by Jordan Ervin
The room was rather small—no more than twenty feet deep with a large industrial sink in one corner and cleaning supplies on the wall next to Adam. Adam turned around in confusion. Marc stood in front of Phil, a look of surprise on his face.
“What is this?” Adam asked.
“I told you, the far wall,” Phil replied from behind Marc. “Now!”
Marc mouthed a wordless curse as he approached Adam. When he stepped to the right—pausing next to a shelf of white powder and cleaning compounds—Adam’s eyes came to rest on the business end of a pistol.
“What are you doing?” Adam asked quickly, raising his hands.
“Who are you?” Phil asked, both hatred and pleasure lighting up his eyes. “And no more bullshit lies.”
“I told you already,” Adam argued.
“Indeed,” Phil replied. “Adam Corsa, right?”
“Yes!” Adam said with a pause.
“Any relation to a man named Eric Corsa?”
Adam’s eyes grew wide, giving him away before he could utter a word. Phil brandished teeth as he smiled widely—a lion licking its jaws before the kill.
“That’s a yes,” Phil said with a sickening laugh. “So what are you, his brother? Too young to be his father.”
“I’m…I’m his…wait,” Adam said, shaking his head with confusion. “How do you know Eric?”
“Remember those two friends of mine I told you about, the guys with me in Fayetteville that died the night this all started?” Phil shook his head before cocking the gun. “Let’s just say he had something to do with all that.”
Adam’s eyes went wide again—not with fear, but with shock as he realized what Phil was actually saying.
They could be alive!
“Was he alone?” Adam asked frantically. “Was there a woman with him? Or a boy and some little girls?”
Phil’s eyes narrowed before he let out a coy laugh. “So you do know him. A woman…well, she looked a bit young to call her that but she sure was a looker.” The man smiled with delight. “As far as a boy....” Phil paused, his smile growing. “He took a bullet to the face before your friend Eric showed up.”
The world appeared to shift into heated variations of black and red. For a moment, a brief twinkling of hope, Adam had begun to think that maybe his family had survived the chaos. And just like that, Adam was burying his son again. Adam struggled to maintain his composure, but it was almost as though months of putting his family behind him had been interrupted by a grinning grave digger. In the end, his son’s death was still death. This time, however, Adam had a visual.
A bullet to the face….
“Was it you?” Adam asked quietly, his voice nearly a growl as he lowered his hands.
Phil paused before smiling again, a wry grin like a man laughing at his own joke. “Sadly, no, but that brother of yours…man, did he leave an impression. Standing there with a gun in my face in a room quite similar to this one. What are the chances I’d find you—the brother of the man who killed two of my friends and left me shivering in the cold with nothing but my underwear?” Phil smiled, his giggling shifting into hysteria as he reached up to wipe a laughter-borne tear—the gun waving back and forth at Adam precariously. “I mean, what are the odds? Come on! Don’t you see, it’s too ironic to be—”
A cloud of white powder, flying quickly from Marc’s outstretched hand, struck Phil in the face and the gun blasted. The bullet’s wake ruffled his hair, striking the concrete wall behind him before he had time to blink. The pungent aroma of industrial strength cleaning powder immediately conjured stinging tears. Before Adam could manage one cough, the brown handle of a wooden broom blurred and struck Phil in the hand. The gun tumbled free and Phil opened his mouth to gasp.
Instead, he inhaled a mouthful of harsh toxins as the broom handle became a mirage again, striking him in the throat with a sickening crunch. Marc stepped back and swung the broom wide once more, hitting Phil in the temple so hard that the wooden handle snapped cleanly in two. Marc tossed the remaining handle to the ground, reaching over to pick up the pistol and the holster. He hesitated before seizing the Wasp on Phil’s neck and ripping it free, tossing it to the ground and crushing it underfoot. Marc then brushed himself off as he buried his face in one sleeve, motioning for Adam to move. Adam covered his face in his hands and ran for the door. Marc threw it open, gasping strange voiceless pants as Adam followed.
