by Riley Flynn
By herself, Joan was checking through the box of medicine. First, she had to remove the pistol and she checked the bullet in the chamber, as she’d been taught.
“You didn’t run into trouble, then? Just found a friend.”
“Not quite. I’ll tell you later. Is Timmy all right?”
Nodding, she searched through the loot. IV bags were unpacked, about fifty packets of pills. The packaging could be removed and they could be slipped into side pockets before they left. But space was becoming a problem, especially with three people. And a dog, Alex reminded himself.
“You’ve got everything. Everything from the list.”
“Good. That’s good, right?”
“You did well.”
There was something in her tone. Not the complete affirmation and positivity Alex had expected. And this was before she learned about his encounters with the gang members. On the floor, the dog had finished his meal and began to desperately inspect every inch of the kitchen and the house at large.
“There’s something wrong?”
“Not wrong. We should have enough medicine for Timmy. More than enough, really.”
“But?”
“But what about you?”
“Me?”
“I’ve been sick. Timmy has been sick. But you haven’t.”
“I’ve been lucky.”
“You haven’t seen what this virus does to people, Alex. You haven’t seen it like I have.”
Immediately, the stench of the morgue raced through the mind. Every body from the past two weeks loomed large in his imagination.
“I’ve seen things,” Alex insisted. “I’ve seen plenty.”
“I’ve seen my whole town decimated. Not even decimated. Beyond that. So many people. Do you know how lucky you’ve been? It’s extraordinary. You haven’t been paying any attention and Timmy hasn’t either. By rights, you should both be dead.”
“I…” Alex began. There was no real way to respond to the remark.
“Obviously I don’t wish that you were dead. But you need to face the idea of what is really happening here. This isn’t some adventure, some fun quirky story to tell your friends one day. They’ll all be dead.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t want you to do anything. Just… Just acknowledge the seriousness of what’s happening here. Your life has changed. Your world has changed. You can’t go back. This isn’t a vacation. You can’t just…waltz in here with a dog and ride off into the sunset on your motorbike.”
“It’s just a dog.”
“No, it’s not. It’s everything. I sat in that morgue and tried to keep people alive. I watched them die all around me. And they blamed me! They tried to say it was my fault. Like I’d brought this plague into the town.”
Joan was still sorting through the medical supplies. But she had already checked everything. Turning away from Alex, her shoulders were twitching.
“We just don’t know anything,” she continued. “Can’t think, can’t plan, can’t guard ourselves. And you’re bringing a dog into this? It’s not the dog. I don’t care about the dog. It’s the cavalier approach. This is a matter of life and death, Alex. Have you even looked at Timmy’s eye lately? Or you just assumed he’s getting better? This disease is real and we don’t know anything and you’re… You’re not able to admit it. This is all just fun and games for you. I wish you’d just take a moment to admit it.”
Joan broke into tears. Sitting at the table, head in her hands, she waved away Alex as he stepped toward her.
“No, no. Don’t. Please. Just. Sorry. It’s all just… Everything has changed so quickly. Too quickly. And I see you dealing with this and I don’t know how. It’s like you don’t care. Like none of this matters.”
Alex joined her at the table, pushing the piles of medicine to the other side. He held her hand.
“I don’t know what to say. It’s not that I don’t care.” Plucking the words from inside his mind was difficult. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I guess… I’m lucky. Or not. I don’t know why I’m not sick. I don’t know why you or Timmy got sick. I don’t know why you survived. I don’t know why any of this is happening. Or what it means. I’m just trying to survive. Which is sort of the same as before.”
“I know you care.” Joan released his hand, her voice settling into a familiar pattern. “You just don’t seem to show it. You don’t show any emotion. It’s unsettling. It makes me feel like I’m wrong, somehow.”
“Listen, Joan. You know what happened when all of this started? Right after the President came on TV? I sat there, with Timmy, watching. And it was just the same. Same news articles. Same stories. It all just played out on the screen. And then it hit me. Virginia. That’s why we had to go. To get to the farm.”
