Reversion

by Paul B. Kohler

  “Let me repeat myself,” she said. “You left a full-on maniac alive, and pissed off, and he’s probably on the way here to kill us as we speak. Do you understand that? That if we stay at this hotel, it’s only a matter of time before he finds us? I mean, that’s abso—”

  “You’re going to need to calm down,” Clay cut her off, speaking in what he hoped was a leaderlike voice. “I think what happened back there was handled … well, responsibly. Malcolm knows what he’s up against.”

  “You’re delusional, Clay. This is the end of the world. Nobody like Malcolm lets bygones be bygones,” Sam snapped.

  Sam turned back to the crowd. “If any of you assholes want to follow this man to the ends of the Earth—play nice and die of your own stupidity, then stay right here. But if you want to keep yourself alive, then come with me. We’ll have our own meeting in the other room. Just a warning: It won’t be all lovey dovey, nicey-nice, sunshine and puppies in there. We have to be realistic about what this world is, and what it takes to stay alive in it. You hear?”

  A few people rose from their seats, most were looking at one another, incredulous. After weeks of relative harmony at the hotel, it seemed their world was shattering. But since Sam had been their leader for months, they trudged after her—knowing no other way. Clay watched them go, but was surprised that Sherman—Sam’s supposed right-hand man, had remained with him.

  Clay realized that Maia’s eyes had closed. She was curled up in the armchair, eyes darting back and forth at a nervous dream. He scooped her up and carried her toward the lobby, where the doctor was administering aid to Walt’s leg.

  “Doc, this is my daughter,” Clay said, feeling humbled at the words.

  The doctor looked up at the undersized teenage girl. He straightened, his hands still holding bandages.

  “She needs fluids, right away,” he said. Snapping his fingers, he alerted Lane, organizing medical supplies across the room.

  Lane came over and placed her hand on Maia’s cheek. Appalled, she helped Clay walk her up the steps to a bedroom. Maia continued to shiver, making Clay forget, if only for a moment, about Sam. About Malcolm. About any of them. This was his flesh, his blood. His world.

  Maia’s eyes fluttered open when he and Lane tucked her beneath the sheets. She gazed up at Clay, her chapped lips parting to speak.

  “Hush, now. You need to rest, honey. Let yourself sleep,” Clay said, stroking her head. “The doctor’s going to make sure you get what you need to feel right again. It’ll take no time at all.”

  Maia’s eyes closed again; she was asleep almost immediately. Clay marveled at it: all the times he’d spent, watching Maia trying to fall asleep in her crib. Always, when she’d finally dropped off, he’d felt relief. But this relief was something else. It was something deeper. It was as if he’d been given a new chance at fatherhood. He would take it.

  Chapter 25

  Clay awoke just after eight to a knock on the door. He lurched up from his bed, feeling suddenly apprehensive. He shouldn’t have left Maia alone like that, all night! In the crack of the door, he saw the doctor peering at him behind thick glasses.

  “What happened. What is it?” Clay demanded, jogging into the hallway, already halfway to his daughter’s room.

  “Slow down! Slow down,” the doctor said, straining to keep up with him. “I just wanted to tell you. I’ve been monitoring your daughter’s vitals, and they’re looking better and better. She just needs a bit of sustenance, something good: protein, fat. Nothing sugary. Let her sleep as much as she can throughout the next few days. I reckon she’ll be back at it in no time.”

  Clay’s relief was palpable. He thanked the doctor who marched away to tend to Walt. Clay trotted down the steps toward the kitchen, remembering the frozen sausage they’d been keeping in the freezer. As he went in the kitchen, he nearly stumbled into Alayna, who was nibbling on a cracker. Her eyes, which had been gazing off into nothingness, immediately looked electric, charged. Excited. A small smile stretched her cheeks.

  “Morning, Clay,” she said.

  “How are you? I haven’t talked to you since, well … since everything happened,” Clay said. He gave Alayna a short hug.

  Alayna swept her dark hair from her eyes. “I’m, well. I’m good,” she answered, sounding vaguely awkward. “And Maia, how is she?”

