Population: Katie

by Connor, Penelope

  I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and try to jump start my musical tribute to the station wagon with a ballad about cruise control, but my heart just isn’t in it. I change the subject of my serenade to the road itself, and am just starting to get into a spectacularly underwhelming chorus about the yellow lines when something catches my eye in the distance.

  Far ahead and slightly off to the right, I can see what I recall being a large farmhouse just off the highway. I remember it because it’s the last notable landmark on your way out of the city, and the first on your way back in. As I approach, it’s immediately apparent that, while the building that I’m looking at is in the same location as the farmhouse, it’s far from the well-kept, recently painted, red home that I remember.

  There’s a large pile of rubble and ash where the house used to be and one side of the barn has caved in. The single granary is still standing, although its contents spill across the ground. There are a few barnyard animals grazing nearby, either unaware, or unconcerned with the fact that their home and keepers are long gone. A couple of pigs are snuffling at the ashes, apparently having located something of interest, while a large collection of hens peck at the ground near the granary. A cow grazes in the field behind the ash-house. It looks up with a mouth full of unappetizing brown grass as I approach, then returns its attention to the ground. I slow down and consider stopping to check for... I don’t even know what. Supplies? Or maybe survivors? Anyone who survived the inferno would be long gone by now, any useful supplies taken with them.

  I speed up again, hoping not to see anything like this again. But over the next hour I discover that the state of that first farmhouse is all too common; houses are burned to the ground, animals forage in the fields, and Passives wander on and off the roads, aimless and alone. It doesn't take long to realize that the further I stray from the safe and mostly secluded world of the MegaMart, the more damaged the surrounded areas are. By the time I reach the large sign that announces that Middleton lies just ahead, it seems every house and building I pass is damaged beyond the point of being livable.

  “I swear,” I tell the station wagon as we approach the city limits, “one more incinerated house and we're turning around and going back to Carnassey.”

  When the city finally comes into clear view, my mouth drops open, my foot slowly presses down on the brake, and we come to a complete stop.

  I don't know what I was hoping to find when I arrived here. A part of me didn't expect to find anything. I have this paranoid vision of arriving in the city and finding it devoid of all life, which plays up nicely to my fear of being the only person left on Earth. I had mostly brushed aside this possibility, telling myself that becoming the only person left on Earth is statistically impossible, although that didn't stop the fear from creeping in from time to time. The next, and equally ridiculous, theory was that I might find a thriving city, entirely unaware of my plight in the tiny rural town that everyone simply chose to forget, rather than help. I brushed this theory aside as well. Along with sounding like the plot of a bad horror movie, if the rest of the world was in good repair, there was no way a virus this dangerous would be allowed to walk around unchecked, even in a town as inconsequential as Carnassey. And lastly, we come to my third, and most practical theory. In this version, I envision the city being in lockdown, the way that Carnassey was before the evacuation, with the Gov taking care of everyone, and people trying to go about their normal lives. Scientists with far more level heads than Dr. Ashmore would be working hard on both an inoculation as well as a cure, and the Passives would be mostly contained to small quarantined areas within the city.

  This, I decide, was what I expected to see here. But what lies before me cannot be encompassed in any of my theories. Instead of finding abandonment, indifference, or containment, all I see is chaos. Utter chaos.

  The main road that should lead into the city is plugged with every kind of vehicle imaginable, many turned over, or charred from explosions, and most riddled with bullet holes. They scatter out from the road like an army of ants trying to escape a flooded hive. Many of the vehicles contain the remains of people, some are even seated and buckled in, as though they were killed while still driving. Beyond the metallic plug are large military tanks that I can only hope are abandoned. Some of them point in towards the city, but most are pointing towards the vehicles. Judging from the empty road that I've been travelling on, not one of them made it out.

  Beyond the sea of vehicles lies the city itself, looking dark and gray and wholly uninviting. Black smoke rises from one of the buildings, but from this distance, it's hard to see where it originates, or how much damage there actually is.

  Turning around seems like a really good idea, but my hands remain on the wheel, and my eyes on the city ahead. This may be my last chance to get out of here, to hightail it back to a place where I know I will be safe, but something inside won't allow me to turn the wheel and reverse my course. Bennett, Dale's father, may be in there. And even if he's not, someone who can help me will be. Someone will be there, and to turn back now would be to accept that there is no hope, no future, nothing. I know that the decision has already been made. My foot lifts off the brake pedal and switches over to the gas, the station wagon creeping ahead slowly. I carefully weave my way into the sea of vehicles, searching for a clear path into the city. At first, I gain a fair bit of ground, backing up and maneuvering around the other cars once or twice to get further into the chaos. I reach the densest part of the traffic, where most of the vehicles are mashed together, or have been driven off of the road entirely. There’s a narrow pathway between two cars, and from where I sit, it looks like it would be a straight drive into the city if I could get past these last two vehicles. Resigning myself to a tactic of brute force, instead of the careful stealth that got me to this point, I slam the gas pedal to the floor and try to force the station wagon past the cars. I do well at first, the cars sliding reluctantly out of the way, and I have just about cleared past them when I turn the wheel to avoid hitting the next car and manage to get stuck. I try to back out, but just end up making it worse until the back end is wedged so thoroughly between the two cars that I don't think there’s any way I could get it out again unless I had someone to help push.

