by Angel Lawson
For some reason the truth pops out. “My dad told my mom and me not to go there.”
Cole lifts an eyebrow. “Any particular reason? That’s a big request for a kid and her mom.”
The pouch burns into my chest, almost as much as my cheeks. He called me a kid. Is that how they all see me? “He wanted my mom and me to find my sister. It was all he asked.”
Cole nods as though he understands but there is no way he can. He doesn’t carry the weight of it all on his shoulders. What it’s like to be the last one alive with important information to get to an important person in my life. But no one told me what the information is or how to get there. The weight of the unknown is almost unbearable.
I stare at the fire while Wyatt inhales his can of chili. The twins clean up their trash and Cole says, “I’ll take first watch—”
“Same,” I agree before Wyatt can jump in. I have no interest in lying in that Eater death trap of a tent and thinking about my dad and Jane. I really don’t want to think about my mom. Wyatt gives me a hard look so I add, “I’m not tired, anyway.”
We clean up and repack, making sure everything is ready in a minute’s notice. Wyatt opens the flap on the tent and Chloe enters, crawling in on her knees. I pretend I don’t see him watching her closely. Why wouldn’t he? She’s a knockout. His age.
Not a kid like me.
I settle onto the step of an abandoned camper, hatchet across my lap. The aluminum sided RV’s glint from the firelight and Cole pours some sand across the flame. Good idea. He’s smart and between him and Wyatt they may have the skills to help me get me to Jane faster.
Cole positions himself across from me on the tailgate of a broken down truck. He lifts the collar of his shirt to cover his mouth and nose to keep the bugs at bay. His blue eyes flick in my direction and a sense of familiar ease rolls down my back. Cole isn’t a bad guy. I feel it in my bones. I lean forward and say quietly, “I don’t know what my dad knew about the camps but he warned us off. After we got out of the city we saw things, my mom and I. Bad stuff. I don’t know what the military is doing but I definitely feel safer outside.”
He lowers his shirt to speak. “That’s a bold statement. What did you see?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t trust them. That stuff you said about taking blood samples and going through peoples things. It rubs me the wrong way.”
“I guess,” he says, those eyes piercing in the dark. “Our instincts are all we have anymore.”
“What do your instincts tell you about everything now?” I ask. “Being with us?”
I can’t see his face but I can hear the resignation in his voice when Cole replies, “That no matter how bad it seems, this isn’t the end. Not by a long shot.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
~Before~
4 Weeks Ago
Somehow, despite the heat, rain, fires and increasing waves of Eater’s, we make it out of the city. It took four days and we narrowly make it into the fifth, assessing the final bridge out of town. That’s when we spot them. Not the military or even the Eaters but a group of survivors on the road like us. Or rather under the road, they’d camped out under the bridge. We watch from behind one of the 18-wheelers parked behind a factory jutting up to the wide creek.
They’d created some sort of makeshift fort, using road barricades and fencing. The bridge itself fortifying the backside. The early evening light is waning and our options for shelter are slim. Even running out of choices I’m not sure we want to hunker down with an unfamiliar group.
“I knew we should have stayed at that last building,” Paul declares. He’d tagged along with us right when we left the apartment the other day. Bags packed and waiting at the back door, declaring he’d like to go with us to the edge of town, then he’d split off on his own and head toward his family. I wasn’t sure at first, but he was helpful—a good shot. Little fear. He knew his way around this part of town way better than Mom or me. But he doesn’t like making decisions and even I can tell withdrawal from information and the internet is getting to him.
I shook my head. “It was too big. There’s no way we could have confirmed it was clear. I mean, I’m not sure it would have been safe before the end of the world.”
My mother nods, coughing into her sleeve. The fires started two days ago, bringing explosions and dusty, smoke-filled air. It had become increasingly clear we needed to leave the city as soon as possible. There were too many people, living and almost dead. Too much military personnel and too much danger.
“What do we do then?” Paul asks.
I look around and see nothing but empty parking lots and trucks. The bridge is too exposed and going under it…I glance once more at the group underneath. In the firelight I can see mostly men, but there are women too. A couple of kids. Their voices echo off the cement supports.
“They could be nice?” Mom suggests. She wants to be around other people. Unfortunately, she hasn’t quite grasped what is going on here. It’s not that she’s dumb. Or even naïve. She’s just in denial. Her delusion is thick. Fortunately, I’m paranoid to the extreme and other people make me nervous.
“Too risky,” I finally say, the only one willing to make a decision. “Do you think we can get in one of these?”
“The truck?” Mom asks.
“Yeah. We can sleep in the cab. It’s high off the ground. We can lock the doors and see anything—or anyone—coming our way.”
Quietly we comb the rows, trying each door. I’m about to give up when I hear a small cry from my mother. I grab my hatchet and race to the tractor-trailer but she’s three feet in the air, standing on the platform with the door open with a wide smile on her face.
We climb up, handing our bags off to the person at the top. Paul comes in last. Over the last several days he’s become a friend. Probably the only thing keeping Mom and me from losing it with one another. The cab is large with a fairly clean area behind the seats and big enough to spread out a sleeping bag.