Adam pulled the door shut and panted as he struggle to cough. Marc pulled a canteen from his belt, quickly screwing the top off and splashing water over his eyes. He cleaned his hands off and handed the container to Adam. Adam followed suit, rubbing the white from his face and hair. Once the sting had subsided to a subtle tingle, he glanced down the dark hallway.
He half expected to witness a crowd of dozens ready to fight them to the death. Instead, the long hall remained empty. No one had heard the muffled gunshot.
“How many times,” Adam said as he splashed a bit more water in his eyes and breathed heavily. “Every day…every hour…someone’s trying to kill us. It never ends. And Eric!” Adam said, his red eyes going wide again. “Marc, he’s alive, or he was. That means…they might still be out there.”
Marc coughed once more before looking down the white hall as he handed the gun to Adam. When he glanced back at Adam, he shook his head.
“What?” Adam said. “You don’t think they’re alive?”
Marc reached down to his wrist, brushing a thin layer of white away before swiping about.
Months ago. You know the road. No chance.
“But what if—”
Marc interrupted by holding the same message up again with an emphasis. Adam hesitated, refusing to automatically accept their deaths. Marc paused before reaching down to his wrist, swiping about.
Does it change anything?
“What do you mean?” Adam asked defensively. “It changes everything! If there is a chance they’re still alive then—”
Marc waved a hand at Adam to cut him off before typing a new message.
North or not?
Adam hesitated. Ten minutes ago, he had wanted nothing more than to brave a city of monsters to warn the last Americans of an impending attack. Now, he wondered if death was something he was willing to face. Adam wanted to live again. He suddenly wanted every movement to be cautious and calculating. He wanted to survive at all costs and find out if his family had managed to endure the madness. He wanted—
North….
The voice filled his mind again, a whisper that summoned fresh tears. He wanted to shout and curse the voice, but he knew doing so would be cursing the voice of that which mattered most. Adam wasn’t sure how he knew, but the one thing he knew for certain was that the voice was not entirely his.
North….
It wasn’t some fatigue-provoked words rattling around in his muddled mind. It was the voice of something greater than him and it was trying to guide his movements.
In that moment, he realized the truth.
War is a revolting thing, a brutal machine capable of forging monsters from men. In its wake dance madness, sorrow, and death. It is a detestable engine of chaos, yet it alone does not decide the final destination of a man’s soul. That forever rests solely in a man’s willingness to obey the call of God. In the end, only the man who has abandoned the voice has truly surrendered to the dragons of men.
“We still go north,” Adam said, firming his jaw.
Marc nodded, glancing back at the room one last time before motioning for Adam to lead the way.
They reentered the main hall and within a minute they were wandering again among the living dead. Everywhere Adam looked he saw men and women trudging about. A few had individual drones hovering above them, but they mostly had the black, half-inch wide Wasps attached behind one of their ears. Adam’s heart broke again as he watched them meander without hope. Whatever their stories were, they were hollow casts of the people they had once been. They were shadows—battered and spent like u
sed ammo, forced to croon the rages of wicked men. Adam wanted nothing more than to find out the truth about his family and save those who now existed in a despondent state of sorrow.
Adam reentered the large parking lot and halted as a long line of semi-trucks passed by, heading east toward downtown. He waited quietly as they passed, wondering what was inside each trailer. As he gazed at the line of trucks, Marc slapped him on the shoulder, beckoning his attention.
Marc pointed and Adam followed his outstretched hand, his eyes falling on the row of motorcycles they had passed before. There were at least forty crotch-rockets, roadsters, and dirt bikes lined up behind the throng of semi-trucks that had not yet departed. He watched as four men walked up to the row of bikes, nodding to the lone guard as they each mounted a bike and sped away. Adam glanced up, his eyes searching for drones above. The skies were empty. The bikes were almost completely unguarded.
“They think they’re safe,” Adam whispered, leaning over to Marc. “They think everyone has that drug in their system and won’t try anything foolish.”
