by Tara Brown
“Where are your children?” I ask, changing the subject. Her comment at dinner makes me think they were on their way to our town.
They both lose the color in their already pale faces. I instantly feel like an ass. He clears his throat and shakes his head. “They were in New York when the city got—sick.”
Oh God.
I want to apologize but he shrugs. “They might have gotten out. Our son is a brave firefighter. If anyone can be smart in a situation like this one, it’s an emergency-services worker. Our daughter was with him. They met there for a family vacation.” He looks down, mournful for a moment. “We were supposed to meet them but my doctor wanted me to see him about the dizzy spells I’ve been having.”
She reaches across to him, squeezing his hand. “Our kids are fine. I know they are. Brent will get them all home safely. It’s why I want you to go and check, in case they made it already. Our daughter’s husband is a pilot.”
He nods, not responding. I have to assume he has more common sense than she does.
I glance up at the ceiling. “I better go to sleep. What time do you want to go into town?”
Mrs. Milson scowls. “Maybe you should stay here, sweetie.”
Mr. Milson and I both open our mouths but I protest first. “No, I need to come. I need to make sure my mom isn’t dying in the closet because I locked her in there. I need to know if she’s like your friend Jack.”
Her eyes lift, filling with worry. “Okay.”
He nods at me. “We leave in a couple hours. So get some rest. I want it to be still dark when we go.”
I nod, turning and walking to the stairs. I feel horrible. I don't think the bad feeling inside of me is going to go away. The Milsons’ children are probably dead. My father is likely also dead. How do you land a plane with no ground support? Did the military keep bases open for people to land from other countries? Or did my father die in Russia, becoming a biter too? These are things I have to face. The cold reality is starting to set in.
I lie in my bed, snuggled into Songa and Joey, and glance up at the wooden ceiling. “Dear God, please help me know how to stay alive. Help me keep them alive too. Thank you for helping us find the Milsons. Please help our parents. Please let there be other people like us who are still alive. Amen.” I feel like a cheater, only praying now that the world is ending and I am the last of the rats on the sinking ship.
I close my eyes and let sleep take me, forcing my brain to shut off with its traitorous whisperings. I make myself see the Milsons for what they are—a miracle. The very miracle I asked for just last night. Maybe God is here.
Chapter Five
Day Four
The drive down is silent. Neither of us seems like a big talker to start with, but add a zombie apocalypse and it gets worse. It’s an awkward silence and I wish I had something to say, but I’m terrified. I’m scared for my life. I’m scared I’m going to see a biter and know them. I’m scared I’m going to open the under-stairs storage and my mom will be dead—or worse.
It’s weird that there are things worse than being dead.
We don’t see a single car on the road. Not a single person walking the road or even frozen as if waiting to be jump-started. The whole drive down the mountain is just dark and lonely. Not even the animals have come out.
The truck is bumpier than my SUV. The ride is rough and loud. I feel like something is going to come rushing from the woods because of the noise.
Mr. Milson and I haven’t spoken in the forty minutes it takes us to get back to town. He drives fast, for an old man with dizzy spells.
When we get to the outskirts of town he glances over at me, speaking loudly over the sound of the Dodge truck, “This won’t be a one-stop shop, unfortunately. We’ll drive to the warehouse for the food, then we head for gas, and hit up the clinic for medicine. And then my place to see if my kids are there, and then your mom is last. We don't talk to anyone, we don't make noise, and we don't use our guns unless we have to. Deal?”
I nod, pulling my gun from the front of my backpack.
“Use the knife I gave you if you have to.” The way he says it suggests I know what he means when he says use the knife. But I don't. I certainly hope I don't.
Mr. Milson points as we enter the city limits. “That sign has never given me the willies before this moment.”
It’s old and wooden, and reads, Welcome to Laurel, and has a bunch of other words scratched off on the bottom. It’s not cool like the one for Billings that's made from the huge slabs of stone.