Paul goes back, his sticky, sweaty scent assaulting my nose. It’s not like I can talk. We all stink. It’s been days since we’ve had a real shower. The last time was at the apartment complex.
“Anything good back there?” I ask him, locking the doors. Mom is already leaning against the seat, her eyes drooping. Sleeping anywhere at any time is her gift, along with rationalizing almost anything. The second worked better in our old life. Survival didn’t take time to rationalize so instead she slept. A lot.
I peer over the massive steering wheel to get a look out the front. The window is covered with a thick layer of dust and grime, keeping out the fading light, but also protecting us from being seen from the outside. For the first time all day I feel a slight sense of safety, like we’ve burrowed into a small cave.
“A bottle of water but…” He shuffles around some. “It’s already been opened. There’s a bag of chips, some cans of Diet Coke and.” He leans between the seats, shoving something forward. It’s a bottle of brown liquid. “We can get drunk.”
“Thanks but no thanks.”
“There’s a bottle of 24-Hour Energy Booster.” The pills clink around in the container. God, I could use some energy boost but not that kind. The kind that comes from a solid meal and three days of sleep. The aches in my body scream the minute I ease into the leather seat. My feet throb and sharp pains shoot up my shins. It’s like the half-marathon my Cross Country team ran together during junior year. The closer I got to the end, the more I had to run. My body wanted to shut down. My legs ached. Fatigue set in. I pushed through it though. My coach thought it was great. I knew I had no choice if I didn’t want to crawl to the finish line. Surviving out here feels the same.
Don’t stop. Never stop.
But at some point you have to and this truck is as good as anything else. “You hungry?” I say to them both.
“Eh,” Paul replies. Mom shakes her head—ready to pass out, but he takes out three granola bars anyway and gives shoves one into my mom’s hand. “Sarah, y
ou’re eating.”
I take a bite and fight off a grimace. Nothing tastes good anymore.
“So tomorrow we cross that bridge, don’t you think?” I ask.
Paul nods. “Daylight?”
“Just before, maybe. I don’t really want to alert that group below that we’re here.”
“Good idea. Hopefully the people underneath will be asleep. From there we can cut down the rural side roads. It will be the safest way to the lake.”
Mom and I had told Paul all of our plans. How we were on our way to Georgia. How my sister should be waiting for us. How my father told us what to do. He had questions. We didn’t have many answers, but after my mom fell asleep on the second night I told him about Liza and Matt. He told me about his own family and how he hoped they were still alive.
In a matter of days Paul felt like a brother, or at least what I imagined one would feel like. This is what I’m thinking about as he talks about the road south. Paul isn’t going with us to the lake or to Georgia. He’s heading north back home.
“What’s your plan to do after you find Jane?” he asks once the granola bars are gone and Mom has fully dozed off. From his spot in the back of the cab I see his face glowing blue from his phone screen. Service is spotty. Battery life is quickly fading. He can’t help himself though. I’ve seen him reach for his phone a dozen times a day. The checking is compulsive—I’ve caught myself doing it more than once.
“Better shut that off,” I warn.
“I wonder,” he says digging through his bag. He shoves a cord into the front. “Plug that in. See if it charges.”
It takes me a minute to find the receiver, but I push the end into the socket and hear the familiar ping of the phone starting up. Paul gives a fist pump, his face lighting up. I can’t help but smile too.
“Hey, I have an idea,” he says. “Lean this way.”
He moves to a familiar pose and I move toward him. Together we take a selfie.
“You gonna tag that #apocalypseselfie?” I joke. “God, I look like a wreck.”
“I feel like I need to sink into a pit of boiling water just to get the germs off.”
“Seriously.”
I take out my sweatshirt and fold it up to use as a pillow. Already each item in my bag takes on a dual function. I’ve just closed my eyes when I hear a whoop of excitement from the back. I jump, alert(ish) and ready. “What?”
“I got a signal.”
“You did?” I lean over to see.
“Yep.” His fingers fly over the buttons, stumbling a little due to happiness.
“Anything?”
“Looking at the emergency page, it was updated yesterday.” His eyes skim over the screen and I grip the sides of the seat to keep myself from snatching it from him. “Oh man, the evacuation centers are mandatory now for all counties in the quarantine zone which has spread to the borders of Texas up to North Dakota. Looks like if you’re out and about they will bring you in—by force—if necessary.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” He tries a couple of other things but from the way his head shakes nothing else online is very active. Reluctantly he lowers the phone and says, “What do you think?”
“Mom and I are not going in.”
He nods. “I’m just worried I’ll walk a hundred miles home and no one will be there when I get there.”
“Makes sense.” I agree. “We’ve got to do this thing for my dad, or maybe I’d consider it.”
“I guess if I got home and no one was still there I could go to the evacuation center for their area. At least I’d be with family.”
“That’s smart.”
Still, he doesn’t look convinced. “I really don’t want to be alone, Alex.”
I reach my hand out and take his, squeezing tight. “I know.”
It’s all too much. Too heavy. We’re too young. The only good thing about the travel and hyper adrenaline is that exhaustion is quick to take over and I fall asleep fast. I dream of a beating drum, thumping out a solid rhythm in the pitch black night.