Marc swiped around on his wrist before holding the tiny screen up for Adam.
Can you ride?
“I can,” Adam replied.
Marc smiled and nodded back, reaching down to type.
Take it like you own it and ride it like you stole it.
Adam nodded back as they walked toward the row of bikes. They passed through the small gate and Adam slowed as they approached the long booth covered with random weapons. Mostly knives, machetes, hammers, and axes; Adam couldn’t fathom battling gun-wielding armies with nothing more than handheld tools. Disheartened men and women were sifting through the table, looking for that one device that would either help them through the day or expedite their moment of death. Those who found what they were looking for quietly walked over to the trucks as Patriarchs ushered them into the back of a trailer.
Adam paused as his eyes became fixated on the fence behind the tables. Adam held up a hand to Marc and quickly walked around the booth, nearing one of the five men who were uncrating a box of home improvement tools onto the table. The guard glanced over at Adam and went back to his work without a word. Adam reached down toward the fence, taking hold of a dark recurve bow with fiberglass-reinforced risers and a leather quiver full of arrows that rested beside it.
He glanced up at the man behind the table, waiting for him to berate Adam for taking it. The man never glanced Adam’s way; his gaze was empty like the others. Adam paused, searching the table as he pulled the quiver overhead and attached the bow diagonally across his back with a rawhide strap. Once he was finished, he drew a knife from its leather casing—tossing the blade aside before fastening the sheath to his forearm. He then took one last glance and picked up a lengthy machete, strapping it to his belt as he walked back to Marc.
They crossed the courtyard and approached a lone guard near the row of bikes. Adam nodded to the guard, who simply watched them with uninterested eyes. As they neared the entrance, the guard cleared his throat and stepped in front of them, blocking their path.
“And just where the hell do you think you’re going?” the guard asked. “Shouldn’t you two Recruits be getting on the trucks?”
“Actually, it’s Sergeant Corsa,” Adam lied, biting back a curse for using Eric’s name again. “And we’re taking two bikes.”
“That so?” the guard asked amusedly. “On whose orders?”
“Victor Castle’s orders,” Adam replied.
“For what?” the guard asked.
“None of your damn business,” Adam replied angrily, though he applauded himself inwardly for his believable ruse. “If you want, we can get him down here and see if he has time to explain every order he issues.”
The guard gazed back at Adam with a flat stare before shaking his head, nodding over to the bikes.
“Wise choice,” Adam said as he and Marc walked over to the bikes. Marc pointed to a pair of matching Harley Davidson street bikes. They mounted the motorcycles, each of them donning a pair of riding goggles that dangled from the handle. Adam looked back as Marc started his bike and inched it forward, stopping next to Adam.
“Alright,” Adam said as he started his engine. “Gene said Highway One-Sixty-Seven, fifty miles north east. We should—”
The loud whoop of a siren blared out, echoing through the city’s buildings and causing both Adam and Marc to jump. He looked over at the guard fifty feet away at the gate. The guard was on his radio, eyes intent as he held it up to his ear. Everyone at the weapons booth quickly looked up, their eyes darting around nervously as though the sirens had summoned the devil’s legions. Adam nodded over to Marc and they began moving their bikes toward the exit. As they neared, the guard glanced over at them and held up a hand.
“Copy that,” the guard said, reattaching the radio to his shoulder as he looked up at Adam. “Sorry, you boys are going to have to wait.”
“I don’t think so,” Adam said. “Major Victor ordered us to—”
“And I just got orders that came down from Rendell Boss himself,” the guard said as he walked toward Adam. “All transportation depots are to stop anyone from leaving.”
“Why?” Adam asked as Marc pulled his bike up next to Adam—the guard now standing between the two men. “What happened?”
“They just found three dead men and a hacked IRD in the basement beneath the stadium,” the guard said. “Sergeant Neal is missing too and was the last man down there. Rendell doesn’t want any vehicles leaving until they find out who did it.”
