by Anna Abner
“You’re still recovering. It might take days or even longer before you feel normal again.”
“I don’t remember what normal feels like.” His eyes shone, and my insides folded up like a piece of tinfoil.
I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know how. So I focused on the most obvious issues. He hadn’t slept in two days. Maybe longer. And he hadn’t eaten.
“Let’s get back to the truck and have breakfast,” I said quickly. “I’ll find something you can eat.”
He reached out and palmed my arm. I stiffened in surprise, every nerve ending registering the rough ridges of his fingers. Now it was my turn to stare at his immaculate fingers in astonishment. At some point he’d trimmed his nails into neat half-moons.
“Will you sing?” he asked.
Was he serious? “I have a terrible voice.”
His fingers tightened imperceptibly. “Please?”
His sincerity cut me to the quick. He hadn’t asked for much since we’d crossed paths. If it eased his mind to hear music, how could I say no?
“Sure. If you want.”
He withdrew his hand, and we walked back to camp side by side.
“How is your knee?” he asked.
“You remember that, too?” I marveled. “It’s better.” I tested its strength. “It’s a little stiff, but it’s healing.” I snuck a sideways glance at him. “Thanks for asking.”
The moment Hunny spotted us coming toward her, she dropped her bag of spoils and ran to us. With a very serious expression on her face she threw her arms around Ben.
“Did you keep us safe last night?” she asked him.
I rolled my eyes and hurried away to organize breakfast. Even when Ben sat down around the campfire Hunny wouldn’t let go of his arm.
“How are you, Sweet Pea?” he growled.
“Be careful around that thing, little girl,” Simone snarked, chewing sunflower seeds and spitting the shells into the grass. “He’ll eat you up.”
I ignored her and inventoried our food supplies. “Ben—corned beef hash, peaches, or refried beans?” I had no idea what a cured Red ate or craved. Before he injected the elixir he’d eaten the same things all infected people ate—blood and brains and kidneys right out of a person’s body. No cooking required.
“Peaches,” he said quietly.
Relieved, I peeled open the top, stuck a plastic spork in the can, and handed it to him. “How about you, Hunny?”
“I have donuts,” she said.
Of course she did.
I ate the corned beef hash even after it started to taste like barf, since I didn’t know if it would be my only meal until the end of the day. Unless we came across a decent shop or a house not infested with zombies, that was it for a while. I washed it down with a couple swallows of water, and then passed the jug around.
Ben hesitated before having some, but finally relented and drank. Wiping water from his mouth, he disentangled his arm from Hunny’s grasp and silently offered me the guitar.
I slipped the strap over my head, fingered a simple C chord, and strummed several times. My fingers formed the D minor chord from the day before.
“Way down here,” I sang, keeping my eyes on the grass. I didn’t have a good voice. I could carry a tune, but that was about all. My talent and passion lay with writing songs, not singing them.
But there was no one there to sing for me, so I muddled through. “I disappear.” I plucked a couple more notes.
The song had been stuck in my head for a while. A few days ago I’d hoped it would fade away, but it was persistent.
“My heart hurts when you leave,” I tested, playing another sad minor chord. “Come back. Come back to me.”
“That sounds pretty.”
I looked up as Pollard emerged from the snack shack rubbing his eyes and then scrubbing his fingers over his scalp.
“Thanks.”
“Everyone good to go?” he asked, taking in our breakfast mess. “We’ll be walking all day unless we find a vehicle and a clear road, so let’s make good time. Pack up.”
Without much discussion we broke camp, picked up our gear, and hit the road.
A bike path ringed the sports field, which eventually led to a road winding through forestland, no houses in sight. Not much to see but a bunch of trees and the occasional startled bird.
Bored, I snapped my fingers to get Hunny’s attention. She’d mastered finger spelling so I decided to teach her some actual ASL.
“H-u-n-n-y,” I spelled. Then I signed, “Donuts aren’t healthy.”