  “Oh, good,” I say with a sigh. Rolling my eyes, I turn off the car, leave the keys in the ignition, swing open the door, and get out. The car to my immediate left seems in decent enough shape, so I check inside for keys. They aren’t in the ignition, on the seat or the floor, or anywhere else to be found. I check another car, then another, and even one with the driver still inside, hands rigid on the steering wheel, but come up short. It’s almost as though someone came and collected them all up… but why? I walk back to the station wagon, open the passenger door, pull out my backpack, and deposit it on the ground beside me. I guess I’ll be walking.

  I know that I won’t be able to carry much, but figure that at least the perishable food should be salvaged. The rest, I can come back for at a later time. I step up onto the edge of the doorway so I can reach up and pull the dolly from the roof of the car. I attempt to lift it off of the roof rack so I can lower it to the ground, but the weight of it gets the better of me, and it ends up tumbling off of the roof and clattering to the pavement.

  I hiss loudly and jump back off of the doorframe reflexively, then examine the damage. The side of the station wagon is adorned with many scratches and imperfections, but I suspect that the deep gash that runs from the top of the back door all the way to the bottom is my doing. I run my fingers along it, feeling the sharp metal that sticks out. It occurs to me that if someone were to attack me, the dolly might prove to be a useful weapon. That is, of course, in a reality where I’m strong enough to swing it around defensively.

  I pull the two coolers of food from the front seat and stack them onto the dolly, then secure them tightly in place with bungee cords. I take the keys out of the ignition and am about to stick them in my pack when I pause. I don’t want
to bring them with me in case I lose them, but I also don’t want someone to come by and take them away in case I need to use the car again. I stick them into the bottom of the glove box, making sure to pile everything else on top of them for good measure. I glance over at the tanks, but they remain immobile.

  Securing my pack around both shoulders, I begin pushing the dolly around the cars, trucks, and minivans that are scattered and abandoned on the road.

  As I make my way into the city, I begin contemplating my strange surroundings. The frightening blockade of vehicles seems to indicate that people tried to leave town but were stopped. Someone wanted to keep the people here, and the people wanted to leave so badly that they risked everything, many of them paying for their attempts with their lives. What happened here to make things so desperate?

  The tanks themselves are abandoned, or at least I assume that they are, seeing as no one shot holes into the station wagon or me, but that doesn’t really tell me if the soldiers left their post, or if they, too, were casualties of the exodus.

  I have no way to confirm anything short of breaking into a tank and checking to see if anyone is in it, so I decide to examine the facts that I do know. The soldiers, or at least their tanks, were set up around town to presumably stop people from leaving. They killed anyone that they couldn’t stop.

  So far I haven’t seen any soldiers, or other survivors, or anybody at all. I pause and turn a full circle to confirm this statement and find that, yes, in fact, there’s no one at all in sight. Grabbing the dolly and flipping it around so that I am pulling instead of pushing it, I continue on travelling down the center of the road. There’s another minute or two of perfect silence before I spot the first Passive. He’s a big one, and walks with an awkward limp, one of his feet dragging lazily across the pavement as the other shuffles forward. He doesn’t seem to notice me.

  There are more and more of them the further I get into town, and just like the ones that surrounded the MegaMart, they pay me very little attention.

  I begin to wish there were someone around to notice and properly acknowledge my arrival into Middleton. It took a bit of effort to get here, and a part of me was looking forward to having someone to talk to who could actually reply.

  I take a break, sitting on the coolers and resting my chin in my upturned palms as I hunch forward, elbows propped on my knees. Directly in front of me is a flower shop, or at least, the remains of one. The large picture windows are shattered, and most of the flowers inside are dead. The ones that still retain their vibrant colors and pleasant upright posture are presumably the fake kind, but they’re still nice to see.

  Sitting here, I can’t help but feel a terrible sense of loss for this once beautiful city. A quick glance around confirms that most of the shop windows and doors are broken in, glass scattered on the paved sidewalk, and probably inside the shops as well. The contents of said stores have been looted and broken and scattered about in what must have been a terrible panic for supplies. The interesting thing is that, unlike in the movies where the shops that stock the most expensive items are looted first, it’s the shops that hold the most practical things that have been hit the worst. Items like TVs and fancy stereos, while damaged and broken, remain in the vicinity of their displays, whereas a small bakery and a sporting goods store have been stripped clean.

  I wonder if it was the people trying to leave town who did this. Maybe that was why the Gov had to stop them from leaving, because then everybody else might have followed suit and then... well, actually, it’s not like things could get much worse here.

  I stand up, grab the handle of the dolly, and continue dragging it behind me.

  After another fifteen minutes of walking, I get bored. I step along the middle of the road, placing my feet on one side of the yellow painted lines, then the other, swishing my body from side to side to step around, but never on, the lines. My eyes follow the lines and my surroundings blur as I lose myself in silly steps of avoidance.