“Yeah, no kidding.” The sign has a foreboding feel to it. I grin sarcastically. “If this was a horror movie there would be a bloody handprint on the sign.”
He laughs but it’s bitter. “Well, at least they spared us that.” He drives down a road I don’t think I’ve been down in a long time. It leads to the industrial part of town. We pass Redneck Pizza and turn toward the flower shop. When we pass it he lifts a finger. “Hopefully no one else has found this place.”
His words make it feel as scary as I fear it actually is. Reality has been making a bit of a visit to me lately. My illusions of this working out differently than I fear it is, are fading away. My brain no longer tries to distract me with hopes that my mom is okay. Chances are she’s dead and there’s a possibility we might die along the way. I need to remember that.
“Make no mistake, Lou. There’s one thing we need to be ready for. We may need to be able to pull the trigger because someone else might have found the food and supplies first and they may not want to part with what they have. I don't want to fight over food. I’d rather not risk us, but the moment might come where we have to. It’s better to be able to run if we need to, but we will fight if we’re forced. You ready for that?” He drives across the railroad tracks and instantly my heart rate picks up the pace.
“I don't know. I guess. I have never imagined a moment like this one before.” I fight off the nerves, remembering the last time I heard the word run. “I dreamt my mom was screaming at me to run, the other day before this all started, and now I swear I can hear her voice.” The words leave my lips as a whisper that makes no sense to him I’m sure. I don't even know why I said it.
He glances at me. “Well, remember that advice, kiddo. Because if things get heavy in this warehouse—we run if we have that option. We abandon the food, no matter what.”
I nod blankly, still stuck on the image of my mother shaking me and screaming for me to run. It was the weirdest dream I’ve ever had. Never before has a dream stuck with me that way.
The second we leave the pavement I am uneasy. The sound of the large truck on the dirt road is enough to drive you insane.
“You ready?”
I shake my head. “I don't think so.”
He winces. “Me either.” He continues down the old Number 10 Highway, until we see our first one—first biter. I barely see him in the dark, but when the headlights flash on his face, it burns in my heart—I recognize him. He works at the gas station down the road. He’s in my class but I don’t recall his name. It’s something common, like John or Mike or Steve.
“Oh, now look at that. Little Josh Wallace is a biter. Look at him all frozen there.”
Right, Josh. His name is Josh. He’s frozen until we drive by—then his head jerks to the right three times and he starts to run. Mr. Milson speeds up, losing him. “How do you know him?” I ask.
He looks in the rearview at the poor kid chasing us. “His dad owns a gas station I fill up at and he’s one of my dart-playing buddies.”
“Oh.”
“You must know Josh. He’s in your grade, isn’t he? Senior year?” He skids around a corner and we see another one running toward us. My stomach lurches into my throat. The man gets close enough for me to see the blood in his eyes. He looks like an actor in a movie when he bounces off the side of the truck, making me jump and grip to my seat simultaneously.
We bob along the gravel to the warehouse that I think looks inconspicuous. It looks
far more like a rundown mess that was abandoned years before this moment, than a place I would think holds food of any sort. Mr. Milson gives me a quick look. “When I get close enough to the warehouse, you jump out and test the doors. See if they’re open.”
“I can’t.” My heart is in my throat.
He grabs my arm. “You have to. Just do it. Fast, don’t think. I’ve seen you on the lacrosse field—run hard. Think of it like it’s a game.”
My breathing is short and my legs are numb. “I can’t.”
He doesn’t listen. He pulls up to the warehouse, getting really close and screams, “GO!”
I grab my gun and jump out as he speeds off again. The biter chases him, leaving me alone. I run for the door. It opens right way.
I switch on my flashlight and close the door behind me. The light bounces around in the dark from the shaking of my hand. My stomach twists and I’m positive I’m going to throw up.
My breathing and heartbeat are so loud I can’t hear if one of them is sneaking up on me from the dark spots I can’t see.
I keep shooting the flashlight all around, trying to see all of the dark at once, as if they’d be smart enough to hide in the dark places.