She frowned. “Huh?”
I opened my mouth to explain the signs when Ben stepped directly into my path. I gasped in surprise.
“What was that?” he demanded. “What did you just do?”
“Sign language,” I explained, glancing uncertainly at Hunny. “I grew up with it. My brother was deaf.” I gestured toward Hunny. “I’ve been teaching her.”
His brows drew down. “Do it again.”
Facing him, I signed, “Donuts aren’t healthy,” very slowly so he could follow each gesture.
“I know that!” he burst out. The storm cloud lifted from his expression and he exhaled in obvious relief. “I remember that.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” With both hands he made the sign for flag. “I remember.” He signed, “You’re a grand old flag,” letting his right hand waggle in an invisible breeze for long seconds. “Oh, God, I remember that.”
“Where did you learn to sign?” I asked.
The others gathered around to watch.
“In Dogwood,” he said, repeating the signs by memory. It was jarring to watch him sign words he wasn’t actually speaking.
And then what he was saying registered. “You were in Dogwood Juvenile Detention Center?” Mason had been locked up there for the past two years.
Ben nodded, unaware of how his words affected me. “A teacher came once,” he said, “and taught us a song.” He stopped signing. “For the Fourth of July.”
I smiled at what sounded like a happy memory for Ben. “Show me more?”
He blinked several times, and then lifted his hands again. “You’re a grand old flag,” he signed.
I jumped in and joined him, my hands making signs for, “You’re a high flying flag, and forever in peace may you wave.”
“You’re good at it,” he said.
I felt stupidly pleased with myself. “I can’t believe you learned sign language.”
Ben’s eyes lit up, and I enjoyed the way my pleasure put him off-kilter. I sensed a smile coming, at last.
But Hunny grabbed him and exclaimed, “Can you show me?” And the beginnings of a smile faded away.
“Yes,” he said.
Pollard stepped nearer. “We really should keep moving. We can all play games when we stop for the night.”
“How about this,” I said, gesturing to the Fender on Ben’s back. “You give me my guitar and I’ll play the song so you can sign while we walk.”
“As long as it’s quiet playing,” Pollard warned.
Ben ducked under the strap, but before he passed it to me he pointed at my backpack.
“I’m fine,” I assured. “I can carry both.” No one had to carry my gear for me. In fact, no one had since I’d opened my panic room door five days earlier. I was kind of proud of carrying my own weight.
“Maya.” He gave me an uncomfortable, pleading look as if I’d hurt his feelings.
I still hesitated. In the bottom of my pack I carried my most precious possessions. They hadn’t been out of my reach in days.
But Ben didn’t back off, and I finally relented. “Okay, but just for a while.” I traded him the pack for my guitar, and he shoved his arms through the straps. “Thank you.”
I didn’t know the notes to the song, had never played it before, but I figured out the chords fairly quickly. I knew what it was supposed to sound like and, after a few minutes testing one note over another, I played a tune very similar t
o the original. The only down side was I only knew the chorus, but Ben didn’t seem to care. Neither did Hunny as she mimicked his signs until she could do them by herself without peeking.
The forest gave way to a narrow, two-lane highway and we climbed a short barrier to follow it north. Simone nearly fell over the wire fence, but Pollard caught her at the last second.
“You’re being unreasonable,” Simone complained. “Why can’t we stop here?”
When he didn’t answer, she ran her hands across the straps of his pack, up the sides of his neck, and buried her fingers in his blond hair. “Come on.” She pressed her midsection against his. “I’m tired.”
Pollard’s gaze met mine over the top of her head. “Knock it off.” He brushed away her hands.
Dropping her arms, Simone sneered at me. The more she drank from her tall plastic cup the more disagreeable she became.
I ignored her as we weaved around abandoned vehicles. Pollard tried each one, but didn’t find a working car. We marched on, following the highway.
“What about there?” Simone called out.
