Days 9 to 16

by Amy Cross

  Taking a step back, I listen out for any sign that the guy is coming back. It's been eight or nine hours since he led me, at gunpoint, down here into the basement of his house, and since then there's been no sign of him. It's dark down here, but the rising sun has begun to show through a small window at the far end of the dark, dank room.

  Silence.

  "Hey!" I shout again, pulling on the door handle, to no avail. Turning, I hurry across the basement, looking for something, anything I can use to force my way out of here. I've already spent a couple of hours trying the window, but it seems to be made out of reinforced glass and I couldn't even make a dent. Unfortunately, the entire basement seems to be completely empty, almost as if the guy deliberately removed anything that I could have used to get out. I'm starting to feel as if I'm completely at his mercy, and that's a feeling I really don't like.

  Heading back to the window, I take another look outside. Now that there's some light, I realize I can see the truck over by the trees, with the tarpaulin still covering Joe's body. I feel a dull, heavy sensation in my chest as I think back to what happened yesterday. The truth is, since I was brought down into the basement, I've been able to distract myself by focusing on me efforts to get the hell out of here, but every so often I'm forced to think back to the moment when I pulled that trigger. I feel like in some way, all my feelings have been bundled up in a bag and pushed to one side, but at some point I'm gonna have to deal with what I did.

  Just... not now.

  Hearing a noise over by the door, I freeze, and after a moment I realize that there's a key in the lock. Before I can come up with a plan, the door swings open and I see the guy standing with a rifle pointed straight at me.

  I wait.

  "You hungry?" he asks, his voice sounding old and gnarled.

  I stare, my heart racing as I try to work out what to do next. There's a part of me that thinks the best option would be to just take a run at him. After all, he's pretty old and I doubt his reaction times are too hot. At the same time, he's got a gun pointed straight at me, and this isn't the kind of situation where I can afford to make a mistake. Out here in the middle of nowhere, with no likelihood of any cops ever turning up, it wouldn't be difficult for this old guy to blow my head off and get away with it. I guess things are kinda lawless right now.

  "It's a simple enough question," he continues. "You hungry or not? If you are, you can have some food. If not, you can stay down here a while longer."

  Cautiously, I walk over to the door, unable to take my eyes off the barrel of the rifle. The man makes his way into the basement, keeping the gun pointed at me as he moves around until he's behind me.

  "You go first," he says. "Any funny business, anything at all, and I'll shoot. You got that? I've shot a man before, so don't think I'll hesitate. It's up to you whether or not you wanna live, but I've got this thing pointed right at the back of your chest. It's pellets, too, so it'll rip you up pretty bad."

  "I don't wanna hurt you," I tell him. "I just found this place by accident -"

  "You broke my window."

  "Yeah, but -"

  "And you shot a man," he continues. "Shot him dead in the back of that truck. Don't try to deny it. I saw you."

  "That was -" I pause, but I can't get the words out. I can't let myself think about what happened with Joe. Not yet.

  "You want food, you walk out that door, but remember I've got your back in my sights." He pauses. "There's a few rules we need to establish around here. I'm not gonna let some murdering little thief have the run of the place."

  "I'm not -"

  "Get upstairs," he says gruffly.

  Figuring I should do what he says, I turn and walk toward the door. Although the guy's clearly getting on, in his sixties or seventies, he seems pretty threatening. I guess I just need to talk to him and explain exactly how I ended up here. As I start walking up the stairs that leads to the main part of the house, I can hear him following close behind, and I want to turn and explain everything, to make everything okay.

  "Stop," he says suddenly as I get to the top of the stairs. "Two steps forward."

  I do exactly what I'm told. Although I'm trying not to show it, I'm pretty terrified right now, and I'm convinced that this old guy means business. Then again, he's getting on, so he can't keep an eye on me all the time. He'll make a mistake sooner or later, and that's when I'll get him. I feel bad for plotting to hurt him, but he's not giving me a choice.

