by John L. Monk
“Are you kidding?” Pete said. “We didn’t do stuff like that. That’s how you get ticks. Ticks have Lyme disease.”
“You never did Boy Scouts?”
“Lyme disease, man. No way.”
In truth, Jack was laying it on a bit thick. He’d never been in the Boy Scouts either, even though he’d wanted to. He’d launched a pretty good campaign to join. But just when he thought his parents would relent and let him sign up, they went out and bought a bunch of hiking gear, instructional videos and books, and that was the end of his merit badge dreams.
“We’ll start our own Boy Scouts,” his dad had said. “You can bring as many of your friends as you want with us. By doing it yourself, you can get in more hiking, and you’ll learn more.”
Being the good and dutiful son of his doomed-to-die parents, Jack had relented—but not before getting them to agree to let him attend public school. At first they’d said no. Then, a few days later, they came back and said they’d talked it over. If he wanted to try high school, it was his decision.
High school was five years off. They probably hoped he’d forget about it, but he never did. For some reason, he was fascinated with the idea of having his own hall locker.
Four years later, the Sickness happened, and high school became just another dream in a long list of stuff he’d never get to try.
One thing Jack’s homegrown Boy Scout troop hadn’t done was hike at night. Too much that could go wrong. Too hard to get help when something did. It was particularly foolish to try it now. But Pete’s easy life and tick-phobic parents rankled him, and he didn’t need to trace anything back to know why. Plain and simple jealousy. Not the smartest reason to stumble along in the dark and risk breaking an ankle in a world without paramedics and doctors, but there it was.
“All right, fine,” Jack said. “But we’re not staying in any houses. We’ll go up the road and find an office or something.”
“A house might have a fireplace. And blankets. Just saying.”
“And food gangs looking for smoking chimneys,” Jack said, though his will weakened at the thought of a fire.
“We’ll put it out in the morning,” Pete said. “There’s a trail to that neighborhood like ten minutes back. Remember?”
Now that they weren’t moving, the cold began to creep into Jack’s bones. The wind whipped up and carried down the empty four-lane highway, making the world seem that much colder. Jack hated the thought of walking down that wind tunnel for three miles, but he didn’t want to show indecisiveness in front of Pete.
“We need to find you a backpack,” he said, sizing the other boy up. “That has to hurt your shoulders.”
Pete grunted. “Big time. So we gonna go back or what?”
Jack paused in quiet reflection, as if mulling over a particularly thorny math problem. Then he nodded. “Sure. You lead the way.”
Pete breathed a sigh of relief, turned around, and headed back down into the scrub.
Jack felt a different kind of relief. A year ago, he’d read the harrowing tale of Sir Ernest Shackleton, the polar explorer trapped with his men in Antarctica in the early twentieth century. Facing certain doom, if not for the man’s legendary leadership, he and his crew would have died. One of the things he did was make sure his men stayed busy, and that he never showed indecisiveness. Everything he did had a purpose, or at least he made sure it seemed that way.
As they made their way back, Jack marveled that he suddenly thought of Pete as his men.
“What the hell is he doing?” Pete said.
They were lying under a truck in front of the house they’d chosen. Someone was walking down the street busting out car windows. Every time he came to a car, he’d smash a window and howl. Thankfully, he was moving away from them. Jack saw curtains move in one of the houses, but nobody came out to challenge the boy.
“No idea, and I don’t want to ask him. Come on.”
As they approached the house, his heart sank. The front windows were broken in. The house had a perfectly good chimney, too, but all the chimneys in the world were useless without windows to keep in the heat.
“Shit,” Pete said, shaking his head. “You think it was that kid?”
“Who knows?”
The windows in the next house were also smashed in. Same thing with the one after that. Meanwhile, the sound of smashing glass carried to them every minute or so. Also, a terrible stench was growing the farther they went—the smell of decaying bodies. By busting open the windows, the kid had allowed the smell of the dead to seep out into the night.
“God, it stinks,” Pete said, retching involuntarily.
“That kid’s a menace,” Jack said in a tight voice, nose wrinkling at the stench. “We need to get out of this area. We’ll see which way he goes, then go the other way.”
The two observed from a distance as the destructive kid worked his way to an intersection. A second later, a car appeared and stopped in front of him. Jack and Pete crouched down behind a parked car and watched.
Angry shouting carried from the car. The boy with the bat laughed a loud, fake laugh and ran. Then the car pulled away.
When Jack thought it was safe, they stood quickly and jogged up the street. A different neighborhood began farther on.
“Hey, you two,” someone said behind them.
Jack turned and saw the bat-wielding vandal standing alone on the sidewalk. In height and build, Jack pegged him at thirteen.
“Hey yourself,” he said, hand resting casually on the butt of his pistol.
“What’s in that backpack? How about that bag? Probably something to eat, right?”
Jack shrugged, then realized it wasn’t visible in the gloom. “Just some junk we found. No food.”
Pete said, “Go on, leave us alone.”
The boy issued a weird giggle. “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.”
Pete whispered, “The dude’s schizo. Let’s go.”
Jack nodded, and together they started walking. When they looked back, the boy was gone.