We’d come upon a state-run rest stop from the backside and I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t even noticed. Unfortunately, all the snack and soda machines had already been bashed and looted, but the place was quiet and sheltered.
“There’s shade,” Simone added. “And I have a blister. I need to rest.”
Pollard grumbled something, and then said, “Twenty minutes.”
I didn’t want to admit it to Simone, but I was grateful for the break. I’d been on my feet just as long, and I was worn out.
I took my backpack from Ben and sat alone against the cold stone wall of a restroom complex. It felt nice to relax, even for a few minutes. As I stretched out my legs, my guitar slid onto my lap, and I plucked the strings.
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Ben knew sign language. Not a lot, granted, but more than the average person. How happy he’d been to remember it. Maybe it was a portent of more memories to come. Maybe he’d return to himself in a rush.
I hoped so.
In the meantime I didn’t want to forget the song I’d composed. I pulled my song diary and a pen from my pack and opened the book to a blank page. Humming the notes, I jotted down the chords and then the corresponding lyrics underneath. Satisfied it was all there in black and white, I sagged against the cool stone. My gaze hopped from Pollard examining the smashed vending machines to Simone sitting on the hood of a sports car and finally to Ben and Hunny huddled together in the grass.
I picked up my pen, turned to a fresh page, and wrote notes. Not about songs this time.
Loss of consciousness. Fever. Seizure. I scribbled everything I remembered of his initial behavior into my black leather book. Sensitivity to smells. Aggression.
Ben caught me staring and scowled. I smiled weakly before burying my head in my book, flipping through pages of my own lyrics in gold and red and purple ink. I realized, thanks to Ben’s gift, I had the ability to play every song I’d ever written again, from the very beginning.
Dry grass crunched, and I glanced up. Ben stood over me, a wary, concerned look on his face. “Are you writing about me?” he asked.
“Yes.” No need to deceive him. His reactions to the elixir could help other people down the road.
His dark eyebrows came together. “Why?”
“When we find a doctor with expertise in viruses,” I closed my book and set it aside, “your symptoms may help them fine tune a new antiserum from the one in your blood.”
He turned to leave as if he wasn’t interested in doctors or symptoms. The name embroidered on his shirt caught my eye.
“Is Ben your name?” I blurted out.
He paused.
“It is, isn’t it?” I continued. “I want to call you by the right name.”
“Ben,” he said, testing the word. “Yes.” I opened my mouth to say something else, but he added, “I can’t remember things.” He glared, ferocious for a moment. “I can’t…”
“It’s okay,” I assured. “Your brain has been through a lot, what with the symptoms of the virus, and now the symptoms of the cure. Give it time.” I had no idea if time would help, but it was all I knew to say. In truth, because he was the first cured red zombie in existence—as far as I knew—his future was unwritten.
Anything was possible.
“Think of how much you’ve already remembered,” I added.
He didn’t look impressed.
But he’d remembered learning about engines. And a song. And my guitar.
And me.
“Ben,” I said, straining forward. “How did you find my picture?” I didn’t even care anymore if he told me he’d killed Mason to get it. That’s what Reds did. It wasn’t his fault. I just needed to know.
“I stole it,” he said. “From Mason’s cell.” His gaze wandered as if he were recalling details. “They released me at eighteen. I took it with me, hid it in my mail.”
“You were in Dogwood?” I clarified. “You knew Mason?”
He shrugged. “Mason didn’t have friends. He was deaf. And a jerk.”
Yeah. He was. “Then you didn’t kill him?” I exhaled, my shoulders bumping the stone wall at my back.
Wait. “You stole it before you were infected?”
Hunny bounded over and wrapped her arms around Ben. And the intrusion abruptly ended our conversation. With nothing else to say, I cleaned up my things and searched out Pollard.
He reclined on a picnic table reading a paper map and snacking on potato chips.
“Can you find us on that thing?” I asked, joining him on the splintered surface.