  "Okay," he continues. "I'm gonna have to do something to make sure we both know where we stand. You got that?"

  I open my mouth to reply, but I have no idea what to say. This whole situation is so bizarre and messed-up, I don't even know where to begin. For one thing, I have no idea whether this guy is genuinely crazy, or just scared. I'd understand if he was scared, but at the same time I'm getting a pretty weird vibe from him, as if maybe he's got a few screws loose.

  "Fine," he says.

  "I -" I start to say in reply, but before I can finish, there's a heavy thud at the back of my head and I'm instantly knocked unconscious.

  Elizabeth

  Pennsylvania

  The room is dark, with curtains drawn to keep out as much of the day's light as possible. For a moment, I feel completely lost. I keep expecting to find myself back in my family's New York apartment, with the windows shattered and cold air blowing into the room; I can't help but feel that Henry might burst in at any moment and tell me some crazy story about Bob. Finally, however, I start to remember that those days are gone. My mind races through more recent events, right up to the moment when I was standing facing the farmhouse and...

  I pause.

  I was shot?

  When I try to sit up, I immediately feel a sharp pain in my left shoulder. I take a deep breath, but the pain won't go away, and finally I grit my teeth and force myself up. Damn it, I always thought I had a high pain threshold, but this grinding sensation in my shoulder is too much to handle. It's almost as if two damaged bones are pressing against one another. I manage to sit up properly in the end, but the pain is intense and I let out an agonized gasp.

  "You're awake," says a female voice nearby.

  I freeze. Did I imagine that?

  Moments later, there's the sound of someone moving across the room, before a silhouette appears in front of the window and finally the curtains are pulled apart. I have to shield my eyes for a moment as I get used to the light, but eventually I realize that there's a middle-aged woman walking slowly toward the bed, with a faint smile on her face. She has short brown hair, and she's one of those people who look effortlessly friendly, which immediately makes me worry that she might be dangerous.

  "How are you feeling?" she asks.

  I stare at her.

  "You should be fine," she continues. "It was only a flesh wound, really. The bullet didn't do any serious damage. You passed out through shock more than anything else. You're going to have some soreness, some stiffness, and some pain, but the wound isn't infected and it'll heal over eventually. There'll be a scar, obviously, but I'm afraid plastic surgery is a little beyond my skill-set right now, especially with the rather limited resources we've got here. Still, at least you'll have a good story to tell people in future. You can tell them you were gunned down by a psychopath when you strayed onto his property shortly after the end of the world began." She sits on the side of the bed and reaches out a hand for me to shake. "Dr. Patricia Connors," she adds. "Pleased to meet you."

  I swallow hard, trying to work out what's happening.

  "I understand why you might be a little dubious," she continues, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a twisted, black piece of metal. "This is the bullet that hit you. It actually went straight through, but it glanced a piece of bone so there were some pieces of shrapnel that needed to come out. Again, I want to stress that it wasn't anything too serious. You lost some blood, but you'll produce some more soon enough. You were lucky, though. A few inches further toward your neck, or down toward y
our collarbone, and it would have been much harder to get you through this. In fact, I don't know if I'd have been able to do it, so you should be thankful that you were shot by someone with a good aim."

  I look over at the window.

  "Your friends are downstairs," she adds. "After the little misunderstanding, everything was worked out. Toad apologized to them, but the truth is that we can't afford to take any risks. There aren't many of us here, and we've already seen the consequences of making a mistake. We had to be absolutely certain that you were who you claimed to be, otherwise the results could have been catastrophic. I know this probably doesn't make too much sense to you right now, but I promise, soon you'll understand." She pauses. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? There's no reason for you to stay in bed. In fact, it might be good if you get up and get a bit of a stretch. You can come downstairs and meet everyone -"

  "Everyone?" I ask, interrupting her.