They continued into a less upscale neighborhood composed of duplex dwellings. On the bright side, it appeared the kid with the bat hadn’t progressed this far in his lonely rampage. Nothing looked smashed up. Sadly, none of the houses had chimneys. They passed through quickly and moved into a better neighborhood.
The house they eventually chose was down a long, looping stretch of single-family houses that ended in a cul-de-sac. The front door had been pried open at some point, judging from the marks around the jamb and the missing doorknob.
Pete sighed. “I bet everything good’s been taken.”
Feeling like a scavenger and not liking it, Jack said, “Come on,” and pushed inside.
Upon entering, the rank smell of putrefying flesh invaded from everywhere, causing him to cover his nose.
“Jesus!” Pete said, and backed out of the house.
A few seconds later, Jack followed him.
“I’m … not … staying in there,” Pete said between retching sounds.
Jack nodded. “I know what you mean.”
Just as he decided to cross the street and try another house, there came a brightening in the distance followed by a flash off a stop sign.
“Quick, back inside,” Jack said, prodding him.
Pete started to argue, then gasped when a car appeared.
Jack shoved in behind him and peeked out the peephole. Twenty seconds later, the street got brighter, then darker as the car passed in front of the house. There were two people in the front seat and two in the back. Light flared suddenly from the side window, blinding him briefly, and then they’d passed.
There was a window next to the door with the curtains pulled shut. Jack nudged them aside and peeked out for a better look. The backseat passengers had a couple of those million-candle flashlights used by rescue teams and police. They were sweeping the huge beams here and there, as if searching for something.
In time, they rounded the little cul-de-sac and start
ed back. As the lights from the car passed over the house, Jack shut the curtain—then mentally swore. He held his breath, willing the car to continue up the street. It crept slowly along and stopped with its headlights angled toward the house. A long, steady car horn issued forth, causing them both to flinch. Then someone got out and came around to the front of the car.
“What’s going on?” Pete said.
“You know how to shoot?” Jack said, unslinging his dad’s rifle.
“Just in video games. My mom said I’m a pacifist.”
Before he could reply to the absurd statement, the boy outside shouted, “Who’s in there?”
The AR was loaded, but not chambered. Jack drew his pistol—finger off the trigger like his mom had shown him, barrel safely pointed ahead of him and down.
Cracking the door an inch, he yelled, “Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” the boy said. “How old are you?”
Jack thought quickly. Too young and they’d probably storm the house. Too old and they wouldn’t believe him.
“Fourteen—and three quarters.”
He’d invented that last part.
“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the school. Didn’t you hear?”
Jack looked back at Pete and said, “You know what he’s talking about?”
The boy nodded. “They went door to door telling people. I guess they skipped your house.”
Or maybe they saw us outside with guns.
To keep the conversation going, he shouted, “What school?”
“The high school. Where you from, man?” Before Jack could reply, the boy added, “Come on out. We’re supposed to round up everyone and meet there. There’s food. We’ll drive you. Anyone’s with you, they can come too—except, no little kids. They gotta stay. That’s the rules.”
The rules.
For the second time that day, Jack said, “Who makes the rules?”
“Blaze makes the rules.”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “There’s actually someone who calls himself Blaze?”
“He’s in charge. He can do what he wants. That’s also the rules. And don’t make fun of his name.”
“Sounds sort of dumb. I think I’ll stay here. Thanks anyway.”
Someone in the car asked what was going on and the boy waved him off.
To Jack, he said, “You’re that guy, aren’t you? The one at the house we burned. I recognize your voice from earlier. Man, Blaze was pissed when you snuck out.”
Then it dawned on him: Blaze was that bully with the red hair and machine gun who’d threatened to burn his house down—and had actually done so, apparently. Probably had to burn a lot of houses to live up to his invented name.
The boy outside glanced furtively back at the car, then took a few steps forward. From Jack’s vantage, he was even skinnier than Pete.
Another kid climbed stealthily out of the back window of the car and approached behind him.
In a quieter voice, the skinny kid said, “Some guy with a bat said someone came this way with a bunch of food. It was you, wasn’t it? Listen, if you stuff something for me in those bushes”—he indicated the decorative shrubs in front of the big bay window—“I’ll tell the guys you don’t have anything. Then I’ll come back later and get it. No one has to know.”
“Mitch, you’re a useless backstabber,” the kid behind him said. “Get back in the car!”
Jack witnessed a look of sheer terror cross Mitch’s face before he fled back to the car and got in.
“I want all your shit,” the newcomer said, holding up a gun for him to see. “Now, or we mess you up big time and take it anyway.”
Gritting his teeth, Jack cracked the door wider, took aim with his pistol, and blew out one of the car’s headlights. In the enclosed space, with no ear protection, the blast surprised him.
Pete screamed.
The gun had twelve more rounds. Jack shifted his aim to the other light and shot that out, too. Now it had eleven.
The boy fired wildly and ran for the suddenly moving car. He leapt for the swinging door, then slammed into it when the driver hit the brakes, bashing him edge-on and sending him sprawling. The car started moving and stopped again when the boy got up. This time, he succeeded in getting inside. The driver swerved back and forth as if dodging bullets. At one point, the car went up on the sidewalk, and sparks shot out from where the undercarriage struck the curb. A second later, it was back on the street again and speeding away.