“But Victor’s orders are to—”
“Doesn’t matter what Victor said,” the guard replied angrily. “Now get the hell off the bike before I—”
A hollow boom, followed by the guard’s gasp, filled the parking lot. Adam flinched and quickly looked over at Marc. Marc’s bike lurched forward as he fired the gun in his outstretched hand a second time, dropping the guard for good.
Adam’s adrenaline surged and he pulled back on the throttle. His bike shot toward the exit, leaving a trail of tire smoke behind him. Marc led them past the wide-eyed group of men and women at the weapons tables—each of them gazing back at Adam and Marc in shock. Within a few seconds, the distant pops of gunfire behind them competed with the wailing of a siren. Adam tensed, waiting for a tiny anchor of hot lead to halt his flight. However, the whine of his engine, the rush of the wind, and the beating of his heart quickly replaced both siren and gunshot as they began their flight north.
They sped through the city streets. Adam followed Marc closely, breathing deeply as their bikes raced dangerously through the narrow residential streets. Adam cursed as they took a hard left—doing his best to keep from laying down his bike. When he had told Marc he could ride, Adam had failed to mention his experience included a trail ride gone bad twenty years ago that resulted in a broken arm and Adam’s declaration that he’d never mount a motorcycle again. Adam pushed those thoughts from his mind as he righted his bike, doing his best to focus on the road before him and the outpost to the north.
Marc glanced down at his wrist at every turn, using the map on his wrist to guide them to freedom. The number of men they saw grew thinner and thinner. Those who watched them did so with faces that contorted into a blur as they flew down one residential street after another. Within two minutes, they were pulling on to an off ramp and speeding north onto the open highway.
Adam accelerated—trying and failing to gain ground on Marc’s bike as they soared down the road at nearly one hundred and forty miles an hour. They topped a bridge and Adam saw the light from the rising dawn glinting off a long row of semi-trucks ahead. Adam followed as closely as he could, only twenty feet between his bike and Marc’s. They covered the ground between their bikes and the row of trucks quickly, zipping past the lengthy row of tractor trailers like they were standing still. He looked past Marc and watched as the first trucks began to pass through the open gate. Marc glanced back briefly before accelerating to even higher speed
s. Adam followed suit, doing his best to avoid thinking about the repercussions of a wreck at those speeds.
As they approached the blockade like a pair of fleeing bullets, the tiny silhouettes of confused guards ahead rushed about. Marc neared the gate, ducking low as he flew through the blockade—a white semi three feet to his right and a man diving out of the way two feet to his left. Adam drew in a deep breath and cried out defiantly as he followed Marc’s lead—cutting through the narrow gap with a heart stopping whoosh.
Adam exhaled, not realizing until then that he had been holding his breath. They quickly sped past the lead truck in the lengthy convoy, piercing the dawn like a pair of furious arrows. As they raced northward, Adam’s mind raced with questions, fear, hope, and uncertainty.
He had no idea whether or not his family lived, where they might be if they had survived, or how he’d even begin to find them. He thought about the mindless masses behind him, the growing empire to the east, and the madness that now engulfed the world. Adam had doubted he could do anything to actually breathe life back into the United States, but one thing he knew for certain.
No matter what the world tried to do to him, he’d confront it like a man—standing tall with the last of his fellow countrymen, facing down a hurricane of darkness as a valiant Son of Liberty.
“What do you mean they made it through?” Victor barked, spewing his hatred and fear on the nervous man beside him.
Everyone in the control room jumped as Victor began to unleash his rage. They quickly resumed their duties—all but the wide-eyed man who nearly cowered before Victor’s rage. Man, woman, teenager—they were all Recruits, free to exist outside the horrors of war in exchange for their expertise in communications, hardware maintenance, or information systems.
“The gate was open for the first wave of trucks to pass through,” the grim-faced Recruit replied—a young man not yet old enough to drink, had there still been drinking laws.
“Then why the hell didn’t they shoot them?” Victor roared.