  She smiles. "I'm afraid there are a few of us here. Toad's very kindly agreed to let us stay for a while, although he's being a little grumpy about it. From what Carl said, I get the impression that you haven't actually met Toad yet, have you?"

  I shake my head.

  "He's..." She pauses. "How can I put this? He's a complete ass. Seriously. Just keep out of his way as much as possible. He's not around too much, anyway. He tends to go off into the woods at first light, and he comes back late with his catches. He doesn't say much, and most people have learned to leave him be. Don't be offended if he basically just ignores you. Human interaction isn't really his strong point. The rest of us are friendly enough. We don't bite, although we do expect people to pull their weight around here. You'll get cut a little slack because of your injuries, but fundamentally, if you don't pitch in, you'll be asked to leave. Is that clear?" She waits for me to reply. "I'm serious. No freeloaders are allowed around here. You do your share, or you fuck off."

  "I only came here because Erikson and Shauna brought me," I tell her, feeling as if I'm being talked down to a little. "I'm on my way to Lake Ontario."

  "Lake Ontario?" She frowns. "Why the hell are you going there?"

  "I just..." I start to say, before I realize that maybe she's got a point. Once I accepted that there was nothing left for me in New York, I just assumed that Lake Ontario was my only option, since that's where Mallory and the others went. Now, however, I'm starting to wonder whether there might be a better option somewhere else. I mean, I can't even be sure that they ever made it all the way over there. There's a chance that they changed course, or maybe they ran into trouble. For all I know, they might be dead, and even if I make it all the way up there, I might never find them. "I don't know," I continue after a moment. "I'm still trying to work things out."

  "You got any family left alive?"

  I shake my head. "I don't think so," I add.

  "That's rough," she replies. "Everyone's lost someone. Most people have lost everyone. That's just how it's been going lately. You're in good company, kid. We're not sure how many people are dead, but it seems to be north of 99%, maybe 99.5% or higher. You know what that means?" She waits for me to answer. "It means there might be just a few hundred people left in the entire country, or even in the entire world. I don't know if that makes us lucky or unlucky, but I can tell you one thing for certain. You're not the only one who's alone. Everyone here has lost loved ones, family members, friends... And that's before you even get to some of the other craziness that's been going on."

  "Like what?" I ask, still feeling as if I don't really understand what's going on here.

  "You not seen them?" she asks.

  I stare at her.

  "You're lucky," she continues. "There's something going on. Something we haven't managed to figure out yet, but it's the reason you ended up with a bullet in your shoulder. There are creatures... things... They're dead people, but they're a danger. They're not zombies, before you start getting too excited. They're something else, and there aren't many of them, but they're dangerous and we think they might be massing slowly."

  "I've seen one," I tell her.

  "Where?"

  "In New York. In a car. My brother and I found one. We killed it."

  "You did, huh?" She pauses. "Where's your brother now?"

  "Dead," I tell her.

  "Did the creature get her?"

  I shake my head.

  "Accident?" she asks.

  "He was shot," I continue, "by a guy in our apartment building."

  "Sorry," she replies.

  "It's okay," I say, hauling my legs over the side of the bed and slowly getting to my feet. I have to ignore the sharp pain in my shoulder, but eventually I feel as if I can at least get about. The last thing I want to do is sit here and have some kind of deep conversation about Henry, so I figure I need to change the subject. "Are you sure you took everything out?" I ask, convinced that there's more metal in my shoulder. "It feels like there's something sharp in there."

  "It's clear," she says. "Don't worry, it's just a small amount of damage from where the bullet grazed some bone. If we had a proper hospital, I'd have fixed that too, but in the circumstances I couldn't help. You'll get used to it eventually, and it'll pass in a week or two. Until then, if you want my advice, try not to complain too much. People around here won't like it too much if you act like a martyr. That might sound harsh, but the truth is, everyone's carrying aches and pains, so you're hardly special in that regard."

  "I got shot," I point out.