“Because you watched TV?”
“Because it’s the last place where I felt safe. Truly safe. Where I felt happy. I don’t know why I’m telling you this now, but it’s true. We’ve got a goal. That helps.”
“A goal?”
“Something to work toward. I suppose I haven’t really sat down and processed all this. How I won’t be going into work again or how whatever was in my bank account doesn’t really matter. Because, well, what’s the difference? I wasn’t happy then, so why would I be now? As soon as I saw it on TV, I knew I had to go back home.”
“That’s really very stupid.”
“But it’s worked. Timmy came along, God knows why. Sometimes it helps to leave everything behind. I watched a man die today. Not from disease. He tried to kill me, fell down some stairs.”
“Oh, Alex, you didn’t—”
“I didn’t die. I didn’t catch the disease, I didn’t get stabbed, I didn’t want to leave the dog behind. This isn’t part of some huge plan, Joan. I’m just trying to get to Virginia. And, right now, I feel pretty good about that. And I want you to come, too. And Timmy. And that dog. It just feels right.”
The sound of laughter came from the other room. Together, they stood up and investigated. Timmy was in bed, the dog licking his face, tangling itself in and around the drip plugged into his forearm. As the dog crawled all over her patient, Joan leaned into Alex and whispered in his ear.
“Just promise me. It won’t stop at Virginia. We’ll try to find something. A reason for carrying on. Promise me.”
Alex nodded. There was nothing left to say.
The next night, Alex sat again in the bay window of the abandoned home, watching the gang members. There was a difference. They were not drunk. They were not shouting. Having drunk the bar dry, they were rallying together. Every store in town had already been looted and they found nothing else to their liking. Now, they were searching through the streets, calling out for Saul.
Eventually, they packed together their possessions, hopped into their cumbersome vehicles, and drove out of town. It was quiet again in Rockton. At least, the main street was empty. In the distance, the sounds of gunfire and shouting still surrounded the town. Go out at night and they could be heard in all directions. Either them or someone else.
Their departure brought with it a moment of clarity for Alex. The bikes were not enough. With Timmy barely strong enough to stand, let alone ride, one heavily pregnant woman, and now a dog, trying to fit everything together on two motorcycles was impossible.
The solution was not simple. Joan told the others that she had a car. One they didn’t have to steal. An SUV, sort of. A low-slung 4X4 with mud flaps and soft suspension. A car for soccer moms, as Timmy described it. But they could work with it. Even in bed, he demanded to be brought pencils and paper and began to sketch out his plans for Joan’s car.
Alex had to execute the idea. Taking a rifle, he walked out to Joan’s old house and found the vehicle. It was a blue Ford with cushioned seats and more cup holders than anyone would ever need. Slowly, watching all around, he drove it back to the hideout and hid it in a tumble-down unit behind the church, the place where the janitor kept his tools. Then they
went to work.
With Timmy watching from the sides, Alex ripped out all the unnecessary weight. Bits of bodywork from outside and inside went flying, torn apart with pliers, saws, and snips.
Whoever had been working on the church had plenty of tools, it seemed, but they weren’t really designed to rip apart a road car. Plus, without any power, the more serious options were limited.
Once the vehicle was lighter, Timmy insisted it needed to be stronger. That meant making a skeleton. It also meant learning how to weld. Alex found a welding kit on a construction site, heaved it onto the back of one of the bikes and rode it home. Using scaffolding poles, heavy as they were, they attached a roll cage along the roof and the delicate parts of the car.
The tires were difficult to improve. It wasn’t that the current tires were good–far from it–but they didn’t have access to anything better. They settled for throwing some snow chains in the trunk, just in case.
Timmy kept talking about durability. The need to keep this car going. They fitted space for extra jerry cans of fuel, tightened up the suspension, and fitted a garden light to the roof. As instructed, Alex cut holes in the hood for air flow and fitted skid plates to the underside of the car.