  “Doc says it shouldn’t be too much longer till she’s back on her feet.” He headed for the freezer on the far side of the kitchen, pep in his step. “I’m just going to make us some breakfast. And it looks like you’re hungry, too. I can cook us all something …”

  But as he passed the counter between the kitchen and the community room, he stopped short. On it was a large piece of paper, with the word CLAY on it. His brow furrowed; he reached for it.

  “What’s that?” Alayna asked. “Jesus, it’s—”

  “She’s gone,” Clay affirmed. “Sam left. And she took some people with her.”

  The note read,

  Clay. Sheriff Clay. You’ll have awakened this morning—probably worried about your daughter (of course, how could I blame you?), but you’re about to learn that I’ve—shock!—taken half of the supplies. A good number of us left in the night, all dramatic-like. It’s kind of my thing, I suppose. At least that’s what ex-boyfriends (like Malcolm) have told me. You’ll be happy to know that Hank, Walt and Sherman all stayed, but I’ve taken able-bodied men and women with me, to ride out this strange journey called life. Or whatever we’re calling this, now that life seems to be scarce. Clay, our encounter was brief, strange, and bright. I’m glad I got to know you. And I’m sorry I wanted to rip your head off more than once. That’s also one of my things.

  All the best, and I hope we never see one another again. I would have enjoyed knowing you, honest roots and all, in a different life.

  Sam.

  Chapter 26

  Clay half-chuckled to himself, reading the letter. The words didn’t seem to be written by a delirious, maniacal woman—certainly not by the woman who’d shoved a gun into the face of a man just the day before, ready to kill. Rather, they seemed like words from a person with compassion. A person with a sense of being, of self.

  “She would have been different if this all hadn’t happened.” Clay spoke half to himself, half to Alayna. “Maybe even a sensible person. Who knows.”

  “So, she just left, then?” Alayna asked, crossing her arms in front of her. “Who all went with her?”

  “We have to figure that out,” Clay said. “Let’s gather everyone downstairs. Community room. We can figure out who’s here, what they need, what they’re capable of, and how we can proceed.”

  “But you don’t even have a plan in mind,” Alayna said, her eyes widening. “Shouldn’t you think of something? Plot something out before—”

  “I don’t know, Alayna. I just don’t know!” Clay flung his hands skyward, shaking his head. “I just lost half of this community. And half the supplies. Just—just grab everyone.”

  Alayna backed toward the doorway, hunting for the right words to say. She eyed Clay with some trepidation, as if she suspected he might explode. “We don’t need her. She was a wild card,” Alayna said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  But before Clay could answer, Alayna was gone. Clay leaned heavily on the freezer door, his head swirling. Sam had been a force of nature, a kind of secret weapon—and certainly not one he’d wanted to give up quite yet. He believed they were stronger together. And now, faced with the open road, he couldn’t be sure whether either of them would fare as well on their own.

  Of course, he couldn’t be sure any of them would live through tomorrow.

  Hank wandered into the kitchen, then. He reached for a cup of coffee, greeting Clay with sleepy, half-opened eyes. Clay clapped him on the shoulder. He had a million little, loaded things to say. But, “Thanks for sticking around, man,” was all that came out.

  Ten minutes later, the six or so people who’d stayed, including Sherman, Hank, Quintin, anoth
er of Sam’s men, and Walt—who grimaced from the pain in his leg, but seemed to be returning to normal, Alayna, and Lane gathered in the community room. Clay assessed them, realizing that the doctor was with the children upstairs. From where he stood, he could see droplets of blood at the top of Walt’s bandage.

  “You probably realize we lost a few of our crew last night,” Clay said, his voice seeming to echo back at him from over their silent heads. “And I’d like to thank you all for sticking around. You came here with Sam, but you seem to see a benefit in staying with me. I was sheriff of my town, I know how to protect you. I can promise you that.”

  Several members of the crew glanced at one another—perhaps missing friends, the ones who’d left them behind. The room was tense.

