise and the second soldier pulls me aside. I’m in shock at how the first soldier callously stabbed a man in need through the eye!