I can’t make my feet walk so I stand there, completely still. Part of me knows I need to open the garage door on the other side—we talked about it but I can’t move.
When I hear the tires screech outside, I jump making the light bounce some more.
“Be brave, Lou. Be brave. Don’t be Mom. Be Dad!” I whisper to myself. Forcing myself to move—shuffling my feet along the floor. They scrape on the cement, making noise reverberate in the dark. I freeze and wait for the thing I imagine is there to come and get me.
I hold my breath and stand perfectly still, but nothing comes.
With trembling hands and a rabbit’s heartbeat, I shine the light around the massive shelves and walls. It’s cold, so cold, inside. I can feel my breath making frost as it leaves my face. I can almost hear my dad’s voice if I listen hard enough. He’s telling me to be strong and trust my abilities.
I don’t think I can but I have to try.
In the silver light of the flashlight I can see the door I’m supposed to open on the far side of the warehouse, through the rows of shelves.
Taking one large breath, I risk it and run there with my hands out, feeling the breath of the biters on my neck.
When my fingers meet the metal of the door, I close my eyes and hold my ear to it, listening for him. In the bouncing light I shine along the wall, I see the thing I seek and press the up arrow button, just as I hear the truck coming. He is just about through the door when I press the stop button and the down arrow. The door starts to lower as the back of his truck gets through.
I back away from the massive door as it lowers, holding my flashlight on the gap as it gets smaller and smaller, hoping nothing will follow him through. It closes just as loud banging starts on the other side of the door, making me jump.
I turn and hold the flashlight on the truck. Mr. Milson gets out. “Nice job, kid.” He points. “Let’s get busy.” He grabs a flashlight and a crowbar and hurries to the shelves. He doesn’t fear the dark or that there might be something in here with us. He just works. I feel less scared with him here but not much.
He slices some plastic and grabs a flat of canned food. “Peaches—take them all.”
We grab a flat each and start hauling it, in the light of the truck. I load the peaches as he moves on to find something else. He drops a flat onto the bed of the truck and grins. “Beans—take them all.”
I almost wrinkle my nose at them, but then I remember we are actually starving. We are like the early settlers right now. There is no such thing as food I don’t like. There’s food and hunger.
I load the beans flat by flat as he comes over grinning. “I found chili! It’s the beefy one too.”
I follow him over there after the beans but he’s already moved on and found pasta and sauce. He’s excited like it’s Christmas.
I’m tired but I keep going. I’ve been loading for long enough that my fingers are burning but the back of the truck is only three-quarters full. I am skeptical that we will have enough to last the winter from just this truckload.
I’m halfway across the pasta sauce pallet when I hear something coming from the other side of the warehouse. I freeze, turning my flashlight off and hide in amongst the shelves. There are voices whispering something. “Hey! What are you doing? That’s stealing.” A man’s voice rings out into the silence of the dark warehouse.
He chuckles back. “Now, son, it isn’t stealing. I saw the owner of this food in a ditch, not even fifteen minutes ago. That means it isn’t stealing. He’s gone and I know for a fact he was an old man who had no wife or kids, so the food is fair game. I’m only taking a little. There’s plenty. Run.” His sentence doesn’t make sense.
“I found this place yesterday. It’s mine.” The other man says. “What? Run what?”
Mr. Milson sighs. “Just run. We can share the food. I only need a little bit for me. RUN!”
Is he telling me to run? He must be. Oh God. The man must have a weapon I can’t see. I ignore the rest of their conversation and get up to tiptoe across the warehouse just as I hear feet moving quickly and a noise like a person blowing air.
I freeze and prepare myself for the run I’m about to make.
Mr. Milson speaks again, “Sorry, it had to come to this, son.”
I close my eyes. I can’t believe I assumed it was him who was hurt. As much as I’m relieved, there’s a feeling of apprehension when I think about getting into the truck with him. He has possibly just murdered a man.