None of it seemed very professional but, as the days wore on, he was surprised by how quickly he was learning. The welds were stronger, the tools feeling lighter and less clumsy in his hands. The plans grew and grew. At one point, Timmy was talking about fitting a new engine. When he worked himself up into an excited fuss, he had to be talked down from the ledge.
Where were they going to get an engine?
Even the dog found a name. Finn. He’d taken a shine to Timmy, walking everywhere with him. Still recovering, the use of a walking stick meant the dog was often in danger of knocking his new friend to the ground. But it never quite happened. Neither Alex or Joan knew why that particular name had been chosen–Timmy wasn’t telling—but they didn’t want to argue. It seemed to fit.
One afternoon, with the evening encroaching on the day, reminding everyone how close October had come, Alex had been sent out to find a particular type of tow bar. They’d found a trailer for the car, were planning to fit the bikes to the back and take them to Virginia.
Along with Finn, Alex had checked every abandoned car in town until he’d eventually been able to untangle one from an old truck half buried under moss in a back yard. It sat in his pocket now, rifle slung across his shoulder, as he threw a stick down the street for the dog to chase.
The sound of crows scattering made him look up. Birds were few and far between. From the far end of the street, a diminished flock burst up over the horizon and flew overhead. They were fleeing from something. Alex felt the hairs on his arms stand to attention. He whistled for the dog.
Finn ran straight to his heel and followed as they ducked into one of the alleys leading off the main street. The sound of vehicles rumbled away in the distance. People were coming. Holding the dog close, praying that he didn’t make a sound, all Alex could do was watch as the heavy black vehicles rolled around the corner.
There was someone new in town.
33
These cars were clean. They drove past Alex, waiting in the shadows with the dog, and he counted each vehicle as it went by. Dark tinted windows, oversized wheels, government-issue and expensive. Even the brand names were polished to perfection. Order among chaos. Seven of them, all black Cadillac Escalades.
They stopped at the halfway point of the main street, halting in a loose circle formation.
A man stepped out from the first vehicle with a metal briefcase in his hand. Kneeling, he opened it up in the middle of the street and removed a small satellite dish, adjusting it and pointing it upwards. He spoke words into the cuff of his sleeve, but Alex couldn’t hear what was being said. Of its own volition, his miniature device began to twist and spin, calibrating itself.
One by one, others began exit the vehicles. A select few wore suits. Others wore combat fatigues. All wore heavy Kevlar and sunglasses. In the movies, people like this always had some Velcro strap across their chest, a three-letter agency revealing where they’d come from.
From his hiding place, Alex couldn’t see any identifying marks. All he had were his assumptions, which told him the way these people moved meant they were government. Or military. Or agency. Or all three. Professionals, that much was certain.
Around the man with the satellite dish, the others began to form a circle. They were armed, some with pistols on their hips and others with an M-16 cradled in their hands. They spread out across the street, closing down the available space. One man was sweeping a device over every surface, noting down the measurements. Alex could hear the beeping and the clicking.
The dog strained against his hand. Alex stroked the fur between the ears, and Finn calmed down.
“Easy, boy.” Alex had never spoken so softly. “We’re just going to wait and see where they go. I bet they’ll be done soon.”
One by one, the new arrivals were inspecting the buildings just off the main street. Timmy and Joan, Alex hoped, were still back in the hideout. They’d not been tempted to go for a walk. As two of the men began to inspect the bar, they led with their guns.
Once inside, a shout came from one of the men. They’d found something. The news rippled through the others, each one suddenly sharp and focused. From his hiding place, Alex began to plot his escape route. He knew Rockton well now, knew which alleys he could take. But, in hardly any time, these men had begun to swamp every street and side road he had found.