He offered me the bag of vinegar-flavored chips, and I took two.
“Yeah.” He showed me a spot along the coast. “Right here.”
“Are we close to Camp Carson?”
“We are.” He re-folded the map and scanned the parking lot. “I’m going to check these vehicles. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Want to help?”
I hopped off the table. “Sure.”
The first car was locked tight. No sign of the keys inside. We moved on to a tan mini van with a plastic saint hanging from the rearview mirror and a baby seat in the back.
“Maya, what exactly are you looking for at Camp Carson?”
“Medical equipment,” I said. “People who know how to reverse engineer and mass produce antiserums.”
He plucked an unopened can of cola from under the seat, but no keys.
“Sounds complicated,” he said, giving up on the mini van and searching another passenger car as he slurped the soda. “I mean, how many people in the world can do that? Slim odds, right?”
“It’s our best hope. If the government is holed up at Camp Carson, maybe they’re in contact with other communities. Maybe there’s an underground shelter somewhere with doctors and scientists in it.” He gave me a look and I shrugged, knowing how ridiculous I sounded. But if I didn’t try to find help, nothing would ever get better.
Ben and Hunny settled cross-legged on the grass in the shade. She held a bag of frosted cookies in her lap. After every third or fourth cookie she consumed, she handed one to Ben.
He was better, in so many different ways. He was clean. He was handling being around people. He was calmer. If it weren’t for his blood-red eyes, he could pass for just another shell-shocked survivor.
Hunny slid a pair of dark aviator sunglasses on Ben and clapped her hands in glee. “Doesn’t he look good?” she exclaimed, trying to get our attention. “Like a regular person.”
He did.
“I found a truck!” Simone bounced on her toes, waving her arm behind a neon green, souped-up pickup. “Come on!”
Motioning for Hunny, we all grabbed our gear and piled in. Pollard reached for the driver’s side door.
“My turn to drive.” I laid my hand atop his. “Remember?”
Flipping my hand over, he held it between his two larger ones. “You sure? I’m not tired.”
Simone squished in next to me. “Aren’t you too young to drive?”
“I’m seventeen,” I said. “I have a driver’s license.”
She huffed a derisive sound and settled in, leaning back against the headrest.
“You got this,” Pollard assured, lowering himself beside Simone. “Go north. Keep your eyes open for road signs. If you hit Richmond, you’ve gone too far.”
Hunny and Ben hopped into the bed with the guitar and all our gear, and we were all set for, hopefully, the final leg of our trip.
“Full tank,” Pollard admired as I reversed it out of the rest area. “If we find a clear path, we could be at Camp Carson in about an hour.”
“Thank God,” Simone moaned. “Because I can’t sleep on the ground one more night.”
Though the truck was modified for street racing, it also had four-wheel drive. I sped off-road across wide swaths of grassland and sandy dunes. The further we bounced north the louder Simone’s snoring got. Pollard must have dozed, too, against the passenger’s door because it got real quiet. If Hunny and Ben were talking in the truck bed, I couldn’t hear them over the engine.
I hoped we would find help at Camp Carson. Even though it was a long shot.
Simone. Pollard. Hunny. Ben. They were all in the vehicle because they believed in my dad’s work and in the antiserum.
They believed in me.
I didn’t want to lead them astray.
Around a bend in the highway there was a huge sign. Camp Carson Next Right.
“Guys?” I elbowed Simone. “We’re here.”
Chapter Nine
I slowed the truck as we passed a guard post along a winding road flanked by concrete barriers. As the path turned sharply left, I caught sight of a survivor. A guard in camouflage gear with an assault rifle stood on top of a semi-truck. I pulled over and turned off the vehicle.
Ben helped Hunny out of the truck bed and then we both reached for my pack at the same time. He was faster. I opened my mouth to argue, but he only held it up for me like my dad used to do with my mom’s coats. I slipped my arms through the straps.