“Let’s get out of here, in case he isn’t alone. We can always try this place again later. The worry is it’ll be picked over, but it’s better to risk it being picked over than risk his friends showing up and wanting revenge.” His words are hollow and as dark as the warehouse, but I turn and walk to the truck. “This is nowhere near enough food, kid. We will definitely be back.” He loads one more flat of food and gives me a look. He pauses, seeing something on my face that makes him look worried. “I didn’t kill him, I knocked him out.”
I don’t believe that. I don’t even know why. I don’t know him well enough to know if he could kill a man or not.
In the dark I listen at the door as he gets into the truck and shouts at me, “Push the button, run out the side door, and I’ll swing back to grab you.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. I count to five before I push it, scared as soon as the noise of the door starts. He backs out once it’s high enough for the truck to fit under it. I push the button, desperately wanting to run under the door as it closes, but I don't. I wait, alone in the dark with the dead man, listening for the sound of the vehicle coming back around. When I hear it, I leap from the small side door, forcing my eyes to ignore everything I see but the open passenger door to the truck.
I block out the bloody hands and jerky steps. I don't see the running feet or the snarling faces. I only see Mr. Milson screaming, “RUN!” Just like my mother had in my dream that now feels prophetic in several ways.
I don't see the shadows cast by the moon or listen to the sounds of desperate biters wanting nothing like they do my flesh.
My feet dig in as I push hard, sprinting to the open door and his reaching hand. When I leap in, he floors it, closing the door with the force of the moving vehicle.
We both sit, breathing heavily and staring at the field of moving people in our way. We ignore them bouncing off the hood or sliding off the doors as we hurry past.
He drives to the gas station, parking next to a pump and looking around as he turns the truck off. There’s sweat on his brow. I can see it in the dark.
“Here, take my gun and hold it on that door. If you see me running, just shoot whatever’s behind me.” He jumps out and runs inside. He doesn't wait for me to argue that the person might not be infected and I might not be able to see that.
My heart is still racing and my mouth is dry since he decided to kill/knockout the guy at the warehouse, so adding the prospect of me murdering people doesn't make it better. But when he runs back out of the gas station with four gas cans, I’m grateful to see his old face is alone. I lower my shaking hands when nothing and no one follows him out.
“Lucky we didn't get enough food; we have room for gas now.” He pumps gas into the truck and fills the cans in the back of the truck too. He climbs in, giving me a weird look. “Feels funny not paying.”
I don't comment. Funny isn’t a word I would use to describe a single moment of this trip. Of this life.
We drive across the railroad tracks, closer to downtown. He pulls over before we get too close and turns the truck off. We sit in silence, not awkward but tense silence. The kind where you can feel the friction sparkling on your skin. I shiver, scanning the area for movement but there is none. No one is near us, or if they are, they’re hiding. Biters don't hide.
He points. “One block that way is the pharmacy I go to. It’s as close as I want to get to downtown.”
I nod, not sure what I’m agreeing to just yet.
“You are gonna tiptoe along the sidewalk. It’s one block. Just in case I can’t get in from the back. I’ll distract them in the back so you can sneak in the front if that's the case.”
My jaw drops, that's pretty much my version of a response. He rolls his eyes. “You run faster than I do, kid, and you see better. And I might have a dizzy spell so this is the plan. You run to the pharmacy, Drakes—you now it?”
I nod again, even less certain of what I’m agreeing to.
“Well good, you run to Drakes and I will be there to open the front door for you if I can get in the back. If not, you smash and grab.”
My eyes narrow. “Why do I get the distinct impression I am bait?”
“You are if I need you to run to draw them away from me once we’re inside, or if they follow me in the back. If the streets are full of them, you run as hard as you can. They won’t catch you. I know that. So if the streets full, you run and make noise and draw them away. If there are none I’ll meet you at the door. This is my version of a running backup plan.” He says it so matter-of-factly I can hardly stand it. “You are bait and you need to be quick about it if things go bad. We can’t live without some antibiotics. That's simple science.”