  He continued, “Our ultimate goal is to reach the military base in Earlton. That’s where much Carterville was sent. I’m assuming they have supplies, places to sleep, and a safe place for us, not so exposed, like we are here. We can’t last in this hotel forever, as good as it’s been for us.”

  In the back of Clay’s mind, he recognized that really, the goal for going to Earlton was to find his wife, Valerie. He turned his face away from Alayna, making sure not to make eye contact. The tension between them still sizzled, making him sexually alert, almost wild. Still, his heart remained steady for Val.

  “But on the way to Earlton,” he said, “We have to pass through Helen. It’ll give us a chance to resupply and rest. And when we get to Earlton, well, I reckon it’ll be a bit more like civilization. They’ll probably have their own rules. Their own practices. Who knows? Like us, you might have some people to reunite with there.” His eyes lingered on Agnes, who’d left the love of her life behind in that field. Bled out and cold.

  “Sam left the transport,” Sherman said from the back row. He stood, speaking directly to Clay. “The old bus I used to drive when I belonged to the nearby church. Back before. We can load it up and should still fit all of us.”

  “Good,” he said as Sherman pulled the keys from his pocket and jangled them. “That’ll get us there. Let’s find as much gas as we can before we load up and get on our way.”

  The people began to chatter. Agnes, looking weak, joined Clay and put out her hand. She shook Clay’s with a surprisingly firm grip, looking into his eyes.

  “We’re putting our trust in you now, Sheriff,” she said. “Don’t lead us down any road that puts us at risk, all right? We’re not all fighters. We’re just trying to get by.”

  Clay knew Agnes was speaking about her deceased husband. And Clay’s heart grew heavy with the fact that he couldn’t protect everyone, not even if he tried.

  Chapter 27

  Clay gently guided Maia to the bus while Sherman secured the last of their supplies in the rear storage compartment. The rest of the crew was already on board the bus—which had the words “LUTHERAN CHURCH, LOVE THEY NEIGHBOR,” painted on it in big, block letters. Maia curled into one of the front seats. Her color had improved a bit since the night before, with a rosy flush on her cheeks.

  “Where are we going?” Maia asked, her voice far away. It reminded Clay of when she’d been just a child, asleep on one of their family road trips. They’d tucked her into the back, beneath a blanket. All snuggled up, with just her brown hair poking from the top.

  “We’re going to find Mom,” Clay told her, his voice low. “Try to get some sleep now. You still need your rest.”

  With Maia situated, Clay sat by Sherman, hunting for a map in the passenger seat compartment. Sherman’s large hands tapped the steering wheel. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  Clay closed the compartment, disgruntled. “I don’t know the best route to Helen.”

  Sherman gestured toward the road. “It’s pretty simple. If we take the highway—”

  “You remember the last time we were on that highway, don’t you?” Clay said. “Malcolm’s compound.”

  “Right.” Sherman pressed his lips together. Clay half-expected him to criticize, tell him he should have murdered Malcolm. That all their problems would be over, if not for his “act of compassion.” But he kept his mouth closed.

  “We have to find another way,” Clay said, rummaging through the glove compartment.

  Hank came forward, looking a bit less manic than he had carrying Walt back from Malcolm’s compound. He stuck his head between Clay’s and Sherman’s, saying, “I know another way. My dad and I used to go hunting up there, and it avoids that stretch of highway. But it’ll add another few days to the trip. Don’t know if that’s something you’re okay with.”

  “I think it’s our only option,” Clay said, glancing back at Maia. Her eyes had closed and her chin was tucked into her chest. A few seats behind her, Alex was sitting up, another blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He was similarly skeletal. Alex’s head tilted to the side, trying to get a view of Maia.

  “All right then,” Sherman said, turning over the engine. Clay felt the bus shake around him. “I guess we’ll settle in for the long haul, then. As much as I like a good road trip, I can’t say I wanted this one.”

  Clay tried to chuckle at Sherman’s joke. He turned his eyes toward the hotel, remembering when they’d first found it—weeks, but what felt like years, ago. It had been a haven. A welcome reprieve from the hell of not knowing what was next in this world.