An engine revved, far away. Someone yelling. One gunshot. And then another. Before Alex even knew what was happening, the men had swung open the doors of their cars and were now positioning themselves facing down the street, in the direction away from the church.
They were facing him.
Alex was in the middle. On the one side, he could see the guns being positioned, pointing. On the other, he could hear the shots and the shouting, growing ever closer. The engine again. Not a car. A dirt bike. Two of them. They were so close.
There they were, bending around the corner of the high street. Behind them, the copse where Alex and Timmy had hidden on the first night in town. They were peeling around it, making straight for the group of cars that had gathered outside the bar.
Those same gang members; Alex could see the tattoos. Their bikes were buzzing like a nest of wasps. One of them released his grip on the handle bars, pulled a gun from somewhere and opened fire. Backing into the dark corner, Alex almost felt the bullets streaming past his hiding place.
The others responded. Short, controlled bursts. They clipped the firing rider, knocking him to the ground. They didn’t wait for the other one to reach for his weapon. He was dropped, instantly, by a shot to the head. The bike fell out from under him, skidded along the road, and crashed into the first of the Cadillacs.
A pause.
Alex looked around. He could hear the government men reloading. They were expecting more trouble. Then it came, the louder, lower thrum of the heavy cars. The rest of the gang, arriving after them. He needed to get back to the house, to get back to Joan and Timmy. Looking down at the dog, he took a tight hold of the collar.
“Come with me. Right next to me. Understand?”
The dog whimpered and looked blankly up at Alex. Enough of an understanding. Feeling for the strap on his shoulder, Alex dragged round his rifle. The words Smith & Wesson looked up from the metal and he rubbed his thumb over the imprinted logo. Like rubbing a coin for good luck.
Already, Alex was regretting not bringing another clip. This one was full. Beyond that, he was on his own. One more time, he peeked around the corner, watching what he could of the street. The two crowds were facing one another down.
The government men–or whoever they were–had set up positions all across the street, facing the southern end. The gang sat and watched, waiting in their trucks. The big one, the one Saul had talked about, was nowhere to be seen. But the othe
rs lurked. A real Mexican standoff.
Finn barked. Heads turned on either side. A moment to slice the tension in two. Broken.
Shots fired. The dog was forgotten and Alex crouched down next to him. Tucked into the niche, set back from the gun fight, he could feel the snapping of the air as the hail of bullets tore past. The street was being picked apart, one bullet at a time.
Alex looked down at his rifle. One magazine. One gun. One man. No way to fight through all of this. Better to just get back to the others, make sure they were safe. And then run. He had to stay hidden. Had to stay out of sight.
A hundred feet to the hideout, at least. Alex was on the wrong side of the street, sitting almost exactly in the middle of the two fighting forces. A chunk of wood exploded into a million splinters above his head. Someone had missed their shot.
The dead neon sign above Danny Boy’s was shattering, each shot it caught breaking apart the colored glass in a new kaleidoscopic flare.
The professionals had set up their base. They opened the doors of their Cadillacs and leaned from behind, shooting in short controlled bursts. The cars must have been armored, Alex thought. Rolling barriers, circled and defensive.
At the other end, the gang members were trying a different approach. Their hollowed-out SUVs and dirt bikes didn’t offer the same protection. The men had scattered into the alleys and the houses. They were worming their way through the back streets, turning the entire town into a battlefield.
As the professionals circled their wagons, gathered around themselves, the shots started coming from all angles.
Alex had to move. Snapping his fingers at Finn, he began to run. At the other end of the street, the steeple of the chapel rose above almost everything. Right next to the hideout. Their car was in the garage behind. The guiding light, bringing him home.
Turning right, Alex ducked down an alley, away from the main street. There was a dirt road on this side, lined with ancient sycamore trees. Their trunks were thick, their leaves hanging low over the road and about to turn a golden brown in the fall. As he tucked into the space, up against the bark, he could see long-lost lovers’ initials carved into the wood.