  "And you're going to be fine," she replies as she walks across the room and opens the door. "Trust me, there are people here who aren't going to be fine. Not at all. Toad, for example, has seen some things. He doesn't talk about it, but I know something traumatized him. He used to be better at talking, but he's started to withdraw into his shell, and now he barely manages to communicate. Some things cause a lot more damage than a bullet. I guess we're all dealing with shock in our own way, right?"

  "This Toad guy," I say, walking over to join her at the door. "He's the one who shot me, right?"

  "Oh, no," she replies with a faint smile. "Sorry. That was me. I shot you." With that, she heads out of the room, leaving me standing alone for a moment. Taking a deep breath, I realize that whether I like it or not, I've ended up in some kind of group situation, which is exactly what I wanted to avoid after everything that happened back in New York. Figuring that I just need to be polite and start planning my next move, I head out the door and follow Patricia downstairs.

  Thomas

  Missouri

  When I wake up, the first thing I notice is that my head is pounding. There's a heavy, sharp pain right on the back of my skull, and when I feel around to check, I realize that the skin is broken and sticky with blood. I take a deep breath, and for a moment everything seems kind of dizzy, before finally I take a deep breath and decide that my only option is to get to my feet. As soon as I try to sit up, however, I realize that there's something wrong with my legs, and when I look down at my feet, I see that my ankles are chained together.

  "That's to stop you running," says the man from nearby.

  Turning, I see that he's sitting in a chair on the other side of the kitchen, with the rifle laid across his knees.

  "I don't want you getting the jump on me," he continues, "and since I'm getting on, I figure I need to give you something of an unfair disadvantage. Don't be angry. It's just the breaks." He pauses. "I also don't want you running off any time. Just remember, if you cause any trouble, it's easier for me to just blow your goddamn head off."

  I reach down and pull at the chains, but they're attached too tight, and there's some kind of manacle around each ankle.

  "You won't get them off," the guy says. "No point trying."

  "You don't need to do this," I say, trying to get the manacles loose. They seem pretty old and rusty, so I'm hoping that maybe they're not as strong as they look, although so far I'm definitely not having much luck. "I just came here to look for help. My brother was hurt."

 
; "So you shot him."

  I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

  "I took a look under that tarpaulin," he continues. "You got him good, right in the face."

  "He was dying," I say bitterly. "You don't understand."

  "Maybe," he replies, "and maybe not. All I know is that I saw you shoot a man, and that makes you kinda untrustworthy in my eyes, especially since you also broke a window in my place. Tell me, what am I supposed to think, huh? You're a murderer and a thief, so how do I know you're not a liar too?"

  "I'm not a murderer!" I shout, getting to my feet.

  "You're not?" he asks, smiling as he aims the rifle at me. "Well, it seems to me that you shot a man in the face when he was still alive, and I don't think he was begging you to kill him, was he? You're not an executioner, are you?"

  "He was in pain!" I shout, feeling as if I want to go over and beat the crap out of this guy.

  "Take one step closer," he replies, "and I'll pull the trigger."

  I stare at him, and after a moment I realize that he's almost certainly telling the truth. There's just something about him that seems kinda crazy, as if he'd have no hesitation in killing me in cold blood. For one thing, he's got small, beady eyes that seem to be fixed on me at all times; for another, it's increasingly clear that he's got some kind of weird set-up out here in the middle of nowhere, as if he's one of those people who like to live far away from everyone else.

  "You have to listen to me," I continue. "My brother and I, we're driving from Oklahoma. We're getting away from the stuff that's happened there."

  "What stuff?" he asks.

  "The stuff. Everything!" I pause, and finally I realize that if this guy has been living out here in the middle of nowhere, maybe he doesn't know. "There's been some kind of emergency," I tell him. "All the power's down. Planes crashing, phones not working, it's like the whole world has just gone insane. No-one knows what's happening, but there's this virus or illness or something that makes people sick."