5
Jack shut the door and turned to Pete. “They’ll be back. Pretty soon, I think. Especially after they tell this Blaze person I’m here.”
“After what you did?” Pete said. “You shoot like a boss. No way they’ll come back.”
“Humans like to hunt,” Jack said. “Those guys have nothing else to do, and this leader of theirs probably wants to keep them busy. You ever hear of Shackleton?”
“Shacka-who? What’s that have to do with hunting?”
Jack dug out his flashlight, clicked the switch, and pointed it at the ground. Pete looked badly shaken, but still in control. His shirt was pulled up over his nose against the stink. A brief look around showed no bodies, just furniture, confirming the owners had likely died upstairs.
“Those video games you played had guns,” he said. “You chased people around trying to shoot them, right?”
“Yeah,” Pete said, “but that’s not the same thing. Video games aren’t real.”
“Even better—you had no good reason for committing violence except for the thrill of violence. You were hunting and shooting humans for no reason. For fun.” He snorted. “Some pacifist.”
“They weren’t real humans. Just animation. It’s not the same thing.”
Jack’s parents had never bought a video game console for him, though he’d once played a little at a mutual friend of Greg and Lisa’s. It was really cool ducking around things and sneaking up on people, or trying to hide from people so they didn’t shoot him. Weeks later, his dad asked why he enjoyed their hunting trips so much, and Jack made the connection.
He shook his head. “Fine. Listen, these kids out there—they’ve lost their whole world. They don’t have video games anymore, or adults to tell them to leave people alone. Just the opposite. If you were listening, this Blaze freak is telling them to go out and bring home the dinner. You ever get bullied in school? Someone ever hit you in the arm a bunch of times because you were littler?”
After a brief hesitation, Pete nodded.
“Those are the people we’re up against,” Jack said. “Except these kids have guns, cars, and hunger. They probably wish they’d died but don’t know it yet.”
Pete shivered in the darkness. Though the house was just as cold as outside, at least there was no wind.
“If you’re right,” Pete said, “what can we do?”
“We leave. The high school is about five minutes away by car. That’s five to get there, five to gather more people, and five to come back. You want something from here, I suggest you go get it. I recommend a blanket. That jacket of yours is kind of skimpy.”
In barely more than a whisper, Pete said, “Maybe we should have gone with them.”
Jack was about to snap something back when, from out of the darkness, a girl’s voice said, “Can I come too?”
Both boys whipped around and stared at the figure of a young black girl crouched behind a sofa chair, blinking in the beam of Jack’s flashlight. About eight or nine years old, she had on green pants and a puffy pink jacket, and her hair was collected in a cascade of glossy tails bound in fat white beads.
“Who the hell are you?” Pete said, fists raised protectively.
“Ease up,” Jack said. He took a knee and smiled. “I’m Jack. What’s your name?”
“Mandy,” she said. “My mom and dad died.” She said it flatly, as if delivering a trivial piece of news.
Jack nodded sadly. “Mine too. Do you live here?”
She shook her
head. “Uhn uh. All the doors are open, but everywhere stinks inside.”
Jack looked at her closely. She was thin like Pete, except more pitiful for her youth, and he felt guilty for having eaten so well during the Sickness.
“Are you hungry?”
She nodded vigorously. “Do you have something?”
“Sure,” he said. He nudged Pete, who got a protein bar from his bag and handed it to her. “Now listen, Mandy, we need to get out of here. But we can’t take you. Lots of hard walking ahead. You need to group up with the other kids your age and—”
“And what?” Pete said in a sharp tone.
Jack glared at him.
Mandy’s eyes welled with sudden tears, and her face grew tense. “I had a friend named Courtney. She did my hair like this. Then some boys got her and she told me to run. When I came back, she was gone.”
Pete said, “You hear that, man? You just gonna leave her?”
“No, Pete. Obviously I’m going to save the world. Is that what you want to hear?”
Immediately, he regretted his tone. Bringing anger to the situation wouldn’t help.
Mandy watched the exchange with a frightened fascination on her face, as if everything hung in the balance. Which, in the new way of things, it did.
“I can keep up,” she said. “That’s how I got away. ’Cause I’m fast.”
“You need to be,” Jack said, already working out how they could do this. “You’re not a pacifist, are you?”
Mandy shook her head, no.
To Pete, he said, “Hurry with that blanket, and meet us out front.”
Pete came out with the makeshift bag wrapped in a blue blanket snagged from upstairs. Instead of Santa, he looked more like The Grinch after he’d stolen Christmas.
“We can’t walk with her the whole way, not through those woods,” Pete said. “And also, hey: I’m not sure you’re right about that gang. Why would they come back after you shot at them? They’re not stupid. I think you’re just making it up as you go along.”
“I am making it up as I go along,” Jack said. “So what, you want to wait for them?”
Pete surprised him when he said, “Yeah, actually. If you’re right, we’ll keep following you. If you’re wrong, Mandy and me are leaving.”