I wake but the pounding doesn’t stop. Mom sits up next to me and peers through the dusty window. A bright light flashes overhead.
“What is that?” I ask. My voice groggy and crap, and my neck is janky from sleeping weird in the seat.
“Helicopter?” she says. It must be. They’re not totally uncommon but over the last week or so we’ve been seeing them less and less. Grimacing from the pain in my neck I peer out the side window trying to catch a glimpse of something. Anything.
Paul stirs behind us and sticks his head between the seats. We wait, unsure. The sound of the propeller softens.
“Is it gone,” Paul asks.
We strain to hear but just as quickly as it left it returns circling nearby.
“Do you think they know we’re here?” Mom asks. She’s already slipped the straps of her backpack over her thin shoulders.
“They can’t,” Paul says.
I swallow, again looking out the window. The spotlight travels back and forth. Not near us but closer to the water. “I think they’re looking for the people under the bridge.”
“Wait, shhh,” Paul says, his hand clutching my arm. “Listen.”
At first all I hear is the propeller, but then the sound of a voice bounces against the night. It sounds tinny, like it’s coming from a bullhorn. I press my ear against the window.
“Collect your belongings and walk to the top of the bridge. This is a mandatory evacuation. You have five minutes to be on the top of the bridge.” The voice repeats this information on a loop. From the small visibility I have through the window I spot a group moving under the bridge.
“I see some people in hazmat suits,” I report.
“I guess they have to be careful,” Mom says. “Any of those people could be infected.”
Paul is quiet next to me. He’s still clutching my arm, but his knee is bouncing up and down like a jack rabbit. “Dude, what is going on with you?”
“I want to go.”
“What?” I ask.
“To the bridge. I want to evacuate. I don’t like it out here, Alex.”
“We’re fine. We’ve been okay. We’ll be okay.” I rest a hand on his knee, hoping to calm him. I know I’m saying this just as much for myself as for him.
“You and your mom are going south. I’ve got to head north. Once we pass that bridge we’ll never see each other again.”
“Three minutes,” the booming voice says. “This is a mandatory evacuation. Those who refuse to come willingly will be taken by force.”
This spurs Paul into action. He leans over the seat and grabs his bag, his stash. I glance at my mom but she just looks sad. “But this is too fast—just slow down. We haven’t divided up the food and stuff.”
“There’s not enough time,” he says. “Alex, this may be my only chance. I’ll get on that bus and figure out a way to find my family. Who knows, they may have news about them.”
He has all of his things and unfortunately, some of our things, although nothing we can’t live without. I can only nod. I mean, it’s not up to me to stop him. I barely know Paul. His journey is different from mine. Even so, the mood in the cab has shifted to an unbearable tension. My mother, who cannot tolerate the slightest confrontation, breaks it with typical ease.
“Good luck, honey. Thank you for saving us at the apartment. I hope you find your family.” She gives him a tight, motherly hug.
“One minute.”
I move aside so he can get out the door. “Good luck. I hope we see each other again.” Before he steps down I say, “Please don’t tell them about us, okay?”
“I won’t.” He promises.
It’s an awkward goodbye, one I realize I should get used to. It’s not like relationships will be the same in the apocalypse. Paul is out the door quickly and I whisper, “Be careful.”
I take the chance to lean out the door, the wind lashing at my face from the hovering helicopter. Paul darts between the trucks and
in the increasing daylight I see the crowd forming on the bridge. Paul easily catches up, the red patch on his backpack a beacon for me to latch onto as he moves farther away.
“Please move to the center of the bridge and make room,” the voice says.
For the most part people do as they are told, huddling closer together their hair and loose clothing whipping around them like they’re in a hurricane. That’s when I notice a few people move slowly or not at all. One person creeps off the opposite direction. Curious I watch him slink away from the others, but just before he steps out of view he lurches forward and falls. I look upward and see a raised gun and a soldier crouched on the edge of the helicopter. The crowd remains oblivious, due to the intense wind and noise.
“They shot someone,” I whisper. My mom moves closer and peers out the door opening.
“Look,” she says, pointing under the bridge. Two figures wade into the water, swimming away. Again, they stumble, sinking below the surface like rocks.
The workers in hazmat suits push the final evacuees toward the center of the bridge and seemingly out of nowhere soldiers in black uniforms and face masks rush in with barricades.
“What the heck?”
“Maybe they’re blocking the area from Eaters?” Mom says, always the optimist.
“Maybe,” I agree, but the feeling in my stomach doesn’t. Something is wrong. I climb up the door to get a better look. What I see doesn’t make me feel better. The entire group looks like cattle ready for slaughter.
The helicopter loops around depositing snipers on rooftops, before vanishing as quickly as it arrived. The beating propeller disappearing into the sunrise. Two school buses pull up to the bridge and the tension in my stomach fades. Maybe this is on the up and up. The feeling subsides completely as the unmistakable cries of Eaters break the quiet morning and the snipers move—picking them off like a carnival game. We watch for an hour as each person is scanned, processed, and moved into two lines. One group goes on one bus, the others move to the other. From here I can see that the processing includes an injection.