  Clay leaned his head against the back of his seat, his thoughts chaotic. Sherman drove with steady hands, leaving Clay to scout his side of the road. Despite Sherman’s apparent switch to Clay’s side and away from Sam, Clay decided to remain cautious. There was always the possibility that Sherman could be awaiting a signal from Sam. Some sort of revenge.

  But at this moment, with his daughter slumbering behind him—and an entire crew of people in the bus—Clay had no option but accept. Outside, the mountains slashed the blue sky, and the sun crept skyward. They were miles and miles away from Helen—and days away from Earlton. But what did time even mean at the end of the world?

  Chapter 28

  “The gas mileage’s a piece of shit,” Hank said, easing the bus into the right lane, and tapping the glowing light.

  Sherman leaned over, grunting, his eyes on the dash. “It’s always been that way. But with the church, hell. We were never driving much farther than the park for a picnic, then back. You know what I mean?”

  It was nearly eight hours since they’d left the hotel. Clay felt his stomach grumbling with hunger. He, Hank, Sherman, and Quintin, had been rotating the driving, with Clay mostly manning the passenger seat during his off-duty times—scouting their route. He scanned ahead of them for a gas station. They’d had good luck when the first of the gas had run out. But after that, they’d hit a dry spell—finding only stations long-since out of gas. Morale was sinking.

  “We shouldn’t have taken this long-ass road,” Quintin grunted from behind Clay. He was dark and wrinkled, his jowls sagging down to his neck. He grunted acknowledgment and gnawed at what seemed to be chewing tobacco, which made Clay’s stomach turn. Clay had half a mind to ask Quintin why he hadn’t gone with Sam, if he was so certain that Clay’s decisions were ill-informed. But he held his tongue.

  Maia’s head popped up behind Quintin’s arm. She was bleary-eyed, rubbing at her dark circles with small fists. Clay’s heart leaped at the sight of her. He stood up, nearly bumping his head on the bus’s roof, slipped past Quintin and slid next to his daughter. He exchanged a glance with Alayna, who was seated near the back of the bus. It was strange that she’d been so quiet. She wasn’t even talking to Lane—someone he’d assumed was a confidante.

  But he was soon lost in Maia’s company. She seemed more alive—a bit like her old self. She pulled a notebook from a small bag, maybe something Lane had put together for her, and showed Clay a picture of a woman with long, curly brown hair. She gave Clay a half-smile. “I just don’t want to forget what she looks like, you know?”

  Clay understood immediately. In the portrait, Valerie had her head tippe
d back laughing, wearing that familiar checkered dress, which she’d worn until it had holes under the arms.

  With a surge of emotion, Clay lifted his eyes to Maia’s, realizing that he hadn’t yet asked her about what had happened when she’d been separated from her mother. He took her hand and looked at her, the question written large on his face. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “I didn’t get to say goodbye to her,” Maia whispered. “They took me away so fast. I could hear her screaming my name, but I couldn’t get back to her. It was—” She paused, unable to find the right words. “Daddy, I didn’t know that people could be so cruel. Why did they do this to the world? Why can’t they stop it?”

  Clay felt helpless at his daughter’s questions. As he gaped at her, hunting for a response, he felt the bus begin to slow down. They eased off the highway onto an exit ramp. A few of the passengers began to fidget, stretching their hands above their heads. But Clay was glued to his seat, his attention on Maia.

  “I don’t know why they did it, honey,” he whispered, his voice jumping with emotion. “I reckon people do a lot of things without thinking how they could destroy the lives of so, so many—”

  “But Daddy,” she blurted, her voice catching. “What if we don’t see Mom again? What if we can’t go back home again? What if—”

  Hank cut the engine and rose from his seat, looking toward Clay. Quintin and Sherman did too, waiting for his directions. For a moment, Clay gaped at them—almost not recognizing them.

  Sherman’s eyes flicked toward Maia. After a small nod to Clay, he tipped his head at the door and said to Hank and Quintin, “We can sort this out ourselves, boys. Let’s get the gas. Check on the situation.”