Read Fermata: The Winter: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series (The Fermata Series: Four Post-Apocalyptic Novellas Book 1) for Free Online

shot of fireworks over the Charles River from Brookline. The camera lay on its side on a gravel path, the lens focused sharply on a pool of something dark and shiny.
    Screaming people ran in all directions in the background. Suddenly a set of shoes crossed the screen and sent the picture spinning. When it stopped, a horrifying tableau filled the screen. Three men crouched over a police officer lying spread eagle on the grass. They tore at his entrails with their bare hands, stuffing ropey bits of intestines into their blood-stained mouths.
    Vick backed out of the kitchen. Her heart pounded wildly in her ears. She hit every light switch she passed, flooding the apartment with light. She stopped when she hit the side of the Steinway sitting by the front window. Then she heard the rising panic in the street below. She shrank against the wall, pulling the curtain aside a fraction of an inch at an angle that kept her invisible.
    People filled the streets. Some ran full out. Others staggering along holding themselves at odd angles. Their legs dragged on the pavement, arms swinging aimlessly at their sides. As they passed under the streetlight, Vick saw their eyes; they were covered with milky film, just like the woman on the plane.
    She let the curtain fall back. Slowly she sank down the wall, crumpling on the floor. Dear God. Could they all be in that state? Could they all be that violent? Her eyes snapped open. Julie. Julie was out there.

    Vick ducked into the musician’s entrance at the concert hall. She sagged against the closed door breathlessly. The screaming pandemonium in the streets dropped several decibels. The muffled sounds of gunfire echoed from somewhere uptown.
    When she left the apartment, she’d dropped south several blocks and then came up a side street to reach the concert hall. She had her keys and managed to get inside without encountering anyone.
    The cavernous backstage area was cool and dark, but to her surprise, the house lights were up. She cautiously peeked around the curtain. Lawrence Abrams, the concertmaster, stood center stage.
    “Larry, thank God,” she said, coming out of the wings. “Have you seen Maurice and Julie?”
    When he turned, Vick froze. His face was a bloody ruin. His filmy eyes glowed against the raw muscles and tendons. A low rumble emanated from his throat and he moved toward her.  
    Vick had long enough to think, "How can he still be moving?" before she tripped and went down.
    The only thing that saved her life was his broken leg. As he moved toward her, it flopped wildly, forcing him to hop more than walk. When he fell to his knees and lunged, she had just enough time to roll. Her hand touched a toppled music stand. On instinct, she grabbed the base and swung awkwardly.
    Larry slowed for just an instant, but he didn't stop. Vick scrambled to her feet and grabbed another stand. This time when she hit him, the sharp edge of the tray caught him just under the left ear. It sliced to the bone. Blood gurgled out of his mouth.
    Vick yanked backwards and the base came free. She reversed the two ends and hit him again and again, not stopping until he did. When his gurgling moans trailed into wet silence, she staggered, slipping on the gore and falling to her knees sobbing.
    She dropped the bloody stand, kneeling in the crimson aftermath of a hideous new reality. The only coherent thought in the maelstrom of her mind was Julie. Glancing around, Vick found her bag. She looped the strap over her shoulder automatically, and that’s when she remembered the gun. She’d just beat a man with a music stand with a pistol lying four feet away in a Louis Vuitton handbag.

    No man had ever laid a hand on her again since the day she bought that gun.
    After years of dutiful silence, her fights with Maurice had begun to escalate. When she "talked back" on that day, he slammed her against the kitchen wall, pinning her right hand flat with an iron grip. Using a knife from the block on the counter, he