Author C. Francis ~ Margaret and the Ladybug

Dear Reader

This is one of the hardest chapters I've ever written.

Margaret is ten years old. She believes ladybugs bring good luck.

And she's starting to forget.

Ladybug

Tiny spots of blood filled the front windshield. Along the left window pane, a large explosion of red and yellow spilled down to the dash.

We all stood silent for what seemed like minutes—time for our ears to absorb the blast, our eyes to filter the insides of a human head spilled over the front half of a school bus, our brains to digest the gruesome death of a teenage boy at the hands of a small child.

The gunshot echoed over and over until it finally died somewhere in my mind.

There he was, the diabetic boy, lying on the bus floor, his eyes rolled back—the top part of his head gone.

Orillia snatched up the Beretta and pointed it at Margaret, her face and neck coated in blood.

A loud scream spilled out from Bailey as he jumped over the seats, red-faced, eyes wide. He leaped past Danny and shielded Margaret from the gun with his body.

"Move out of the way, kid," Orillia commanded. "Danny, move that little boy outta the way."

Danny wrenched Bailey back by his collar. Bailey pulled loose, clawing at Danny's arm, forcing himself in front of Margaret again.

"Get this little brat out of the way. She's infected." Orillia stepped over the dead boy on the floor. "If you don't move, kid, I'll shoot you both."

"Don't shoot!" I shouted. I leaned into the aisle and slapped Orillia's arm down, reaching for her wrist. "What the hell are you doing? She's just a kid."

Orillia yanked back on the gun and sank her teeth into my arm. I ripped myself away before she could dig in.

"She has to die." She lifted the gun back up at Margaret, fumbling with the trigger. "She's infected." She closed her eyes and fired, launching a bullet into the vinyl cushions to Margaret's right.

From my left, a giant fist crashed over me — the blow hammered into the side of my head, spilling white through my eyes.

Then darkness.

Danny's face appeared perhaps twenty seconds later. He slammed his fist into me a second time.

When I came to, Danny had moved to Bailey, thrusting his frail body into the window a few rows over. Danny's right arm pulled back and slammed down into the seat where Bailey's defensive body lay.

I watched with numbed horror as Danny powered his fist into Bailey a third time.

Cara remained at the back, hands raised over her head.

Sab pushed up behind me in the aisle, holding a small handgun. "Don't move," he muttered. "You move, I'll kill you."

Margaret was about five feet away — her face emotionless, eyes glazed over.

"Kill her," Orillia said. "Sab, kill her now."

Sab wrapped both hands around the pistol and aimed it at Margaret's tiny face.

"Shoot her!" Orillia shouted.

Behind us, spots of blood dripped off the front dash into the trash can beside the driver's seat, slapping the crinkled pages of an old magazine in slow rhythm.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Through the open window, a small fly piloted itself past me, fluttering about Sab's hairy face. It circled before attempting to land on his outstretched arms, then launched upward, smacking against the tin frame, before finally taking refuge on the end of Orillia's fifteen-round M9 Beretta.

As the fog lifted slightly from my head, I could see the orangey-red shell of the small bug.

"Lady-Bird," Margaret whispered. "Look. There's a Lady-Bird on the end of that gun."

"Ladybug," I replied. "It's called a Ladybug."

"It means good luck. Did you know that?" She leaned her finger to the Beretta and pushed the bug onto the tip of her fingernail.

Orillia's brow lifted. She didn't move.

Margaret brought the charm up to her face and carefully pointed at the dots. "It's four! The dots mean that it is four."

"Four years old," I said.

"No, four months. It means I'll have four months of true happiness." The ladybug crawled to the other side of her hand. "Did you know ladybugs take away sickness and diseases? They're just like the explorers. My teacher was sick once, and she said a ladybird landed on her hand when she was in her bed, and the next day she was all better."

"Ask her what her teacher's name is," Orillia said, tightening her grip on the gun.

"What's your teacher's name?"

Margaret shrugged. "Beats me." She smiled at the ladybug. "I'm waiting for it to fly away. The direction it flies is where my good luck will come from."

"Maybe it will help me find my mom."

"Maybe."

I shuffled closer to Sab. "Don't do this," I whispered.

"Stay put," he replied.

"Ask her what your name is." Orillia's jaw clenched. The hardened spots of blood on her face caught the light.

Orillia drew a breath and nudged the gun forward. "My cousin got taken by those things a couple weeks back. Came back a few days later—found us near the High School. Thought he was fine. Until he started forgetting my name. Then he killed my brother. Said he was no good because of his asthma and slammed his head against a wall." She steadied the barrel. "That was when I knew. They don't cure diseases—they borrow them. They're settling inside us, invading the minds of the young and healthy. But as they take over, there's that moment where our memories fade—where we start to forget simple things we should know."

"Like someone's name," Danny added.

Orillia nodded. "Like someone's name."

"What's my name?" I asked Margaret.

The red shell of the ladybug divided, its transparent wings unfolding. A second later it lifted, scooting around Margaret's tangled mane before following the rays of light out the north window of the bus.

Margaret giggled and pointed after it. "That's where my happiness will be."

I forced out a smile. "Margaret. What's my name?"

She looked at the end of Sab's gun, then over to Orillia's. "Dunno," she whispered. "I dunno."

My eyes welled up. "You know who I am, though—right? You just forgot?"

"Did you see that ladybird?"

"I did. What's my name?"

Margaret pointed at the dead boy on the floor. "What happened to him?"

I closed my eyes. "What's my name?"

"I dunno. I dunno your name."

Orillia lowered her eye to the barrel.

"Please don't do this," I said. My voice cracked.

"I'm sorry," Orillia replied. "I'm really sorry."

"What's happening?" Margaret asked. "Why is this lady pointing a gun at me?"

Something inside me bought into the possibility. Maybe it was my dad's logic, or some instinct for survival. I hated admitting it, but deep down it made sense.

"This lady is pointing the gun at you because she's helping you find your happiness," I said, feeling the connection I had made with this little girl slip away.

Orillia looked at me and nodded. She closed her eyes—gently inhaled—and pulled the trigger.

Margaret's story doesn't end here.

If you want to see where it goes — and what happens when the infected spread to the town— here's the trailer for "They Came from the Trees: The Merge"