  A smile begins to tug at my lips when I suddenly become aware of a low rumbling in the distance. I look around, heedless of the fact that my left foot has landed on the yellow line, and try to identify the odd noise. It’s much louder in this part of the city; nowhere near the volume level of a normal city full of traffic and people, but the striking silence has dissipated.

  As I stand perfectly still to listen, I notice a subtle change in the Passives. They seem a bit more aware now. I wouldn’t go as far as to use the word alert, but something is different. The ones in the stores move back, away from the windows, and the ones in the street begin to amble away from the center of the road. I see several smaller and more agile Passives climb through broken windows and doors, while others move into the alleys.

  Are they hiding? Hiding from the noise? I know from my little tests at the MegaMart that the Passives are very sensitive to noise, but I’ve never seen them move away from it, only towards. I try to push away the slowly rising feeling of panic as the rumbling sound gets closer and the street empties.

  I focus my attention on the noise. It’s like nothing I've ever heard, metallic, like a vehicle, only bigger. As the sound approaches, I remember the tanks at the edge of town. I don’t particularly want to be blown to smithereens by a tank, if that is, in fact, what I’m hearing, but the thought of finding a real live person is hard to ignore. I take a few steps forward when I catch a glimpse of something moving in the corner of my eye. I spin around quickly, but don’t see anything moving. Any Passives that I can still see remain still and shrouded by shadow. It seemed too fast to be a Passive, anyway.

  “Hello?” I call tentatively into the darkened alleyway, remaining planted in the middle of the road. I have no intention of venturing any closer until I know what’s in there.

  The sound of the tank’s getting louder now, and I wonder just how close it is, and if, I too, should be hiding in a shop. I decide to direct my attention to the alley for another moment.

  “Who’s there?” I yell loudly, and then listen for a response. The alley does not provide one.

  I can hear the tank getting closer still, maybe only a block away now, and another block to the left. I begin walking forward again, intent on securing some help.

  A lone Passive walks out into the middle of the street, a solid block ahead of me. He jerks around as if in search of something, nose in the air, limbs flailing roughly at his sides, and then starts to move forward, very quickly. Not a Passive – this one is an Aggressor. He charges a few feet forward, breaking into the intersection that separates us when the sound of gunfire brings him to his knees. I drop into a crouch, covering my ears with my hands, curling up to the point where my elbows are nearly in the ground between my knees. This is a useless defense, I know, but by the time that thought occurs to me, I’m well committed to my duck and cover strategy.

  With my ears shielded and my eyes fixed on the motionless Aggressor, only a half block in front of me, now lying in a growing pile of his own gore, I hardly notice the figures approaching me from the silent alley. One man grabs hold of my dolly, and then darts across to the left side of the street with it in tow. My immediate thought is that he is trying to steal it, and I begin to push myself up off the ground to chase after him, but my attention is grabbed by the second man, who grabs my arm and starts to pull me to my feet.

  I let out a shout of protest and surprise as I try to yank my arm away from the stranger. He lets go and I tumble back to the ground, still facing him.

  “Come on!” the man exclaims, urgency edging the concern in his tone.

  I lock eyes with my attacker, who is more of a boy than a man. He can be no older than seventeen, with short, sandy blonde hair, and greenish gray eyes. My own eyes must remain startled and unsure because he smiles reassuringly and holds out his hand.

  “Come with me if you want to live.”

  I know there should be warning bells of logic going off in my head, with some part of my instinct telling me how to proceed, or rather, which way to run,
but there isn’t - there’s only the boy. I hold out my hand and he grabs hold of it.

  I know instantly that I trust him.

  The boy pulls me to my feet and together we run into the nearest alleyway, where the first man is already crouching down under the emergency roof access ladder in the shadows. There are no Passives in this alley, and I assume that this was a strategic choice by the pair of men. I duck down beside them, but despite my current state of silence, the first man claps his hand over my mouth and hushes me, then watches the street intently. They both do actually, and I’m inclined to watch it with them.

  At first nothing of interest happens, but the noise from the street grows louder and louder until a giant beast of a vehicle passes by the narrow alleyway and continues on. We wait another solid minute, the man’s hand still clapped firmly over my mouth, a gesture that I am finding more and more patronizing as the seconds tick by. I’m beginning to wonder if I should have put up a bit more of a fuss about being dragged into a dark alley by a pair of strange men, but decide that it’s a bit late to rethink that particular move. Whoever was in that tank shot the Aggressor before they could have possibly been certain that he was infected, so there’s no way I’m going to stroll up to them now. I’ll find another way to connect with the Gov and find Bennett.

  “Let’s go,” the first man says, finally dropping his hand from my mouth and standing up.

  “Wait! Who are you?” I demand, turning to face him. The first man’s wearing dark sunglasses that obscure a large portion of his face, but I can see that underneath, he’s clean-shaven, and older than the boy. He wears a fitted leather jacket and jeans, and as I examine him I notice a gun strapped to his hip. I jump back a step at the sight of it, then add, “I'm not going anywhere with you.”

  The boy, as though somehow innately aware that I’ve decided to trust him, speaks up in a reassuring tone. “We're the good guys.”